Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Richard Parker

Dick Grayson

Richard Grayson

Robin

Richard John Grayson

Nightwing

Parker

The Boy Wonder

Dick Grayson Wayne

Richard Parker’s top priority had always been his family above all else. A common sentiment among many, he believed. The only problem with it was, sometimes he didn’t know what family he was thinking of, when he swore to protect them.

Logic told him that his family consisted of Ben Parker - his older brother, May Parker - his sister-in-law, Maria Parker - his wife, and his son - Peter Parker. That was the only family he needed.

The back of his mind however, told him there was more. Like how the name ‘Wayne’ clung to him like a parasite, always there and weighing him down. Or how every time he needed to write down his name, he scribbled ‘Grayson’ unconsciously. 

Richard Parker should have been happy, fulfilled. He had a successful career as a biochemist, a loving wife and son who he cherished more than anything in the universe, a brother and sister-in-law who supported him through everything, and a happy childhood. He had never suffered through a great tragedy in his lifetime. Every ounce of rationale told him that his life was remarkably average. A happy, average life.

So why did he dream of bats, of rooftops, of flying? 

Why was he so positive that he belonged in the sky?

What was the burning, persistent, aching in his soul, telling him that he was missing his family? 

Richard looked around the room that he and Maria shared. Average, good, safe. He had heard about the theory of falling asleep and dreaming an entire lifetime. Despite his better judgment, every time he awoke, he glanced at the lamp in the corner, waiting for it to waver. It never did. 

The odd feeling of wrong had started about six years prior. He mentioned it to Ben once, looking for advice from his older brother. Ben had told him it was normal to feel stuck at this point in his life. Everyone, no matter how happy they were, could still feel unsatisfied at some points. It made sense, he supposed. The feeling had started when he was twenty six, having gotten married and started his career a year earlier. 

Unfulfilled was a normal emotion that everyone felt at some point in everybody’s lives. That reassurance never explained the circus that haunted his dreams, the grief for a family he never had, nor the name he constantly questioned.

“Dad, I need you,” he whispered like a prayer. Richard Parker’s mother and father had passed away a few years back. It was a calm, peaceful, natural death. He was never a religious man, either. The call for help made no rational sense. Yet he still repeated it, everyday, for the past six years. 

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Richard stood up from the bed, made his way to the bathroom and stared at his reflection. He always expected to see a black and blue suit in the mirror. He always was disappointed to see a simple shirt and pants.

“Your name is Richard Parker. You are the husband to Maria Parker, and Father to Peter Parker. You were raised by your older brother, Benjamin Parker. You work for Oscorp as a biochemist. You live a good, normal life,” he recounted the speech he gave himself day after day.

Maybe one day he would believe the speech. Maybe one day the longing and the dreams would fade away.

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The kitchen radiated warmth as he walked in. 

“Morning, how’d you sleep?” Maria greeted him with a smile as she stood over a pan, making breakfast.

“Mm, pretty well,” he shrugged and grabbed a bottle of water. “You?”

“Eh, same old same old. Could you go get Peter ready for school?” 

“ ‘Course,” he kissed her on the cheek before making his way to Peter’s room.

He knocked on the door that was covered with stickers, well covered was a strong word, it only went up to however high Peter could reach.

“Come in!” The five year old yelled.

“Hey little robin, you ready for school?” Richard asked his son who was currently writing something in his notebook. 

“Do I hafta?” he whined. “I wanna practice my math,” he motioned to the notebook in his lap.

“You’re the only kid in the world who has ever said that,” he chuckled and lifted Peter into his arms.

“Put me down!” Peter protested, trying to wrangle his way out of his father’s grasp.

“Do I hafta?” he mimicked.

“Arghhhhhh,” the five year old accepted his defeat, but not without complaint.

Richard set his son down at the kitchen table. “The Peter Parker you requested has arrived,” 

Maria huffed out a laugh as she set down a plate with bacon and eggs for Peter. “You finished all your homework, Bambi?” she questioned.

Peter went wide eyed at the reminder. 

“…Yes” 

“Peter.”

“…no”

Richard grabbed his backpack that sat next to the front door. “Let’s do it now before school,”

Peter huffed, but reluctantly pulled out his folder. “I just have to put how I know my address and how to write my name and stuff,” 

“Alright, should be easy then,” Maria ruffled his hair and sat at the kitchen counter. 

A few minutes passed, the husband and wife were talking about the projects they’d been assigned for Oscorp when Peter interrupted, asking for help with his homework.

“It’s asking why I have my first name,” he explained. “I dunno, I wasn’t there,” 

Richard laughed and answered. “You were named after your uncle,” 

“Well yeah that’s my middle name, but it’s asking about my first name,” 

“I know, you got your name from your uncle,” he repeated, as if it were obvious. “Wait, no, that’s not right…” 

Maria raised an eyebrow at her husband. He was quiet for a moment. What was that? He didn’t know anyone else named Peter, much less a brother. 

“I picked your name because growing up, I was obsessed with Peter Pan,” Maria explained in Richard’s stunned silence.

They quickly moved on, and continued the day as usual. Richard drove the car to drop Peter off at school. The second they continued towards Oscorp, Maria spoke.

“What was that?” she asked.

“What was what?”

“It was like you forgot Peter’s name for a second,” she stared at him, worry evident on her face.

“What, no! I-I just, my brain malfunctioned for a moment, but It’s fine,” he gave her a reassuring smile, that came out more like a grimace.

Maria simply continued to stare at him, reading his expression. Confusion built up in his chest. 

“I don’t have a brother with the name Peter,” he swallowed.

“No, you don’t,” his wife confirmed.

“My only brother is Ben,” 

“Yes, which is why that’s Peter’s middle name,” Maria replied slowly.

The confirmation still felt wrong. He was missing something, he knew it. The road faded from his focus, his mind racing.

“Jason!” he exclaimed, suddenly.

“Who?”

“Jason Peter Todd,” the name was unrecognizable, yet it felt right. That name was family. 

“Richard, who is that?” Maria pressed.

“My… I- I don’t know,” as quick as the name came to him, it faded from memory as if it were never there.

The car slowed into the parking lot. Neither spoke, nor made any move to get out. Richard’s gaze was focused in front of him, as his mind traveled elsewhere. Maria never took her eyes off of her husband.

“Maybe we shouldn’t go to work today, why don’t we just get some rest. If you’re still not feeling right later, we can make a doctor’s appointment,” she suggested, her tone was soft and gentle. It was as if she was speaking to a frightened animal.

“I’m not crazy, Mar,” he finally looked at his wife. “I’m just… confused,” 

“I never said anything about being crazy. But confusion like this could be a sign of some sort of illness, we should get it checked out,”

Richard huffed out a breath that was almost a laugh, but lacked the humor to make it such. “Then why have I felt it for six years?”

“What do you mean?” Maria furrowed her eyebrows.

“The past six years, something’s been wrong. My dreams, my thoughts, everything. I’m grieving a life I never had. Mourning a family I never had. Every damn night I dream of bats, clowns, of souring through the sky. I keep thinking about when I was in the circus. I was never in the circus. I don’t know what’s happening anymore, I don’t-“ he choked out a sob, and furiously ran his fingers through his hair. 

“What’s my name, Mar?” he begged his wife for an answer, praying that she’d say Grayson. A name that never once belonged to him.

“You’re Richard Parker,” she gripped his shaking hand. “You are Richard Parker,” with finality, she repeated the name that was never his, yet written on his birth certificate.

“No, I’m not,” his voice was broken and wet. He squeezed Maria’s hand to ground him, to remind him where he was. Richard was in a car, in the parking lot of the company he worked for in Queens, New York. He was not in a dark, dreary city that smelled of smoke and death. Nobody was hiding in the shadows. The thought should’ve comforted him, yet it just nauseated him.

Maria continued to look at him, searching his eyes. “Let’s get you to a doctor, yeah?” 

He shook his head. “No, I’m not-“

“You’re not crazy, I never said you were. But something’s wrong, let’s just get it checked out,” she assured. Maria pushed a strand of hair out of his face. “Please,”

Richard contemplated the request for a moment. He knew he wasn’t insane. Rational told him however, that crazy people don’t think they’re crazy. Maybe the first step to solving the constant war in his mind was admitting that he needed professional help.

“Okay,” 

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“Let’s start with your name, shall we?” The psychiatrist suggested.

Maria had made the appointment a few days prior, immediately following his unraveling in the car. She was supportive the entire time, never once showing an ounce of judgment. 

“Richard,” he said, fiddling with his sleeves.

The psychiatrist nodded. “Last name?”

“… Parker,” 

“You sound unsure,” she pointed out.

“Logically, I know my name is Richard Parker. It’s on every legal document, it’s what I grew up with, but…” he leaned his elbows on his knees. “It feels like it’s not mine, like I’m just wearing someone else’s,” 

“Is there a name that you prefer?” the woman questioned, writing something down in her notepad.

“Grayson,” he stated with ease. “My name is Richard John Grayson,” 

“How did you discover this, better fitting, name?” 

“I didn’t ‘discover’ it. It’s just a simple fact of life. The sky’s blue, an object in motion stays in motion, and my name is Richard Grayson,” he reasoned.

“And how long have you known this?” The psychiatrist asked.

“This all started six years ago,” 

“Did any particular event occur six years ago?”

“No, nothing. My life’s always been normal,” his head shook.

“And what other changes did you notice six years ago?” She continued to write in her notepad.

“This… unease started. Like, a gut feeling that this isn’t the life I’m supposed to have,” Richard spoke slowly, thinking over his words. 

“And what life are you supposed to have?”

“Flying,” the answer came from him with no hesitation.

“Flying?”

“In Gotham. We flew, we soared, me and The Bat. We owned the rooftops, sky, and shadows,” no thought was behind the words, they just fell from him before he could consider them.

“What did you and this ‘bat’ do while flying?”

“We saved people and stopped bad guys,” he claimed, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Who was ‘The Bat’?” The psychiatrist tilted her head in curiosity.

As quickly as the flood of information overtook him, it left. “I- I don’t know…”

Silence washed over the room as the woman scribbled notes. Richard shifted in his seat.

“When you made this appointment, your wife mentioned that you were talking about a brother you didn’t have,” she started. “Can you tell me about him?”

“I had quite a few siblings,” he spoke with uncertainty. “They were… younger, I think,”

“Do you remember their names?” 

“Jason is the only name I can remember. But I know that another one loved photography, and another loved art,” he nodded to himself, as if he were confirming his own words.

Before the psychiatrist could ask further details, her alarm rang. The sudden noise made Richard jump. It reminded him of a bomb. He had never been anywhere near a bomb. 

“Looks like our time’s up,” the woman stopped the alarm, much to Richard’s relief. “I suggest coming back next week, so we can discuss more,” 

“You’ve got it,” he nodded, and left the room.

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He had been lying through his teeth when he agreed to go back. The appointment had gone fine, he supposed. Nothing out of the ordinary happened, he had no real reason not to return. 

As tempting as the idea was to keep going back, so maybe he could be cured of whatever it was that was plaguing him for so long, there was an emptiness that overtook him when Richard considered the idea.

As difficult as the grief was, the idea of getting rid of it was far worse. The void that had been engulfing him would have only grown without his dreams of flying.

Saying that out loud, explaining that to Maria however, was impossible. How was he supposed to tell her that he was so reliant on the dreams, on the burning ache of mourning? How could he possibly explain to his family that without the longing to fly, he would fall? He was nothing without the desires that took over his every waking moment. Richard Parker wasn’t who he was. Living his life of repetition fueled to remind him that he wasn’t who he claimed to be, nor was he the person that memory and logic told him he was.

Grayson, Robin, Nightwing, those were his names.

If he were to speak those thoughts aloud, he ran the risk of losing his family. The family of which he adored, who loved him just as much. He couldn’t handle the thought of life without them. The only problem was, he couldn’t handle missing his mysterious other family either. 

He sighed as he laid in bed, staring at the ceiling. His life was perfect, he was grateful everyday for his loved ones, for a job that he cherished. So, why wasn’t he fulfilled?

Maria was still at Oscorp, she had to work overtime in order to finish a project before the due date. He had already put Peter to bed, done chores around the house, and called Ben. With nothing more to do to distract him from his racing thoughts, he settled into the bed, and allowed sleep to take him.

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“Nightwing! Nightwing, can you hear me?”

“Father, is he okay?” 

“What the hell happened!?”

“Oracle, what’s going on?”

Voices swarmed him. There was no feeling, nor smell. Just the familiar voices and blurry vision. He was weightless, he was on the edge of nonexistent. He could make out a foggy night sky above him, and a shadowed figure checking his pulse.

“Who..?” his voice was far away, not quite his own.

“It’s me, it’s Batman. You’re okay, everything will be fine,” the figure hovered over him, providing reassurance with a stoic, yet comforting voice.

“I don’t…” Why didn’t he know who Batman was? The void that consumed him mourned The Bat, but no memories told him why.

“Robin, get the toxin antidote from the Batmobile,” the shadow ordered to a figure he couldn’t make out through the blur.

“Is Dick okay?” A different voice asked with unease seeping into his tone.

“He will be,” Batman answered.

Another, smaller yet demanding voice said something he couldn’t understand. The voices continued to engage, as the ringing in his ears drowned them out.

The blur of the scene faded into obscurity, even as he fought to remain.

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Richard jolted awake. His skin was sticky with sweat as his lungs burned from his panting. His heart was in his throat as he took in the room around him. He was home. He was safe. It was just another dream.

The dreams that plagued him were never anything like that, the usual dreams had always consisted of vague imagery with an ever present feeling of family, and familiarity, surrounding them.

This however, felt drastically different. The comfort of his family had still remained, but it was off. Something was very, very wrong.

“Just a nightmare,” he muttered with his face in his knees, trying to convince himself.

At this point, he had no clue whether he wished to be going insane, or to be correct in his instinct that the dreams held a great magnitude. 

Would he rather be simply crazy, driven mad by nothing at all? Or, be a part of something far beyond his normal, civilized life? 

A scream from across the hall grabbed his attention before he could continue down his spiral.

“Pete? What’s wrong?” Richard threw the covers off himself and sped to his son's room.

Entering the room, he was greeted by the five year old curled in his mountain of blankets as if it were a nest.

“Scary,” Peter mumbled, nearly incoherent in his cries.

Richard rushed to his side to comfort the boy. “What’s scary, bug?” 

“I had a bad dream,” Ah. Well, at least he wasn’t alone in the sentiment that bad dreams sucked.

“Yeah? What was it about?”

“Monsters,” Peter hugged one of his stuffed dinosaurs.

“Mm, monster dreams are never fun,” Richard agreed, and pushed his son’s hair out of his face. “I had a bad dream too, y’know,”

“You did?” The boy sniffled.

“I did,” he nodded. “You just gotta remember that dreams aren’t fact. They’re just your mind playing tricks on you,”

“Why?”

“I do not have the qualifications to answer that unfortunately,” 

“Boo,” Peter pouted.

“Boo indeed,” He agreed.

“Can we watch a movie?” 

“We can always watch a movie,” He picked Peter up and made his way to the living room.

Richard could contemplate his own dreams later. For now, all that mattered was comforting his son.

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About an hour into the movie, the father and son had both fallen asleep on the couch. The television’s ambiance served as white noise as the two drifted off.

Although Richard hadn’t returned to the odd dream, the voices continued to echo through his mind.

“Dick, whatever you’re seeing isn’t real. The toxin is trying to trick you, it’s giving you the life it believes you want. Don’t give in, come back to us, Chum,” 

Chapter Text

“Dick, whatever you’re seeing isn’t real. The toxin is trying to trick you, it’s giving you the life it believes you want. Don’t give in, come back to us, Chum,” 

The words echoed in his mind the entire day. As he drove Peter to school, as he assured Maria he felt better after his therapy session, as he promised to go back, as he went to work, the words he heard last night consumed his entire being.

“Whatever you’re seeing isn’t real” 

What did that mean? Even though he didn’t necessarily feel like he belonged, that his name wasn’t his own, he never questioned the reality that surrounded him.

His family was real. His family was everything. If they didn’t exist, neither did he. Did he? Did he exist?

According to René Descartes, ‘I think therefore I am’ so, if Richard had the capacity to question the validity of his existence, then it was proof that he existed. Or, it was proof that his consciousness existed. Was there any evidence to truly, beyond a shadow of a doubt, prove that Richard Parker was real?

He paced through his office within Oscorp. The blinds had been shut to ward off prying eyes as he walked in circles.

Whoever he was, he knew one thing. He was a scientist. Against his rationale, he had a hypothesis. His theory was perhaps he was in a coma of sorts on the outside. The outside must have been where the flying and bats awaited him. Which would make the inside, where he was now, fake. A figment of his imagination.

It was theoretically possible. There were cases, few and far between, of people living entirely different lives within the confines of their dreams. That undisputable fact did little to ease him. If his hypothesis was correct, that meant that Peter, Maria, May, Ben none of them existed. 

Richard Parker was rarely incorrect in his theories. However, if this particular one was correct, then he had never been a scientist in the first place. His first correct hypothesis would be the one that invalidated all of his previous ones.

‘It’s giving you the life it believes you want,’

Dick

Nightwing

Richard replayed the sentence over and over. Twisting it, molding it, trying to make it different from what it was. When he stopped to truly consider it, the only problem with his life was the persisting feeling of missing something. Other than that one, admittedly massive flaw, his life was abnormally normal. Almost like a sitcom. 

How many people could say that they didn’t have any sort of trauma? No family disputes, no friendship troubles, nothing. Sure, it was of course possible. But why would someone like him, who had never truly suffered, have gone insane? There was no family history of mental illness, either. Not to mention the fact that most people who go insane had some sort of history prior to their unraveling. He had always been a happy kid. 

Richard kept trying to find some sort of alternative answer, but none were feasible. 

“Don’t give in, come back to us, Chum,” 

He finally sat down on the chair behind his desk. The desk held a multitude of framed photos. His and Maria’s wedding pictures, the first photo they took of Peter in the hospital, Peter’s first day of school, one of Ben’s wedding photos with the two brothers—the groom and the best man.

Either, Richard’s theory was incorrect, and he was simply ill. Or, he was correct and his entire reality was just in his head.

If he was right, he may lose his mind from grief anyway. 

His hands shook, holding a framed photo of his family’s past Christmas. Peter was asleep in a mountain of wrapping paper and toys under the tree. Maria and Richard were exchanging their own gifts. She had made him a scrapbook full of all their past holidays together.

Even if the memories were fake, even if his wife and son had never existed, why did it matter? He loved them, they loved him. If they weren’t real, he lived a damn good fake life.

As much as he longed for the sky, Richard would pick his family every single time. The heavens themselves could offer him birds and bats and everything he dreamt of, but he would happily refuse them and choose to go down under as long as he knew his family was safe.

“Don’t give in, come back to us, Chum,” 

If this was all nothing more than a coma, Richard prayed to a God he didn’t believe in, that he never woke up.

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Dinner that night was a peaceful affair. A rare occurrence with a hyper five year old in the equation. The five year old in question, had spent the meal distracted by drawing in his Avengers coloring book that May had gotten him. Peter loved superheroes. Maria and Richard had a bet going on, if their son would become either a scientist or a superhero when he grew up. (Richard had taken the superhero side, Maria took the scientist side)

“So… I’ve got some good news,” Maria claimed, putting her dish in the sink.

“Oh? What is it?”

She went to retrieve her purse from the kitchen counter, pulling out two tickets from the bag.

Richard tilted his head in a silent question as she handed him the tickets. They were for a first class round trip to an Oscorp convention in London.

“Guess who was picked to give the physics department’s presentation?” She smiled.

“What? Mar, that’s amazing!” He rose out of his seat to hug her. “You deserve it, seriously, this is incredible,” he laughed in immense pride.

“Problem is, they only gave me one extra ticket. Looks like you and Peter have to fight for it,” 

“What do I hafta do?” Peter lifted his head, apparently being summoned by his name.

“You wanna go fly on a plane?” Richard asked. If Peter wanted to go, he wouldn’t take the experience away from the boy. 

“Ew,” was the only response they got before Peter promptly went back to coloring.

“Welp, looks like that solves that problem,” Maria put the tickets back in her bag. “We leave early next weekend, the conventions only a few days so we should be back by Friday the latest,”

“Sounds good to me,” 

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Richard Parker was a man who despised schedules. They were far too confining for his taste. He thrived far more with flexibility; a very go-with-the-flow type of mentality.

However, the persistent unease that latched onto him, constantly forcing him to question his reality, changed everything. 

Now, he required a structure for his day to keep him from losing his mind. Or, losing it more, he supposed. While the restraining nature of a schedule frustrated him, the stability that came with one made it worth it.

And so,

5:30am: Wake up, brush teeth, do hair, get dressed.

6:00am: Finish up any work remaining from the previous day.

6:30am: House maintenance, cleaning, dishes, etc.

7:00am: Wake up Peter and get him ready for the day.

7:30am: Breakfast.

8:00am: Take Peter to school.

8:15am: He and Maria went to work.

3:30pm: Pick up Peter.

4:00pm: Go to Ben and May’s house if it was Friday or Saturday, any other day go back home.

5:30pm: Dinner.

6:30pm: Put Peter to bed.

7:00pm: Finish any remaining work.

9:00pm: Shower, get ready for bed.

10:00pm: Sleep.

It was tedious and unpleasant, but it worked. Whenever the thoughts about his dreams, about the bats, or his reality drowned him, he simply focused on just getting to the next task.

It worked, until it didn’t. 

Until the voices started to creep up on him outside of his dreams.

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It was a Friday, the day before he and Maria were due to leave for the Oscorp convention. The family was spending the night at Ben and May’s house, as they did every Friday.

Currently, he and Ben were watching mindless television in the living room. 

“Dick, please wake up,” Ben’s voice came, seated next to him. The tone was distinctly scared, an emotion that was unsettling on his brother.

“What? I am awake,” Richard turned to him with a raised eyebrow and confused laugh. “You seeing things in your old age, Ben?” 

Ben looked at him with bewilderment. “I didn’t say anything,” 

“Yes you did, I heard you clear as day telling me to wake up,” he insisted.

“I think you’re the one who’s hearing things, Richard,” Ben laughed, and looked back at the T.V, brushing the moment off like it was nothing.

The world around him faded into white noise. No, no, no. This wasn’t happening. 

Was he hearing things now? Had he truly become delusional? Or was the outside world now influencing this life? Was the voice from Ben someone else?

The air around him became thick and heavy, difficult to breathe. 

The voice had called him ‘Dick’ a semi-common nickname for Richard, but one that Ben had never used. The name ‘Dick’ felt like ‘Grayson.’ Memories assured him that they weren’t his name, but they felt like they were.

Everything was fine. Ben was real. May was real. Maria was real. Peter was real. Richard Parker was real.

The repetition of claiming they were real, did little to soothe his racing heart and growing nausea.

Richard Grayson Parker had finally snapped, he figured. He had to be insane. The alternative was far, far worse.

“Richard? Richard!” The same voice that had begged him to wake up, called his name again.

His eyes opened. When did he close them? Ben had his hand on Richard’s shoulder, shaking him out of his daze.

“What’s going on with you? You okay?” Ben kept his hand on him, as a grounding presence. Worry was evident on his face.

“Yeah, yeah, sorry I just uh,” Richard shook his head, getting used to his surroundings again. “Just tired I guess,”

Ben looked at his brother for a moment, silently looking for something in his eyes to say he was lying. Of course, he could read Richard like a book and saw right through him. “Hmm. You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, B don’t worry about me, you’ll go gray and I’ll never let you hear the end of it,” He shrugged Ben’s hand off and stood. “I’m gonna go check on Peter,” He excused himself and spared a quick reassuring smile to the other man and sped out of the room.

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“What’s your favorite element?” Peter questioned.

They were in the guest room that May and Ben had saved specifically for him. They took their jobs and aunt and uncle seriously and spoiled their nephew like there was no tomorrow.

“Hmm, that’s a good question,” Richard put a hand on his chin to properly prepare his answer. “I’d have to go with Oxygen. What can I say? Breathing is pretty cool,” 

“Ugh, boring,” The five year old groaned.

“Oh yeah? What’s your favorite then?” 

“Zinc, duh,” 

“Why Zinc of all things?”

“All cool things start with a Z,” Peter reasoned.

“Ah, that must be why your name starts with a P,” 

“Hey!” 

He laughed as Peter crossed his arms in faux annoyance. 

How could this ever be fake? He questioned. Richard wasn’t a perfect man, but he had always tried his best to be a good one. No God could ever be cruel enough to rip this away from him.

He looked around the room. The posters of his son’s favorite movies on the walls, the myriad of books and child-safe science experiments covered the floor.

Tap tap tap

The sound echoed from behind him.

Tap tap tap

Richard stood up, trying to find the source.

“Whatever you're seeing, no matter how real or great it seems, you can’t give in, Dick. It’s all fake,” Peter’s voice claimed with a tone that was completely foreign coming from the boy.

“What did you say?” Dick Richard reared back to face his son, who still sat in his same spot on the floor.

“I asked what you’re looking for,” Peter’s normal tone returned, as if it had never left.

“Oh, nothing, don’t worry about it,” He struggled to keep a convincing smile.

Maybe he was just overtired? Yeah, that made sense. Overexhaustion coupled with ongoing stress could be to blame for the weird voices he was hearing.

His mind was playing tricks on him. He was fine, everything was normal, his family was real.

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They returned home fairly shortly afterwards. He and Maria needed to get to bed early so they had time to pack in the morning. They had left Peter with Ben and May for the week.

He trusted Ben and May, of course. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that they couldn’t take care of their son. Plus, they’d watched him countless times before, it would be fine. That being said, a pit in his stomach nearly convinced him to decline the offer and stay home with Peter while Maria went to the convention. For some reason, unbeknownst to him, every instinct told him not to leave. It was foolish, there was no rational reason to not go. Most likely, the stress of everything was just getting to Richard, and he didn’t want to leave his usual environment.

He fought against the gut feeling to stay, and he and Maria went to bed. Tomorrow would be a long day, they needed to rest.

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“Alright, I tweaked the antidote just enough. This should work,” 

“Tt, ‘should’ is not good enough, Drake,” 

“Damian, not now,” 

The familiar feeling of weightlessness returned. He couldn’t see, all he could do was hear and feel.

A sharp pinch stabbed his arm. He couldn’t hiss from the sudden pain, he could do nothing but bare witness to whatever surrounded him.

“Dickwing, if you don’t wake up-“

“He’ll wake up, he has to, Dick’s stronger than whatever they hit him with,”

“Master Richard has faced greater threats and made it to the other side, I see no reason he wouldn’t do the same now,”

“Alfred’s right, your brother’s gotten through far worse. Why don’t you all head back upstairs and rest, we’ll call you back down when there’s an update,”

Sounds of protest started before quickly dying down due to an unseen gesture.

“Alfred, would you make sure they all get to the Manor?” 

“Of course, Master Bruce,”

A pertinent silence filled the space around him. It was familiar, peaceful, familial. 

A deep breath came from above. 

“You have to wake up, Dick. We’re all waiting for you. If Tim’s theory is right, then you’re living a fantasy. You’re stronger than your desires. Just, please, wake up. We can’t lose you,” 

Chapter Text

Richard Parker was never real, was he?

He was awoken by nothing at all in the middle of night, followed by his dream. The dream had been the final nail in the coffin for him to accept the truth, his entire life was a lie.

The moonlight illuminated the bedroom, highlighting picture frames and jewelry. The contrast of the white light, and dark shadows, served to make his surroundings seem black and white. The color pallet reflected in his mind, which was similarly dreary and bleak.

A laugh nearly escaped him. Not with humor, his body just couldn’t seem to figure out how to respond to his revelation.

For the past six years, Richard had struggled with his name, and with dreams of the sky. Throughout it all, he never believed that his recognition of his actual life was caused by cracks in this false reality.

“You have to wake up, Dick. We’re all waiting for you. If Tim’s theory is right, then you’re living a fantasy. You’re stronger than your desires. Just, please, wake up. We can’t lose you,” 

He couldn’t lie to himself anymore. He didn’t have the luxury of being insane. Insanity would have at least made sense, insanity would have at least confirmed that his family existed.

Richard Parker was never wrong in his theories, and this was no exception. His dream of the night confirmed his suspicions. People, his true family, were waiting for him on the other side.

“You’re stronger than your desires,”

Although, clearly, this family didn’t know him as well as they thought. 

Richard slowly and meticulously made his way out of bed. Maria was still wrapped in the covers, peacefully asleep, with no idea that she was simply a figment of his imagination.

He carried himself to the bathroom and splashed warm water on his face. It did nothing to soothe or distract him. He turned the faucet colder, and colder. The freezing water still wasn’t enough. Opposite it was then. He splashed hotter and hotter water onto his face. The burning sensation didn’t hurt. His mind was too loud in its silence to allow for the pain to register. 

Fog and fuzz stuffed his brain. What could he even do? What else was there for him? Continuing to live with Maria and Peter, with the knowledge that they had never existed outside of his own fantasy, was unconscionable. The mere thought of living his usual life as if nothing was wrong was simply impossible.

But how could he leave this life behind? The voice in his dreams was wrong. Richard wasn’t stronger than his desires. He had always been a man ruled by his emotions, for better or for worse.

In his daze, he somehow found himself back in the bedroom, with a framed photo shaking in his hands. It was a simple candid photo of him, Maria, and Peter a few years ago. May had taken the photo as the family was asleep on the couch. 

Without warning, Richard’s grip loosened without him realizing. The frame fell to his feet, the glass shattered around the wooden floor. He knelt down to the damaged photo. His fingers brushed the paper. How? He thought, how could the universe be so unabashedly cruel?

Richard wasn’t a bad man. He always tried to be there for whoever he could, whenever he could. Helping people was in his nature, it was why he became a biochemist in the first place. All he ever wanted to do was change lives for the better. So what could he have possibly done to deserve a fate like this? A fate of knowing everything he knew and loved to be a lie, was too unbelievable to be a random happenstance. He must have been the target for some sort of retribution, some sort of karma. Or, he hoped so, at least. Revenge was easier to swallow than the idea that it was all for nothing.

Red trickled down onto the broken picture, it dripped down onto the peaceful, sleeping faces encapsulated in the photo. Following the source of the red, he found his palm bleeding. He must have cut it with the broken glass.

No pain resonated with him. It wasn’t really his blood, was it? Just a figment of his imagination, like everything that made up his life was. 

Regardless, it provided a task for him to focus on. A task would help to clear the fog.

Tediously, yet absentmindedly, he cleaned and bandaged the cut. Then, he grabbed the bleach and scrubbed the stains in the floor from sight. He disposed of the glass and broken frame. All that remained was the blood stained photo. 

His thumb rubbed against it methodically, and allowed the feeling of the rough paper to help clear the rest of the fog that blurred his thoughts.

The moonlight still illuminated the bedroom. The light reflected on Maria’s jewelry that sat on her desk in the corner of the room. Without reason, he found himself suddenly standing above the desk, staring down at the bright silver. 

One of her favorite necklaces laid amidst the pile. It was one that her mother had passed down to her years prior. The simple necklace was silver with a cross hanging from it. 

While Richard himself had never been religious, the concept had always fascinated him. The idea of believing in an omnipotent, divine power seemed like wishful thinking. The prospect of someone watching over you, the idea that there was more on the other side, was a concept that he could easily see why many people found enticing. 

Richard never bothered much with worrying about a greater power. It simply didn’t pertain to him. Now, however, when the world he knew had crumbled before him with the knowledge that it didn’t exist, he reevaluated his stance. 

For the first time in his life, he hoped—no he prayed, that a God was watching over him. Because if one did, that provided reason for his suffering. At the very least, he could place blame on a God for ripping his family from him. If a God did indeed exist, at least he had something to fight. 

Richard was a remarkably average man, pushed to the edge. His normalcy meant nothing to him. Whoever was responsible for putting him in a hell made from his own heaven, was going to pay. It didn’t matter who did it, nor how powerful they were. 

He was a normal man, backed into a corner. Any animal would bite when frightened, Richard Parker was no different.

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

“Alright, I’m all packed. You ready?” Maria zipped her suitcase shut. They had to be at the airport within the next few hours if they wanted to make it to their hotel in time.

“Yep,” he confirmed, staring down at his own suitcase. He still refused to look her in the eye. 

“Hey,” she scooted closer to put her hand on his shoulder. “You okay? You seem off this morning,”

“I’m fine,” he quickly assured. “Just, not feeling too well, I guess,” his hands fidgeted, needing to be distracted.

“Don’t tell me you’re scared of flying?” Maria teased.

Quite the opposite. “Yeah, that must be it,” his shoulders felt heavy and clunky. Shrugging was almost mechanical. His body wasn’t his own.

The couple grabbed their belongings and went out the door.

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

Richard had never been on a plane before. Seeing as his whole family and job was in New York, he simply never had a reason to travel far enough to warrant it.

The ride was smooth thus far, although he didn’t exactly have a frame of reference for what a smooth ride was. 

His head was leaning against the window. The sky stared back at him. It was comforting, familiar. Not quite the rooftops that consumed his dreams, but close enough to fill him with bittersweet homesickness. Maria was reading in the seat next to him. The scene was peaceful, domestic. It almost made him forget about his breakdown that morning.

Then the turbulence started.

Like an earthquake, it was sudden and violent. His head crashed painfully onto the window. Now, he had never experienced turbulence before, sure. But he was positive that there was no possible way it could’ve been normal for it to be so dramatic.

His suspicions were confirmed by the startled reactions of the rest of the passengers and staff. Panicked yells surrounded him, shaking the plane almost as much as the turbulence itself.

Richard and Maria looked to each other with fear and confusion evident on both their faces. No words were exchanged as they simply gripped each other's hands as if their lives depended on it.

“Everyone remain calm!” The loudspeakers echoed above them. “Please refer to your emergency protocols,” it ordered.

The plane lurched downwards. Screams drowned out the instructions still coming from the cockpit.

Time slowed down. They were crashing. They were going to die. There was no way to escape, no way to fight, just a fact. He could accept it easily enough for himself. Richard didn’t necessarily want to die, but what with the events of the past few days, the prospect wasn’t unfathomable. What he could never accept was that Maria would die as well. Regardless of whether she was real or not, she would die. All the plans they had would never be fulfilled. The book, still in Maria’s hand, would never be finished. 

Peter was waiting for them at home. Richard had promised the boy that he’d take him to the zoo once they returned. 

How long would Peter wait? 

People always said how your life would flash before your eyes when faced with death. Richard Parker didn’t exactly relive his entire life in that moment. Instead, he saw his family.

The brother who had been there for him as long as he could remember, who had taught him everything he knew. 

The sister-in-law who was one of the kindest and welcoming people he’d ever had the privilege of knowing. 

His wife who was without a doubt the most intelligent, kind, quick-witted, person he’d ever met. 

And of course, his son; his son who was his entire world. He thought, one last time, about who Peter would grow up to be. Surely, with his aunt and uncle, he’d have the support system to become whatever he wanted. The idea that he wouldn’t be there to see that, burned him more than the wind that whipped past at untold speeds. But, Peter would be happy and safe with Ben and May, that was all that mattered.

Richard opened his eyes, the vast, open sky surrounded him. He had no clue when or how he made it out of the crashing aircraft.

The ground came closer by the second. The wind was tearing him apart. There was no fear as he sped towards the unforgiving earth.

For a moment, he felt like Icarus. He had grown too comfortable with his life, he used to think he was the luckiest man alive to have his loved ones. But, he had flown too close to the sun. The family that made his life so perfect, had burned him. 

With one final breath, he realized that he had been blessed.

Richard Parker had finally been granted his wish to fly.

Chapter Text

Peter Benjamin Parker was sixteen years old when he lost everything.

Throughout his short life, he thought he had hit rock bottom many times before. Each time thinking that there was no possible way for it to get any worse.

Of course, the universe had a vendetta against him and managed to prove him wrong, every single time.

The first real tragedy that struck him, happened when Peter was five. His parents had left to go on a business trip, promising to be back by the end of the week. The next day, he woke up to Uncle Ben sobbing. It wasn’t right, it didn’t make any sense. Uncle Ben never cried, and yet he was inconsolable. Aunt May had been the one to explain to him what death meant, and why his parents wouldn’t be coming home.

Peter had spent the next few months refusing to leave the front door. Surely, his mom and dad were going to come home some day. They promised. A Parker never broke their promise.

Finally, while sitting by the door and looking out the window to the driveway, the revelation that he would never see his parents again settled in. That was the moment he learned what it felt like to feel abandoned.

His aunt and uncle had told him countless times that his parents never wanted to leave him. They claimed that his mom and dad would have done anything to be able to stay with Peter. 

He knew that they were killed in a plane crash. He knew that they had no control over their deaths. He understood that, but a part of him would never forgive them for leaving him. 

Although, he wasn’t alone.

Aunt May and Uncle Ben had been adamant that they were never going to replace his parents. But, they were always parental figures in his life. Whenever Peter was sad, or scared, whenever he missed his parents, he could go to May or Ben, and they’d make it better. He used to think his aunt and uncle were magic, with how fast they could make it seem like the world wasn’t so cruel.

Growing up, the memories of his parents slowly dwindled. He remembered bits and pieces of them, like his fathers voice and laugh, or his mother’s lullabies and smile. Most of what Peter knew about his heritage came from Ben’s stories. 

The man always told him how much he was like his father. How Peter had the same humor, the same interests, and the same mannerisms. Not to mention the fact that as Peter grew into his features, he started to look more and more like a carbon copy of his father. It was an odd feeling, seeing the ghost of a man he hardly remembered every time he looked in the mirror. 

Peter had spent the days since he lost his parents, trying desperately to make them proud. He threw himself into his school work, constantly trying to learn more and more. Then one day, he came across some of his parents' old research papers. Peter had made the executive decision to ‘break’ into Oscorp to learn more about what they did.

He was eleven years old when a spider bit him, and nearly took his life. 

The near-death experience had given Peter the powers of a spider. He had the ability to help people, to be a hero just like the ones who adorned his bedroom walls. Yet, he didn’t. Peter Parker was reckless, irresponsible. 

He was eleven years old when Uncle Ben bled out in front of him.

A third parent had been taken from him. Unlike the last time however, he couldn’t blame the tragedy on anyone but himself. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t try.

The next few weeks, he was consumed by the need to find Uncle Ben’s killer and make him pay for what he did. Peter designed a mask, and web shooters, to help him on his quest. 

Eventually, he found himself saving civilians rather than looking for the murderer. Peter found that the best way to honor Uncle Ben and his parents was to prevent similar incidents from occurring.

Peter Parker was eleven years old when Spider-Man was born.

Throughout the years, he learned more and more, saved people, and made new friends with fellow vigilantes and heroes. He broke countless bones and lost gallons of blood along the way, but it hardly mattered when he knew that he was making his family proud. 

Then, when he was thirteen, Aunt May found out. The woman who was the closest thing he had to a mother, was terrified, because of him. May had dedicated everything she had to protecting Peter, just to find out that he was going behind her back and risking his life every single night.

It took a while, but they managed to figure it all out. Aunt May never hid her hatred for it, but after accepting that Peter would find a way to go out no matter what, she always made sure to let him know how proud she was of the good he was doing. 

At fourteen, Peter was the one to die.

He and Tony Stark were on an alien planet, on a mission to save half the universe from Thanos. Peter did what he did best. He failed at doing his duty to save people. The price was quickly paid when he turned to dust. Everyone else had gotten a quick, painless death. They had simply closed their eyes and vanished. Peter was never that lucky, however. His enhanced healing, the power that had kept him alive, turned on him. In his body’s attempt to mend itself, he was torn apart and put back together for what felt like eternity, before finally it gave up, and he was nothing.

Peter always imagined that when he died, he’d reunite with his family. They could finally see how he’d tried his best to live up to their legacy. Instead, death was vast, dark, nothingness. Just a feeling of empty remained. Until, gold sparks broke through the void and he found himself face to face with Doctor Strange.

The ones who were decimated by The Snap were brought back. They were given the mission to ‘fight with the knowledge you most likely won’t make it out’ they were all ready to fight for even the smallest chance at saving their world, even if it cost their lives.

And it did, cost lives. Just not Peter’s. He was never lucky enough to be a martyr.

He was fourteen years old when he lost three more parents. Tony Stark, Natasha Romanoff, and Steve Rogers. They had all taught him so much, had all been mentors for him. So, they faced the same fate that every one of his parental figures did.

Life after what they deemed ‘The Blip’ was odd, to say the least. Coupled with the mourning of three of his mentors, he had been thrown five years in the future. Aunt May had also been blipped, so they had to rebuild their lives from scratch in a post apocalyptic world.

About a year afterwards, life had morphed into a ‘new normal’ or sorts. Peter had his friends, Harry, Ned, and MJ. His girlfriend, Gwen. And of course, his aunt. Peter made the mistake of feeling secure.

When he was fifteen, his school went on a trip through Europe. He had meant to leave Spider-man in Queens. But, wherever he went, trouble followed. A new hero, calling himself Mysterio made his first appearance. Peter learned his name to be Quinton Beck. 

SHIELD had wanted to recruit Peter, but he refused. Mysterio could handle it, he thought. But, destruction continued on its quest to follow him. Spider-man was forced to leave the trip, and help Mysterio. Peter never seemed to learn from his mistakes, and trusted the man. He gave him EDITH—the glasses and software that Tony had left for him.

Quinton Beck had lied and used Peter.

The man placed Peter in his own, personalized hell. All of his worst mistakes cornered him. Everybody who he mourned, stared back at him, blaming him for their deaths.

Peter continued to fight back against Beck. In his attempt to fix his mistakes, the man had gone after his friends.

Gwen was killed by Beck in order to get to Peter.

Another name was added onto the list of people who died because of Peter Parker.

An additional one was added, when Quinton Beck had also lost his life during their fight.

So, with eight names weighing him down like an anvil, he went back home to Aunt May. She could make the impossible grief and guilt somewhat bearable. 

He continued being Spider-man. After all, what more was there for him? 

Then, that was taken as well. Quinton Beck had revealed his identity to the public. Using his last breath, he gave one last statement in an effort to make Peter’s life even more miserable.

Peter could never stop making mistakes, could he? The public turned against him, the friends who somehow still stuck by him, and his aunt. Peter couldn’t handle his loved ones suffering anymore because of him. So, he asked Doctor Strange to wipe everyone’s memory of the identity reveal.

The spell went wrong because Peter didn’t know when to shut up. Villains from other universes were pulled into his. But, even after everything, he wanted to help them. The villains were just sick. They needed help, so Peter would give it to them. 

Aunt May had told him that he got that trait from his parents. His mothers fearless determination, and his fathers need to help as many people as possible.

That trait of his, was what got Aunt May killed. 

The last of his family, the one who was always there, teaching him what unconditional love looked like, was gone.

Peter Parker was sixteen years old when he became the last Parker. 

The spell was still unstable, and threatened to rip apart his entire universe. Peter begged and pleaded with Doctor Strange, there had to be something he could do. There couldn’t be any more blood on his hands.

The answer was obvious. Peter had always been the catalyst for tragedy, so naturally, the only way to prevent more, was by removing him like a tumor.

He got a chance to say goodbye to Harry, Ned, and MJ, before their lives were changed for the better by forgetting him as if he never existed.

Peter Parker was sixteen years old when he was thrown into an alternate universe, and left behind his cursed life.

🕷️🦇🕷️🦇🕷️🦇

The Batcave: 2016

He was drowning. 

Richard Dick, couldn’t make sense of what surrounded him. What he believed to be the air felt thick and dense. His ears felt submerged in water, although he didn’t feel any sort of liquid.

Dick simply floated in a state of what must have been some sort of purgatory. There were no thoughts, he simply just existed. 

Then, the sound came to him first. The buzz of the Batcave reverberated through the space. 

“Is he waking up?” A voice… Damian, maybe? Asked.

“I believe so, give him some space,” The deep, no nonsense voice gave itself away as Bruce’s.

What the hell happened to him?

Before he even got the chance to begin ransacking his memory for an answer, an awful, all consuming worry and fear hit him. All of his racing thoughts became clear in a moment, just repeating the same question over and over again.

Was Peter okay?

Then, the light above his eyes hit him. It was bright and sterile. As Dick’s eyes slowly adjusted, his siblings crowded him, all speaking at once. He didn’t have the energy to try to decipher whatever it was they were saying.

“Is he okay?” Dick’s voice was clearly cracked and broken even through his hardly audible whisper.

The questioning of his family quickly died out, leaving just the buzz of the cave.

“…Is who okay?” Duke broke the silence with confusion evident in his tone.

“Peter,” Dick answered like it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

Okay. Now Dick was getting freaked out. Who the actual hell was Peter? He felt like the name was sacred, like something to be protected. He felt… Paternal?Towards the name. Although, no memories provided any context.

“Who?” Jason’s voice echoed above him. 

“Probably just someone that the drug made him see,” Tim said. The semi distracted tone told Dick that his brother was almost certainly leaning on a chair with his hand on his chin, piecing something together.

Wait wait wait, back up. 

The who what where now made him see?

“Huh?” was the most Dick could get out.

“Are you like, conscious?” Tim asked, with his footsteps becoming louder.

“Eh,” he sat up with great effort. His whole body felt like he’d just ran 50 miles with a fever. 

Finally, rubbing the rest of the blur out of his eyes, he saw Tim standing right next to him while typing something in his laptop. Jason stood a few feet away from his bedside. Damian sat right next to Dick, staring, examining his every move. Duke was across the room, sat atop a desk. While Cass stood next to Bruce near the doorway to the medbay.

“What happened?” Dick forced out, slurring his few words.

“D’you remember the cheerdrops we dealt with a while ago?” Tim asked.

“Yeah,” while Dick hadn’t personally dealt with Cheer, he had heard second hand accounts of him from both Bruce and Jason. Apparently the guy, Silvanio Romero, altered Scarecrow’s fear toxin in such a way that induced euphoria rather than fear. In many ways, Cheer’s drug was far more cruel than the fear toxin. The ‘cheerdrops’ as he dubbed them, put the victim in their ideal life. Once the antidote was administered, it was ripped away from them.

Bruce and Jason had faced the effects of the drug. Both men firmly refused to speak about their experiences.

“Well apparently Scarecrow got ahold of the formula, and altered it in some sorta messed up way. All we really know about it right now is that it put you in a light coma for about six hours. And apparently made you see some dude named Peter?” Tim continued to brief him, all while tapping away at his laptop.

“Oh, yay, only six hours,” Dick focused on the small victories. Yay, he wasn’t in a coma for days! 

“What did you see?” Duke leaned forward on the desk.

What did he see? 

Dick’s brain felt like mushy goop. Mushy goop that was run over. And burned. And drowned. All that remained was a feeling of loss. He’d felt it before, when he first learned that Jason had been killed. 

It made no sense. He knew that something of great value was lost, but he couldn’t remember what it was. 

The name ‘Peter’ was at the forefront of his mind, but why? Did he… did he have a kid in whatever dream state the cheerdrops induced?

Dick had always thought about having kids. He knew he wanted a family of his own sometime in the far future. Although he hadn’t decided on much, he did know for certain that if he were to have a son, he’d name him Peter, after Jason.

“I don’t know,” Dick finally admitted. “It… I think whatever I saw was good,” whatever Scarecrow did to the drug, hadn’t changed the euphoric effect, he theorized. If it had caused the usual fear hallucinations, then he’d be feeling relief from leaving it, rather than such an all encompassing grief.

“Why don’t you all give your brother some space to rest?” Bruce suggested. Although, they all knew it was more of an order.

“Tt, Richard has been resting for the past six hours,” Damian said in his usual matter-of-fact tone.

Richard?

Rationally, he knew it was his name and what Damian and those not close with the family referred to him as. However, for some reason, being called the name now just felt… odd. Like, the name was correct but the setting was wrong.

The bats exchanged just a few words before all but Bruce shuffled out.

“Are you okay?” Bruce sat next to him.

“I think so,” he didn’t think so, and his father saw right through him. Luckily, Bruce was never one to call him out whenever he pushed down his feelings, seeing how hypocritical it would be. The observation amused Dick, his older brother did the same thing.

His what now? Dick never had an older brother, he was the older brother. 

“Why don’t you go to your room to get some rest? We can look more into the effects of the cheerdrops later,” Bruce all but pushed him out of bed to get his attention. 

“Yeah, alright, sounds good,” Dick distractedly agreed, still stuck in the haze of the aftermath of the drug, along with questioning where the hell the thought of an older brother came from.

He found his way to his room set up in the manor. Quickly, exhaustion won over his spiraling thoughts.

Dick didn’t dream often. Whenever he did, it was generally memories of the circus, or of his worst battles. He had never really dreamt of new sceneries. 

So why did he dream so vividly of a normal life?

Chapter Text

Gotham: 2018

Ughhhhhhghhhhhghh

Peter had been hurt before, of course. The amount of times he had to stitch himself up, perform minor surgeries on himself to get bullets out, and countless concussions, had forced him to have a pretty great pain tolerance.

But holy shit.

He was almost in awe. It was impressive that someone could experience such massive amounts of pain and still be alive.

Along with the agony radiating through his entire body, a putrid odor made him gag. The spider bite gave him numerous abilities, including enhanced senses. His ability to hear something miles away, generally was incredibly helpful and saved his life more often than not. However, enhanced scent did nothing but disgust him, it was a hindrance more than anything. As much as Peter adored New York, the smell made him question his stance constantly.

But now, he regretted every single time he complained about New York's horrid scent. That was like flowers compared to whatever hell hole he just traveled to.

Ah right, he should probably figure out where he was. 

“You get bit by a spider one time…” Peter cursed under his breath. Begrudgingly, he used all of his strength to push himself up into a sitting position.

He was in an ominous alleyway that was uncomfortably damp. Looking around, he noticed a puddle of what must’ve been blood a few feet away from him. What a charming sight. 

The seven concussions that he most certainly had, blocked out most of his hearing and Spidey Sense. Without them, he felt blind. He was like a weird version of Daredevil. But y'know, without the super hearing? So really, just Matt Murdock. Except, he could still see. So he was Peter Parker—minus a few spider traits.

He was getting off topic.

Taking a deep breath, Peter pushed himself to his wobbling feet. He felt like a building had been dropped on him. Literally, he knew how that felt, and could confirm that it was not pleasant.

Wherever he was, it must’ve been late in the evening judging by the dark sky. Although, fog was everywhere, so he couldn’t be positive. 

Peter slowly made his way out of the alley, leaving his dignity behind as he had to put the majority of his weight on the wall beside him. The buildings nearby came into view. They all had very gothic influence, like seriously, he felt like he stepped into the land of vampires.

Oh god, what if Strange sent him to Sunnydale? He didn’t want to fight vampires!

“Y’hear about another breakout from Arkham?” A deep voice asked from a few feet away. 

“There’s always another one, I’ve stopped payin’ attention,” another one answered.

“Sure, but this time Killer Croc is on the loose, and I don’t know about you but I don’t wanna spend my night being cannibalized by that monstrosity,” the first voice said.

The Killer who now?

Peter had already fought one humanoid lizard. That was enough for one lifetime. And apparently this one was a cannibal. 

“Who’s Killer Croc?” Peter asked the men. He winced at how choppy and broken his voice sounded. Eh, maybe they wouldn’t notice.

“Jeez, what the hell happened to you, kid?” The second man looked at Peter with disgust evident on his face.

“Oh just the usual, y’know how it is,” Peter shrugged off. “Anyways. Killer Croc. Tell me about him,” he painstakingly smiled.

The two men exchanged a glance. “Were you mugged, or something?”

“Or something,” Peter continued to dodge their questions. “Can you move on now and tell me about an apparent Croc that is Killer?”

“You don’t know who Killer Croc is? What the hell kinda rock have you been living under?” The first man asked.

Ugh, these guys were of no help. At least not with answers to the very pressing question of who this Croc-guy was.

“Where am I, exactly?” Peter switched to a different question. He had already figured he was at least somewhere in the United States, judging from the men’s accents. Although, he couldn’t place what state it was.

“Kid, you're in Gotham,” The second man finally gave a straight answer, although not without confusion.

“Gotham? You mean to tell me, the city with gothic architecture, is named Gotham?” He really had no room to judge. His name was indeed Spider-man, so not the most creative of names. Although, he was also eleven when he came up with it so at least he got some benefit of the doubt. 

“Uh, yeah? We’re in the university district right now,” 

“Right, right, right. And uh, what state would Gotham be in?” Please be New York, please be New York, please be New York.

“New Jersey,”

“New Jersey!?” Jersey!? Seriously!? Oh, he was going to find a way to get in contact with Doctor Strange just so he could curse him for sending him to New Jersey of all places.

He had been to Jersey a total of one time, just so he could visit Ms. Marvel in Jersey City. She better exist in this dimension.

“Please tell me you know who Ms. Marvel is,” Peter all but begged.

“Uh, I mean, I’ve heard of Captain Marvel?” One of the men furrowed his eyebrows in growing concern.

Captain Marvel! Carol Danvers existed here! Sure, she wouldn’t know who he was, but a familiar face would always be welcomed.

“Yippie,” Peter gave a tiny celebration. Small victories were his only hope at the moment. He desperately needed to learn way more about Gotham. And who named it, because they would be having words. And maybe a seminar on how to name things properly. “Hey, d’you guys know where a library is?” 

“Yeah, a couple blocks down that way,” the second man pointed to their right. “Just keep going straight, you’ll see Gotham Public Library eventually,” both men continued to stare at Peter with a mix of disbelief and worry.

“Great! Thanks a bajillion!” Peter would usually have given them a thumbs up and a sticker, he always carried gold star stickers to give to helpful people. Unfortunately, the stars did not travel with him to this universe, so instead, the men got a smile and finger guns, before Peter rushed off to the directions they gave him.

Well, ‘rushed’ was a strong word. He sped walked, while continuing to lean on whatever building was closest to him,

Gotham Public Library, here he comes!

🕷️🕸️🕷️🕸️🕷️🕸️

Peter stepped into the library. The building finally gave him some relief from the lingering putrid smell of the city. 

“Hi, how can I help you?” The red haired librarian asked from behind a desk, still staring intently at her computer.

The computer was bulky, it looked like one of those dinosaur ones that Uncle Ben insisted on using. Those kind of computers were all but obliterated with the integration of Stark tech.

Oh god, what if Stark Tech didn’t exist here? 

“Could I use a computer, please?” Peter fidgeted with his jacket sleeves. No matter how many times he taunted criminals or questioned civilians, he could never seem to stop being awkward during normal social interactions.

The librarian looked up at Peter, her eyes quickly widened in surprise. “Are you okay?” She looked increasingly concerned the longer she took in his appearance.

He figured that he didn’t look great, considering how miserable he felt, but c’mon it couldn’t be that bad, right? “I’m fine,” he quickly brushed off.

The librarian was not convinced in the slightest. “What happened?” She asked.

“Oh y’know,” he refused to elaborate further. “Could I use a computer, please?” 

“Do you need me to call someone for you?” She continued to pry.

“No, no, there’s no need,” there wasn’t anyone to call in the first place.

“Are you sure? I could call up someone to at least take you to a clinic?” The librarian offered, already reaching for her phone.

“No thank you,” he continued to restlessly fidget with his sleeves. 

The woman examined him for a moment. “Alright, I have a first aid kit, if you wanna borrow it?” 

Usually, Peter would have relentlessly refused. He hated taking resources away from people who needed them more than him. Especially something like a first aid kit. He had enhanced healing, he’d be fine. However, he really hurt. And the librarian was not going to let this go, so, what else could he do? “Okay,” 

The librarian handed him the kit and pointed him towards the bathroom. 

Peter took in his appearance in the bathroom mirror. Ah, that explained why she was so worried. He looked like he’d been crushed by a train. Which, he had, and come to think of it, he actually looked worse. 

His face was sticky with dried blood, mixed with still bleeding cuts. His right eye was black, purple, and double its regular size. Parts of his hair were matted with the dried blood. The lip that had been burning, had a horrible gash that would have easily left a nasty scar on any normal person. His nose was also very obviously broken and still bleeding.

And that wasn’t even taking into account the rest of his body. Luckily, his jacket covered his arms that were covered with cuts and bruises, and a most definitely fractured forearm and wrist. His ribs ached with the all too familiar feeling of being cracked. He lifted up his shirt to reveal gnarly bruises all along his ribs, confirming his suspicions. His legs were much the same as his arms, bloody and bruised, with almost definite fractures.

Needless to say, Peter looked like shit.

He painstakingly cleaned the worst of his wounds, and bandaged them. He rarely bothered with mending small cuts, due to his healing taking care of them long before he even got the chance to. But, his healing was fueled by food. The more he ate, the better he healed. Generally, he consumed about 10 thousand calories a day. He was only able to keep up with his insane metabolism with the help of the protein bars Tony made for the super soldiers. Now, not only did he not have those, he only had about $20 to his name and no other way to get food.

So, actually tending to his wounds it was.

After what felt like hours, he had cleaned up all the dried blood and stopped any other still open gashes. His broken nose had already healed by the time he was done, so he had to rebreak it in order to set it properly. 

He walked out of that bathroom with far less dignity, but at least he no longer looked like a train wreck victim.

“Hi,” Peter greeted the librarian again, and handed back the first aid kit. “Could I use a computer now, please?”

The woman studied him for a moment. “Of course. You’ll need a library card, though.”

Ah fooey.

“Oh okay, how do I get one?” He shifted his weight.

She typed something into the computer. “I’ll just need your name and birthday,”

“My name's Peter Parker,” he started, speaking in a low, hardly audible voice. “My birthday’s August 10th,” his sleeves were already starting to fray from his constant fidgeting.

The librarian furrowed her eyebrows before quickly schooling her expression. “Peter Parker?” 

“Uhm, yes Miss,” 

She was silent for a moment, clearly thinking something over. “My name’s Barbara, but everyone just calls me Babs,” she introduced herself with a smile.

Peter nodded. “Nice to meet you,”

Babs handed him a library card and pointed him towards the direction of the computers. 

Time to learn where the hell Strange sent him.

🕸️🕸️🕸️🕸️🕸️🕸️

Batcave: 2016

“I’m telling you guys, I know it was real,” Dick insisted. “No dream or hallucination I’ve ever experienced felt like that,” 

Dick had woken up from the cheerdrops weeks ago, and ever since, he had been adamant that the life he saw was somehow real.

The memories were still incredibly fuzzy and few and far between. Every time he tried to remember something, it got all muffled and blurry. Even though he couldn’t recall the specifics, he knew that he had a son, a wife, an older brother, and a sister-in-law.

Sometimes, random memories would pop into his head for a few seconds. He had begun to keep a notepad with him at all times so he could document them before he forgot. So far, he had a few names and facts about them.

Ben Parker - older brother. Firefighter. Wise. 

May Parker - Ben’s wife. Hospitable. Nurse.

Maria Parker - his wife. Genius. Confident. Kind.

Peter Parker - his son. Curious. Smart. Innocent. 

It was infuriating. He was constantly aware of what he lost, yet he couldn’t for the life of him remember what they looked like, nor any particular memories.

But, even through the haze and fog, Dick never questioned the unconditional love they all had for each other. His family. No drug could ever simulate that feeling of unquestionable safety.

“Dick, I promise you, there is no possibility that it wasn’t just a hallucination,” Tim assured him, while pulling up the files detailing the cheerdrops on the batcomputer. 

“And I promise you, that there is no possibility that it wasn’t real,” Dick had suffered through many hallucinations and toxins, he knew how to distinguish dreams and reality. But, no matter what he did, or what he said, the bats and birds brushed it off. “You have you trust me,” he all but begged.

“It’s not a matter of trust. It’s the fact that it makes no logical sense,” Tim insisted. He pointed to the file. “Cheerdrops show the victim their dream life. The goal is for you to not want to wake up,” 

The batcomputer’s screen showed how the effects of the drug increased euphoria. It was meant to be addictive, essentially a polar opposite than the fear gas. 

“You’re just dealing with the natural response to that,” Tim finally looked away from the screen to face Dick. “I’m sorry, but whatever you saw doesn’t exist. It never did, and it never will,”

Dick trusted his brother. Tim was one of, if not the, smartest person he knew. The entirety of Gotham’s vigilantes were well aware that any theory Tim had was most likely correct. The boy's hypotheses were simply taken as fact, seeing as he was hardly ever wrong.

Statistics and basic evidence supported what Tim was saying. Logic all but proved it. There was no feasible way that Dick could be right.

But, Dick Grayson had defied the impossible many times before. He took it as a challenge at this point, he was the ‘Boy Wonder’ after all.

So, disregarding every ounce of logic, he decided, no matter what it took, no matter how few people believed him, he was going to find his family.

They had to somehow be real.

Chapter Text

Batcave: 2017

Months had passed since the cheerdrop incident. The rest of the bats had moved on, thinking it was nothing more than just another toxin they had to deal with. Dick on the other hand, had spent every day since, trying to figure out what exactly happened to him.

He’d made a bit of progress, although not much. The biggest discovery thus far was when the bats had been trying to extract DNA samples from one of the Manbats. That sort of issue was generally left to either Bruce or Tim, but somehow Dick not only knew how to do it, but was proficient. Although he didn’t remember exactly where he’d learned, he knew that his career in the life he led with the cheerdrops somehow involved it. And, his knowledge was not only accurate, but exceptional. The instance served to further prove his stance that there was truth to what the cheerdrops showed him. Tim and Bruce had claimed that Dick’s subconscious could have picked up on various skills from simply listening to the bats discussing them for so long, but he wasn’t convinced.

Before Dick got the chance to continuously work on recovering all of his memories, Bruce was killed, and everything changed.

No matter how desperately he wanted to continue searching for answers, his family, the ones that surrounded him, needed help. Gotham was without a Batman, so Dick was forced to take on the mantle.

Every one of the bats had to do their part in filling the void that Bruce had left. They were all terrified and consumed by their own grief. Dick had to be the rational one; he needed to put his own emotions to the side in order to be the figure that the bats required to keep them together. Sacrifices had to be made. One of them being, he couldn’t allow himself to think about the life that the drug had shown him.

Although the aching feeling of loss still burned him, he had been taught how to ignore it and persevere. If he stopped for even a second, he would fall, and just like his parents, never get back up.

Tim had taken Bruce’s death the hardest. He kept trying to convince them all that Bruce had somehow made it, how he had to be alive. Dick wanted to believe him, more than anything. But, they had buried the man’s body. There was no feasible explanation for how he could have survived. So, Dick brushed off Tim’s ramblings as little more than a child in denial.

He had done the same thing that Tim did to him. The price for his hypocrisy was paid when they found out that Tim was right, Bruce had survived.

After nearly a year without him, they found out that the man had been trapped within his own time stream, trying desperately to make his way back home. 

It took time, but the chaos of it all eventually settled and things began to return back to normal. Finally, without the massive burden of carrying the Batman mantle, Dick was granted the chance to reflect back upon what the dreams and the cheerdrops showed. 

The time away from his constant fighting to uncover it all, had consequences. Dick found himself unable to recall any new information. All he had was his notebook where he jotted down whatever he could remember, and the emptiness that followed him ever since he woke up. 

But, there was some good to be had. They now knew about Bruce’s experience in the time stream. It got Dick thinking, what if the life that he lived with the cheerdrops, was just an alternate timeline?

It was—theoretically—possible. Dick wasn’t all that familiar with it, but he knew the basics of multiversal theory. The idea was that, at every choice someone could make, a new timeline branched off and created a parallel universe where they made each decision. If the multiverse did exist, then there would have to be one where his name was Richard Parker and he led a normal life. He still had no clue how the toxin could have forced his consciousness to travel across dimensions, but it was a damn good start.

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

Bludhaven: 2018

Months had passed since Bruce returned. Dick had to move back to Bludhaven as soon as possible; he had been shirking his responsibilities in the city as of late. Even though everything in him wanted to continue on his quest to uncover the truth of what the cheerdrops did, his duties as Nightwing had to be his top priority.

Although he had a decent theory, Dick had no idea where to even start going about doing something with it. The thought of calling Wally—or any of the speedsters really—was incredibly tempting. Seeing as they possessed the ability to travel through time, why wouldn’t they be able to travel through dimensions? But, he knew he couldn’t. Not only would he sound like a madman, but it could potentially put them in danger. Dick refused to put anyone at unnecessary risk.

So, he was left to just sit with his constant thoughts. Homesickness was a feeling of which he knew far too well. It had shaped who he was, following his parents' deaths. No matter what he did, no matter how much he tried to distract himself, he kept spiraling in his racing thoughts. The homesickness and grief threatened to drown him at any moment.

That was the thing with grief. It lingered, never truly leaving. Decades had passed since his parents died, and while it had grown to be far more manageable, there were days where grief fogged up his entire mind. Whenever those days came, he would watch the old videos he kept of the Flying Graysons. Sometimes, he’d cook his mother’s favorite meal. The only way he had been able to deal with the mourning was by celebrating the memories they had made.

And now, all Dick had was the agonizing grief, with no memories to look back on. 

Nevertheless, he had to keep the debilitating pain to himself. Bruce was certainly in no state to deal with Dick’s issues, and he could never allow himself to let his siblings see him when he was weak. Dick was the oldest. He held the responsibility of seemingly having everything together, so the younger ones could trust him to be a reliable and capable leader.

A few of them could see right through him. Jason had been checking up on Dick occasionally, much to his dismay. When he lied, saying it was nothing, Jason didn’t push. Cass was similar. She would never pry, not even ask questions. His sister knew that Dick was far too stubborn to go to her for help. So instead, she would simply sit with him, sometimes, providing a grounding presence that he sourly needed.

The bats were somewhat aware that Dick still maintained that the cheerdrops showed a reality, rather than a hallucination. Tim and Bruce certainly knew. But, life as a Gotham vigilante was far too busy to allow them to entertain Dick’s ramblings of why it was all real. They kept files of what Dick had claimed, of what he could recall, and that was really all they could do.

So, he didn’t mention it anymore. He worked through possible solutions in his head, while everyone pretended like he had moved on.

Still, no matter how much he pretended like he was over it all, the dreams still came every night.

Every damn night, he dreamt of his life as Richard Parker.

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

Gotham Public Library: 2018

Barbara Gordon was brilliant as Oracle. She was the eyes of Gotham. The bats and birds depended on her. Their lives, and thus, the continued existence of their city, were in her hands. 

So, she memorized everything that could potentially pose a future threat of any of the vigilantes. Babs found things about them that even they didn’t know. 

She knew everything from Jason’s badly hidden Tinder account, to each of their individual medical histories. If they had an issue at any point in their lives, Babs knew about it, cataloged it, and hoped she never needed to refer back to it.

So of course, she knew everything about Dick’s experience with the cheerdrug. Not only was it easy to find within his file, but Tim had reached out to her for assistance in trying to figure out if the drug could show any sort of reality. Of course, it was inconceivable that the hallucinations could’ve had any truth in them. Babs had her own theories on why the cheerdrops hit Dick so much harder than Bruce or Jason. He had suffered past hallucinations, with some sort of psychological issue he refused to acknowledge. She figured that could’ve made it more difficult for him to distinguish the drug and reality. Truth be told, she hadn’t even granted it a second thought after writing it off.

Then, a kid came to the library. A kid—about 16—who looked a suspicious amount like Dick at that age. He was a carbon copy of the man, just with brown hair and brown eyes. The kid was also in bad shape. If Babs hadn’t been so used to seeing Dick hurt like that, she wouldn’t have even clocked the similarities.

Even disregarding the uncanny resemblance, it didn’t take a genius like her to realize that something was going on. No normal teenager walks into a library, pretending that they aren’t actively dripping blood. The kid obviously didn’t have anywhere to go at the moment, so he must’ve decided to seek refuge in the library.

He didn’t even seem fazed by the injuries. Instead, he was mostly just skittish, his back foot was always turned towards the door, ready to run at a moment's notice. 

The second that he went to the bathroom to patch himself up, Babs contacted the Batchat.

—

‼️🦇BATS🦇‼️

Babs: This kid came to the library. Between ages 15-17. Looks a lot like Dick but with brown hair and brown eyes. Not from Gotham, his accent sounded more like New York. Very visibly injured and skittish. Keep an eye out for any info.

Tim: You got a name?

Babs: Not yet. He’s in the bathroom with a first aid kit since he adamantly refused to go to a clinic.

Steph: Any idea how he was injured?

Babs: He wouldn’t say, but from what I could tell it was definitely a fight, not an accident. 

Tim: Let me know when you get a name, I’ll run it through the batcomputer for any sort of match.

Duke: You said he wasn’t from Gotham, right?

Babs: I don’t think so. I couldn’t place his exact accent, but it was most likely New York.

Duke: Could be a human trafficking situation. If he’s alone, injured, not from here, and skittish, it’s entirely possible.

Babs: That’s exactly what I’m thinking.

Babs: He’s coming out. I’ll let you know any info I get.

—

“Hi,” the kid walked back in front of the desk. With bandages covering up his wounds, and the blood and bruising cleaned, Babs was startled to see just how much he looked like Dick. If she was right with her estimate of his age, it wasn’t impossible that the two could be related, but still highly unlikely. The idea of this random kid being related to Dick was out there, but Gotham never simply had coincidences. “Could I use a computer now, please?” He handed her back the first aid kit.

The kit held a piece of his hair on it. Perfect, she could run it through a DNA test, if only to test her suspicions.

Wait, why was he still after the computer? Maybe he was trying to buy time? He certainly wasn’t looking for help, considering he quickly declined her offer to use a phone. Whatever the reason behind the request was, she figured it was as good an excuse as any to get some basic information from him.

“Of course, you’ll need a library card though,”

“Oh, okay. How do I get one?” 

“I’ll just need your name and birthday,” please work, please work, please work.

“My name's Peter Parker,” 

What!?

Wait wait wait wait wait wait wait wait, back up.

His name was where what who now?

Peter Parker? As in, the name of Dick’s child that the cheerdrops showed him?

Oh hell no. Barbara Gordon could deal with a lot. But her friend’s hallucination of someone who most certainly didn’t exist, standing there, right in front of her, was too much.

It didn’t make any sense! How could someone—who they had double checked to be sure never existed—who was simply just a made up character in the life the toxin showed—be real?

It couldn’t have been a trick either; nobody except for the bats knew about the full extent of the incident. 

“My birthday’s August 10th,” Peter continued, but Babs hardly even registered it.

“Peter Parker?” Maybe she misheard. Yeahhhh that was it. She just misheard.

“Uhm, yes miss,” dang it.

How the hell would she tell Dick? What was she even supposed to say? ‘Hey, remember when we all basically told you how you were crazy and just imagined everything the cheerdrops showed you? Yeah well, apparently you were right, it was real! Even though it goes against literally every ounce of logic, it was real! And your son is here! And very much injured!’

Yeah, he was not going to take it well, no matter how much she tried sugar coating it. Whatever, she could focus on that problem later. Right now, her top priority had to be making sure that Peter was safe within the library and had somewhere safe to go once he left.

Chapter Text

Peter logged into the computer. The minute long loading screen came as a culture shock. He’d been so used to Stark Tech that worked instantaneously, waiting more than a few seconds felt incredibly weird.

Once it finally loaded, the date immediately hit him. 2018!? 

It wasn’t unbelievable, considering dimensional travel was a step above time travel, but still, it was wild. The last time he experienced 2018, he, along with half the universe turned to ash. So maybe it could be cool to relive a year he never got to finish. 

Once he got to Google—thank Thor Google existed here—he immediately looked up Captain Marvel. One of the men he spoke to mentioned her, and Peter was desperate for a familiar face, even if the two weren’t all that well acquainted. 

And that… was not the Carol Danvers he knew and loved. This guy stole her name! 

Ugh, whatever. He looked up any other names he could think of. 

Daredevil

     Dare•dev•il 

A reckless person who enjoys doing dangerous things.

Nelson Murdock & Page

No results.

Captain America

Did you mean America?

The United States of America (USA) is a large country in North America, composed of 50 states.

The Avengers

     A•venge

Inflict harm in return for (an injury or wrong done to oneself or another)

The Blip

      Blip

An unexpected, minor, and typically temporary deviation from a general trend.

Spider-man

Did you mean spider?

Spiders are eight-legged arachnids that are predators.

Oscorp

No results.

Stark

No results.

Peter Parker

No results.

Peter put his head in his hands. He was like, alone alone. Which, duh, he knew that, but there was virtually nothing in common between this universe and his own. The only somewhat consistent thing was that this place had their own version of The Avengers called The Justice League; they even had their own version of Hawkeye called Green Arrow. 

He questioned if he should go back to being Spider-man. It would be incredibly difficult, seeing as he didn’t have his suit, or web shooters, or a first aid kit, or someone to help patch him up, or a burner phone, or food, or—

The point was, he was in no position to put the mask back on.

Spider-man could return—or make his debut here—once he got back on his feet. All he really needed was a place to sleep, a reliable source of food, and—

Shit, he needed a place to sleep.

Natasha always told him the three threes in case he ever got stranded. The typical human body could last three weeks without food, three days without water, and three hours without shelter. Now, while Peter did not have a typical human body, the order of necessities still rung true.

He also desperately needed new clothes. The scent of Gotham had already seeped into the fabric, leaving the putrid odor. It was a mix of blood, death, ash, fog, and any other horrific smell he’d ever experienced. It lingered on him, even while he was inside the safety of the library.

It was getting late, he needed to wrap up his research and go. Peter made a few last searches, before he headed out, though.

May Parker

No results.

Benjamin Parker

No results.

Maria Parker

No results.

Richard Parker

No results.

He didn’t even know why he looked. Even if they did exist in this universe, they wouldn’t know who Peter was. Nevertheless, the weight of being the last Parker still clung to him as he forced himself out of the library.

“Hey, wait!” Babs rushed out, as Peter was nearing the door.

He turned around, confused at what he was forgetting. 

“Did you get everything you needed done?” She asked, making small conversation.

Peter had faced many foes. Aliens, robbers, angry engineers, goblins, blah blah blah, but his biggest enemy was small talk. “Yep, thank you,” he nodded and walked back to the door.

“Do you need anything else?”

“No thank you,” curse good customer service.

“You seemed really hurt when you came in, are you sure you're okay?”

Oooooh, that’s why she was prying. As inconvenient as it was, he appreciated the sentiment. “Yeah, I’ll be fine,” he looked back to give her a quick smile before rushing outside.

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

Despite her best efforts, Peter had left the library before Babs could gather any more intel. The boy was obviously distressed, for good reason considering the state he was in. But, it meant that she had to back off so that she didn’t scare him from returning.

Babs always had a plan in place for anything that could come her way. It was a habit she had learned from years working with Batman and being the daughter of the commissioner. The skill had saved lives countless times. Yet, she never made a plan for something like this. This was an incredibly delicate subject. If she was wrong in her instinct that Peter was indeed Dick’s son, she ran the risk of giving Dick hope and immediately destroying it. 

Before telling anyone anything, she closed down the library for the night and made her way to the clock tower.

The hair that she had retrieved from Peter, was stored safely within a paper bindle. She meticulously removed it, and placed it underneath a microscope.

Within seconds of looking at the hair, she was able to spot the follicle. Babs internally fist bumped the air. With the follicle intact, she would be able to identify Peter’s parents.

First, she attempted to identify Peter’s mother by looking at the mitochondrial DNA within the hair shaft. In all honesty, she was procrastinating finding out if Dick was indeed his father. She wasn’t sure what outcome would be better. 

She ran the DNA through her systems and no matches came up. A pit formed in Babs’ stomach. Her systems were some of the most sophisticated in the world; it wasn’t impossible that they wouldn’t find a match, but highly unusual.

There were also some oddities within the medulla and cuticle of his hair. She couldn’t tell any specifics by simply looking through the microscope, so instead she put it into the GC/MS test. 

Wait wait wait.

Was that…

No.

It was impossible.

There was an inconceivable amount of radiation present on the hair. If the test results were correct, Peter should’ve been dead.

She tested it again.

And again.

And again.

The radiation was confirmed every single time. 

What the hell happened to this kid?

The worst theories came to her first. Human experimentation being the most likely at the moment. Regardless of whether the boy was related to Dick or not, he needed help as soon as possible.

Finally, she scanned through the nuclear DNA. It could identify a person's mother and father, unlike the mitochondrial DNA which could only identify their maternity. 

Her systems took a moment to process the DNA. With every second that it took to load, her heart pounded louder and louder.

Until finally,

••••••

Maternity: no matches

Paternity: Richard Grayson (99.998% chance)

••••••

‼️🦇‼️🦇Batgirls + Jason🦇‼️🦇‼️

Babs: Did you guys read what I said in the Batchat?

Jason: About that kid?

Babs: yes.

Jason: Yeah, I’ve been keeping an eye out. I haven’t seen him in Crime Alley so far.

Steph: Did you get his name yet?

Babs: I did.

Jason: Gonna share with the class?

Babs: You guys need to stay calm, and don’t tell Dick.

Cass: ??

Steph: ??

Jason: 👍

Babs: His name is Peter Parker. 

Cass: Familiar.

Steph: I’m with Cass. Have we heard that name before?? What does it have to do with Dick??

Babs: Remember two years ago, when he was hit with that altered version of the cheerdrops?

Babs: He kept telling us that it showed him a normal life, and that he knew it had to be real.

Babs: He said that in that life, he had a son named Peter Parker.

Steph: It’s gotta just be a coincidence. All the cheerdrops do is show you a fantasy. I thought we ruled out Dick’s theory a while ago?

Babs: Whatever it was that happened, I confirmed with his DNA that he’s Dick’s kid. 

Cass: Clone? Fake memories?

Babs: It’s entirely possible. Especially considering the insane amount of radiation that was in his hair.

Steph: THE WHAT

Steph: Dick is gonna freak.

Babs: Which is why I’m asking you guys to look for Peter before we tell Dick. I already gave you his description, looks exactly like Dick just with brown hair and brown eyes. He’s sixteen and has some visible injuries.

Babs: If you see him, don’t pry too much. He doesn’t seem to be very trusting.

Jason: I see him.

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

The darkness of Gotham surrounded Peter. The city was polar opposite to New York. Back home, there was always the background noise of chatter and traffic, there were always blinding lights coming from billboards or street lights. Gotham however, was draped in shadows at every turn. The noise of the city was filled with screams and gunshots.

New York had always felt alive. Even at his lowest moments, Peter had his city by his side. When his family stopped breathing, the lively heartbeat of Queens motivated him to keep going. Gotham on the other hand, had an irregular pulse that echoed all around, distracting him, rather than grounding him.

After hours of wandering around the city, he had learned a few things.

1. Do not approach strangers. They’re all on high alert constantly, and keep weapons on their person.

2. Keep an eye out for the rogues. Gotham is home to a number of vigilantes, but also a stupid amount of insane bad guys with PHDs.

3. One of those rogues was Killer Croc, who luckily, was not Curt Connors! Small victories!

4. Do not, under any circumstances, get distracted. There was danger lurking around every corner.

Although his hearing and Spidey Sense were still all messed up from his concussion, his sense was able to constantly buzz with danger. It spiked while he passed certain alleyways, or buildings. His sense alerted him that damn near every person he passed, carried some sort of lethal weapon with them.

Now, he had never been one to agree with the use of firearms or anything of the sort. But, seeing the city these people called their home made him reevaluate his stance. 

It was nearing 2am, if the clocks in the store windows were reliable. The chill of the air was starting to wear him down. Peter needed to find shelter and get some rest. Much to his growling stomach’s dismay, he needed to wait to worry about his lack of food issue until he secured a roof over his head.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up the second that he turned the corner. 

-!! Danger !!- 

“I’ll get you your damn money,” a man growled from a few feet away.

Peter instantly followed the voice. The fact that he didn’t have his mask didn’t make a difference if someone was getting hurt. 

He allowed the shadows to engulf him, making his presence virtually invisible to anyone not looking for him. 

“It ain’t about the money anymore,” a woman stood over the man on the ground. She held a knife a few inches from his shoulder.

“Seriously? If you don’t want it, I’ll take it,” Peter made his appearance in the dreary alleyway. Even though he wasn’t currently Spider-man, he still had a duty—a responsibility—to help to the best of his ability. 

The man on the ground looked up at him in horror. The movement provided a better view of the blood covering half his face. “Kid, get the hell outta here,” he forced out through clenched teeth.

“Playin’ hero are you?” The woman let her grip on the man go, and walked towards Peter.

“Nah I’m just making conversation,” he shrugged, trying to distract the woman long enough so the man could get away.

“Oh, he’s a funny one,” she mocked. “You got a wallet?” The knife in her hands was raised to Peter's neck, as she backed him into the wall.

“Nah, I keep all my money in a piggy bank,” Peter kept eye contact with the woman while listening for if the man was able to leave. It was a precarious situation; he could disarm the woman without much thought, but he didn’t have any webshooters to keep her in place. If he made it clear that she couldn’t harm Peter, she would go after the man again. Now, he didn’t know the man, but chances were, he didn’t possess super healing. 

Even with his injuries, he was fairly confident that in the worst case scenario, a knife to the throat wasn’t going to kill him. So, he continued to distract the woman.

“Empty your pockets,” she ordered, shallowly cutting Peter’s shoulder with the knife.

The man’s heartbeat picked up within a matter of seconds. A suddenly increased heart rate could’ve meant a lot of things, an injury, a panic attack, or…

Another heartbeat came closer. Generally, Peter would have heard it much earlier, but he wasn’t exactly in the best shape at the moment.

The woman hadn’t yet picked up on what was going on, and sliced Peter’s shoulder again. “Now,” she demanded.

Peter hardly spared her a thought as a towering figure came into view. The man was huge—like bigger than The Punisher—and wore a red helmet reminiscent of Iron Man’s. His heartbeat was strong and steady. The helmet’s soulless eyes stared at Peter, before he pulled the woman away from him.

“Get outta here,” even through the mechanical voice, the man had a very apparent Gotham accent. 

The woman instantly ran away, hardly sparing them a second glance. 

Now that Peter was free to move again, he made his way to the man still injured on the damp ground. “Hey, you okay?” 

He waved Peter off and winced as he sat up with his back against the wall.

“What’s your name?” Peter asked, taking off his jacket to use as a makeshift bandage to place on the still open wound on his eyebrow.

“Samuel,” the man—Samuel—took the offered jacket with a nod. “You with the bats?”

“Nah, I was just in the neighborhood,” Peter motioned for the man to lift his shirt where it was stained with red.

Samuel revealed a gnarly stab wound. The placement wasn’t immediately life threatening; it wasn’t hitting any major arteries or organs. The only imminent threat was blood loss. 

The man with the red helmet still remained standing behind them, watching. He wasn’t interfering, simply assessing the scene playing out in front of him.

“You got any first aid supplies?” Peter turned to him. He hadn’t gotten a chance to do extensive research on the vigilantes of Gotham, but he had heard mentions of the ‘bats’ who he could only assume the red helmet dude was affiliated with, considering the giant red bat plastered on his armor.

The man handed Peter a nifty little first aid kit from his pocket. “I’ll call a friend to take him to a clinic,” the mechanical voice was like nails on a chalkboard to Peter’s enhanced hearing. Regardless, he nodded, and began to clean up the wound.

“Oracle, get Spoiler to come give me a hand,” the man behind him said.

“On it. What’s going on?” A new voice—Oracle he assumed—spoke through what must’ve been a comm. 

“I’ll explain later,” the man dismissed.

Peter pretended to ignore the exchange, as he patched up Samuel. Seeing as he’d be going to a clinic shortly, he just focused on disinfecting it and applying pressure to stop the bleeding.

“Kid, you need a hand?” The man asked, stepping closer.

“I’ve got it. Are you gonna call the police?” It struck him as odd that the police had yet to be called. Sure, they generally weren’t the biggest fans of vigilantes, but they still needed to be informed of the incident.

“You’re really not from here, huh?” Even though the filter in his voice, the bafflement was clear.

Peter shrugged. “That obvious?” 

Another heartbeat quickly advanced closer from above them. He continued to focus on Samuel, rather than look to see the figure approaching. 

“Hood! Waddya need?” A woman's energetic voice rang out, as she dropped down from a nearby rooftop.

“Could you take this guy to one of Wayne’s clinics?” 

Peter quickly finished applying the bandages. “I fixed him up a bit, but he’ll definitely need stitches,” he turned around to see the new vigilante.

Her heart immediately sped up seeing his face, before quickly returning to normal speed. If it weren’t for his hearing, Peter would’ve never been able to tell that something surprised her about his appearance. He didn’t spare it much thought; a lot of people were shocked to see his young face. 

“Oh, alright! Are you okay?” She rushed over, and checked over Samuels wound. 

“He should be, I don’t think the stabbing caused any major damage,” he responded, standing up to give her room.

Now that he could properly see the vigilante, the purple theme of her costume made him smile. Kate would’ve loved it, purple was her favorite color as well.

“And are you okay, kid?” She turned back to face Peter, as she picked up the injured man.

“Oh, yeah, I wasn’t hurt,” he dismissed. Well, he got a bit scratched, but his healing had taken care of it by now.

Alright, now how was he going to get out of here…?

The purple vigilante glanced at the man in the helmet, and nodded to them both. “Alright, I’ll catch you later!” She waved and rushed off with Samuel.

“And then there were two…” Peter said ominously. “Welp, this has been fun but I’ve gotta run. Things to do, more fights to waltz on into, you get the bizz,” he gave the remaining vigilante finger guns, as he walked out of the alley.

“Not so fast kid,” 

Ugh. Curse vigilantes and not wanting him to be wandering around crime ridden streets.

“First off, I’m not a kid,” he turned back to the man. “Second off, I’ve gotta get home, dude,”

“You sure look like a kid,” he said.

“Yeah and you look like Iron Man and Punisher’s love child, but you don’t see me calling that out,” Peter called him out.

“Who?” The man’s furrowed eyebrows were almost audible.

Peter ignored him. “If I’m stuck here, can you at least tell me your name? I like to be on a first name basis with my kidnappers,” it wasn’t a lie. Peter had been kidnapped loads of times during undercover missions, and he always tried to learn all of their names as a courtesy.

“You don’t know my name?” The vigilante leaned on the wall.

“Not even denying the kidnapping allegations, huh?” 

“Kidnapping kids is more Batman’s territory,” he shrugged.

“Once again, I’m not a kid. And please tell me that there’s a hyphen in Batman that you just didn’t pronounce,” dear Thor, this place's naming conventions were abysmal.

“What the hell are you talking about?” And the nearly audible furrowed eyebrows were back.

“Hey, I’m asking the questions here,” Peter lifted his chin to look into the helmet's eyes. “What’s your name?”

The man was silent for a moment. “Red hood, yours?”

“You don’t even have a hood! I was half expecting it to be fucking ‘Red Helmet’ or something considering all the other dumbass names, but Hood!? That doesn’t even make sense!” A lot of things sucked about being thrown and stranded into an alternate universe. Having to start over from scratch, not having any sort of shelter or food supplies, being in New Jersey, the list goes on. But the godawful names in this dimension had to be the worst part of it.

“Yeah, what’s your name then?” Red Hood—ugh—repeated his question.

“Peter,” the Peter in question answered.

“Alright Peter, mind telling me what the hell you're doing in Crime Alley?” 

Oh, this place was taunting him at this point. “I’m actually going to start getting violent if I have to hear another way too specific name.”

“What a real terror you’d be,” Red Hood mocked. “Do you know where you are, ki- Peter?” He crossed his arms.

“Evidently Crime Alley, home of crime in an alleyway.”

Silence hung over the two for a moment. The stench of Gotham filled the air between them.

“You got a place to stay?” The man asked.

“Yes,” if he could just let Peter leave to find one.

“I’ll walk you home,” Red Hood pushed himself off the wall and gestured for Peter to lead the way.

“Hell no! Stranger danger, dude,” 

A deep, agitated sigh came from the man. “No DNA test was needed,” he mumbled; it would’ve been incoherent to anyone except Peter, so he just didn’t question it, it probably didn’t pertain to him.

“So you don’t have a place to stay?” Red Hood assumed.

Peter squinted his eyes. “Maybe,” 

“Peter, yes or no. Do you have a place to stay?”

“The secret third option.” He nodded

“So that’s a no.”

“No, it’s the secret third option.”

“There is no secret third option.”

“You’re a secret third option.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.” Red Hood’s hair was probably getting grayer by the second.

“Just like your face,” 

“Oh, I swear to God—” the man put his helmet in his hands. “Yeah, I’m not doing this. You’re coming with me, kid.”

“Not a kid, and not coming with you,” what the hell was this guy's deal? The place was literally called Crime Alley, he didn’t have other crimes to stop?

“If you follow me I’ll get you food,” Red Hood bribed.

Nice try, pal. Peter knew not to take free food from strangers—minus the woman back in Queens who gave him churros every time she saw him. 

Just as he was about to refuse, his stomach spoke for him with a very audible growl.

Curse enhanced metabolism.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Red Hood walked to the end of the alley, waiting for Peter to follow.

He weighed his options. On one hand, he didn’t have the best track record when it came to trusting unknown heroes. On the other hand, he was really hungry. 

Swallowing his pride, Peter accepted defeat and followed Red Hood.

Chapter Text

Dick had been patrolling Bludhaven for the past few hours. It was a pretty standard night. There were muggings, attempted kidnappings, robberies, the usual. 

After a particularly long and exhausting car chase, he found himself on a rooftop, looking out towards the skyline of his city.

He came up to the roof just so he could take a quick break, but it went as every break did, his thoughts always eventually circled back to Richard Parker’s life.

Dick sat down on the edge of the building, his legs dangling over the street below. Twenty or so minutes must have passed before Oracle connected to his comm, pulling him out of his daze.

“Nightwing, status report?” Her voice was static as the comm adjusted.

“Hey, O. Not much to report, just the standard stuff. Although, there was this lady who gave me a hotdog for free, so that was pretty cool,” He stood back up to stretch. “What about you? Everything okay back in Gotham?”

“Yep, same as you, just a standard night,” Oracle’s voice came through clearer now.

“That’s good,” an uncomfortable silence weighed over them, as Dick waited for her to reveal why she called. If this was simply a social call, she would’ve used their civilian lines. “Soooo… What’s up?”

“Oh, you know.”

He did not in fact know. “Is everything okay, O? You seem awfully quiet.”

“Yeah, I’m fine!” She quickly affirmed. Another quiet moment passed. “You won’t be,” she muttered under her breath.

“Well that’s not ominous at all,” Dick maintained his general lighthearted demeanor, even as he started doing mindless stunts so he had something to do, as he waited for Oracle to say whatever it was that was plaguing her.

“I think it’s best that you come visit Gotham tomorrow,” she gave a non-answer to Dick’s silent question.

“Alright, sure. Wanna share anything about why you’re being so weird?”

“Nope, bye!” She ended the connection.

Babs being off like that was never a good sign. But, if she didn’t want him to know whatever she was keeping hidden, it was going to stay hidden until she was ready. 

So, he brushed it off to worry about later, grabbed his grappling hook, and continued on his patrol.

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

Jason had been reading the Batgirls’ messages while patrolling his normal route. In some rare stroke of luck, he came across a kid in an alley with a knife to his throat that looked exactly like Jason’s older brother.

Coincidents were nonexistent in Gotham, so he assumed the kid was the same Peter that Babs had told them about.

Which meant this woman was holding a knife to his nephew. Jason hadn’t made as big a deal as he would’ve liked, since the kid was probably already nervous around Red Hood, he needed to make a good first impression.

He didn’t know how exactly he expected Peter to respond. Maybe running away, or something of the sorts. Instead, the kid completely ignored Red Hood in favor of tending to the injured man on the ground.

Jason hadn’t been too focused on the man. He recognized him as one of Gotham’s many drug traffickers, so he was far more concerned with his nephew's well-being, rather than him.

He wanted to intervene so he could check over Peter’s injuries. All that was visibly present was a small limp on his right side, and some bruising and scratches on his face. But before he could check just how bad it was, Peter started treating the injured man’s wounds as if it was a normal occurrence for the kid. 

The casualness of Peter asking for a first aid kit and fixing the man up set off immediate alarm bells for Jason. No child should be that nonchalant around a goddamn stab wound. 

Although Jason would have usually questioned the man to find out what the hell happened, he needed to just get him out of the equation as fast as possible so Peter could be his main focus. So, he called up Spoiler to retrieve the man. 

Continuing to observe Peter, a few things became evident. First off, if the New York accent wasn’t enough to prove he wasn’t from Gotham, the fact that he questioned why Red Hood wasn’t calling the police, definitely was. Then there was the simple way the kid carried himself. His demeanor and casual mannerisms were incredibly reminiscent of Dick. If it weren’t for his voice and slightly different hair color, distinguishing him from Dick at that age would’ve been a challenge.

Spoiler finally appeared to take the man off their hands. She didn’t show the slightest sign of shock at meeting Peter, she simply shared a glance with Jason, confirming that he had everything handled and left. Jason thanked the universe for Stephanie Brown for the thousandth time. 

Once Peter’s attention was finally turned away from the wounded man, he immediately tried running away.

Welp, at least Jason’s first expectation was eventually proven true. 

He stopped the kid from making his escape, much to Peter’s hardly contained annoyance. So far, Babs’ description of the kid’s personality was hardly accurate. She claimed he was nervous and skittish. While sure, he did want to get away, Jason didn’t so much as see it as nerves, rather it was simply valid discomfort around a vigilante such as himself.

Speaking with Peter proved, beyond a shadow of a doubt, he was so Dick’s kid. The relentless banter, coupled with quips along the way made it seem like a sixteen year old Dick had been plucked from his time and sent to the future. 

Adding onto the growing list suggesting how unfamiliar Peter was with Gotham, he apparently had no idea who Red Hood, or Crime Alley, or Batman was. The former, he could chalk up to him living a sheltered life, but never hearing about Batman was unheard of. 

Despite himself, his mind ran rampant with theories on what the hell this kids story was. So far, a clone seemed to be the most likely outcome. It would explain the age difference between him and Dick, as well as why he lacked so much knowledge on Gotham. But, it still didn’t explain the name. Why Peter Parker? There was no chance that it was a simple coincidence. And then there was the New York accent. Dick had mentioned in passing that the cheerdrops' hallucinations—although now, Jason realized it might not have been a hallucination—had shown him a life in Queens, New York. 

There were too many similarities. It was too perfect. How was this kid real?

Peter was difficult to wrangle into following Red Hood. But, the offer of food was enough to earn some sort of semblance of trust. 

The kids refusal to go back home, seemed to be due to a lack of a home to go back to. Even though Jason would have offered his nephew a place to stay in a heartbeat, he knew that pushing might scare him off. So, he just needed to get some food and hopefully keep Peter within his sight for as long as possible.

Jason had taken the kid to a nearby family owned restaurant. It was a small spot on the outskirts of Crime Alley that he frequented on patrol.

“Churros make me remember all the good that life has to offer,” Peter said with complete sincerity as he inhaled another churro.

Jesus, this kid had a metabolism like no other. “Yeah, this place’s got some of the best I’ve ever had.”

“Not better than Queens’,” he rolled his eyes like the possibility was preposterous. “Nobody can make churros like Old Lady Jenna.”

Jason mentally made a note of the confirmation of Queens. “Who?” 

“Old Lady Jenna! She was one of my neighbors and always gave me a free churro whenever I helped her out,” Peter explained. “Are you gonna eat, dude?”

“I’d have to take off my mask for that,” Jason brushed off. 

“Oh no, are you like, really ugly?” the kid smiled as he inhaled another churro. Apparently he shared Dick’s insane sugar tooth as well.

“Yes.”

“Ah man, that sucks. I could never relate.”

“So, how long have you been in Gotham?” Jason tried to change the subject into a productive conversation.

“A while.”

“How long’s a while?” 

“How many churros will you get me?” Peter bargained.

“Tell you what, every question you answer, gets you another churro,” he smiled under his helmet. His nephew was bargaining with one of the most feared vigilantes. Despite the incredible lack of information, he couldn’t help but feel proud.

“Deal.”

“So, how long have you been in Gotham?” He repeated.

“Couple hours,” the kid shrugged.

“Why’d you come to this city of all places?” 

“It was not by choice, believe me. If I ever willingly choose to go to a somehow eviler version of New Jersey, that is not me,” Peter shivered, disgusted by the very idea.

“Who made you come here, then?” Jason would have words with them. Words involving many injuries.

“A doctor,” Peter nodded.

“A doctor?” Shit. Was he a victim of human experimentation?

“Some call him the doctor.”

“Doctor what?” Jason needed a name. 

“Noooooooo,” Peter groaned and put his head on the table. “You were supposed to say Doctor Who.”

Jason closed his eyes to steady himself from letting the kid know he was internally laughing at his poorly timed antics. “You only get a churro for every real answer.”

“Hey, you can’t change the rules after we made a deal!” His head shot up. “That’s against the natural order of deals,” He squinted his eyes in annoyance.

“Maybe, but I’m the one with the wallet.”

“Hey, Red Hood?”

“Yes?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you suck?”

“Many times.”

“Good, you’re aware.”

“Gonna answer questions for churros, now?”

“Hmmmmmmmmm,” Peter placed his hand on his chin in fake contemplation. “Let’s see, should I make you go bankrupt from how many churros I can consume?”

“I think you should go for it,” Jason pulled out his wallet and called over a worker. He ordered another two platters of churros.

Peter’s eyes widened. “A friend sent me here.”

“A friend?”

“Yeah, it’s a long story that I don’t wanna get into. But you don’t have to worry about him, he’s a good guy,” the kid’s confident demeanor morphed into uncomfortable fidgeting and looking to the floor.

Jason highly doubted that any ‘good guy’ would send a sixteen year old to the crime capital of the world, but he digressed. “Do your parents know where you are?”

Peter rolled his eyes. “That depends on your view of the afterlife.”

Shit. Peter thought his parents were dead. “I’m sorry.” 

The kid simply shrugged. “To answer your question, no, I don't have anyone wondering where I am.”

The worker placed the platters of churros on their table.

“You got a place to stay?” Jason took off his helmet. He figured if he ate with Peter it would feel less like an interrogation. 

“Hey, you’re not that ugly!” He gave a goofy smile as he took a churro.

“Wow, you’re great with compliments,” Jason said monotone, and followed in taking a churro.

“You are so welcome,” Peter laughed. “But like, in all seriousness dude, two masks? A mask under a mask?” 

“You’ve gotta answer the question if you wanna make me go bankrupt via churros,” Jason reminded.

“Ugh, you’ve got the exact kinda personality as someone who named themselves Red Hood would have.”

“Okay, ouch,” he didn’t even know what that meant. But it was somehow offensive.

Neither said another word for a few minutes as they simply ate their churros. Jason wanted to give Peter a moment to gather his thoughts.

“I don’t have a place to stay right now, but I know how to find one,” he mumbled softly, like he was ashamed of the fact.

“I’ve got a safe house nearby. You’re welcome to stay there as long as you need,” Jason shrugged, careful to maintain the casual atmosphere.

Peter’s eyes widened comically in shock. “What— hell no, dude! I just said I know how to find a place!”

“Finding a safe shelter in New York is different than in Gotham,” he pointed out. “You don’t get how dangerous this city is. A kid like you can’t just stay in an abandoned building and expect to be fine.”

“I’m not a kid,” Peter stated with certainty, glaring at the older man. “I know how to handle myself.”

“Oh, like how you handled yourself while you were being mugged?” Jason raised his eyebrows.

Peter was silent for a moment. “I had it under control.”

“I’m sure you did. That’s why you’re littered with cuts and bruises,” he gestured to Peter. 

The kid stared daggers at the floor, taking a deep breath. “That was different.”

“I don’t care how ‘different’ it was. The point is, you’re under eighteen in Crime Alley. That makes you my responsibility,” and he was his nephew. He owed it to Dick to take care of his kid.

Peter just glared at him. “No, I’m not.”

“Look, if you don’t wanna accept help, just let me make sure you’re safe for my own wellbeing. I don’t need it weighing on my conscience if you get hurt,” Jason tried to reason with him. It was a bit manipulative, sure. But faced with the choice between being a tad manipulative or letting the kid go out on his own, the decision was obvious.

His nephew just looked at him, in deliberation. Silence filled the air between them before Peter spoke again. “Thanks for the churros.”

Jason furrowed his eyebrows as Peter got up to leave. “Hey, Pete, wait up!” He quickly went to follow him outside the restaurant.

Somehow, in the mere seconds that Peter was out of his sight, he managed to disappear. Jason checked everywhere surrounding the restaurant, he climbed rooftops to get a better look, and nothing. It was like the kid vanished into thin air.

‼️🦇‼️🦇Batgirls + Jason🦇‼️🦇‼️

Jason: Spoiler and Orphan, I need you to patrol the surrounding areas around Crime Alley. Peter got away.

Babs: What do you mean he ‘got away’ !?

Jason: I asked too many questions, I pushed him too hard.

Steph: We’ve all made that mistake, pal. Dw, me or Cass will find him in no time.

Cass: Yes.

Babs: Did you get any new info?

Jason: I got confirmation that he’s from Queens, like Dick said. He’s only been in Gotham for a couple of hours, and was sent by a ‘friend’ who he claims is a good guy. 

Babs: Any idea who this ‘friend’ is?

Jason: Not a clue.

Jason: He also said that his parents are dead.

Steph: ☹️

Babs: Going with Cass’ fake memories theory, it makes sense.

Jason: Peter also doesn’t have a place to stay.

Cass: Homeless?

Jason: Yes.

Jason: I scared him off by trying to offer him access to one of my safe houses.

Steph: Jay, I say this lovingly, and as your friend, that was stupid.

Jason: I know.

Jason: But, I found a way to get his guard down.

Jason: Bribe him with food. The kid's got Dick’s pallet.

Cass: Sugar?

Jason: Yep. He inhaled like forty churros.

Babs: We need to find Peter soon. I already told Dick to come to Gotham tomorrow.

Steph: What!? I thought we agreed not to tell him until we had more info??

Babs: I didn’t tell him yet, but we need to tell him soon.

Jason: Yeah, we shouldn’t keep something this big from him. Even if it’s a trick, we’ve gotta cover all our bases.

Cass: Not trick. Too perfect.

Steph: Yeah, I really don’t think it’s a trick. Maybe he’s a clone or whatever, but at least on Peter’s end, I doubt it’s malicious.

Jason: Regardless, we need to find him.

Babs: I already programmed my computer to notify me if any CCTV catches him.

Cass: Found nephew.

Chapter Text

So, Peter may or may not have run away from Red Hood. In his defense, Peter Parker and people who felt responsible for him, historically, did not go well together. 

Peter was a roaring fire. People saw him from a distance, and thought that he was magic. They got closer, and saw the danger. Some would see the risk and come near anyway. Those people would get burned, engulfed in his flames.

Nobody else could get hurt because of him.

So, he ran. His Spidey Sense had slowly been repairing itself to its full abilities, which allowed him to follow wherever it told him to. After nearly twenty minutes of avoiding cameras and vigilantes, exhaustion got the better of him.

The area he was in caused that same buzz of -danger- in his gut, but, there weren’t many other options available. With a sigh and a shiver, Peter crawled through the broken window of an abandoned, decrepit apartment building. The place was covered in graffiti. But nevertheless, he made his way inside.

The floor had shards of glass all over it. Old needles littered the floor. Even without Peter’s enhanced scent, the building reeked of blood and alcohol. The cold air still made its way into the room, but it was muffled. He could manage through it for a night. 

Although he would never regret giving Samuel his jacket to stop the bleeding, Peter did definitely wish he could’ve gotten it back, somehow. He was left with nothing but the shirt on his back, and the $20 in his pocket.

Peter sat in the corner of the room on the ceiling. Usually, he’d have made a nest out of his webbing, but his webshooters were with his suit, back home. If only he had his suit, he’d have a heating system and wouldn’t be risking hypothermia.

The inescapable odor of Gotham, the never ending screams all around the city, coupled with the taste of smoke that lingered, just served to remind him how much he missed New York. Peter was cold, hungry, tired, hurt, and he just wanted to go home. Crawl into his warm bed, knowing he’d wake up to May burning breakfast, and a text from Ned telling him about whatever rabbit hole he fell down. 

If Harry were here to see Peter like this, he’d have so hit him over the head, telling him to stop wallowing and mourning them. There was nothing more he could do, he had to just move on. MJ would’ve told him to ‘get your head in the game, Parker.’ 

Tears burned his cheeks as he thought about his friends, about what they might be doing back home. They were better off without him, that was what mattered. But, as much as he tried to ward off the morbid thought, he kept wondering,

Did May get a funeral?

Peter was her last family. They were all that was left of the Parkers. May had been there when they buried his parents and Ben. Who was there to bury her? Who would visit her grave with flowers?

A sob escaped him, but he was drained of any remaining energy to care. Now that there wasn’t the looming threat of danger every time he passed an alleyway, he was left with just his thoughts. It was the punishment he deserved for allowing May—the woman who gave up everything for him—to die. To die just like anyone else who ever cared for Peter. 

May and Ben had always told him that grief was beautiful. It was simply love with nowhere to go. To mourn, means to have once loved with his entire heart. But in that same vein, to fall means to have once soared. Yet, nobody ever envied Icarus. 

He gripped his hair as tears continuously poured down, and sobs ripped apart his throat. Why? Why did he have to lose so much?

Peter never wanted to be a burden. He never wanted to hurt those close to him, and yet, all he did was create pain. A curse followed him. From the moment he was born, death chased him. He was always able to outrun it, even when he stumbled, he was somehow always ahead. Even when he died, death didn’t win. Maybe the grim reaper’s inability to capture him, was what drew it to taking so many from his life. Without ever meaning to, Peter cheated death at every turn. Maybe death was simply evening the score. 

The ancient building was large, about six stories tall, yet Peter felt trapped. The air was thick, even discounting the grime that filled it. The decrepit walls were closing in, as he tried desperately to take a deep breath. Every gasp was broken by an uncontrollable sob. 

He needed to —!! Get out !! - !! Go !! - Now !!—

Peter climbed down from the ceiling and crawled out the window to the roof. The freezing air made his skin red and numb, but it was better than the containment he felt within that room. 

The Gotham sky was hardly comforting, with its thick fog and unidentified residue that clung to every breeze. But, the height he gained atop the roof made up for it. 

He sat there, on the ledge of the building, trying to control his breathing and manage his tears.

Ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum

A steady, hardly audible heartbeat landed behind him. 

Peter sniffed. “Hello?” His voice came out all broken and cracked.

Ba-dumBa-dumBa-dumBa-dum 

The heartbeat sped up for a moment, before quickly returning to its calm rhythm.

Turning around to look for the source of the sound, Peter spotted a hardly visible vigilante in a black costume. The suit camouflaged within the natural shadows of Gotham, making the figure essentially invisible. Or, invisible to anyone with normal sight.

The vigilante tilted her head to the side in a silent question. Peter was too drained to speak, so he simply waved and turned back to the view of the city. Nearly silent footsteps came up from behind him, and the vigilante sat down beside him on the ledge.

Peter furiously wiped the tears from his face. He wasn’t an idiot, he knew how the scene must have looked to a vigilante. A teenager sobbing on the edge of a six story building didn’t exactly paint a wholesome picture. Every time he tried to get his voice to cooperate so he could explain that he was perfectly fine, his throat closed up. So, the two simply sat there in silence for a few moments.

Ugh. This was so humiliating. Peter hated the fact that sometimes he’d go nonverbal. It made him feel so weak, and he couldn’t communicate why he wasn’t speaking. 

He had gone nonverbal many times before. After his parents died, he hardly spoke even by choice. When the grief took over, he was incapable of speech. Even when he grew out of that, he still had always had a tendency to be unable to talk if everything got too loud and overwhelming. Ben and May had learned and taught him basic ASL so when that happened, he could still communicate with them to explain what was wrong. When Peter first got his powers, speaking hurt from his overpowered hearing. So, he had to become more proficient in sign language when he relied on it more. Eventually, he met The Avengers, which included Clint Barton, who was partially deaf. Clint had taught him fluency in ASL. The point was, Peter did have ways of communicating when his throat refused to, but what were the chances that this vigilante knew sign language?

So, he just put his head on his knees, trying to level out his breathing. After another silent moment passed, there was a soft tap on his shoulder.

“Okay?” The figure asked. Her voice was odd, it was quiet and unlike any tone he’d heard before.

Peter just shrugged, instead of nodding. It was fairly obvious how not okay he was, there was no point in lying.

The vigilante pointed to her mouth and tilted her head, silently asking if Peter could talk.

He shook his head, signaling no.

‘Do you know ASL?’ She signed.

Peter immediately perked up and nodded. 

‘you okay?’ 

It took him a moment to gather his thoughts into words. ‘Not really, but I’ll be fine.’

‘Why crying?’ 

‘I miss home.’ He sniffed.

‘Where’s home?’ 

‘New York.’

‘Can’t go home?’ She asked.

Peter shook his head.

‘Name?’

‘P e t e r.’ He spelt it out, and followed it with his quick sign.

The vigilante nodded. ‘I’m Orphan.’

‘Your code name is Orphan?’ This place and their names were going to kill him.

She—Orphan—nodded in affirmation. 

‘Nice to meet you,’ Peter managed a smile, although it came out painfully forced.

‘Nice to meet you, Peter.’

‘I’m okay, you can go help other people. I’ll be fine,’ He hated wasting her time with his stupid pity party. 

‘No.’

Peter furrowed his eyebrows and tilted his head.

‘You’re cold.’ 

He shrugged. ‘So?’

‘Follow.’ Orphan stood up.

Curious, Peter listened, and followed her down the fire escape. 

The two walked in silence through Gotham's grime. He noted how Orphan carried herself. It was a distinct presence that reminded him of Natasha and Yelena. Both had also maintained that same graceful, yet highly skilled feeling.

The vigilante most likely had been highly trained for the majority of her life. Through meeting dozens of heroes, Peter learned the differences between those who were trained young, and those who picked up their skills later in life. The way in which Orphan moved, with such silence and fluidity, as if it were second nature, signaled her years of experience.

Eventually, after walking a couple of blocks, his Spidey Sense went off, alerting him of danger incoming from the sky. 

— !! Danger !! Up !! —

Orphan hadn’t realized the imminent threat looming over them. “Run!” He yelled, grabbing her hand and dragging her to the closest alleyway.

The vigilante stared at him, puzzled. 

Peter didn’t answer her silent question. “Do you have any sorta fabric on you? Like a scarf or something?” He rushed out, still looking all around them for the source of the danger.

Orphan pulled a thin black cloth out from her utility belt and handed it to him. Peter quickly wrapped and tied it around the top half of his face. It was a trick Daredevil had taught him. In a pinch, if he didn’t have his suit immediately available, he could tie a scarf around half of his face. Luckily, due to Peter’s enhanced sight, the cloth didn’t impair his vision—instead, it helped focus it.

!! Bang !! 

An explosion hit a factory about a block away. Without wasting another moment, Peter nodded to Orphan and ran towards the fire.

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

The entire block was being burned by a figure in the sky, dressed in black and yellow. Without his webbing, Peter doubted he could get to the man. So, he simply focused on making sure civilians were safe. 

The fire had engulfed an apartment complex, spanning about four stories. Ignoring the annoying spider in his brain telling him how dangerous it was, he rushed to climb the walls to get in. 

People surrounding the burning building yelled in shock. Whatever, Peter could deal with the ramifications of that after everyone was safe.

A heartbeat came from a room on the third floor. He made his way in through the window. Once inside, he spotted a woman holding her husband's hand. The husband had been crushed by debris, there was no possible way to save him. 

“Hi,” Peter greeted with the softest voice he could manage. 

The woman simply looked at him with her red, puffy eyes. “Help him, please,” she begged in a whisper.

He knelt down beside her, placing his hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do.”

For a moment, the limp body among the rubble looked like May. Peter wasn’t fast enough. He couldn’t save either of them.

“Please,” her voice was broken with cries. “I can’t lose Raymond.”

“I know, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he kept his voice as even as possible. He needed to be strong, so she didn’t have to be. “We have to leave. You can still get out of here,” 

The woman simply sobbed, still clasping Raymond’s hand. The blaze kept traveling throughout the building. Peter gripped the woman’s shoulder to pull her out of the apartment.

Once she was safely evacuated and in the police’s care, he went back in.

Peter raced in and out of the building over half a dozen times. Each time, inhaling more and more smoke. Fighting through the dizziness and coughing, he kept going back until there were no more heartbeats present.

By the time all the civilians were out, his makeshift mask had been burned beyond recognition. Although, with how many burns his face took, it didn’t make much of a difference in hiding his identity. Not that he had an identity here, anyway. The outfit he was wearing—the only clothes he owned—had been ripped and melted in places, exposing his skin that was littered with first and second degree burns. Every breath he took was cut short by a coughing fit. And to top it all off, he had a killer migraine.

Hey, at least he was no longer crying about all his friends and family! 

The maniac in the sky—a rogue called Firefly, according to the police—had long since been captured by one of the many vigilantes.

Before he could head back to the abandoned building he had claimed, Peter sat above the scene of the fire, resting on an untouched rooftop. 

How was he gonna survive Gotham? He needed to get new clothes as soon as possible, but these were the only ones in his possession, and no one would ever allow him inside a store in his condition. What was he supposed to do? Take clothes from a goddamn dumpster?

He put his aching head in his hands. Yeah, that was really his only option at this point. He also desperately needed his own first aid kit. Enhanced healing could only get him so far, especially when all that was fueling it at the moment was a monstrous amount of churros.

“Hey, you okay?” A voice came from behind him.

Peter’s head immediately shot up. He should have heard someone approaching, either by their footsteps or heartbeat. Ugh. Migraines made him stupid. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, in a distinctively not fine voice.

The figure behind him was another vigilante. This one, wore a red and black suit with a yellow x on his chest. A domino mask hid his identity. Seriously, how was it that damn near every single person he had spoken to in Gotham was a vigilante!? 

“Jesus, you're burnt badly,” the vigilante rushed over to Peter’s side and pulled out a first aid kit from his utility belt.

“No, really?”

“Why aren’t you with the police? They can get you help,” he grabbed a cleaning cloth and began to wipe one Peter’s burns. 

Peter quickly grabbed the cloth from him to clean it himself. “Police suck,” He shrugged. He couldn’t exactly explain how hospitals were not an option on account of the whole ‘genetically modified by a spider’ thing.

“Still, you need medical attention,” the vigilante unwrapped bandages to hand him. 

“Eh, probably, but I don’t have health insurance,” finally. No health insurance played in his favor. 

“You don’t need any. Wayne will cover it.” 

“Wayne?” Hadn’t Red Hood said something about a Wayne clinic?

The vigilante just stared in disbelief. “Bruce Wayne.”

“Am I supposed to know who that is?” Peter raised an eyebrow.

“Did you hit your head?” 

“Probably.”

“Yeah, okay. We're getting you to a clinic,” The vigilante closed the first aid kit and put it back in its place.

“Nah.”

“Nah?”

“I’ll be fine, I’ve dealt with way worse,” if Peter could fix up bullet wounds at twelve with nothing more than a sewing kit and a Wiki How tutorial, he could figure out how to fix up his burns.

“Dude, I’m taking you to a clinic,” he stood up and held a hand out for Peter to take.

What was it with him and getting kidnapped by heroes? “I’m not supposed to follow strangers to a second location,” yeah. That’s right, he paid attention during all those stranger danger lessons.

“I’m not a stranger.”

“Do I look like I know your name?”

“You don’t know who I am?”

“Jeez, someone’s got a big ego,” Peter rolled his eyes. The movement strained his already agonizing headache.

The guy with the big ego just stood there for a second staring at him like he had given into his spider traits, and actually grew eight legs. “I’m Red Robin.”

Despite the pain every time he made the slightest adjustment, Peter smiled. “Like, the restaurant? You named yourself after a restaurant? Dude, I get with all these vigilantes you guys are running out of names but seriously?”

Red Robin crossed his arms in offense. “No, we just happen to share a name.”

“Do you have like a partnership with them? Are they sponsoring you? Because if not, you gotta get on that, man,” Peter finally stood up. It took more effort than he would’ve liked to admit, but he pushed through the lightheadedness to stay up.

“Whatever dude, what’s your name?” Red Robin hovered close by, making sure Peter didn’t fall.

“Peter.”

“Got a last name?”

“Why?”

“In case you pass out, I need a name to look up so I can find your family,” he reasoned

Ah. Well, it wasn’t like there was anything to find, anyway. “Parker.”

Red Robin froze. “Your name is Peter Parker?”

“That is indeed what I said, yes.”

The vigilante was silent as he simply observed Peter. 

“Right, you're being weird,” he held out his hand. “Could I have that first aid kit?” Look, usually he hated taking resources from people. But, taking from vigilantes who wanted to kidnap him was generally fine.

Without another word, Red Robin placed the first aid kit in Peter’s hand.

“Great, thanks a bunch! And hey, good luck on that sponsorship,” He painfully smiled and rushed down the fire escape.

Peter made his way back to his building. He needed to fix up his wounds as quickly as possible so he could finally rest.

👾Babs👾

Tim: BABS BABS BABS

Tim: A THING HAPPENED

Tim: HOLY FUCK

Tim: BABS BABS BABS

Tim: JAKAJWNAJLAHAKOAJWKA

Chapter Text

Tim sat in the batcave, staring at the wall, trying to figure out what the hell happened.

After catching Firefly, he and Duke went to make sure all the civilians had evacuated the building. When they got there however, witnesses reported a kid in a black mask covering the top half of his face helping to get them all out. Some people even said that the guy was climbing the walls of the apartment complex.

While Duke tried to get more information, Tim went surveilling the area. And, wouldn’t you know it, he came across a kid fitting the description given to them, sitting on a rooftop, covered in burns.

The resemblance the kid had to his oldest brother wasn’t lost on him, but there were far more pressing matters to attend to. Like, how the hell did the guy even survive that much exposure to flames and smoke?

His first theory was he was most likely a meta of some kind. Probably the kid had been inspired by the bats and other vigilantes and decided to step in.

Then, to make matters worse, apparently he didn’t know who Bruce Wayne was. You couldn’t throw a rock in Gotham and not hit something mentioning Bruce! It made zero sense. And then. Tim got his name.

Peter Parker. The same name that Dick had insisted was his son's name. The son, that did not exist.

Tim ran his fingers through his hair. When the cheerdrop incident first occurred, he had tried everything to find a way that the life Dick was so convinced was real, somehow existed. No matter what he tried, or where he looked, everything came to a dead end. 

There was no plausible explanation for how Peter could be real. But, Tim had grabbed the cloth that Peter had used to clean his wounds. Running the blood through the batcomputer confirmed, he was Dick’s kid. No possible mother came up, either. 

There were a few possibilities. The most obvious being a clone of some kind. But, why was his name Peter Parker? It couldn’t have been a coincidence. 

Although every part of him wanted to just stay there, unmoving, until he pieced it all together, Tim needed to tell Dick. He owed it to him. Tim had been adamant that the cheerdrops were just a hallucination, he had nearly convinced Dick he was insane—the same thing everyone had said to Tim when he was positive that Bruce was still alive.

If Bruce had somehow survived, despite every rational explanation suggesting otherwise, why couldn’t Peter be real? 

So, he called Dick.

“Hello?” 

“Heyyyyyyyy Big Bird,” Tim fidgeted, spinning around in the chair.

“Hey Tim! Everything okay?” Dick asked.

“Yeah, but uh, a thing happened,” alright Tim, no stalling. Just tell him.

“Oh? What happened that you have to call me at 6am for?” 

“Oh y’know…” Stalling was so much easier though.

“I really don’t.” 

“Ehhhhhhh…”

“Are you and Babs teaming up against me or something?” Dick laughed. “She was being weird like this to,”

Babs was what!? Oh, that traitor. She totally knew about Peter. And didn’t tell Tim! “Oh, was she now?”

“Yep,” Dick popped the p. “So, are you gonna tell me what’s going on or are you just gonna be all weird?”

“Being weird sounds very tempting right now,” Tim admitted, standing up to pace the Batcave. 

“That explains so much about you.”

“Hey!”

Dick just laughed on the other end. 

Tim took a deep sigh. “Okay, I’m gonna tell you something,”

“Yay!”

“I need you to stay calm, and not freak out.”

“Oh?” Dick sounded nervous. “Tim, you came out a while ago, did you forget?”

“What!? I’m not coming out!” Tim squeaked.

“Sounded like you were.” 

“Oh my god I hate you so much.”

“Well I’ll always love and support you, no matter who you like-”

Tim interrupted him with a loud groan. Apparently, through all the stress of the past hour or so, he forgot that older brothers were the worst species on earth.

“Alright, alright, what is it actually?” Dick finally went back on track.

“You promise not to freak out?”

“Sure.”

“Y’know Peter… like… Peter Parker…” Back to pacing around like a madman it was.

Dick was silent for a minute. “Tim, what’s going on?”

“After Firefly’s attack, there was this kid I saw. He looked a lot like you, like seriously, it was freaky,” Tim started. “And, he said his name was Peter Parker.”

His older brother remained silent on the other end, so Tim took it as the confirmation to continue.

“I ran his DNA through the batcomputer.”

“What’d it say?” Dick’s voice was carefully devoid of any emotion. Perfectly blank, just like how he spoke when he didn’t want the bats to know how badly he was doing.

“He’s your kid, Dick,” Tim finally sat back down in front of the screen, still bright with the results of the DNA test.

Dick didn’t say another word for so long that Tim thought maybe the line had gone dead. Eventually, he spoke again. “Is he okay?” His voice cracked. 

“He was hurt from Firefly’s attack, but I think he’ll be fine.”

“How hurt?”

Tim paused. Did he lie, and say it wasn’t too bad, and Peter should recover quickly enough, or tell the truth and cause Dick even more stress?

Best to rip the bandaid off now, he supposed. “Pretty bad. Not life threatening, but not good, either,” 

“Shit,” Dick cursed under his breath. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know!?” He broke his promise. He was totally freaking out.

“You said you wouldn’t freak out!”

“Yeah, before you said that my son, who everyone told me didn’t exist was real, and hurt, and that you lost him,” Dick took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. 

“I know, I’m sorry,” Tim bit his nail. He hated this. He had already failed his brother by not figuring out a way that Peter could’ve been real. He failed again by freezing and not following him.

“I’m on my way. Keep looking for him, get everyone on board. We need all hands on deck for this.”

“You’ve got it.”

“I can’t lose my son again, Tim.”

“I know. You won’t. We’ll find Peter,” he promised. And he would. Tim refused to disappoint his brother again.

Dick hung up.

‼️🦇BATS🦇‼️

Tim: Everyone, report to the Batcave immediately.

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

Ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ouch owwwwwwww

Peter—ow—made his way back in—ow—the room he secured in the—ow—abandoned building. Once he—ow—got inside and unpacked the first aid kit he got from—ow—Red Robin, he—ow—realized that it was way too dark inside the room.

Sunrise wasn’t for another half hour or so. Peter needed to just wrap up his injuries and sleep. Preferably, for weeks. He didn’t think that his spider DNA allowed him to hibernate, but he most certainly wished at that moment it could.

With a huff of frustration, Peter got back up—owwwwwww—and rushed, well, more like speed walked, to a nearby rooftop that had some light hitting it. 

The roof was damp—why was everything in Gotham always damp?? He begrudgingly sat down on the ledge and took out some of the bandages. He didn’t waste time cleaning out the wounds, his healing would ward off any potential infection.

Peter wrapped a cloth bandage over the worst of his injuries. It was a bad second degree burn that had been sliced by a piece of debris, spanning the entire inside of his forearm. Halfway through taping the wrapping to keep it in place, two heartbeats landed behind him.

Stupid Gotham. Stupid vigilantes. Was Peter just a vigilante magnet or something!? Even in another universe he couldn’t escape them!

Peter turned to both figures. One was towering over him in a black suit with a cape. He wore a black cowl with bat ears. Ah, this must be the same Batman that Red Hood had mentioned. Next to him, stood a shorter boy in a suit wielding katanas. 

“Why does the child have katanas?” Peter asked before he could stop himself. 

“I am not a child,” said the child. 

Peter raised an unamused eyebrow. Although, he seriously had zero room to judge. He had been out fighting crime at eleven. But, the bats were already proving to be extremely easy to agitate, which served well with Peter’s lack of energy and need to annoy someone.

“Were you harmed in the recent Firefly attack?” Batman asked, stepping closer.

Maybe he could get Batman to buy him churros. “Yuppers,” 

“We can take you to a clinic,” the bat kneeled down to look at Peter’s wounds.

“I already told the dude who named himself after a restaurant, I’m not going to a clinic,” he crossed his arms to prevent them from seeing the worst of it and glared at the bat’s cowl. 

“Who did you tell?” 

“Red Robin. Wait, have multiple of the vigilantes here named themselves after restaurants?” Peter was focused on the real questions. Like, for Thor’s sake, who was to blame for these horrendous names!?

“He let you go without medical assistance?” The katana child asked.

“Nah, he gave me this nifty first aid kit!” It was indeed nifty. There was a little bat on the cover! Peter loved themes. All of his spider-gear had spiders on them.

“Hm,” Batman gestured for Peter to give him his hidden arm. “Why won’t you go to a clinic?”

“I have the right to decline medical attention,” he echoed Matt’s words. The man once told him that, legally, nobody could force him to go to a hospital of any kind. Well, they couldn’t, once Peter was over eighteen. But the bat didn’t have to know that. Peter lifted his injured arm with a wince to show Batman.

The bat undressed the poorly applied bandages and pulled out disinfectant. “How old are you?”

Uh oh. “Old enough,” whenever he lied about being eighteen, somehow, people always caught him on it. So, maybe just being incredibly vague would work.

“Tt, we need an exact age,” the katana one pulled out ointment and handed it to the bat.

“Nuh uh.” Or denial, that worked too.

“How about a name?” Batman carefully applied the ointment with practiced efficiency.

“No way, man. Red Robin got all weird when I told him my name,” Peter frowned.

“Hm.”

“You’re going to take name criticism from someone who named themselves ‘Red Robin?’” The katana guy furrowed his eyebrows.

Peter considered that. “You know what, valid point,”

“So what’s your name?”

“Peter.”

“Last name?” The bat asked.

“I’ll tell you my last name on one condition,” he bargained. “You gotta get me churros,”

Batman stopped what he was doing to address his sidekick. “Robin, get some churros from one of the nearby restaurants,” 

The katana guy—Robin—nodded and leapt from the rooftop.

Peter turned back to Batman. “That dude’s name is Robin also!? What the hell, do you guys have like three words available?” 

“Yes,” the bat covered the now sterile wound with cotton bandages. “Last name?”

“Parker.” 

Alright. Now Peter was getting worried. Batman froze for a second, before quickly returning to wrap the bandages. Although, his heart rate remained quick.

“Your name is Peter Parker?”

“Why are all of you guys so weird about my name?” He squinted his eyes. “Is it because my initials are PP?”

“No.”

“Then why?” Peter groaned.

“Do you have any more burns?” Batman changed the subject and taped up the wrapping.

“Eh, minor ones.”

“Do you have a place to stay?”

Ugh. All these guys had the same question booklet, he swore. “Yes,”

“Hm.”

A heartbeat returned to the rooftop, it was Robin,  holding a bag that smelled heavenly.

“Churros!” Peter swore, his eyes shapeshifted into hearts for a brief moment. The love of his life had returned. Churros.

Robin handed him the bag, which Peter quickly took a hold of in a hug. Ahhh warm churros.

“Do you have undamaged clothing?” Batman stood up, and gave Peter a hand to follow.

“Yes,” he lied. Like a lying liar. 

“If you need more, there is a Wayne donations shop on Nobel Street,” Robin nodded to him.

“Jeez, why does everything have this Wayne guy’s name on it?” Was he like the Tony Stark of this universe?

Both Batman and Robin looked at him in confusion.

Uh oh. He had to make sure they didn’t think he was some sort of hermit who never saw the light of day. “I mean… like if I were him, I wouldn’t name everything after myself,” He totally nailed it.

“Hm.”

A beep came from Robin’s phone. “Batman, we are needed back at the Batcave, immediately,” 

Yeah, he was not about to deal with their headquarters being called the Batcave. “Welp, thanks for the churros and everything!” Peter rushed to the fire escape. He gladly took the opportunity to just get out of there and sleep. 

“We can give you a ride back,” The bat offered.

“Nah, I’m good! Bye!” He gave one last wave before running off, back to his building. 

The second that Peter returned to the empty room, he found a small cramped spot in the corner of the ceiling, and allowed himself to finally rest.

🦇🐥Dick🐥🦇

Dick: THIS MORNING

Dick: WHEN BABS MENTIONED THAT KID IN THE LIBRARY 

Dick: WAS THAT PETER!?

Tim: I THINK SO

Tim: SHE HASN’T BEEN ANSWERING ME THOUGH

Dick: if she does know about Peter

Dick: she totally told the batgirls

Tim: 100%

Tim: Everyone’s coming to the cave now, I’ll find out what everyone knows.

Chapter Text

Tim sat in the cave, looking through the file detailing Dick’s recount of the cheerdrop incident. Dick mentioned briefly his theory of potential multiversal travel. If Bruce had been able to get stuck in a time stream, the idea wasn’t too far out of the realm of possibility.

At the moment, Tim needed to focus on any possible explanation. Including Peter being a clone of some kind. The most realistic theory of his, was that somehow, someone hacked into the Batcave’s files and saw the summary of Dick’s experience with the cheerdrops. If someone had meant to get to Dick, wanted to break him, this was a way to do exactly that.

Unfortunately, Tim’s job was to cover all his bases. As desperate as he was for Peter to miraculously be ripped straight out of Dick’s hallucinations, he needed to be prepared for the worst possible scenario. Years of working with the bats had taught him that optimism would get him nowhere.

The Batmobile slid into the cave, pulling Tim from his research. 

“What’s going on?” Bruce pulled off his cowl as he walked over to the batcomputer.

“Hang on, I’m waiting till everyone’s here,” Tim walked over to the head of the bat-table—a creatively named table where the bats briefed each other—and pulled out his laptop.

Eventually, Jason, Steph, Cass, and Duke made it to the batcave, while Babs was on call with them.

“Alright, now we’re just waiting on Dick,” Tim’s foot tapped nervously.

“Here!” Dick rushed in and took his seat at the bat-table. “Did I miss anything?” 

Jason and Steph both immediately looked to the ground, upon seeing him. They totally knew.

“No, Timothy insisted that we wait for you,” Damian explained.

“Right, now that we’re all here,” Tim gathered his notes and files as he started the meeting. “Does everyone remember the cheerdrop incident?”

“Shit,” Jason and Steph exchanged glances. 

“Uhhh, yeah?” Duke questioned.

“Tt, of course we do.”

“Yes.”

Tim took a deep breath. “And do we all recall what Dick told us about what they showed him?”

“Just spit it out, Timbo,” Jason rubbed his temples.

“Dick said that it showed him a world where he had a son, named Peter Parker,” he made sure to speak evenly, maintaining a careful fragility, while still being professional. “We don’t know how, but there’s a kid in Gotham, probably about Damian’s age, with that same name.”

Duke gave a quizzical look. “I mean, Parker is a fairly common name and Peter isn’t exactly unique.”

“No but, he looked exactly like Dick, and his DNA confirmed my suspicions that Dick’s his father,” Tim added.

Dick just stared at the table, gripping his sleeves. 

Babs broke her silence. “I can confirm. I also tested his DNA.”

“You met him!?” Dick’s head shot up. “Do you know where he is?”

Jason rubbed the back of his neck. “We uh… sorta lost him…”

Dick’s jaw dropped. “You both met and lost him!?” 

“So’d I,” Steph raised her hand, apologetically.

Dick pinched his brow and took a deep breath. “By a show of hands, who met him and decided to not tell me?”

Babs, Jason, Steph, Cass, Bruce, and Damian all raised their hands.

“Well now I feel left out,” Duke groaned.

“That’s what you get for being a boring daytime vigilante,” Steph giggled.

“Guys, focus,” Tim ordered. “Batgirls, what did you guys find out about Peter?”

Jason raised his hand in silent question.

“Yes, Jason, you can be part of the batgirls.”

“Peter really likes churros,” Jason said.

Damian spoke. “Hm. He showed the same interest when Father and I spoke to him.”

“Jesus, he ate even more?”

“Yes, we gave him a bag of them.”

Jason looked to Dick. “The kids got your fuckin’ insane sweet tooth.”

Regardless of the severity of the situation, Dick gave a small smile. “Yeah?” 

“Yep.”

Tim saw right through what Jason was doing. Despite the tough persona he put on, he just wanted to help his family. If the way to do that was by making an insanely stressful situation just a bit easier for their older brother, then he’d do it in a heartbeat.

“Is he okay?” Dick asked the table.

“I believe me and Damian saw him last,” Bruce explained. “He was hurt in firefly’s attack.”

“Firefly’s attack was only a few hours ago!” Babs’ eyes widened on the screen. “He was hurt when we saw him this morning!”

“How hurt?” Dick forwent any attempt at seeming calm.

Cass tapped the table to get their attention. “Sprain. Cuts. Ribs hurt.”

Dick ran his fingers through his hair. “Do we know how he got hurt?” 

“No.”

“Parker had shown little reaction to his burn wounds from Firefly,” Damian furrowed his eyebrows. “Wherever he came from, somehow he has developed an above average pain tolerance.”

“He also apparently took one of Cass’ cloths and made it into a mask to get people out of one of the burning buildings,” Steph grimaced. 

“He did what!?” Dick clutched his hair. 

“Your genes are crazy strong, dude.”

Dick simply responded by laying his face on the table. “Please tell me we know where he is?”

“That’s another thing,” Babs started. “This kid has some sort of training. He’s avoided any possible CCTV. The only times I’ve caught him on any recording, was when Jay took him to that churro place and when he was in the burning building.”

“So you're telling me,” Dick breathed. “My child, who everyone was convinced was just a hallucination, is not only real, but has been trained?”

They all nodded.

“And, despite the majority of you speaking with him, you have no idea where he currently is or where he came from?” 

Jason interrupted their confirmations. “He told me that he got sent to Gotham by a ‘friend.’”

“What’s this ‘friend's’ name?”

“No idea. Peter just said that they were a good guy. A ‘good guy’ who also sent a sixteen year old to Gotham by himself,” Jason rolled his eyes.

“Jay, you spoke with Peter the most, right?” Tim asked.

“I guess so.”

“Did you find out anything else?”

Jason shifted in his seat. “Kid said he’s from Queens.”

Dick nodded. “My son would’ve grown up in Queens.”

“He doesn’t have a place to stay.”

Tim shrugged. “Yeah, kinda figured that.”

“There’s uh, one more thing…” Jason picked his nail. 

“Yeah?”

“Peter kinda said that uhm…” he shifted again. “He thinks his parents are dead.”

Dick rubbed his eyes. “Shit.”

Bruce stood up. “So, all of our findings include, Peter has most likely been trained, grew up in Queens, is currently homeless, and obviously didn’t grow up with his parents. Anything else?”

“One more thing.” Babs raised her hand. “When I tested his DNA, I found traces of radiation.”

Dick stared off into space and he rubbed his hands methodically. “How much radiation, exactly?”

She took a moment to respond. “…A lot,”

“Babs.”

“Enough to kill a normal human.”

Tim shot up. “What!?”

“What are you saying he is then, Babs?” Dick pressed.

“I don’t know. All I’m working with is a single strand of hair.”

“I’ve got a blood sample. I can look into what the hell could be the ramifications of his radiation,” Tim offered. “If it’s a lethal amount, it was probably prolonged exposure.”

“Potentially human experimentation,” Damian theorized.

“Well I didn’t wanna say it aloud,” Tim said, pointedly. “But, yeah. That’s looking pretty damn likely.”

The entire family was silent for a long moment. They all sat with that idea. They had tried to convince Dick for the past two years that his son never existed. Not only were they somehow incorrect, but Dick’s son had been trained and used in his forced absence.

Dick stood up from his seat and made his way to the head of the bat-table. “Alright. Duke, I need you to patrol the University and Diamond District,” he started. “Bruce and Damian, you both can take Old Gotham. Steph and Cass, you guys patrol the Upper Eastside and Fashion District. Jason, you're on Crime Alley duty. I’ll look over the Bowery,” he left no room for argument.

“What do I do?” Tim raised his hand.

“Look into the radiation and any other possible anomalies within Peter’s DNA,” He ordered.

“What are we to do if we encounter Parker?” Damian asked.

“You bring my son home.”

Chapter Text

The two brothers sat on a rooftop above Crime Alley. The stench of the city hardly bothered them anymore as it filled the air.

Usually, when they patrolled together, the silence was comfortable. They could both do their own work in the grounding presence of each other. Now however, it was thick with animosity and tension. Every slight move Dick made was meticulous, almost mechanical. He was deliberately controlling himself from losing it.

“You're pissed,” Jason stated, not turning away from the Gotham skyline.

“Wow, how observant,” Dick rolled his eyes under the mask. 

Jason sighed. “I’m sorry-”

Dick raised a hand to stop him from continuing. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“I know I should’ve told you…” he trailed off, desperately trying to find the right words.

Dick simply continued to stare into the city, but not seeing any of it. “You’re right. You should’ve.”

“We didn’t want to worry you,” Jason finally looked towards his older brother. “I didn’t want to worry you.”

A scoff came from Dick. “I think I deserve the goddamn right to worry when my son is missing, hurt, and lost in Gotham,” he curled his hands into fists at his sides. 

“It’s not about that, Dickie,” Jason shook his head. “It’s…”

“Spit it out, Jay.”

“We don’t… we don’t know what Peter is,” he searched for a lighter way to say what was on his mind.

“He’s my son, that’s all that matters,” Dick glared at him. “I don’t care how he’s here, I just care that he is.” 

Jason took off his helmet and ran his fingers through his hair. “We need to be prepared for all possibilities."

Truth be told, Jason was leaning more on the side of Peter being exactly who he said he was. Having a conversation with the kid made him realize just how similar he and Dick were. The bats had dealt with impossible feats countless times before, it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that Peter existed. What forced him to truly confront the idea that it was less of a miracle and far more malicious, was the radiation that Babs had reported on. That coupled with the very obvious training that Peter had, didn’t paint a great picture.

Dick almost laughed. “Yeah, like what everyone did when I told you Peter was real.”

“We get it. We fucked up. But that doesn’t discount the fact that Peter should not exist,” Jason had to speak bluntly to get through to him. Dick was the heart of the bats—ruled by his emotion above all else. Getting through that was a damn near impossible task.

“You met him! You’re still saying he doesn’t exist!?” Dick stood up to pace along the rooftop. 

“Not that he doesn’t. Just that he shouldn’t.” Jason clarified. “The bottom line is, if someone wanted to get to you, if someone wanted to hurt you, making a clone would be the way to do that.”

“Oh, and they just so happened to know the name of my son that nobody except us knew about?” Dick huffed. 

Jason let out a frustrated sigh and stood up alongside Dick. “It’s not any less likely than the cheerdrops' hallucination somehow being real.”

Silence stretched over them as Dick continued to pace the rooftop. Jason simply stood by, watching and listening as he mumbled incoherently.

Finally, Dick crouched back down at the ledge of the roof. He let out a shaky breath. “Peter has to be the son I remember.”

Jason sat next to him with his legs dangling over the street. “Dick…”

“He has to be,” his entire voice shook in a way that Jason had only heard once. When Dick spoke to him for the first time since his death. It was a tone that signified just how badly Dick had been doing, and how well he’d been covering it up.

“But if he’s not…” 

“If he’s not,” Dick looked him in the eye. “I don’t know what I’ll do, Jay.”

“You’ll get through it. You always do,” Jason corrected. No matter what Gotham threw at them, they were bats. Bats made it through anything and everything.

Dick was silent, not fighting back, although Jason doubted that the man had any energy left to do such. 

“Let’s go find him, yeah?” He slipped his helmet back on and stood up.

“Yeah, let’s find Peter.”

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

Peter awoke slowly. Every part of him ached. It was the type of relentless pain that offered no release. The wood paneling of the floor scratched against his already irritated skin. For a brief moment, he thought maybe he’d been knocked out while on patrol. It had happened countless times before, it wasn’t exactly a new feeling. 

When Peter sat up, still rubbing sleep from his eyes and expecting the usual sounds of New York, all he heard was an unfamiliar layering of yells, rushed footsteps, and the static of primitive lights.

The blur in his vision finally faded to reveal the abandoned building that he had claimed as his own. Right. Peter was in Gotham. 

His bloody and tattered clothing from the night before laid on the ground beside him, acting as a makeshift pillow. Last night, just before coming back to the room, he stopped at the Wayne donations place that Robin had mentioned. Peter only took two pairs of jeans, two short sleeved shirts, three pairs of underwear, and a flimsy jacket. It wasn’t much, and every item held the lingering scent of the city, but it was more than he had yesterday, so he counted it as a success.

Peter grabbed the first aid kit that he’d gotten from Red Robin. He peeled off the bandage on his arm and replaced it. Usually, the wound would have been healed to a nasty irritation by now, but with all his other injuries, and lack of sleep and nutrients, it had only just begun slowly mending itself.

Luckily, his previously cracked ribs only slightly ached at this point, so hey, small victories! His stomach growled at the sight of the bag of churros he had secured from Batman and Robin. Begrudgingly, he took one. There were fifteen—now fourteen, in the bag. It was the only food he had, it needed to last.

He wasn’t sure how much time passed before he finally stood up, much to the dismay of his sprains and bruises. The jeans he wore were scratchy against his cut up and burned legs. Nevertheless, he persevered and made his way outside.

If there was one good thing about Gotham, the dreary weather at least provided shade from the sunlight that so often attacked his enhanced vision. The darkness of the city allowed his pounding headache to stay a headache, instead of growing into a migraine.

Peter rubbed his fingers against the $20 bill in his pocket. He could spend it on food to ease the cramping of hunger. But, it was a short term solution. If he wanted to survive Gotham, he needed to be smart with his limited resources.

He entered a small hardware shop a couple blocks down from his building. The shop was a little larger than his cramped apartment back home. Peter grabbed a pack of screwdrivers, a bag of miscellaneous screws and bolts, some pliers, a wrench, and duct tape. 

The worker was an older man. Probably about 40-50. “That’ll be $22.36,” the man read his total.

Shit. He forgot about tax. “Oh, I only have $20.”

“Then you can’t get it all. Put something back,” he ordered.

Peter stared at the supplies he picked out. It was the bare minimum that he required if he wanted to fix up discarded tech in order to sell. 

Suddenly, the light above them flickered out. The worker growled under his breath. “Goddamn it, that’s the third time this week.”

Peter smiled at the first stroke of luck he’d gotten in Gotham. “I can fix it for you.”

The man stopped and observed Peter. “You think you could fix the wiring? It’s not just screwing in a lightbulb.”

“Yep! I used to fix electrical issues all the time back home,” it was the first way that he’d ever made his own money. After Ben died, finances were tight, so Peter had offered to do repairs for his neighbors in exchange for cash. 

The worker was silent for a moment, considering the offer. “How much’re you charging?”

It was a simple fix, and as desperately as he needed the money, Peter didn’t want to overcharge. “Just the tools here,” he gestured to the items on the counter that he’d picked out.

“You’ve got yourself a deal,” the man brought out a step stool for Peter to climb.

Peter made quick work of sorting out the wires. It was just a standard circuit issue, it took less than five minutes before he screwed back in the lightbulb.

“All done!”

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

With a bag of tools and the same $20 in his pocket, Peter went around Gotham, exploring and fixing anything he could.

After some dumpster diving, he found an old radio, a few pairs of watches, an old phone, and a keyboard. He decided to keep one of the watches that he repaired. Without much daylight reaching the city, telling the time of day was proving to be a difficult task. After everything was cleaned and functioning, he went to the nearest pawn shop to sell them. It took some bargaining, but the radio had earned him $15, two watches got $20, the phone got $25, and the keyboard got $15. 

He wasn’t an idiot, he knew he was totally ripped off, considering the good shape of the items, but he also got an extra $75, so he didn’t care all that much.

Peter spent the rest of his day scouring around the different districts of Gotham. There were more than a few times where the hairs on the back of his neck alerted that someone nearby was watching him. He chalked it up to the sketchiness of the city, although the feeling still left a bad taste in his mouth.

By the time it was 7pm, the hunger pains got to be too much. He supposed that with his $95 to spare, he could eat the rest of the churros waiting for him back in his building. Before heading back, he decided to stop to purchase a light blanket. Nothing much, but it’d make the brutal Gotham wind more manageable.

Once he returned to the room, he finished off the churros and redressed the wound on his arm. It still wasn’t healing as fast as it could’ve, but it was far better than it was that morning. 

The following day, he decided to return to the library. He needed to forge a new identity in this universe. Everything else could wait until Peter Parker actually existed. Any trace of him vanished from home, he just wanted to have some sort of proof that was ever there. 

Walking into the library, Peter was far more energetic this time around. Things were looking up, slightly. He had a way of getting more money, and truth be told, the small act of fixing things was enough to put a bit of a pep in his step. 

“Hello,” he greeted the librarian with a smile. It was the same woman from the other day—Babs if he recalled correctly—was immersed in whatever work she was doing on her computer.

“Oh! Hi,” Babs startled upon seeing him. She quickly schooled her expression, “Sorry, wasn’t expecting to see you so soon. Are you okay?”

Peter tilted his head in question. Surely he looked better than he did the other day, right? 

“You seemed pretty hurt last time I saw you, is everything alright now?” She explained.

He nodded. “Yeah, I’m doing a lot better today.”

Babs gave a warm smile. “That’s good, I’m glad to hear it. Did you wanna use the computers again?”

“Yes, please.”

“You know where they are. Let me know if you need any help,” She gestured to her right, where the computers sat.

Peter nodded again, and made his way to the same computer that he’d been using the last time he came. It sat in a secluded corner, out of sight of the cameras. During his short time in Gotham, he’d been dodging as many cameras as he could. The city was sketchy to say the least, he wanted to maintain invisibility for as long as possible.

So, he logged into the computer and started creating a new version of himself.

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

‼️🦇BATS🦇‼️

Babs: Peter’s in the library.

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

Dick had been circling the Bowery when his phone beeped with the message. Immediately, he changed course for the Batcave to switch into civvies before going to the Gotham Public Library. 

The bats had been searching tirelessly for Peter for two days. Some of them had thought they’d seen him, but he got away before they could be sure. There were still no leads, no trace of where he could’ve come from. Bruce had been trying to get in contact with Zatanna or Constantine to check if it was potential magic interference, but both were on off-world missions at the moment.

With Peter finally not only having been spotted, but him staying in one place, Dick didn’t waste any time. 

God, what was he even going to say when he saw Peter? ‘Hi! Y’know how you think your parents are dead? Well nope! I’m here and I’m alive! With a completely different life and family!’

Yeah, it wasn’t going to be easy by any stretch of the word. But, above all else, he needed to just see Peter. Worrying about how to explain everything to him could come later, once he had confirmation that the boy was okay.

Once in civilian clothing, Dick rushed to the library like he’d never run before.

•••••

He entered the library, much to the immediate wariness of Babs. Dick didn’t pay her much thought as he scanned the library for any sign of Peter. 

“He’s in the bathroom,” Babs explained in a hushed voice.

Dick walked closer to her desk, leaning his elbows on the counter. “How is he?”

“A lot better. He healed fast—too fast,” Babs eyed the bathroom door in suspicion. 

He swallowed. “That’s good. There could be worse side effects of radiation than quick healing.”

His adrenaline was running rampant. Peter was here. His son was real, and only a few feet away.

“Dick, come here,” she sighed and gestured for him to look at her screen.

The computer showed what Peter had been doing during his time at the library. It was all fake documents. Fake birth certificates, fake school records, fake medical history; he had been crafting a new identity for himself.

Dick took a deep breath. It could mean a lot of different things. For one, it proved that Peter had at least some sort of an idea of what had happened to him. He clearly knew that legally speaking, he didn’t exist, and was fixing that. The fake documentation was done well. Too well. No normal sixteen year old should’ve had the skills and knowledge required for such a thorough job. Hell, if Dick hadn’t seen the progression on Babs’ screen of how Peter made them, he’d struggle to figure out they were fraudulent.

“Okay…” he breathed. “So, maybe he has an idea of what’s going on.”

Babs shook her head. “Be careful, please. Don’t let your emotions get the best of you.”

“Babs-”

“You know damn well how bad this looks,” she stated.

“There could be a lot of valid explanations.”

“Just, be cautious. That’s all I’m asking.” Babs pleaded.

Begrudgingly, he knew she was right. Dick searched her eyes in silence, looking for a proper response. Before he found one, however, the bathroom door squeaked open.

There he was. Dick’s son stood a few feet in front of him.

Peter was about Tim’s height, maybe a little shorter. He had Maria’s hair and eye color, while his facial structure was nearly identical to his own at that age. His face had some faded cuts and scars, nothing too noticeable if he hadn’t been looking for it. Peter’s posture was timid, unsure. The jacket he was wearing was oversized, hiding any injuries.

The two locked eyes. No thoughts rushed through Dick’s mind. No sound registered to him. The library surrounding them faded into obscurity as he focused on his son. 

Nothing else mattered in that moment. All that existed in the world was them.

The last he’d seen him, Peter was five years old. Always shy and quiet, but could talk for hours once you got him excited. The boy who was always too smart for his young age, stood in front of him as a young man, with far too much exhaustion in his eyes for his age.

Recognition and grief flooded Peter’s expression. He stuttered, trying to find words.

“You…” Dick started, with no idea what he was aiming to say. Every instinct told him to rush to Peter’s side and never let him go. Every muscle in his body was frozen in place.

Peter blinked. “I-I have to go.” 

Without another glance, Peter ran out of the building. 

Chapter Text

Peter walked out of the bathroom, ready to continue his work on the computer. Instead, he was met with the face of the man he saw every time he looked in the mirror. 

In the library, his father looked back at him.

The man standing in front of him was identical to the photos Peter had. It was like he was plucked straight from his memories. Richard Parker, the man who died over ten years ago, was there, breathing just a few feet away.

Time stopped as they both simply stared at each other. Every part of Peter begged to run into his dad’s arms. When he was a kid, he would always imagine somehow his parents surviving. He would wait by the door, waiting for them to come home and explain how they made it back. They would finally go to the zoo, just like dad promised. 

His dreams were finally fulfilled.

But, Peter was a tumor to everyone who got close.

So, he ran through the grimy streets of Gotham with no clear destination. All he knew was that he needed to leave. 

Peter figured it must’ve been an alternate version of Richard Parker. The multiverse was weird, it wasn’t Incomprehensible that his father would exist in an alternate universe. One thought raced through his mind, no matter how much he tried to shove it down.

He was still alive, because Peter wasn’t supposed to exist here.

It couldn’t have been a coincidence that every parental figure he’d ever had was killed. And now, he was faced with a version of his father that was still alive. Peter needed to run. If he stayed, if he gave into temptation of getting to know the man, it would be a death sentence.

His legs burned, but he didn’t slow down. The city around him blurred as he raced through it, desperately trying to run away from whatever curse was attached to him.

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

Jason had gotten the call from Babs that CCTV spotted Peter in Crime Alley. She filled him in on everything that had happened. It just served to make the whole situation even more confusing. If Peter was a clone of some kind, why would he have run away the second he saw Dick? 

And seriously, what kind of training did this kid have? Who taught him how to create a fake identity so thoroughly? And why?

He circled around the alley for what felt like hours. Checking every tiny nook and cranny, desperate for some sort of clue. He climbed up one of the rooftops to get a better look, only to see Peter sitting on the ledge of a building about a block down.

Without wasting another second, Jason rushed to the rooftop. When he landed, Peter tilted his head slightly, like he somehow sensed his presence.

“Hello?” Peter turned to the shadows that Jason had been hidden in. 

What the hell? “Hey kid,” he nodded and stepped closer.

“Not a kid,” the kid corrected. “What’re you doing here?” He looked up at him.

Jason shrugged. “Mind if I take a seat?”

“I guess.”

The two sat on the ledge, their legs dangling over the streets below. Jason turned off his comm, not only so Peter had his full attention, but to keep some privacy as well.

“You look like shit,” Jason broke the silence. He wasn’t lying. Peter had obviously been crying, if his tear stained cheeks and puffy eyes were anything to go by.

Peter let out a light chuckle. “Yeah, I sure feel like shit.”

“You ran into another fight?” He prodded.

“Nah.”

“Hm. You’ve really got a way with words.”

“Thank you, I try,” Peter continued to look out into the Gotham skyline.

Jason sighed and took off his helmet. “Seriously, what happened, Pete?” 

“Oh, y’know…” he lifted his knee to rest his chin on. 

“I’ll get you more churros if you actually answer,” Jason offered. Hey, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

Peter froze, considering the proposition. “I want ice cream.”

“We can stop for churros to put in the ice cream, how’s that sound?” Despite the situation at hand, he allowed himself a small smile. 

God, if this kid was a clone, he was a damn good one.

“Hmm. I guess,” he shrugged and stood up. “But, what’re Gotham ice cream shops even like?”

“A lot of ‘em are fronts for traffickers, but I know a couple good spots,” Jason lifted himself up and searched for the fire escape.

Where the hell was the fire escape? He had jumped onto the rooftop, but surely there had to be some other way to get up there, or else how did Peter find himself trapped on top of a building?

Jason scoured the building for some sort of alternative entrance. Nothing.

Peter shifted uncomfortably. “What’s up?”

He looked back at the kid, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “How’d you get up here?”

“Oh, y’know,” Peter rubbed the back of his neck.

“I really don’t.”

Silence fell over them as Peter searched for an answer. “…I’m sticky,” he finally admitted.

“You’re… sticky?”

“Yes.”

Jason just looked at the boy, dumbfounded. What was going on? Now, he wasn’t exactly a scientist, but he was pretty damn sure that radiation did not cause stickiness.

“Ice cream and churros now?” Peter smiled, like nothing had happened and walked over to the ledge above an alley.

He ran to pull him back. “What’d you think you’re doing? Gonna jump off the building?” 

Apparently, he really was a clone of Dick, considering his response. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Jason blinked at him, speechless. 

Peter just gave a thumbs up before jumping down the three story building.

“Fuck- ” he followed suit, leaping to the alleyway, half expecting the kid to be lying on the ground with broken bones.

“You’re way slower than I expected,” Peter shrugged, with no indication that the goddamn three story drop caused any sort of harm.

“What the hell are you, kid?” Jason stared at him, wide eyed.

“Not a kid,” he gave a small smile and walked out onto the sidewalk. “Gonna show me where that ice cream place is, now?”

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

“I want one of every flavor,” Peter said, looking at the 31 flavors.

Jason stared at him. “I don’t care how much of a black hole you were last time, you're never gonna finish 31 scoops.” 

“Is that a challenge?” Peter raised an eyebrow to the man. “I never got to make you go bankrupt last time, this is my second chance,” he shrugged.

“Yeah, and you’ll be throwing up for hours.” Jason rolled his eyes.

“You don’t understand, Red Hood. I need to make you go bankrupt.” Peter said pointedly.

“And why the hell’s that?” 

“For honor,” Peter whispered, with stars in his eyes.

Jason sighed, pinching his brow. “Kid’ll take one scoop of everything.” 

He was so going to regret entertaining the kid.

••••••

Welp. It was conclusive. Peter was a human vacuum. In five minutes, seven scoops of ice cream had been inhaled. Half of them had toppings. Jason had faced terrors before; obviously, he was from the worst of Gotham. But, Peter’s metabolism was possibly the most frightening foe he’d ever encountered.

“Soooooo,” Peter started on his eighth cup. “What did you wanna know?”

Although he originally wanted to dig in deeper into what the kid knew about his past, there was a far more pressing issue now. “How’d you jump off that rooftop?”

Peter hummed. “So, there was this guy, Issac.”

Issac. Was this the ‘friend’ he mentioned before?

“One day he was sitting down, hanging out under a tree,” Peter explained. “And, all of a sudden, an apple hit him, and-”

“Why exactly are you telling me about fucking Issac Newton?” Jason interrupted.

“Hey, watch your fucking language,” Peter scolding, pointing his spoon at him. “And because you asked me how I jumped down.”

“And what would be the correlation between you jumping from a three story building like it was nothing, and an old scientist?”

“He discovered gravity, duh,” Peter reached for his ninth cup. 

“He discovered-” Jason repeated in disbelief. This kid was gonna be the death of him. Or well, the second death of him.

“You do know what gravity is, right?” Peter clarified.

Jason just sighed as his answer. “Let me rephrase the question: how did you learn to jump from the three story building?”

“Oh, y-” 

“If you say ‘oh, y’know’ one more time, we’re not getting churros,” Jason threatened.

Peter huffed as he started digging into his tenth scoop. “I watched a lot of parkour videos.”

“Parkour videos taught you that?” He asked.

“Yes.” Peter took a tenth cup.

Jason took a deep breath. Right, this was getting nowhere. “Alright. Care to elaborate on why you’re, in your own words, ‘sticky’?”

“No, I do not,” Peter resolutely answered.

“You gonna elaborate anyway?”

Peter tapped his chin thoughtfully and hummed. “Spider bite.”

“A spider bite made you sticky?” Jason raised an eyebrow.

“Yep. Gotta watch out for radioactive spiders, man,” he shrugged and went onto his eleventh cup.

Jason blinked. Radioactive where what who now? Wait, wait wait. So, the kid knew he was radioactive? Did he have fucking spider powers!?

“Right. This spider give you any other abilities other than stickiness?” Jason asked casually, like they weren’t discussing goddamn spider themed super powers.

“Yep,” he popped the p. “I can spin a web, any size!” 

“You can make webs?” Jason was aging by the second.

“And catch thieves,” Peter corrected. “Just like flies.”

What the hell does that even mean?

Peter put his hands in the air, defensively. “Hey man, I’m just saying you should look out. ‘Cos here comes Spider-Man.”

Jason was silent as he stared at the kid, hardly even observing him. 

“You good?” Peter moved onto his twelfth cup.

“No,” Jason replied honestly.

“Ah, that sucks.” He shrugged, far more focused on the ice cream in front of him.

“Peter?”

“Yes?”

“Are you a clone?” There were better ways to phrase that. But, this conversation proved that maybe getting right to the point would show better results.

Peter tilted his head. “I mean, I don’t think so. But, like, I don’t really go around testing to see if I’m a clone. So, maybe. Who knows?” He started on his thirteenth cup.

“Right.” 

The kid looked into space for a second. “Although, I guess by technicality I might be?” 

“Pete, what does even that mean?” Jason groaned, putting his head in his hands.

“Like, y’know that idea that if teleportation existed, it would have to pull apart your atoms and put them back together in a different place?” Peter asked.

“I- I guess?”

“If that’s true, it technically would kill you and just rebuild you from scratch. Aka, a clone.”

“And, what does this have to do with you?”

“Basically happened to me,” Peter licked his spoon and went to his fourteenth cup.

“You teleported?” Maybe he had access to a zeta tube?? Even though it made no logical sense??

“Something like that.”

Jason looked to the sky, desperately searching for some reason as to why he had to deal with this shit. Seriously. He stole tires one time, and now he’s interrogating his nephew(?) who doesn’t know he’s his nephew(?) who may be a clone sent to go after his brother. 

“Why’re you asking about clones?” Peter brought him back to reality.

“Oh, y’know.”

“Hey, you totally stole my line!”

“My line now.”

“Ugh. So that’s why your name is Red Hood,” Peter rolled his eyes.

“Okay, what the hell does that mean?” Jason pointed to him.

“Oh, y’know.”

Jason slammed his face on the table and groaned. When he finally looked up, Peter had made it to his seventeenth cup.

“Sooooo, are you just like, curious about clones, or…?” Peter squinted his eyes.

He massaged his temples. “Something like that.”

“Touché,” Peter nodded, and moved onto his eighteenth cup.

“So, Pete, I’ve got another question,” Jason went back on track.

“Hit me. Not actually though. Your hand may get stuck, ‘cos y’know, I’m sticky.”

Jason ignored the remark. “Your parents,” he started. “What were their names?”

The playful atmosphere quickly diminished. Peter looked to the ground, losing all his previous energy. “Why would you wanna know that?”

“Making conversation.”

Peter huffed out an almost-laugh. “Sure, man, whatever you say.”

“So, tell me about them,” Jason drank from his water bottle, like it was just another conversation between friends.

The kid kicked his legs back and forth. “What’s your name?”

Jason tilted his head. “You’ve already made multiple jokes about my name. I’m Red Hood.”

“No, your actual name.”

Jason furrowed his eyebrows. “Why’d you wanna know that?” 

“Why do you wanna know my parents' names?” Peter shot back.

He paused for a moment. Just his first name wouldn’t be too bad, right? “Jason.”

“Jason?”

“Don’t tell anyone.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Secret identity biz and all that,” Peter went onto his nineteenth cup.

“So, what’re your parents' names?”

“Maria and Richard,” his eyes darted around the space.

Shit. “What were they like?”

Peter shrugged. “I never really got to know them. They died when I was five.”

Jason took a breath. It was all fitting together too perfectly. Either, whoever cloned him knew way too much, or, Peter was Dick’s made up kid.

“Can we talk about literally anything else?” Peter asked, already down to his twentieth scoop.

“Wanna answer how you could jump off that rooftop?” Jason redirected.

Peter groaned. “Spider bite. We’ve been over this.”

“A spider bite taught you how to land on your feet from that high up?”

“A radioactive spider bite.”

“Right, of course. My mistake.”

“Well, at least you admit it,” Peter swallowed and took the twenty-first cup.

Alright. Jason had a couple of options. For one, he could simply keep the ‘interrogation’ going, and report everything back to the bats afterwards. Although, he’d have to face Dick’s wrath at not bringing Peter back with him. He could also follow the kid back to wherever he was staying in order to spy on him. It’d be a good way to get any extra information on if he was working with anyone. Or, Jason could admit to Peter at least some of what was going on. It would be incredibly risky, dangerous, and extremely hypocritical, considering what Jason had advised Dick earlier. 

Even though every ounce of training begged him to wait so he could gather more information, the possibility that Peter was genuinely the kid that the cheerdrops depicted was seeming more probable with every minute he spent with him. Even though it hardly added up, the demeanor of which Peter held himself didn’t follow with how someone sent to kill Dick would act. Logically, it was a stupid, reckless decision. But, Jason couldn’t find it in him to care all that much as his nephew sat across the table.

“I’ve got something I need to tell you,” Jason breathed.

“Is it that you’re gonna buy me another 31 scoops?” Peter plowed through his twenty-second cup and moved onto the next.

“No.”

“Aw man.”

“Pete, seriously,” Jason looked at him. 

Peter tilted his head, quizzically. 

He looked to make sure nobody was around, and no cameras were pointed to them. Jason lifted the domino mask off his face. “My name’s Jason Todd.”

“Dang, two first names. That’s rough buddy,” the kid shook his head, solemnly, as if he didn’t also have two first names.

Jason allowed himself a small smile. “Yeah, it sucks.”

“Why are you telling me your name? Is this like a serial killer thing where you tell me your deepest, darkest secrets so you can kill me?” Peter dug into his twenty-fourth cup.

“Not exactly. I’m telling you, because you don’t recognize my name.”

“Dang, egotistical much.”

Jason ignored him. “It’d be a struggle to not recognize my name, considering it was all over the papers when Bruce Wayne’s son died.”

Peter’s head shot up. “You died!?”

“Yeah, it sucked. But, you’re not even responding to the fact that I just mentioned Bruce Wayne,” he pointed out.

“Oooh, is that the dude that like half the city is named after?” He moved onto his twenty-fifth cup.

“Yes.” Jason nodded. “And, if you were really from here, you’d know who he was, instantly.”

“Jeez. Sorry for being from New York,” Peter rolled his eyes. 

“No, when I say here, I mean this world.”

Jason wasn’t an idiot—far from it. He had heard Tim and Dick’s theories on potential universal travel. At the moment, it seemed to be the most plausible option.

Peter stared at him for a moment. Time around them stopped as silence hung over them like an anvil.

“What are you talking about?” Peter breathed, hardly above a whisper.

“You spoke with one of my friends. She noticed the resemblance between you and my older brother, and how your name was the same as someone he once knew.” Jason began. “Now, in our line of work, coincidences like that don’t just happen.”

Peter didn’t touch his ice cream for the first time since they started their conversation. “And, who’s your brother?”

“Richard Grayson. He went by Richard Parker for a time.”

A pin could’ve been heard dropping in the silence that followed. When it became clear that Peter wouldn’t speak again, Jason continued.

“He remembers you, Peter. He wants you home.”

Chapter Text

Dick fucked up.

His son was right there. Standing right in front of him. And he let him run away, off into the streets of Gotham, alone. Dick had been trained to never freeze up; how to always act within a second. All his training was for nothing, when it didn’t help him in the moment he needed it the most. 

“He recognized me,” Dick whispered to no one in particular.

“Why would he run away?” Babs questioned in confusion. “If he’s a clone, there's no way it’s not just a means of getting to you, but-”

“Peter’s not a clone,” he stated, leaving no room for argument and looked back at her.

Babs sighed. “Well whatever he is, he knows you somehow.”

“And he ran away,” Dick said. “Why would he run from me?” His voice came out small and cracked.

“I don’t know,” she breathed.

The look on Peter’s face was burned into his memory. He looked so sad. So filled with regret; his eyes showed an age far beyond his years. What sort of hell had he been through? What did Dick fail to protect him from?

The thought that Peter may have lost more family than just him spiraled in his mind. Dick had a recurring dream of him and Maria in a plane crash. He’d figured it was possible that was how Peter had lost them both. But, if that were true, he’d have stayed with Ben and May. They would’ve given him the best childhood in their absence. So what happened to them, to give Peter all that grief?

The library was heavy with silence as he broke out of his daze. Without another word, Dick ran out, determined to locate Peter.

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

Peter’s run through the city led him to a rooftop in a sketchy—although all of Gotham was sketchy—alleyway. By the time he reached the top, he was exhausted. Every thought was cut off by an unrelated topic, everything blurred together in his mind as he finally sat down on the ledge of the building. The combination of hardly feeding his insane metabolism, not sleeping soundly due to the freezing room he’d been using, and the persistent injuries he was still nursing, all served to make his body turn against him. Peter laid his head in his lap, taking slow and deep breaths to steady himself. 

God, he was so damn tired.

The type of tiredness that couldn’t be fixed with sleep consumed him. Seeing the face of the man whose death jumpstarted every tragedy in his life, sent him over the edge. Peter knew it wasn’t fair, but a resentment towards his mother and father had built up over the years. If only they never went on that stupid trip, he’d have never been such a burden on Aunt May and Uncle Ben. If they never left him, Ben and May would’ve still been alive.

His aunt and uncle had drilled into his mind that his parents never wanted to abandon him. He almost believed them. But, if he did, there was no one to blame other than himself. Peter closed his eyes, his lungs burned with the grime infested air that saturated Gotham. 

Being in an unfamiliar environment would have already been difficult. Being thrown into an alternate universe where there was a version of a man who had died over a decade ago, was impossible. The past few days, Peter had been scraping by, just barely surviving. Things were looking up, sure. He’d earned some money from odd jobs he found, and had been helping in any way he could with the ridiculous amount of crime in the city. But, even if he could survive long enough to save up to get a semi-decent living space, he would never be home.

Home was his and May’s crappy old apartment in Queens. The smell of burnt food filled the air constantly, although sometimes, Peter could pick up on the lingering scent of Ben’s old cologne. Home was when he came back from patrol and instantly called Harry to report all the wild things he encountered. Home was when he and Gwen would go out and talk about nothing and everything at the same time. Home was Stark Industries, when the Avengers lived together. Peter and Tony would work in the lab for hours at a time, until eventually he was called down to train with Natasha and Steve. Home was hanging out at Nelson, Murdock, and Page after school, and forcing Matt and Foggy to help him with his essays. Home was the Aca-Dec team at Midtown High.

No matter how well he did for himself, home was gone. Even if he somehow managed to get back to his universe, he didn’t exist. And everyone he loved who was still standing, was better off for it.

Peter liked to believe that he understood himself well. He knew that he had a habit of getting too close to people, far too quickly. Even after so many people died, he refused to learn his lesson and paid the price every damn time. This world had given him the opportunity to get to know his dad. A temptation, that if Peter fed into, meant the certain demise of the man. 

No matter what he did, he would curse those around him. It had been proven time and time again. The definition of insanity was doing the same thing over and over again, expecting different results. So, why wouldn’t Peter just stop getting close to people?

He considered the vigilantes who had been bumping into him at every turn. For some unknown reason, they were interested in his safety. In a city where civilians were being mugged and murdered in every other alley, they were preoccupied with Peter’s wellbeing. 

Apparently, heroes and vigilantes being drawn to him was a fact across universes.

Maybe, just maybe, if he allowed himself to get even a little close to them, he’d survive Gotham. The sooner he got back on his feet, the sooner he could return as Spider-man. The last time he trusted an unknown hero, it had gotten Gwen killed and his identity outed. But, this time, he didn’t have any loved ones that could get hurt. He didn’t have an identity here.

Getting close with the bats was a non-option. He’d gotten close with The Avengers, and they were killed. But, if Peter could have a work-like relationship with them, it’d potentially help dig him out of the hole he was stuck in.

Peter stared out at Gotham’s dreary skyline, filled with smoke, debris, and the scent of death. Before he could consider the prospect anymore, near silent footsteps hit the roof, a few feet behind him.

••••••

Peter majorly fucked up. Red Hood—or, Jason, as he now knew him as—had gotten too close. 

His lack of energy, and lack of any real care about his secret identity, served to make him tell Jason way too much personal information. It was stupid and reckless, but in his mind, he needed to lay the groundwork for starting their friendly vigilante relationship, so what was the big deal?

The fact that the vigilante told him his name, set off immediate alarm bells. No rational person in his position would ever tell a random kid his identity. It was too similar to Mysterio.

Then, he revealed that he knew Peter was from a different universe. Before he even had the chance to fully comprehend that, the man admitted that his brother was Peter’s father. As in, the man who had been at the library, who should’ve just been an alternate version of Richard Parker. 

An alternate version of him, would have no clue who Peter was. He led a completely different life. Yet, Jason claimed, he not only remembered Peter, but wanted him home.

Peter Parker had caused too many familial deaths in his 16 years, to ever truly consider the idea of getting close with his dad again.

The prospect of him somehow remembering Peter, made no sense. But, then again, he’d dealt with far weirder. The how of the question meant little to him. Him getting as far away from his dad was paramount. 

He wasn’t going to kill anyone else.

So, he did what he did best, he slipped out of the ice cream shop, and got the hell out of there.

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

After hours scouring through the dark city, Peter was nowhere to be found. Dick had tried contacting the bats to no avail. It was dead end after dead end. He’d switched to his Nightwing suit, maybe if Peter didn’t recognize him, it’d be easier.

Finally, Oracle spoke through their comms. “Two Face’s goons have been spotted in warehouses all around Gotham,” 

“Any idea where Dent is?” Tim immediately asked.

“I can’t be sure, but I think the warehouse on Ray Avenue in the Upper East Side,” Babs explained. “Whatever he’s planning, it’s big enough for him to take control of two or three warehouses in every district.”

Batman grunted in acknowledgment. “Robin, get to the Batmobile immediately. We’ll deal with Harvey,” he ordered. “Everyone else, get to the warehouses in whatever district you’re in and put a stop to what they’re doing.”

“I’m sending coordinates to each of you now,” Oracle said.

Dick received directions to get to the warehouse in the University District. Without wasting any time, he started towards it. The faster they dealt with Two Face, the faster they could get back to finding Peter.

••••••

Upon arriving at the beat up old building, Dick was met with a dozen men in half black, half white suits.  

Without exchanging words, one of them started shooting at Nightwing. With each step he took to get closer so he could grab the pistol, the floor of the building groaned with age.

His fist met the goons jaw, and he snatched the pistol away. Within seconds, the rest of the men were after him. It was routine, almost second nature, to apprehend them all in just a matter of minutes.

“Why are you here?” He interrogated one of the men.

“Boss’ orders,” the goon spoke from the floor with his knee broken to keep him there.

“What did he tell you to do?”

The goon shook his head. The white part of his suit had spots of red growing. 

Nightwing pressed his foot to one of the blood soaked spots. “What did he tell you to do?” He repeated, speaking over the scream.

Dick was getting antsy. They needed to sort out whatever Two Face was planning before he hurt civilians. Peter was a civilian, he’d be at risk.

“I-I don’t-” the man was cut off by a yelp in pain, when Nightwing pressed the blood again. 

“Do I need to ask a third time?” He asked. There was no time to beat around the bush. They needed information now. “What. Did. He. Tell. You. To. Do?” Every word was punctuated with a jab at one of his wounds.

The man, for the first time, looked at Nightwing. His eyes stared daggers into his mask. “You’ll see.”

Before he could respond, a deafening explosion shook the ground beneath his feet.

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

Peter finally made it back to the building he had claimed as his own. He scarfed down a couple granola bars and replaced the bandage on his forearm. 

He wrapped the thin blanket around him. The knowledge of owning the blanket provided more warmth than the fabric itself. Some of his clothes served as a pillow as he drifted off to sleep.

An unknown amount of time passed before a knock from his window woke him up. Figuring it was an animal of some kind, he ignored the sound.

“Kid, open up,” Red Hood’s voice came muffled from outside.

Peter instantly shot up. “You followed me!?” 

“No, you were too damn quick for that. I’ve been checking the windows on every building in Crime Alley,” he shrugged, as if that was any better.

“Leave me alone,” Peter ordered, glaring at the man.

“No can do,” Red Hood tapped the window again. 

Ugh. Red Hood was not going to let this go. Eventually, Peter would have to leave the seclusion of his—the—building. When he did, the vigilante would be waiting for him.

Better to just get this over with now, rather than later, he figured, standing up to open the window. The breeze hit him instantly. 

“Thanks,” Red Hood nodded and stepped into the room. “This where you’ve been staying? He looked around the dusty, hardly intact room.

Peter looked to the ground. “Can’t exactly afford an actual place,” he mumbled.

“Eh, I’ve stayed at worse,” the man claimed, brushing off Peter’s obvious embarrassment. “Now, we’ve gotta have a talk. Without running away.”

“Why? Can’t keep up, old man?” Peter taunted. If Red Hood wasn’t going to let him sleep, he’d have to annoy him. It was simply the natural order of things. And if pestering him doubled as a distraction from talking about the massive dad-shaped elephant in the room, well, that was neither here nor there.

Red Hood took off his helmet. “Old? I’m 24,” he said incredulously.

“You mean you were born in 1924,” Peter corrected.

The man pinched his brow, a gesture that certainly didn’t help in his old age allegations. “Right. You're coming with me.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Nuh uh.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I plead the fifth.”

“Do you even know what that means?”

“Do you? Was that even a thing back in your day?”

Red Hood sighed. “That’s it,” he walked over to a bag of churros that Peter had purchased the day before. “You’re coming with me, or the churros are. Your choice.”

Peter gasped. “Do not use churros against me.”

“You’ve got ‘till the count of 10.”

“Ugh. What is it with me and getting kidnapped by red dudes? Seriously, first it was Daredevil, then Iron Man, which I now realize wasn’t a lot but it’s weird that it happened twice—or I guess now three times,” he rambled.

“One.” the man started.

Peter huffed.

“Two.”

“Ugh. Of course your name is Jason, it makes so much sense now.”

“Three.”

“Hey, that’s how many red dudes have kidnapped me!”

“Four.”

“A fantastic number, I must say.”

“Five.”

“I love that you’re practicing your math right now.”

“Six.”

“Ew. A sinister number, I must say.”

“Seven.”

“Do you put the little dash through it or are you boring?”

“Eight.”

“You ignored me, so I’m assuming you’re a heathen who doesn’t add the dash.”

“Nine.”

“I’m really shivering me timbers now.”

“Ten.”

Before Peter could reply, as if on cue, his Spidey Sense spiked as explosions shook the building. A loose floorboard from the above floor collapsed, landing inches away from him.

Red Hood instantly turned on his comm. “What’s happening?” He gestured for Peter to get in the corner of the still shaking room.

“Two Face set off explosions in all of those warehouses,” a woman’s voice rushed through clearly from the comm. “Get to the site immediately; I’m contacting the GCPD to help rescue people from the wreckage.”

“Got it,” Red Hood nodded and pulled his helmet back on. “Stay here,” he ordered Peter and leapt from the window.

Now, sure, Peter was still very much hurt, sleep deprived, and probably a bit malnourished. But, he would—could—never just sit by as people were getting hurt.

Without even considering his options, he followed Red Hood to the wreckage.

••••••

Peter ripped off part of his sleeve to wrap around his mouth to provide some sort of filtration from the smoke. The entire block had been damaged, rubble was everywhere. Screams came from all over, trapped under the debris.

He used his strength to lift rubble off of people. Usually, he’d have stayed with each of them until they were in the safety of police, but there were too many he needed to free. All that mattered in that moment, was getting them out.

After freeing a little more than a dozen people, Red Hood spotted him. “Kid, I swear to god-” he ran closer to him.

“We don’t have time for this. I’ll lift the rubble, you pull people out,” Peter ordered, already turning to follow another heartbeat.

“You can’t lift rubble, are you insane?” The man pulled him back, but Peter quickly got out of his grasp. 

“Spider bite, remember?” Peter looked back at him. “Proportional strength of a spider.”

Red Hood stared at him, his expression hidden underneath the helmet. In the silence, Peter went to grab a gigantic piece of debris, weighing at least half a ton. A woman who had been trapped was revealed. Red Hood quickly picked her up and took her to one of the many nearby ambulances.

When the man returned, he passed Peter a mask, he called it a rebreather. It made the time spent in the grime far easier on his lungs that were already caked in smoke.

They worked efficiently in relative silence, only broken by assurances that everyone got out okay, for what had to have been a little less than an hour. Finally, they made their way into the epicenter of the explosion.

The warehouse was hardly intact. Parts of the roof and walls had caved in, the entire place was filled with thick, black smoke. A few heartbeats of the men responsible for the blast were still beating, muffled by the destruction around them.

“Don’t get yourself hurt for these guys,” Red Hood advised.

“I’ll do whatever I have to in order to get them out,” Peter said with finality. “They’re still people.”

Red Hood shook his head. “Jesus, another one,” he muttered under his breath.

He ignored the questionable statement, and focused on lifting debris. 

They had gotten three men to safety, when Red Hood walked a few feet ahead of Peter. His Spidey Sense screamed.

-!! Danger !! - !! Move !! - !! Now !!-

Instinct pushed him to throw Red Hood out of the way. The man slammed what was left of a wall. Before either could say another word, everything in him screamed danger. Peter didn’t have time to run, a bomb hidden under the floorboards went off, right underneath him.

Everything went black.

Chapter Text

Dick had been retrieving civilians from the wreckage when his comm beeped with a message from Oracle. 

“Get to Leslie’s clinic, now,” she ordered, offering no greeting, nor explanation.

He immediately snatched his grappling hook and started towards the clinic. “What’s going on? Who’s hurt?” The freezing Gotham wind blew past him.

“Take a deep breath,” Babs advised.

“Oracle, don’t stall. What happened?” Dick’s voice was colder than the air hitting him.

A sigh came from the other end of the line. “Peter was hurt.”

In just three words, the world around him stopped. He’d only experienced time slowing down in such a way one other time; when his parents cable had snapped, and all he could do was watch them plummet to their deaths. He was helpless to stop their inevitable collapse. Dick just barely remembered where he was, and grappled to the top of the closest building.

“How hurt?” His voice betrayed him, coming out shaken. Completely foreign from his usual tone.

“…it’s bad, Dick.” She admitted quietly.

In his silence, she continued.

“He pushed Jay out of the way of a bomb. Peter saved his life.”

Through the numbness that wiped his thoughts, an overwhelming sense of pride overtook him. Of course Peter would risk his life to save others. His son had always wished to be a hero.

“He’s at Leslie’s?” Dick questioned.

“Jay’s taking him there now.”

Without wasting another word, he collected himself and started on the journey to the clinic. 

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

The second that Jason was conscious, he plowed through the decrepit rubble, searching for Peter.

No, no, no.

The kid couldn’t die. Not now. Especially to save Jason, of all people. He refused to acknowledge the possibility of the bomb taking away his nephew. Gotham was cruel. Beyond cruel. The city took, and took, and took. But, nothing, not even a hellish place such as Gotham, could ever have such little sympathy as to take something so valuable.

Thick smoke made it nearly impossible to see anything in the warehouse. All Jason could do was struggle to lift rubble, just enough to see if a body—if Peter—was trapped. 

His breathing was slow and strained. The scene was too familiar. 

The warehouse. He hurt so badly. Fear shook his fourteen year old body. His voice was broken from screaming for help. Screaming for his dad. Where was he? The Joker's laugh taunted him. Smoke filled his lungs. He was going to die. He was going to die. He was going to-

Peter wasn’t going to die like he did. But only if Jason focused on the task at hand.

The black combat gloves he wore were shredded and bloody by the time he finally spotted a small hand poking out from underneath a pile of debris. Jason rushed over, desperately using all of his strength to grab and pull the wreckage off of his nephew.

When he was eventually uncovered, Peter was soaked in his own sweat and blood. His face was a mess of open wounds and swollen bruises, making him nearly unrecognizable. The kid’s leg was bent horribly in two distinct spots. His clothes—or what remained of them—were charred, revealing the second and third degree burns that littered his entire body.

Jason pressed his two fingers to his neck, searching for a pulse. It was small and fragile, but it was there. He gingerly but quickly picked up the kid. He was light. Too light.

The second they were out of the wreckage, and had a connection again, Jason notified Babs of the incident.

He raced to Leslie’s clinic, like nothing else in the world mattered.

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

Peter was looking down from the edge of the playground flooring, with the monkey bars ahead of him. The five year old, still innocent to all that he would one day come to face, was frozen by fear.

“What’s wrong, Bambino?” His mother’s soft voice, always grounding and gentle, was clear as day. 

“I wanna climb the monkey bars,” Peter’s childish voice shook with unshed tears he was too stubborn to let down.

“Then why don’t you?” Mom pressed.

“What if I fall?” His voice was frail, and quiet. He looked up to his parents for comfort, finally pulling his gaze from the far away ground.

“Well, you’ll never get anything done with that thinking,” Dad smiled reassuringly.

Peter tilted his head quizzically.

“If you’re so scared of falling, how do you ever expect to fly?” Mom answered his unspoken question, with another question.

“I dunno,” He shrugged, and dared to look back down at the ground.

“You might fall, but that shouldn’t stop you from trying, Pete,” Dad encouraged.

“But what if I do, what if you don’t catch me?” He continued, still not content with his parents' answers.

“You can’t obsess over the ‘what ifs’, Peter.” Mom advised.

Peter shifted, still unsure.

“You don’t know what’s going to happen, you just have to take that leap of faith,” Dad said, not possibly knowing the weight that sentence would one day come to bear.

Peter summoned all his courage, and he leaped.

••••••

Touch was the first sense that came back to him. Peter wasn’t sure what he remembered; his mind refused to hold a coherent thought for more than a minute. The only thing he knew was that every part of him burned. Skin—or what was left—on his arms felt charred, almost melted. His legs were sending waves of agony all throughout his body. He couldn’t differentiate if it was the skin, muscle, or bones that caused the misery. Although, he didn’t particularly care to figure it out at the moment, considering his mountain of other priorities.

His chest felt like an anvil was weighing down on it. Like how it felt when Toomes dropped that building on him. The constrictive feeling was similar to the asthma attacks he was prone to before the spider bite; unable to take a deep breath. Every attempt was halted by a sharp, hot, stabbing feeling in his lungs. His ribs were no better. In Peter’s time as Spider-man, he’d suffered countless broken and bruised ribs. The familiarity of it, didn’t soothe the burning that radiated from the area. 

Then, there was his massive migraine. The type of pain that made every attempt at a thought get interrupted by his inner monologue complaining about the discomfort. It was like his head was being crushed at the bottom of the ocean. Unrelenting, excruciating, agony was all he could process.

Slowly but surely, his other senses began to return. The scent of wherever he was, was drowned out by the all too familiar smell of blood—his blood. Mixed with it, was antiseptic, reminiscent of bleach and chlorine. Peter for once considered himself lucky for all the times he’d had to clean up the blood stains in his room. At least the constant occurrence served to make the overwhelming scent of bleach somewhat bearable. 

The more that his senses expanded, the clearer the fog in his mind became. It wasn’t perfect—far from it—but now, it was similar to driving in the rain, rather than a blizzard like before.

Eventually, previously muffled beyond recognition voices became louder. 

“When can we go in?” A familiar female voice asked, although Peter couldn’t place who it belonged to.

“Once he wakes up,” another one answered.

“And if he doesn’t?” 

“He’ll wake up.”

“Dick, you saw his injuries. It’s a miracle he’s still hanging on.”

“And he’ll continue to hang on until he gets better.”

“We need to be prepared for all scenarios.”

The crowd of voices were coming from a few rooms away, if the slight echo off the walls was anything to go by. Peter figured they must’ve been talking about someone else. After all, who would be worried about him?

He took in his surroundings, without seeing them; a trick he’d learned from Matt. The heat on the top of his body and face was reminiscent of a light. A bright light, judging by how warm it was. That, combined with his injuries, and sterile smell hanging over the room, led him to the conclusion of being in a hospital or clinic of some kind. 

The footsteps reverberating from outside his room were sharp and quick. The floor wasn’t carpeted, most likely a linoleum of some kind. 

Begrudgingly, Peter squinted his eyes open, instantly getting burnt by the light blinding him. Ugh. His migraine was not going anywhere, anytime soon. Regardless, he pushed through the pain and opened his eyes fully. 

His vision took a few seconds to fight through the blur and fog, eventually settling on his left arm. It was covered in white bandages. The right one wasn’t any better. Peter was wearing a light blue hospital gown. He refused to linger on the nauseating thought of someone changing him. 

The walls were white, with no decorations in sight. Ah, clinic it probably was. The door to his room creaked open, revealing an unfamiliar woman in a lab coat.

“Oh! You're already awake?” She rushed over to Peter’s bedside and pulled out a clipboard. 

“Nah,” his throat cracked from thirst as he tried, and failed, to shuffle away from the woman.

“Are you in pain?” The doctor (?) questioned.

Peter hummed. “Loads.”

The woman furrowed her eyebrows and looked at an I.V protruding from his wrist. “Hm. You were given quite a bit of painkillers, considering your weight.”

“My metabolism sucks,” he shrugged. The only painkillers that somewhat worked on him were the ones that Doctor Cho had developed for the super soldiers. Aka, a drug that was unreachable to him now. 

She gently checked the bandages covering his arms. “Do you remember what happened?”

“No, but I’m assuming it wasn’t very fun.”

The doctor almost smiled. “You could say that,” she released his arms. “You stepped directly on a bomb. You saved Red Hood’s life.”

Ooooooooh. Right. That. “Is he okay?”

She stopped what she was doing and stared at him incredulously for a moment. “He’s perfectly fine. You on the other hand…”

“Am just perfect?”

“Hardly survived the blast,” she finished her statement, ignoring Peter’s wonderful input.

“Eh, I’ve had worse,” he brushed off. Hey, it wasn’t a lie! As long as he wasn’t a pile of dust, he’d had it far worse before.

The woman sighed. 

“Not to be rude or anything, but who are you?” Peter cleared the dryness out of his throat to no avail.

“Doctor Leslie Tompkins,” she passed him a small cup of water. 

He slightly lifted his head to take a sip, instantly hydrating his voice. “I’m Peter.”

“Nice to meet you, Peter,” she smiled. “There are people waiting for you, would you like to see them?”

Huh?? Who would be waiting for him?? “Uhhhh, who is here exactly?”

Doctor Tompkins shifted. “Red Hood, for one.”

“…There’s more?”

“Yes. Should I go ahead and let them know you're awake?” She asked.

Curiosity combined with his sevenbajillion concussions, encouraged him to agree. The woman nodded and left the room.

Peter breathed slowly, still getting used to the pain consuming him. All of a sudden, he remembered who could possibly be waiting for him.

Red Hood—or, Jason—had told him that Richard Parker was his brother. 

He had claimed that Peter’s father remembered him.

Nope, nope, nopitty, nope, nope. 

Before he could figure out his best course of action, (I.E: running away from his problems) the door creaked open yet again.

His dad walked through the doorway. 

The air was still, as they both took the sight of each other in. 

“Hey, little robin.”

Chapter Text

“Hey little robin,” Dick took in Peter’s appearance. He was covered in injuries; both visible and not. But he was safe. He was here. Dick knew he would never lose his son again.

Peter stared back, looking through him as if he were a ghost; which from his perspective, wasn’t all that far off. The boy was silent, with his jaw clenched as he slowly sat up. The movement had to be ungodly painful considering the state he was in. “Who are you?” Peter’s voice was carefully devoid of any emotion; almost clinical.

The hum of the air conditioner was the only noise surrounding them for a moment as Dick tried to put together the right words. “I’m Richard Parker,” The name felt odd in his tongue, after years of unuse.

“My father is dead,” Peter stated, looking to the ground. “You’re not him.”

Dick slowly walked closer to the bed. “I don’t know what exactly happened, but I do know that I have all of his memories.”

Peter swallowed, tilting his head to look out the window; desperately searching for some other sight than his face. “That doesn’t make you the same person.”

He shrugged with a tired smile. “Who are you, if not memories?”

Truth be told, he had zero idea who he was. He shared memories of both Dick Grayson and Richard Parker. In a way, he was neither of them and both of them at the same time. Through the past two years of living his usual life as Dick Grayson, he’d become almost comfortable being simply an amalgamation of both men.

In the silence that followed, Peter finally looked him in the eyes. “Prove it.”

“Prove what?”

“What you remember.”

Dick took a breath. “Zinc is your favorite element,” he started slowly. “Because all cool things start with a ‘z’,” a bittersweet smile spread across his face at the memory of one of their last conversations.

The boy’s eyes filled with unshed tears before he quickly turned his head away again. “That’s why my name starts with a ‘p’,” his voice came out small and fragile, yet so much older than the last time they spoke.

The air circulated around the clinic’s walls. “Can I take a seat?” He gestured to the bed.

Peter scooted over a few inches to make room for him. “Is mom alive?” He timidly asked.

Regretfully, he shook his head, sitting down. “I don’t think so.”

The boy blinked, still staring daggers at the white linoleum floor. “I don’t understand. What happened?” 

Dick bit his lip. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But, I can tell you what happened from my perspective.”

Peter rubbed his eyes as he nodded his head to give the signal for him to continue.

He took a slow, deep breath. “I’m with the bats, I’m a vigilante known as Nightwing.”

His son furrowed his eyebrows in befuddlement. “Seriously?”

“Yep.”

He scoffed. “Ben always said we were crazy alike.”

Dick’s heart ached at the mention of his older brother. “What, you’re a vigilante too?” He joked.

Peter shrugged. “I mean, I’ve never liked to label it, but that’d be the closest thing.”

What.

Wait, wait, wait. Back up. 

Back alllllllll the way up.

“What.” He deadpanned.

A small, toothy smile came from Peter. “I’ll explain after you do.”

Dick huffed. “Fair enough.” He fidgeted with his hands as he continued. “About two years ago, the bats and I were on a mission. We encountered something known as ‘Cheerdrops’; a drug that makes you hallucinate your dream life,” he explained.

“So… like that drug from Doctor Who that’s like artificial happiness?” Peter tilted his head.

“No idea what you’re referring to, but yeah that’s about it.”

“Sick. Were there nurses that were humanoid cats?”

“No, but I’ll let you know if that changes,” Dick already felt so much lighter. Even though this was about to be an incredibly intense conversation, it was also the first conversation he’d had with his son in two years—or, eleven years for him. 

“So, what about this Cheerdrops thing that I’m choosing to ignore the name of for my own sanity?” Peter led them back on track.

“Right so, I got hit with a massive dosage of it. But, it was altered. We still aren’t sure how it was altered, just that it was,” he rubbed his hands methodically. “And the drug showed me a life as Richard Parker.”

The father and son sat there for a moment, allowing that statement to properly sink in. 

“So… what? This drug sent you into the body of an alternate version of yourself? That makes no sense,” Peter ran his fingers through his hair, trying to piece it all together.

“Alternate version?” Dick questioned.

Peter grimaced. “A wizard sent me to an alternate universe. So… yeah. That’d be an alternate version of you,” he explained. Well, explained was a strong word.

“Oh. That’s not concerning at all.”

“Eh,” Peter shrugged and gestured for Dick to continue.

“Okay, that actually makes a lot of sense,” he sighed. 

“Seriously?”

Dick chuckled. “It was either that, or you were my clone sent to kill me, so, yeah.”

“Ah, I see. This place is weird,” Peter said.

Dick wholeheartedly agreed. “Alright, now it’s your turn. What did you mean by the whole ‘maybe sorta might be a vigilante’ thing?” Quite frankly, the mere thought of his son being a vigilante was… frightening to say the least. Especially when he wasn’t there to make sure he was okay.

“I got bit by a radioactive spider when I was eleven,” Peter said, like he hadn’t just said one of the wildest statements Dick had ever heard.

“You got bit by a where what who now?” 

“A spider. That had a tiny bit of radiation.”

Dick stared at him. “You… were bit by a radioactive spider…?”

“That would be what I said, yes,” The boy nodded.

“So that’s why you were radioactive…” Dick mumbled. Well, at least it wasn’t human experimentation.

“Yep. I’m the imagine dragons song,” Peter smiled, only for it to immediately drop. “Wait. How’d you know that?”

He grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh, y’know…”

Peter fake gasped. “You’re where I got my whole ‘oh, y’know’ thing from!?” 

“I’m gonna pretend like I know what that means.”

“So like, how’d you know about the whole radiation thing?” Peter repeated, squinting his eyes in curiosity.

“Y’know Babs?” He asked, fully knowing the answer.

Peter sighed. “The librarian?”

“Yeah. Well, she’s uh, also a vigilante.”

“Of course she is. I’m a magnet for vigilantes,” he groaned.

Oh! “Oh?” 

“Yep.” 

“Well, yeah, so she kinda sorta maybe did a DNA test on you…” Dick admitted.

Peter just rolled his eyes. “Yeah, no, that tracks. I have a history of vigilantes and the like being stalkers.”

Dick raised an eyebrow. “You gonna expand on that?”

“No. No, I will not.”

“Okay then… can we circle back to the whole radioactive spider bite now?” He sighed.

Peter dramatically groaned and went to lay back, before quickly being reminded of his myriad of injuries and remaining in place. “So… remember Oscorp?” 

Dick tilted his head, confused by the relevance. “Yeah, me and your mom worked there, right?”

“Yeah. D’you remember Doctor Connors?” 

It took a second of ransacking his brain, but eventually he drew the connection. Curt Connors had been his partner at Oscorp. “Yeah, I remember a bit.”

“D’you remember your guys’ experiments on spiders?” Peter cringed, trying to explain.

Dick’s eyes widened at the realization. “You’re kidding me.”

Peter bit his nail. “Your experiments may or may not have sorta given me superpowers…”

He let out a shaky sigh, trying to wrap his mind around everything. Apparently, he had not only accidentally given his son, who was eleven at the time, superpowers. But, also, in turn, made him into a vigilante.

Black Canary was going to be getting a long call later.

“What sorta superpowers exactly?” He timidly asked, not sure he wanted the answer.

“Spider powers. I’m sticky, flexible, have a crazy metabolism, enhanced healing, enhanced senses, and this sixth sense type of thing that warns me of danger,” he listed off. “Oh, and the proportional strength of a spider.”

Dick blanked, trying to take that all in. “Proportional strength?”

“Yep. I dunno my exact limit, but I once held up a whole warehouse, so at least a couple tons,” he shrugged.

Right, right of course. His son was casually explaining how he could lift an entire warehouse like it was a simple conversation over coffee. “Why would you hold up a warehouse?”

“I pissed off my first girlfriend’s dad who was also an illegal weapons dealer.”

“Oh, alrighty then.”

“Yep.” Peter popped the ‘p’.

“Right so… you got these powers,” powers that he only got because of his idiocy. “And… became a vigilante?”

Peter grimaced. “It was a little bit more complicated but yeah, that’s basically it.”

“Right. And uh, how old were you?”

“Eleven. I started about two weeks after I got my powers,” Peter explained.

Eleven!? “Eleven!?” Dick was taken aback, although it was completely hypocritical, considering he was out fighting crime in little more than pajamas and a dream at eight years old.

“Yeah…”

“Please tell me you had someone patrolling with you?” He struggled to think how he would’ve survived had it not been for Bruce supervising his patrols at that age. The idea of Peter being in a situation like that put a pit in his stomach.

Peter played with his fingernails. “Uhhh… I feel like you're not gonna like the answer.”

“Peter.”

“I went alone most of the time…” he mumbled.

Dick took a slow breath. “Peter Benjamin Parker-”

“What!? No full naming me!”

“Yes, full naming you! You went out fighting crime at eleven!? With no supervision!?” Dick insisted.

“I went out fighting crime at eleven, with the supervision of my guy in the chair,” Peter corrected.

“Who was your ‘guy in the chair’ exactly?”

“Well you see…”

“Was it another eleven year old?”

“Twelve actually,” Peter muttered under his breath. “How old were you, when you started?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Dick averted his eyes.

“Dad.”

“Yes?”

“Are you a hypocrite?”

“Yes.”

Peter huffed. “Wow. I thought you were dead for eleven years, and this is the apology I get.”

“Nah, I’ll get you some churros as an apology,” he bumped his shoulder. 

“Oh hell yeah,” Peter grinned.

They both sat there for a minute, comfortable in the unspoken words that surrounded the air around them.

Eventually, the gentle space had to revert back to its original need.

“So, do you remember how you died?” Peter brought their talk back to its true purpose—getting through the hard conversations.

Dick paused for a moment before answering. “The last thing I remember was a plane crash, so I’m assuming…”

Peter let out a breath. “Yeah, that’s how you and mom died,” he was quiet, hardly above a whisper.

Dick closed his eyes, taking all the new information in. “And, what happened after we… You stayed with Aunt May and Uncle Ben, right?”

Even if he hadn’t been focused on paying attention to Peter’s every reaction, he’d be able to see the wave of grief that hit him. Peter’s lip trembled as he spoke. “Yeah, they were good.”

It didn’t take being raised by the world’s greatest detective to pick up on what had happened in his absence. Dick took a deep breath to steady himself. He couldn’t think about Ben and May being dead. If he did, he’d be too lost in his own regret and grief to focus on the issue at hand; being there for his son. He needed to be strong, so Peter didn’t have to.

“How long did you have with them?” Dick asked quietly.

“Ben died when I was eleven. May died a few days ago,” Peter admitted with a shaky tone.

“Do you wanna talk about how?” Although he wanted to know, it was up to Peter if he wanted to share.

Now, the tears that he’d so obviously been holding back came to fruition all at once. “It was all my fault,” Peter’s voice broke with a sob. “I was stupid, and they paid the price.”

Dick rushed to hug him, desperate to alleviate any pain he possibly could. “Hey, hey, it’s okay, it’s okay,” he repeated. “It’s not your fault. I promise, it’s not your fault.” 

Peter cried into his shoulder. “Yes it is. Ben was only out because I was being reckless. May was killed because I was too scared to do what I should’ve. If it weren’t for me, they’d still be alive.” His voice was cracked and wet as he rambled.

Dick pulled away and rested his hands on Peter’s shoulders, forcing the boy to look him in the eye so he could see there wasn’t a hint of a lie in his words. “It doesn’t matter what mistakes you made, Peter. You didn’t mean for them to be hurt, it was only the fault of whoever killed them.”

“But if they didn’t have to take care of me-”

“They still could have been killed. The ‘what if’s’ don’t matter. Everything could’ve been different, and they still could’ve died,” Dick didn’t look away from him once. “I knew Ben and May, I know that they would have never wanted you to blame yourself like this.”

Peter rubbed his puffy eyes. “I miss them. I wanna go home, dad.” 

Dick pulled him back into the hug and rubbed his shoulder. “I know, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

They didn’t speak for a moment, all that filled the air were cries and shaky breaths. 

“Can you get back to your universe?” Dick asked. Truthfully, he didn’t want to know the answer. If he could go back, Dick knew he wouldn’t be able to follow. The responsibilities he held in Gotham and Bludhaven were too big to overlook. But, he couldn’t lose his son again, either.

Peter shook his head. “Doctor Strange had to erase everyone’s memory of me. My existence in that dimension was ripping it apart. That’s why he had to send me here,” he sniffled, with his breaths slowly evening out.

What the hell was that supposed to mean? “Okay… that’s okay. You’ll be okay now, I’m here. I’m not leaving you again.”

This time, it was Peter who pulled away from the hug. “No.”

No???? “No?”

“It’s not safe.” Peter stated.

“I’ll make sure you’re safe. I promise.”

Peter shook his head. “No, it’s not safe for you.”

Dick blinked. 

“I’m cursed. People who I love always die. You, mom, Aunt May, Uncle Ben, Tony, Natasha, Steve, Gwen, everyone around me dies. I’m not gonna get you killed again,” Peter listed off names, both familiar and unknown. 

Ah. No simple pep talk would ever fix this sorta guilt complex. “Hm, okay. Well, why don’t we go check?”

“Huh?”

“There’s magic users in this universe. Zatanna is one of them. Why don’t we go visit her, and she could check if you have a curse?” Dick reasoned. Now, obviously, Peter wasn’t actually cursed. But he’d dealt with the personification of paranoia for years, in the form of Bruce Wayne. Sometimes, the only way to get through that paranoia was proof that there was no foundation to it.

Peter was quiet, thinking it over. “She can really do that?” He sniffed.

“Yep,” he nodded.

“Okay… I guess it’s worth a shot,” Peter answered.

Before Dick got the chance to respond, there was a knock at the door before it squeaked open.

“Everything good?” Leslie poked her head in.

They both nodded.

“Alright. If it’s okay, I’d like to run a few tests?” She asked Peter.

“Oh, I guess,” Peter rubbed his eyes.

Leslie made her way over, as Dick stood up.

“Are you gonna come back?” Peter instantly turned to him the second that Dick got up.

“Of course, I’m not leaving.” He reassured. “Just giving the doc some space.”

“Okay.”

Dick watched as Leslie spoke to his son. There were still countless unanswered questions. The journey ahead of them was a long, uphill battle. But, at the moment, he was calm, almost serene. 

They were going to be okay.

Chapter Text

It didn’t take long for Peter to fall back into unconsciousness. His injuries, exhaustion, and malnutrition, all made staying awake an increasingly difficult task. But, he continued to fight the inevitable, terrified that he’d wake up back in the abandoned building. 

The prospect of his dad being alive and also being a vigilante, was too good to be true. He was on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Peter Parker could never be happy for long. The second he got comfortable, would be when everything would be ripped away again.

He didn’t register falling asleep, but when he opened his eyes, the clinic still surrounded him. Dad was still sat in a chair next to him. Peter didn't move for a moment, simply taking the events of the past few hours in.

Through the trepidation of getting close to his dad again, after over a decade of believing him to be dead, he felt a small, minuscule piece of hope. Hope that maybe, just maybe, everything would eventually work out. But, in the center of that hope, buried deep inside, was resentment.

Despite all the tragedy that constantly struck him, he had a happy childhood before the spider bite. Yes, he grew up thinking his parents were dead, but he didn’t grow up devoid of parents. Aunt May and Uncle Ben were always there, guiding him, showing him what unconditional love meant. 

Then, they were gone. His parents were gone. They died, because they were burdened with Peter. They were burdened with him, because his mom and dad had left.

Growing up, his aunt and uncle always said how mom and dad never wanted to leave. But now, Peter wasn’t too sure.

His father was there. Breathing right in front of him, Peter listened to his heartbeat as a reminder that he was alive. Which raised the question, if he remembered Peter, why did he never come back? Why did he leave him alone?

Peter silently spiraled, consumed by the question. 

“Oh, you’re up! How’re you feeling?” Dad asked, the second he realized that Peter was awake.

Peter knew, he could never express his thoughts. If he did, what if dad confirmed his worst fears? What if he never truly wanted Peter? “Okay, I guess.”

“I called Zatanna, she’s out on a mission right now, but there’s another magic user who we can see, if you want,” the man explained, setting down his phone.

“Oh, okay. Who?”

“His name's Constantine. He’s uh… a character for sure,” dad dodged his eyes. “But, he’s a great magic user, he’ll be able to tell if you’re really cursed.”

Peter was quiet for a moment. “What if I am?” Would he hate Peter, if he was?

“I doubt you will be. But, if you are, we’ll figure out how to get rid of it,” dad shrugged, like it was just another task on the itinerary.

“What if we can’t get rid of it?”

“Then, we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

Peter shifted, still unsatisfied.

“Hey,” he put a comforting hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Everything will be okay, I promise.”

He gave a sharp nod, and looked around the room. Truth be told, every time his dad made a promise, he twitched with unspoken annoyance. He’d made a promise once, eleven years ago, that he and mom would be back in a week. There was no foundation for Peter to trust any promise the man made.

“It’s gonna be a few days ‘till we can see Constantine. So, whaddya think about coming to Wayne Manor?” Dad’s calm expression was made useless when Peter could hear his racing heartbeat.

“Wayne Manor?” He questioned. “Why is everything in this place named after that dude?” Suddenly, realization hit him. “Oooooh, shit,” he breathed out.

His dad looked at him, with confusion evident on his face. 

“Red Hood said he was your brother, right? And your guys’ dad was that Wayne guy?” Peter sat up, hating to have to look up in order to have a conversation.

Dad’s face instantly blanked. “Red Hood said what.”

“Yeah, he figured out that I was from a different universe and everything… did he not tell you?” Peter tilted his head.

“No, no he did not,” he pinched his brow, whispering something that sounded a suspicious amount like ‘that hypocrite.’

Peter didn’t think that the man was in a place to complain about hypocrisy, but that was neither here nor there. “Sooooo… you’ve got like, a whole different family here?”

Dad grimaced. “Yeah, I do. I, uh, was adopted by Bruce Wayne when I was eight, after my parents died.”

“Damn, orphans run in the family,” Peter said before he could stop himself.

A surprised laugh came from the other man. “Yeah, you could say that.”

“It’s the Parker Luck.”

Oh, how he loved to blame all his problems on Parker Luck, a term that the man in front of him had coined when Peter was little. Whenever the slightest inconvenience occurred—and later, whenever tragedy hit the family—it was always because of the Parker Luck.

“Goddamn Parker Luck,” dad chuckled. 

“So, you have a brother here, but not Uncle Ben, right?” Peter asked, not sure if he truly wanted an answer.

The man got quiet. “Yeah, I’ve got a couple of younger siblings, most of them you’ve met.”

“I did?”

“Mhm,” he nodded. “Jason’s Red Hood, Cass is Orphan, Tim's Red Robin, and Damian’s Robin. There’s also Duke, who’s Signal, but you haven’t met him yet,” he listed them all off.

“Dude. What.” Seriously!? He apparently belonged to a whole family of vigilantes??

Dad huffed out a semi-laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, and I already mentioned Babs, she’s Oracle—I guess she’d be what you’d consider our ‘guy in the chair’. Then, Steph’s Spoiler, and Bruce is Batman.”

Peter blinked. “Is everyone in Gotham a vigilante to cope with the horrible naming conventions here?” 

“Eh, probably,” he shrugged. “What about back home? You guys had vigilantes too, right?”

“Well, yeah, duh. But only a few, and for the most part we all stuck to our own areas,” Peter explained. “Daredevil and The Punisher fought over Hell’s Kitchen. Luke Cage had Harlem. Chinatown was Iron Fist’s. The Fantastic Four took care of Manhattan. Cap used to patrol around Brooklyn sometimes, before Sam took on the mantle. Ms. Marvel had Jersey City… I could go on,” he rambled, proudly providing exposition.

“Seriously? Only like one person per territory?” Dad asked, confused at the possibility of a place not overrun with bat themed vigilantes.

“Yep. I had Queens.”

“You patrolled Queens by yourself!?” 

“I mean, yeah, usually,” Peter brushed off. “Sometimes we’d partner up. I was a part of Team Red, The Defenders, The Young Avengers, and unofficially part of the F4. I was also kinda a member of the Avengers, but I like, really didn’t wanna be.”

Dad’s eyes widened. “Right… okay then…” he was silent for a beat. “The Avengers? Is that like a band, or something?”

“If I had a nickel everytime…” he sighed. “They were a superhero team. Don’t you remember them?”

“Oh, I think so…” dad tilted his head, deep in thought. “Were those the superheroes you loved?”

He nodded.

“So, why didn’t you wanna be part of them? I would’ve killed to be in the Justice League at your age.”

“The Justice League? Seriously?” These stupid naming conventions.

“What, and ‘The Avengers’ is so much cooler?” Dad raised an eyebrow.

“Point,” Peter admitted.

“What happened with them? You used to think they were so cool.”

Peter let out a laugh. “Yeah, I mean they were cool when I was little, and some of them stayed cool. Like Steve, Nat, Clint, Wanda, Bucky, Sam, Scott, Bruce, they were all pretty nice—well, Bucky and Sam weren’t but they were chill for the most part,” he shrugged. “But when the Accords happened, it got all… messy, to say the least,”

“Okay… no idea what the Accords are…” Dad squinted, trying to understand.

“Annoying. Very annoying.”

“Ah, I see,” he most certainly did not see, but Peter appreciated the effort. “You mentioned Bruce. Was there an alternate version of Bruce Wayne?”

Peter snorted at the idea of Doctor Banner being a bat themed guy in New Jersey. “Nah, Bruce Banner, he was the Hulk.”

“Oooh, alrighty then,” dad nodded. “So, you did have people you could go to?”

“Yep. Believe me, I definitely did. Whenever I tried to hide getting hurt, Matt would somehow sense it. The amount of times he ratted me out to May was on the verge of bullying,” Peter shuttered at the memory. Seriously, it had gotten to the point that he was dodging bullets more out of fear of facing the wrath of both Matt and May, rather than not wanting to get shot.

Dad wore a toothy smile. “That’s good.”

“You’re laughing at my pain, old man?” 

“Old man!? I’m 30!”

“Exactly.”

His dad let out a long, drawn out sigh, before getting back on track. “Well, as much as I’d love to continue discussing how inadequate the vigilantes that you’re used to are-”

“Woah, woah, woah! Are not!” Peter interrupted in offense.

Dad ignored him. “We should get to the Manor, I think you’d really like to properly meet everyone.”

Peter considered the offer. He did really want to get out of the clinic; the sterile smell was really starting to get to him, and he definitely wanted to meet the weird ass bat themed people out of the masks, soooooo… “okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yep.”

Dad grinned. “Let’s get going, then.”

He informed Doctor Tompkins that they were leaving—much against her wishes. Dad insisted that they had a butler who could make sure Peter’s injuries were taken care of. Seriously dad? A butler? She gave him some clothes to change into, as well as crutches, which Peter despised.

“I can walk just fine,” he insisted.

“Peter, your leg is broken in two spots.”

“And?”

He unfortunately was not able to argue and annoy his way out of the crutches. Another victim of Parker Luck.

Peter received strict orders from Doctor Tompkins to ‘please, do not take after your father and go out with your injuries.’

He assured her he wouldn’t. But, he never promised. So… he figured it was fair game.

Eventually, they escaped the clinic, and a black limousine waited for them, driven by the aforementioned butler.

Peter sat in the backseat, with his dad following to sit next to him. 

“Ready to go home?”

Chapter Text

So, Dick was going to kill Jason. For the second time, of course.

His conversation with Peter had been going fairly well, all things considered. That was of course, until Peter dropped the bombshell that Jason of all people had told the kid his identity.

Hypocrite.

Dick wasn’t exactly excited to share the fact that he had an entirely different family. He fully expected Peter to feel betrayed. Putting himself in his shoes, he’d have definitely been pissed beyond reason. But instead, the boy simply took it in stride. 

They filled each other in on the vigilante scene in both of their universes. Dick’s memories of Richard Parker were still few and far between, but Peter mentioning things by name helped to jog his memory.

Despite the insane circumstances that led to their discussion, it was comfortable, familiar. 

The parallels they shared weren’t lost on Dick. They’d both lost their parents at a young age, both became vigilantes far too young, both had been a part of the young version of the biggest superhero team, both were trained by a fellow vigilante, and there was almost definitely more that was still yet to be uncovered. 

Dick turned to look at Peter seated on the other side of the backseat. His face was resting against the window, dead asleep. They were getting close to Wayne Manor, only about ten minutes away.

🦇‼️🦇‼️BATCHAT‼️🦇‼️🦇

Dick: Peter and I are almost there.

Steph: YAYAYAYYAYAYAYYAYAYAY

Tim: 👍

Bruce: 👍

They had been just entering Old Gotham when the Batchat™️ went off again.

Babs: Scarecrow was spotted in Old Gotham.

Tim: omw.

Damian: Father and I are on our way.

“Alfred,” Dick started before the butler quickly cut him off.

“Scarecrow, I’m aware,” he pulled the car over. “Would you still like me to take you to the manor?”

Dick paused, unsure. He hated doing nothing as his family fought to keep Gotham safe. But right now, Gotham’s safety didn’t matter nearly as much as Peter’s. With a deep breath, he conceded. “Let’s just get to the manor.”

“Of course, Master Richard.”

Not a minute later, Peter shot up with no warning. The boy’s eyes went wide as he frantically looked around them.

“Hey, what’s going on? You okay?” Dick asked as Peter unbuckled his seatbelt.

“Something’s wrong,” he sped out, distracted by something unseen by Dick.

“Pete, nothing’s-”

“Stay here!” 

“What?”

“Stay here!” Peter yelled, elbowing the window hard enough for it to crack, just as green gas started to engulf the outside of the car. 

Dick hurried to unbuckle his own seatbelt to follow Peter as he climbed out the shards of glass that used to be the window. 

Seriously? He sees a mysterious green fog and decides ‘hm, I should follow it!’ Yeah, he was totally his kid.

Slamming the car door shut, he could hear Alfred calling out something about a rebreather. He ignored it, far more focused on getting Peter away from the fear gas.

Peter was standing in the middle of the road, searching for something through the gas. 

Dick ran to grab his arm and pull him back to the car. “It’s not safe, get back to the car,” he ordered.

“He’s dead, right?” Peter looked back at him with fear evident in his eyes. “Mysterio’s dead. He can’t be here.”

He furrowed his eyebrows, having no clue what the boy was talking about. “The gas is from Scarecrow. Now c’mon, back to the car,” he pulled him to no avail. Peter didn’t move an inch, staring at the fear gas.

It didn’t take long for Dick’s vision to start to go black, as the inhalation of the fog overtook him.

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

Everything was out of focus. Dick tried to blink the blur from his heavy eyes to no avail. He was laying face first on a dark blue carpet. Sirens, muted by the buzzing in his head, wailed in the distance. Fighting through his swimming mind, he pushed himself off the floor. Nausea swarmed in his stomach as he scanned his surroundings. 

The room was agonizingly familiar, but he couldn’t place it anywhere from his past. It was a simple bedroom, the walls were painted a cool blue to go along with the carpet. Small trinkets and framed photos lined the shelves. An overwhelming sense of deja-vu washed over him, begging to be remembered. 

Richard Dick was on his knees, still procrastinating on standing up, wary of his growing dizziness. What the hell happened to him? He had been in a car, seated in the backseat. Driving to… where was he going? 

He tilted his still spinning head, trying to figure out who had been driving the car. Whenever they drove, he’d been the one behind the steering wheel. 

Before Richard Dick could finish his thought, a woman’s screams pulled him from spiraling. Instantly, he shot up off the ground in search of the origin of the voice. 

The wall hit his aching shoulder as he stumbled, still dizzy as if he’d been drinking. Exiting the bedroom, he traversed through the house. Each slow step sent waves of burning through his legs, but he persevered.

No real thoughts raced through his mind. It was too jumbled to make out any sort of coherence. All that drove him was instinct. The instinct to help others in need, regardless of his own safety. His brother always said that trait of his would one day be the death of him.

He leaned a hand on the wall, keeping himself standing. The house was lit up by flashing blue and red lights, coming from outside. The sirens continued to scream, drowning out the woman’s pleas for help.

Eventually, the blur in his vision cleared just enough that he was able to bear witness to blood pooling into the hallway. The red was only inches from his feet. Richard Dick looked up, trying to find the source.

In the living room, connected to the hallway, a woman knelt above a man on the carpet. Blood covered the space under the two. All he could see of the woman was the back of her head. Brown hair laid across her shoulders, as she gripped the hand of the man bleeding out in front of her.

Years of experience—experience of what? Why couldn’t he remember?—told him to pull the woman away, so she could get out and into safety. He anxiously stepped closer, getting a better look at the man in the process. The man had short hair, white from age. His eyes were glassy and unseeing. The shirt he was wearing was stained red by the still bleeding wound.

Richard, Dick He lingered on the man’s face. The achingly familiar eyes that had once held so much love and compassion, now just looked to the ceiling, devoid of the soul that once housed them. How did he know that? Why did a miserable grief build up in his chest? 

The sirens still blared, but from this proximity, he was able to decipher the woman’s sobs. 

“Ben, stay with me, please, please stay with me,” she cried, desperately begging for a miracle.

He froze in place.

Ben.

Ben Parker.

Ben Parker’s lifeless body laid in front of him.

Before he got the chance to process the information, or even to question the situation at hand, the woman—May—turned around.

Her eyes widened upon meeting his own. Her jaw went slack with shock, staring at him as if he were a ghost. “Richard?” 

Without warning, darkness consumed the room, eating away at the scene, disintegrating May and Ben, until all that remained was Dick, Richard who? The fog in his mind refused to cease, not allowing him to put the pieces together. It was infuriating. 

“No, this isn’t real, this isn’t real,” he repeated like a prayer to nobody in particular. He gripped his hair in chunks, trying to ground himself. 

Was he dead? Was this hell?

Before any answer came, the darkness withered away to reveal a… different planet? The environment was completely foreign. A bright, yet somehow still dreary yellow sky blinded him. Specs of dust flew through the air.

With no other options, he followed where the dust had come from, desperately searching for a way back home. Where was home?

“-no other way,” a man’s voice said, getting louder as Dick got closer.

Three figures finally came into view, all still slightly blurry. One of them had disintegrated into nothing but dust in the wind. The man didn’t even have a chance to scream, before he was nothing.

Where was he?

The dust hadn’t been the same as when May and Ben were taken by the darkness. That had at least been complete. They had become one with the void. This unfamiliar man was turned into nothing but bits and pieces, as the world continued to spin without him.

“Mr. Stark?” The smaller of the two remaining figures spoke, his voice cracking with evident fear.

His breath caught in his throat upon seeing the boy's face. Even through the dust and fog, he recognized him immediately, Peter. No theories entered his mind, no confusion hit him. All that consumed him was the need to make sure Peter was okay. 

The boy was in a metallic suit. Somehow, he knew that he was a vigilante. Why did he know that? All he could remember was the five year old son, waiting for him back home. How did he even recognize the teenager so quickly?

He tried to move, tried to yell, but he was stuck. His vocal cords refused to cooperate, his mouth was zipped shut. All he knew for sure, was that he was powerless to stop whatever was about to happen.

The unknown man turned to Peter—help him, please—he was silent, watching the boy in shock.

“I don’t feel so good,” Peter’s voice trembled as he stumbled, trying to keep his balance.

Richard reached out to try to steady him, but his muscles were frozen in place, tethered to the rock beneath his shaking feet.

The man walked closer, “you’re alright,” he assured. Stop it. Stop whatever’s happening to him. Save my son.

“I don’t-” Peter continued to stumble and tremble. “I don’t know what’s happening,” his balance finally faltered, the older man caught him.

Dick He continued his fruitless efforts of moving closer. Every part of him begged to just take another goddamn step. His throat was raw with the screams that refused to come to fruition.

Horrifyingly, dust began to trail from Peter. “I don’t wanna go,” the boy didn’t cry, but his voice betrayed him. “I don’t wanna go Mr. Stark, please,” he continued to repeat, his voice breaking as his body did the same.

The man set Peter down on the ground, still not saying a word. 

“I’m sorry,” was the last thing Peter could get out, before he disintegrated into nothing but minuscule specs of dust, floating through the wind.

Peter was gone. 

It was only then, Richard He regained his ability to move. His legs were numb with shock, dropping him to his knees. No words came from him. He knew countless languages, yet none of them could string together any sort of saying that could properly describe the feeling of emptiness that settled in his gut.

He hardly registered when the rest of the scene was engulfed in the darkness, just as the last one had. 

It was at that moment, he knew that he wasn’t dead. This wasn’t the afterlife. No version of hell could ever be this cruel. Even the worst of Lucifer’s demons would pity him.

The endless void was replaced by another setting, it materialized just as quickly as the last one had gone. This time, he was standing in the middle of smoke and rubble. The building around him had been on the verge of collapse. Debris coated his lungs as soon as he made the mistake of taking a breath.

A duo of all too familiar faces stood amongst the wreckage, just a few feet away, yet too far. 

Once again, his body went stiff, and he was forced to do nothing but stand there and watch, as his loved ones suffered.

“You have a gift,” May’s voice shook with pain. “You have power,” she continued. “And with great power, there must also come great responsibility,” she advised Peter.

They both looked older than any of his memories with them. Age and years of regret were etched into their faces. Blood caked their hair. 

Peter was silent for a moment. “I know,” he spoke quietly, yet in the silence of the rubble each sound was deafening.

“Let’s get out of here,” May started to lead them out of the building.

Richard’s his heart dropped. Judging by the pattern of the last two scenes he was forced to watch, one of them wouldn’t be making it out of this building—or what was left of it—alive.

Every shift of the stones was like nails on a chalkboard. Yet, it served as a much needed distraction from what was about to come.

“Just gotta catch-” May’s pain ridden voice was out of breath. She shook more than her tone did. 

He didn’t even possess the ability to close his eyes. The sight of May collapsing onto the ground was burned into his mind. 

The fire crackled around them; not one person in the room cared about the heat starting to build up. 

“What happened? Are you okay?” Peter’s own voice was broken. He’d obviously been injured in the wreckage, but pain wasn’t to blame for his fear.

Richard hardly heard May’s whisper of a confirmation over his racing heart. 

“Yeah you’re okay, what happened?”

May blinked slowly, as if the small action took all her effort. “Just have to,” she breathed. “Catch my breath.”

“Okay, catch your breath. I’m right here,” Peter assured. “We’re gonna take our time,” he continued to provide comfort, letting her know everything would be okay. His voice was young—too young—guilt swarmed Richard. If he had been there, if he was just able to move, he could be of some help, support them, do something. Instead, whatever held him in place tightened its grip.

Peter pulled his hand away from May, revealing his palm covered in blood. “Are you okay?” May asked, oblivious to the situation. Oblivious to death so close by.

The boy yelled desperately for help—he’d done the same when his parents fell to their deaths—powerless—he was always powerless—Peter knew the inevitability of the far too close future, yet he still reassured May that everything would be okay. Even as tears threatened to fall, he stayed calm.

“I just need to catch my breath,” May repeated, her voice was raspy with exhaustion.

“It’s just me and you,” Peter held her. 

They were the only Parker’s left.

Because of Richard.

May looked off into space, with the soul and light leaving her eyes.

The red and orange light illuminating the room fizzled out as the darkness overtook the scene. Even when all that surrounded him was nothing, the image of May’s lifeless body lingered in his mind. 

All that truly existed was him and the void. 

Chapter Text

This wasn’t right.

Mysterio was supposed to be dead.

He saw him die.

He felt him die.

Peter desperately tried to ignore the memory of Uncle Ben’s death playing out right in front of him. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t like the first time he’d been subjected to Beck’s illusions. That time, it was just the sight of his worst memories he had to deal with. Now however, it was as if he were there in the living room all over again. May’s pulse was fast and unsteady, while Ben didn’t have one. The putrid smell of blood filled the cramped room.

It didn’t make sense. If the illusion wasn’t proof of Beck’s return, then the green fog that had been a prelude to it was. But, Peter didn’t just see Beck die. He felt the vibration of his heartbeat stop. He watched as they buried the man. But, if his father had somehow survived, who’s to say that Beck couldn’t have cheated death in a similar manner?

The illusions kept changing to different memories, more deaths.

If he wasn’t positive that this was all Beck’s doing before, this cemented it. Peter was sure the man was laughing, making him watch Gwen plummeting to her untimely death.

Why didn’t he catch her?

He stood there, watching in horror as Mysterio held Gwen above the London Bridge, taunting him. She never screamed; she maintained her faith that Peter would save her. The cold breeze of the city was all he could feel, as he watched her legs dangle hundreds of feet from the ground.

Gwen had once told him that she never wasted energy worrying about the villains they constantly faced. She trusted that he would always be there, ready to save the day. Peter had always been mind blown by just how intelligent she was. Every one of her hypotheses were correct in some way. Of course, the only time she was incorrect, it cost her life.

The memory in front of him slowed down once Mysterio let her go. Peter’s past self immediately followed to catch her, but he was too slow. He was always too slow.

Peter shut his eyes, but the terror still ran rampant through his bones. The screams of nearby civilians watching were still heard, even when Gwen’s lifeless eyes couldn’t be seen. 

All of a sudden, his chest felt tight and constrained, as his heart threatened to beat out of it. The feeling of rocks and debris covering his exposed skin sent shivers down his spine. Smoke filled his lungs when he desperately gasped for air. 

Recognition hit him as hard as the rubble was cutting into him.

The warehouse.

The vulture.

Peter tried to place his palms on the collapsed building on top of him, but it kept getting heavier and heavier. His bones were slowly being crushed. No gasp for air was worth the effort when all he inhaled was the debris clinging to the breeze.

His throat felt almost as tight as his chest. His screams for help were raw, only causing more pain with no reward. The knowledge that nobody ever came for him, that he was the only person that could reliably save himself, was pertinent. Yet, he still wasted his limited energy begging for help.

Everything around him slowly started going black as the ringing in his ears grew. The last coherent thought he had echoed in his mind. Will anyone mourn him?

Of course not. Nobody had any memories to mourn.

His vision continued to flicker out. Through the deafening ringing in his ears, a voice yelling his name could slightly be heard. Peter didn’t—couldn’t—question it, as everything went black.

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

From the moment he was born, Peter Parker had a destiny. The destiny to have the burden of great responsibility. The responsibility to dawn the mask, in order to protect his world; including the ones who didn’t deserve it, even if it was to the detriment of himself. One day, it would come to fruition.

But on this day, he is five years old. And he is scared.

Peter had always been a scared kid. Nightmares were a near nightly occurrence, even before he had any traumatic experiences that would manifest in such ways. Maybe on some level, he was aware of the life he would come to live. Or perhaps he was naturally a coward, but life refused to allow him the freedom to hide.

A nightmare about nothing at all woke him up. The mystery of what could be hiding within the shadows of his room sent tears streaming down his face. Peter cried for his parents. They would know what to do. Mom and dad always knew what to do. They were superheroes.

“Pete? What’s wrong?” Dad came into the room.

Unforgiving time had hidden most of what they said. But the unforgettable feeling of protection remained.

Dad picked him up, taking them to the living room. It was routine that whenever Peter had a nightmare, they’d watch a movie until he fell asleep. 

Peter continued to sniffle, still burdened by his fear. 

“Hey, there’s nothing to be scared of,” dad assured, setting him down on the couch.

The five year old simply pouted and crossed his arms in lieu of a proper response.

“Y’know why there’s nothing to be scared of?” Dad asked.

“No,” Peter shook his head and rubbed his eyes, still blurry from his crying.

“How could you be scared when you’re in the safest place in the world?”

Peter tilted his head, confused about what the man was referring to. “The couch?”

“Not quite,” dad laughed. “C’mon, bug. Where’s the safest place in the world?” 

Remembrance struck Peter. “Right next to my dad!” He grinned.

Throughout the past few months of the boy's persistent nightmares, dad had promised that nothing could ever harm him. He would always be there to catch him, should he fall.

Peter nested in the mountain of blankets covering him. Contentment was all he knew.

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

“Peter? Peter!” A voice’s muffled yelling broke through the ringing echoing in his head. 

Concrete ground scraped his palms. Ugh, he’d totally been knocked out.

He couldn’t remember what had caused the blaring migraine that was almost definitely a concussion. But, he’d been in this situation a fair few times before, it was basically routine at this point. Peter had a tiny bit of a habit of getting knocked out while on patrol. “Matt?” He slurred, questioning the voice.

“Who?” 

Uh oh.

Did the voice not belong to Daredevil? Oh Thor, this was so embarrassing. What if it was fucking Frank!? Hell no. Peter would actually run away across the country and change his name to like, Ben Reilly, or something.

Peter pushed himself off the ground into a sitting position. Hardly comfortable, but at least he had some remaining dignity. With terror and dread, he opened his eyes to see… “Ah!” He yelped upon seeing his dad hovering over him. 

Dang it. He was totally dead. Ugh. It better not have been some boring thug that killed him. Nah, he wanted to go out from one of the big dogs. Like, one of his science teachers. 

“You okay?” Dad was kneeling down in front of him, with a steady hand on Peter’s shoulder.

Still very confused, he thoroughly searched the area—which may or may not have only consisted of painfully turning his head—for any clues to tell him what the hell happened. His eyes lingered on a pen that someone must have dropped. It had various yellow bat symbols covering it. 

Oh, right.

He was in Gotham.

Welp. It was better than being dead. Maybe.

“He’s not responding,” dad pressed a hand to what must’ve been a comm in his ear. Usually, Peter would’ve been able to hear the static and response from it, but concussions—especially his like, 17th one in a week—didn’t exactly help his senses.

“Am to,” Peter mumbled quietly. Every sound was like metal clanging together, so he wasn’t all too thrilled with having to speak. “Wha’ happened?”

Dad audibly sighed a breath of relief. “We got hit with fear gas,” he answered, as if that provided any indication of what happened.

Apparently his confusion was evident on his face, because the man expanded. “It’s something Scarecrow uses. Real nasty stuff, it’ll knock you on your ass for a while.”

Even though a swarm of potential insults pointed towards this ‘Scarecrow’ guy came to him—like seriously, fear gas?—all he could get out was a small, “Boo.”

“Boo, indeed,” dad nodded.

“You get hit?” Peter tilted his head—ow ow ow mistakes were made.

“Yeah, but I’m fine, I’ve developed a resistance to it by now,” he shrugged off. “Think you’re okay to stand?” 

Peter squinted his eyes, trying to put together a coherent sentence. “Mmm,” his efforts were futile. Ah fooey.

Dad sighed. “Right. Let’s wait a second, yeah?”

“Wait,” Peter repeated.

“Yep, we can wait for however long you need.”

“Wait for it?”

“Wait for what?”

“Hamilton?” His buzzing mind tried to create whatever correlations it could.

Dad immediately furrowed his eyebrows in clear befuddlement. “The… founding father?”

“Yeah,” Peter closed his eyes and set his head on his knees. “Mmmm dark,” he smiled in contentment. The spider in him loved darkness.

A few minutes, or hours, or days, must have passed before he was brought back to reality by someone tapping his shoulder. “Feeling any better?” Dad asked, standing above him.

He considered the question for a moment. “Yeah, I probably won’t pass out,” he shot up from his spot on the ground instantaneously.

“You probably won’t?” The man rushed to hold his elbow to keep him steady, not that Peter needed the help considering the whole ‘spider center of mass’ biz he had going on, but the sentiment was appreciated nonetheless.

“A scientist never makes a confirmation without proper data,” he reasoned, because the actual reason—the ground was still spinning around him—didn’t sound nearly as smart.

Dad allowed himself a small smile as he led Peter to the car waiting for them. It was black, blending in with the night sky—when did it become night!?—the car had sharp edges, which served to give it a futuristic yet still gothic appearance.

As they traversed the few feet that separated them from the car, Peter stumbled as if he had, like, a gallon of beer. Was that enough to make someone drunk? His metabolism didn’t allow for him to test it out. Not that he’d tried or anything.

“You okay?” Dad instantly turned around, asking for what must have been the tenth time that night.

Peter quickly recovered and continued walking forward. “Yeah, Issac is just a little bitch.”

“I feel like I’m supposed to tell you not to curse.”

“You can if it would make you feel better.”

“Don’t curse.”

“Ha. Fuck no.”

Dad snorted in response. “Who the hell’s Issac?”

Peter stopped dead in his tracks, gasping dramatically. “You don’t… you don’t remember?” His bottom lip trembled.

The man’s eyebrows shot up, quickly regret covered his expression. “Wait- no- I, well- of course I- who-” he stuttered, desperately searching for a correct answer.

A grin wide enough to anger his still pounding headache grew across Peter’s face as he bursted into giggles at the response.

Dad sighed, pinching his brow. “You’re messing with me.”

“Duh.”

They were right next to the mysterious car by now; dad leaned on the back of the vehicle with his arms crossed. “Is Issac seriously a person?”

Without warning, static from the man’s comm crackled as a familiar voice spoke. “Oh, is the kid fuckin’ pullin’ the whole ‘Issac Newton’ shit again?” 

“One, not a kid,” Peter raised a finger as if Red Hood could see it. “Two, that bit was hilarious. How dare you suggest otherwise,” he huffed. “And three, I took a bomb for you and this is how I’m repaid!? Shame. Infinite shame.”

Dad looked back at him quizzically. “How’d you hear the comm?” 

“Radioactive spider, remember? Or did you forget that like you forgot Issac?”

The man cringed at the reminder of how Peter got his powers. “Right…”

“So are you guys ever gonna get back to the Batcave or…” Red Hood—Jason—broke the silence.

“The whatcave?” Peter raised an eyebrow.

“The Batcave!” Dad grinned. 

“For the love of Thor, if that is a cave that Batman hides out in, I am going to commit a crime so heinous that not even Matt Murdock can defend me,” he swore. First it was fear gas, then apparently the guy who used it called himself scarecrow, and now the batcave???

“It is where he hides out! Isn’t it an extremely fitting name?” Dad beamed proudly, like a kid showing off their coloring page. 

Uh oh. Peter had spent time with far too many people with horrendous names. He knew exactly the kinda look they had when they named something. “Don’t tell me you named it.”

“Yep!” He popped the ‘P.’ “Isn't it a great name?”

Peter didn’t dignify that with a response, electing to instead, stare at the man until he apologized for his actions.

“Would you be upset if I told you the car is called the Batmobile?” Dad scratched the back of his neck with a wince.

“The Batmobile,” Peter repeated, not quite sure if he heard the man properly.

“Yes…”

“Welp. That confirms it.”

“Confirms what?”

“Being dead was way better than this shit,” Peter shrugged like it was obvious.

The calm atmosphere shifted within a second. Dad looked at him with an unreadable emotion in his eyes. “…You died?” His voice came out as a near whisper, as if speaking louder would confirm it.

Peter raised an eyebrow, confused at what the big deal was. “Well, yeah… This place had some sort of version of the blip, right? Like, when I looked it up, nothing popped up, but then Jason said he died, so I figured that you guys just call it something different,” he rambled, fidgeting his hands around. 

“Jason told you that?” Dad’s eyes somehow went wider at Peter’s words.

“Uh, yeah…” he spoke slowly. “Was I not supposed to say that?”

“No, no, it’s just-” the man shook his head, clearing whatever thoughts were burdening him and sighed. “What’s the blip?”

“Uh… a thing… and it’s not Ben Grimm…”

“Huh?”

“Nothing, it’s just, uh,” Peter bit his nail. How the hell was he supposed to explain that!? “Y’know, dust?” 

“…yes,”

“Yeahhhhhh, half the world kinda sorta maybe became dust for five years. It really sucked. Anyways!” Peter clapped, desperately trying to end the discussion of one of his worst moments. “Let’s get to the Batcave via Batmobile!”

“That was real?” Dad breathed, ignoring Peter’s attempts to dodge the conversation.

“Uh, yeah?” Peter passed him and stood in front of the passenger’s seat of the Batmobile. “If we go now I won’t bully you over your horrible names,” he bargained.

Dad was still frozen in place for a second, before quickly regaining his composure and making his way to the driver's seat. “Deal.”

“The Batcave better have some bats.”

Chapter Text

Dick took a meticulous breath as he drove the Batmobile. The scene of Peter running out into the fear gas ridden streets kept replaying in his mind. The boy had been so damn scared. It wasn’t the first time he’d been faced with something of that nature, that much was clear. The question was, what was it? What—who hurt his son in a way that would cause such a reaction? 

Peter had called him ‘Mysterio.’ He claimed the man was dead, but he wasn’t positive. It was fairly obvious that it was some sort of rogue the boy had faced—that Dick wasn’t there to protect him from—but that didn’t answer the question of, what did he do? 

All that, wasn’t even beginning to touch upon all that the fear gas showed him. When he first came to, he figured it was just the gas playing tricks on him; taking what little he knew about what happened to Ben and May, and running with it. The dust… that was something else. Fear gas was weird, it didn’t have to make sense.

But then, Peter confirmed his worst nightmare. His son had died. He died scared and in pain. He died, begging not to go.

Dick wasn’t there. After Jason’s death, he promised himself, nothing like it would ever happen again. 

Peter’s broken voice repeating ‘I don’t wanna go’ echoed through his mind. The way the boy fought so damn hard, just to die anyway sent shivers down his spine.

Of all the people he could’ve failed, it was his son.

He took slow, deliberate breaths. Falling apart was for when he was alone. Peter had already been through enough. Dick just needed to be there now. 

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

Tim was sitting in front of the batcomputer, eagerly awaiting Dick and Peter’s arrival. The Batcave was empty besides himself; the rest of the bats were out helping with the aftermath of Scarecrow’s attack. He ran his fingers through his greasy hair—ugh, whatever, he’d fix that later—as he scanned through the live footage from the Batmobile. 

He couldn’t stop thinking about his encounter with them, following the Scarecrow attack. According to Alfred, they’d been hit by fear gas on their way to the manor. Now, Tim thought himself to be a lot of things. Intelligent, quick, handsome, determined, yada yada, but one thing he was decidedly not, was negligent. Especially when it came to his family. So, the second that he’d been notified of the incident, he raced to find Dick and Peter.

It could never be that simple, could it? He’d been expecting something bad to be going on, very few people could just walk away from fear gas unharmed, but he was certainly not prepared for the shit he had to deal with.

Once Tim got to the scene, Dick was unconscious in the middle of the road. He didn’t waste time checking on his brother. It was clear from the rise and fall of his chest that he was breathing, so he was far more concerned about Peter’s wellbeing. After all, the boy wasn’t from Gotham, there was a very good chance he’d never encountered anything remotely similar to the fear gas.

Tim knelt down next to Peter’s unconscious body, a few feet from Dick. The second that he reached to check his pulse, Peter’s hand shot up and grabbed Tim’s wrist. The speed in which he moved was insane. Being a bat, he’d learned how to move and dodge quickly and efficiently. Yet, Peter moved faster than Tim’s instinct and held his wrist with strength that didn’t match his small frame. 

Had it been anyone else, Tim would’ve been able to free himself of the grasp instantaneously. But somehow, Peter’s grip refused to budge. Seriously, it was like his palm had super glue on it. The boy was very definitely still unconscious, judging by the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest and his still-shut eyes. 

After what felt like minutes of trying to pull away, Peter finally released him. So, Tim retrieved the cure to the fear gas from his pocket but before he could administer the injection, Peter fucking punched him. Tim rubbed his jaw at the mere memory of it. That kid had damn near fractured it; luckily all he left was a nasty black and purple bruise. 

All that and Peter was still unconscious, and he can’t forget—still injured from surviving a damn bomb.

Curse Dick’s messed up weirdo genes.

After being decked in the face by his almost definitely meta nephew, he made the astute decision of quitting before Peter seriously hurt him, and focusing on giving Dick the cure.

He’d given him the cure once Dick had finally come to, albeit not completely there. His brother was shaking, staring off into space, only half listening to Tim. It was always…odd, seeing Dick like that. Even through hell, the man was generally able to keep a level head and think rationally. Even after most encounters with fear gas, Dick bounced back fairly easily considering the nature of it.

Tim had explained what happened with Peter, much to his surprise, Dick shrugged it off saying they’d figure it all out once they got back to the Batcave. 

Although he wanted to stay with them until Peter regained consciousness, Tim ultimately decided on returning to the cave so he could look more closely into Peter’s radiation for some sort of explanation on how he prevented Tim from doing anything, even while unconscious.

“Hey, Pete?” Dick’s voice from the footage on the batcomputer pulled Tim from his thoughts. 

The radiation on Peter’s file was still incredibly confusing. Nothing about it was remotely similar to anything he’d ever seen before. So, Tim chose to use his time in other ways. Sure, he felt a tiny bit of guilt watching—spying—on them, but that was overruled by his need to make sure they were okay. (And, if he was also extremely curious about what they were talking about, that was neither here nor there.)

“Yeah?” Peter responded.

“Where’re the crutches Leslie gave you?” Dick somehow side eyed him while still maintaining his sight on the street in front as he drove the Batmobile.

Without skipping a beat, Peter answered. “Crutches? She never gave me crutches?”

“Peter.”

“Hello!”

“You do realize that I can see you purposefully keeping your leg still, right?” The man raised an eyebrow.

Peter bit his cheek, obviously annoyed at having been thwarted in his scheme to get rid of the crutches. “It’s healed.”

“Already?”

“Yes.”

“Wanna move it then?”

“Not particularly.”

Dick nodded with a hum. “When we get to the Batcave there’s some extra crutches you can use.”

Peter groaned loudly with the same dramatics they’d come to expect from Dick. “Whatever happened to bodily autonomy? Huh?”

“Kinda goes out the window when you’re refusing to care about the very broken leg you have,” Dick shrugged.

Peter huffed. “I want a lawyer.”

“You could go do that, just make sure he only has one face.”

“Oh. Alrighty then. Is the guy you’re talking about a blind ninja?”

Dick and Tim shared an expression of pure confusion. “I mean, not that I know of, but he does really like even numbers.” 

Tim paused. Was…was Dick speaking with a slight New York accent…?

Oh, he was never living this down.

“Ugh. Boring,” Peter rolled his eyes and rested his head on the window.

“We’re pulling into the Batcave now.”

In record time, Tim closed out the footage and replaced it with the file on Scarecrow.

“Oh, hey! You guys are back already!” Tim greeted as they climbed out of the Batmobile. Dick said something, inaudible to him, but it earned a sigh and a nod from Peter. His brother walked off somewhere, without so much as a hello. Wow. He seriously just ignored the guy who totally saved his ass like an hour ago. 

The boy gave a small wave back at Tim. “This place is seriously an actual cave?” He walked closer, clearly favoring his left leg, taking in the whole space with awe.

Tim chuckled. “Yeah, there’s some bats around some places too.”

Peter glared at him. “You guys really love the whole bat-theme, don’t you?”

“Hey, don’t blame me! Blame the dude who named himself Batman,” Tim shot back.

“Who’re you again?” He asked.

“Tim, aka Red Robin.”

“Yeah, you’re in no place to talk,” Peter rolled his eyes.

“Whatever you say PP,” Tim teased with a grin. Truth be told, even though the incredibly stressful couple of days, he’d been cautiously optimistic about Peter. The fact that Gotham had finally given something instead of just taking was enough to lessen a bit of the weight on his shoulders.

Peter squinted his eyes, giving a failed attempt at a glare. “Did you get that sponsorship from the actual Red Robin?”

“No,” they never replied to his emails. “I’m too cool for some random restaurant.”

“Y’know, I used to say that, but then Delmar’s offered me a free sandwich anytime I wanted if I said how good they were, and dude. Being a sellout was so worth it,” Peter waved his hands around as he spoke.

“Why would they want you to say how good it was?” Tim questioned.

“I’m just super cool like that,” Peter shrugged. “Everyone is eager for my praise.”

Although Tim would definitely be circling back to that eventually, he couldn’t hold in his insane amount of questions any longer. “So what’s the deal with you being radioactive?”

Peter crossed his arms. “Dude, you can’t just ask people why they’re radioactive.”

He ignored the kid. “Were you like… experimented on?” There were definitely better ways to go about that. But there was a reason why he was a vigilante and not a psychiatrist.

“Yes.”

“Seriously!?” Ugh. Their family was incapable of anyone having a slightly normal childhood, huh? Wait oh shit. Did Dick even know that Peter experimented on!? He was gonna freak.

“Yep, they were like these German scientists, right?” Peter started.

“Yeah?”

“And I wanted to join the military,” the kid recounted. He went to cross his legs, was immediately reminded of his injury, and went back to standing still with a hardly covered wince.

“What? Why?” The military? Seriously?

“World war two was wild.”

Tim’s eyes practically protruded from his skull. “You were in what!? Didn’t that happen in like, the 1800s, or something?” He supposed that dimensional travel could theoretically also cause time dilation, or they had different timelines of historical events.

“What? No, it was like… the 50s?” Peter squinted his eyes, unsure. “But anyway yeah, I wanted to join the military but they didn’t let me.”

“Gee, wonder why, couldn’t possibly be because you’re like three feet tall.”

Peter glared back at him, but moved on. “So, this German scientist was all like ‘hey! Want an experimental drug?’ And I was like ‘Hell yeah, man!’”

Tim took a breath and pinched his brow. Ugh. This kid was making him do the classic Bruce move. “You willingly took a drug from a rando scientist?”

“Yuppers.”

“Just so you could join the military.”

“Yessir.” Peter saluted.

“And, you’re from the 50s?” 

“Well, kinda. I got stuck in ice for a couple decades,” Peter shrugged.

Tim blinked. “You’re screwing with me.”

Peter broke out into laughter, wiping away a fake tear with all the theatrics that anyone who shared Dick’s DNA would have. “Took you long enough.”

“You suck.” 

“Couldn’t come up with a better insult, buddy?” Peter teased.

“I could. But you don’t deserve my brain power,” Tim shot back.

Peter put a hand over his heart with a gasp. “Timothy. How you wound me so.”

“So what, was that like the plot of a movie or something?” He asked, crossing his arms.

“Nah, a musical that was based on a real dude called Captain America,” Peter explained.

“Captain America? What the hell was he, Uncle Sam?” Tim furrowed his eyebrows in pure confusion. Sure, the bats had little room to make fun of other names, but at least they weren’t going around calling themselves ‘Captain Propaganda.’

“Well he wasn’t, but the second—or ugh, I guess third ‘cos of that one dude who the government appointed to take the shield, but then he killed a guy so he became the U.S. agent, it was a whole thing—so, the third Captain America was Sam Wilson. And he had nephews. So, there are a few people who have an Uncle Sam who’s also Captain America,” Peter rambled.

Tim was quiet for a moment. “So, definitely dimensional travel then.”

“Yuppers.”

“If I ask you how, will you give me an actual answer?” 

“Hmmm,” Peter put a hand on his chin. “That depends, what do I get in exchange?”

“Jay said bribing you with churros was the best bet, so, churros?” He offered.

“Hell yeah. I’m always down for some bribery.”

“Soooo, dimensional travel. How?” Tim grabbed a notepad and pen out of his array of pockets, eager to learn about how the multiverse was real.

Peter tilted his head. “Wait, you guys didn’t know I was from a different universe?”

“Uh… no?” Tim said like it was obvious. “We theorized, but definitely didn’t know.”

“Do you guys know anything about what happened?” Peter asked. “Like, all my dad told me was that somehow this weirdo drug with a dumb name sent him into the body of the version of himself from my universe. Well, he didn’t say that last part, but I’m guessing that’s the case,” the kid shrugged.

Tim tried not to be too caught off guard by his brother being referred to as ‘dad.’ That would definitely take some getting used to. The guy who wore a disco outfit during one of the most depressing moments of his life, was a dad. “I mean, that’s as good a theory as any,” Tim rubbed the back of his neck. “But yeah, we know basically nothing. Honestly, I’m way more concerned with the why this all happened, rather than the how.”

“What d’you mean?”

“Like, we have some semblance of an understanding now that we know you’re from a different universe,” Tim started. “But then, why would the cheerdrops send him to an alternate universe? It makes no sense.” He absentmindedly bit the top of his pen, lost in thoughts of potential theories.

Peter was silent for a moment. “Sometimes, impossible things just happen, and we call them miracles.”

Tim’s focus on the conversation came right back. “Oh. That’s like, sorta profound.”

“I know right.”

“You’re so quoting something though.”

“Duh. Does anyone here watch Doctor Who!?” Peter exclaimed in exasperation.

“Doctor Who?”

“Oh my Thor. Look it up, you uncultured heathen,” Peter looked at him with a face of pure disgust.

Curious, Tim obliged and grabbed his phone. “Nothing came up.”

“What!?” Peter shrieked and rushed over, narrowing avoiding tripping over his broken leg.

Tim tilted his screen to show that no results had popped up from his search.

Peter clutched his hair in pure terror. “This is the worst thing that has ever happened to me in the history of ever.”

“Uh huh,” Tim nodded in sarcastic agreement.

“No wonder this place is so bad! You guys don’t have the ancient texts!” Peter ran his hands down his face.

“You okay there, buddy?”

“No.”

Before they could continue their conversation, aka Peter having a mental breakdown over some Doctor or whatever, Dick finally returned carrying two crutches.

“I will literally pay you to get those crutches away from me,” Peter turned back to Tim in horror, begging for mercy.

“Dude, my dads a billionaire.”

Peter blinked. “Seriously!?”

“Yep. Unfortunately for you, yours lives in a shoebox without air conditioning.” Tim looked pointedly at his brother who had horrendous opinions on livable conditions.

Dick sent a glare Tim’s way and handed Peter the crutches. “No more walking without them until your leg’s healed.” He told the kid, ignoring Tim, again. 

The boy begrudgingly took them with a grumble that sounded a suspicious amount like, ‘even catholic guilt never made me use goddamn crutches.’

Dick finally looked back at Tim with a smile. “You guys were talking?”

“Yeah, he’s really upset,” Peter said.

??? “What? No I’m—”

“He was saying how the restaurant Red Robin is suing him instead of sponsoring him,” the kid explained.

Oh that bitch. “I literally never said that.”

“Hey, it’s okay. These things happen, man,” Peter shrugged empatheticly. 

At that, Tim motioned his hand across his neck, mouthing, ‘you’re so dead.’ Because apparently his nephew was just as annoying as his brothers.

Peter just scoffed. “Been there done that, never really stuck.”

“Who are you, Jason?” 

“Dude, is Jason like the only person to come back from the dead here?” Peter raised an eyebrow, looking to Dick for an answer.

“Why don’t we talk about literally anything else?” Dick clapped them both on the shoulder and motioned for them to go to the bat-table.

Sitting down, Tim gave Peter a smirk. “You ready to meet the family?”

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

The second they pulled into the Batcave, Dick went to fetch the extra crutches they had on hand. They had plenty of extra medical supplies, considering the fact that all of the bats refused to properly treat their injuries. 

On his way, Jason passed through the Manor’s halls. “Yo,” was all he said, before attempting to rush out of there.

“Stay,” Dick ordered, raising a hand to stop him, unamused.

“I’m so fuckin’ dead,” Jason grumbled and leaned against the wall, staring daggers into the ground. “The kid okay?”

Dick nodded before realizing that his younger brother was refusing to look him in the eye. “Yeah, he heals fast. Leslie said he should make a full recovery fairly quickly.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah.”

They both stood there, looking anywhere but each other. The pertinent silence was deafening, as the two elected on not addressing the elephant in the room.

With a sigh, Dick was the one to begin. “I’m not  angry at you, Jay.”

“You’re not?” Jason looked up for a moment, before quickly pulling his head back down.

“I’m upset, obviously, but I’m sure you had good intentions,” he explained slowly. “I just want to know why you decided not to alert me the second you found Peter.”

Jason tapped his foot against the floor, showing a rare moment of anxiety. “He ran away the last time I tried getting too close, I wanted to give him the opportunity to trust me.”

“Right. And telling him that the father he believed to be dead, was alive, was the next best option?” Dick questioned, unamused.

“I couldn’t stand lying to the kid. I was interrogating my nephew.” 

“The nephew, who you warned me not to get too attached to, in case he wasn’t who he said he was,” his voice raised before he composed himself and took a deep breath. Yelling at him would go nowhere. “What the hell, Jay? You were adamant that we had to handle this with fragility—”

“I was ju—”

“Don’t cut me off.” Dick cut him off and continued what he was saying. “But you still went behind my back.”

Jason picked his head up, looking around the Manor’s empty hall, avoiding Dick’s eye like it would burn him. “I’m sorry, I know it was dumb.”

“He could have died, Jason. If he didn’t have enhanced healing, we would be planning a funeral right now,” despite his best efforts, his voice shook. He’d been so close to losing his son the second he got him back.

“I’m sorry,” Jason apologized with complete sincerity, finally daring to maintain eye contact. “You know that I can’t stand the fact that he took that bomb for me, right?”

Dick let out a breath. “Obviously, I do. But that would have never happened, if you just called me.”

The brothers were silent for a long moment, neither knowing what else to say. Unsaid words acted as a barrier between them.

Finally, Jason swallowed. “Pete’s a good kid.”

He allowed himself a small smile. “He really is, isn’t he?”

“Don’t know where he gets it from.”

Dick gave a light chuckle. He knew exactly where Peter got it from. Even after only a few conversations with him, his mother’s wit and fearless determination was evident. May and Ben’s unwavering kindness and selflessness were Peter’s defining characteristics. 

“He was named after you, y’know?” Dick admitted. Jason’s only response was staring at him like he grew two heads, so he continued. “When I was…there, I had bits and pieces of my memory from here. Most of it was subconscious, I think. But, one thing I know for certain was that Peter was named after my brother.”

Jason didn’t move, waiting for Dick to continue.

“At the time, I thought it was after Ben—Peter’s middle name is Benjamin—but, it can’t be a coincidence that out of all the names I could’ve chosen, I chose your middle name,” Dick spoke slowly and quietly, allowing the space for Jason to interject at any point.

After a moment of wondering if his little brother would answer, Jason finally broke his silence. “Cool.”

Dick let a small, amused breath out. He knew that Jason wasn’t going to say anything grandiose in return, he wouldn’t have any sort of outwards reaction. That wasn’t the point in telling him. All Dick wanted was for his little brother to know that while he was still rightfully pissed, he’d forgive him. 

“Alright, c’mon in,” Dick wore a goofy grin as he held his arms wide. “It’s hugging time.”

“Hell no,” Jason crossed his arms in refusal.

He wasn’t pushing Dick away, which coming from Jason, was basically a hug by itself. So naturally, Dick wrapped his arms around him, as if Jason was still half his height.

Eventually, Jason pulled away. “I gotta go wrap up some stuff, I’ll be in the cave soon.”

“Take your time, Little Wing.”

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

Peter anxiously tapped the table, or, the bat-table, as dad had corrected him on. Tim was showing him some of the notes he’d written on theories regarding Peter’s existence.

“Pfft, a clone? You weren’t joking about that?” Peter laughed at the absurdity of it all. 

So far, the only ones seated were him, dad, Tim, Duke, and Alfred. Duke had introduced himself as the Signal, Gotham’s daytime vigilante. Alfred was a British butler, who was incredibly reminiscent of Harry’s butler, Bernard. 

He smiled at the memory. Him and Harry usually hung out at Peter’s apartment, since Norman was such a weirdo. On the off chance that they were at Harry’s though, Bernard was always a kind, welcoming presence.

Neither of them remembered him.

Peter sat next to Tim on one side, with his dad on the other. Duke took the opposite end of the table, while Alfred stood nearby.

A sixth and seventh heartbeat became louder as they excelled closer at an alarming rate. Before Peter could voice his question aloud, a woman in purple—hey, it was the vigilante he’d seen a few nights ago!—raced into the cave. 

“Richard John Grayson, I have a bone to pick with you,” she crossed her arms, glaring at his dad.

Grayson???

“Steph, is now really the best time—” dad was quickly interrupted.

“You called all of the bats here, except for me!?” She—Steph, he assumed—took off her mask.

The woman had already reminded him of Kate, due to their shared love of purple alone, but she looked like a mix between Yelena and Gwen. His heart ached at the reminder. 

A man, the owner of the seventh heartbeat, followed in behind Steph. It took Peter a moment to recognize him without the armor and jacket, but the white in his hair quickly gave him away as Jason. 

“He didn’t call Helena, Luke, Harper, or anyone else,” Jason defended, standing next to Steph.

“Ugh. But I’m an honorary member of the family! I was Robin, helloooo, that means I automatically get invited to all these things!” She explained as if it was common knowledge.

“Pfft. You were Robin for like two weeks,” Tim rocked his chair back with a teasing smile on his face.

“At least I graduated from being Robin, Mr. ‘Hm I can’t be Robin anymore, oh I know! I’ll just be Red Robin!’” Steph held a hand up, mocking him.

“Oh look at me, I’m Steph, I started a gang war in Gotham!” Tim mocked back.

“Oh look at me, I’m Tim, I’m mentally a toddler and fall asleep everywhere.”

“Hey! That is a skill. Thank you very much.”

“Your best skill is being unconscious, yeah, that sounds about right,” Jason cut in.

“Like you’re one to talk,” Duke rolled his eyes.

“Hey Duke, do me a favor and shut the hell up.”

“Big talk from the guy who can’t look at a toolbox without getting shivers,” Duke said, unamused.

“I swear to god I’m gonna beat you over the head with something,” Jason pointed at him, in an attempt to be threatening.

“Yeah, you’d have a lot of experience with that, wouldn’t you?”

They all continued arguing incoherently over the layering of their voices. Steph and Tim were saying something about who the better Robin was, while Duke and Jason verbally annihilated each other.

Eventually, dad interrupted them all with clear exasperation. “Clap once if you can hear me.”

As if this had happened countless times before, they all clapped immediately.

“Clap twice if you can hear me.”

They all did as they were told, and sat down, each of them grumbling under their breath.

“Damn, you’ve got them trained,” Peter raised an amused eyebrow.

Steph snorted. “Nah, it just hurts his ego if we don’t listen to him.”

Dad put a hand over his heart with a gasp. “Stephanie, how you wound me so.”

Tim leaned over to Duke, mumbling, “maybe the clone theory wasn’t so out there.”

Before Peter could question what he meant by that, more footsteps and heartbeats entered the cave.

Batman, Robin, and Orphan, all came into view.

Peter tried to go over all their names in his head, luckily, Batman saved him the trouble.

“Nice to formally meet you, Peter. My name is Bruce Wayne.”

Chapter Text

Bruce entered the Batcave with Damian and Cass. Capturing Scarecrow had taken far longer than anticipated; but most of the bats got out unharmed, the exception being Tim. The boy reported to Bruce that while Peter was unconscious from the fear gas, he was still able to defend himself.

Even with Dick’s confirmation of Peter being from a different universe, it was all still odd to Bruce. Although he wanted nothing more than to let Peter into the family with open arms, there were still unanswered questions. Unfortunately, the reality of being Batman was putting the safety of his family and city above all else. Before he had concrete proof that Peter was part of that family, and not the foes trying to take them down, he had to keep his walls up.

Seeing the kid again, now all cleaned up with bandages covering his injuries, Bruce was hit with a wave of Deja Vu. It was as if a sixteen year old Dick Grayson sat there right in front of him.

“Howdy hey,” The kid saluted him. “Sooooooo, you’ve got a lot of things named after you.”

Damian, still in his mask and Robin costume, spoke up. “You’re Parker?” 

If Bruce was hesitant of Peter, Damian was paranoid. Although, he figured it had less to do with Peter’s origins, rather Dick’s reaction. None of the bats would ever speak it aloud, but they all more or less had picked up on the way Damian had gotten quiet whenever Dick worried about Peter. 

“Yuppers,” he gave a thumbs up and turned his head to Cass. “Hi! Sorry, I kinda ran away from you last time.” He chuckled awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I didn’t get an apology for that,” Jason crossed his arms in offense with a grumble.

Peter glared at him and pointed to his broken leg. “Need I say more?”

Jason quickly shut up and nodded. “Yeah, no, that’s fair.”

The atmosphere was tense with uncertainty of what to say. There was so much they didn’t know, where were they possibly supposed to start? 

Bruce led Damian to take his seat next to him at the head of the table. They were all in their usual seats once Cass sat down. In front of him, Dick, Peter, and Tim sat at one side. Jason, Steph, Cass and Duke sat opposite of them.

“That’s Cass. Damian is Robin and obviously, Bruce is Batman,” Dick filled in the blanks for Peter. 

“I prefer just calling Damian the child with swords, but that works too,” Peter shrugged.

“Tt, you’re only a year older than me.”

“And? At least I don’t use swords.” The boy pointed to himself “I use my fists, like Thor intended.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “Okay, I’ve gotta ask, why do you keep referring to Thor?”

Peter gave a dramatic gasp. “You guys don’t have the God of Thunder!?” 

“No…” Duke looked at all of them. “We don’t, right?”

“No,” Bruce confirmed. If there were differences in their mythologies, the alternate reality theory was seemingly more plausible.

Peter looked as though the bats just ran over his puppy. “This place sucks.”

“You thought a place named Gotham would be sunshines and rainbows?” Dick chuckled. It was already clear to Bruce how much lighter his oldest son was. The thing that had been weighing him down for over two years, had finally been lifted.

God, he hoped just this once, Gotham provided them with a miracle.

“Honestly, it wouldn’t surprise me. One of my best friends is a fucking blind catholic lawyer who dresses in a devil suit to fight crime,” Peter sighed in exasperation. “Contradictory names are just part of the bizz.”

“Oh. Alrighty then.”

“Wait, wait, wait, can we circle back to the devil dude?” Steph leaned forward. 

Bruce cleared his throat to get their attention. “We can discuss trivial matters later,” he took a breath before getting into the conversation that none of them wanted to have. “Right now, I’m more concerned with asking Peter if he knows about the radiation within his DNA.”

The atmosphere became tense within a second. The only noise was Tim’s foot anxiously tapping against the floor, and the occasional drip of water echoing from somewhere in the cave.

“I’m radioactive!?” Peter broke the silence with a screech. 

Dick choked on his own breath as Jason looked down to the ground, holding in laughter.

“You didn’t know!?” Steph matched his tone with her eyes wide in shock. 

Before Peter got a chance to respond, Dick collected himself. “Stop messing with them, they can’t handle anything fun.” 

Ah. Bruce didn’t know why he hadn’t been expecting Peter to have the same horrific sense of humor as Dick. Despite all of the rogues he faced day to day, surely, the death of him was going to be dealing with Graysons trying their hardest to give him an aneurysm.

He interrupted the yelling in defense that had erupted, following Dick’s insult. Right as Duke was yelling back something about how ‘delightful’ he was, Bruce spoke. “Peter, do you know how you came to be radioactive?”

“I listened to too much Imagine Dragons.”

In the silence that followed, the boy mumbled something that sounded an awful lot like, “jeez, tough crowd.” Peter shifted in his seat until finally giving a real answer. “You ever break into a tech company to learn more about your dead parents and get bit by a radioactive spider that your dad had apparently worked on and then get hit with crazy spider powers?” He rambled, giving an awkward smile. “Basically, I’m a god at two truths and a lie.”

They all immediately looked at Dick, who rested his head on his hands, looking like he wished to be anywhere else. 

“Dude,” Duke breathed in shock. “You gave your kid spider powers?” 

Dick mumbled something incoherently as a response, while Peter sat next him all too pleased with the chaos he had started.

“Wanna know another thing?” The boy said with a grin.

“I really don’t,” Dick all but begged.

“Too bad, anyways, so, you guys know Killer Croc?” 

Bruce hummed in affirmation.

“Great, so, we kinda have someone like that back home. Basically, my mom and dad worked at Oscorp, a really dumb and stupid company. Like, seriously, what were you thinking?” Peter glared at Dick. “And this one guy, who also worked in the biochem department and was dad’s partner, Curt Connors, lost his arm and decided to turn himself into a lizard.”

“…a lizard?” Tim took out his notepad, eagerly writing down whatever Peter revealed.

“Yuppers. Then he tried to turn all of New York into lizards,” Peter marched Tim’s enthusiasm, as he explained it all.

Although they were all benefiting from the excess of information Peter was giving them—well, all but his oldest son, whose expression hadn’t changed a bit—they needed to get to the root of the issue. They needed to make sure that Peter wasn’t a threat.

So, Bruce spoke again. “You were trained, I’m assuming?” 

Peter tapped the table, considering the question. “Uhhhh, I guess? Why?”

“You avoided all the CCTV,” Bruce explained.

“You guys were spying on me!?” Peter crossed his arms. “Totally not cool.”

“To be fair, we thought you were just Dick’s hallucination for years,” Steph shrugged. 

Peter blinked. “Okay. Lot to unpack there. Firstly, and most importantly, Dick? Seriously dad? You go by that willingly?” He squinted at Dick.

That would take some getting used to. His son, who Bruce had known since he was eight years old and smashing chandeliers like they were toys, was now a father.

His kids were right. He was getting old.

“It’s a common nickname!” Dick defended, shooting up in offense.

“So? Half my school called me Penis Parker for so long, I once had a girl come up to me asking if that was my legal name. You don’t see me just going along with it!” The boy exclaimed, moving his hands around with every word.

“They called you what?” Jason huffed out a laugh. “Seriously, Penis Parker?”

“Yeah. Flash wasn’t all that creative.”

“Flash!?” All the bats besides Bruce yelled. 

Peter raised an eyebrow. “Uh, yeah? Flash Thompson?”

They, including Bruce, were incredibly confused. 

“Like, the speedster?” Dick tilted his head in question.

“Speedster? What the hell’s a speedster?” Peter asked before gasping. “Wait, you mean like Quicksilver!? Does he exist here? Does Wanda?” 

“Dude. What?” Duke asked in befuddlement.

Tim leaned over the table to Duke, stage whispering. “I think Peter’s from a universe that doesn’t have the Flash.”

“No, really?”

Ignoring Tim and Duke’s bickering, Bruce needed to get a clear answer from Peter. “Are they correct? Are you from a different universe?”

Peter rested his chin on his hand. “Yuppers.”

“How did you get here?”

“Made a deal with Doctor Strange,” he shrugged.

All of the bats immediately swiveled their heads to stare at the boy in shock. “YOU WHAT!?” Tim screeched so high, it sent a sharp pain through his ears.

Apparently, Peter shared the sentiment. “Dude. Inside voice,” his scolded, holding his hands over his ears.

Dick furrowed his eyebrows. “Super hearing?”

“Yeah. It sucks.” Peter grimaced, finally releasing his ears. “Anyways, why is Doctor Strange such a big deal?”

“Yeah okay, so we’re just skipping over the whole super hearing thing?” Jason asked. 

“I don’t care about that. I wanna know why you made a deal with Hugo Strange!?” Steph started to raise her voice, but quickly lowered it.

“Who the hell is Hugo? Nah man, I’m talking about Steven Strange,” he clarified, but not without confusion.

“Ooooooooh,” most of the bats nodded their heads as if that answered anything.

“Who is Steven Strange?” Damian asked.

Peter crossed his arms on the table and rested his head in them. “A wizard.”

“A wizard?”

“Yuppers.”

“You made a deal with a Wizard?” Bruce asked for clarity’s sake.

“Hey, it was that, or my entire universe would be destroyed,” Peter defended, sending a glare.

“Wait what? You didn’t tell me that part,” Dick didn’t take his eyes off the boy.

Peter shrugged. “I forgot to mention it.”

“You forgot?” Jason repeated, unimpressed.

“Hey, man. I just found out my dead dad has been alive in another universe this whole time. After taking a bomb for you. So, yes. It slipped my mind,” Peter rolled his eyes. “Wanna interrogate me about literally anything else?” He looked back at Bruce.

“I am not interrogating you,” he lied.

“Right, right of course you’re not,” Peter said with heavy sarcasm. “My bad, please continue your questioning. That better?”

“Yes,” Bruce began. “You’ve been trained.”

“That’s a statement not a question,” Peter raised an annoyed eyebrow.

“Who were you trained by, and why?” Bruce restated. 

Peter sat back in his chair, unable to sit still for more than a few seconds. “Daredevil, Cap, and Black Widow trained me the most,” the boy claimed as if those names held any weight to them.

“Hm. Why?” He repeated the last part of his question.

“‘Cos, reasons.”

“What reasons?”

“Oh y’know…”

“Peter.”

“Hello!”

“I need an actual answer,” Bruce deadpanned.

He’d be lying if he said the exchange wasn’t amusing, but, before they could banter, he needed to make sure that Peter wasn’t a threat. Especially with his enhancements, they needed to be cautious.

“And I need some churros,” Peter groaned.

Bruce sighed. “We are not leaving this table until you give a direct answer.”

“Have I been kidnapped again?” Peter put his hands over his face.

“Again!?” Dick whipped back to look at his son. Every bat at the table ignored him.

“Why are you interrogating me, dude?” The boy glared at Bruce with his arms crossed.

He paused for a moment, considering if he should be honest. Clearly, Peter’s willpower was not going to be easily broken by simple questions. With little other options, he conceded. “Before we move on, we must come to the decision that you don’t pose a threat to this city, nor our family.”

At that, everyone, besides Peter groaned in annoyance. “B, c’mon, the kid already proved himself—” Duke started, before the boy interrupted.

“You think I’m a threat?” Peter’s previously lighthearted attitude left in an instant. His eyes bore into Bruce’s, hard and cold.

“You have yet to give us reason that you are who you claim to be,” Damian met his glare, unflinching.

Jason shifted in his seat, perturbed. “He saved my life, that’s not enough?” His voice rose with every word. 

“Bruce—” Dick tried to add on, but Bruce cut him off.

“We still do not know anything for certain, Peter owes us any information he can give,” He started. “His hostility doesn’t lead me to believing anything he says.”

The majority of his children couldn’t stand this part of the job. And he prayed that they would maintain that disdain. It was his job, Batman’s job, to keep his family safe, no matter what needed to be done in order to keep that safety. Even when they hated him for it, he’d rather push them away than get them harmed. 

If Peter was innocent, and had been truthful the entire time, the interrogation was still of paramount importance. Bruce’s philosophy was built upon hoping for the best, while preparing for the worst. 

Peter simply shook his head, grinding his teeth. “I’m not going to sit here, begging for your approval.” 

“I’m not asking that of you; all I need is confirmation that you are who you claim to be.”

“Bruce,” Dick said his name like it was an order. “That’s enough. We’ve all had a long day, we’re not doing this now.”

Bruce took a deep breath. They needed to get this part over with now. Before the bats got too attached, before something happened. “We must-”

The boy stood up, and looked towards Dick. “Do I have a place to stay?” His voice was deadpanned, with a hint of timidity hidden within it. 

“Yeah, ‘course. C’mon, I’ll show you where your room is,” Dick led him out of the cave, into the manor. Neither of them spared Bruce a glance.

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

Peter sat on the gigantic bed that dad had led him to. The manor reminded him of Avengers Tower; the entire mansion screamed old money. That being said, both buildings were the opposite of each other in every other way. Avengers Tower was sleek and modern with futuristic qualities. The color palette of the place was reminiscent of a hospital. White walls and fluorescent lights were incorporated into every aspect of its design. Whereas Wayne Manor felt like a mix between a museum and mausoleum. It was like everything in Gotham; its architecture thrived with the gothic theme. The over-the-top chandeliers probably cost as much as one of Tony’s prized watches, and double as much as his apartment in Queens. Even with the excess of chandeliers, the lighting remained dark and dreary.

Compared to the similar Osborn mansion, which also insufferably bragged about the family’s wealth in the architecture alone, Wayne Manor was far more dramatic in presentation.

The bedroom he’d been placed in was a guest room, according to dad. The guest room was more spacious than even the biggest classroom at Midtown High. His bed alone was the size of his old room. The room had limited decorations, which made sense considering nobody lived in it, but it still held personality. A personality, that left a bitter taste in Peter’s mouth. He stuck out like a sore thumb within the wealth that surrounded him. Tattered jeans and an oversized hoodie hung from his small frame, in the middle of a room with its own bathroom, walk-in closet, and chandelier. 

Pushing his discomfort and growing nausea aside, he pressed his knees to his chest, and rested his head against them. The conversation—or more fittingly, interrogation—that had just transpired, kept replaying in his mind. 

Bruce Wayne, Batman, his father’s father—would that technically make Bruce his grandfather? Yeah no, he was not about to go down that rabbit hole— saw Peter as a threat. 

It was hard not to draw the parallels between the man and Tony Stark. Before he died, he and Tony had a…strenuous relationship, to say the least. For a while, Peter looked up to him; he was a hero, just like he’d always wanted to be. But then, the accords came into play, and divided the Avengers—his family—into an all out civil war. If the very premise of the accords and what Tony was fighting for weren’t enough to push Peter away, the reveal that Tony always thought him to be a threat, did.

During the accords fiasco, Tony had admitted to reaching out to Peter a year earlier, in an attempt to placate a growing threat to the Avengers Initiative. At the time, Peter was told that the Avengers simply wanted to train him in order to hone his skills. But in reality, it was all so Tony and SHIELD could keep an eye on him, making sure he never used his powers against them.

His eyes stung, reminiscing on the events. He was thirteen at the time, had just begun to feel confident in his abilities and place as a vigilante. He’d felt so safe with the Avengers; they were like a second family to him. But Natasha had always told him, ‘never let your guard down, Маленький паучок, Even family can burn you.’

And she was right. His parents were the first to betray him, by breaking their promise and never returning. Unbeknownst to him for the majority of his life, his father had been alive, and never found Peter; thus abandoning him for a second time. Uncle Ben and Aunt May betrayed him by dying. They knew, they knew, Peter couldn’t stand to lose another person. They left him alone anyway. It wasn’t fair, he was well aware of that fact, but Natasha’s warning still rang true.

Her warning was indisputable when it came to the Avengers’ civil war. They all stabbed each other in the back, as if their family was nothing. And it was all over the goddamn accords. The accords, that were created in order to keep enhanced individuals, such as Peter, in check. To keep civilians safe from him.

He was sick of people thinking he was a threat. The majority of the world feared him after he was framed for Mystero’s death. Even before that whole incident, half of them feared him just for existing with his enhancements.

What made it unbearable, wasn’t the simple fact of fear. Anyone could be afraid of anything they didn’t understand; it was human nature to be unwelcoming to the unknown. It was the fact that Peter couldn’t blame them, that was the cause of his nerves. Because he’d seen what he was capable of. 

He possessed the ability to break someone’s neck without sparing a thought. Hell, it took far more energy to contain his powers, rather than to push them to their limit. If Peter were to let go of his morals for a moment, people could—would—die. Die just like all of the Parkers.

Bruce had reason to be wary of him. Peter shared a similar sentiment about himself. That didn’t mean he wasn’t viciously reminded of the family that was torn apart by a similar fear. 

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

Peter was awoken by a mysterious fuzz brushing against his arm. He didn’t remember falling asleep, but seeing as the sun was suddenly shining in his face, he’d most likely been out for a couple of hours. Begrudgingly, he rubbed sleep out of his eyes and looked down. 

A black and white cat was laid down next to him, purring and rubbing its head against his left arm. 

He grinned; cats had always been one of his favorite animals. Aunt May and Uncle Ben had always refused to have a pet due to the size of their apartment, but Peter had years of experience from getting cats off trees to know how to handle them. 

“Hey, kitty,” he spoke softly, allowing the cat to sniff his hand. 

Peter sat there, under the luxurious blankets, and petting the cat for a while. Until, a knock came from the door. 

“Come in!” He yelled, unwilling to get up to open the door and potentially scare away the cat.

The door creaked open to reveal Duke. It was immediately apparent that the older boy had also just woken up, judging by his wrinkled pajamas. 

“Hey, Alfred made breakfast, wanna come down?” Duke asked, walking into the room to pet the cat.

“Is Bruce gonna be there?” 

“Oh, yeah, probably. Alfred pulls all of us out of the cave for meals,” he rubbed the back of his neck. 

Peter hummed in acknowledgment. “I’ll probably stay here.”

Duke plopped down onto the mattress, as the cat crawled into his lap. “What if we went out for breakfast?” 

“Uhm, I mean, I guess,” he shrugged awkwardly. Truth be told, he really didn’t want to spend an excess of time with them until that wizard or magic user or whatever that dad told him about, fixed his curse. But, what was he supposed to do? Rejecting the offer would be rude. Although, rudeness was far better than getting someone killed, but—

“Great! Wanna invite any of the others? Steph will probably wanna come,” Duke stood, pulling Peter from his spiraling thoughts.

“Yeah, sure.” The cat crawled back to him. 

“There’re some clothes in the closet over there,” Duke pointed to the corner of the room where a door to the walk-in closet stood. “Wanna leave in like, fifteen - twenty minutes?” 

Apparently, Peter only possessed three words, considering his response. “Yeah, sure.”

With a thumbs up, Duke left the room.

—-

After far too much deliberation, Peter picked out a white long sleeve shirt, layered underneath a dark green t-shirt with a lighter green face on it, paired with a simple pair of jeans. He absentmindedly rubbed the two rings he’d been wearing ever since arriving to Gotham; May and Ben’s wedding rings. They held a heavy weight to them, while also providing a warmth that was only noticeable once they were taken off.

He slipped on the first sneakers he came across, and was distraught at the quality of them. Tattered shoes with like, sevenbajillion holes in them was his brand. And these were in mint condition, probably having never been worn. Ugh. Whatever. He’d just have to scuff them up a bit to give them some Peter Pizazz.™️

Walking around, gave him a fantastic discovery. He no longer had a broken leg! Goodbye dirty, evil, rotten, no-good, crutches.

Someone knocked on his door. “Yo, Pete! You ready?” The voice was distinctly Tim’s. 

“Yep! Coming!” He called back, rushing towards the door. 

Tim, Steph, and Duke were all waiting for him in the hallway. “Hey, you’re wearing an Oracle shirt!” Steph pointed out with a grin.

“Oh, yeah.” Peter confirmed, as if he knew that when he put it on. “Oracle, that’s… Babs, right?” 

“Yep,” Tim said, pushing Peter forward.

“Where’re we going?” He questioned, following the trio.

Steph chuckled, turning around to face him while walking backwards. “A magical, magical place.”

—-

The aforementioned ‘magical, magical place’ was a burger restaurant, themed after the bats, creativity named Bat Burger.

The four entered the restaurant, immediately causing Peter to scrunch up his nose in disgust.

“You good?” Duke elbowed his arm. 

Peter hummed. “Enhanced scent sucks,”  was the only explanation he offered. He could’ve gone into further detail. Explaining how he could sniff out the monstrous amount of chemicals in every item, and how the oil hadn’t been cleaned in well over two weeks. But, he figured it was better for them to live in ignorant bliss. 

“Enhanced scent? Seriously?” Tim instantly turned around, his eyes bright with curiosity. 

“Yep,” he shrugged, refusing to elaborate.

It didn’t take long for them to get their food. Steph had ordered Peter a wide variety of options, claiming it was so he could have a chance to try everything. Although, he was fairly positive it had more to do with his slight malnutrition, rather than sampling. Regardless, his insanely fast metabolism was not complaining.

“Nothing is better than burgers for breakfast,” Duke said with complete sincerity.

They sat down in a booth. Steph took the window seat next to him. Tim and Duke sat opposite of them. Peter was quiet, eating his food as he observed the three’s conversation. They were all obviously comfortable; he figured they’d known each other for a couple of years, at least. The paranoia in the back of his mind analyzed them, cataloguing any potential vulnerability he could spot. 

Steph was energetic, and spoke with verbosity. Underneath the loud way in which she presented herself, there was well hidden insecurity. It could briefly be spotted in the way she would shift uncomfortably at certain points, or dart her eyes with uncertainty. 

Tim was intelligent, probably the only one so far who matched Peter’s own. Even though it was obvious to anyone that Tim was well aware of his genius, it was clear to Peter that he was overcompensating. Experience with meeting many people similar to him, told him that most likely, it was due to Tim wanting to prove himself as smart enough. 

Duke was the hardest to figure out. Obviously, he had a determination like no other. That was shown in his body language and his natural leadership. However, Peter recognized the grief in his eyes. It was a grief that was intrinsical to him; it was the driving force of his every movement.

Peter shamed himself for recognizing their vulnerabilities and committing them to memory, just in case. They’d all exclusively shown kindness and compassion to Peter, yet this is what he did with it. But at the same time, Mysterio was also hospitable during their first few encounters. He’d paid the price for being naive before, he was never going to be that helpless again.

“Hey, you good?” Steph whispered, bumping his shoulder. 

“Hm?” Peter was pulled out from his spiraling thoughts. “Oh, yeah, I’m fine,” he wore a painfully plastered smile.

Steph wasn’t convinced. “You’re upset about what B said last night?” She theorized.

That was enough to convince Tim and Duke to stop bickering about whether Red Robin or Signal’s figure was better. The brothers looked at Peter, waiting for his answer.

“Uhm,” he stammered. “Yeah, but I mean, it’s fine, I get it.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “Dude. It’s okay, you can say Bruce is an asshole. Bat Burger is the designated ‘Boycott Bruce Zone.’”

He tilted his head. “You guys took me here just to shit on Bruce?”

Duke shrugged. “It’s a bonding ritual at this point.”

Peter allowed himself a small laugh. “This sorta thing happens that often?” 

Steph raised her hand with dramatics. “Allow me to begin,” she sighed. “When I was Robin, he spent the whole time comparing me to Tim and complaining that I ‘fight like a girl,’” she air-quoted with her fingers.

“Wait, I thought Damian was Robin?” 

“He’s the current Robin. It’s a mantle that most of us have had. Dick was the first one, Jay was the second, I was the third, Steph was the fourth, then me again, and now Dami’s the fifth,” Tim filled him in on all of their roles. “Duke started a war between all of us,” he gestured to the very offended Duke.

“Woah, woah, woah! I did not! That was The Court!” Duke defended, waving his hands in front of him for emphasis.

Peter laughed as the two continued to bicker. However, it wasn’t lost on him how Tim claimed that dad had been the one to start the whole Robin thing. He still held vague, incredibly faded memories of his father calling him ‘Little Robin’ as a kid.

“Alright, alright,” Steph interrupted them. “Tim, your turn.”

“Ah right,” Tim rested his chin against his hand. “Bruce made Steph Robin just to get back at me for leaving ‘cos my dad found out I was working with Batman.”

“Seriously?” Peter raised an eyebrow. 

“Yep.”

“My turn,” Duke started, ignoring Tim’s glare. “It took him a while to trust me, after he found out I’m Meta.”

“Meta?” Peter questioned.

“Yeah, I guess that’d be what you call enhanced,” Duke explained. “I have light powers.” 

“You’re a glow stick?”

“Yes.”

“Hell yeah dude. Did you get bit by a radioactive glow stick?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, maybe this place is cooler than I thought,” Peter joked.

They all chuckled, giving various remarks on how ‘Gotham warms up to you eventually’ and ‘it’s a hell hole, but it’s our hell hole.’

Steph slurped from her drink. “Point is, we’ve all had to deal with Bruce being a dingus,” she rolled her eyes. “It’s not personal, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

He paused, allowing the statement time to be properly appreciated. Maybe, she was right. Duke was also enhanced, and Bruce no longer viewed him as a threat. If he’d acted similarly with all of them, it clearly wasn’t a Peter issue. So, it truly wasn’t personal.

The rest of the meal reverted back to small conversation and banter, except this time, Peter joined in. Despite his concerns, he felt lighter.

Maybe he could allow himself to fit into a family again.

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

Alfred had informed Dick of Duke, Tim, and Steph taking Peter to Bat Burger. Although the over protective part of him wanted to tell them off for not asking him first, there was a far bigger part of him that was incredibly grateful for his siblings. And Steph.

They were all working to make his son feel welcomed. It didn’t take a genius to figure that Bruce had crossed a line while interrogating Peter. While he had a very long talk with Bruce about it all, Peter was getting the initiation ritual of airing out his grievances at Bat Burger.

Dick had been in the cave, putting together paperwork to solidify Peter’s existence in the eyes of the law, when he got a call from an unknown number.

“Hello?” He picked it up on the third ring.

“Dick?” An all too familiar British voice came from the other line.

With a barely contained sigh, Dick spoke. “Hey Constantine. You in the area?”

With a not at all contained sigh, Constantine responded. “What is it that you need from me?”

“I just need you to check someone. Make sure they aren’t cursed,” he fidgeted in his seat, hating that he needed to do this. The idea of Peter being so convinced he was cursed, that they needed confirmation saying otherwise, put a pit in his stomach. 

“Mm, lemme guess, calling for a friend who just so happens to be you?” 

“Calling for my son, actually,” Dick corrected.

A gasp came from the other end. “There’s a little Grayson? A cursed little Grayson?”

Dick ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “Yes, it’s complicated. He thinks he’s cursed, I just need you to give him confirmation that he’s not.”

Constantine hummed for a moment. “And, what’s your preferred form of payment?”

“Gift card to Chili’s. Take it or leave it,” Dick offered.

“Deal. Be there in a few.”

“A few what?” He asked, just as the line went dead.

He ran a hand over his face. Knowing Constantine, ‘a few’ could be anywhere from a few seconds to a few months.

Returning to his work on the batcomputer with a groan, Dick knew he had no other option than to just be content with the small satisfaction that came with the knowledge that he was helping his son.

Chapter Text

Peter returned to the manor in the late afternoon. The others had each invited him to separate activities, following their trip to Bag Burger. Tim had asked him if he wanted to work on something in the cave, Steph offered to take him bowling, and Duke proposed placing bets on how long it’d take for random buildings to explode in one of Gotham’s many attacks.

Although he was fairly tempted by Duke’s suggestion, Peter elected to explore the manor further by himself. The place was still incredibly uncomfortable. Just walking through the spacious halls and hearing the echo of each footstep was enough to make his skin crawl.

As he passed the paintings on display in one of the many hallways, the child with swords was without swords for once, and walking the opposite direction with his face in his phone.

Figuring he may as well make conversation, Peter spoke first. “Hey! You’re Damian right?” He stopped to greet him with a far too enthusiastic wave.

Damian froze in his steps, and observed Peter with obvious disdain and wariness. “Yes,” the boy offered no other words, and continued walking down the hallway. 

“Woah, hey, wait up!” Peter followed him, matching his steps. 

Even though Peter wasn’t exactly eager to have a conversation with the guy who kept giving him a look like he smelt as if he’d just crawled out of a dumpster, the prospect of continuing to dodge each other sounded exhausting. Dealing with people who didn’t like him was second nature at this point. Had Damian been anyone else, Peter wouldn’t have thought twice about it. But, this was his dad’s little brother—not Peter’s uncle. He had an uncle, he didn’t need another one. Also, Damian was younger than him, he was not going to think of him as an uncle—point was, they were going to have to get used to each other eventually.

“Tt, what do you want, Parker?” Damian rolled his eyes, turning back around to glare at him.

“Thor.”

“What?”

“What?” 

Damian spared him no more than a deep, agitated sigh before going to leave again.

“Alright, alright,” Peter placated. “I just wanna chit chat. Maybe find out why you’re being so weird to me,” he shrugged with his hands in his pockets.

The other boy squinted his eyes, continuing to observe him. It was a look that Peter knew well, from being so close with many different assassins. Each of them would always scan a person upon first meeting them, making a mental note of their strengths and weaknesses. They’d analyze a person’s body language, their speech patterns, how they held up in a conversation, anything and everything would be used to piece them together. They used whatever they could find in order to maintain the upper hand; even when they didn’t want it. The action was as natural as shaking their hand. 

Peter tried not to let it get to him; Damian’s past was none of his business. Experience told him it wasn’t personal, no matter who he was, he would’ve received that same treatment. Hell, he couldn’t even be upset about it without being hypocritical. Peter did the exact same thing to the majority of people he met. It didn’t stop him from squirming under the boy’s gaze.

“Richard forbade me from questioning you,” Damian explained. “So, I am avoiding you.”

“Orrrrrrr, you could, I dunno, have a conversation without interrogating me,” Peter proposed as if it was a groundbreaking idea.

“Give me one reason why I should trust you,” his already impeccable posture somehow became straighter.

“‘Cos I’m pretty.”

Damian continued to glare at him, refusing to laugh at his hilarious remarks. 

“Sigh,” Peter sighed. 

“Did you really just say the word ‘sigh’?” Damian raised a judgmental eyebrow.

“Yes.”

“Hm. Goodbye,” he went to leave again.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Peter pleaded. “Wanna do something?”

“Like what?” Damian asked with skepticism.

Peter rubbed his chin, trying to come up with something. Ah, he didn’t think ahead this far. “I dunno, what sorta things do you like to do?” 

Damian paused. “I enjoy drawing.”

“Oh sick! One of my friends back home loved drawing! She taught me the basics,” Peter instantly shot up with a grin. MJ had always been an incredible artist; they’d both spent hours at a time together in silence, peacefully sketching. 

For a brief moment, he wondered what MJ thought whenever she flipped through the drawings they’d made together. Did she not think twice about them? Did it feel like something was missing?

“Hm. I have some extra sketchbooks and supplies you may use,” this time, Damian turned the opposite way, seemingly to grab the supplies.

Peter followed him with a pep in his step. Eventually, they made it to Damian’s art studio. He was not going to think about the fact that this guy had a whole ass room dedicated to a single hobby. 

The studio was about the same size as his bedroom in the manor. In other words, far too spacious. However, the excess of space wasn’t as noticeable due to the easels, paints, pencils, and any other supplies he could think of, scattered around the room. 

He was fairly certain his eyes momentarily bulged out of his skull and turned into hearts. 

“What medium are you most familiar with?” Damian asked, taking in his excitement.

“Oh, uhm, just normal sketching I guess,” Peter awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck. As much as he enjoyed the hobby, it was far too expensive to do much more than simply sketching in a notebook. 

The other boy led him to a corner of the room seemingly dedicated to just that. Without a word, he pulled out an unopened sketchbook and a set of pencils, handing it to Peter.

The set felt like gold within his grasp. Flipping through the pages, Peter was awed by the quality of the sheets. It was almost too good to be used. Almost.

As Peter took a spot at a desk, Damian sat nearby on the floor with his back to the wall. They were both sedentary in their respective spots for what must’ve been hours. Neither said a word, as they worked on their own projects. The only noise circling between them was the scribbling of their pencils and the music from Damian’s earbuds.

The atmosphere was serene. For the first time since he arrived in Gotham, Peter’s mind was finally, blissfully, silent. His worries about home, his fear of whatever curse clung to him, the shock of his father being alive, the guilt of not acting as Spider-Man, none of it mattered in that moment. 

“Hey, you guys okay?” Dad came from nowhere, without any sort of warning. Usually, Peter would’ve heard his footsteps far before he entered the room, but he’d been too focused on the task at hand to listen.

“Tt, we’re fine, Richard,” Damian rolled his eyes, yet somehow didn’t look up from his own sketchbook.

“Yep, we’re having a grand old time, right Dami?” He looked to the aforementioned boy for confirmation.

With a distinctively less threatening glare than previously, Damian responded, “we are not on a nickname basis, Parker.”

“Are you just gonna refer to me by my last name for eternity orrrrr…?”

“Yes.”

Dad chuckled, walking over to Peter. “What’re you drawing?” He leaned on the wall beside the desk.

Peter shifted his hand to show the spread across two pages he’d been working on. So far, there were drawings of MJ, Harry, Johnny, Yelena, Kate, and Matt. At the moment, he was sketching out Steven, Marc, and Jake.

At first, he’d tried to draw out the people he’d lost. Primarily, his mother, Uncle Ben, Aunt May, and Gwen. He was all too aware of the lack of photos he had, and the way memory was so unforgiving. Once he could no longer remember their faces vividly, it would be like losing them for a second time. The second he tried to document their features, he froze. Memorializing them was a task that would need to wait for a moment when he was alone.

So instead, he focused on the friends that survived their experiences with him. Drawing MJ was muscle memory, considering how often they’d used each other as references. Harry was a similarly easy muse, due to the years of memories that formed his depiction. He hardly held back his laugh while sketching Johnny. Flame Brain would’ve never let Peter live down how much he missed him. Yelena and Kate were more of a challenge. Getting their personalities across with a single expression was impossible. But, after far too much erasing and redrawing, they turned out pretty decent. He was content with the knowledge that they both would’ve appreciated the effort. Matt was always fun to draw. Even before they knew each other, Peter used to doodle the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen everywhere. 

Dad was quiet, taking in all the drawings. Eventually, he broke his silence. “Peter, these are incredible.”

The sincerity in his tone made Peter squirm. “I know right. Picasso wishes he were me,” nothing quite like breaking an awkwardly kind moment with a joke.

Clearly, dad picked up on his discomfort and switched to a much more lighthearted disposition. “Who are they?”

“Friends,” was all Peter offered. Eventually, he’d explain each of them in depth. One day, he’d tell stories about all of them, talking about what made them so special. But that was reserved for a time when his heart didn’t ache at the mere thought of the people he left behind.

“What did you interrupt us for?” Damian raised an eyebrow, annoyed at having been abruptly distracted.

“Just had to grab Peter for a second,” dad explained and looked back at him. “If that’s alright? It can wait, if you guys wanna keep on drawing.”

Peter considered the offer, but a sudden rumble from his stomach made the choice for him. Curse enhanced metabolism. “It’s fine,” he stood up. “What’d you need?”

Dad waved goodbye to Damian, who did the same and added a nod directed to Peter. 

The man didn’t answer, instead simply led Peter to the Batcave.

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

Dick had spent the past few hours cooped up in the Batcave, putting together all the necessary paperwork to confirm Peter’s existence, with the help of Babs of course. It would’ve behooved him to ask his son how he was able to craft such a thorough identity so quickly in the library, but truthfully, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know why Peter had that particular skill. So instead, he decided on getting the basics completed, then asking Peter what else he’d like to set up.

When Dick first went looking through the manor, Tim stopped him in his tracks.

“Heyyyy, you got a minute?” Tim leaned awkwardly nonchalant on the opposite wall of the hallway.

Dick raised an amused eyebrow at Tim’s inability to hide his uncomfort. “Yeah, everything okay?” Last time Tim was this weird, it turned out his son was real. So either, another event bordering on impossible occurred, or, Tim was coming out again.

“Yeahhhhhhhhhh, everything’s all nice and jolly,” Tim rubbed his hands methodically, purposefully trying to keep his composure.

“Hey Timmy?”

“Yes?”

“Please tell me you aren’t coming out again.”

Tim sent him a death glare. “You already used that joke, you can’t reuse it.”

Dick hummed. “Y’know what they say, a joke’s like an outfit; if you don’t reuse it, then it was never good in the first place,” he gave the most annoying smile he could muster.

“What was that? Sorry I stopped listening the second I heard the word ‘outfit’ from the dude who wore the Discowing suit,” Tim mocked, because apparently he lived to insult Dick’s fashion choices.

“Okay, first off, Discowing was peak fashion,” he raised a finger. “Secondly, we’re getting off topic. What’s making you all weird?”

Tim grumbled, crossing his arms. “I saw a thing.”

“Hm. You have such a way with words.”

“Oh fuck off,” Tim flipped him off and continued. “It’s just, I don’t even know, but I just think— well you see—”

“Tim,” Dick interrupted his brother’s rambling. “No beating around the bush. What is it?” 

With a deep and grounding breath, Tim spoke. “I think someone’s after Peter.”

That was all it took for whatever remained of a calm atmosphere to deteriorate. “Who?” His voice was far more demanding than he meant it to be, but at the moment, he couldn’t find it within himself to care.

“I don’t know, but, there’ve been tons of searches about Peter coming from the Wayne Enterprises in New York,” Tim pulled out his phone, and handed it to Dick.

The screen showed the IP address from where the searches had been made. Scrolling down revealed what they had been looking for.

(2:32am)

Peter Parker

No results.

(2:34am)

Peter Benjamin Parker

No results.

(2:35am)

Midtown High Student Body

Midtown High, NY homepage

(2:40am)

Midtown High Academic Decathlon

Midtown High, NY Aca-Dec homepage

(2:47am)

Spider-Man

Did you mean: spider?

(2:49am)

Queens vigilante

No known vigilantes go by the name of “Queen.”

(2:53am)

Spider vigilantes

There are no known vigilantes going by the name of “Spider.”

(2:55am) 

Team Red

The term ‘Team Red’ may refer to a sports team or political party.

(2:57am) 

The Young Avengers

Did you mean: Young Justice?

(3:12am)

Peter Parker

No results.

(3:13am)

Peter Parker

No results.

(3:14am)

Peter Parker 

No results.

(3:15)

Where is Spider-Man

No results.

Dick read the words, over and over, still not able to make sense of them. It was inconceivable. It was implausible. Nobody except the bats knew about Peter. Who would be after him? Why? Did they want to hurt him?

His vision went out of focus, as his knees became wobbly underneath him. A gust of wind could’ve knocked him off his feet and he’d have been none the wiser. Nothing around him registered. Tim’s concerned voice was muffled beyond recognition. All that went through his mind was, who made those searches? Why? It didn’t make sense. It didn’t make sense. It didn’t make sense. It didn’t make sense.

“Dick!” Tim’s yell finally broke Dick out of his trance.

Miraculously, he was still standing upright with the phone still in his palm. The searches remained bright on the screen, taunting him.

“Who?” Was all he asked, breathless and desperate.

Tim carefully peeled the phone away. “I don’t know yet, but I’m already looking into everyone that would’ve had access to a WE computer at that hour,” he swallowed

Dick ran his fingers through his hair. “Who else would know about Peter?”

“I don’t know,” Tim breathed, just as clueless. “We’ll figure it out though, we always do,” he smiled up at Dick. 

Even with the comfort of the reassurance, they both knew what a lie it was. 

The air around them was the only thing moving for a moment. “Don’t tell Peter,” Dick broke the tense silence.

Tim’s expression was a mix of shock and confusion. “What? Why?” 

“He already has too much going on. We can deal with this ourselves. Extra stress is the last thing Peter needs,” he explained, pleading with his brother to listen to him.

“Dick, he deserves to know if someone’s after him,” Tim challenged, seemingly frustrated on Peter’s behalf.

He shook his head, already feeling the bags darken under his eyes. “No, it’s just gonna create unnecessary panic.”

Tim sighed, clearly despising the plan. “Fine,” he eventually ground out. “I’ll go look into this. You stay with Peter, make sure nothing happens.”

With a nod in affirmation, Dick went to continue searching for Peter.

———

It was a pleasant surprise to find Damian and Peter in peaceful silence. Both boys were focused on their respective drawings. He’d told Damian the night before that he couldn’t interrogate Peter. Much to the younger one’s dismay, he obliged. 

He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting to happen once the two interacted. They were seemingly opposites in nearly every way. Damian was direct, always focused on a goal and would not be quiet about said goal. Peter, on the other hand, was dodgy. Any question he didn’t want to answer, was going to stay unanswered until he decided otherwise. Dick supposed he had been looking too deep into it, seeing as they were already getting along. 

It took all of Dick’s remaining energy to hide his panic about what Tim had just revealed. Luckily, it seemed as though Peter hadn’t picked up on his own wariness. Pushing aside his inner turmoil, Dick led his son to the Batcave—with the promise that Bruce wasn’t there—to return to his initial task of setting everything up for Peter.

The light of the Batcomputer illuminated their faces, as they sat down in front of the machine. 

“Soooooo, what’re we doing?” Peter asked, resting his head on his hand.

“I set up some legal documents saying that you exist,” Dick started. “I just need your help with the rest.”

Peter gave a thumbs up in confirmation. “Like what?” 

“Well, for starters, you’ll eventually need to start school.”

“Uuuuuuuuuggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” Peter dropped his head to the table with a drawn out groan. “I get put in a different universe and still need school!?”

“Yes.”

“Aren’t you, like, rich?” He lifted his head to glare at Dick. “Can’t I be homeschooled?”

Dick rubbed the back of his neck. “Unfortunately, you’ve gotta go to an actual school,” Peter interrupted with another loud declarative of his annoyance. Regardless, he continued. “But, it’s a good one, Duke and Damian go there.”

“Do they like it?”

“Well…”

Peter gave him an unimpressed look. “In case you forgot, I thought you were dead for like eleven years.”

He winced at the reminder. “Yeah, sorry,” what else was he supposed to say!? 

“The only way I’ll forgive you is if I don’t have to go to school,” He leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed.

Ah. As little as he approved of Peter’s manipulation methods, it warmed his heart that his son was doing the same thing that Dick used to pull on Bruce. For years, whenever Dick wanted, or didn’t want something, he’d just bring out the crocodile tears and complain about being an orphan. 9/10 times it worked wonders.

Unfortunately for Peter, Dick saw right through the charade.  “Ah, you’ve got a point there.”

Peter’s eyes lit up with hope.

“Anyway, the school is called Gotham Academy and—”

“One time in school, I met my first girlfriend.”

Dick raised an eyebrow at the random comment, but listened with intrigue.

“Then her dad tried to drown me.”

“Oh!”

“And then he dropped a building on me.”

“What!?”

“Then he tried to crash a plane into me.”

Dick’s only response was staring wide eyed at his son. There was no way he was being serious, right?”

“So like, I have a lot of trauma from school and—”

“Peter,” Dick sighed. “You’re going to school.”

“Great argument!” He praised with a sarcastic grin plastered across his face. “Counterpoint, nuh uh.”

“Peter Benjamin Parker.”

His son glared back, unwavering. “Richard I-don’t-think-you-have-a-middle-name Parker.” 

Dick would be lying if he said the name didn’t feel… odd, after two years without it. Of course, it never truly left, even when his top priority was elsewhere. But the uncanniness of it was pertinent. 

As desperate as he was to remember everything from his life as Richard Parker, the memories were still few and far between. Having Peter there helped to jog them, but everything was still incredibly fuzzy.

Before the two were able to continue their conversation, (IE: Peter hemming and hawing about the possibility of school) Alfred appeared in the cave.

“Master Richard, you have a guest,” the butler had a tinge of annoyance present in his voice, only able to be heard once he’d known the man for years.

“You have friends?” Peter asked in shock.

Dick dropped his jaw in faux offense, placing a hand over his heart.

“Crazy, innit? Honestly, people willingly hang out with you? Without bribery?” An all too familiar voice descended into the cave.

With a deep, heavy, regretful sigh, Dick introduced them. “Constantine, meet Peter, my son. Peter, meet Constantine, our resident magic user.”

“Pleasure to meet you, little Grayson.”

Chapter Text

“Pleasure to meet you, little Grayson,” the man, Constantine as dad had introduced him as, greeted. His accent was very obviously British, although Peter couldn’t place exactly where. 

Peter stared at the man, taking in his appearance. The long brown trench coat coupled with a black tie over a loose white shirt was all too familiar. “Are you Castiel?”

The man raised an eyebrow as dad spoke. “Who? No, he’s Constantine, like I said.”

Peter continued to glare at Constantine. “Are you an angel?” 

“Hell yeah,” he confirmed with a sharp nod and cocky smile.

“He’s a wizard,” dad looked at Peter with a questioning look. “Are- are angels a thing in your universe!?”

Before Peter could respond, Not-Castiel brought them back on track. “Save the Q and A for after you pay me.” He pulled out a lighter and a cigarette.

Dad shot him a deathly glare, to which the man conceded with an eye roll. “Right, so, y’think you can check to see if Peter’s cursed?”

“‘Course. It’s a pretty standard spell,” Constantine shrugged. 

“And, you’d be able to fix it if I did, right?” Peter fidgeted with his hands.

Comsantine hummed. “Depends on the type of curse. If you pissed off a goblin, it’ll be a lot easier than if it’s from a witch or a god.” The British man said, Britishly. 

“We can worry about that once we know whether or not you even are cursed,” dad reminded, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.

Although Peter would never say it out loud, there was nothing he wanted more than being told there was a curse following him. That would be tangible; he could get rid of a curse. He would have something—someone else to blame for all the death that followed him.

If he wasn’t cursed, then the entirety of blame fell onto Peter’s shoulders. There would be no scapegoat, no argument, no defense. It would have all been his own fault. 

Absent-mindedly, he rubbed the rings on his fingers. Ben and May followed him everywhere as long as he wore them. The warmth of the people who raised him could hardly be felt as he tried to ward off the grief and guilt that consumed his every breath.

But, he could never say that. “Okay.”

“C’mon, take a seat,” Constantine led them all to sit down on the hard rocks beneath them. “This’ll probably make you lightheaded. Best if you don’t go passin’ out on me.”

The roughness and questionable dampness of the cave ground was appreciated. The uncomfortability of it helped to ground him—heh get it? Ground him? 

“Ah fooey, there goes my plans,” Peter tried to maintain his usual ‘breaking tension with poorly timed jokes’ shtick, but the quiver in his voice gave him away. Luckily, neither of the men commented on it.

“Clear your mind, Little Grayson,” Constantine instructed, coming to stand behind him.

“I have a name y’know.”

“‘Course, it’s little Grayson.”

“Who the hell even is Grayson?” 

A poignant silence filled the air for a moment before dad gave his non-answer. “We’ll go over that later…” he rubbed the back of his neck with all the nonchalance of something that isn’t at all nonchalant.

“Ready to start?” Constantine’s voice came from behind.

Oh okay then. They were really rushing into this, huh? Or maybe Peter just really wanted to stall. “Wow. No hi, hello, how are you? Just straight into the spell?”

“I mean… Did you wanna do something else?” Dad questioned with a slight tilt to his head.

“Yes.”

“Like what?”

Peter groaned. “I didn’t think ahead that far.”

Constantine lowered himself to the ground, all of them sat in a makeshift circle. “I’ve got some tarot cards if you wanna kill some time?” 

“Oh uhm, okay,” Peter shrugged. He’d had some tarot readings in the past from Wanda. They were always oddly consistent; too many of her readings came true.

Constantine summoned a deck of cards out of nowhere. He shuffled them within seconds and laid five cards down in front of Peter.

“I just… pick one?” 

Receiving a nod in return, he picked the third card. Turning it revealed the word ‘Strength.’ 

“Hell yeah,” Peter gave a smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. “That’s gotta be cool, right?”

Constantine gave a small nod. “Means you’re courageous, brave. I’m guessing you took up the family business?”

Peter’s expression must have given away his befuddlement, considering dad filled in the blanks.

“The family business would be the whole vigilante thing.”

“Oooooooh, then yeah, totally,” he wore a wide grin of pride. The fact that he had family who were like him, who understood him, would never fail to put warmth in his heart.

Constantine took the card in his hand along with the others still faced down and replaced them. 

Peter took another card from the new five in front of him, it held the words ‘Eight Of Cups’ upside down. He’d pulled the same card during his readings with Wanda. Constantine’s explanation served no purpose other than validating what he already knew.

“Not a big fan of moving on, hm?” The man eyed him. “Keeping up with the family business theme, I see.”

“I guess,” Peter mumbled, fidgeting with his sleeves. 

Constantine continued despite Peter’s growing discomfort. “Eight Of Cups usually goes with fear of loss, I’m assuming that’s why you think you're cursed?”

The man read him like a book, which he did not appreciate. Being perceived in such a way, being truly seen sent shivers down his spine. “Something like that,” Peter grumbled.

Dad pushed them forward, sensing Peter’s uneasiness. “Next card?”

Constantine replaced the cards, gesturing for Peter to grab another. His card of choice read, ‘Wheel of Fortune’ upside down. 

“Ah, curse is seeming more likely with every card you pick,” Constantine huffed out an empty laugh. “Reversed Wheel of Fortune means you’ve got poor luck. Life doesn’t deal you the best hand.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “I don’t need a card to let me know what terrible luck I have.”

They moved on, doing the same routine as before, replacing the cards. Peter pulled his forth to see ‘Death’ plastered onto the card, taunting him. Peter’s eyes bore into the word. Phantom ash peppered his arms. 

“You’re going to change,” Constantine tilted his head with a shadow of a smirk. “Won’t be fun, but it’ll work out.”

“So why’s it called death?” Peter pressed. He didn’t want to—he couldn’t die again. The death card had been shown to him before, by Wanda. It was two weeks before the snap. 

“What is death if not a new beginning?” Constantine said, as if it were a joke. 

It didn’t take super hearing to hear his father’s thundering heartbeat and uneven breaths.

“How about you pull one more card?” Dad hardly covered up his disdain for the readings. A painfully forced smile made its way onto his face.

With a wave of Constantine’s hand, the cards were all replaced. “Show off,” Peter huffed under his breath as he picked up his last card. Flipping it over revealed a large rectangular building being struck by lightning. Two people were falling from it as fire poured from the windows. The bottom read ‘The Tower.’

Peter handed the card to Constantine, silently asking for an explanation. The man furrowed his eyebrows for a brief moment before covering it up. Had Peter been anyone else, he probably wouldn’t have even noticed the change. 

“Your life will change,” was all he offered, with a deeper, more serious tone as he looked above the card, right at Peter.

“How?”

“Card’s can’t be that specific I’m afraid,” he shrugged, reverting right back to his previous relaxed demeanor, summoning all the cards back into his grasp. With a sigh, he expanded. “The Tower is different from Death. This,” he gestured to the card. “Symbolizes the change you don’t want. It’s a complete upheaval of your life.”

Peter’s eyes subconsciously followed the card as the man shuffled the deck again and placed it in his pocket. The air around the three was heavy with careful silence.

Apparently, Constantine either hadn’t noticed or didn’t care. “Right, can we get to the spell then?” He stood up, reclaiming his spot behind Peter.

“Oh, uhm. Yeah, sure, okay,” he stammered over his words, still deep in thought.

Prior to meeting magic users, Peter had never given magic much thought. He was a scientist after all. The prospect of saying words and moving hands around to move objects seemed like nothing more than science fiction. He was never opposed to the idea, but couldn’t wrap his mind around it. Something being unfathomable to him was rare, so he was made uneasy by what he couldn't understand.

Then, he met Wanda, the Scarlet Witch. Everything he thought he knew about magic was wrong. There was an entire world that he’d never even imagined. That fact was alarming at first, before Wanda had shown him all the good that magic had to offer. Her abilities were intrinsical to herself, as much a part of her DNA as Peter’s spider enhancements were to his own. Through getting close to her, he found himself to be comforted by the idea of magic.

She’d routinely do tarot readings with each of the Avengers and later the Young Avengers, but especially with Peter. At first, it was harmless fun. It allowed Peter insight to a whole new world.

That was until, the readings proved to be true. Until death found him so soon after Wanda had predicted it. 

All he could wonder was whether or not this man was as skilled at his craft as his old friend. He was forced to hope that Wanda was the best there was. 

Peter was brought back to reality once Constantine started the spell. 

“Divinum desuper, te obsecramus, sapientiam et perspicaciam tuam nobis concede,” he began. “Quaestiones nostras de puero tibi proponimus.”

Although nothing in the scene around them changed, Peter slowly began to feel lighter. His bones and skin felt as though helium filled them. 

“Dic nobis, divina virtute, num maledictio iuvenibus imposita sit.” Constantine spoke with finality, indicating the end of the spoken part of the spell.

Peter saw the cave surrounding him, with his father in front of him, meticulously observing his every move, but Peter wasn’t there. His body may have been tethered to the ground, but his mind was elsewhere, floating in a realm he wasn’t privy to.

Silent fell upon the cave, or maybe Peter just couldn’t hear any of his earthly surroundings. Logically, he knew he was breathing, he saw in his peripheral vision that his chest continued its normal rhythm. But he still didn’t feel any air in his lungs. Yet, it wasn’t uncomfortable. The feeling—or lack thereof—was nothing like his asthma attacks he’d been so used to prior to the bite. This was calming, almost serene.

Within a second, the peace was gone. Vanished, as if it were never there. Peter’s limbs felt heavy—an odd sensation after rarely coming across something he struggled to hold for years—Lightheadedness flooded his mind, as the cave seemed to spin around him. 

“Back with us, little Grayson?” Constantine’s voice came out muffled as he sat down next to Peter.

“Sure,” Peter blinked the dizziness away, moving his arms until he regained feeling in them. “Is that what being high feels like?” He squinted at the wizard.

“Hm, yeah, basically,” he shrugged.

“Woah. Cool. I can’t get high with the whole ‘enhanced metabolism’ biz,” Peter lamented as he changed positions so he could rest his head on his knee, completely drained from the spell.

“How do you know that?” Dad instantly questioned with a raised brow.

“Uh,” ah fooey. “Science.”

“Mhm, sure,” dad was not convinced in the slightest. 

With a painfully loud groan, Constantine interrupted them. “If you’re done, I can tell you whether or not you’re cursed,” the man rolled his eyes.

Ah right. That. “What’s the diagnosis, doc?” Peter gave a small smile in a poor attempt to cover up his growing nausea.

The man was silent for a brief moment, probably just wanting to add dramatic tension. Ugh wizards and their theatrics. “Well, I am pleased to be the one to tell you, little Grayson, no curse is following you currently, nor ever has.”

A pit formed in Peter’s gut. This wasn’t right. He had to be cursed. All the death surrounding him couldn’t have been a coincidence. It was someone’s fault. If there was no curse, that meant every single death was his own burden to bear. All the lives that got cut short were because of him.

Mom and dad never completed their research because of Peter. Uncle Ben never retired because of Peter. Tony never built another suit because of Peter. Natasha never got a normal life because of Peter. Steve never got to see his friends come back because of Peter. Gwen never graduated because of Peter. Beck never got the chance at redemption because of Peter. May never grew old because of Peter.

Dad’s voice broke him from his trance. “You said that like there’s more…” he eyed Constantine.

“Yes, there is.”

“Care to share with the class?”

“Only if you promise to maintain composure for once in your life,” Constantine rolled his eyes for what must’ve been the dozenth time that night.

Dad grumbled incoherently.

“I didn’t hear the word ‘promise,’” Constantine taunted.

With a deep, heavy sigh, “I promise,” dad crossed his arms in frustration.

“Little Grayson may not have a curse following him, but he does have eyes following him,” Constantine’s gaze flickered back to Peter. 

“What does that mean?” Peter asked, breathless from a lack of energy.

“Ever since you’ve arrived in our world, something has been watching you, not interfering, simply watching,” the man observed Peter, seemingly trying to piece him together as if he were nothing but a puzzle.

“What, like a stalker?” Dad demanded, worry etched into his brow.

Constantine hummed. “If you’d like, I suppose that label fits here. But it isn’t as simple as someone physically following you.”

“Then how are they following me?”

“No idea,” Constantine lit a cigarette with a wave of his hand, standing up.

“Can you tell who is watching me?” Peter followed him, pressing for more answers.

“Whoever it is, they’re powerful. They’ve severed the connection just enough so that I can’t see them,” he shrugged. “Think of it as a door. You’re in the hallway, while they’re watching you through the peephole.”

Dad stood in front of Constantine, and grabbed the cigarette out of his mouth. “Figure something out. Find who the hell is watching my son,” he ordered with a cold, abrasive tone, completely unnatural coming from the man.

The man in front of him was no longer Richard Parker, his father. He was Nightwing, a vigilante, desperate for answers. It was a switch that Peter knew well. The familiarity of the action didn’t make it any less odd to see from his dad.

Constantine looked mildly offended, although his expression was of boredom more than anything else. “You broke your promise.”

The two men stared at each other, neither willing to back down. Peter swallowed, still processing the new information.

Someone was watching him. Not just that, someone powerful was watching him. It felt… dirty, wrong. Ever since arriving in Gotham, he hadn’t had a moment of privacy. 

What did they know? Could they hear his thoughts? Spot his fears? And why? Why were they wasting all this energy on Peter? Nobody back home remembered him, nobody in Gotham other than the bats cared about him, so why and who?

“I’ll take my payment now,” Constantine smirked, summoning another lit cigarette to smoke. He held an open hand in front of him, waiting. Dad slammed a card in his palm, never breaking eye contact.

“Cheers,” Constantine gave Peter a small wave and vanished, as if he were never there. 

Chapter Text

It had been a week since their meeting with Constantine. Dick had spent nearly every waking moment working, trying to find whoever was after Peter. Tim was still painstakingly trying to figure out who made those searches; there was still nothing to be found. They’d both agreed that whoever made the searches couldn’t have been the same as whoever was watching Peter, seeing as one had no idea where to find him and the other knew exactly where he was at all times, meaning they had double the amount of work to do.

The entirety of the bats had been informed of some unknown entity stalking Peter, while only Tim and Dick were aware of the searches. Dick would be lying if he claimed not to feel guilty about keeping such a massive development from his son, but it was worth it to not put even more stress onto Peter.

The boy took Constantine’s reveal far too easily. After just a few hours of him being alone, secluded in his room, he came out and had been spending the week acting as if nothing was amiss. Dick had tried to talk to him but was shut down at every turn.

No teenager should have been able to go through so much in such a short amount of time, and be able to keep up a façade with such grace. Within the span of a week, Peter had lost his home and everyone in it, was thrown into an entirely new universe, found out his dead father was alive, found out that some powerful being was watching him, and still continued to crack jokes and smile. 

Peter hid his fear and grief well. But the bats were trained to be able to see in between the lines. They were taught how to piece someone together by a simple expression alone. It was second nature for Dick to catch Peter’s eyes when he wasn’t speaking, and seeing the weight that they held. 

For years, Dick would dream about his five year old son. He’d see the innocence and light that sparkled in his eyes. Now, those same eyes held regret and pain where there used to be stars.

But, if Peter didn’t want to think about everything, who was Dick to make him? So, each of the bats worked hard to maintain some semblance of a normal environment. It was almost convincing.

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

Peter was drowning. 

It was a feeling he’d felt before, it was almost comforting in its familiarity. The way each breath felt like he was choking. His eyes and throat constantly stung with tears he refused to shed. The panic and regret that had settled so deep inside him it was nearly wrapped within his DNA. Yet, he kept himself above water despite it all. If he allowed himself to give in to the unrelenting pain, he would be tugged down into the abyss below. 

Back home, whenever he was drowning, he had his friends and May there to keep him afloat, always patiently waiting to help bring him back to the shore. Sometimes, he’d lose control. He’d splash around, challenge them, making it a chore to show him any sort of kindness. Throughout it all, they stayed with him, never backing down. 

Here, he no longer had that same support system. Sure, his father was now rooms away instead of being at the cemetery down the block, but it wasn’t the same. Their shared blood didn’t fill in the gaps of all the years standing between them. Dad loved him, Peter knew this. But he didn’t love him. He cared about his son, not Peter as a person. How could he, when they hardly even knew each other? How could Peter allow the man to know him, when he risked being a disappointment, a failure? Things between them were odd, even discounting Peter’s fear of getting close. Ever since Constantine’s reveal, dad had been trying to provide support, but they both knew that the effort was futile. 

The other bats were kind, always willing to talk or act as if everything was normal, going with whichever Peter did. But every time he spoke, every time he tried to have a conversation, he’d be reminded of the entity watching over him. He was reminded of the danger that he was placing upon the bats. 

A nausea swarmed in his stomach every time he made the mistake of thinking about who could be stalking him. He was powerless to stop them. Peter Parker had so many enhancements, and yet, he was always powerless.

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

“Come out,” Jason knocked on Peter’s door impatiently.

“I’m bi!” Peter shouted.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Jason grumbled under his breath. “Get out of your room.” 

He’d allowed this kid to wallow and pretend everything was fine for long enough. Each of the bats bottled up their emotions enough for him to be well aware of when someone was putting on a (metaphorical) mask. And he’d be damned if he just sat by and let Peter deal with everything by himself, no matter how much the kid wanted to.

After a moment, the door opened to reveal Peter. The kids' eye bags had eye bags. His hair was sticking up every which way. Needless to say, he looked like shit. “You look like shit.”

“Thank you, I try,” Peter rolled his eyes. “What do you want?” 

“Get dressed, we’re going on a field trip.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “What? Where?”

“A place,” Jason twirled his keys in his hands.

“What place?”

“The place that we’re going to.”

“Can I refuse to go?” Peter crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe.

“No.”

“So, kidnapping.”

“Yep.”

They both glared at each other for a moment, waiting for the other to back down. Finally, Peter relented with an indecipherable grumble, shutting the door to get ready.

Jason waited until the boy returned with his hair brushed yet still messy, a pair of jeans, a Justice League t-shirt, shoes that he’d somehow already worn down, and headphones.

“The headphones really necessary? You really wanna block out my wonderful voice?” Jason held a hand over his heart in faux offense.

“They’re necessary when you can hear everything within a mile,” Peter said like it was a common issue as he walked past Jason.

He sped up so he could match Peter’s pace. “Seriously? You can hear that far?” 

Peter made a so-so motion with his hand. “Eh, I mean, it depends. My hearing isn’t as developed as Double D’s but if I focus I can hear conversations from a mile away.” 

“Jeez, that fuckin’ sucks.”

Peter snorted. “Yeah it really does, especially in Gotham. New York noise was bad don’t get me wrong, but Gotham is a whole different type of noise.” 

Jason struggled to imagine what it must be like to be subjected to constantly hearing the horrors in Gotham. Being a vigilante meant getting up close and personal with some of the worst tragedies, but at least that meant doing something to help the situation. Peter just had to listen. Having a secret identity meant he couldn’t even flinch at the screams and pleas for help. 

It started to make a lot more sense that the kids' go-to response was joking as if nothing was amiss. That’s what he’d had to do constantly since gaining his powers.

“You ever miss it?” Jason asked as he opened the door to his car, gesturing for Peter to take the passenger seat.

“Miss what?” 

“Not having powers.”

Peter was quiet for a minute, while Jason started the drive. 

Finally, he spoke. “I mean, I miss not having the annoying parts that come with my abilities. Like, I’d give anything to feel full again, or be able to enjoy the sunlight without getting a migraine,” Peter lamented, looking out the window. “But I definitely don’t miss being the scrawny kid with asthma who failed gym every year.” 

Jason snorted. “Seriously? Asthma?”

“Dude, I was weaker than pre-serum Steve Rogers,” Peter complained as if the reference made any sense. “But yeah, I guess the bad things with my powers are kinda overshadowed by the good things that I never could’ve done without them, y’know?” 

Jason hummed. “I guess.”

They continued the rest of the drive in relative silence. Until finally, they arrived at their destination. 

Peter gasped. “Churros!” He stared at the restaurant where they had first gone in awe.

“Feels like only yesterday we were chasing you down, convinced you were just a hallucination,” Jason reminisced with all the theatrics he could manage.

“Yeah, yeah, go get me some churros, old man,” Peter rushed inside the restaurant, not willing to play into Jason’s nostalgia.

“I’m not old,” he grumbled, following Peter.

“Yeah sure, and Thor isn’t hot,” the kid brushed off with a hand wave.

“What?”

“What? Who said that? Wasn’t me,” Peter shrugged and made his way to the same table they had claimed the last time they were there.

Jason huffed out a laugh and called over the waiter. “Just give the kid as many churros as he wants, I’ll pay whatever it is after.” 

Peter looked back at him with stars in his eyes. “Unlimited churros?” 

“You never made me go bankrupt, figured I could give you another shot,” he took the chair across from the kid.

“Does this mean we’re getting ice cream after?”

“No.”

“Please.”

“No.”

“Pleaseeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee,” Peter drew out. “I’ll be your best friend.”

“Wow. My nephew as my best friend, that’s what I need,” Jason rolled his eyes.

The light atmosphere flickered the second Peter muttered, “I’m not your nephew, you're not my uncle.”

Jason tilted his head slightly, as the waiter placed a tray of churros on the table. “I’m your dad’s brother, that’s kinda the definition of an uncle.”

Peter just stared back at him, unwilling to change his stance. “You’re not him.”

Jason paused. Yeah, no. He accidentally opened a whole separate can of worms that he was not about to deal with. “Alrighty then.”

“Soooo, why’d you take us here?” Peter reverted right back to his usual self, speaking with an upbeat tone that didn’t match the dark circles under his eyes.

“‘Cos you’re being weird and the only way to get you to open up is through churros.”

“I’m not being weird,” Peter grumbled, grabbing a churro. 

“Yeah sure, and I never died,” Jason said with heavy sarcasm. “Now, without making a joke, tell me what’s going on with you.”

“Is this a therapy session or an interrogation?”

“Both. Answer the question.”

“I mean, a lot’s going on with me. I’ve got a pile of churros, I’m in an alternate universe,” Peter listened off each thing with his fingers. “I’m stuck in said alternate universe, my dead dad’s alive, I’m in fucking New Jersey, the list goes on.”

Jason hummed, pointedly ignoring the New Jersey comment. “You’re not gonna mention the fact that some unknown thing is watching you?”

“No, no I will not,” Peter inhaled more churros as they spoke. 

He sighed with his entire breath. “You’re not gonna make this easy, are you?”

“Nope. I live to annoy,” the kid nodded.

Jason rubbed his eyes, mentally preparing for all of the kid’s avoidance. “You’re stressed,” he started.

“No, really? You’re telling me that a random powerful guy is stalking me and I’m stressed!?” Peter gasped. 

He ignored him. “So, you’re shutting us out.”

Peter scoffed with an eye roll. “You don’t even know me, how could you tell if I was?” 

“Doesn’t take the world’s greatest detective to connect the dots when you’ve been hiding from everyone,” Jason shrugged.

“Have not.”

“Have too.”

“Have not.”

“Have too,” Jason grabbed one of the many churros. “Plus, your dad does the same whenever he’s upset. Pulls the whole ‘performer’ shit and acts like he’s fine.”

Peter tightened his jaw at the comparison, staring daggers into the table. “Oh.”

“That’s another thing, usually you’d have said some horrible joke or insulted me,” Jason pointed out. “So stop fuckin’ around, and let all of us in so we could help you.”

Jason was well aware of the hypocrisy he was spewing. After all, the bats were some of the least emotionally regulated people he knew. He was certainly anything but open about what was going on with him. And he suffered the consequences of it. All the bats did. They’d argue, blow up at each other for the most minor of things just because it was easier than dealing with the root of the issue. They would all go out, fighting rogues they knew they shouldn’t, either to prove a point or to give themselves a distraction. The bats were similar in a lot of ways, but they were all tethered together by their self destructive instincts.

He hadn’t been able to prevent it from happening to any of the others. Everyone was already far too stubborn and set in their ways. Even though Peter was showing much of the same, it was still Jason’s responsibility to try. 

Usually, Dick would’ve been preferable for this discussion, but his brother was too focused on something that he refused to share. Jason knew better than to get in the way of a determined Dick Grayson, so, he decided to deal with the issue himself.

“Can we please just not, right now?” Peter’s voice trembled as he fidgeted with his rings. “Can we just not?” He repeated, quieter this time.

Jason blinked, not having expected the earnest response. The way Peter spoke with such exhaustion was enough to convince him to give the kid a break. “Yeah sure,” he swallowed.

Heavy silence stretched between them.

“Wanna see who can eat more churros in a minute?” Jason finally offered.

“I don’t really have an appetite right now,” Peter shrugged. 

Oh god, this was worse than he thought. Peter not obliterating churros was unheard of. “You wanna go out and bet on how many robberies we run into?”

Peter huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, sure dude.”

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

They arrived back at the manor within the next hour. They’d spent the time purposefully stumbling upon robberies and putting an end to them. It was all unmasked, which meant that Peter got to annoy the hell out of criminals while being slightly creepy and spidery. The outing was… nice, once Jason stopped being so damn nosy. He knew that the man had good intentions, but that knowledge didn’t stop it from being incredibly agitating. 

Peter wanted them to care, he wanted to know that people were worried about him. He wanted to know that he mattered to people. But the guilt that came with that, the guilt of being a burden outweighed his simple desires. It was a constant tug of war between letting people in, letting them see him, or isolating himself, making sure he couldn’t hurt anyone else. 

The second he and Jason arrived back, Tim had informed him that Bruce was waiting for him in the Batcave. Peter was no longer avoiding the man per se, truthfully he didn’t have the energy needed to avoid Batman. But he certainly never sought him out. 

Although all he wanted to do was go to his room, he knew that postponing the meeting with Bruce would just make everything more awkward. And he did not need any more awkwardness.

So, with bated breath, Peter made his way into the dreaded Batcave.

“Hey, Tim said you needed me,” Peter walked over to the Batcomputer where Bruce was seated. “What’s up?” He jumped to sit on the desk.

“How was your day?” The man didn’t even look up from the screen in front of him.

“Wow. The big bad Batman stalls with useless small talk,” Peter said with all the monotone he could muster. “I’m shocked, truly.”

Bruce spared him an unamused look before his eyes set back on the screen. “Or, I’m simply interested in my grandson’s day.”

Yep okay he hated that, ew, hell no. Bleck, gross. He was pretty sure he turned green for a second. In the ‘ew, I hate that’ kinda way, not in a Hulk way. Maybe in a Hulk way, actually. Maybe the Hulk was triggered by annoying people. “My grandparents died before I was born, you’re not them,” Peter left no room for an argument, didn’t add a joke, just said it as it was. 

Bruce looked him in the eye, longer this time. His expression was unreadable, even to Peter. “I apologize.”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s whatever,” Peter waved a hand. “So, why’d you want me?”

Bruce stood up and started towards a corner of the Batcave that Peter had yet to see. The man gestured for him to follow, speaking no unnecessary words.

They made their way into a room lined with various suits on display. Most seemed to be prototypes or works in progress, based on the notes that were stuck to each of them. Many reported on the limited flexibility, limited durability, etc. The room was reminiscent of Tony’s old suit room, except this one was far more reserved in its design; a far cry from the manor above them.

Bruce stopped in front of an empty display case and turned back to Peter. “You were a vigilante in your universe, correct?”

Peter crossed his arms. “Yeah, and I still am,” ever since arriving in Gotham, he hadn’t been properly back as Spider-man. He could tell a dozen excuses as to why. The stress of settling into a whole new life, his injuries that were still aching despite his enhanced healing, his unfamiliarity with Gotham’s rogues and map, etc. But if he was honest with himself, he was just scared. Once he started as Spider-man again, it would be obvious how much he lost and how different this place was.

Before everything with Mysterio, Queens was more of a home than his own bedroom was. After operating as Queens’ very own vigilante for years, the citizens hardly made note of his presence. They’d greet him, sometimes give him free food, but for the most part he was just another variable of everyday life. He rode the subway with them, would help kids with their homework, he’d walk old ladies down the street, help families find their lost pets, he was their friendly neighborhood Spider-man. Even the criminals had grown fond of him. Multiple times, he’d get a call from the NYPD saying that criminals refused to cooperate unless they had Spidey there to oversee their questioning. It had become routine to help criminals get back on their feet, to protect them from a system so against them.

Even when his home turned against him, the city itself was a comfort. The sky where he was free, where gravity itself had no hold on him. The architecture of the city was his playground while he swung around, doing tricks hundreds of feet in the air just because he could. The feeling and sound of thousands of footsteps at any given moment. The overwhelming yet comforting scent of barbecues, bodegas, and hundreds of other dishes being cooked. When Peter’s loved ones stopped breathing, Queens’ lively heartbeat never ceased. 

Everything about Gotham was different. The fog that clung to the freezing breeze made each breath turn into a coughing fit. The buildings and layout of the city were completely foreign to Peter. The scent of blood and death lingered everywhere. It was in the alleyways, in the buildings, parks, streets, everything had been contaminated by the stench. There was hardly ever sunlight; the brightest thing in Gotham was the bat signal, serving as a makeshift lighthouse. All of that wasn’t even mentioning the people. He understood why Gothamites were so confrontational and quiet; seeing the place they called home was enough to explain that. It didn’t help to make Gotham feel anymore welcoming. 

Then, there was the fact that once he started patrolling again, he wouldn’t have the safety net of his friends. He wouldn’t have Harry in his ear, giving instructions while simultaneously ranting about whatever new thing he was obsessed with. There would no longer be any writing in the sky from Johnny, telling him to meet at the usual place. He wouldn’t have the Young Avengers always ready to go on missions, but more often than not their ‘missions’ turned into useless competitions and board games. He didn’t have Matt or Clint, or even Moonknight to call for backup or advice. Sure, he’d have the bats on his side, but it would never be the same. They’d never spend the end of their patrol atop the Statue of Liberty, recounting their nights. 

Once Peter went back to Spider-man, that was it. Home would be nothing but a distant memory.

“Would you like to come patrol with the bats?” Bruce’s offer brought him back to reality.

But, as little as he wanted to, he needed to move on. May would’ve been so disappointed to see him give into his grief. “Yeah, that’d be cool.”

Bruce gave a shadow of a smile, basically a grin coming from the man, and turned to input a code into the keypad over another door. 

Once open, it revealed a room filled with different fabrics and armor. There were various weapons, some unfamiliar even to Peter, lining the tables. The room was massive, more than double the size of his bedroom in the manor.

As he stood there, taking it all in, Bruce broke the silence. “This is where we design and create our suits. Feel free to use whatever you need.” 

Peter’s head whipped back to face the man, with his eyes wide and jaw hung low. “You’re serious!?” 

“Yes,” Bruce nodded. “Let me know if you need any help.” 

With that, the man was gone. Vanished, as if he were never there.

A smile slowly formed on Peter’s face. It had been so long since he had his mask, since he had Karen. Maybe, with the Batcaves resources, he could create her programming again. Maybe he didn’t have to say goodbye to everything from home.

With a pep in his step, he raced to the red fabric.

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

Peter Parker never had a dreamless night. Ever since he was a kid, nightmares plagued him every time he shut his eyes.

He was no stranger to the memories replaying at night. He was no longer phased by the way people in his dreams would crumble into nothing but ash. 

That night however, no ghosts haunted him. No blood clung to the air. None of his friends had the same far away look in their eyes that Ben did. It was… peaceful.

Peter Parker could never be at peace for long.

The serene atmosphere was clouded by green. Green fog consumed his vision. Each breath choked on the air surrounding him.

There were no walls, nothing but green, and yet everything was closing in. 

Too small. Too cramped. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. The green fog was crushing him, just like the warehouse. 

Peter uselessly clung to his chest, trying to take a deep breath. He hardly registered the pain of the scratches against his skin. 

Sounds from his past overtook him. The familiar vibration that went along with Steve’s voice. The light tone that Gwen would always speak in. His mother’s lullabies. The slight clack of Matt’s walking stick against the pavement. May’s humming. The crackle of Johnny’s flames. The static of Clint’s hearing aid.

It should have comforted him. Those sounds were that of home, of safety. Instead, they taunted him. The ghosts of his past were with him as he desperately tried to gasp for air, to escape.

As suddenly as the green took over, it was gone. 

••••••

Peter shot up, drenched in sweat.

He took slow, deliberate breaths, reminding himself that he could. There was no green fog. It was just his mind playing tricks on him.

Absent-mindedly, he rubbed his aching chest. The skin felt sore, like he’d taken a punch to the spot. The dream kept replaying in his mind. The way he’d grasped at his throat and chest, desperate for a breath. The terror of not being able to see anything but green. The pure survival instinct that drove his every move. 

He methodically continued to rub the aching area, slowly counting his breaths. Goosebumps littered his arms when his fingers graced the scratchmarks all over his chest. 

Chapter Text

How likely is it that my dreams are actually real and how and why and what the fuck is happening ?????

Peter groaned as he entered the search through Google. It was three in the morning and here he was, petrified over a nightmare like he was a little kid again. Usually, he’d have been fine after a few seconds of catching his breath. But usually, he didn’t keep the wounds he’d suffered in his dreams. 

His chest hummed with the muffled itch of his healing. The scratches hadn’t been bad, they hardly even hurt compared to the injuries he got on a nightly basis. The pain wasn’t the issue. It was the fact that there was no possible way he could’ve been harmed in his sleep. Never mind how his bedroom showed no sign of anything out of the ordinary, but his Spidey Sense would have alerted him immediately if anything tried to attack him. 

If it had just been waking up with scratches, Peter wouldn’t have thought too much of it. There were far more pressing matters to waste his energy on. But, the cuts were in the exact same place that he’d so desperately scratched during his nightmare. 

Any normal person could’ve blamed it on themselves. If they were distressed while unconscious, accidentally hurting themselves wasn’t out of the question. But, Peter’s Spidey Sense never would have allowed him to do such a thing. That damn sense would scream at him every time he needed to cut open a closed wound to get a bullet out; even stitches were an issue to Spidey Sense. If he had to fight his body in order to get necessary treatment, there was no world where he’d have been able to accidentally harm himself while unconscious.

Peter anxiously refreshed the page only for it to prove useless.

No results.

Arg. Now he was really desperate for answers.

How do I tell if my dream was real WikiHow

Before he could get a proper answer, there was a knock at his door. Peter quickly shut the laptop that he definitely didn’t steal from Duke, threw it under his bed and covered himself in blankets.

The second his head hit the pillow, the door creaked open.

“Pete? You awake?” Dad entered the doorway, his tone quiet.

Peter remained silent, carefully controlling each breath to seem calm and peaceful. 

“I heard you closing something, I know you’re awake,” dad chuckled, shutting the door behind him.

Ah fooey. “Am not,” he peeked under the covers to glare at the man.

“Mhm, sure,” dad took a seat at the foot of his bed. “Why’re you awake? Everything okay?”

Peter sat up, still wrapped in his mountain of blankets. “Yeah, ‘m fine,” he mumbled, pressing his knees to his chest. “Why’d you even try to wake me up anyway?”

“I wasn’t trying to wake you up,” dad defended. “I was just gonna check up on you, but I heard you slam something closed so…”

Pete raised an amused eyebrow. “What, were you making sure I was still here and wasn’t a hallucination or something?” He joked.

Dad’s silence was telling. He quickly moved on from that pile of… stuff… that he was not about to unravel.

“I just couldn’t sleep,” Peter went back to the original question.

Dad hummed. “Bad dream?” 

“How’d you guess?” He tilted his head in question.

“You’re not the only one in this room with powers,” dad smiled as if it were obvious what he was referring to.

Peter’s head shot up. “What!?”

“You may have super powers, but I have dad powers,” the man’s smile grew to a grin at Peter’s annoyed groan.

“Ugh, boo,” he gave him two thumbs down. 

Dad huffed out a laugh before the two fell into silence. “Wanna talk about it?”

Peter shook his head. He was fairly confident that nobody would want to hear about his paranoia.

“Wanna watch a movie?”

Deja vu hit Peter nearly as hard as that train had in Europe. “What, like we did when I was like five?” 

Dad nodded.

Being treated like a kid was never preferable. Sure, he was sixteen and legally a child, but in no other way did he keep that same innocence. Peter could never stand when adults tried to comfort him like this. He’d been through hell and made it out the other side. He could handle a damn nightmare without being coddled. 

But, he also craved having a parent. Peter was scared. And even though he didn’t want to admit it, the dream itself was plaguing him. It kept replaying in his mind, the way he gasped uselessly for air while all the loved ones he’d lost taunted him. 

His grief had always been soothed by the presence of Aunt May. She had some sort of sixth sense for whenever Peter was getting lost in his mourning. Now, he had to deal with that same misery ten fold, without May.

But, he had his dad. “Okay,” he quietly agreed, getting out of bed.

“Yeah? There’s a movie theater in the manor, or we could just go to the living room if you prefer,” dad offered, following him out the door.

Peter’s expression must have given away his disdain for the movie theater idea—seriously, what kinda house had its own damn theater!?—considering dad’s reaction.

“Oh-kay, living room it is.”

Peter made a pit stop in the kitchen to get one of the monstrous sized tubs of ice cream. What was even the point of waking up in the middle of night because of a bad dream if he didn’t use it as an excuse to have some ice cream? 

They traversed through the manor’s halls until finally reaching their destination. Peter instantly scooped up throw blankets and pillows to make himself a little nest and made himself comfortable on one of the couches.

“Do you do that because of the whole spider DNA thing?” Dad sat next to him, taking a blanket for himself.

“Huh?” 

“Well, spiders make nests, sorta like you're doing now,” the man shrugged.

Peter paused right as he was about to shovel a scoop of ice cream into his face. “I mean, I guess? I dunno, I picked up loads of weird spider habits.”

“Like what?”

“Allergy to mint is a big one,” he raised a finger to count. “I can’t regulate my body temperature, so basically I get super cold super easily.”

“Peter,” Dad interrupted. “That’s mint ice cream.”

“It is?” Peter put it closer to his mouth.

-!! Danger !! - !! Bad !! - !! Don’t !!-

“Aw dang it, it is,” he frowned. “Stupid sleep deprivation. It makes me dumb.”

Dad snorted. “Yep, let’s blame it on the sleep deprivation.”

“Woah, woah woah!” Peter crossed his arms. “What’s that supposed to mean, huh?”

“Oh y’know.”

Peter rolled his eyes and started the movie, it was some random old Disney movie that dad had insisted upon.

About fifteen minutes in, Peter spoke again, fiddling with the blanket between his fingers. “So uh, I’m working on a new suit so I could go out as Spider-man again.”

Dad immediately perked up. “Oh, that’s good.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t seem too convinced.”

“No, it’s just—” the man sighed. “With everything that’s going on, are you sure you want to?”

He didn’t need to spell out what the ‘everything’ he was referring to was. They both were well aware of the danger that constantly surrounded Peter, ever since Constantine’s visit.

“I mean, I’m gonna be watched anyway,” Peter shrugged. “Might as well put on a good show.”

Dad was silent for a moment, trying to find the right words. “If that’s what you think is best, I’ll support it, but,” he took a breath. “If anything goes wrong, call me immediately.”

Peter hardly contained an annoyed sigh. The whole ‘call me if you ever get hurt’ had been a conversation he was far too familiar with. “Yeah, yeah, I know.” 

“I mean it, okay? If you’re hurt, if you’re stuck with something, if you need backup, if something just doesn’t feel right, hell, if you just don’t wanna patrol alone, you call me,” dad insisted, looking him dead in the eye, awaiting his response.

A small part of Peter felt that sense of Deja Vu again. The feeling that dad had made a similar promise before. How was he supposed to trust what the man said, when dad lied the last time he claimed to always be there for Peter?

Despite the pit at the bottom of his gut, he agreed. “Okay, I will.”

With a small smile, they continued the movie until they fell back asleep.

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

“Yo, Big Bird,” Tim tapped him on the shoulder. “If you don’t wake up, I will draw on your face with a sharpie.”

“Rmuhhhhhhh,” Dick groaned, rubbing his eyes.

“Aw dang it. I was already planning on what to draw,” Tim sighed.

Dick yawned, still trying to join the land of the living. “What time’s it?” 

“10am dude, we should get going in a few minutes.”

It took a second for Dick’s mind to catch up and fill in the blanks. Eventually, the memory of him and Tim’s last conversation told him where they were going.

Last night, they’d decided on going to the Wayne Enterprises in New York; the place where the searches about Peter were made. Everything they looked into had proved to be a dead end, leaving them little other choice than to go and scour the computers and question anyone they could.

The idea had been brought up a handful of times prior, but Dick was hesitant to leave Peter, even for a couple hours. He knew it was irrational, he knew damn well how over protective he was being, but he couldn’t find it in him to care all that much when he’d finally been reunited with his son after two years.

But, Dick needed to put his over protective parental instincts to the side, in order to truly protect Peter. It was paramount that they found whoever made those searches. 

While the bats still had no idea where to even start finding who was watching Peter, Dick and Tim could at least negate one potential threat.

“Hmm, gotcha,” Dick unraveled the blankets off himself, standing up. “I’ll be ready in a few.”

Tim left with a nod, heading towards the garage, as Dick looked back to see Peter still fast asleep in his cocoon of blankets. He went to go wake the boy up, let him know that he was leaving, but decided a simple note would suffice. 

Be back soon, just had to help Tim with something! 

-Dad :-D

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

The drive to New York was only about an hour and a half. The drive would usually be relaxing, however Dick’s nerves rubbed off on Tim the whole way there.

Tim, despite his best efforts, had yet to find anything substantial. He had theories, sure. The most pressing ones being that it was someone from Peter’s world. What made the most sense, was someone else in Peter’s life went through a similar thing that Dick had. If he was right, the kid would have to deal with another loved one coming back from the dead. If he was wrong, it was best to keep the theory to himself, and not get anyone’s hopes up.

A heavy sigh rattled his lungs as the two entered Wayne Enterprises. Tim had no choice but to figure this out. He’d failed his older brother before, he wasn’t going to do it again. He couldn’t be the reason that Peter got hurt.

“Oh, hi Mr. Grayson, Mr. Drake-Wayne, I wasn’t aware you were visiting,” the receptionist stumbled over her words, clearly caught off guard by their presence.

Dick wore the stupid charismatic smile he’d learned from Bruce, or more accurately, he’d learned from ‘Brucie.’ “Oh, you weren’t? We have a meeting in about an hour.”

“Right, of course,” the receptionist, probably about Tim’s age, gave a nervous smile. “Sorry, must’ve slipped my mind.”

“No problem, happens all the time,” Tim brushed off. “If it’s alright, we’re just gonna head to the meeting early, get a head start.” 

The two brothers quickly, but not too quickly as to not draw suspicion, sped off before she could respond.

“Any idea what particular computer the searches were made on?” Dick asked, pulling out his phone to get a layout of the location.

“Nope, all I know is that they were made here.”

“So, what, we just look through every computer’s search history?” 

“If that’s what it takes,” Tim shrugged. “Once we narrow down what department they were made in, we can work from there.” 

They continued to advance the hallways.

Dick sighed. “We’re figuring this out today.” He left no room for argument.

Tim hummed in agreement. “We questioning in civies?” 

“Yep,” the older man nodded. “Our civies and capes don’t wanna be seen at the same place around the same time,” he reasoned. “Although, wouldn’t it be funny if—”

His statement was cut short by an unfamiliar man from behind crashing into both of them. Dick caught himself and the man within seconds, while Tim painfully hit the wall beside them.

“Hey man, what gives?” Tim whirled his head around to face the dumbass who somehow ran into them from behind. Seriously, had this guy even looked up for a second, he would’ve seen them. Ugh. Tim hated that kind of idiotic negligence.

Uh oh. Taking in the man’s appearance for a brief moment made him regret his previous thoughts. The man was putting back on sunglasses with a red tint that had fallen off. In his other hand, rested a walking stick. 

Fuck, he totally just internally insulted a blind guy. For not seeing them. He was totally going to Hell.

The man re-adjusted the sleeves of his suit. “My apologies, didn’t see you there.” 

Dick must’ve come to the same realization that Tim had, considering his quick response. “No worries, it’s fine. Tim deserved to hit a wall.”

“Hey!”

The man offered a polite chuckle. “Have I met either of you before?” 

“Probably not, we’ve never really been here before,” Tim absentmindedly rubbed the back of his neck.

“Oh, you’re new hires?” 

“Not exactly,” Dick huffed out a small laugh. “We’re… family to someone who works here.”

“Oh? Who?”

Tim’s eyes darted to his brother’s for an answer. The asshole just held his hands in surrender, forcing Tim to create an explanation on the spot. Technically, it wouldn’t be horrible if the man knew who they were, but they were also on the opposite side from the meeting rooms, which didn’t exactly paint a great picture. “Just someone in the IT department.”

“Ah, I see,” the man smiled at his own joke. “I’m in the law department so I probably wouldn’t know them.”

Dick raised an eyebrow. “The law department? Isn’t that on the other side of the building? Up like, seven floors?”

“Hm,” the man hummed. “Must’ve gotten turned around.”

“Yeah,” Dick eyed him with clear suspicion. “Do you need any help finding your way back?”

“I can manage just fine on my own, Mr. Grayson.” 

Oh! Oh? Oh no. Wait what. The fuck. “Wait, wait, but you—”

The man simply turned around and left, ignoring their questions.

Dick just sighed. “Lawyers,” he grumbled.

They both watched the empty space that held the man moments ago. “Think he was actually blind?”

“Who knows, word might’ve gotten around that we’re here. He could’ve recognized our voices. Or just be a douche who wears sunglasses inside,” Dick shrugged the encounter off, and continued down the hall.

“Yeah, ‘cos you’re someone who can judge other people’s fashion choices,” Tim rolled his eyes. 

“Yes, yes I am.”

After what felt like hours, but had probably only been a few minutes, they came face to face with the computer lab. 

••••••

They’d scoured every damn inch of the place. Every computer, laptop, tablet, kiosk, the goddamn creepy soap dispenser with a screen, everything they were able to get ahold of. And nothing. No searches related to Peter Parker had been made.

Either, whatever they were made on was destroyed / gotten rid of, or whoever made them was able to cover their tracks with frightening ability.

Tim and Dick were stood, leaning against a random wall. “Guess it’s time for questioning,” Dick stretched, already on his way to finding an employee.

The first dozen that they ‘interviewed’ didn’t offer much importance. Until, the thirteenth employee gave them a lead. He’d claimed to have worked within the general tech department. And although the job was fantastic, he had an… odd coworker. The coworker was always focused on his own projects, refusing to help the others. That itself didn’t pose much of an issue, it was the fact that he didn’t allow anyone to see his notes or what he was working on. The employee also admitted to his suspicions of the coworker stealing company tech.

Both of their eyes sparked with hope once they were given instructions on where to find this ‘mysterious coworker.’ It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Tim was the first to enter the workspace. It was in complete disarray. Papers and notebooks littered the floors, while whiteboards covered in nonsense plastered the walls. In the middle of it all, there was a man, hunched over his laptop.

“Hi,” Tim greeted, knocking on the door despite already having entered. “I’m Mr. Drake-Wayne, this is my brother Mr. Grayson,” he gestured to Dick, who offered a small friendly wave, although Tim could feel the frustration that radiated off him. “We wanted to interview a couple of employees at WE.”

The man hardly spared them a glance. “I’m not interested.”

“Apologies sir, but this is from the hire ups who selected you as one of our interviewees.”

“I said, I’m not interested.”

The brothers shared a glance. “If it’s any consolation sir, you’ll be paid time and half while we speak with you,” ah. Good ol’ bribery.

That got the man to finally look up. “Pay me double and it’s a deal.” 

“You’ve got it,” Tim agreed, as he took a seat next to the man.

Dick followed, electing to stay standing up right behind their seats. “Alright, first question,” Dick started, holding his clipboard and notes. “What’s your name?”

“Quinn,” the man—Quinn—shut his laptop, giving them his full attention.

“Got a last name, Quinn?”

“Beck.”

Dick wrote the name down. 

“How long have you been working here?” Tim asked.

“Few years.”

“Got an exact number of years?”

“Little over one.”

One. Tim internally noted. After Dick’s encounter with the cheerdrops.

“One? That’s a ‘few?’” Dick raised an eyebrow.

“Yes.”

“Right… and, what sorta things do you work on?” Dick glanced around the room, taking in all the equations and gibberish notes.

“Tech stuff.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re great with words?” Tim mocked, earning a glare from his older brother. 

“Yes. I am when I want to be. I don’t want to be right now,” Quinn shrugged, the first gesture he’d made since they began questioning him.

Dick hummed. “You seem to be busy with work, what are all these notes for?”

Quinn looked up, facing the man for the first time. Recognition lit his previously bored eyes. “What’d you say your name was?” He clenched his jaw with a barely hidden growl.

If Dick noticed Quinn's sudden aggression, he didn’t show it. “Richard Grayson,” he held out a hand to shake.

Quinn didn’t make any move to return the gesture, instead, simply staring at Dick as if he were a ghost. “Who told you to interview me?”

“Higher ups,” Tim offered, before trying to get back on track. “Now, what would you say your work environment—”

“Was it Murdock?” Quinn whirled his head, frantically looking around the room. 

“Who?”

“That fucking— he’s out for me. Makes you think he’s just some useless diversity hire, but he’s—” Quinn rambled with a shaking voice, continuously cutting himself off. 

Tim looked to Dick for guidance, but the man was preoccupied with observing Quinn. 

“You need to leave,” Quinn ordered, trying and failing to maintain an even tone.

“Sir, we’re not done with our interview,” Tim tried to return to the semi-peaceful atmosphere from before, to no avail.

“Get out,” the man spat, turning his chair back to his closed laptop. “Out!”

Dick put a hand on Tim’s shoulder with a nod, signaling for him to listen. 

It didn’t take long for his brother to follow him out the door, with no more words spoken. They both sped down the hallway and eventually back to Dick’s car.

“So, what are we thinking? Was it Quinn or Murdock?” Tim raised an eyebrow as Dick carried a small bag into the car that he didn’t have before.

“We’re about to find out,” Dick smirked, opening the bag to reveal he’d stolen Quinn's laptop.

Chapter Text

As a kid, following his parents deaths, Peter hated falling asleep. Even though he was five years old and unable to hold a six pound bowling ball, he was convinced that he needed to be awake and alert at all times. If he wasn’t, then he wouldn’t be able to protect what remained of his family. 

Despite the fact that his guilt complex was stronger than ever before, Peter thought that he’d grown out of that childish fear. He was proven wrong when he woke up on the couch, immediately noticing that dad had disappeared.

Logically, he knew the man just got up and left. That was fine. Nothing was wrong with that. It was just his dumbass brain trying to make him worry because of something something, trauma response, blah blah blah. 

He unraveled himself from his nest of blankets. A note taped to the table in front of the couch caught his eye. The paper confirmed his logical suspicions, that dad just had to leave for a little while.

The lingering, anxious, all too present ache in the back of his mind whispered in his ear, what happened the last time he promised to come back soon?

Yeah, okay. This was something that Harry would have smacked him over the head for. He was being stupid, right?

Peter took a deep breath, remembering what Matt used to tell him. ‘If you worry about what you can’t control, your emotions will overpower your better judgement. Being clouded by your own emotions is how you give your enemy the control.’ Although the man was a goddamn (hehe) hypocrite, the advice still stood. 

“PeterPeterPeterPeterPeterPeterPeter!” Steph’s voice came from the doorway, pulling him out of his spiraling thoughts.

“StephStephStephStephStephStephSteph!” He mimicked, standing up.

“Me and Cass are gonna head out to visit Babs at the library, wanna come?” She was leaning on the doorway, swinging car keys in her right hand.

He internally cursed at himself. He’d wanted to see Babs again, but with all of the stress and adjustments going on, it had slipped his mind. “Yeah!” He quickly agreed, following her out the doorway. 

Peter changed as fast as he could, which was pretty damn fast if he did say so himself. His efficiency rivaled the speedsters (Jeez, the speed force was still such a crazy concept.) After so many years of having to change into his suit in sketchy alleys, it was muscle memory.

Exiting his room, he found Cass waiting for him. She gave him a polite wave which he returned with a warm smile.

Him and Cass hadn’t conversed all that much during his time in the manor. Neither of them were all that eager to actually talk whenever they crossed paths. Or maybe that was just Peter. Yeah, now that he thought about it, it was probably just him, considering how Cass would occasionally stay by his side and provide a grounding presence. 

“You and Babs are close, right?” Peter asked as they made their way to meet Steph in the garage. 

She nodded.

“Babs seems nice. It’s so cool that she’s the bat’s ‘Guy in The Chair.’”

Cass tilted her head slightly, silently asking for clarification on what he was referring to.

“Y’know, Guy in The Chair! The guy who talks to you while you’re patrolling, who does all the tracking bad guys and calling for backup,” he explained. 

Cass hummed. “You have?” 

A grin grew on his face, as he reminisced about his Guy in The Chair. “Yeah, Harry Osborn, my best friend. I’ve known him since we were like, four? He’s crazy smart, especially with tech stuff. When I told him I got Spider powers, he immediately volunteered to help me out,” Peter’s grin turned bittersweet at the reminder of who he lost. “It was nice, I really miss him.”

Cass must’ve noticed his demeanor shift, considering her expression, mirroring his own. “He misses you,” she affirmed, unaware how wrong she was.

“Yeah,” he breathed out, selfishly wishing that she was right, hopelessly knowing she wasn’t.

••••••

“Babs!” Steph rushed through the doors of the library, immediately throwing herself at Babs. 

It had been a few weeks since Peter had last been to the library, but it felt like a lifetime ago. 

“Steph!” She returned the hug with a bright smile. “What’s up?”

“We came to give you a gift,” Steph sidestepped to show off Peter.

Babs gasped as if he were gold. “Peter!”

“Me!” He stepped forward into Babs open arms. 

Peter wasn’t usually a hugger. He had generally avoided unnecessary physical contact ever since gaining his enhancements. He liked to blame it on the over sensitivity of his senses that came along with spider themed powers, even though he was perfectly aware what a lie that was. However, Babs just felt… safe. Her kind and welcoming presence was reminiscent of Aunt May.

The four of them sat at one of the library’s tables. The place was completely vacant except for them. 

“So Peter, how are you? How’s life in Wayne manor?” Babs asked, making conversation as she and Steph worked on putting together an order for lunch.

Peter shrugged. “Better than Avengers tower. In Wayne manor a British butler might trespass into your stuff. In Avengers tower, there was a bald, red, British, sentient robot who’d phase through walls randomly.”

The trio around him blinked. “Are you okay?” Steph leaned over the table, deadly serious.

“I am. The robot’s not.”

“Oh, okay then.”

An awkward silence fell over them. Peter internally smacked his forehead. Ugh, he totally said something weird. Quick, quick, abort mission! Change the topic!

“Wanna hear about the time I turned to dust for five years?” Not that topic!

“You turned to where what who now?” Babs paused what she was doing, focusing all her attention on Peter.

“Dust. For five years. And I had to take my midterms again!” He groaned, dramatically hitting his hands on the table. “And when I came back, I’d missed like three seasons of Doctor Who!”

“Right, because that’s the biggest problem,” Steph rolled her eyes. “Anyway, can we circle back to the dust for five years of it all?”

Peter bit his nail. “I mean, there’s not much to say. A big purple alien was really into geology and killing people.”

Cass raised an eyebrow. “Alien turned you to dust?”

“Yuppers. And like half the universe.”

Babs rubbed her eyes. “I didn’t think it was possible, but apparently Peter’s universe is worse than Gotham.”

“Woah, woah, woah! My universe was epic, thank you very much. Peter three thought it was cool that I fought an alien,” he leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed.

“Peter three?”

“Oh yeah. Like right before I got sent here, there was a multiverse fiasco back home and it kinda sorta sent alternate versions of me to my universe,” he shrugged. Man, he missed those guys. Peter was so cool. 

“How am I even supposed to respond to that?” Steph dropped her head to the table.

At the same time, Babs spoke. “How similar were you guys?”

“Way too similar. It was freaky,” he shuttered at the memory. 

Steph picked her head up slightly, resting her chin on the table. “D’ya think that the whole cheerdrops thing happened to other versions of Dick?”

“I mean, theoretically, it almost definitely did. But not for every Peter Parker, ‘cos Peter three said that his parents were, like, spies? And his dad faked his death?” He shrugged.

Cass and Babs nodded in acknowledgment.

“Oh okay, so we’re just moving on from the whole ‘Dick being a full time spy in a different universe instead of only being one for like two weeks? and also faking his death?’” Steph gave him an unimpressed look. “Did the other Peter say anything else about that whole thing?”

That was a tidbit about his father he’d been unaware of. Apparently the man had once been a spy. As what, a summer job? Ugh. Gotham was so fucked up. “I dunno, I kinda stopped listening ‘cos I was too busy wondering how that sand guy drinks water.”

“Peter,” Cass nudged him on the shoulder. 

“Yes?”

She pointed to his head, then to the side of her own, twirling her finger in a circle.

“What!? I’m not crazy!” He dropped his jaw in offense. “You guys have a fucking superhero with a color-powered ring, and I’m the crazy one?”

Babs rolled her eyes with an amused smile. “You got your powers from a radioactive spider, you can’t talk.”

Peter huffed and laid his head on the table, parallel to Steph. “Y’know, this wouldn’t be happening if we were all lizards right now.”

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

Peter went to the Batcave the second they all returned to the manor later that day. They’d taken him to try out tons of different hole-in-the-wall restaurants. He was fairly certain that some of them were fronts for drug trafficking or money laundering, but honestly, the food was too good to care. If one of the bats got them shut down for illegal activity he may never forgive them.

Even though it was too early to go on patrol, he was itching to work on his suit. There wasn’t much else to be added or modified, all he could really do was wait until going on his first patrol in Gotham for a test run.

It had taken days of nonstop work to create the new and improved prototype of his suit. The process had been easier when he did the same with Stark Tech—the primitive technology in this universe was still taking time to get used to—but he was able to modify Wayne Tech to fit his needs. One of which being, Karen!

The AI was still fairly underdeveloped. Coding had never been Peter’s strong suit, so he hadn’t replicated her personality. Her voice and abilities were intact, however. Technically, he didn’t really have much of a need for Karen, since he had Oracle. The AI was more for the familiar voice than anything else.

Peter sat down, simply staring in awe at his new suit design. He’d taken inspiration from the other Peter’s, incorporating the raised webbing and a bigger spider emblem. The legs of the spider on his chest stretched down to the bottom of his stomach and up to right under his neck. The red and blue were as vibrant as the dye would allow; it was an eyesore compared to the dark and grimey colors that most of the bats sported. 

Back in New York, Peter’d been able to get away with just a heating system in his suit. With Wayne Tech not being as proficient and reliable, and Gotham weather being out to get him,  he instead opted for a jacket to wear over his suit. The pockets held all sorts of gadgets. Extra web shooters and webbing, a first aid kit, pain medication that was made for the speedsters so it worked with his enhanced metabolism, protein bars, an emergency help button, and spider-angs—his cooler version of batarangs. The jacket itself was a darker red and blue than his suit, the back had a giant spider spray painted on, matching the emblem on his chest. He’d ironed and stitched on various patches, serving as tributes to his friends.

A black widow on his right sleeve by his elbow. Captain America’s shield paralleled it on the opposite side. Thor’s hammer, a Hulk hand, Hawkeye’s arrow, and Iron Man’s arc reactor were all on various pockets. There were logos for all of his teams circling the wrists of his sleeves, Fantastic Four, Young Avengers, Team Red, and The Defenders. On the back, he had placed a moon patch in honor of Moonknight, along with devil ears for Daredevil, Ms. Marvel’s lightning strike, Bucky’s red star, Wanda’s crown, and a tiny Antman mask. 

They were gone, yes. They would never cross paths again, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t be with him in some capacity. 

Peter’s eyes sparkled, taking in the suit in its entirety. His mask was much the same as it had always been. The oversized bug-eyed lenses looked back at him, as if somehow telling him ‘I’m ready to fly again.’

“Hey, Pete! I’m going on patrol now, y’need anything while I’m out?” Duke leaned through the doorway, already in his own suit. 

His eyes widened at the realization, he didn’t have to wait until sundown to go. Sure, Bruce had said that he should try to keep quiet during his first few nights and try not to make a scene. But then again, when had Peter ever listened to an adult’s advice? When had Spider-man ever not been obnoxiously obvious?

His fingers brushed the red fabric. “Could uh, could I come?” He asked with hesitance.

Duke grinned. “Hell yeah, your suit’s all finished?”

At his confirmation, Duke signaled (ha!) for Peter to put it on, and led him to the exit of the Batcave.

••••••

The wind whipped past Peter—Spider-man—as he swung through Gotham’s streets. He’d been out for about an hour with Duke who was showing him the ins and outs of the city. 

Flying through the air again, he had no idea why he was so scared to put the mask on in the first place. Sure, Gotham was nothing like Queens, but the sky was the same. The feeling of free falling, absolute freedom and weightlessness. The adrenaline rush when he stuck his web to something right before he hit the ground. The screams of shock and excitement from the civilians when he did a trick from hundreds of feet above them. That could never be taken away from him.

Static came through his comm as Oracle spoke. “Welcome to Gotham, Spidey. What’da you think so far?”

Before he got a chance to respond, a yell came from the sidewalk below him. “Hey, that guy stole my bike!” 

“Sorry O, gotta run, or I guess swing! Duty calls,” he clicked the comm to end the transmission as he rushed after the bike thief.

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

Dick hovered over Tim’s shoulder at the Batcomputer. The laptop he’d stolen from Beck was password protected, something that should have been child’s play to hack into for someone as intelligent as Tim.

At the moment, they were alone in the cave while everyone had their daily duties to attend to. They needed to get their work done quickly, before anyone returned.

“I swear to god, if you keep breathing down my neck I will text Wally all the blackmail I have on you,” Tim threatened, not bothering to take his eyes off the screen in front of him.

Dick groaned. “How hard can this be? It’s just some guy’s laptop! You hacked into the Pentagon when you were ten,” he ran his hands through his hair, desperately trying to work out the anxiety in his nerves.

“Yeah and clearly, the Pentagon could use this guy,” Tim rolled his eyes with a grumble. “Whatever he did, it’s— this is just way beyond my area of expertise,” he slammed the laptop closed with a frustrated groan. 

Dick ran a hand down his face, leaning on the desk. “Well then what do we do? Look into Murdock?”

Tim’s head hit the desk in defeat. “There’s nobody on file working for the NY WE under the name ‘Murdock.’”

“Anyone nearby?”

“Obviously, but none would constitute Beck referring to him as a ‘diversity hire,’” Tim picked his head up, rubbing his eyes with his palms. “Fucking everything we find out just leads to another dead end.”

Dick was silent for a moment. “We can go back to question Beck. Try to look through his notes and get an idea on who this Murdock guy is,” his voice came out quieter and more wrung out than he’d expected.

A deep sigh came from Tim. “Yeah, we’ll have to do it in capes though. We already risked a lot by interviewing him in civies, we can’t do that again.”

“No, you can’t,” a familiar deep voice echoed from behind. 

Both brothers closed their eyes, mentally preparing their explanations for the man.

“Did you think that I wouldn’t know about you two ‘interviewing’ employees at WE?” Bruce crossed his arms, staring daggers at them.

“It was Dick’s idea,” Tim sped out to throw him under the bus.

“What— Tim!” He hit him on the shoulder.

Bruce sighed. “You have two minutes to explain.”

Tim perked up. “Seriously? That long?” At the double glares he received, he quickly started his explanation. “Okay so, you know about how something’s watching Peter? Yeah well there’s actually two things— two that we know of—who are at least aware of him, ‘cos a couple weeks ago I found that on the WiFi for the WE in New York, the one that we visited, someone made a bunch of searches related to Peter, and they were like freakily accurate, like searching his school and Spider-man and everything, neither of us were able to find anything about who made the searches so we went to WE to question people and uh yeah!” He somehow ranted it all out in a single breath.

Dick shrugged, giving confirmation to Tim’s story. “We found a lead but we’re still looking into it.”

“And why didn't you come to anyone else for help the second you found the searches?” Bruce pinched his brow.

“Hey man, I said that we should, it was Dick who told me to keep it between us,” Tim raised his hands in surrender. 

“Dick—” Bruce started before he cut him off.

“If we told all the bats, Peter would find out. He doesn’t need that on his plate right now,” Dick was firm on his stance. It was his job to deal with this. He intended to keep it that way.

The man in front of him paused, clearly debating something. “When you were Robin, how many times did I do the same thing?” Bruce kept his arms crossed, maintaining eye contact with him.

“That was different—”

“And how many times did you scream at me for it, saying that I had no right to shut you out?” The man interrupted.

Dick huffed out a breath. “This is different.”

“Why?” Bruce pressed. “How are you not making the exact mistake I did?” His voice never raised. The even, almost calm tone made Dick squirm.

He ran his fingers through his hair again, using what little energy he had left to keep his composure. “Because Bruce, if Peter knew, how would he ever feel safe here?”

“How is he safe if he doesn’t know that there’s a threat, that he’s in danger?” The older man challenged.

“Because I do, and I won’t allow anyone to harm him,” Dick tightened his jaw, taking slow, meticulous breaths.

Bruce’s glare softened, not enough to be noticeable to anyone except the first Robin. “You’re not that naïve, Dick,” he came closer, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You know that no matter how hard you try, you can’t protect everyone.”

Dick turned his head away from the far too sympathetic expression. “I already failed him once, I can’t do it again,” he admitted with a shaken voice. “I can’t fail him again.”

The hand on his shoulder squeezed lightly. “Then you have to let him know.”

“But—”

“Would you rather risk his life than risk him being scared?” Bruce removed his hand, his voice being as close to gentle as the man could manage.

Dick swallowed. 

“If you don’t tell him, even discounting the physical threat, all you’ll do is push him away,” Bruce paused. “Don’t make the same mistake I did.”

He sighed, closing his eyes with a small nod. “Okay dad, I’ll think about it.”

“That’s all I ask.”

Chapter Text

Peter had been on patrol for four hours straight by the time the rest of the bats joined him. The tiny bit of sunlight that Gotham saw had set, calling the vigilantes and criminals to come out of hiding.

Oracle had told him to meet everyone on top of the Wayne Enterprises building, their usual meeting spot. She claimed that because it was his first day of patrol in Gotham, the bats wanted to all take turns with Peter and show him their patrol routes.

He was surprised that Batman wasn’t present on the rooftop. The man wanted to be included in every debrief or otherwise relevant conversation. In his absence everyone else, including Duke who generally would have returned to the cave by then, were there.

“Turn off your comm,” was the first thing said to him when he landed on the roof.

“What, why?” Peter tilted his head in question. While in costume he found himself relying heavily on his own body language to convey what his expression usually would. 

Although her mask covered it up, the way that Steph’s eyes squinted gave away her wide grin. “‘So the big bat can’t hear us.”

Peter complied, tapping his comm off. “Oh, that’s not ominous at all.”

Tim clapped, getting everyone’s attention. “Alright, we’ve gotta hit you with your next initiation ritual before you can properly become a bat,” he moved so that he was standing directly in front of Peter.

“Is this hazing?” 

“Yeah, probably some form of it,” Duke shrugged as all the others gave nods and hums of agreement.

“So, Spidey, have you ever played paint ball?” Tim asked, grabbing a paint ball gun from somewhere unseen in his inventory.

“Yeah, like once or twice,” the Young Avengers had played as a ‘training’ exercise. It resulted in many broken bones, slashes, and other various injuries and losses of pride. He’d been personally victimized by the alliance of Kate and Yelena. “I’m pretty good at it.”

“You good at shooting?” Steph asked, pulling out her own paint ball gun.

He hummed. “I guess. I’m not great, I’m way better at dodging, but I’m not horrible like Tim.”

The Tim in question immediately dropped his jaw in offense. “Wha— I’m fantastic at shooting, thank you very much.”

“Timmy’s joined the Jay side,” Dick shook his head with sarcastic disappointment. “I thought you were better than this.”

Tim’s glare was clear, even through the mask covering his eyes. “Anyway,” he continued, back on track. “We’re going to be playing a game of paint ball,” he passed Peter the gun.

“Sick. Are there teams?” 

“It’s every man for himself. Although alliances may be formed,” Tim spoke, sending a shiver down Peter’s spine at the reminder of his previous paint ball games. So. Many. Bruises.

“But, this is not a usual game of paint ball,” Steph stepped closer, intruding into Tim’s explanation. “We’ll all still aim for each other of course, but our ultimate goal is to hide what we’re doing from Bruce.”

Jason joined in on the instructions. “Whoever ticks off Bruce to what we’re doing is the loser. Their punishment will be getting hit by all of us at the same time.”

Just hearing the rules filled Peter with excitement. When was the last time he’d been able to have fun like this in costume? “Can’t we just avoid Bruce?”

Dick shook his head. “Nope, we’ve gotta check in every twenty minutes.”

“Don’t get hit with paint, he’ll see,” Cass added.

“Got all that, Parker?” Damian crossed his arms.

Peter turned the paint ball weapon in his hand, testing its weight and feel. “Yep, when do we start?”

“Now,” Tim punctuated the beginning with a shot towards Peter, which he quickly dodged.

-!! Up !! - !! Down !! - !! left -!!

His Spidey Sense led him off the roof, rushing to the streets. It didn’t take long for him to find a hiding spot within a nook in the street corner.

With the paint ball gun held close to his chest, he slowly snuck out with carefully silent steps. No heartbeats remained on the rooftop they’d met at, telling him the bats had all left. Where they went, that was still a mystery.

“Parker,” Damian’s voice came from behind.

Peter instantly turned, brandishing the gun as a warning. The other boy held his hands in surrender as he continued. “I propose a partnership.”

“A partnership?” He lowered the gun slightly.

“Yes. Most of the others already have their alliances. It would benefit us both to have each other," Damian explained.

Peter raised an eyebrow, although his mask covered up the gesture. “What’re the alliances?”

The question was punctuated by a spike in his Spidey Sense.

-!! Up !! - !! Hurry !!-

The small and narrowness of the alleyway they were in prevented Peter from listening to the spider in his brain’s advice. 

“We’re the only one that really matters,” Steph flew down from out of nowhere, pelting purple paint their way.

Damian sprinted in front, blocking some of the shots with his katana. “I’ve got Spoiler, you focus on Orphan,” the boy demanded.

With no more than a nod, Peter listened for the familiar, near silence, heartbeat. 

Ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum

Before he got a chance to react, Cass charged at him, shooting more purple paint pellets at him. Peter speedily recovered, managing to dodge the rest of the hits and shoot splotches of red paint onto her suit.

As quickly as the ambush had begun, it ended. Spoiler and Orphan retreated, probably already onto their next target.

Damian turned around to face Peter. The poor guy’s cape was drenched in glitter and purple. “Not. A. Word,” he ground out, bumping his shoulder as he went towards the street.

Barely containing his laughter, Peter taunted the boy. “I thought you were supposed to be good at this?”

“Tt, and don’t you have a danger sense?”

He could’ve explained how the danger sense wasn’t all that helpful when it came to the people he trusted. The warnings came when it was too late to do much except dodge and pray. However, that would mean admitting that he’d grown comfortable with the bats, as comfortable as he’d been with the Young Avengers, and Peter would rather have been crushed by a warehouse again than have an emotional moment like that. “Eh, paint doesn’t really trigger it.”

Although the domino mask covered it, he was fairly confident that Damian rolled his eyes in response. “We should target Timothy and Duke.”

“Uh, sure. Any particular reason?” Peter shrugged, already trying to zone in on the duo’s heartbeats. 

“They deserve to lose.”

“Hell yeah dude,” Peter huffed out a laugh. After a short pause as he located the two, he continued. “They’re about seven blocks down, around a…” and listened to their surroundings, eventually tracking the steady rhythm of a multitude of footsteps. “A mall, I think.”

“Hm. One of Gotham’s strip malls is a few blocks out, they’re probably around there,” Damian reloaded his own gun with red paint pellets. 

They both started towards the strip mall, Damian grappled while Peter swung. 

“Robbery reported at the bank on Pond Street, Spidey and Robin you’re the closest; it’s on you two,” Oracle’s command sped through his comm.

With a sigh Damian changed directions, wordlessly leading Peter to the bank. 

“First bank robbery in Gotham, oh yeahhhh,” Peter whispered to himself. 

“Just for future reference, please refrain from celebrating robberies,” Oracle remarked. “Or y’know, remember to turn off your comm.”

A blush crept under his mask. “Right, sorry O.”

They arrived at the scene within minutes, the sight immediately gave Peter a culture shock. The outside of the bank had no sirens, no cop cars, no reporters, nothing.

In Queens, the NYPD would have already been there, maybe even in the bank trying to apprehend the robbers. Reporters would have clung to the outside of the building, eagerly awaiting a vigilante response. 

Ugh. Like that one guy who worked for the Daily Bugle. Eddie Brock, he thought his name was? The dude was always after Spidey photos and routinely ran straight towards danger to get them. At one point Brock had been throwing himself out of windows to get an interview with him.

Regardless, the same couldn’t be said for Gotham. People passed the bank, not even batting an eye to the blaring alarms. 

“Where’re the police?” Peter asked as they landed on a roof next to the bank. 

Damian gave a confused look before quickly reverting back to his blank expression. “The GCPD takes far too long to arrive. Besides, they know that we’ll handle it.”

“Seriously? They don’t even come just to try to arrest you guys?” Another thing he certainly did not miss about New York. The NYPD had been breathing down his neck since the moment he put on that mask. It had gotten better in recent years; his work relationship with Captain Stacy helped matters. Once his identity was revealed, that, along with everything else, changed.

“Batman and the commissioner work together on many cases. Commissioner Gordon makes sure that the GCPD stays out of our way,” the boy nodded and turned back to the bank. “Can you tell how many robbers and hostages there are?”

Peter tilted his head, focusing each of his senses on the bank.

The scent of filthy money, the ruffling of the bills together. The blood—most was fresh, though he could still make out the stench of bleach having been used in the past to cover up dried blood. Panicked heartbeats among a sea of calm ones; which belonged to the robbers or hostages he wasn’t sure. Knowing Gotham, both parties were most likely keeping their temperance with frightening ease. The sharp and shallow breaths told him the hostages were being gagged, while the robbers' breaths were uneven with exertion.

Bang! Bang!

Before his Spidey Sense got a chance to warn him, paint balls showered them.

Peter pulled out his own gun—only after taking splotches of yellow paint to the chest—and shot back. “Dude! We’re trying to stop a bank robbery!”

Duke, the horrible, evil, vile, disgusting, more bad verbs, person he was, laughed as he reloaded his gun. “Tim’s already on it.”

As if on cue, the whistle of Tim’s bo-staff cutting through the air and yells of robbers confirmed Duke’s claim. 

“You guys suck.”

“Yeah, probably,” Duke shrugged and grappled away. 

He hardly resisted the urge to stomp on the ground. Ugh, his first night out and his brand new suit was already neon yellow over the spider. “Maybe Doctor Connors was right…” he sat on the rooftop with his legs dangling above the bank.

“Who?” Damian, looking equally as frustrated as Peter was yellow, took a seat beside him.

“Y’know, my dad’s old partner? Connors thought that if everyone were lizards, the world would be a better place,” Peter solemnly watched Tim lead the hostages to safety. “This proves it. If we were all lizards right now, I’d be a lizard that wasn’t covered in paint. Oh what a happy little lizard I’d be.”

Damian rolled his eyes. “Tt, at least you don’t have purple glitter everywhere.”

“But now I look like a neon hazmat suit!” Peter groaned. “People are gonna think I’m a fucking construction worker.”

A static in their comms interrupted Peter’s complaining. “Your guys’ turn for a check in with B,” Oracle reminded. “Duke sent me a picture of you and phew, good luck.”

Damian grumbled incoherently. “Where shall we meet him?”

Oracle gave the directions as they walked there—grappling would’ve been too fast. It was as if they were walking to their execution. Their humiliating, glitter and neon yellow paint filled execution. 

Before their last turn, Damian turned off the comms and grabbed Peter’s hand, pulling him into a convenience store. 

“Wha—” Peter stood to the side as Damian grabbed three mustard bottles. The cashier hardly even glanced their way. “Are you having a stroke?”

Damian didn’t respond, electing to simply pull him outside and off to the side of the shop. “Have you been made aware of Condiment King?”

“Condiment who now?”

“A low-level, horrid excuse for a rogue. His weapon is condiments,” the boy explained as he opened the first bottle of mustard.

Eh, yeah that sounded about right for the gothic city named Gotham with a clown named the Joker. “Rightttttt, okay, sure. Why’re you telling me this as your opening mus—”

He was cut off by an entire bottle of mustard being thrown onto his chest as full force. “Dude! What the fu—”

“Father cannot know that it’s paint,” Damian reminded. “We can blame this,” he gestured to Peter’s gross mustardy suit. “On the Condiment King.”

Peter’s eyes lit up. “I love blaming other people for my problems!”

“Tt,” Damian placed the two remaining bottles in one of his many belt compartments.

They continued following the directions that Oracle had left and all too soon, Batman came into view, awaiting them in an alley. 

“Father,” Damian nodded.

Peter took note of the immaculate posture he kept, facing Bruce. It was clear to anyone how much the boy respected his father. Up until this point, Peter had chalked it up to him being oddly polite. But in the masks, Robin shared far more attributes with a soldier than with a son.

“Robin, Spider-man,” Bruce shifted his gaze to the boy’s cape and Peter’s suit. “What exactly happened here?”

Peter shook his head with as much theatrical sadness he could muster. “The Condiment King. Apparently Spidey Senses are useless when it comes to condiment warfare.”

The man’s gaze returned to Damian. “And the glitter?” 

“We came across an old shipment of Joker bombs,” Damian explained, maintaining eye contact with Batman’s cowl. “My cape was the only casualty.”

“Hm,” the man hummed. Although the cowl hid much of his expression, Peter was fairly certain that he was making note of everything he could spot, attempting to disprove their story. 

A near silent—or near silent to anyone else—sniff came from Batman, most likely looking for the scent of mustard. Judging by the sharp nod Batman gave a few seconds later, it seemed as if they’d done it. 

Oh yeah. They tricked Batman!

With a flourish of his cape, the man disappeared within Gotham’s shadow, leaving them with Oracle’s next order.

“Currently, the only ones remaining untouched are Nightwing and Redhood, think you boys are up to the task?” 

“Puh-lease, I could douse them with paint in my sleep,” Peter rolled his eyes—suddenly nostalgic for his old moving lenses.

“Is that right, Mini Wing?” The recognizable metallic voice came from above.

“Ah fooey,” Peter stole Damian’s cape, using it as a makeshift shield. 

Damian shot up at Jason, who was using a fucking sniper rifle from twenty feet above. 

Sure, Peter could have sacrificed himself to protect Damian and cover Jason in paint. But, quite frankly, he really didn’t want to spend tomorrow scrubbing even more yellow out of his suit. He’d had to deal with that before with green paint and swore from that day forward, never again. 

“Peter, why do you have Dami’s cape?” Dad asked. His voice was close… too close.

Oh, Peter was a dead man.

He started ominously removing the cape. “Because…” with as deep and gravely a voice he could muster, “I’m Batman.”

Without a warning, Peter threw himself forward and stole the paint ball gun from the man’s hand. He held his own gun in one hand and the stolen one in the other, shooting up at Jason with his eyes on dad. 

The man held both arms up in surrender. “Peter,” he started, with a calm, almost condescending tone. “You don’t want to do this.”

He’d run out of paint to shoot at Jason, forcing him to drop the useless gun and focus entirely on the man in front of him. “Don’t I? Give me one reason I shouldn’t.”

“I have the power to ground you,” dad reminded.

“Dude. I was sneaking out for years to go fight bad guys in pajamas. You think grounding me would do anything?”

“What? No, of course not,” he shrugged. “But, I can take away your Batcave and lab privileges.”

Peter gasped, using his free hand to clasp the fabric over his heart. “You monster.”

“So, you gonna put the gun down?”

Peter risked a glance at Damian. The boy had sacrificed himself in order to shoot Jason. Both were seated upon the rooftop, covered head to toe in paint. 

He shook his head. “This is to avenge the fallen,” he raised the gun in the direction of dad’s forehead. “Any last words?”

“Avenge? Say that again?” 

The second that Peter released the trigger, something shot him in the back of the head. He hardly had a chance to gasp before he was falling to his knees.

His own shot had hit its target in the chest, right above the heart. Dad’s fingers graced the paint, as his eyes filled with betrayal. He fell to his back with a gasp.

Peter graciously accepted his own defeat, content with the knowledge that he’d taken down the enemy. The ground, soaked in paint and tears, came closer as gravity pulled him down.

“Tell my story,” he breathed to no one in particular. 

A familiar, purple cape entered the scene, clear amid the blur of his vision. The figure held a gun between his eyes. “Last words?”

“I-I’m—” he took a shuttering breath. “I’m sorry,” he pulled out his gun with only enough paint for one last shot. Before the purple cape could run, he pointed it to her stomach and pulled the trigger.

She fell back, striking the alley’s wall with painful force. “You little—”

“Steph!” Tim’s voice raced closer and closer, until he finally came into view and crouched to his knees beside Steph. He clutched her face with a gentle touch. “Steph… you…”

“I’ll be okay,” she whispered, with a weak hand around his wrist. “It was worth it.”

“No— Steph, you can’t just—” he begged, dropping his head to her shoulder. “Just stay with me.”

She breathed softly, almost unheard. “Just make sure—”

“Yes?”

“Make sure… Peter loses,” she sighed, marking her last breath. Her head slumped to the side.

Tim held her, “I promise, he’ll pay for this.”

Footsteps approached closer, out of Peter’s view. Tim didn’t hear them, all his attention was on Peter. 

Tim loaded his gun, preparing himself to shoot Peter. Suddenly, yellow paint exploded across his suit. “Duke!? What the hell!? We have an alliance, man!”

Duke ignored him, rushing to Peter’s side. “You okay?”

“I don’t think I’ll hang on for much longer,” he groaned. “Go. Save yourself.”

Duke put his hand to his shoulder. “I’m not leaving you.”

“Bruh,” Tim complained. “Let me kill Peter real quick.”

“I shot you already, you’re supposed to be dead,” Duke spared him an unimpressed look.

“But I don’t wanna die.”

“Yeah, none of us wanna Timmy. Now go, be dead already,” Jason ordered from his spot on the roof.

“I thought the rules were just to hide this from B,” he crossed his arms.

“Oh I swear to—” Duke lamented, before Steph interrupted.

“Call me Jason Todd ‘cos I’m back from the dead,” she grinned, grabbing her gun and shooting Tim in the face.

He coughed, gagging on the paint and glitter mixture. “It got in my fucking mouth!”

“Shoulda stayed dead when I shot you then,” Duke rolled his eyes.

“Alright guys, I’m dead again,” Steph reverted to her hunched over position.

At Duke’s glare, Tim conceded and dropped to the ground with a zombie-like moan.

“Anyways,” Duke said pointedly before going back to his teary eyed expression. “No, Peter, you can’t. We’re the last ones; I can’t do this without you.”

Before Peter could respond, two sets of near silent and carefully controlled heartbeats rounded the corner. Both stood at the foot of the alley.

A deep sigh came from one of them. “I allow you all freedom on patrol one time.”

Uh oh. That was not the voice he’d wanted to hear.

“I get freedom on patrol all the time,” Jason raised his hand.

“B doesn’t technically allow that though,” Tim countered.

“Aren’t you supposed to be dead?”

“Did Jason really just say that?” Duke looked to the others. “Is nobody else gonna call him out on that?”

Dad stood up. “Calling him out’s just gonna make it worse,” he walked over to Steph and lent a hand for her to get up.

Bruce cleared his throat, getting their attention. “Anyone care to explain?”

“Initiation,” Tim shrugged, with glitter and purple still covering his face.

Peter got up from his spot on the disgusting, wet pavement. “I had to play paint ball to become a fully fledged bat.”

“Hm.”

Peter’s gaze flickered to the side of Bruce’s cape, looking for the owner of the second heartbeat.

Steph gasped with all the betrayal of Ceaser. “Cass!? You sold us out!?”

The shadow next to Bruce nodded. “I win.”

The rest of the bats all gasped and groaned to varying degrees.

“Does that mean Cass gets to shoot all of us?”

“Yes,” Bruce confirmed.

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

                 End credit scene

The air was stiff within the building that was once home. The glow of power was the only light source, illuminating the ancient structure housing them.

The man sat atop a wooden chest, watching over the alternate universe playing out in front of him. “This isn’t right,” his voice shook nearly as much as his hands. “It was never supposed to happen like this.” 

Wong sighed, taking the seat beside him. “You need to fix this, Strange. The boy depends on you.”

Steven knew what Wong was doing. He just wanted to push him to figure out a solution, to find a way to save Peter from the fate awaiting him.

“You think I don’t know that?” Steven lost whatever sliver of composure he held. “It’s my fault he’s in this situation to begin with and now—” he rose to his feet, running his fingers through his hair.

“Now, you’ve given him the most dangerous weapon of all,” Wong breathed, remaining seated in front of Steven.

“I’ve given Peter hope,” he finished, completely drained of energy. 

“Indeed.”

Chapter Text

Dick had maybe sorta kinda been a tiny bit of a helicopter parent. It’d been two weeks since Peter put the mask on again. Those two weeks were some of the longest of his life. Bruce and Babs had to remind him a multitude of times that Peter had been doing the vigilante gig for five years and had literal super powers protecting him.

The reassurance did little to soothe his worries. His mind ran rampant with possible threats that Peter wouldn’t be able to face. Whoever was constantly watching him was still an ever looming, omnipresent danger that they knew nothing about. Dick and Tim still had little info on Beck and Murdock; at least one of the two was a potential threat.

Ah, that reminds him. He still had yet to tell Peter about them and the searches. Bruce made a good point two weeks ago. Dick was being hypocritical, keeping something of this magnitude away from his son. For once he agreed with Bruce, accepting he was wrong, and promised to make it right.

Every damn time he tried to tell him, something came up. The first time Dick had started speaking, Peter decided it would be a good idea to try to telepathically communicate with spiders—it was a worthy attempt, but a futile one—The following day he tried to start the conversation for the second time and Duke had busted through the room, racing Damian, which resulted in Alfred having a long talk with them both. 

Interruptions just kept creeping up, causing Dick to wave it off and leave it for the next day. A reasonable person might have just started again once the distraction had gone. However, a reasonable person also wouldn’t have gone out fighting crime in a cape and shorts as an eight year old orphan. The point was, he was well aware of the excuses he was making. He still continued to put it off.

“We’re going to Blüd today, right?” Peter asked through a face full of muffin. 

“Don’t speak with your mouth full,” Dick scolded without any real heat. “And yeah, just for patrol so you get a lay of the land.”

“Puh-lease like I’d need a ‘lay of the land.’ How hard can it be? There’s a mugging, just web up the bad guys. Plus, just scouting out an area is so boring. If I ever willingly do that, that is not me. That is a pod person. Oh god your guys’ clone theory would be correct. Man, I kinda wish it was correct, that’d be so cool, imagine two Peter’s. Ah names would get tricky though… the clone could be like… Ben Reilly or something. Would a clone of me have spider powers? What if he had fly powers? Wait, now I kinda want fly powers. Oooh I could be Fly-man. Friendly neighborhood Fly-man has some great alliteration but—”

“Peter,” Dick interrupted the incoming monologue. “We’ll be doing stuff, don’t worry. It’s not B’s version of scouting a place out.”

“By B’s version you mean having to memorize where every camera and alley and secret exit and entrance and trap door is? Even though I have Spidey Sense?” Peter raised an eyebrow. 

“Exactly. We are going to do something way more fun,” a grin creeped onto Dick’s face.

“Like?”

“Actual patrol while learning every corner of the city! Multitasking!”

Peter rolled his eyes in response.

He’s here. There’s no distractions. Tell him about Murdock and Beck. 

Dick took a deep breath, steadying himself. “Hey Pete—”

“Peter, why is my laptop blasting the Little Einsteins theme?” Tim came into the room like a man on a mission. 

Okay, okay, it’s okay. He’ll just talk to Peter in the car. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

Peter grinned. “For motivation! And y’know, you did leave it unattended… honestly, what did you think I was gonna do?”

Tim gave him a death glare before turning his gaze to Dick. “Permission to kill your kid?”

“Wait ‘till tomorrow, we’ve got plans for today,” Dick stood up, patted Peter on the back and headed for the door. 

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

Peter Parker was many things. Compassionate, hilarious, handsome, charming, blah blah blah. What he was not was stupid. He was well aware of the different types of intelligence and like anyone would, he had his strengths and weaknesses. 

His biggest strengths were of course, the ‘traditional’ intelligence. Which was the fancy way of saying he could do a fourteen step equation in thirty seconds flat. And his other area of expertise, emotional intelligence. That, unlike math and science, took a lot of work to develop. People fluctuated, numbers did not.

Even as a kid, Peter always had trouble with people. If he hadn’t been friends with Harry his whole life he’d have probably been a complete and total loner. He only started trying to understand people when he’d decided to use his powers for good.

After comforting so many people after the most traumatic moment of their life he picked up a thing or two. His enhanced vision aided him, allowing focus on the minuscule details that most would miss. The slight flinch when he reached out, a quickly hidden wince, a dart of the eyes, it  all became just another language to master. And that wasn’t even considering the way breathing patterns and heartbeats gave people away like they were confessing on trial.

But, his ability to read people wasn’t all on his powers, rather the assassins and vigilantes that taught him. Matt had been with him since the beginning, teaching him how to hone his senses and hear what most would see. Any movement that he may have overlooked was caught by his hearing. Natasha on the other hand, wouldn’t rest until Peter was a master in understanding body language ever better than speech.

Words could lie. Even tone, when trained correctly, could lie. But someone’s body language? Even the greatest assassins had trouble hiding that. Through years under the widow’s guidance, Peter could see someone walking across the street and pick them apart within seconds.

They stand with both legs straight, meaning they are confident. Yet, they adjust their hair a few too many times, meaning something about their appearance is worrying them—could be simple insecurity, could be a disguise. They’re looking at their phone, but they’re eyes are elsewhere. Even while keeping a steady pace, their breathing is unsteady—health issues or anxiety. 

The point was, Peter could read people well. Nobody would ever get away with lying to him again.

So when dad’s stance started shifting in the silence, when his eyes began darting past his gaze, when he fidgeted with his hands, Peter knew immediately when something was being kept from him.

Usually, he wouldn’t have hesitated to confront a liar. But this was not just a liar, this was his father. 

What would he gain from a confrontation? A confession of guilt? Losing another family? Another loss of trust?

Rationally, he knew how many times he’d been betrayed before. The memory of Beck still burned his mind. But, part of him wanted to live in ignorance. Live as if he had no clue that every conversation he and dad had shared the past few weeks were filled with deceit. Ignorance was easier than facing reality.

Peter Parker was a lot of things. A coward was one of them.

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

The drive to Blüdhaven had been quiet. Peter spent the drive in the passenger's seat looking out the window with his headphones at full volume. 

Dick tried to focus on driving even as the back of his mind screamed to just tell Peter about Beck and Murdock. 

Despite every impossible foe Dick had fought, he was a coward when the stakes were high.

Like he said, the drive was quiet.

••••••

The day was spent playing tourist as he showed Peter around the city. They visited restaurants, markets, anything they passed that Peter took an interest in. And if they purchased an ungodly amount of Nightwing merch? Well that was a problem for another day.

The outing was nice. Dick hadn’t gotten many chances to hang out with Peter without his siblings around; it was a good bonding opportunity.

If only the unspoken words between them weren’t so deafening.

“Sooooo, patrol?” Peter looked up from his lounging position on the couch.

Dick set down his mug. “Yep, but first,” he held out a finger as Peter groaned. “What’s the number one rule?”

“Stick together,” Peter rolled his eyes. “You’ve only been reminding me all day.”

Dick ruffled his hair, earning a yelp and a smacked wrist. He ignored the odd feeling swarming in his gut—probably just nerves from lying to Peter—and led them out to the rooftops of Blüdhaven.

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

They’d been on patrol for only an hour before his Spidey Sense went off.

The hour beforehand was fine, it was a routine patrol. Helping find lost dogs, giving directions, stopping the occasional muggings, the usual. Until, a fire became uncontrollable within one of the apartment buildings. 

Dad had gotten the alert when the Blüdhaven fire department started calling in help from surrounding areas. They’d made it there in record time, immediately working to get people out.

Dad worked on the bottom floors while Peter focused on the top ones. He’d gotten seven people and three cats onto the streets when that all too familiar ache at the back of his head spiked.

—!! Down !! — !! Bad !! — !! Help !! —

A fragment of the fire caught his arm as he tried to follow the pull of his Spidey Sense. Screams of civilians kept stealing his attention.

“My daughter!” A man with a black burn across his entire leg ran out of one of the apartments. “I can’t— I don’t know where—,” he rushed around like a madman.

“I’ll find her,” he promised the man before quickly attaching a web to him and letting him out the window to safety.

Peter desperately tried to push down the nausea of his Spidey Sense. His safety came later. Through the crackling of the flames, he made out small hiccuped sobs from the corner of a hallway engulfed with red, hot fire.

With a deep breath, he ran through the flames, ignoring the bubbling of his skin. Thank Thor for his lenses, allowing him to see the source of the sobs amidst the billowing smoke. 

He knelt down to his knees in front of the little girl. In as gentle a voice he could manage, “Hey, I’m gonna help you, okay?”

The girl immediately pushed back against the wall, distrusting. “I’m not ‘upposed ta talk to strangers.”

That was when the steady pulse of danger in the back of head screamed. Violently begging to be attended too.

Only, it wasn’t for him. Peter realized with a sinking feeling deep within his gut.

—!! Bad !! — !! Down !! — !! HELP !!—

A crack in the building’s foundation echoed throughout his mind.

The buzzing danger was coming from beneath. 

Right where dad was.

Peter Parker begged to help with the same  desperation of the spider within him. Spider-man however, still had a job to do. 

Civilians always came first. Spider-man did not have the luxury of saving his family. 

“I know,” if only his mask covered the shake of his voice like it hid the tremble of his lips. “But your dad sent me to help you.”

The girl looked at him for a moment before nodding and holding out her arms. Wasting no time, he grabbed her and ran out the window of the building.

His web stuck to the bricks of the outside wall as he carefully lowered them down to the girl’s father.

The man took the girl in the arms before they’d even touched the ground. “Thank you,” he said.

Peter didn’t get a chance to respond before the building collapsed.

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

In a room illuminated by flames, Dick could see nothing. 

He’d been on the second floor when the foundation of the building gave out under the stress of the heat.  Debris pinned him face first to the ground. The scratch of the rug irritated his burns.

With a shuddering breath he tried to move, only digging the debris deeper into his skin. The carpet below him was damp with blood; he wasn’t sure if it was his own. The room swam around him as if he’d been spinning. Every breath burned more than the fire as the smoke tore apart his lungs.

A pathetic grunt came from Dick as he desperately dug his palms into the ground, trying to escape. 

It took hours, minutes, seconds for his vision to be overcome by black spots. Before long, he was nothing and nowhere.

••••••

Richard was in a suit—not a black and blue one, or even a green and yellow one with a cape. Rather, a black suit and tie with dress pants and matching shoes. 

He stood in front of the mirror, taking his appearance in. He’d never been an insecure man, making the worry as he straightened his suit unprecedented. But who could blame him for being antsy on his wedding day?

A snort came from the doorway. “You’re taking longer than Maria, y’know?” Ben shook his head with a smile as he entered the room.

Richard rolled his eyes. “She doesn’t have anything to worry about, she’s always gorgeous.”

“You’ve always been such a hopeless romantic,” Ben scoffed. “Remember when we were kids and you kept setting me up with any girl I had the slightest crush on?”

He finally stepped away from the mirror, giving his brother his attention. “Yeah and if I remember correctly, I was the one to introduce you to May, soooo,”

“Soooo,” Ben mocked. “Aren’t you supposed to be out there in like ten minutes?”

That reminder quickly brought him back to reality. “Yeah,” Richard’s voice squeaked like he was a thirteen year old boy.

“What, cold feet?” Ben laughed before quickly shutting up upon seeing Richard’s face. “Oh my god. I’m right? You—”

“I don’t have cold feet,” he groaned. “Just… nerves… I guess.”

“Nerves? Why? You’ve been in love with Maria from the moment you laid eyes on her,” Ben took a seat and gestured for Richard to sit as well.

He took the seat with a deep breath, trying to make sense of the nonsense muddying up his mind. “It’s not Maria. I just—” another breath. “Is everyone here?”

“What do you mean?”

Richard shook away the ridiculous thought of other siblings. The thought of parents briefly entered his mind before a sharp memory of broken wires interrupted it. “Our family… it’s just us.”

Ben was quiet for a moment before placing a hand on his shoulder. “Mom and dad died a year ago. It’s just us.”

It was wrong. He knew his brother was correct. Everything in him screamed that it was wrong. “I know.”

“Are you alright?”

“Fine, fine. I’m fine,” he quickly assured. “Just wedding nerves.” Richard wore a painfully fake smile.

Ben, miraculously, didn't comment on it. Electing instead to give him a pat on the back and lead him out the door. 

“You ready for your life to begin?”

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

“What the hell happened!?”

“Someone, call Alfred!”

“Isn’t he on vacation?”

“Alfred goes on vacation!?”

“Dick’s about to fucking die and this is what you’re worried about?”

“Alfred’s in the manor!”

“Where the hell are the bandages!?”

“You have to disinfect it first!”

“What do we do?”

“Get ice!”

“Ice won’t help burns, dumbass.”

“It’s cold! Of course it will!”

“Peter, are you okay?” 

The swarm of muffled, far away, yet still too loud voices finally came into focus. Peter knew where he was—the Batcave. He knew how he’d gotten there—stole a car and broke every traffic law in the book. But it was all… fuzzy. Logically, he knew and remembered the events that led him sitting outside the medbay. His mind however, refused to comprehend it. 

Dad promised that he wouldn’t leave him again.

He’d broken that same promise once before.

The medbay walls were to his back as he sat on the cold, hard ground of the cave. Yet, it and every bat inhabiting it felt so far; just barely out of reach.

“Peter?” Bruce repeated, grabbing Peter’s attention.

He opened his mouth to respond but no words came out. He wasn’t sure if he was unable to speak or simply didn’t want to. 

Bruce took his cowl off and slid to the ground beside him. He kept his eyes planted firmly on the wall in front of them. “He’ll be okay.”

Peter let out what was supposed to be a grunt but came out more like a whimper. He dropped his head to his knees. “I don’t wanna lose my dad again,” he spoke, hardly stifling his sobs.

“You won’t,” Bruce promised.

“How do you know?”

“Because I won’t lose my son again,” the man said resolutely. As if it guaranteed safety, as if the simple proclamation forbade death from taking another bat.

Peter grumbled, lifting his head slightly to look at Bruce. “It looked bad.”

“Some injuries look worse than they are. Besides, Dick’s been through far worse.”

“Like a plane crash?” Peter tried to joke but it came out hollow. 

Bruce gave a brief nod. “Amidst other things.”

He sniffed. “Like what?”

The man wore a ghost of a smile as he spoke. “Space.”

“He went to where!?” Peter’s eyes nearly bulged out of his skull. “This universe’s tech is so behind I was beginning to wonder if you guys even had the moon landing,” the misery of his voice took away the humor in it, but he figured Bruce still got the message.

“The Titans have been on several missions all over—and outside—our world,” Bruce continued, ignoring Peter’s input.

“The Titans?”

“Your father’s team,” he explained. “When he wakes up, you should ask him about it,” Bruce finally turned his head to look at Peter.  

He rubbed his eyes, stinging from the effort of holding his tears in. “I’d like that,” he breathed.

Bruce put a hand on his shoulder. “He’ll wake up. He always does.” 

Chapter Text

Six hours.

Six hours of waiting for dad to wake up.

Peter had been sitting on a chair next to the medbay bed the second that Alfred said it was okay to do so. For six hours he’d refused to leave for longer than a minute; those small breaks were reserved for bathroom or food breaks. 

It was eerily reminiscent of all the times The Avengers had gotten hurt. There were multiple instances where he closed his eyes, focusing on the medical scent filling the room. For a brief second, he thought he’d open them to see Dr. Cho, or maybe even Dr. Banner. It was a toss up as to who they’d be working on, although generally it was either Tony or Clint. They both were constantly in and out of the medbay, either from getting hurt on a mission or trying to one up one of the others.

A sharp punch to his gut came when he finally opened his eyes to see his dad unconscious on the bed. Unfiltered fear coursed through his veins like it was blood. Even after Alfred and Dr. Thompkins promised that dad would make a full recovery, Peter was unable to sit still. Parker Luck was still a threat, how could he expect it to not take away his father right when he had just gotten him back?

He adjusted his sitting position, opting to sit upside down with his hair touching the ground. A memory of Uncle Ben always telling him how much he was like his father whenever he sat improperly, played faintly in the back of his head.

It wasn’t long before the exhaustion of the day overtook him and the world faded away.

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

Awareness slowly pulled Dick out of unconsciousness. The first thing to hit him was the muffled pain radiating throughout his entire body. The soft mattress and blankets beneath him were unmistakably the Manors—or Batcave, which, judging by the way everything burned, it was probably the latter.

He’d been in… a fire? Fragmented memories of flames and debris filled in the blanks of how he’d ended up in the medbay. He groaned with the energy to open his eyes.

Looking around the room, his eyes immediately caught on a familiar face. “Peter?” His voice was rough with what must have been a dangerously high level of smoke inhalation.

“Huh?” Peter jumped from his spot upside down in the seat, immediately remembering that gravity existed, and swiftly changed position so that he was unright. “You’re awake!”

Dick rubbed his eyes. “Are you okay?” The last thing he clearly remembered was patrolling with the boy. Knowing Peter, no matter how dangerous the situation was, he went in without a second thought.

“You had a building collapse on you, and you’re asking if I’m okay?” Peter ran his hands through his hair. 

Ah, that would explain why he’d remembered so much debris. As far as bat-injuries go, it was far from the worst. Dick didn’t think about it too much. He’d gotten his ass kicked, big deal. Been there, done that. So the paleness of Peter’s skin, the puffy eyes, and the downturn of his lips all served to focus his energy far more on his safety, rather than his own. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Peter crossed his arms indignantly. “I’m fine.” 

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

Within seconds, the boy’s demeanor switched to… anger? “What’s wrong!?” He repeated. “You almost died!” Peter turned his head away just as the tears began to fall.

Ah, right. That. Through the concussion, Dick had almost forgotten that he was a goddamn idiot. 

Peter thought he was dead for longer than they’d known each other. Of course a near death experience would terrify him.

It reminded Dick of the first time he’d seen Bruce get hurt. They were facing off against a dozen or so of Penguins goons. One of them got in a lucky shot right where Batman’s armor failed to protect him. Dick, eight years old and having nightmares every night about his parents’ fall, was horrified. There were a few minutes as Alfred stitched Bruce up where he truly believed he’d lost another parent. When Bruce had eventually woken up, Dick had screamed at him for his recklessness and the stupidity that got him shot in the first place. Though, they both knew it wasn’t the injury itself that angered him, rather it was the fact that Bruce had lied when he promised to be careful. He promised he wouldn’t end up like the Graysons.

All the times Dick had made similar promises to Peter hit him harder than the debris that put him in this situation in the first place. “I’m sorry.”

Peter scoffed, rubbing his eyes to hide his fear. “No you’re not.”

“Yes, I am,” Dick spoke with a fragile tone—not a condescending one. “I’m okay, you don’t have to worry.”

“You say you’re sorry, but it’s not like you regret it,” Peter spoke with the kind of bitterness that Dick knew all too well following his own parents’ deaths. “You’ll do it again and again because if it means saving people then it’s worth it, but it’s not. I don’t care anymore. I don’t care how many other people get hurt. I just want my dad,” he broke down into sobs, desperately trying to hide it and failing spectacularly. 

“I know, I know,” Dick grit his teeth through the pain of sitting up. Once he did, his mind went blank. How was he supposed to respond to that? Peter was right. Dick regretted the fact that his injuries hurt his son, but if faced with the decision again, he’d make the same one in a heartbeat.

In the silence, Peter got control over his breathing again and continued. “Why does everyone have to be heroes all the time?”

“Because the alternative is being as bad as the villains,” Dick shrugged. “I’ve always thought that if you have the ability to help someone, it’s your moral obligation to do so.”

That made Peter pause briefly before shaking his head with a bittersweet smile. “Uncle Ben told me that.”

“Uncle Ben’s a wise man,” or, was a wise man, his mind quickly corrected. Ben Parker was a wise man, before Richard Parker had passed.

He pushed back the few memories he held onto of his older brother and continued. “The point is, I have to be Nightwing; just like you have to be Spider-man. We can try to separate both of our identities as much as we want, but at the end of day, one cannot exist without the other.”

Peter sniffed, folding in on himself with his arms wrapped around his legs and his head resting on his knees. “It’s not fair,” his voice cracked. “I miss when you were just Richard Parker.”

Dick wondered what hurt more. The debris pinning him to the floor in a room full of flames or Peter’s words.

Though, he’d be lying if he claimed to disagree with the sentiment. 

“You deserve a normal family like the Parkers. I’m sorry I can’t be that anymore,” he slowly began, unsure of how to get his point across. “I won’t lie to you and say that this’ll never happen again; it will. I won’t lie to you and say that I won’t get killed; we both know the dangers of our field. But, what I can promise is that you’ll never be alone again. There’s always gonna be bats, they’re your family just as much as I am. If something happens to me, they’ll always be there for you.”

Peter huffed. “I don’t want something to happen to you again.” 

“I promise, I’ll do everything in my power to make sure nothing does,” he tried giving a comforting smile, only managing a grimace.

“Don’t,” Peter shook his head slightly, still keeping it turned away from Dick. “Don’t promise me anything.”

“Peter—”

“Do you really not remember?” He finally faced him, eyes puffy and red. “Before you and mom left you promised you’d be back in a few days. We were gonna go to the zoo, but we didn’t. You broke your promise,” he sucked in a trembling breath. “You always break your promises.”

As Peter spoke, his age became clearer and clearer. It was hard to remember it at times; he hid under his intellect and heroism so his inexperience didn’t show. And Dick, getting used to his five year old suddenly being sixteen, fell for it. But at this moment, all the masks fell away. All Dick could see was his son, traumatized by betrayal and death, petrified of another loss. 

Dick moved to the side and patted the empty space next to him. “Come here.”

Peter moved as fast as a speedster, instantly taking the spot and wrapping his arms around Dick in an embrace. 

He ignored the burning pain of it, gritting his teeth to not make a sound. He returned the hug, holding Peter like nothing could ever hurt him.

“I’m here, I’m not leaving you, little Robin,” he tucked his head into Peter’s hair. “I’m here, I'm here,” he repeated it as if the more he said it, the more pain he could take away from his son.

One day, he knew that Gotham would take everything away, just like it always did. The city had a habit of allowing you to feel safe and ripping it away violently. He knew that his time of safety was running short; soon Gotham would have had enough and would bestow its curse yet again. And when that happened, he wouldn’t be able to protect himself, nor Peter.

But that was reserved for the future. Whether it was the next day or a year away, he had no clue. But it wasn’t now. So they stayed there, unspeaking, ignoring the danger constantly surrounding them, allowing safety to take its place.

Nothing, not even Gotham could take this moment away.

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

The batgirls—including Jason—were making their way through Gotham’s streets. 

The Batcave was… a lot to deal with at the moment. Damian was vigorously training to distract himself from Dick getting hurt, Duke was trying (and failing) to calm him down, Bruce and Tim were called away to an urgent meeting at WE, Peter was refusing to leave Dick’s side, and Cass and Steph had been trying to focus on their cases while constantly asking for updates on Dick’s condition.

Jason and Babs decided the best course of action was to get Cass and Steph away from the stress and go out for a quick day trip. They’d asked for Damian and Duke to join them, earning themselves insults and threats. When they asked Peter, all they got in return was a silent glare from the boy which was uncharacteristic enough that they just let it go.

So, impromptu batgirl day out! In civvies, their first order of business was to stop by the bank to take out some money—courtesy of Bruce’s card, unbeknownst to him.

Jason walked in front pushing Babs’ wheelchair as Steph and Cass trailed behind. They made it to the bank, a small place on one of the street corners. The whole place had about seven other people, excluding employees. 

They waited in line, all focused on their argument over who would win in a fight, an astronaut or a caveman. Jason, personally, was on the caveman’s side, which earned the other three to go into all the reasons he was wrong.

A typical batgirl hang out, all things considered. Or, it was, until the man in front of them in the line pushed a woman out of the way of a gunshot.

It wasn’t a noteworthy moment—unusual selflessness for a Gothamite sure, but not suspicious. Or, it wouldn’t have been, had the man not pushed her out of the way before the gun went off.

“Everyone, empty your pockets,” one of the robbers ordered, waving his gun in the air for them all to see.

“Ugh, I hate getting robbed in civies,” Steph lamented with a sigh, but ultimately complied and took out her wallet.

Jason agreed with the sentiment. Attempted robbery? Nearly an every day occurrence. Attempted robbery as civilians? Not uncommon, considering the fact that they were all routinely held as ransom, but still, not something they were used to.

Simply being robbed wasn’t the problem. It was that none of them could do anything about it without risking theirs, and thus all of the bats’ identities. If just one of them got caught, it wouldn’t be long before the entirety of Gotham put the pieces together and figured out Batman’s identity. And none of them were eager to deal with Bruce’s wrath should such a thing occur.

The robbers were obviously newbies, judging by the laughable quiver in their voices and their constant threats that they refused to follow through with. Honestly, it was embarrassing to even be held hostage in this kind of situation. Jason started to feel like Tim whenever he got held hostage.

At least the memories of all the times he’d had to rescue Tim, ever the damsel in distress, aided his aching humiliation.

Jason hardly held back a grumble as he let go of his dignity and followed the instructions by the novice robbers. He, Babs, Steph, and Cass were all sitting by the front desk with their hands at the back of their heads. 

“So, plan?” Jason whispered, turning to Babs for an answer.

She sighed. “As long as nobody gets hurt, we do nothing until we can switch to capes.”

“Call the others?” Cass’ voice was near the volume of a heartbeat. 

Steph shook her head. “D’you really wanna call ‘em right now?” 

She had a good point. 

Yes, being a bat meant pushing the difficult emotions aside and completing the mission. From the second they took on their masks, they accepted the distinction between the capes and the civilian. 

Jason Todd was not Red Hood. Red Hood was worried about one thing and one thing only; keeping Crime Alley safe. Jason Todd was the one who refused to think about the burns so deep they revealed bones that his brother was dealing with. 

However, Batman’s insistence on the rule wasn’t always adhered to. Sometimes, they needed to prioritize their civilian lives in order to avoid their masks being blinded by emotion. Had a major rogue hit Gotham, they’d have called the others without hesitation. But a meaningless bank robbery? It wasn’t worth disrupting the already tense atmosphere stuffing the Batcave. 

Minus the embarrassment that came with needing assistance in a hostage situation, calling the available bats would just cause them more stress on top of everything else.

“Stay quiet, do what they tell us to. Once we can leave, we’ll switch and deal with the robbers,” Jason said, earning small nods in response.

They watched as one of the men in ski masks held a gun to an older woman’s head, demanding her wedding band. 

“Excuse me?” An unfamiliar man seated next to the Batgirls tapped Cass’ shoulder. “You wouldn’t happen to have a scarf, would you?”

“Are you hurt?” Steph’s eyes surveyed every inch and movement of the stranger. 

He shook his head. “No, that’s not why I need it.”

Cass pulled out a black scarf from wherever she held it. With a nod, she handed it to the man. “Careful.”

“I will,” he offered a shadow of a smile and stood up. As he did, the walking stick in his hand collapsed into a denser form, strikingly similar to a baton.

Babs redirected her attention back to them, then the man, and back again. Each time looking like she was on the verge of saying something but deciding against it.

“Spit it out. What is it?” 

“I’m probably wrong but…” she started, shook her head, and continued. “We saw him before. He was the one in front of us in line.”

“The one who reacted to that shot way too quick?” Steph leaned forward.

“Yeah, and the one who had a walking stick and sunglasses,” Babs grimaced, focusing all her attention on the man who was inching towards the back of the robber. The scarf that Cass had supplied him with was wrapped around the top of his head, covering his eyes in a makeshift mask.

“What’s your point?” Jason raised an eyebrow.

“Blind,” Cass looked back at them. “He’s blind.”

Before any of them got a chance to question it, the blind man swung his walking stick against the robber’s head and grabbed the gun in the same breath.

“What the fu-” the rest of the band of criminals raised their weapons. Out of five robbers, only two were able to get a shot in before being knocked unconscious and disarmed.

The man took a bullet to the back of the thigh like a champ, only grunting in pain and quickly moving on. With the same leg, he kicked the guy to the ground. The second he hit concrete, the gun was ripped out of his hands and was shot in the knee. 

The last robber standing ran from behind with a pocket knife, aimed at the blind man’s throat. Without even turning around, the blind man pointed the gun to his ankle and shot. 

The bank echoed following the last gun shot. Bullets clanking to the floor as the gun was emptied and the moans of the wounded robbers were the only noise heard in the building. The blindfolded man knelt down beside one of the unconscious bodies and took the stolen wedding band.

“I believe this is yours?” He handed it to the woman without awaiting a response.

None of the hostages—or prior hostages—dared to move a muscle as the blindfolded man approached each body, checking for a pulse. 

With a frustrated sigh, he took the jacket off one of them and wiped the blood off his baton, swiftly reverting it into its original form as a walking stick. 

A small flinch went through him as he stood back up, probably from the bullet lodged in his thigh. Without looking back, he went for the door.

Steph jumped from beside Jason, racing to catch the man before he was lost within Gotham’s crowds. Before any of them could stop her, she grabbed the man’s shoulder. 

The man didn’t jump, nor threw a punch or put up any sort of fight. He simply turned around, as if he’d been expecting it. 

“What the hell was that?” Steph blurted out, removing her hand from his shoulder once he froze in place.

In the man’s silence she continued. “How did you… how?” Pure confusion dripped from her words.

With a small smirk and a shrug, the man finally answered. “I’m a really good lawyer.”

Chapter Text

Matt Murdock had met a lot of fellow vigilantes.

After the first few run-ins with The Punisher, Jessica Jones, Luke Cage, Moonknight, Deadpool, and all the other colorful array of heroes New York had to offer, he’d become used to the routine.

So, when he came across a new face in Hell’s Kitchen, abnormally short and inexperienced, he knew exactly how to deal with it.

Matt Murdock’s Guide to Meeting New Vigilantes—Step One: 

Find Out Who They Are.

The new guy was hanging around an alleyway within the outskirts of Hell’s Kitchen. The ragged, uneven breathing, and the smell of blood coming from him didn’t paint the best picture.

“Who are you?” Matt—or Daredevil, he should say, dropped into the alley with practiced stealth.

The new guy—why did his blood smell so… chemically?—immediately jumped from his spot on the ground, before quickly regretting the pained action and reverting to his prior position. His heartbeat—quiet for a healthy adult—raced upon spotting him. “Holy shit, you’re the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.”

Matt was no stranger to people being shocked and in awe of him. Both in his civilian life as a blind lawyer, and his life in the mask. The reaction itself didn’t set off any alarm bells, rather, the pubescent voice did.

Surely, either the guy was just a little behind or Matt’s hearing wasn’t as good as expected.

Yeah, the guy was definitely just a bit behind on puberty. What kinda kid would be out doing the whole vigilante thing?

“I am. You are?” Daredevil stood above him, keeping careful track of the amount of blood loss.

“Are you gonna kill me or send me to hell or smite me or something because I really really really don’t wanna die, man, and like, my aunt would totally kill me if I died, ‘specially if I was killed by the devil, although that’s kinda cool now that I think about it, imagine me going to school tomorrow and telling my friends that the literal devil smited me, like Flash would never pick on me again after that, actually could you smite me real quick, wait wait no, if you killed me then no more school, alright never mind you can kill me, so—” 

“Stop,” Matt held up a hand to silence the child, as he was now all too aware couldn’t have been older than thirteen. He needed to question the kid and find out why the hell he was there. Was someone forcing him to do their dirty work for them? That was the only logical explanation. Regardless of the reason that drove the kid to bleed out in a back alley, Matt needed to focus on patching him up before anything else. “You’re hurt. Come with me.”

“No way! Stranger danger dude!” He backed into the wall with a grunt. “As fun as it’d be to be smited by the Devil—can you strike someone with lightning or is that an exclusively Thor thing?—I gotta get back home. My aunt will ground me for the rest of eternity if she catches me sneaking out.”

Matt was silent for a brief moment, taking in just how young this wannabe vigilante was. Seriously, what was going on? The chemical scent of the kid’s blood pulled him back to reality. “She’ll be more upset to see you dead,” he picked up the kid, far too light for his height, and began the journey to his apartment.

“Will not! You’ve never faced her wrath! The Devil himself would be scared of her—wha- hey! Put me down!” He struggled in Daredevil’s grip. “This is height-phobic. You can’t just pick up people whenever you want just because they’re short…” The longer he spoke, the quieter he got. Ultimately, passing out.

Matt Murdock’s Guide to Meeting New Vigilantes—Step two:

Make Sure They Don’t Die.

As many skills as Matt had acquired over the years, it was always best to leave the worst injuries to Claire. 

“Mathew Micheal Murdock, why is there a child bleeding out on your couch?” Claire scolded the second she entered the room, immediately pulling out her first aid kit. 

Matt was silent in response. He didn’t know the answer either. He hated not knowing things. 

He’d taken the flimsy mask off the boy once they entered the apartment. Considering Claire’s reaction, the kid looked his age.

Claire peeled away the kid’s hoodie, revealing a gnarly stab wound. If Matt was right, and he usually was, the injury went about four inches deep, narrowly missing a kidney. “I’m assuming you're giving me the silent treatment because this is upsetting you but you’re too proud to admit that?”

He took a seat next to the couch, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t understand who would send some kid out there to play hero,” Matt sighed. “I heard him scaring away some muggers. By the time I got there, he was,” he gestured at the unconscious body. “Yeah.”

Claire huffed as she disinfected the wound. “Y’think he’s trained? I mean, you’ve heard those stories about child assassins.” 

“No. He was far too inexperienced and immature.”

“Well, something, definitely… changed him,” she mumbled, taking a better look at the source of the blood. “This wound, it’s… Matt, this looks a couple hours old.”

“That’s impossible,” he tilted his head towards her direction. “I heard it happen less than twenty minutes ago.”

Claire scoffed. “Years of med school, and this is what I get. A blind guy with powers and a death wish, and a vigilante kid with super healing.”

Matt Murdock’s Guide to Meeting New Vigilantes—Step Three:

Find Out Their Motives.

It was an hour before the kid woke up again. The rhythm of his heart speeding up was a prelude to him shooting off the couch and… sticking to the ceiling? “Who? What?” The kid looked around the room, wide eyed. “Oh my Thor. I was kidnapped by Daredevil.”

“Relax, you’re safe. I patched you up; you had quite the injury back there. You feeling okay?” Claire—God bless Claire Temple, Matt thought for the hundredth time—didn’t outwardly show her shock. Instead, treated him like any other patient.

“How long was I out?” The kid ignored her. 

“About an hour,” Matt answered. “Now, can you get down from there?”

“Huh?” The boy tilted his head in question. “Ooooooh right. Yeah, I guess so,” he unceremoniously dropped right back onto the couch. “What time’s it?”

“3am.”

“Ahhh good,” he sighed in relief. “My aunt gets back from work at 6am, plenty of time to get back to Que— uh. Home. My place that is my home. That is my own apartment,” the kid tried to deepen his voice, failing miserably.

Matt ran a hand down his face. Years of dealing with ninjas that could bring people back from the dead should have been the craziest thing to happen to him, but unfortunately, New York tested his sanity time and time again. “How old are you, kid?”

“Hey! ‘M not a kid, I’m a man,” his voice squeaked when he tried to deepen it again. “And you kidna—mannapped me. I’m not gonna answer anything,” he crossed his arms in defiance.

Claire barely held back her laughter, but managed to hide it. “Daredevil just brought you here to make sure you were safe,” she soothed. “We both just wanna make sure you’re okay, alright?”

The kid was quiet for a moment. “You’ll let me go back home before 6:00, right?”

“Of course.”

“Now,” Matt cleared his throat. “How old are you?”

“Twenty,” the kid lied. Matt didn’t need to monitor his heart rate to figure that.

“Try again.”

“Uhm… eighteen?”

“Again.”

“Sixteen?”

“Stop lying. You’re just wasting time.”

“Ah, you’re right, you’re right. Alright, you’ve got me. I’m fourteen.”

“Lie,” Matt growled.

That seemed to do the trick. “Fine, fine! I’m eleven, happy now?” The kid surrendered. “OhmyThor, you’re totally the actual devil.”

Matt froze once given the correct answer. Eleven. “What was an eleven year old doing, fighting armed muggers?” He gritted out like the words burned his throat.

“Uhhhh… fighting crime, duh,” the kid shrugged. “I’m a hero! Y’know, like Captain America and Thor and you!” He smiled impossibly large, given the circumstances. 

Claire sighed. “Yep, that’s my cue to leave. Catch me up on everything later, Mike,” she packed up her supplies and left without another word.

“Mike? The devil’s name is Micheal? I thought that was an archangel or something? Unless Supernatural lied to me,” The kid squinted his eyes, disbelieving. 

“It’s a nickname,” he muttered. “Is anyone forcing you to do this?” Matt sat on the table in front of the kid.

“No? Why would anyone do that? I’m just trying to be a friendly neighborhood Spider-man, y’know?” The kid explained. 

“Spider-man?”

“Yep! I was bitten by this radioactive spider that gave me super cool spider powers,” he eagerly nodded. “Well I mean, some are cool, some really suck. Ugh, d’you know what it’s like to hear everything within a mile? It sucks!”

Matt found his lips curling in amusement at the kid’s ranting. “Actually, I do know what that’s like.”

“Y’do? Oh right. The whole devil thing,” he rolled his eyes. 

“I’m not the devil, kid. I’m like you. An accident gave me my abilities,” uh oh. Why was he being so forthcoming? Matt hardly spoke more than a sentence at a time to people in the mask, and now he was explaining his past? Even vague, it was completely out of character for him. Yet, it didn’t feel wrong.

“Seriously!? Radioactive spiders are that common!?”

“Wasn’t a spider that got me,” Matt shrugged. “Getting back on track, you’ve gotta stop this… wannabe hero gig.”

“Do not,” he huffed, making his age more and more clear the longer they spoke. “I’ve got sick powers, dude! It’s my job—my responsibility to use them for good.”

“You’re a child. You should be sitting at home with your family, playing games and doing homework. Not risking your life for others,” Matt’s voice, not Daredevil’s, came out softer than intended. He was probably—almost definitely—projecting. But he was a lawyer, not a therapist.

“I don’t exactly have much of a family to go to,” the kid mumbled under his breath, quieter than a normal person could hear. 

Then again, Matt Murdock was far from a normal person. “I thought you said you have your aunt?”

“I-I do, I just… it’s all… weird, right now. Point is, I like this more than all the normal stuff. I’ve gotta help people,” he rubbed his eyes. “If I’ve got these powers and don’t use them for good, then I’m no better than the bad guys.”

“Kid, nobody would blame you for sitting back and letting the adults handle this. You don’t need to risk your life for others’.”

The kid bit the inside of his cheek. “You don’t get it, Daredevil. I already didn’t save someone because I waited for the adults to handle it. They were too slow to save my parents, and they were too slow to save my uncle, I’m not trusting them with anyone’s lives ever again,” he moved into a fetal position, staring daggers at the ground. “I can’t fail my family again.”

The air circulated the space around them for a moment before Matt spoke. “I lost my dad when I was a little younger than you. I’d just gotten my powers when I was placed in an orphanage. Believe me, I know how you feel. You’re angry at the world for taking them away, right?”

The kid nodded, rubbing his palms into his eyes.

“You think the only way to use that anger is by preventing future deaths?”

“No,” he shook his head. “I don’t do it out of anger. Sure, it started that way, but now I just wanna be there for people in a way that nobody was there for me. My uncle always wanted me to help people, so that’s what I’m doing.”

“Hm,” Matt hummed. “When was the last time you ate something?” It didn’t take enhanced senses to hear the kid’s stomach growling like he hadn’t eaten in weeks. Besides, Matt was far too familiar with the kid’s mindset. He shared it for a long time. If he was honest with himself, he still held onto some of that; which would be how he knew that the kid wouldn’t give up after a simple conversation.

“Uhm… a couple hours ago. But I have a super fast metabolism ‘cos of my powers and I can’t really eat as much as I should,” he kicked his legs against the couch. 

“Come with me.”

Matt Murdock’s Guide to Dealing With New Vigilantes—Step Four:

Provide Aid.

Matt quickly put together a pasta dish for the two. Since he had no way of knowing how much the kid needed to eat, he made an extra two servings for him.

“Are you trained?” Matt asked as they took seats at his kitchen counter.

The kid inhaled his first plate as he answered. “Nah, I just watched some parkour tutorials and read a Wiki How thing on how to become a superhero.”

Yes, Matt was blind. And yes, he still needed to close his eyes to take that nugget of information in. “Seriously, kid?” He sighed. “You think you can stop bullets because you watched a couple videos?”

“First off,” the kid said through a mouth full of food before swallowing and continuing. “I may be eleven but I’m not a kid.”

“Uh huh.”

“I’m not! And secondly, I have super fast spidery reflexes so I don’t get shot,” he shrugged, grabbing his second plate without hesitation.

Matt ran a hand down his mask covered face. A sudden urge to apologize to Father Lantom for everything he ever did came across him. “Then how’d you get stabbed?”

“A broken clock is right twice a day. So obviously a super skilled fighter can lose twice a day,” the kid explained as if he were a fun sized Socrates. 

Matt sighed for the dozenth time that night. “You got lucky this time. If I weren’t there, they’d be pulling our dead body out of the gutter right now.”

“Woah, edge lord much.”

“Kid, I’m serious.”

“I’m not a kid, old man.”

“Wha— I’m not an old man,” Matt tried and failed to not sound offended.

“And I’m not a kid,” the kid crossed his arms, knowing he already won the argument.

Matt grunted. “Fine. Then what am I supposed to call you?”

“Spider-man!”

“I may not call you kid but I’m definitely not calling you ‘man.’”

“Ugh. Are all vigilantes this boring? Fine, fine, whatever. How about… Spidey!” The kid reached for his third and final plate after devouring the second one.

“No,” Matt denied. “How about your real name?”

“Woah, woah, woah,” the kid raised his hands in offense at the very idea. “I’ve got a secret identity to uphold, Mr. Daredevil because you also have a secret identity.”

Matt, not for the first time and definitely not the last, questioned his past actions that led him to this situation in the first place. “I’ll give you dessert if you tell me.”

The kid raised an eyebrow. “What dessert?”

A trip to the fridge later, he came back with week old churros. Apparently Foggy had been right when he said that they’d come in handy on a bad night. 

The kid gasped in awe. “I’ll literally give you my social security number for those,” he gaped at the soggy bag. “Well, actually, I don’t know it. I can ask my aunt tomorrow if you need—”

“Just your name.”

“Peter. Now, churros. Gimmie,” the kid—Peter made grabby hands before Matt finally handed them over.

“Nice to meet you, Peter. My name’s Matt,” he introduced himself. Honestly, it wasn’t that big of a deal, right? What could this eleven year old figure out from a first name?

Peter slammed his hands on the table in shock. “I knew it! Harry totally owes me $10!”

“…Knew what?”

“You’re Matt Murdock!”

….

Matt may have miscalculated some of his previous judgements. 

“Who?” He lazily replied, because, what else was he supposed to say?

“Pfft, alright dude. Aren’t you gonna ask how I know?” Peter grinned, sitting back down.

“Know what? Who’s Murdock?” Play dumb, play dumb, play dumb. “I don’t know any lawyers,” Mathew, you fool!

Peter hummed, obviously enjoying his stress. “During the trial of Frank Castle me and my best friend had a bet that Daredevil was involved in the case because, like, duh. Daredevil and the Punisher are like Buffy and Spike. So, we looked into the Hell’s Kitchen police and found nothing. Looked into Castle’s legal team who conveniently took his case for free, and boom! One of the lawyers was Matt Murdock, aka you. And the bottom half of your face matched up with the few photos of Daredevil. And! When you took that bullet for Fisk, I was like, really confused because duh. But then I realized that Daredevil has no reported killings so it made sense that you’d wanna save him!” Peter radiated pride in himself throughout his spiel, hardly stopping to take a breath.

Matt was quiet for a moment before taking off his mask, confirming Peter’s suspicions. “You’re good.”

“I know, right?” He giggled. “That’s why they call me the coolest vigilante that New York’s ever seen! Speaking of seeing, are you actually blind or…?” He tilted his head.

“I’ve yet to hear a word about ‘Spider-man,’” Matt chuckled, folding his arms on the counter between them. “And to answer your question, yes, I am. That’s how I got my abilities. I was blinded in a car accident, and woke up with extraordinary senses that allow me to hear and feel what most would see.”

Peter was awe-struck at the explanation. “Woah. That’s so cool, dude. We have similar powers!”

Matt nodded. “Which is one of the reasons why I’d like to offer you a proposition,” he took a deep breath. “I was taught to hone my craft by a mentor. My mentor… he wasn’t a great man, but he provided me with knowledge I needed to become the best version of myself. Truthfully, I have no idea where I’d be without him,” he started. “So, I’d like to offer you the same opportunity. The idea of a child—I apologize, Spider-man, someone under eighteen—fighting crime untrained is… frightening, to say the least. And obviously, there’s no stopping you or convincing you to quit, so, Peter. Would you like me to train you?”

Peter blinked a few times in silence. “Like… you’re gonna be the turtle from Kung Fu Panda but not dead and way cooler?”

“…yes?”

“Hell yeah! Ohmygod Harry is gonna flip out!” Peter kicked his legs with excitement. 

“You can’t tell anyone who I am, Peter, or the deals off,” Matt advised, remembering he was dealing with an impulsive middle schooler.

“Yeah, yeah, I know the biz. I’ve been doing this for like two weeks,” he brushed off. “So, when do we begin?”

👿👿👿👿👿👿

Throughout the years of knowing and training Peter, they grew closer and closer. The kid taught Matt almost as much as he’d taught him. Before meeting, Matt was… he wasn’t in a good space, not that that was an unusual occurrence for him. But Peter brought in that light he so desperately needed. 

Matt was never scared of death. Hell, maybe he craved it. There were times he made risks that no sane, non-suicidal person would make. But when he got to know Peter, that primal fear of nonexistence finally hit him. For the first time since he was a child, he had something tangible to live for.

And then Peter, along with half the universe disappeared.

Once it was made clear that the dust around the globe was from an alien known as Thanos and not God’s punishment to those unworthy of being called home, Matt was desperate to find Peter. Days passed before The Avengers finally let him know that the kid was on another planet when the snap occurred; they had no clue if he survived. Weeks passed before Stark, an inch away from starvation, gave him the answer to the question plaguing his every waking moment.

Those five years were…

Matt didn’t think about them. They were tucked away into a corner of his mind, untouched. Karen and Foggy were dead. Peter was dead. Half the universe was nothing more than ashes. 

Even when they returned, Matt could never be sure whether or not it was only Thanos who played a part in the tragedy. It seemed too fitting that God would punish him before he even died. Matt called himself the Devil, after all.

Life post-Blip was a difficult adjustment, to say the least. But he had Peter again. It made surviving the past five years worth it to hear that voice again.

The kid had been through hell and back, each time becoming stronger in the process. He’d lost so many, and never fell down the same rabbit hole that Matt had. Peter kept true to his word; he was always a Friendly Neighborhood Spider-man, no matter what happened to him. 

Matt couldn’t wait to be there when Peter grew up, into a fully fledged hero. The kid always had the heart and selflessness, it was only a matter of time before he became the best hero the world had ever seen.

And then Doctor Strange took him away.

Peter was Matt’s driving force, especially after Father Lantom died, and Strange took him away.

Strange stripped his and everyone else’s memories of the boy who could lighten up a room just by being mentioned. For weeks, he went through life blissfully unaware of the void in his chest suffocating him.

All of a sudden, in the middle of the night, all of the lost memories hit him like a brick wall. The laughs, the grief, the talks on rooftops, school events, birthdays, they all came rushing back to him.

It wasn’t until later that day when Strange pulled him into his Sanctum Sanctorum that Matt got an answer as to what happened.

••••••

Matt instantly turned on Strange, gripping his collar and pushing him against the wall. “What the hell did you do?” He spat with hatred he didn’t know he held. “What did you do to my son?”

The doctor didn’t fight, or even deny the allegation. “I’m sorry,” he whispered as if the words physically pained him. “I’m so sorry.”

Matt pushed him into the wall again, this time with more force. “What. did. you. do?” He growled with a deeper voice than he ever used as Daredevil. 

“The spell was tearing apart our universe, I had to send Peter away,” Strange explained, carefully devoid of emotion. “It was the only option.”

“Is he alive?” Matt’s voice cracked on the last word. Neither of them mentioned it. 

“…For now, he’s safe. Peter’s in an alternate universe.”

Relief nearly drowned him. Matt loosened his grip on Strange’s collar. “Bring him home.”

The man shook his head. “It’s not that simple, Murdock. This world can’t hold him anymore. Just giving you your memories back is endangering our plane of existence.” 

Matt’s movements stuttered. “…Only we remember him?”

Strange bit the inside of his cheek. “There is another… from our universe who made his way to Peter’s new one. He was there before the memory wipe; he still has all his memories.”

Thank God, Matt closed his eyes. Peter was with a familiar face. “Who?”

“I assume you remember Quinton Beck?”

Every shred of relief died the second that vile name was uttered. Beck, he spat out the name even thinking about it. The man had put Peter through some of the worst parts of his life, for no reason other than pettiness towards a dead man. Beck couldn’t take it out on Stark, so he went for the next best option. A child, who was completely innocent in the matter.

Beck had gained Peter’s trust while he was still grieving the loss of the fallen Avengers. He used that vulnerability to use Peter like he was nothing but a tool. And if that wasn’t enough, Beck murdered the kid’s girlfriend right in front of him just to rub salt in the wound. Even after Beck was dead, he outed Peter’s identity to the public, as one final act of revenge.

Matt was never one to validate murder. It was a line he refused to cross, and hoped that his fellow vigilantes would follow suit. But he’d be lying if he said the death of Quinton Beck didn’t put him at ease. 

“He’s dead,” Matt stated like it was an unchangeable fact. Two plus two equals four and Quinton Beck is dead.

“You believed a man full of illusion?” Strange shook his head. “Beck is alive. He used some sort of tech to force him into that universe.”

Matt finally let the man go. “You sent Peter to the same universe that Beck’s been hiding away in!?” He nearly screamed. His throat burned with the effort to keep a low tone. 

“I didn’t have the time to find a better solution. That universe has ties to ours because of previous universal travels,” the doctor rubbed his throat where Matt had pinned him. “It’s not an excuse, I know that. But it’s the only explanation I can offer.”

Matt gripped his hair with his hands. It tugged at the broken skin on his knuckles; the feeling hardly even registered. “This is your fault!” He yelled, not able to hold it back anymore. “You messed up the first spell, and he was the one to pay!” He advanced towards Strange. “He just wanted to help his friends and you took everything away from him!” Matt used every ounce of strength in him to punch Strange square in the jaw. 

The doctor knew it was coming and didn’t flinch. He took the hit, barely faltering. The only sign of pain he gave was nursing his already bruising—and probably fractured—jaw. “That’s why I want to make it right.”

Matt panted with frustration. “How?” He asked as if it were an order.

Strange swallowed. “I can send you to that universe. You can keep tabs on Beck, make sure he never goes after Peter.”

“Can I bring Peter back home?” He nearly begged, already knowing the answer.

“Mathew…” Strange sighed. “Peter can never return home. If he did, our entire universe would be at risk.”

He closed his eyes, taking a breath. “I’ll do it.”

“I don’t know for certain that I’ll be able to bring you back here,” Strange advised. “And until Beck’s been neutralized, I doubt you’ll want to return.”

Matt shrugged. “I’ve gotta make a few calls. I'll make sure Hell’s Kitchen is taken care of in my absence.”

👿👿👿👿👿👿

True to his word, Matt called his friends in the field.

“Do whatever you need to. It’s family, Red. We get it,” Frank accepted, uncharacteristically understanding.

“Give that fucker everything he deserves,” Jessica ordered.

“Good luck. Keep that kid safe,” Marc(?) said.

“We’ll take care of your city, Matt,” Luke promised.

“Awwwwwwww Matty!!! You’re leaving me againnnnnnnnn,” Deadpool whined.

“It’s okay. I’ll miss you,” Karen said goodbye.

Finally, he dialed a number he hadn’t in years. “Hello, hello, hello, this is Danny Rand, why’re you calling?”

“Danny, it’s Matt,” he quickly introduced in lieu of a proper greeting. “I need your help.”

“That’s what I’m here for double d, what’s up? Hopefully not ninjas again.”

Matt took a breath. “I’m leaving, indefinitely. I have a… family emergency. You won’t be able to contact me.”

Danny paused. “Well shit. Everything okay? How can I help?”

Matt ignored the question that he didn’t have an answer to. “Hell’s Kitchen can’t be without Daredevil,” he began. “So, I’d like you to protect them.”

The other end was silent for a beat too long. “Consider it done, Matt. You’ve got my word.”

Matt hung up, not bothering to say goodbye.

👿👿👿👿👿👿

The spell to send Matt to the other universe was unceremonious. He was in the Sanctum Santorum one moment, and in unfamiliar streets the next.

Matt had the foresight to bring a handful of the necessary legal documents he needed in order to start a new life. In order to find Beck, he’d need a stable home and source of income.

Researching his new universe was as difficult as he’d expected. Although he had mastered most feats a seeing person could do without thought, he still couldn’t exactly use computers without assistance. Luckily, the librarian—Babs, she introduced herself as—had headphones and text to speech, along with a braille keyboard at the ready.

The first order of business was obvious, he needed to figure out where exactly he was in this new world. Apparently different universes meant different cities, considering he was in someplace he’d never heard of called Gotham that was the crime capital of this world. 

Luckily, he wasn’t far from New York; It was only about an hour away on a good day. Surely, no matter where Peter ended up, he’d make his way back home. The kid could never stay away from Queens for long.

So, Matt made his first purchase of a bus ticket out of the crime ridden city. 

👿👿👿👿👿👿

About two days into his new life, Matt found a job at Wayne Enterprises. The place had insane benefits, going so far as to offer him housing along with a full paycheck.

The job was as a legal consultant, simple work for a lawyer as skilled as Matt Murdock. He’d brought the documents classifying him as a certified professional (he was not going to go through the hell of the bar exam again) and secured the job quicker than expected.

The second he got the job, he needed to use their secure systems and tech to find Peter. He had to be careful, otherwise Beck could be alerted of the searches. So, he used the knowledge of hacking he’d picked up from Peter’s rambling and researched.

(2:32am)

Peter Parker

No results.

(2:34am)

Peter Benjamin Parker

No results.

(2:35am)

Midtown High Student Body

Midtown High, NY homepage

(2:40am)

Midtown High Academic Decathlon

Midtown High, NY Aca-Dec homepage

(2:47am)

Spider-Man

Did you mean: Spider?

(2:49am)

Queens vigilantes

No known vigilantes go by the name of “Queen.”

(2:53am)

Spider vigilantes

There are no known vigilantes going by the name of “Spider.”

(2:55am)

Team Red 

The term ‘Team Red’ may refer to a sports team or political party.

(2:57am)

The Young Avengers

Did you mean: Young Justice?

(3:12am)

Peter Parker

No results.

(3:13am)

Peter Parker

No results.

(3:14am)

Peter Parker

No results.

(3:15am)

Where is Spider-Man

No results.

His efforts were proven futile. It made sense, Matt had always taught him to use a fake name in an unfamiliar area. That didn’t make the realization any easier to swallow.

Following that failure, he focused on his job, always alert of his surroundings in case he came across Beck. 

Then he heard it.

The scribbling and mumbling of a madman damned to another universe. “Gotta get him. Gotta get him. Gotta get him,” he repeated under his breath until the words were mush.

Matt almost had the energy to laugh at his unusually good luck streak. He’d found Beck before even trying. 

Now, he just had to make true on his namesake and put the monster through Hell.

Chapter Text

Quintin Beck was a scientist. A damn good one, at that. At three years old he was taking apart radios and enhancing their performance. school had been a breeze; at only fourteen years old he’d graduated college. Everyone in his life, parents, teachers, classmates, they all were enamored by his potential. Everyone who knew him knew that one day, he’d change the world.

And then, Tony Stark stole his life’s work.

Every great mind was robbed of credit. He knew that, he knew what he was risking when he took that job at Stark Industries. But it wasn’t enough to just steal. No, Stark made his creation—and thus Quintin—nothing more than a joke. 

Quintin Beck, the boy who had been laughed at and teased for his mind before he had the motor control to walk, was laughed at yet again.

He was not going to be seen as a joke for any longer.

Years of planning, years of gaining a team of multi-skilled people to aid in his efforts, years into his growing crusade against Stark, and it was for nothing. The man died a hero. 

Stark, the man who destroyed Quintin’s reputation, not only died before he knew the pain he caused, but was hailed as a martyr. Everywhere, every street sign, every billboard, it all thanked Iron Man for his sacrifice.

Honestly, what other options did he have? If Stark was rotting away already, he needed to exact revenge in a different way. Stark had taken away Quintin’s most precious possession, so he had to take away his.

It was simple. Child’s play, really. All he had to do was tarnish his reputation; exactly as Stark had once done to him. First, he needed to become a hero in his own right. Once the public trusted him, his word was fact. Nobody would question a hero.

So, he did what he did best. He created.

Drones that would project illusions, a fabricated sob story, and practiced charisma was all he needed to achieve his dream.

For a brief moment, it worked. All that time he spent waiting for the right moment paid off. The murals of Tony Stark were illuminated by news headlines on billboards, praising Quintin. Praising Mysterio, as the public called him.

Just as he thought he’d flown as high as he could, he won again. The Parker kid gave over the Stark tech like it was loose change. With E.D.I.T.H’s help, the entire world would chant his name. Iron man would be forgotten.

Quintin Beck could never be happy for long.

Parker had found out what he was planning. Honestly, it was Quintin’s own fault for underestimating the kid’s intelligence. It was a shame, really. He’d grown somewhat fond of the conversations on rooftops and the constant spew of unfiltered thought. It was hard not to feel lighter around Spider-man. 

It was a shame that Parker needed to die.

With Quintin’s secret out, he needed to put an end to it quickly, before it spread. It was like a virus, Parker and his friends were infected. The only way to preserve the rest of humanity was cutting the head off the snake.

Spider-man was slippery, but not impossible to remove from the equation. All it took was showing the kid a few illusions of all the people he’d lost and a well timed train to get rid of him.

Then came the easier part, ridding the world—his world, of the friends that Parker had contaminated. Of course the first one had to be his girlfriend, Gwen Stacy.

He’d be lying if he claimed it didn’t hurt him to murder an innocent girl. Stacy reminded him of himself, years ago. She was young, vibrant, full of life with a bright future ahead of her. Her intellect was impressive; she had the potential to become one of her generation’s defining scientists.

But Quintin had been like her once. In a way, it was merciful to end her life before her genius was used to corrupt her.

Before he got the chance to save her from a lifetime of misery, he’d heard whispers of Parker’s survival. Quintin couldn’t risk letting him go again; the only way to insure his own success was by baiting the boy to fall into his trap for the second time.

Quintin brought Stacy to the bridge, held her up hundreds of feet in the air as he waited, and waited, and waited.

The girl was fearless, fighting through it all. Quintin, in a rare moment of empathy, considered letting her free. The second the possibility entered his mind, he saw the blur of red and blue swinging towards him.

Reminded of the mission at hand, he released his grip. He watched, almost in awe, as she fell to her death. She never once screamed, instead choosing to die with dignity.

Quintin only had a few moments before Parker would come after him. Now yes, Quintin would be the first to admit he had an ego the size of a boulder, but he was also realistic. He knew how a fight with an enraged teenager with super strength could turn out.

One of his many projects following the incident at Stark Industries was a multi dimensional traveler. It hadn’t been tested, the device was based purely on theoretical ideas, but it was the best shot he had at getting out alive. All it would take was a flick of a button, and he’d be gone, hidden in another universe, ready to return home at any point.

Of course, he also needed to ensure that Parker couldn’t tarnish his reputation like Stark had. The only true way to prevent that, was by making the public question the validity of Spider-man’s statements. So, he filmed a video, just in case. A video, a dying declaration, claiming that the beloved hero had murdered him in cold blood. He told the world the identity under the mask, just to make sure that Peter Parker, even out of the mask, could never be trusted.

During the fight, most of his illusions stopped affecting Parker. Whatever the reason was for the change, it rendered Quintin nearly powerless—key word being nearly.

The Stark drones had shot him. It wasn’t fatal if treated correctly but Parker had no way of knowing that. For one last trick, he had one of his associates create a hologram with a false heartbeat to take his place. 

The hologram’s heartbeat ceased, and Quintin went flying through the multiverse.

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

He was only supposed to stay in the alternate universe for a few minutes, maybe a couple hours at most.

It had been three months. Three months living in a cheap ripoff of New York. He had nothing. None of the team he’d created over the years, none of his blueprints and plans, no tech, for the first time in a long time, his only weapon was his mind.

Even that was going, it seemed.

His best guess for his mental unraveling was that traveling dimensions via tech wasn’t as effective as magic. It got worse the longer he was trapped in the unfamiliar world. Every moment of every day was used to work towards rebuilding his machine to get back home.

Without any funds however, he was left needing to find a job at Wayne Enterprises. It was the Stark Industries equivalent of this place. Working at a major tech company again made his skin crawl. Quintin was never going to have his work stolen again. He’d placed the most secure locks, passwords, software, etc, he could create to prevent it from ever happening again.

All this to say, he’d been doing… okay, for lack of a better word, since the initial debacle. Despite his mind coming apart at the seams, he had a plan and course of action. Everyday he woke up knowing what he needed to work on.

Then the lawyer showed up at Quintin’s work station.

“Beck,” the man called from the doorway. 

“Who’re you?” Quintin didn’t bother to look up, keeping his face an inch away from his notebook.

The man walked in without asking permission and pulled the notebook from Quintin’s hands. “You don’t know me, but I know you, Mysterio.”

Before he even got the chance to fight for his notebook back, he paled at the name. Nobody knew, how could this man know? “Who are you?” He repeated, more pressing this time. He leaned forward in his chair as if the closer he got the easier he could examine the man.

“A new hire,” the man smiled as if the action physically pained him. “You may call me Mr. Murdock.”

“Murdock, Murdock, Murdock,” Quintin tested the name on his tongue, searching for familiarity. There was none. “How—how do you know Mysterio?” 

Murdock knelt down to see him face to face. “I’m aware of every crime you’ve ever committed, I know about the child you murdered in cold blood, I know about the child who you manipulated, I know about your illusions, I know everything that keeps you awake at night,” the man spoke with a coldness that sent shivers down his spine. “I am here to make sure that you never hurt anyone again.”

Quintin’s mouth went dry at the threat. He was losing it. This couldn’t be real. This wasn’t real. It wasn’t real. This Murdock guy wasn’t real. His mind was just unraveling at a faster pace than he’d anticipated. 

But, the scientist in him knew that this was not from faulty brain wiring. That would mean he felt guilt for everything he’d done. Now yes, regret filled his chest every time he took a deep breath but, that was from the whole ‘being stuck in an alternate universe’ thing. He lacked the guilt that would’ve been needed to fabricate a figure condemning him.

At the same time however, Quintin was the only one to have ever built multiversal tech. Besides the handful of wizards on his earth, nobody else possessed the ability to come after him. Even if they could, nobody knew what he’d truly done. “You think I’m scared of you, Murdock?” He tilted his head.

“You’re a smart man; I have faith that you have a shred of survival instinct,” Murdock adjusted his tinted glasses. “If not,” he stood upright and took a step forward. “You are going to have a very bad time here.” 

Quintin chuckled, on the verge of hysterical. “You can’t hurt me,” he sing-songed in a mocking tone. “Nobody knows what I did, they don’t know how much I enjoyed it,” a half truth. Quintin was never one to seek out murder, that was the least appealing part of his operations. The rest however? The intricate planning, coercion, acting, all while getting back at Stark for everything, there was no higher purpose for him.

It hit him at that moment, he could do that again. Sure, Stark was long gone, but Peter Parker was still alive and well. Once Quintin got back home, he could do everything and more to the boy who sent him to this hell hole in the first place.

Stark at least left him intact. Parker on the other hand… It was all because of him that Quintin was trapped with his mind, his greatest weapon, as a ticking time bomb. 

Before he could even begin planning out his revenge, Murdock slammed his walking stick across his jaw. 

A pathetic sound shot out of him as he fell face first to the floor. Black dots filled his vision at the contact. The second he slammed down Murdock had a knee to his back, pinning him in place. The man spoke no words as he grabbed a fist full of Quintin’s hair and pounded it into the white linoleum, staining it a deeper shade of red with each hit.

He lost track of how many times. He was drowning. Every second or so he got a chance to gasp for air, finally having relief from the white pain exploding every time he hit the ground. It was only another second before he was pulled down again, unable to breath or think. All he knew was an electric agony swimming through his veins.

After what felt like hours, Murdock finally released his grip. Quintin was left panting on the floor, wet from his own blood. A horrid nausea filled his gut like smoke in a kitchen. Even after finally being let go, he could hardly breathe through his broken nose, nor see through the flurry of black dots.

Murdock gave him a moment to collect himself before gripping his hair again.

“No, please,” Quintin whispered, desperately. Desperate for the man to let him and his sins go. He’d never been one to beg. The Beck family worked tooth and nail to get where they were, he was taught that begging was the worst act a man could do. But in the moment of pure, unfiltered, concentrated pain, the humility of begging didn’t occur to him. “I’ll do anything, anything.”

Murdock’s grip tightened, lifting his head slightly. Quintin braced for impact, instead he got a chill running down his back when the man spoke directly into his ear. “If you ever,” his grip tightened impossibly tighter. “Ever, go after Peter Parker or his friends again, I will find you,” He said. “If you ever harm another hero, I will find you. If you ever cause harm to anyone ever again, I will find you,” Murdock promised, rotating his grip so that Quintin was forced to look him in the face. Murdock slid his glasses off, just so he could look him in the eye. “No matter how far you run, where you go, what illusions you try to set up, I will find you,” he said, completely devoid of any emotion. “Even the borders between universes weren’t enough to hide you from me. Believe me when I warn you, I will always find you.”

Quintin nearly whimpered, but he hadn’t lost that much of his mind just yet. This man was an enigma, using only strength and fear as a power. Quintin was the most intelligent man of his generation. Given time to plan, this Murdock guy would be nothing more than an annoyance. “Yeah? Then why haven’t you killed me already?” He asked the obvious question, praying to a god he didn’t believe in that Murdock would hold off, granting him enough time to plan.

“I’m not God, I don’t give that kind of grace,” Murdock freed his grip, standing up. 

Through ragged breaths Quintin asked again. “Why me? Why are you targeting me?”

“I harm those who harm others. And you, Beck, you made the worst mistake of your miserable life when you decided to harm my family,” Murdock stated as if it were a well known fact, grabbing his glasses and walking stick and heading for the door.

Quintin scoffed. “Lemme guess, bad things happen to people who mess with your family?” He mocked.

“No,” the man turned back around, facing him. “I do.” 

Without another breath, Murdock was out the door, leaving Quintin to marinate in his own, congealing blood.

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Quintin made the mistake of believing that would be the last he’d see of Murdock. The man worked in the same building, the law department more specifically. Every so often, he would appear down the hall, in the doorway, on the other sides of windows, anywhere and everywhere. 

Or maybe Quintin’s mind was failing him. He could never be too sure these days.

About a year of living in the alternate universe and all he had to show for it was 634 failed attempts at getting back home. Had his mind still been fully intact, he may have had the capacity to give up. Instead, all that consumed him was the need to figure out the correct formula so he could go back home. So he could take everything away from Parker, like he did to him.

The tech at Wayne Enterprises was prehistoric, to say the least. But Quintin managed. After Murdock confirmed that he was indeed from their world, he needed to be sure that no more travelers followed them. So he stole an old laptop from the company, and created a program to alert him if anyone ever looked up notable events or people from their universe. 

The program was radio silent for months, becoming nearly invisible, humming in the background. 

A year into Quintin’s stay, he’d finally been alerted of another traveler.

Daredevil

     Dare•dev•il 

A reckless person who enjoys doing dangerous things.

Nelson Murdock & Page

No results.

Captain America

Did you mean America?

The United States of America (USA) is a large country in North America, composed of 50 states.

The Avengers

     A•venge

Inflict harm in return for (an injury or wrong done to oneself or another)

The Blip

      Blip

An unexpected, minor, and typically temporary deviation from a general trend.

Spider-man

Did you mean spider?

Spiders are eight-legged arachnids that are predators.

Oscorp

No results.

Stark

No results.

Peter Parker

No results.

May Parker

No results.

Benjamin Parker

No results.

Maria Parker

No results.

Richard Parker

No results.

For the first time in a long, long time, Quintin dared to have hope. The searches were painfully obvious to have been made by Parker. They were conducted in Gotham’s public library. Only a bus ride away.

The question of how Parker came to the alternate universe was reserved for the past, when Quintin was of stable mind. With his psyche in the condition it was, tearing itself apart, all he could think was how he could finally get revenge.

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Murdock was a pain in the ass. It seemed as though he’d somehow reached the same conclusion he had, Spider-man was living in their new world.

Quintin’s attempts to go after him were thwarted time and time again.

A few incidents reminiscent of their first encounter left him with fractures in his face, a broken jaw and a loss of pride. Other times, Murdock would show a hint of mercy and simply incapacitate him. Those occasions were few and far between.

Although he refused to give up in his crusade against Spider-man, he decided to focus his efforts on his tech, rather than physically finding the boy. He devised a system, similar to his old illusion tech. 

This time, it was a simple computer program that would create the nightmares. The process was simple, really. All he’d needed to do was hook up the program to search for alarmingly high levels of radiation in a teenage boy, most likely in Gotham.

It only took a few moments before Quintin was able to connect it to Parker’s brainwaves. If it worked correctly, the boy would dream of his worst fears and worst moments. The device wouldn’t defeat Parker, but it would make him suffer. Suffer just like Quintin did.

Of course, nothing good lasted forever—or with Murdock in the picture, more than a few hours—Quintin returned to his workspace that afternoon to find it all destroyed. 

The rest of the day was devoted to crafting the system again, all while knowing it would never succeed. Eventually, Quintin was interrupted by two men asking for an interview.

Realizing they weren’t going to leave anytime soon, he decided to just rip the bandaid off and get it over with. He’d entertain their questions for a few minutes if it meant being allowed to get back to work without interruption afterwards.

Quintin didn’t pay them much attention, until he caught a glimpse of the older of the two. The man looked like an older version of Parker. The shared features were nearly indistinguishable from the teenager’s. 

The man couldn’t have been that same boy, though. Parker was impulsive, unsure of himself. It would be a miracle if the boy didn’t pounce on him the second they met eyes.

So then, who was he?

Realization dawned on him, suddenly. It had to be Murdock. It was always Murdock. The next time he saw him, he was sure to get a beating and a half for the program he’d created. Maybe Murdock just wanted to rub some salt in the wound before that happened.

Quintin kicked them out, leaving him with nothing but his work.

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

A few more weeks passed before Quintin made his escape. He was still without any way to return home. But he did possess the tech to take down Parker. 

They were gauntlets, reminiscent of the Iron Man ones. Electric currents were constantly cycling through them, ready to strike at any moment. The weapons were designed to shoot out bug spray with every blast. After all, what better way to get rid of a spider than with a concoction specifically designed to kill them? The gauntlets, plus new illusion tech was all he needed to enact one final pledge of vengeance.

While Murdock was stuck in a meeting—something about Bruce Wayne and one of his sons being present—Quintin used the opportunity to escape.

He left behind all of his tech, besides the gauntlets. Getting home was taking too damn long. And besides, what was the point in returning when Parker wasn’t there to receive his anger?

The ride to Gotham was peaceful. For the first time since being damned to this world, Quintin’s mind was blissfully silent, content with the knowledge that he would soon rid this universe of Peter Parker.

Chapter Text

“Who are the members of the team Young Justice?” The teacher asked the second Peter entered the classroom’s doorway.

It’d been a few weeks since dad’s almost dying incident. They allowed the dust to settle and eventually the family started pressing him on school again. Despite Peter’s assurances that he could graduate early without even studying, he was still forced into going against his will. ‘Something something, your education is important, blah blah blah.’ To make matters worse, Dad had wanted him to attend Gotham Academy, a private school that reeked of pretentious rich kids.

Peter attended strictly private schools ever since second grade when his teachers finally realized he was far too ahead of his peers to actually gain anything from their classrooms. Uncle Ben and Aunt May had paid exorbitant amounts for his tuition, insisting that it was worth it. Private schools were always… gross, for lack of a better word—or more accurately, lack of care to find the right way to express how the halls made his skin crawl. 

That being said, Midtown High was leagues better than this place. Midtown was filled with rich kids who looked down on Peter because of his scuffed shoes and skateboard that was the same age they were, but at least they all earned their place there. Midtown was a tech school; one of the many prerequisites every student had was an entry exam in mathematics, robotics, engineering, chemistry, and biology. Despite the wealth that filled the school, everyone was a nerd just like he was. They looked down on his social class, not his intellect.

Unsurprisingly, Gotham Academy was the opposite in almost every way. This school housed Gotham’s elite. The one percent of one percenters. He’d heard a kid outside complaining about having to help set up his family’s seventh vacation home. There wasn’t any sort of exam, no grade requirement, no IQ test, nothing except pure luck placing everyone in the school. Peter felt like a fish out of water—Spider out of web?—just walking through the building.

The place was almost as extravagant as the manor, which was saying something considering the way it smelt of old money. Everyone there had that accent that just felt like they thought they were better than anyone who made under seven figures a year.

Honestly, he could deal with the judgmental glances, and the way his uniform was scratchy and tight despite being fitted. He could get over the bullies he was sure to encounter and the trophies filling up the walls. What truly unnerved him was that he never earned his place. For Midtown, he not only worked his ass off academically, but the second he was old enough to work he sold photos and did odd jobs to help pay back his aunt and uncle. He could proudly say that he deserved that education. For Gotham Academy, he just happened to strike gold for once in his life. 

Needless to say, Peter was going to raise hell the second he got back to the manor.

“Ahem, I asked, who are the members of Young Justice?” The teacher repeated, pulling Peter out of his ranting inner monologue. 

He shyly knocked on the open door, alerting the teacher of his presence. “Um, sorry, I uh, is this U.S. History 2?” 

The teacher squinted his eyes slightly, taking in Peter’s nervous demeanor. “Yes. I assume you’re the new student?”

“Yeah, sorry,” why was he apologizing? Stop, Gwen said it was weird to apologize so much! “I’m late ‘cos I had to sign in, sorry,” way to go Parker.

“Tt,” the teacher was more judgmental and holier-than-thou than Flash Thompson, an impressive feat if he was honest. “Anyone who is late, has to answer a question for the class. So, who are the members of Young Justice?”

“Uh,” crap. Tim had told him a handful of times about how the majority of times he left Gotham he was with Young Justice. Unfortunately, Peter had never thought ahead to ask about any of the members. He thought he remembered a speedster and an archer on one of the posters, though. They reminded him of Pietro and Kate. “There’s Red Robin,” he started. Didn’t one of the bats mention that there was a speedster named Flash? “There’s Flash, and uh,” crap. What’s a good archer name? Wasn’t there Green Arrow’s sidekick? Speedy, or something? “Speedy… I’m not sure the rest, sorry.”

The room was full of giggles. He could’ve sworn his super hearing picked up on a girl whispering “Imp’s gonna have a field day with that one.”

Peter bit his lip, looking to the ground. The embarrassments that came with an alternate universe was one of the worst parts. Right behind the fact that he was in New Jersey. 

The teacher sighed and pointed his attention back to the lesson. “Young Justice is made up of Red Robin, Wonder Girl, Impulse, Superboy, Secret, Slobo, and Empress. Occasionally, they’ve been seen with Arrowette, although sightings are exceptionally rare,” he spewed. “Now,” he looked back at Peter. “Introduce yourself to the class.”

Peter gripped his backpack straps, careful not to rip the seams. Being the New Kid sucked. “I’m Peter Grayson… I just moved here from New York.”

Peter hated the new name he had to deal with. Obviously, with his father having a new name—or technically, Parker was the new name, but he didn’t want to think about that—he had to legally change his name. They couldn’t claim that Peter was adopted, the resemblance was too uncanny to ignore. Which left them with the story that Peter had grown up without his father—true—he was raised by his mother—false—he was born and raised in New York—true—after his mother’s sudden death, he was sent to live with his father—false, kind of. He didn’t dwell on the semi truth due to May’s sudden death.

The name and the story was required. He couldn’t fight his way out of it no matter how much he wanted to. Dad had been insistent that they could find some way to keep Parker in it, even just as a middle name, or hyphenated, if he preferred. But Peter refused despite how badly he wanted to keep his name.

He claimed that he wanted a fresh start. If he was honest with himself, it was because he didn’t deserve to wear the Parker name. Ben and May were dead because of him. Peter was the reason that no more Parkers existed on his earth. It felt wrong to wear the name of dead people while unable to properly memorialize them.

“Grayson? You’re Dick Grayson’s son?” The teacher’s former air of disdain instantly evaporated. “Please, take a seat wherever you’d like.”

Ugh. Was this how Flash Thompson felt? Peter needed to get home and take a bath to rid himself of the slimy feeling all over from the favoritism he was being afforded. 

He gave a quick nod and made his way down the classroom, desperate to nab a seat in the back. 

“Hey Peter! Come sit with us,” a girl with long blonde hair waved him over with enthusiasm that rivaled Steph’s. 

Oh Thor. Was he being favored by his classmates as well? Ew ew ew ew. “Oh, okay,” sure, the nepotism was seriously about to make him gag, but he was raised by May Parker. The woman would scold him endlessly for not being polite. So, he took the seat to the right of the girl.

“My name’s Cissie King-Jones, and that,” she pointed to the girl with short blond hair parted into low pigtails who was seated to her left. “Would be Cassie Sandsmark.”

“Hey, nice to meet you Peter!” The other one—Cassie—waved with a bright smile that looked a hint too much like MJ’s. Or maybe he was just grieving. Ugh. Double ew.

“Nice to meet you guys too,” he gave his best attempt at a smile, grabbing his backpack to pull out his laptop. “Uhm, what exactly are we doing?”

“We’re learning about Young Justice and the Teen Titans, don’t worry, we’ll catch you up to speed. Cassie’s a mega fan. She’s got a massive poster of Arrowette,” Cissie gave a knowing look to Cassie. Probably some sort of inside joke, he figured.

“Oh, okay cool. I know a bit about the Teen Titans…” all he knew was that dad was a part of them. He hadn’t really gotten a chance to properly ask ‘cos of the whole almost dying and school thing. Both equally good reasons, in his opinion.  

“Yeah? Who’s your favorite? I love Wonder Girl, personally,” Cassie said.

“Uhm…” he tried desperately to think of a name other than the obvious but came up blank. “Nightwing, I guess.”

The girls exchanged amused glances. “Good answer, he’s my favorite too. I mean seriously, have you seen him? I wanna get robbed in Blüd just so he’ll show up,” Cissie giggled, edging on a teasing tone. 

“Uh… okay?” Peter was seriously confused. Well, no, he wasn’t an idiot. But the obvious explanation was too gross to contemplate. So, playing dumb it was. 

Cassie nudged the other girl with an eye roll. “Sorry, she’s just messing with you.”

“I’m speaking the complete truth, from the heart.”

She ignored the interruption. “We know who you are, I mean duh, Tim told us after some serious begging.”

Peter short circuited. How did they know Tim? Tim never mentioned having any friends outside of the vigilante biz. “Oh, cool… is it okay to say that I dunno who you guys are?”

Cissie snorted. “Yeah, that tracks. Timmy’s way too paranoid for that. And honestly, I’m pretty relieved. God, if you seriously thought I was Speedy I might actually blow chunks.”

That did not help the blue screen in Peter’s mind. “Sorry… how do y’guys know Tim?”

Cassie leaned a bit further in and spoke in a whisper. “The fast food chain he insists on calling himself.”

Before he could respond, Cissie pulled up a photo of Young Justice. “Look familiar?” She pointed to an archer in a red costume, and a girl with black hair with a Wonder Woman logo on her shirt. 

Peter glanced at the picture and back to them. Cissie was obviously alluding to her being the archer. The Wonder Woman one was a bit harder to place. 

Cassie smirked and typed in another search, bringing up the same hero with hair in an identical style to her own. “Yeah, the black hair tripped people up a lot,” she laughed. “I’m Wonder Girl, leader of Young Justice.”

He sighed in realization, putting his head in his hands. “Of course Tim wouldn’t tell me that his teammates went to the same school as me.”

Cissie bit back her smile. “Oh no, he doesn’t know either. We’re undercover.” 

“We’ve got a Wonder Girl mission. Cis doesn’t do the whole superhero gig anymore, but I still drag her on undercover work sometimes,” Cassie explained.

“Why not just tell Tim?”

“‘Cos that’d ruin our ability to surprise him,” Cissie said like it was obvious. “Besides, Batman doesn’t allow other heroes in his ‘territory’ without his permission.”

Peter raised an eyebrow, his mind already on something else. “That makes sense I guess.”

“Uh oh, why do you have that look… you’re planning something, aren’t you?” Cassie accused. “Oh Gods, you’re not gonna ruin our plan and tell Tim, right?”

“No, no, no!” Peter was quick to assure. “Quite the opposite, actually…”

Cissie grinned. “You joining us in tormenting Rob? You joining the dark side, Grayson?”

The name rubbed him wrong, but the prospect at causing Tim annoyance was far more pressing. “I’m in.”

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

His first couple of classes were uneventful. Cissie and Cassie were seniors which placed them in different schedules so they had exchanged numbers to plan their attack on one Tim Drake. Besides from the occasional text from them, there really wasn’t a whole lot to say about his first day at Gotham Academy.

Well, there wasn’t before a giant stopped him in the hallway. 

“You Grayson?” The giant—Jeez, how tall was this guy? Seven feet?—asked with a booming voice. Or maybe the height difference made him imagine the echoing off the walls. 

“Yep,” Peter kept his head to the ground with his hands firm on his backpack straps. “Sorry, gotta run to class,” he tried to excuse himself.

“Not so fast,” the giant crossed his arms and stepped to block Peter’s path. “What’s a kid like you doing here?” 

Peter greatly agreed with the sentiment. He seriously did not belong there, but still, hey! The human tree had no right to question his validity as a student. “I snuck in. Hacked the school computers, y’know the drill.”

“I fuckin’ knew it!”

“Ah jeez, this place is worse than I thought. You guys don’t even know sarcasm,” Peter kicked the ground as if he were saying ‘aw shucks.’ 

“You callin’ me an idiot?” The giant growled.

“Well, I’m not exactly calling you Einstein,” Peter gave the most annoying smile he could muster. “C’mon, I believe in you! Even you could figure that out! All by yourself too!”

— !! Duck !! —

Peter braced for impact, already reflexively ignoring his Spidey Sense while in school. He’d been through this dance countless times before. The punch to his jaw knocked him on his ass. At least, he’s pretty sure it would to a normal person his size, so that’s what he did. The hit wasn’t comfortable, obviously. Getting decked in the face always sucked, regardless of super healing. But eh, it was worth it to piss off an asshole. 

“What’d you say, dickhead?” The giant stood above him in an attempt to be menacing.

Peter didn’t mean to laugh. Seriously, he truly didn’t. But it was really hard not to laugh at the reminder that his dad’s name was Dick. All the bats called him some variation of dickhead, dickface, blah blah blah. And yes, Peter considered himself to be mature. And yes, he was still a sixteen year old who would laugh at potty humor no matter the circumstances.

“What’re you laughing at? Want another knuckle sandwich?” The giant cracked his knuckles.

Oh. The universe was taunting him. In between giggles, Peter spoke as he got back to his feet. “Oh my Thor. You’re like, an actual Disney channel bully. Are you gonna stuff me in a locker? Steal my lunch money? Genuinely dude, I’m begging you to. I have a bucket list. Oooh wait, d’you give swirlies? I’ve gotten beaten loads of times before but I’ve never gotten any of the classics, y’know? Could you help a guy out and—”

The giant proceeded to punch him again. Ugh. That wasn’t what he asked for! Peter had already gotten punched by bullies before. A lot. Like, a lot a lot. “Okay, ow,” he rubbed his jaw. “Man, you ask a guy to give you a swirly one time.”

“You think you’re funny, Grayson?”

“I think I’m handsome, hilarious, charming—”

The giant interrupted him with a sharp punch to his gut. Peter’s back slammed into one of the nearby lockers. Once he regained his breath that was knocked out of him, he continued. “As I was saying, I think I’m very fu—”

Another hit. This time, a kick to his knee that had been broken on patrol last night. It had been healing, not fully of course, but it was good enough that he could reliably walk on it. Despite the fact that it was previously functional, the kick set back hours of healing. And holy God of Thunder did that kick send his nerves into a tizzy. 

The giant had the nerve to chuckle when Peter cursed, gripping his knee. “You gonna keep blabbering?”

“Wha— ‘blabbering?’ What the hell are you, some wannabe greaser from the 50s? Are you about to call for ‘your boys’ and start snapping ominously?” Peter questioned, releasing his knee which was most definitely fractured. Again. 

“You ever shut up?”

“No,” he grinned with all the obnoxiousness he could summon. “Anyway, I’m totally late to class. And like, this is my first day, dude. Could you save the romcom bully act for a different day?” Peter started to walk away before the back of his collar was gripped, rendering him unable to get away.

Or, more accurately, rendered Peter Parker unable to get away. Spider-man could’ve knocked the guy out in one fell swoop. But that was not who he was at the moment. Peter Parker, or Peter Grayson now, was a weak, asthmatic kid who couldn’t do more than ten pushups without getting winded. He could not fight back or dodge.

This time, the punch to his face was a bit harsher. Peter felt the warm blood trickling from his nose almost immediately. “Seriously?” Was all he got out before another punch came. 

Ugh. This was humiliating. The pain hardly bothered him. The hit to his ego, though… that was lethal.

“You gonna keep up your yammering?” The giant spat less than two inches away from Peter’s face. The grip he held on his collar prevented him from squirming too much.

Peter gagged. “Dude. Mouthwash. I’ll literally give you a mint, jeez. And honestly, I’m kinda starting to love your vocab. Hell yeah dude. Keep yammering your little heart out.”

Aaaaand another punch. 

This may be why Aunt May and Uncle Ben would routinely have talks with him about when to quit. And when to not get into fights. And why he shouldn’t ‘press people’s buttons.’ And why he needed to stop ‘talking back.’

Briefly he wondered if they were right. That was quickly evaporated when a teacher came running through the halls shouting the giant’s name.

“Thomas! Put him down this instant,” the teacher, an older man, ordered as if this were a common occurrence.

Peter scoffed as he was let go. “Pfft, your name is Thomas? That's almost as bad as Eugene. D’you go by a dumbass nickname like Flash too?”

“My full name’s Thomas Eugene you dick,” The giant—Thomas—spat.

What!? Flash, aka Eugene Thompson, aka the most annoying and slimy dude at Midtown High, shared a name with this dude!? Yeah, alternate universes sucked. “Aw. I would’ve preferred if you insulted me with ‘Penis Parker’ like old times, but sigh, I guess that nickname is long gone.”

“Did you just say the word sigh?”

The teacher cleared his throat, grabbing back their attention. “Are you hurt?” He looked towards Peter.

“I mean my pride definitely took a beating.”

The teacher massaged his brow, clearly sick of this part of his job. “Both of you, principals office now.”

“Sir yes sir,” Peter saluted, and started making his way down the hallway.

“It’s the other way.”

“Ah right. I knew that.”

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

Oh, Peter was so dead. Like, the blip meant nothing to him anymore, he was so dead. Double dead. A bajillion times dead. He was Jason Todd. He still didn’t know exactly what that entailed but he knew it had something to do with being dead. Which he was certainly going to be.

“Both of you will be suspended for a week,” the principal said.

Peter raised his hand slightly for permission to speak. “I didn’t hit him, I was kinda just there.”

“You participated in the fight by instigating him.”

“I have free speech,” Peter mumbled under his breath, crossing his arms. “Wait, that is like, a thing in the constitution right? Did that change here?”

Both Thomas—ugh—and the principal shared confused glances. After a beat of silence, the principal continued. “Regardless of what roles each of you played, you’re both suspended due to disorderly conduct. Gotham academy prides itself on blah blah blah, school pride, national anthem, Thor, blah blah blah.”

Peter zoned out after a sentence or two. He’d already been through this speech loads of times. Now, came the worst part.

“Obviously, both your parents have been called to pick you up early.”

He’d be lying if he said it wasn’t odd to hear someone say they were calling his parents. It had happened a handful of times from teachers' threats; they almost always recognized their mistake immediately and awkwardly corrected themselves to ‘guardian.’ It was uncanny to not hear the quick correction.

Once that thought ran through his head, a much, much, much, worse one came.

Like how Peter was so dead.

Deader than like, Gallifrey, or something.

It felt like hours before the secretary finally called Peter to leave. When he did, he was met by his father with an expression he had seen far too often from May and Ben.

Peter followed him out to the car, neither said anything until they were seated and on the road.

“Peter Benjamin Parker.”

“Richard Lawrence Parker Dick John Grayson,” Peter side eyed him from the passenger seat. “Ha! I can full name you twice now.”

Dad sighed, clearly questioning every decision he’d made leading up to that moment. “I’m assuming you’re not too hurt, right?”

“I’m fine,” Peter shrugged off. “I’ve had a warehouse fall on me, a train ran into me, a giant lizard attacked me, I think I can handle a normal dude needing a power trip.”

“Then why exactly did you not disable him before it got out of hand?” Dad questioned, eyes trained on the road ahead.

“Uhhh, ‘cos spider powers, duh,” he rolled his eyes. “First off, if I miscalculated even a little bit, that asshole—”

“Language.”

“Who are you, Captain America?” Peter glared at the interruption but continued. “Fine, the jerk, that better? The jerk woulda gotten a broken nose if he was lucky. Plus, I can’t go around dodging punches I shouldn’t even be able to see. People will put together that I’m at least a mutant,” Duke had corrected Peter once before that their world called enhanced individuals ‘metas’ but Peter thought that was dumb, so, mutant it was.

Dad rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “Peter, you can still protect yourself. Or, if you refuse to take the risk, don’t keep bantering.” 

Peter groaned. “But where’s the fun in that?”

“There is no fun! It’s a fight! You get out as unscathed as possible. Fun should be the last thing on your mind,” dad gripped the steering wheel with one hand, while the other moved through the air.

“Says the guy who dressed as a traffic light to get into fights.”

“Are we talking about me right now?”

“I’d love to! Y’know, I went so many years without knowing y—”

“Peter,” dad pulled over to look him in the eye.

“Uh oh, it’s serious when you pull over, isn’t it?” Peter grimaced. “One time Uncle Ben did this after I got into a fight. I was grounded for like, two weeks. And grounded from my science homework. Y’know how sick that is?”

Dad gave him a look that said ‘I’m not going to tell you to shut up, but you better get the cue to shut up from this glare.’ 

Peter obliged, sinking into his seat, preparing for the oncoming lecture that he’d heard a million times.

The man sighed. “Your Uncle Ben ever tell you how many fights I got into when I was a kid?” 

“Uh, yeah, actually…” he trailed off, caught off guard by the question. “I’d hear like, once a day how much I was like you. At least half of those times were ‘cos I got my ass handed to me in fights.”

Dad chuckled lightly. “Yeah, believe me, whatever stories May and Ben told you, it was worse than that,” He started with a breath. “There was a time when I was in the circus and this kid was throwing popcorn in my face. I was like, seven? Maybe eight? And, man, I did not appreciate that. My parents kept reminding me throughout the show that I needed to stay focused. An acrobat cannot be distracted mid performance, especially at my skill level. But, I let the kid get to me. In the middle of the tightrope, I tried to catch a kernel to throw back at him.”

“On a tightrope?” Peter gaped. “Dude, did you have a death wish?”

“The popcorn really got to me,” dad shrugged. “Needless to say, I lost my balance the second I reached for it. Luckily, since I was a kid there was a net underneath me.”

Peter raised a brow. “Right. So, cool story and all but uh… I hate to tell you, that’s not really a fight. That was more gravity reminding you it exists.”

Dad rolled his eyes. “The point is, I let my ego and pride take hold of me. All I wanted to do was show off to that kid who didn’t even matter to me. And as a result, I made an even bigger fool of myself.”

“Well I mean, that’s not really applicable to my situation seeing as I did not make a fool of my—”

“Peter.”

He sighed. “Yeah, fine whatever. I get the moral. Am I grounded?”

Dad ignored his question. “Is this gonna happen again?”

“I dunno, is Eugene Thompson’s seven feet tall rip off gonna annoy me again?” The glare he received forced a different response. “No,” he conceded with his head hung low.

“To answer your question, no, you're not grounded.” Yay! “But, you can’t engage with any robbery, fights, or anything unless otherwise told to do so.” Uh oh.

Peter blinked at the man. “Patrol obviously doesn’t count.”

“Oh no, I meant it for patrol. But it does also apply to your civilian life, of course.”

He blinked again. “So… I’m limited to saving cats from trees and helping little old ladies?”

“Yep. For a week.”

“A week!?” Peter screeched. “This is like… like… starvation! You’re gonna starve your child?”

“Peter, I’m telling you that you’re not allowed to fight for a week,” dad sighed, pinching his brow.

“Exactly!” He gripped his hair. “What do you expect me to do!? Not step in when someone’s getting mugged!?”

“If you see a non emergency then you call Oracle or someone nearby,” dad explained. “As long as someone isn’t actively about to die, you’re not allowed to interfere.”

“Man, I miss being dust.”

“Peter.”

“What!?”

Dad closed his eyes, gathering whatever it took to continue speaking. “I’m not arguing this. You’re banned from any fights for a week, that’s the end of it.”

“What if I’m cloned and I get into a fight with myself to reclaim my rightful place?”

“It can wait until next week,” dad started up the car again.

“What if Thanos or someone comes back with a vengeance?” 

“The bats can fight them or you can wait until next week.”

“What if I get into a fight anyway?” 

Dad just gave him a dead eyed stare.

“Alright, fine,” Peter grumbled.

They drove in silence for a few moments before Peter made a horrific realization. “Does this mean I can’t mess with Tim for a week!?”

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

Matt had scoured Gotham for some sign of Beck. The man was slippery, far more than he gave him credit for. It took days just to find the records of the bus ticket Beck had purchased, giving away that he was hiding out in Gotham.

Of course the guy would decide to hide in a place that made Hell’s Kitchen seem like the safest place on earth.

There were no further clues for where he could’ve gone. It was dead end after dead end.

Matt had been staying at a hotel that reeked of blood and death. There wasn’t even a strong scent of bleach; the walls were probably visibly stained red. 

Hell’s Kitchen had taught him to block out the chatter of a city’s heartbeat and to look for a single person in a crowd of thousands.

Gotham wasn’t anything like the place he called home. There were gunshots constantly stealing his attention. Screams, kidnappings, torture, suicides, fights, Matt heard it all in excruciating detail. It took everything in him not to react to the sudden noises, never mind being able to tune out enough to track Beck’s heartbeat.

It didn’t make sense. Why would Beck travel here of all places? It didn’t take a genius to realize the man was losing his mind, but still. Even a maniac had the self preservation to not willingly live in Gotham. Honestly, it was the kind of thing Peter would do. That is to say, not a wise decision and probably some sort of death wish.

God, Matt wanted to look for the kid. 

He pushed down that innate desire. Matt had no way of tracking down someone who had no legal records. Peter Parker did not exist here. Matt didn’t know what name he might’ve been going by.

Maybe that was for the best. By not seeing him, not seeing if Peter was hurt, Matt could believe that he was okay. Matt could live in a world where Peter was happy, so long as he wasn’t proven wrong.

Matt exited his hotel and began his daily search for Quintin Beck.

🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇🦇

Two weeks ago in the Batcave

Dick was still recovering from his burn wounds, but at least he was finally able to walk around without wanting to curl up into a little ball and cry! Yay! Progress!

He used his newfound appreciation for the ability to move around by sitting in front of the bat computer, working with Tim to find whoever Beck and Murdock were. They’d both been slacking lately. Dick had been injured and banned from any bat work for the past week, while Tim was working on something with Young Justice.

The fact that he’d still yet to tell Peter about the searches weighed heavily on him. But when he’d almost died, Dick saw Peter hold true, raw fear. It was something he could never bear to see again. It was selfish, he was well aware of that; he accepted that. 

Steph strolled into the Batcave like she lived there, hopping on the table in front of Dick. “Yo.”

“Hey Steph, what’s up?” Dick closed out the tabs on Beck and Murdock.

“Eh, same old same old,” she shrugged. “Oh! I keep forgetting, I need a favor.”

“What’d you need?”

“So, like a week ago, you remember when you almost died?”

“…Yeah, that doesn’t usually slip my mind,” Dick chuckled.

“Ugh. Every time you speak it just explains everything about Peter,” Steph lamented. “Anyways, so when you were unconscious, there was a bank robbery me and the batgirls got caught in while in civies.” 

“Okay…”

“There was this really weird guy. Cass is pretty sure he was blind, but he took down all the robbers like nothing,” she explained, waving her hands around to further her point. “All we know is that 1. He can fight. 2. He’s probably blind. 3. He has some sorta super human reflex. And 4. He said he was a lawyer. Jay doesn’t buy it and thinks the guy’s a wannabe vigilante who calls himself ‘The Lawyer’ as a way to administer justice but honestly I think he’s just like a good version of Two Face.”

Dick blinked. “You get a name?”

“Nope.”

He ran his fingers through his hair. “Fuck.”

“Woah, watch your fucking language.”

“Steph, this is serious,” Dick glared at her, knowing his frustration towards her was unjustified.

Steph quickly switched disposition. She was Spoiler now. “What’s going on? You know him?”

“Ran into him once before,” Dick bit the inside of his cheek. “I think he’s after Peter.”