Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Peter was tired of being treated like a dumb kid. 

Not that the avengers thought he was dumb, but by the way that they treated him, made him feel like he was on the back burner. 

A reinforcement.

A sidekick. 

But he wasn’t a sidekick. He was and always has been a hero. 

He has powers, unintentionally, and the brains, genetically,  and always got back up no matter how many times life has knocked him down, unwillingly. 

In fact, when he first met Tony, it was strange to see a man that he has admired for so long ask for his help. 

Not that Peter was gonna tell him no, because Peter never really liked that word. He was always willing to help someone, despite the pain he went through. 

So why was he still being treated like a kid? Sure he was 14 years old, but that didn’t change the fact that he can knock Captain America on his ass like he was nothing but a ragdoll. Yet despite the endless fights, triggering PTSD, losing every single one of his family members, foster care, kidnapping, expensive therapy that the avengers forced him to attend and being punched in the face accidentally by Bucky, he thought he had everything handled. 

But nothing could have prepared him for this. 

Rainwater dripped somewhere above him.

Slow. Uneven. Hollow.

Drip.
Drip.
Drip.

Peter Parker woke to the smell of rot and wet concrete.

For one disoriented second, he thought Queens.

Then his eyes opened.

And absolutely not.

The alley was too narrow, the buildings too cold, like the city itself was trying to crush the air out of him. Rusted fire escapes zigzagged overhead like crooked ribs. Neon signs buzzed somewhere beyond the alley mouth, flickering reds and sickly blues across puddles black with oil. Trash bags split open beside him, sour with the smell of old food, cigarettes, and rain-soaked garbage baking together into something foul.

There was a cat that hissed nearby.

Peter groaned quietly and pushed himself up onto his elbows.

Bad idea. His senses yelled.

Pain crashed through his body immediately — sharp across his ribs, burning down his shoulder, something warm dripping near his hairline. His mask was half torn off, sticking uncomfortably to his cheek with dried blood.

“Okay,” he croaked. “That’s…less than ideal.”

His voice disappeared into the noise of the city. Not his city.

Not New York noise.

New York had life in it. Honking cars, people yelling, music through apartment windows, subway brakes screaming under the streets.

This city sounded different.

This city sounded hungry.

Sirens wailed somewhere far off, echoing between buildings like ghosts. Pipes groaned overhead. Water rushed through unseen gutters. A train rattled in the distance, metal shrieking against metal. Somewhere nearby, a man laughed too loudly before the sound cut off abruptly.

Peter’s stomach twisted.

Even the air felt wrong here.

Heavy.

Like the city had been holding its breath for years.

Peter forced himself to sit up fully, wincing as dizziness hit him hard enough to blur the alley lights. His spider-sense buzzed faintly at the back of his skull — not screaming danger, just…uneasy. Constantly uneasy.

Which honestly felt worse.

He looked around carefully.

Brick walls covered in graffiti.

A flickering neon sign reading VACANCY hanging crooked above the alley entrance.

Steam rising from a vent nearby.

No Avengers Tower.

No familiar skyline.

No Queens.

Peter swallowed slowly.

“…Karen?”, he muttered, hope filling him softly.

Static crackled in his mask.

Then—

“Multiple system errors detected,” Karen answered weakly. “Location unknown. Status unknown.”

Peter closed his eyes briefly.

Because of course it was.

Peter pulled himself upright using the brick wall beside him, fingers slipping against rain and grime. Every part of him hurt. Not the normal kind either. Not the “got punched by a villain of the week and walked it off” kind. This felt deeper. Like his body had been pulled apart and stitched back together wrong.

He pressed a hand against his ribs and hissed quietly.

The last thing he remembered—

The lab.

Mr. Stark pacing around excitedly while pretending not to be excited.

A giant machine humming with enough unstable energy to make Peter’s spider-sense itch for hours.

“Okay, kiddo,” Tony Stark had said, pointing a wrench at him. “If this works, we are officially the coolest geniuses alive.”

Peter had snorted. “Pretty sure you already decided that in, like, 2008.”

Then the alarms went off.

People breaking in.

Shouting.

Gunfire.

Someone screaming for the transporter.

Peter remembered lunging forward—

A blinding flash—

And then nothing.

Now he was here.

Somewhere cold. Somewhere wrong.

Peter swallowed hard and peeled the ruined mask from his face with shaky fingers. The fabric stuck to dried blood near his temple before finally coming loose. Cold air hit his skin immediately.

His suit flickered weakly around him.

Nanotech crawled sluggishly over his arms like dying sparks before Karen’s voice crackled again.

“Emergency power conservation activated.”

The suit collapsed inward, metal flowing across his skin until it formed a thin black bracelet around his wrist.

Peter stared at it.

“…Cool,” he muttered weakly. “Love that for me.”

The alley suddenly felt a lot colder without the suit.

Rain drizzled lightly now, dampening his curls as he forced himself toward the alley entrance. His bare feet hit freezing pavement the second he stepped onto the street.

And Gotham unfolded around him.

The city glowed in bruised colors.

Neon signs buzzed above pawn shops and liquor stores. Steam rolled from sewer grates in thick clouds. People moved fast down the sidewalks with their heads lowered, coats pulled tight, eyes refusing to linger on anyone too long. Probably heading home.

Nobody looked safe here.

A police siren screamed somewhere nearby.

Nobody reacted.

Peter passed a storefront with a clothing rack shoved outside beneath a flickering awning as the workers hurried to close shop as night approached vastly. Hoodies. Sweatpants. Cheap winter clothes probably worth more than the few dollars currently sitting in his nonexistent wallet.

He hesitated for half a second.

Then survival won.

“Sorry,” he mumbled to absolutely nobody as he yanked a giant hoodie from the rack.

A pair of dark sweatpants followed immediately after.

Peter ducked behind a newspaper stand nearby, pulling the oversized clothes over his battered body as quickly as possible. The hoodie swallowed him whole, sleeves hanging over bruised hands. Better than the torn Spider-Man suit.

Way less suspicious too.

Probably.

Rainwater splashed softly beneath Peter’s bare feet as he walked.

Not walked.

Wandered.

Because wandering sounded less pathetic than lost in a random place wearing pajama pants and a stolen hoodie while possibly concussed.

The alleyways of this place smelled wrong.     

New York had grease and smoke and subway heat. This city smelled cold. Wet concrete. Rust. Motor oil. Something metallic underneath it all that made the tiny hairs on Peter’s arms stand up.

His hoodie clung damply to his skin as distant sirens echoed somewhere far off in the city.

Too far.

Everything here felt too far away.

Peter shoved his freezing hands into his pockets harder and kept moving.

Karen’s voice had gone quiet almost an hour ago after the suit partially died, leaving Peter alone with the sound of dripping pipes, rattling fire escapes, and his own breathing.

Then his spider-sense exploded.

Pain stabbed behind his eyes.

Not danger.

Too much danger.

LOUD.

FAST.

GUN.

METAL.

CAR.

PEOPLE.

PEOPLE.

CHILD.

NO—

KID.

UP.

DOWN.

NOW.

Peter physically staggered as instinct screamed through his nervous system hard enough to make his teeth ache.

“What the hell—”

His head snapped upward.

A rusted ladder clung to the side of a nearby building. Peter grabbed it immediately and climbed fast, cold metal biting into his wet hands as he hauled himself onto the rooftop.

Wind hit him instantly.

Cold.
Sharp.
Rain-soaked.

The Gotham skyline stretched endlessly before him, glowing sickly gold through fog and storm clouds.

Then screaming laughter echoed from below.

Peter moved toward the ledge cautiously and looked down into the alley beneath him.

His stomach dropped.

There was a kid down there.

A kid.

Around Peter’s age maybe. Smaller than him by a little. Black hair. Domino mask. Black pants with green knee pads,  beneath a red armored tunic with a yellow and black hooded type cape snapping violently in the wind behind him.

Who the fuck?! 

Holy crap.

Like—

Is this a superhero????? 

THAT I DON’T KNOW?

The kid was surrounded by men wearing clown masks.

Clown goons….Glowns? Cloons? Nevermind, not important…

Even Peter knew that one he had to kinda disregard. Which side note: so fucking weird. 

One of the men staggered drunkenly as he laughed, gun swinging carelessly in his grip.

“Looks like the little birdie, Robin, got separated from Batman!”

His name was Robin?????

Batman-?! Like a hero with bat powers? Again weird. 

Another barked out shrill laughter.

“Ain’t so scary without the big bat, huh?”

Robin said nothing.

But Peter noticed the stance immediately.

Defensive.

Tired.

One arm held slightly wrong.

Injured.

The kid’s gloved hand slowly reached toward something hidden near his belt.

A weapon probably.

One of the men noticed.

“Tsk.”

The thug pulled his gun higher.

“I don’t think so, kid.”

Peter’s nose instantly filled with the smell of gun oil and cheap metal.

The sight alone made ice crawl down his spine.

He hated guns.

Hated them.

His spider-sense screamed again.

DANGER.

NOW.

MOVE.

Peter didn’t think.

He just moved.

He grabbed the nearest loose brick from the rooftop ledge and hurled himself downward.

The alley rushed up violently beneath him.

His bare feet slammed against wet pavement hard enough tiny rocks dug painfully into his skin, but Peter barely felt it over the adrenaline flooding his body.

Every head snapped toward him.

Including Robin’s.

Peter straightened slowly.

Rain dripped from his curls into his eyes as he tightened his grip around a second brick.

One of the clown-masked men blinked.

“…What?”

Peter looked between the armed criminals and the visibly injured vigilante child standing in the middle of them.

Then at the gun.

Then back at them.

“…Uh,” Peter said nervously. “Hi?”

For one second, nobody moved.

Robin stared at him like he’d just materialized from another dimension.

Which—

Okay, technically—

Then one thug barked out a laugh.

“The hell is this? Some homeless kid?”

Peter frowned slightly.

Kinda fucking rude.

Robin’s eyes narrowed behind the domino mask.

And despite the chaos, despite the alley, despite the gun still aimed dangerously close—

His brain somehow managed one very clear thought:

Why is this civilian barefoot?

Peter shifted awkwardly beneath the collective staring.

“…So,” he tried again weakly, raising the brick a little. “This seems super illegal.”

The alley stayed silent for exactly three seconds.

Then one of the Joker goons snorted.

“Oh my God,” the man laughed, lowering the gun slightly. “The brat thinks he is backup.”

Peter tightened his grip around the brick.

“Okay, first of all,” he said, offended, “I’m not backup. I just got here. Second, kinda lame grown man are beating up a 4th grader-“ 

Robin stared at him. Which makes sense, because looking closer at him, he was kinda the same height as Peter. 

Rainwater dripped from the edge of his cape as blood slowly darkened one side of his sleeve.

“Incredible,” Robin muttered flatly. “Homeless kid is an idiot.” 

Peter pointed at him immediately. “Hey, I came down here voluntarily.”

“You came down here barefoot.”

“…That feels unrelated.”

The gun clicked.

Peter’s spider-sense screamed.

MOVE.

The thug fired.

Peter reacted instinctively, lunging sideways so fast even he barely processed it. The bullet slammed into the brick wall behind him with a deafening crack.

Every goon froze.

Peter froze.

Robin’s eyes narrowed instantly.

“…Interesting.”

Peter looked horrified.

“HE SHOT AT ME.”

“No kidding. LEAVE,” Robin snapped.

Another thug rushed Peter suddenly with a rusted pipe.

Peter panicked.

And accidentally punched the guy directly in the chest hard enough to send him flying backward into a dumpster with a metallic crash loud enough to echo down the alley.

Silence.

The entire alley went dead silent.

Peter blinked slowly at his own hand.

“…ah…my hand touched you.”, Peter said grossed out. 

Robin stared at him.

The remaining goons stared at him.One thug whispered, “…What the hell?” Peter looked genuinely stressed now. “In my defense, I didn’t mean to do that.”

Then chaos exploded again. Three men charged them at once.Robin moved immediately despite the obvious pain in his side.

Fast.

Precise.

Violent.

Peter watched in genuine alarm as Robin flipped over one attacker, slammed another directly into a wall, then drove his boot into someone’s knee hard enough Peter physically winced.

“OH MY GOD.”

Robin ducked another swing.“Oh please,” he hissed. “Make a comment, I dare you.”

Peter grabbed a loose trash can lid before another thug could reach Robin from behind. “DUDE LOOK OUT—”He slammed the lid directly into the guy’s face. The man crumpled instantly. Peter stared at the unconscious body. “…yall are like hella weak…”Robin looked increasingly annoyed.

“You talk to much.” A knife flashed suddenly beneath the alley light.

Spider-sense.

Peter moved without thinking.

He caught Robin by the other arm and yanked him backward hard enough both boys stumbled into the alley wall just as the blade sliced through empty air where Robin’s chest had been.

Robin inhaled sharply. Not from fear.Pain.

Peter immediately noticed. “You’re hurt.” “I am aware.”, Snapped Robin, pain hidden in his voice. “No like—bad hurt.” Robin shoved himself upright immediately.“I do not require assistance.”

Peter looked at the blood literally dripping down Robin’s glove. “…Right...”

The remaining goons hesitated now. Because suddenly: one kid fought like a tiny assassin and the other threw grown men around like a soccer ball  

And neither seemed interested in dying tonight.

One thug slowly lowered his crowbar.“…Nah.”“Yeah screw this.”Another pointed shakily at Peter.“That barefoot one ain’t normal.”  Bruh…“YOU THINK?”

Within seconds the remaining men scattered down the alley, disappearing into the rain.

Silence settled again.Only distant thunder and heavy breathing remained.

Peter bent over slightly, hands on his knees as adrenaline drained from his body.

“…Okay,” he wheezed. “That was deeply stressful.” Robin stayed standing despite the obvious exhaustion threatening to drag him down. The kid watched Peter carefully now. Analyzing. Calculating.

Peter noticed immediately.“…Why are you looking at me like that?” Robin ignored the question. Instead his eyes dropped toward Peter’s feet. Bare. Bruised. Wet from Gotham rainwater and streaked with dirt from the alley. “…Why are you barefoot?”

Peter blinked.

Of all possible questions— “That’s your concern right now?”

“You are standing in a Gotham alley with no shoes.” Gotham? Where is that?

“Yeah, well, life comes at you fast.” Robin stared blankly. Peter sighed dramatically. “I lost them.”“How?” “… uh uno game?” Robin’s expression somehow became even more unimpressed. “That is not an answer.” “It’s the best answer you’re getting.” Robin stepped closer carefully now, likely trying not to show the slight limp in his right leg.

Peter noticed anyway, because Peter is a brilliant detective in his own opinion. The kid was definitely injured. Badly. And way too young to be bleeding this much in an alley. Robin looked Peter up and down again. Bruised knuckles. No visible weapons. Civilian clothing that looked about 3 sizes to big on him.
No fear response appropriate for Gotham. “Are you a metahuman?” Peter frowned immediately. “…A what?” Robin blinked once. “A metahuman.”, he stated.  Peter stared. “What the hell is a metahuman? Is that like…racist? Did I just save a racist? I’m half Italian if that counts?”

Now Robin looked annoyed. “You threw a fully grown man into a dumpster.” Peter looked toward the unconscious thug still folded unnaturally near the alley wall. “…Oh.” Robin crossed his arms. “You were unaware of your enhanced strength.” “I mean—I knew I was kinda strong?” “Kinda?” Peter pointed weakly at the unconscious bodies around them. “Okay, in hindsight, maybe not kinda.” Robin pinched the bridge of his nose. “You are impossibly irresponsible.” Peter looked offended. “Excuse you? I saved your life.” “I did not require saving.” “You are literally bleeding.”

Robin immediately straightened. “I was handling it.” “You still bleeding.”, Peter pointed out, eyeing the blood.  “...I’m just at a minor set back.” Peter stared at him for a long moment.“…You’re weird.” Robin looked equally unimpressed. “You interfered in a gang ambush barefoot and armed with masonry.” “That’s called helping.” “That is called being a suicidal idiot.”

Peter opened his mouth. Paused. “…Okay maybe a little.”

For some reason, that almost made Robin more irritated. Because the civilian standing in front of him should’ve been terrified right now. Instead he was soaked from rainwater, bruised, bleeding slightly from one elbow, and somehow still making jokes. It was deeply concerning. Robin narrowed his eyes. “Who trained you?” Peter blinked. “Nobody?” “That is impossible.” “I mean my aunt taught me how to parallel park?” Robin looked ready to walk directly back into traffic. 

Then Peter’s expression shifted slightly. Because beneath the attitude and sharp tone and murder-energy— Robin was swaying a little. Subtle. But enough. Peter sighed softly. “…You should sit down before you pass out dramatically.” “I am not going to pass out.” “You’re literally leaking.” Robin looked deeply offended by that phrasing. Yet a second later, his knees almost buckled. Peter caught him automatically before he hit the pavement.

And for one brief second— Robin froze. Because the stranger holding him steady smelled like rainwater, bruises, and cheap laundry detergent. Not fear. Not pity.Just concern.

Which somehow felt far more strange that him helping out. Peter looked into the kids eyes, well his domino masks, as he turned his head up to look at Peter.  “Are you okay?” “Call…Batman-”, then Robin passed out. 

“.....WHO?”

Chapter Text

Damian was tired of being treated like a defenseless little kid.

Not that his family genuinely believed he was helpless or defenseless. Bruce certainly didn't. Richard didn't. None of them had ever looked at him and thought weak.

Yet somehow, through every worried glance, every order to stay behind, every hand placed in front of his chest to stop him from walking into danger, they still managed to make him feel small.

A child.

Naive.

Fragile.

Defenseless.

And Damian Wayne had never been defenseless.

He had been raised among assassins long before he learned what cartoons were. Long before he knew what birthday parties were. Long before he understood what normal children did. He had learned how to disarm a grown man before learning proper multiplication. Learned how to identify weak points in the human body before ever holding a school textbook. He knew where to cut. Where to strike. How long it took someone to bleed. How long it took someone to stop breathing. He had always been dangerous.

Always.

So why—

Why did they still look at him like he needed protecting?

The thought had irritated him for years.

Especially when he had first arrived at Wayne Manor.He remembered stepping into the mansion and seeing them. Richard. Jason.Tim. Duke. Stephanie. Cassandra. Children Bruce had chosen. Children Bruce had wanted. Children Bruce had loved before Damian had ever entered his life. It had confused him. Because Damian was blood. He was Bruce Wayne's son. His heir. The child born with the right to inherit the cowl. Batman. Not that Damian let them forget that fact. Because he was petty. Painfully petty. He'd admit that much. But beneath the smug comments and eye rolls and endless arguments was something uglier.

Something he never allowed himself to say aloud. Because saying it made it real.

Sometimes it hurt seeing Richard laugh with Bruce. Seeing Tim casually walk into his father's office without hesitation. Seeing Jason insult Bruce to his face and somehow still know he was loved afterward. How Bruce looked at Cass and Stephanie so fondly. Or the fatherly conversation he had with Duke. They fit beside him naturally. Damian always felt like he had to earn his place. And maybe that was why he hated being treated like a child so much. Because children were protected. Children were sheltered. Children had things taken away from them "for their own good." And Damian was tired of people deciding things for him.

Sure, he was fourteen. But age meant nothing. Age did not erase endless language lessons. Age did not erase combat training. Age did not erase weaponry, strategy, literature, and years of surviving within the League of Assassins. Age did not erase isolation. The stares from classmates because of his accent. The whispers. The teasing from his siblings. The feeling that he was always trying to fit into a world everyone else seemed born understanding.

He had survived all of it. Handled all of it. Or so he thought.

Because absolutely nothing—

Nothing—

Had prepared him for tonight.

The argument had started with Bruce. Of course it had.  Richard had joined shortly after.

"You have school tomorrow."

"It's late."

"You're going home."

Damian had never wanted to punch someone more. It was barely nine-thirty. Nine-thirty. And they were acting as if he were six years old. So naturally, Damian had done the reasonable thing. He escaped. He lost Nightwing's trail somewhere over Seventh Street, disabled Oracle's attempts to track him, and continued patrol out of pure spite. Because he was going to prove a point. He was capable. He didn't need supervision. Didn't need protecting. Didn't need them.

Then somewhere between Seventh Street and Crime Alley—

Everything went wrong.

One moment he was moving across rooftops, grappling hook pulling him forward through Gotham's freezing night air.

The next—

BANG.

Pain exploded across his arm.

White-hot.

Sharp.

His breath caught.

Not deep.

Just a graze.

Barely anything.

But surprise was dangerous.

And for one horrible second—

Damian lost his grip.

Time slowed.

The grappling hook slipped through his fingers.

His stomach dropped.

The city tilted.

Then—

CRASH.

His side slammed into a dumpster lid.

Metal groaned beneath him.

Pain shot through his ribs.

Then gravity pulled him again.

Down.

Hard.

His leg struck pavement.

Everything hurt.

Everything.

Damian sucked in a sharp breath through clenched teeth. No.

No no no—

Not like this.

Not him.

Not Damian Wayne.

Not Robin.

Not after all of that training. Not after spending his entire life proving he wasn't weak. He had been taken down by drunken idiots with guns. Humiliating. Absolutely humiliating. But somehow… That wasn't even the worst part. No. The worst part was waking up later. On a rooftop. Confused. Alive. His domino mask still covered his face. His body ached. His ribs screamed every time he breathed. But his wounds—

Damian blinked. Bandages? No. Red fabric. Torn fabric. Clothes? "...Sorry." Damian froze. A voice. Slightly raspy yet something was soft about it. Familiar. "I didn't have actual bandages," the voice admitted awkwardly, "but I found water and cleaned you up a little." Damian's body moved before his mind did. Years of training. Years of instinct. His hand flew to his belt—

Three baterangs cut through the air instantly.

Sharp.

Fast.

Precise.

The stranger's eyes widened. Then—

To Damian's complete disbelief— The boy caught them.

Effortlessly.

Silence.

Damian stared. The homeless barefoot boy stared back. Brown hair. Around his age. Bruised. Wearing that stupid oversized clothes that had seen better days that was missing fabric at the bottom. And holding Damian's weapons like someone catching tossed car keys. "...Huh," the boy said quietly. Damian felt something cold crawl down his spine. Because for the first time tonight— He was no longer certain he was the most dangerous person on the rooftop.

“Can I keep this?” “What-No.”, Damian snapped back into reality. “Give it back. Before I make you-” The kid snorted at Damian’s response. “How, when you got booboos all over you.”, the boy teased. “I will kill you-” “Oh nice but not in the mood for that.” “You are infuriating.”, Damian stated, as Peter shrugged, admiring the sharp baterangs. “Hand it over-” “Say please.” What. “What-” “You got a hearing problem now?” Damian felt his brow twitch in irritation. “I never say please-”, Damian hissed. “Then I guess these are mine.” This fucker- “....Plea-” “Peter.” “What?” “My name is Peter.” 

Damian stared at him with the kind of expression that usually made grown men reconsider their choices. 

Peter stared right back. 

"...Please, Peter," Damian said begrudgingly, like each word physically wounded him. Peter grinned, small dimples formed. "There it is, now was that so hard?" Damian narrowed his eyes. "I despise you." "You've known me for like..." Peter glanced at the sky dramatically. "...ten minutes?" "Longest ten minutes of my life."

Peter snorted before twirling one of the daggers between his fingers absentmindedly. Which immediately made Damian sit up again."Stop doing that." "Doing what?" "That." Peter blinked innocently. "I'm literally sitting here." "You are mishandling my blade." Peter looked down at it. "...Oh." Then—to Damian's absolute horror— He flipped it once. Caught it. Flipped it again. Caught it. Damian felt his soul briefly leave his body. "What are you doing?!" Peter stopped. "What?" "That is not a toy!" Peter looked genuinely confused.

"...You're upset because I'm spinning the little bat knife?" Damian stared at him. Peter stared back.

"...You threw this at me? "...That is different." "How?" "...Because these are mine.", he practically hissed as Peter was silent. Then his shoulders started shaking. Damian frowned. "...Why are you making that face?" Peter covered his mouth. "No reason." "Why are you smiling?" "No reason." "You are laughing at me. Why?" Peter finally looked at him. "You're kinda weird, you know that?" Damian looked deeply offended.

"I am weird?" "Yeah." "I am not weird." Peter pointed at him, directly at his wound. "You got shot, I have a feeling that you probably fell off a roof too before I rescued you, hurt your leg, got clown jumped , passed out , I had to help you, then you woke up, threw knives at me, threatened me, and now you're mad because I'm holding your bat knife wrong." "..." "..." "...Give me back my weapons." Peter slowly tucked the dagger into the pocket of his oversized hoodie. "Nope." Damian's eye twitched. "...You insufferable little—" Damian moved to swing at him but suddenly moving caused instant pain shot through his side.

Sharp.

Violent.

His face tightened instantly. Peter's smile vanished. Immediately. "Hey." Damian said nothing. "...Hey." Peter moved a little closer, crouching in front of him now. The teasing disappeared from his face so quickly it almost gave Damian whiplash. "You okay?" "I'm fine." "You look like you're in pain." "I said I am fine." Peter stared at him. Damian instantly hated that stare. Because it wasn't pity. He knew pity. 

People pitied him all the time. No. This was worse. This was concern. Simple. Honest concern. Like Peter actually expected an answer. Like he cared. "...You're really bad at lying," Peter said quietly. Damian looked away. And for some reason— That annoyed him more than anything else tonight.

“I’m fine, just give me my bater-” “Fine. Here, but we need to get you some help, I could only do so much with everything I don’t have.” “You didn’t call Batman?”, Damian looked confused.  “I’m going to be honest, I don’t know who that is, I don’t even know what City this is, let alone state-” “Gotham, New Jersey.” “And I - wait what the actual fuck. I’m disgusted, I’m in NEW JERSEY?” Damian stared, as Peter ranted. “I can’t believe I’m here of all the places- Wait that is besides the point, what was I saying? Right, I didn’t call him because I don’t know him, and I’m pretty sure that you snuck off to do hero stuff instead of actually heading back to where you need to be because you felt like you were being treated like a kid?” “What I feel is none of your concern, how long was I out?” “An hour tops.” “You didn’t take off my mask?” “I believe in anonymity. We all got our secrets, and if yours is dressing up like a kinky bird, then by all means go for it. No judgement here, but those injuries, kinda need to take care of it.” “Are you being serious right now?” “Deadass.” “You talk too much.” “Thanks.” 

Damian tried sitting up.

Instantly regretted it.

Pain tore through his side so sharply that his vision briefly blurred. His ribs felt like someone had taken a hammer to them, and his arm burned where the bullet had grazed him. Before he could continue, a hand shoved against his shoulder and pushed him right back down.

"Nope."

Damian blinked. Peter was staring at him. "What are you doing?" "Preventing you from making dumb decisions." Damian looked deeply offended "I am not making dumb decisions." Peter stared. Damian stared back. “I’m capable of making intelligent decisions.” Peter snorted.

Damian narrowed his eyes at him before reluctantly leaning back against the wall. "...How does one contact Batman?", Peter asked him. Damian ignored him. Reaching up toward his ear, he tapped something hidden beneath his hair. Peter's eyes shifted immediately. Small. Black. Communication device.

“Fancy.”, Peter muttered. 

"Oracle, come in."

Static.

Then—

"DAM— I mean Robin!"

Peter nearly jumped. A woman's voice suddenly filled the air. "Why were your comms turned off?! We were worried!" Peter tilted his head slightly. Without meaning to, his hearing focused. Heartbeat. Traffic four streets away. Pigeons on a nearby rooftop. Computer fans. Typing. Clocktower bells.

...Clocktower.

He blinked.

Weird.

"Are you hurt?" Oracle asked immediately. Damian straightened slightly. "No—" "Liar." Damian turned slowly. Very slowly. Peter smiled innocently. Damian looked like he wanted violence. "...Excuse me?" Peter pointed dramatically at his wounds. "You made a face." "I did not." "You did." "I did not." "You made this face." Peter squinted and frowned dramatically. Damian stared at him in horror.

"...I do not look like that." "You absolutely do." "Robin?" Oracle interrupted, sounding increasingly confused. "...Who is that?" Damian sighed through his nose. "...Track my location. Send Nightwing." A pause. "...Have him bring shoes." Silence. Then: "Shoes?" Peter blinked. "...Shoes?", ask Oracle. Damian's expression remained completely blank. "Just do it." "Okay..." Peter watched him suspiciously. "Sending Nightwing now." The comm clicked off.

The rooftop grew quiet again.

Not completely.

Gotham was never completely quiet.

Sirens echoed somewhere in the distance, muffled beneath the sounds of passing traffic below. Wind rolled between buildings, carrying the scent of rain and concrete through the freezing night air. But between them— Silence. Damian slowly turned his head toward Peter. Then stared. And kept staring. Peter noticed after a few seconds. Of course he noticed. He shifted awkwardly beneath the stare, pulling one knee closer to his chest. "...What?" "You are alone?" Peter frowned immediately. "...Why?" He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Gonna kidnap me?"

Damian's eye twitched. "Do not be irritating." "I'm not being irritating." "I am irritated by just looking at you." Peter stared at him. "...Rude. Stop staring at me then" Damian ignored him. "Are you alone in this city?" For a brief moment Peter's smile weakened as he was thrown off guard. Tiny. Barely there. So small most people probably wouldn't have caught it. Damian did. Peter looked away. Not toward Damian. Toward the city. Toward Gotham. "...Currently." Damian narrowed his eyes. Currently. Not yes. Not no. Currently. Which meant there was more to the answer. Of course there was. There always was. "And you are a meta." Peter shrugged one shoulder lazily. "Sure?" Damian stared. No. Absolutely not. That answer irritated him immediately.

"You are uncertain whether you possess abilities?" "Nah, I know I have abilities." "...Then why phrase it as a question?" Peter blinked. Actually thought about it. "...I dunno. I’ve never heard of this word before. Meta… Like that doesn’t make any sense?" Damian stared at him. Peter stared back. "...Do you require financial assistance? Do you need someone to help you? Medical assistance?" Peter blinked once. Twice. "...Come again?" Damian frowned. "...Why do you sound confused?" Peter looked down at his hands. "Because I don’t think anyone's ever asked me those questions before." Damian's expression hardened slightly. Because Peter said it casually.

Far too casually. Like it wasn't strange. Like being fourteen and alone wasn't strange. Like sitting  on rooftops wasn't strange after getting in a fight. Like walking barefoot through Gotham wasn't strange. Like patching up a stranger with what seemed to be his only clothing wasn't strange. Like surviving by himself was normal, which it wasn’t because this kid should be at home in a warm bed, not taking care of him late on a rooftop. Damian found himself studying him quietly. Messy brown hair that looked windblown and uneven, like he had cut it himself months ago and never bothered fixing it.

Bruises.

Tiny cuts.

Oversized clothes that hung too loosely around his frame.

Shoeless.

Too thin.

Too tired around the eyes.

And somehow—

Somehow—

Still smiling like Damian was the one who said something funny. Damian hated that. Not the smile itself. The fact that Peter still had one. "..." Peter narrowed his eyes slowly. "...Why are you looking at me like that?" Damian immediately looked away. "...No reason." Peter squinted harder. "Nope." Damian frowned. "...Nope?" "You're doing the face again." "...What face?" "The face." "There is no face." Peter pointed dramatically at him. "That one." "There is no—" "The concerned one." Damian froze. "...Concerned?" "Yeah." Peter tilted his head. "It's weird."

Damian stared at him like he'd personally insulted generations of Wayne family history. "I am not concerned." How dare this idiot think I’m concerned about him.  Peter smiled. Not smug. Not teasing. Just soft. Like he knew something Damian didn't. "No you aren't." Damian opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "...I despise you." Peter's smile widened. "No you don't." “You don’t know me.”, Damian stated. Peter shrugged, as the two boys sat there in silence afterward. Two strangers on a Gotham rooftop. Damian found himself looking over again despite himself. Watching Peter stare at the skyline. Watching the city lights reflect softly in dark brown eyes. And for reasons Damian couldn't explain— He suddenly had the uncomfortable feeling that tonight had changed something.

He just didn't know what yet.

But the moment passed. Peter suddenly turned his head. Sharp. Instantly. Like he had heard something Damian hadn't. Damian frowned and turned his head to try and spot what Peter spotted. A shadow dropped onto the rooftop. Blue and black. Acrobatics. Nightwing. "Robin!" Nightwing landed smoothly on the rooftop, already moving toward Damian before he froze mid-step.

"Robin, we have been looking everywhere for you! Your comms were turned off and Oracle almost started a manhunt when she couldn’t track you—are you hurt? Why are you covered in blood—" Then he noticed Peter. Nightwing blinked. "...Who is this?" Peter stared. Nightwing stared. Peter awkwardly lifted his hand. "...Hi." Idiot. "Do you have the shoes?" Nightwing stared harder. "...Shoes?" "Yes." "...You called me across Gotham for shoes?" "...Do you possess them or not?" Nightwing slowly reached into a pouch and pulled out a pair of sneakers. "...Yes."

Damian immediately walked over and grabbed them. Pain still shot through his side, but he ignored it. Peter noticed. Of course he did. From what he has noticed, Peter seemed to type of be aware of things. Damian walked back over before tossing the shoes toward him. Peter caught them awkwardly. Then blinked. "...Why are you giving me shoes?" Damian looked at him like the answer was obvious. "...You are barefoot." Peter looked down. "...Oh." "..." "...Fair point."

Nightwing looked between them. Then at Peter's bare feet. Then at Robin. Then back at Peter. His confusion was rapidly becoming concern. Damian put a hand on his hip. "Where are you staying tonight?" Peter shrugged. "...Probably here?" "...Here?" "Yeah." "...On the rooftop." "...Yeah?" Damian stared at him. "The rooftop." Peter frowned. "...You're saying that like it's weird." Damian felt something deep within himself physically recoil. "What is your source for warmth?" Peter paused. "...My hoodie?" "Shelter?" "..." Peter looked around. Looked around again. Then suddenly brightened. "Oh!"

He jogged a few feet away and grabbed a randomly tossed tarp from beside an old vent. He held it up proudly. "...Tada?" Silence. Absolute silence. Nightwing stared. Damian stared. Peter smiled back. "...What?" Damian slowly closed his eyes. Then sighed. Long. Deep. Disappointed.

"...We will bring you more supplies." Peter blinked. "...Huh?" "Seeing as you are homeless." Nightwing's head snapped toward Damian. "Robin—" "I thought with your intelligence, Nightwing, you would have concluded that I am repaying a debt." Damian glanced toward Peter. Who was now trying to tie the tarp between two pipes. Poorly. Very poorly. The tarp immediately collapsed onto his head. Peter disappeared beneath it. "...I think I'm fine," Peter's muffled voice argued weakly from under the tarp pile. Idiot. 

"...Tomorrow Nightwing will bring you proper supplies to assist your current predicament." Nightwing looked like his brain had stopped working. "...Robin—" "And then we shall locate a permanent residence." Peter slowly pushed the tarp off his head. His messy hair stuck out in every direction now. "...Why are you helping me?" The question came out quieter than before. Not teasing. Not joking. Just...confused. Actually confused. Which Damian can understand because five minutes ago, he was threatening bodily harm to Peter, and now he was offering assistance. So yeah, he can understand  that the sudden kindness was suspicious. "Why did you help me?" Peter blinked. "Because..." He frowned slightly. "Because it was the right thing to do." No hesitation. No thought. No expectation of anything in return. Just simple certainty. Damian nodded softly agreeing. "Then why do you question me?" Peter went quiet. Nightwing did too.

Because suddenly the rooftop didn't feel funny anymore. For a second there was only wind. Only city lights. Only Peter staring at Damian like nobody had ever thrown his own kindness back at him before. Then Peter abruptly looked toward Nightwing. "Check his vitals." Nightwing blinked. "What?" "He passed out from blood loss, probably has a concussion, definitely has a gunshot wound, and he won't admit any of it." Damian whipped around. "I do not—" "He also gets grumpy when he's injured." "...ROBIN." Peter smiled innocently. Nightwing looked at Damian. Looked at Peter.  Damian immediately felt dread.

"...Nightwing, " Robin hissed, as his brother ignored him. He crouched beside Damian and pulled out a med kit from his belt. "Let's see the arm." "I do not require treatment." "Robin." "I said—" Nightwing pulled the torn fabric away from Damian's arm. Damian tensed up.  Nightwing looked unimpressed. "Oh yeah, you're totally fine." "I was." "You passed out." "I briefly lost consciousness." "You passed out." Peter sat nearby cross-legged on the concrete, now attempting to put on the shoes Damian had thrown at him. 

Attempting.

One shoe was on. The other had somehow ended up halfway twisted around his foot. Nightwing happened to glance over. Then paused. "...Kid." Peter looked up. "...Me?" "Yes, you." Nightwing pointed slowly. "...Are you putting shoes on wrong?"

Peter looked down, wiggling his feet. "...Maybe." Damian noted that his tone sounded a bit embarrassed. "...How does one put shoes on incorrectly?" Peter looked offended immediately. "I've been barefoot for a few hours! Leave me alone!" Silence. Nightwing blinked as Damian frowned. A few hours? That made no sense.

Damian remembered asking earlier where his shoes had gone. Peter had casually shrugged and said: "Lost them in an Uno game." Which Damian had immediately filed under complete nonsense. Because no one lost shoes in a card game. Unless Peter was somehow exceptionally incompetent.

Which... no.

Peter had caught batarangs. Disarmed Damian. Carried an unconscious Robin across Gotham rooftops. No one that capable lost shoes in an Uno game. Nightwing crossed his arms. "...Okay." Peter looked up warily. "...Okay?" "You lost your shoes how exactly?" Peter immediately looked away. Too fast. "...No comment." Damian closed his eyes briefly. Frustration immediately washed over him. No comment? No comment? Who says no comment?

He looked back toward Peter. Messy brown hair. Shoulders slightly tense. Hands messing with the laces of the shoes despite pretending not to care. Avoiding eye contact. Avoiding the question. Avoiding them. Suspicious. Very suspicious. "...Peter." Peter glanced over. "...Yeah?" "You are terrible at lying." Peter looked offended. "I am not." "You lost them in an Uno game." "..."

“No comment.”

Chapter Text

After both Robin and Nightwing left (while wearing a fucking badass costume that Peter may have already thought of some improvements to both Nightwings and his own Spiderman costume, but let’s not get distracted), Peter was left to fend for himself. He finally managed to set up a small tent, well tarp. 

But it was some what a better improvement for shelter instead of just stacking card board into a house, hoping that the non-stop rain that keeps happening in this god forsaken city, would not affect him as much. He did lay cardboard down, creating a makeshift bed, and used some of the tarp that was already ripped, and used that as a blanket. It wasn’t the best in the world, but right now, his options are limited and he would rather sleep safely on a roof, than on the ground, in an alley, where who knows what kind of criminal could attack him. 

He doesn’t know when he managed to fall asleep, but when he did, it felt like he was in the inbetween. That place where he felt like he was back home, but part of him knew that he wasn’t.

Yet, it felt so real. 

Which was why, when Peter suddenly found himself back in the Avengers lab, he immediately knew something was wrong. The first thing he noticed was the noise. Not normal noise. Not Tony's music blasting through speakers while he worked. Not Mr. Steve and Sam arguing over movies.

No. Shouting. Actual shouting. The lab looked like a disaster zone.

Broken equipment was scattered across the floor, sparks occasionally crackling from destroyed panels while S.H.I.E.L.D. agents moved through the room gathering debris and carrying damaged technology away. Pieces of the multiversal device were still smoking on one side of the lab.

The criminals from earlier were gone. Instead, the entire team was there.

Tony. (He looked like he was crying) 

Mr. Steve. (Who looked suddenly 30 years older) 

Miss Natasha. (who actually looked worried)

Dr. Banner. (Who was pacing back and forth)

Thor. (Who was waving his hands around for some strange reason)

Just them….(minus more members, but he didn’t blame them, they are off saving who knows who.) 

All of them standing around what remained of the machine. And none of them looked okay. Dr. Banner and Tony were in the middle of arguing. "I told you the energy readings didn't make sense!" "Well excuse me if I didn't expect reality itself to explode!" "We lost him, Tony!" Peter blinked. Lost who?

"...Uh." Nobody heard him. "...Guys?" Still nothing. Peter frowned. "...Why are you guys fighting?" Silence. Immediate silence. Like someone had muted the room. Every head snapped toward him. Tony spun around so fast he nearly tripped over a toolbox. "Parker?!" "Kid!" "Peter!"

The relief in Tony's voice hit Peter before confusion did. Then Tony was already moving. Fast. Crossing the room in a few steps. "WHERE THE HELL DID YOU GO?!" Peter blinked. "What are you talking about? I was literally—" Tony grabbed for his shoulders. Except— His hands went through him.

Everyone froze. Tony froze. Peter froze. The room froze. Tony stared at his hand. Then at Peter. Then back at his hand. "...What the hell?" No one moved. No one breathed. Peter looked down at himself. Then slowly back up. "...Mr. Stark?" No answer. Miss Natasha had gone pale. Steve looked like someone had punched him. Banner's eyes widened behind his glasses. Tony took a careful step back. "No."

Peter laughed nervously. Small. Awkward. Masking his current fear. "...Okay, nope. Don't do that. Why are you guys looking at me like that?" Nobody answered immediately. Then Banner spoke quietly. "...Peter." Peter swallowed. "...Yeah?" "...You were hit by the multiverse device." Peter blinked. "...Yeah?" "...And then you disappeared with the criminals who broke in." Peter frowned. "...I know that." "..." "...I think?" Silence. Peter's heartbeat suddenly sounded very loud in his own ears.

"...Wait."

No.

No no no.

He looked around. At the broken machine. At everyone's faces. At Tony looking like he wanted to reach for him but suddenly wasn't sure he could. "...Wait." Peter's voice got smaller. "...What do you mean they disappeared?" Nobody answered. Because suddenly Peter realized something. Slowly. Horribly. "...Karen isn’t working right now..." he whispered. He looked up. "....Tony I don’t know what to do…." Silence. "...Because for some strange reason..." Peter laughed weakly. "...I'm in New Jersey."

Nobody laughed back.

Then Steve frowned. "...Kid." Peter looked up. "How are you here right now?" Peter swallowed. "I think..." he started slowly. "I think my body is still over there." Everyone stared. Peter frowned as he tried putting it into words. "I fell asleep on a rooftop and then suddenly I was here." He looked down at his own hands. "I think my... soul?" He looked up uncertainly. "...Is that a thing?" "It is." Everyone turned. Thor stepped forward. For once, there wasn't amusement in his face. Only thought. "In Asgard, there are methods of projection. A being may appear in one realm while their body remains in another."

Peter blinked.

"...Wait, that's real?" Thor nodded. "Your body remains in this alternate Earth, young Peter. But your spirit appears to still be tethered here." Tony frowned. "...Tethered?" Thor looked toward Peter. "It means you are not fully separated."

Hope.

Tiny hope.

Peter immediately looked up.

"So I can come back?" Thor hesitated. And Peter immediately noticed. "...Why did you hesitate?" Nobody answered. Thor sighed.

"We would need someone capable of traversing realms and dimensions naturally." "...Okay." Peter looked around. "Then we find that person." Bruce walked over, instinctively reaching for Peter's shoulder before remembering. His hand passed through him. Peter looked away.

Bruce's expression tightened briefly. "...Well," Bruce started carefully, "that's where the problem begins." Thor looked exhausted suddenly. "The only individual I know possessing such abilities would be—" "Don't say Reindeer Games." Everyone looked at Tony. Tony looked back. "...What? You all knew who he meant." Thor sighed. "...Loki." Peter blinked. "...Loki?" Natasha pinched the bridge of her nose. "Oh great."

Tony threw his hands up. "Absolutely not." "We are not asking your psycho magic brother for help." Thor crossed his arms. "He may know more than us." "He also enjoys chaos." "He enjoys mischief." "He stabbed me." Thor paused. "...That was one time." Tony stared. "...One time?"

Steve suddenly spoke. "What if we only use him for information?" Everyone looked at him. Steve shrugged. "He tells us what universe Peter's in." Then he looked toward Tony and Bruce. "And meanwhile we build another multiverse device."

Tony looked offended. Deeply offended. "Excuse me?" Steve blinked.

"What?" Tony pointed dramatically at himself. "You think I can't build another one?" Natasha raised an eyebrow. "...Can you?" Tony looked personally attacked. "Please do not insult my intelligence because of your ignorance." "...My ignorance?" "Yes." "What did I do?" "You doubted me." Peter stared at them. Then looked around. Then very quietly— "...I'm still stuck in another universe." Silence. Tony immediately pointed at him. "Right." "Right." "Kid first."

Peter nodded, and felt his body start to tingle. “Uh guys-” Everyone turned to look at him, as he was slowly fading out. “Do not panic Young Parker. You are just waking up.”, Thor said, as Peter nodded. “We will bring you home soon.”, Steve stated. “Trust us kid. We won’t give up,” Tony said.

Peter was cold. 

Opening his eyes, Peter was immediately greeted by the sound of rain. Still raining. Not heavy anymore—just a steady drizzle—but the wind had picked up during the night. Cold air swept across the rooftop, slipping through the sleeves of his hoodie and settling into his bones. He pulled his shoulders in slightly, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he slowly pushed himself off the concrete.

His neck hurt. His back hurt. Actually— Everything hurt.

"...Karen, what time is it?" The bracelet on his wrist beeped softly.

6:30 A.M

Peter let out a groan and dragged a hand down his face. He needs to find a way to fix Karen as well. He looked at the graying morning sky, thinking of only one thing.

"Ew." Morning. He stood up and wandered toward the edge of the rooftop. The city was waking up. Slowly. Lights flickered on in apartment windows. Somewhere below, a taxi honked angrily. He could hear doors opening, distant conversations, footsteps splashing through puddles, coffee brewing through open windows, exhausted parents waking up children for school.

New York always felt alive this early but Gotham? It felt like a moment of calmness before the cold set in. Like catching the city before it finished putting on its mask. Peter rested his elbows on his knees and stared for a moment. Then sighed. "...Okay." He stood up. Retied his shoes tighter this time, pulling hard on the laces until they sat firmly against his feet. He stretched his arms over his head, hearing several joints pop in protest. "Oof. I think I aged thirty years." Then he climbed onto the ledge of the rooftop. For a moment he just stood there.

Wind pushing through his messy hair. Rain hitting his face. Looking down at the streets below.

Then—

He smiled slightly. And jumped. Falling. 

One second.

Two.

Then—

THWIP.

Landing on his feet didn't hurt nearly as much as it had yesterday.

Probably because he had shoes now.

Peter rolled his shoulders as he straightened, feeling the cold rainwater slide down the back of his neck beneath his hoodie. His body still ached from yesterday—his ribs protested every deep breath, and sleeping on concrete had left his neck and shoulders stiff—but it was manageable.

He'd dealt with worse.

He pulled the hood over his messy brown hair and shoved his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie as he began walking. Morning had started creeping into the city. Not sunlight. Not really.

The sky above Gotham was still hidden beneath layers of heavy gray clouds, the kind that made it feel like the sun had simply given up trying. Rain drizzled lightly overhead, leaving the streets slick and reflecting neon signs and traffic lights in puddles scattered across the sidewalks.

The city smelled...

Different.

New York smelled like hotdog carts, coffee, car exhaust, wet concrete, and people. People always smelled different. Perfume. Cheap cologne. Laundry detergent. Food from little restaurants squeezed between buildings. New York smelled alive.

Gotham smelled like rain.

Metal.

Smoke.

Regret.

Like wet pavement and cold air. Like the city itself had been sitting outside all night. People moved around him in hurried groups. Businessmen carrying coffee cups. Workers unlocking storefronts. Exhausted parents dragging sleepy children through puddles. Taxi horns sounded somewhere nearby while distant sirens echoed through the city like background noise. And nobody looked at him. Nobody. Not a single person. Peter really didn't mind, no really he did not. 

But… It felt different. New Yorkers were rough around the edges. Fast-paced. Think-on-your-feet people. Walk too slow and you'd get shoved. Stare too long and someone would stare back harder. Fight before flight. Loud. Messy. Blunt.

But they were his people. And New York— New York was home. No matter how many aliens invaded. No matter how many giant robots tried destroying it. No matter how many times things went wrong. It was his. Because every time something happened, Peter was there.

Swinging between buildings. Stopping bad guys. Helping old ladies cross streets. Saving people. Saving his city. The thought made his chest tighten a little. Because he wasn't there now. For all he knew, he was currently missing. For all he knew, Aunt May was worried. For all he knew—

No.

Peter shoved the thought away immediately. Tony was there. Mr. Steve was there. Everyone was there. New York would be okay. It had to be. Looking around again, Peter glanced up toward the towering buildings around him.

Gotham.

That's what that kid Robin had called it. Gotham. Peter looked up at the buildings and immediately decided one thing: This city looked like it had unresolved issues. Everything felt darker. Older. Buildings rose overhead like giant shadows leaning over the streets. Gargoyles sat on rooftops. Stone structures stretched upward beside newer glass buildings like the city had simply stacked different centuries on top of each other and called it architecture.

Honestly?

Kind of cool, not that he would admit it. 

Kind of terrifying. Very dramatic. His attention shifted suddenly. Subway entrance. Peter immediately walked toward it. Because trains meant transportation. Transportation meant understanding city layouts. And understanding city layouts meant not getting hopelessly lost.

He hopped over the turnstile without thinking. A few nearby high school kids did the same thing beside him. One of them nodded toward him. Peter nodded back. Universal subway crime solidarity. 

He stepped toward the map and stared at it. Then frowned.Then leaned closer. Then frowned harder. "...What is this?" Silence. Peter narrowed his eyes. "...No seriously." His eyes moved across the lines. Then back. Then back again.

Absolute nonsense.

Complete chaos.

The city itself? Fine. Questionable. Concerning. But fine. The subway system? Worse. Which was saying something. Because Peter Parker came from New York. Babies in New York understood subway maps before saying their first words. Children emerged from wombs already knowing train schedules.

This thing looked like someone spilled spaghetti onto paper and called it public transportation. "You alright, kid?" Peter nearly jumped. He turned around.

No alarms.

No tingling.

No danger.

Just a man standing behind him with a dark brown trench coat and one of the most impressive mustaches Peter had ever seen. Actually impressive. Like...professionally impressive. Peter blinked. "You know where I can get free food and maybe a map?" The man raised an eyebrow. "...You're from New York." Peter blinked. "...Was it the subway insult that gave me away?" "...It was the subway insult." The man crossed his arms. "There are shelters nearby. I'd recommend the one off the Red Line." Peter nodded. "They take in kids." Peter's smile softened slightly. "...Thank you, sir." The man looked at him for a moment.

Then: "Shouldn't you be heading to school?" Peter narrowed his eyes. "...You a cop? What's with the questions?" The man's eyebrow somehow rose even higher. Which Peter hadn't thought physically possible. But the universe loved proving him wrong. Then he opened his coat slightly. Badge.

Peter immediately raised both hands. "...Aw come on." The man snorted. Then shook his head. "Here." Peter looked down as a business card and twenty-dollar bill were pushed into his hand. Confusion immediately crossed his face. "...Call if you need anything." Peter blinked. "What’s your name? " "What?" "...Name." The man looked at him expectantly. “Peter.” "...No last name?" Peter froze.

Oh no.

Think.

Think think think—

Can't say Parker. Cause what if there was already a Peter Parker in this world. What if there was already someone who- Bingo. 

Dad—

"...Grayson."

The man's expression changed. Just slightly. "...Grayson?" Peter nodded immediately. "Yes sir." The man stared at him, really observing his face, as a look of recognition appeared in his eyes before nodding. Peter nodded back, unaware of what they were nodding about before looking  back at the card. "...Interesting.", Peter heard the man said. 

Peter hopped on the train, and got off at the red line stop, and made his way up the stairs, before looking around, trying to find the line for the food, walking when his shoulder was knocked into by a brick wall. 

Wait.

Not a brick wall?

Peter turned around.

And immediately looked up. Way up. Okay.

This guy was tall.

Not Avengers tall, but still tall enough that Peter suddenly felt fourteen again.

Messy black hair with a white streak near the front that almost looked accidental if it wasn't weirdly cool. Sharp green eyes. Broad shoulders hidden beneath a dark leather jacket, hands shoved into the pockets like he couldn't be bothered to stand properly.

He looked older than Peter. Maybe eighteen? Nineteen? Early twenties? Peter wasn't great at guessing ages. He thought Tony looked thirty once and almost got disowned. "You okay, kid?" Deep voice. Peter blinked. "Oh—yeah."

He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "Sorry about that." The guy studied him for a second. Not creepy staring. More like...looking. Actually looking. Taking things in. "Just be careful." Peter nodded. "...Yeah." The guy's eyes dropped. Toward Peter's feet. Then paused. "...Nice shoes." Peter blinked and looked down.

"Oh." The shoes.

Right.

He almost forgot Robin had thrown them at him. The sneakers were black, expensive looking, and had little doodles scattered across them. A tiny bat. An R with a circle around it. Random little markings. Peter smiled a little. "...Thanks?" The guy narrowed his eyes slightly. Not suspicious.

Thinking.

"Where you headed?" "Food shelter." "...Food shelter." Peter nodded. "Yeah." The guy stared at him for a second. Then turned around. "I'll walk you." Peter blinked. "...Oh." Not: "Want me to?" Not: "Need directions?"

No.

"I'll walk you." Like Peter had somehow lost the ability to argue. Peter looked at the guy. Looked down the street. Then back at the guy. "...Okay." He hurried to catch up beside him. Rain drizzled lightly overhead, tapping against fire escapes and collecting in puddles along the sidewalks. Cars splashed through wet streets while people hurried around them with coffee cups and umbrellas. The guy shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. "...Name?"

"Peter." "...Peter." A pause. "...Jason." Peter nodded. Cool name. Very Gotham name. Jason glanced toward him briefly. "How long you been homeless?" Peter nearly tripped."What?" "You heard me." Peter looked ahead. "...Not long." "Hm." Peter immediately looked at him. "What does hm mean?" Jason shrugged. "Means hm." "...That's not an answer." Jason smirked slightly.

Peter stared.

Oh.

Oh, he was annoying.

Great.

"Got parents?" The question came suddenly. Peter looked down at the sidewalk. Rainwater collected near the curb beside his shoes. "...No." The answer left before he thought about it. Silence. Peter frowned. Because—

That wasn't true.

Not really.

Not exactly.

He still had May. Tony. Happy. People. Didn't he? ...Right? He felt Jason glance toward him. Side-eye. Quick. But Peter noticed.

Jason looked forward again. "...Me either." And that was it. No pity. No I'm sorry. No weird look. Just three words. Peter glanced over at him quietly. Then looked ahead again. And the two kept walking through Gotham in silence.

Chapter Text

Sitting across from Jason made Peter think.

Which was unfortunate.

Because thinking usually led to worrying.

And worrying usually led to him doing something stupid.

The shelter cafeteria wasn't crowded this early in the morning. A handful of people sat scattered throughout the room, quietly eating breakfast while volunteers moved between tables grabbing coffee cups and collecting trays.

The smell of eggs, toast, coffee, and disinfectant filled the air.

Jason had managed to get him food, and a backpack full of supplies to help him out at least.
Jason sat across from him, one arm draped over the back of his chair, as he pushed the plate of food in front of Peter. “Eat.” Peter looked at the food before looking at the guy, and deciding the food was safe enough before he started eating. “You look hungry. When was the last time you ate?” “Recently,” Peter shrugged, as he ate his fruit slices quickly before scarfing down the rest of the food, and Jason pushed a water bottle in front of him. 

“Recently?” "Yep." "When?" Peter thought about it. Then realized he genuinely wasn't sure. Yesterday had involved: Spending hours at the lab with Tony. Getting into a fight. Getting thrown into another universe. Finding Robin. Sleeping on a rooftop. Meeting a cop. Meeting Jason. Learning that this place had the worst subway map in existence. Time had become somewhat theoretical concept than an actual thing for him. 

"...Recently enough."

Jason snorted. Apparently that wasn't the answer he wanted. Peter continued eating. His metabolism had finally caught up to him and was demanding compensation. He was eating food faster than his body could catch up. 

Peter opened the water, hearing the satisfying crack, and knew it was brand new. Untouched. Perfectly safe. He sipped the water, as the refreshing feeling that fell threw his body. He felt the stare on him, and it was strong, intense. Like Jason was trying to figure him out, which for some reason didn’t make Peter as nervous as he should be. 

"Do you have somewhere to stay?"

Peter immediately pointed at the map hanging on the wall. "Do you know where I can find a map and a library?" Jason raised a brow. That wasn't even close to an answer for the question he was asked. "The front desk has maps."

Peter nodded. "And the library?" Jason sighed. "I'll take you." "Cool." Peter immediately returned his attention to his food. Jason narrowed his eyes slightly. Definitely avoiding the question. Interesting.

A few minutes later, Peter finished the last of his breakfast, stuffed the backpack onto his shoulders, and headed toward the front entrance. Jason followed, assuming the role of a tour guide in this weird city where the sun was apparently never heard of. 

Outside, Gotham was still gray. Rain clung to the sidewalks in shallow puddles while traffic crawled through the streets. The city smelled like wet concrete, exhaust, and bitterness. Nothing like New York. Oh how he suddenly felt a deep feeling of longing to be back in his city. 

Peter unfolded the map immediately. Jason watched him for a moment. Most kids would've looked around, trying to figure out the streets, how to make themselves a quick buck before scattering in the shadows of alleyways, abandoned buildings and under bridges. Peter instead looked at the map, with no worries as if he was untouchable as he let his guard down. Unknowingly, Peter’s senses had been up high since they left the shelter, but Jason didn’t need to know that, especially considering he thought Peter was a homeless runaway.  "Why do you need the library so badly?" "Gotta figure out the city." Jason raised an eyebrow. "The entire city?" Peter shrugged.

"Pretty much." "You planning on taking over Gotham?" Peter looked horrified. "No." A beat. "Not unless I absolutely have to.", Peter joked as Jason snorted. “Ah yes because a 120 pound could do that.” “Don’t underestimate me.”, Peter continued scanning the map. "And libraries are usually the safest place." "The safest?" "Yeah." "Why?" Peter frowned. "You know." "No." "They have books." Jason stared at him. "What does that have to do with safety?" Peter pointed dramatically. "People who voluntarily spend hours around books usually aren't serial killers." Jason considered that. "...Honestly, fair." Peter returned to the map. A few seconds passed.

"You guys actually have a place called Crime Alley?" Jason looked over. Peter was staring at the map with visible concern. "You named a street Crime Alley." "I didn't." "But someone did." "Unfortunately." Peter looked genuinely horrified. "That's like naming a beach Shark Attack Cove." Jason laughed despite himself.

"Is that judgment I hear?" Peter looked up immediately. "Of course it is." "I see." "You have a Crime Alley." "You are never letting that go, are you?" "Not a chance." Jason shook his head. "You're definitely not from Gotham." Peter folded the map slightly. "Nope." "Metropolis?" Peter immediately made a face. Jason caught it. Interesting. "No." "Central City?" The hell was that? "No." "Blüdhaven?" The fuck was a Blood-haven? "Absolutely not." Jason snorted. "Then where?" Peter shoved his hands into his hoodie pockets. "Queens." Jason glanced over. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "New Yorker." Peter pointed at him.

"There it is." "What?" "You judged me." "I identified an accent." "Same fucking thing." Jason rolled his eyes at Peter’s attitude. It wasn’t like Peter intended to give him attitude, but the fact that this guy was judging him from being from Queens while they were standing in what seemed to be the dirtiest streets Peter has ever had the unfortunate privilege to walk in was insane. 

 "I knew I heard one." Peter looked offended. "I don't have an accent." "That's exactly what every New Yorker says." "Because we don't." "Sure." "We don't." "Whatever helps you sleep at night." “You’re from New Jersey, the hell would you know.” Peter stated dramatically. Jason found himself smiling at the kid. Which was weird. Because he usually hated talking to people. Yet somehow this random kid had been in Gotham for less than a day from what he can tell and was already insulting the city's infrastructure.

He knew this kid was a little shit, but there was something about him that seemed so familiar. Something about the guy reminded Jason of home.

Not Gotham.

Not Crime Alley.

Not the shelter.

Home.

The kind of home that came with slammed doors, stupid arguments, movie nights, and people who annoyed the hell out of you but still showed up when it mattered….The manor….

Something about Peter—his endless witt, his inability to keep his own opinions to himself, the way he somehow managed to sound optimistic while carrying everything he now owned in a backpack—reminded him of a life he'd spent years trying not to think about.

"You know..." Peter looked up from his map again. "Hm?" Jason immediately regretted opening his mouth. Too late now. "You remind me of someone."Peter folded the map slightly. "Who?" Was Jason talking about this universe own version of Peter Parker? Was there someone actually named Peter Parker? He should really look into that when he got to the library. 

Jason stared straight ahead. Traffic rolled past them. Rainwater dripped from a fire escape overhead. "...My brother." For a second, neither of them spoke. Peter glanced over. Jason wasn't looking at him as they kept walking. The answer sat between them for a moment. "You still talk to him?" Jason snorted. A humorless sound. "He calls." Peter waited. Jason kept walking. "He texts." More silence. Peter raised an eyebrow. "But?" Jason shoved his hands deeper into his jacket pockets. "But I don't answer." Peter blinked.

"...Why?" Jason shrugged. The movement looked forced. Like he'd answered the question a hundred times before. "Nothing to say." Peter looked at him for a moment. Really looked at him. At the way his jaw tightened. At how he immediately looked away afterward. At how fast he'd answered. Like he'd practiced it. "Sounds to me like you do." Jason laughed once. Short. Dry. "You always this nosy?" "Call it curiosity." "Well stop, it ain’t gonna do you any good in Gotham." "Nor in Queens but I can take a punch, I can throw one too." Jason glanced over. Peter was already looking back down at his map. Like he'd just commented on the weather. 

"You got siblings?" "Nope." "Then stop acting like you know what I’m talking about." Peter nodded. "Okay." He didn’t care to bring up the fact that Jason was the one who spoke about it first, because if he was being honest, Jason looked like he could snap at any given moment, and Peter really liked this backpack enough to not use it as a weapon to protect himself. 

 Jason frowned at Peter. That was easier than expected. Then Peter spoke again. "But if he keeps calling..." Jason already knew he wasn't going to like whatever came next. "...Yeah?" Peter folded the map under his arm. "...He probably misses you." The words were simple. No lecture. No pity. No judgment. Just an observation. Jason felt exposed in front of this kid who reminded him a lot of his big bother. They quietly walked into the library. 

Jason peeled away toward the front desk. A red-haired woman sat behind it, sorting returned books into a cart. She looked up when she saw him and smiled immediately.

"Jason."

"Barbara."

Peter caught the way Jason's posture changed. Not much. Just enough to tell that he knew her. Trusted her. Which was apparently a rare thing from what Peter could tell with his minimal time with him. Peter continued past them before Jason could decide to introduce him. Because there were computers. And Peter had priorities.

He found an empty station tucked between two rows of shelves and immediately spotted a paper taped to the desk.

Guest Login: 30 Minutes
Password: ######

"Beautiful.", he muttered.

He typed it in, as the computer loaded, which let  for Peter to get to work. The more information he gathered, the better. The more he understood this city, the easier it would be to explain everything to the Avengers. The easier it would be for them to find him. The sooner he could get home. Peter started with Gotham itself.

Population, History, Districts, Crime statistics, Economics, Transportation, normal stuff, Then things stopped being normal.

"...You guys fight clowns on a daily?”Peter blinked, scrolled, then blinked again. "...And a clay monster?" So when Peter got here, that fight was something normal?

More scrolling.

More reading.

More concern.

By the time he reached something called Killer Croc, Peter had stopped pretending Gotham was a real city. This place was clearly some kind of elaborate social experiment. The Joker alone had enough crimes listed to fill several pages. The man had his own category. His own category. His own-  Peter had never seen that before, "How do you have enough crimes to unlock a premium subscription?"He muttered as he kept reading.

A giant man dressed like a penguin, a guy obsessed with riddles, Poison plants, Fear gas, Murderous ventriloquist. Peter rubbed his face "This city needs therapy."

The rabbit hole only got deeper.

Heroes.

Batman. (What is up with this guy? Is he like Ant-Man, does he turn into a Bat at any given moment?)

Nightwing. (Fucking bad-ass costume. He hopes one day his suit looks like his when he grows up.)

Robin. (Ah his new grumpy friend with a bird kink)

Red Robin. (Yum??? Like is he legit named after a restaurant? Weirdo-)

Signal. (traffic signal? Is he in charge of traffic?)

Spoiler. (alert?)

Orphan. (Ayo twinies. Peter probably shouldn’t joke about that but hey, a kids gotta do what a kids gotta do to deal with trauma.)

Red Hood. (He isn’t even wearing a hood?) 

Justice League affiliations. (ah Avengers knockoffs)

Known sightings, public speculation. Peter leaned forward. Reading carefully. Robin's page had almost nothing useful. Which honestly felt very Robin. But apparently there was about 20 Robins. And each one had their own gimmick. Grumpy Robin was known for being terrifying but he did love animals. Cool.

THEN-

Someone sat down beside him.

Peter glanced over automatically.

Older, maybe seventeen. Neat black hair, blue eyes, thin build, expensive clothes, exhausted expression. The guy looked like he hadn't slept properly in a week. Peter's spider-sense didn't react. But it did something stranger. It noticed him but didn’t file him as a threat. Not danger. Harmless. Which was weird considering his senses usually tell him something about everyone, but so far nothing. The guy must have felt Peter looking because he turned his head.

The bluest eyes met the soft brown.

For a second neither of them said anything. Peter tilted his head slightly. The guy raised an eyebrow. Peter could hear his heartbeat. Fast. Not dangerous. YET. Just caffeinated. Aggressively caffeinated. Like his bloodstream had been replaced with coffee. The guy stared. Peter stared back. Then both simultaneously turned back to their computers.

An unspoken agreement.

Let's pretend that didn't happen.

Three minutes later:

"Peter, you ready to—" Jason stopped. Peter looked up. The guy beside him looked up too. Jason blinked. "...Tim?" The guy frowned.

"...Jason?" Peter looked between them. Then back. Then back again. Slowly. Suspiciously. "Oh." Both boys turned toward him. Peter pointed. "You two know each other." Neither of them answered. Which was honestly answer enough. 

"Who is this?"

Tim finally turned toward Peter properly. Not just a glance. An actual assessment. Peter immediately sat up straighter. "Peter." Then he threw up a peace sign. "Yo."

Tim blinked. Looked at the peace sign. Then, without missing a beat, threw one back. "Yo." Jason immediately regretted bringing Peter here. Peter looked delighted. Tim looked amused. The alliance had formed. "Peter," Jason said flatly, "this is my brother. Tim." Peter looked between them. Then back at Jason. Then back at Tim.

"As in—" "No," Jason interrupted immediately. "Not that one." Peter frowned. "How many brothers do you have?" Jason sighed. "Too many." "That's not a number." "It is when I say it is." Tim snorted. Peter looked delighted. Jason looked exhausted. "Come on, kid. We're leaving." Neither of them moved. Instead Tim looked back toward Peter. "How do you know Jason?" Peter immediately leaned toward him. Conspiratorially. Like they were about to exchange state secrets. Tim, being Tim, leaned in too. Jason narrowed his eyes.

"No." Neither boy acknowledged him. Peter lowered his voice dramatically. "He found me in a trash can." Peter straight up lies so innocently as Tim nodded slowly. "I see." "And then he told me he'd give me candy if I followed him to a second location." Jason closed his eyes. "Oh my God." Tim didn't even blink. "Ah." Peter nodded gravely. "The trash-nap plan." "The trash-nap plan," Tim repeated. "Yes." Tim folded his hands.

"He's done that before." Jason pointed at them. "No." Peter continued. "I was vulnerable." "You were." "I was confused." "Naturally." "I was recently extracted from my natural habitat." Tim looked horrified. "The trash can." "The trash can." Jason stared at the ceiling. "Why are you both like this?" Peter ignored him. Tim ignored him.

The friendship somehow got worse.

"Then," Peter continued, "he lured me to a shelter." Tim gasped. "Not a shelter." "A shelter." "That's how they get you." Jason looked ready to leave the planet. "Neither of you are funny." Peter pointed at him. "That's exactly what someone running a trash-based kidnapping operation would say." Tim nodded immediately. "Classic deflection." Jason’s expression was so amusing to the teenage boys as he looked close to having a migraine. 

"...You've known him for thirty seconds." "Forty-five." "Forty-eight," Peter corrected. Tim checked his watch. "Fifty-one."

Jason hated both of them.

After what had somehow become the most entertaining fifteen minutes of Tim's day, the three guys found themselves standing near the entrance of Gotham Library.

Peter had his backpack slung over one shoulder, a folded map tucked under his arm. Tim was leaning casually against one of the stone pillars. Jason looked like he regretted introducing them. "Well," Peter said, "this has been educational." Tim nodded. "I learned Jason runs a sophisticated trash-can kidnapping operation." "I hate both of you." Peter pointed at Tim. "See? That's exactly what he said when I brought it up."

"Classic deflection," Tim agreed as he eyed how Jason pinched the bridge of his nose. "Can we go?" "No."Jason looked toward the ceiling. "Why do I bother?" Peter grinned. Tim looked equally pleased with himself. It was concerning. Very concerning. The two had known each other for less than twenty minutes and were already operating like they'd been annoying Jason together for years. Peter adjusted his backpack.

"Well, I should probably continue my city exploration." "Try not to get murdered." Peter looked weirded out by that very statement. "That's a very weird thing to say." "This is Gotham." "Fair." Tim reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. A phone number. He handed it over. Peter glanced at it. Then at him. Then back at the paper. "What's this?" "My number." “....I don’t have a phone?” 

Jason immediately frowned. "You don’t have a phone? " "I’m technically homeless? How would I get a phone?” “You could get a burner?” “Oh yeah uh huh, and with what money?”, Peter raised a brow at Jason as Jason looked ready to walk into traffic.

Peter folded the paper and carefully tucked it into his backpack. "Thanks." Tim shrugged. "No problem."A beat passed. "If you need anything, call." Peter nodded. Something in his expression softened for just a second. Not much. Just enough. Why did he want me to call him when I need anything? "Yeah, thanks." Tim smiled slightly. "Try not to disappear." Weird thing to say but ok. Peter laughed. "No promises." Jason immediately groaned.

"Can you stop groaning? You got stomach problems or what?" Jason wanted to smack Tim but no, they were currently in public. Plus Peter looked like he knew what Jason was thinking, because he seemed to tilt his head at Jason as if waiting for him to strike. Jason rolled his eyes.  Peter adjusted his backpack again before stepping backward down the library steps. "See you around, Tim." "See you around, Peter." 

Then Peter turned and headed back into Gotham. Map under one arm, backpack over his shoulder. “Peter wait for me at the steps, I gotta talk to Tim real quick.” “If I feel like it, sure.” Both Jason and Tim ignored that response. 

 Tim was the first to speak. "...He's weird, but I like him…Kinda reminds me of-" Jason shoved his hands into his pockets. "Yeah, he does." A pause. "He's fourteen from what I can guess." "Yeah." "The same age as Damian, and yet he was carrying everything he owns in that backpack."

“Speaking of Damian, did you hear about what happened last night?” “What did the brat do now?” “Ran from B and D, ignoring his comms, and turned off his tracker-” “That fucking brat-” “Oh it gets worse, apparently he also got jumped by some of Joker’s goons, then some random citizen who apparently looked like he needed medical attention but got none stepped in and saved him barefoot.” “Who save him?” “Well…”Tim turned to look at Peter who was standing at the bottom of the library steps, looking up at the sky. “My guess….Is our new little acquaintance. By the way, what are you gonna even do with him?” “Try and get him into a group home-” “And if he doesn’t want that?” “Get him back to the shelter  or worse case, he stays with me,” Jason thought out, as he started heading out the building. 

Peter was standing on the steps as Jason walked down the steps. “Ok, here is the deal. You can either go into a group home or you could spend the night at my place.” “What’s the third option?” “I call CPS.” “I am perfectly capable of taking care of himself.” “Well, yeah but you are also like what 12? 14?” “14.” “So a kid. You need someone to make sure you have a bed and a roof over your head.” “But-” “Look, you can spend the night at my place, if you don’t like it you can head on your merry little way towards what seems to be the most idiodic way of easily getting mugged and killed if you stay on the streets.” He does have a point…plus with a roof over his head, he can heal faster and head home quicker. 

“Ok…Please don’t tell me you live in crime alley.” 

“Fuck off, let’s go.”