Chapter Text
Peter would like to start by saying that for possibly the first time ever, this was absolutely not his fault. He understands that most of the time he causes most of the problems in his life, and being Spiderman definitely didn’t help with that. And yes wandering into the spider that had given him superpowers definitely wasn’t something Peter did on purpose, but he also doesn’t regret anything that happened. At least, most of the time. Right now all Peter feels is the black eye and the bruises blooming on his ribs as he stares down at the unlucky guy who tried to rob a convenience store during Peter’s patrol.
The guy’s dressed like a bad movie stereotype, complete with the black ski mask with holes cut out for the eyes and mouth. He’s furiously wiggling from where Peter webbed him to the floor despite the fact that the webs will hold for at least a few more hours. Peter would almost feel bad for the guy if he hadn’t been previously threatening the cashier at gunpoint.
Peter sighs and kicks the gun across the floor, away from where the robber had been trying to subtly reach for it. “Sorry dude, you lost. Accept it.”
The guy shifts some more, and for a second Peter thinks the luck might have smiled on him for once and this guy would accept his fate. But then he turns toward him, as much as he can with half of his body stuck to the tile floor. “I think there might have been a mistake here.”
It was times like this that made Peter wish he didn’t have a mask so that people could see the eyeroll he gave them.
Peter crouched down next to the guy, fighting back a sigh. “Okay, what’s your name?”
The guy stared at him, confused, before muttering, “Dave.”
“Alright Dave, well I hate to be the one to break it to you but you did try to commit armed robbery. And not only did the poor cashier see you do it, but I’m also pretty sure you were caught on camera too.”
Peter gestures to the surveillance camera, blinking on the ceiling of the store, pointing straight at them. Dave seems to slump a little at this before looking up at Peter with pleading eyes. “Any chance you’ll let me go? We just pretend this never happened?”
"None at all,” Peter says, reaching out and patting the guy on the head. “Sorry. But hey, you do have the right to an attorney, so who knows? Maybe somehow it’ll work out for you.”
Inexplicably, this seems to cheer him up somehow. “Thanks Spiderman. You know, you’re not so bad after all.”
Peter wants nothing more than to eat a hot meal and collapse into bed, yet somehow he musters a “Thanks.” He’s not sure if he wants a compliment from a would-be robber, but at this point he’ll take whatever he can get.
The cashier is staring at him from where she's crouched behind the counter, eyes wide and on the phone, presumably with the police.
“The cops should be here soon,” Peter tells her, almost as much for himself as to reassure her.
Peter is running off maybe three hours of sleep, has a half healed stab wound along with at least two bruised ribs, a bruise on his face that’s going to be really hard to explain to May, and a lab report and an English essay to write before 8 am tomorrow. He also needs to take more pictures to sell to Jameson before the end of the month to sneak into the money fund for rent and make more web fluid, which means he either has to pray his Chemistry teacher sleeps through the class or break into the school at night. But as Peter waves goodbye to Dave and the cashier girl, he decides that all of that is tomorrow Peter’s problem.
He ducks back into the alleyway where he stashed his bag and quickly changes back into his civvies, stuffing his suit into his backpack. The sun is setting in Queens, the oranges and yellows casting long shadows over the city. As Peter walks back onto the street he almost feels optimistic. He’s wrapping up patrol early for the first time in god knows how long, had a relatively successful patrol and the hotdog cart should still be open, with the vendor Mrs. Hugo who coos at him and pinches his cheeks, but gives him a discount because ‘he needs to be eating more’.
As Peter makes his way over to the cart he can already taste the chili dog he’s going to buy at a price that has to make one wonder if Mrs. Hugo’s ever heard of inflation. But he already has enough hills to die on, and this is not going to be one of them.
A sudden scream cuts through the air, and Peter whips around to see a woman screaming and pointing across the street. A man is standing there in an elaborate silver jumpsuit, complete with a cape and gleaming goggles, laughing maniacally. Peter can feel a stress migraine forming, or maybe just a concussion. He slowly puts his head in his hands, regretting every positive thought he’d had. Peter doesn’t know what cosmic entity he pissed off at some point during his life or what witch cursed him, but this is a little much even for his trainwreck of a life.
He goes to duck into an alley to change back into his suit, when the sorry excuse for a disco ball gestures towards him. “You!” He shouts. “Child, come here.”
Peter looks around him because there is no chance that he’s the one being called for, but the man gestures again.
“Come here, or face my wrath!” He shouts, pulling out a gun.
“Woah, I’m coming,” Peter says, putting his hands up. He glances around at the civilians near him, all of which seem to be watching the scene. He takes a step closer when the gun catches his eye. It’s much more high-tech than the rest of the man’s haphazardly thrown together outfit, making soft whirring sounds and faintly glowing. If Peter had to guess he’d say it has the distinct look of alien technology.
“Hey, where’d you get that?” Peter asks, looking at the man. “Did you make it?”
The man looks surprised that Peter dared to address him and Peter reminds himself that he’s supposed to be acting like a terrified kid who was taken hostage and not someone who regularly faces down gunmen.
“I’m the Scepter!” the man shouted out to the street and to the bystanders watching, most of whom looked like it was just another day. Honestly, with everything New York had seen lately, it probably was. He wonders if its appropriate hostage behavior to laugh in this guy’s face.
“You’re the Scepter?” Peter asked skeptically. “But you have a gun?”
“I didn’t have the gun yet when I came up with the name,” The Scepter admitted. “But then I found the gun and I knew my dreams would come true! I would be the greatest supervillain this world had ever seen!” He started laughing again, but Peter couldn’t tear his eyes away from the gun. It was pulsing with energy in The Scepter’s hand and the longer he looked at it the more dread he was feeling increased.
“Maybe you should put that down,” Peter suggests as the gun starts to shake in The Scepter’s hand.
“Nice try boy, but you cannot stop me. My time has come to reign over this city.” He levels the gun straight at Peter. “And unfortunately, you will be my first example.”
“Wait a second,” Peter says, backing up. His Spidey Sense is ringing so loudly in his head that it hurts to even m think. “Maybe we could talk about this–”
The Scepter (which is a name that gets dumber every time Peter thinks it) pulls the trigger and the gun explodes, a beam of light contacting the middle of Peter’s chest, knocking him onto his back. His whole body begins to tingle before he begins to violently shake, gasping as he throws his head back. Parts of his body seem to be fading in and out of existence and he feels his stomach lurch as he’s suddenly thrown back. The last thing he hears is The Scepter’s maniacal laughter before everything abruptly goes black.
Peter starts awake on hard gravel, groaning at the pounding of his head. His stomach lurches again and Peter sits up fast before he’s throwing up, bile stinging his throat as he coughs. After a moment he calms and Peter wipes his mouth, looking blearily around at his surroundings. Wherever he is is much darker than Queens, seemingly pitch black in the middle of night, with a single streetlight weakly blinking in the night. The back alley he’s in also looks rough even for New York, with the smell of smoke heavy in the air.
As his mind slowly settles Peter realizes that he has absolutely no idea where he is. He’s woken up in a lot of weird places over his tenure as a superhero, but he’s never been at a loss like he is right now. No matter how drastic things had gotten there was always a hopefulness to Queens, something that had gotten Peter through his darkest days. Wherever he was now everything just seems gray and dull, practically lifeless.
He slowly pushed his way to his feet, his legs shaking slightly as he stood up. Peter still felt faint, like whatever the process was of him arriving in this place had drained his energy. Looking around he was shocked to see his backpack a few feet away, seemingly transported with him. He reached over and grabbed it, checking the contents desperately. He still had his phone, laptop, camera, school notebooks, and his suit. His wallet had also somehow survived the trip, but Peter didn’t carry much in there to begin with.
Surveying his surroundings, Peter tried to force himself to think rationally about where to go next. Try to find a way home? He could always call Tony and try to get an extraction, but it wasn’t likely the man would pick up. The same applied to Happy, but maybe if Peter sounded frantic enough he’d respond. Ned was probably asleep already, and May–
May would have no clue where he was. Someone surely got his interaction with the weirdo and his gun on camera, meaning it was no doubt posted online. May was probably worried sick and beside herself, all while Peter was hesitating. He tried to turn his phone on but he didn’t seem to have any reception and the low battery notification appeared on his phone. Peter shoved his phone back in his pocket. He would just have to find a pay phone. That had to be simple enough, right?
Suddenly shouts begin to echo throughout the night and Peter presses himself against the wall of the alley. The shouts sounded more angry than hurt and he wasn’t exactly inclined to figure out where they were coming from. Peter had enough problems at the moment without involving himself in whatever was going on here.
A silhouette appeared at the end of the alley, thin and walking with an almost limp, or maybe just swaying. The man appeared to be giggling to himself, reaching up and touching his lips. As he got closer, Peter realized there seemed to be blood on his hands. He was wearing a stained and ripped purple suit, with garish clown makeup making him look a ghastly white. His yellow teeth were stained with blood, reflecting off the dim light as stumbled down the alleyway. He was getting closer, and Peter made a split second decision.
Just as the clown saw him, eyes lighting up and his mouth pulling into a wide smile that stretched unnaturally across his face, Peter pulled back and absolutely clocked the man across his face. His knuckles immediately stung in pain, but he watched as the clown eyes rolled back and he collapsed bonelessly on the ground. Peter watched him for a second, making sure he was still before he nudged the man with his foot. When there seemed to be no response, Peter sighed in relief. He had dealt with enough psychos for one day, and he did not want to add some freaky clown killer to that list. Peter had enough nightmares already, thank you very much.
On the fire escape above him boots clanged loudly against the metal, and he looked up to see a hero staring down at him. Well, at least he looked like a hero. He was wearing a skintight black suit with a blue bird insignia across the chest and a domino mask, holding an escrima stick in each hand as he stared down at Peter. If he was a hero, he wasn’t one that Peter knew. And he knew a lot of heroes.
“Any chance you’ve seen the Joker around here?” the hero said a little breathlessly, chest heaving as he stared unblinkingly down at Peter. For the first time he understood why people found the whites of the eyes on his mask unsettling.
Peter stared back up at the hero. “You mean the guy who looks like a bad birthday party clown who went on a murder spree?”
The hero’s mouth slightly quirked up at this, as if he was trying not to smile. “I’m not sure if I’ve ever heard that description of him, but sure.”
“Well,” Peter said, poking the Joker again with the toe of his shoe. “I think he might be right here.”
“What?” The hero exclaimed, before jumping off the fire escape and landing next to Peter. He apparently for the first time saw the lifeless form in front of Peter, and his mouth fell open in shock. “Holy shit.”
“Yeah he was acting like a psycho and covered in blood. He reached toward me and my instincts just kicked in, you know?” Peter was slowly coming to the realization that something here was off.
“What, is this like a bad guy or something?”
The man let out a wry laugh. “Or something.” He put his hand to his ear. “Hood, get over here now. You’re not gonna believe this.” He then turned his attention for the first time towards Peter, and he felt himself unconsciously tense up and being the center of this man’s focus.
“What’s your name?” he said, and Peter immediately recognized the voice he was using, because Peter used it too. It was the voice you used when talking to a victim, to a scared child. Peter felt his anger flare up, staring back at the man resolutely.
“None of your business. What’s your name?” he fired back.
“I’m Nightwing,” the hero explained calmly. His brow furrowed a little bit. “Have you never heard of me?”
Before Peter had a chance to respond there was the sound of a revving motorcycle engine, and another figure appeared at the end of the alleyway. This one was much less heroic looking, with a red helmet and a similar outfit to Nightwing, but he instead had a red bat stretched across his chest. He also had a dark brown leather jacket and two gun holsters on his waist.
The figure paused, looking at the scene, and presumably the apparent supervillain laying unconscious on the ground. “Wing, what the fuck is going on here?”
Nightwing sighed, looking over to him. “That’s what I was trying to figure out.”
Peter suddenly wanted to be pretty much anywhere but here and he decided that now was as good a time as any to make his escape.
“Woah, woah, not so fast,” the first hero said, gently tugging on the back of Peter’s jacket when he went to leave. “Listen kid, you’re not in trouble or anything, we just wanna know what happened.”
Peter looked at him doubtfully. “Why should I tell you anything?”
The one in the helmet laughed, echoing mechanically with his helmet. “Kid, you just took out the Joker. Of course people have some questions.”
Peter scrubbed his hands harshly over his face, wishing for a way out of this conversation. His head pulsed with pain alongside every breath he took, and he’s ninety percent sure he tore his stitches in his side when he landed on the ground while reaggravating his ribs again.
“You keep saying that name like it means something,” Peter manages, moving his hands through his hair. “I don't even know what a Joker is,” he mumbles, staring down at the weirdo passed out on the ground in front of him.
Both of the men in front of him go quiet at this, before the one in the helmet breaks into uproarious laughter. He laughs so hard he starts gasping for air, actually doubling over as he clutches his stomach. “This is the best thing I’ve ever heard,” he gets out, before breaking down once again. “Batman spends years trying to catch this fucker and some random alley kid who's never even fucking heard of him takes him out on accident.”
Peter feels like he should be a little offended at being referred to as an alley kid but he honestly has completely lost track of this conversation. “Batman?” he asks Nightwing next to him.
The look Nightwing gives him is pained even through the domino mask. “You’ve never heard of Batman?” he asks wearily, tone implying he already knows the answer.
He bristles in response to his. “What kind of name is Batman anyway?” Peter questions. “Is he part bat or something?” Peter earned the name of Spiderman and had the changes in his DNA sequence to prove it. Batman better be able to fly and use echolocation, or Peter’s going to throw a fit.
A hand slapped down on his shoulder and Peter jumped. He turned to face the helmet man next to him, who was looking at Nightwing. “I like this kid,” he announced. “I’m keeping him.”
“You can’t keep him,” Nightwing protested weakly. “You can’t just take kids off the streets. I thought you said you didn’t want to be like Batman.”
Hood reared back slightly in response to that. Peter looked between the two of them, rapidly becoming concerned. “This Batman kidnaps kids off the streets?”
“Absolutely not!” Nightwing shouted, at the same time the other one said “Oh one hundred percent.”
Nightwing's head swung towards the helmet man. “Hood, you can’t go around telling people Batman kidnaps kids off the streets!” He furiously hissed.
Hood turned back towards Nightwing, crossing his arms over his chest. “Sorry, which part of my statement was incorrect? You expect me to honestly say he doesn’t just snatch little orphans off the streets?”
As the two of them dissolved into arguing Peter covered his ears with his hands, trying to block out any excess noise. It hadn’t happened in a while, but sometimes when Peter was overwhelmed his super hearing felt like it was dialed to eleven. He could hear a couple arguing blocks away in their apartment, a car alarm going off, and several rounds of gunfire. He tried to take a deep breath to calm himself, but when he inhaled he just choked on the smog of the city. He pressed his hands even harder against his ears, desperately seeking any form of relief.
He cracked his eyes open when the arguing abruptly stopped, and saw the two men looking towards him. It was impossible to know Hood’s expression because of the mask but Nightwing looked concerned. His domino mask seemed to be looking directly at Peter’s face, and Nightwing probably just clocked the bruises spanning it. Nightwing opened his mouth to say something, presumably once again in his stupid deescalating voice, but Peter suddenly saw the body of the Joker on the ground twitch.
The Joker leapt to his feet, surprisingly nimbly for someone who looked almost malnourished, and before Nightwing or Hood could react Peter swept his legs out from under him, sending him towards the hard ground once again. His head hit the ground with a startling crack, before the Joker went still again.
Peter looked back at the two supposed heroes. “Shouldn’t one of you actually do something?” he snapped at them. “Like arrest him or take him to the police? Not just stand there and bicker while he escapes again?”
Both of them seemed a little abashed at this, and Hood nodded to the other one. “I’ll take the Joker back to the Cave. You can deal with this.” He reached down and picked the Joker up, tossing him over his shoulder. “But you get to explain this to B.”
“Please do not murder the Joker on the way to the Cave.” Nightwing pleaded. Peter initially thought it was a joke, but neither of them seemed to be laughing. “Agent A would be disappointed,” he added, and at this Hood’s shoulders sank.
“Fine,” Hood muttered. “But no promises next time.”
He got on his motorcycle, tossing the Joker on the back in a way that was absolutely not even close to being safe and loudly revved the engine. “Hey kid,” Hood said, looking at Peter.
Peter, who had almost forgotten he was involved in this conversation, looked surprised back at Hood.
“If you ever need anything, here’s my number.” He holds out a plain looking business card to Peter, with just a phone number on it. Peter took it robotically from his hand without even looking at it.
“What’s your name?” he asks the man, and in response he revves his motorcycle even louder.
“You can call me the Red Hood,” he says, before tearing off on his bike into the night with the Joker limply hanging off the back. Peter watches them go in a state of bafflement, unsure how to deal with any of the conversation he just had. He looks down at the business card and the phone number clearly quickly scrawled in pen across it. Peter’s phone doesn’t currently have any signal, but even if he did he’s not quite sure if he’d ever call it.
“Hey,” Nightwing says, taking a step closer. “Are you okay?”
“What?” Peter didn’t know what he thought Nightwing was about to say, but that wasn’t it. If Peter didn’t know better he’d say the hero looked almost embarrassed.
“You’re pale and shaking, not to mention the fact that it looks like someone got you good,” Nightwing explains, tapping his own face where Peter’s bruises are. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you had a concussion, either.”
Peter honestly feels like he might collapse at any second and if Nightwing wasn’t standing there he would just pass out next to the dumpster behind him. “I’m fine,” he tells him, hoping to sound genuine. Judging by the look he gets in return he was unsuccessful. “I’m just…” Peter trails off at the exact moment his stomach lets out a growl. “Hungry,” he finishes.
“I’ll buy you dinner,” Nightwing immediately responds. “You ever been to the Bat Burger? There’s one right across the street. Honestly, it's the least I can do.”
Peter hesitates for a moment, reluctant to follow Nightwing anywhere further into the city when he had no clue where they were. But Peter had barely eaten all day and had thrown up what little
he had in his stomach after being shot by that weird gun. He could also feel the torn stitches in his side and the only way to jumpstart his healing was to actually eat some food.
“Fine,” Peter said. “But I won’t hesitate to scream if you do anything weird.”
“I’m going to pretend like that was a joke,” Nightwing tells him in response, his face tight.
Nightwing watched in with a horrified fascination as Peter inhaled his fifth burger. “You’re so skinny,” he said. “Where does it all go?”
Peter looked up. “Sorry,” he mumbled sheepishly. “I haven’t eaten anything in a while.”
Nightwing fell silent at that, and when Peter finally looked away from his burger he’d slid his own order of fries across the table.
“Oh I’m–” Nightwing gave Peter his burger as well, offering him a tight smile.
“Don’t worry about it,” Nightwing reassured. He leaned back in the booth, watching Peter with his eyes narrowed. “Hey, how have you lived in Gotham but haven’t heard of the Joker? That’s pretty much the first thing people mention when they talk about this city, besides, you know, the giant bat and everything.’
He pauses with a fistful of Nightwing’s fries in his hand, brain whirring as he slowly chews. Peter swallowed, then said, “Gotham? Is that where I am?”
If possible, Nightwing looks even more concerned at this. “You don’t know where you are?”
Peter paused. He didn’t want Nightwing to worry about him any more than he already was, or have the man trail him. Right now he just really needed to get home. But as the food settled in his stomach and his headache lessened, he was coming to a realization. What are the odds he ends up in a city he’s never heard of, complete with its own heroes and villains? Peter didn’t watch the news everyday but he’s sure he would have heard something about Nightwing or the Joker previously, or even this Batman they kept mentioning.
“Hey,” Peter said a little desperately. “Have you ever heard of Iron Man?” At Nightwing’s blank look, Peter continued, his voice shaking. “Captain America? Tony Stark? Spiderman?”
“I think you should take a deep breath,” Nightwing told him, reaching out to put a comforting hand on Peter’s shoulder. He flinched backwards and shot up out of his seat, staring at Nightwing with his chest heaving.
“Kid, everything’s okay. I don’t know what’s going on but–” Nightwing’s eyes trailed down Peter’s body, stopping at his side. “Are you bleeding?”
Peter looked down to see the stab wound in his side was apparently worse than he thought. Blood was bleeding through to his shirt and Peter gently touched the wound, his fingers coming away damp.
Okay, he could talk his way out of this. Peter just needed to go find somewhere with reception where he could call someone, find out wherever the heck Gotham was, and then everything would be fine. Just because some random hero didn’t know who Iron Man was or Captain America was didn’t mean anything. Sure, both were household names, but Peter had no clue where he was. And Tony was in the news every other day with Stark labeled in big letters across all of his products, but maybe that just hadn’t reached wherever they were yet.
Peter could feel that he was working himself into a panic, but he felt like it was a little justified. He placed his hands over his chest, feeling his heartbeat racing. Across from him Nightwing slowly stood up, hands raised with his palms out like he was confronting a wild animal. Peter would laugh if he didn’t feel like his heart was about to explode out of his chest.
“Listen, whatever’s going on here I can help you, alright? I don’t know if you were taken by someone or this whole thing is just one big accident, but whatever it is, I can help you get to the bottom of it. I can even find you a place to stay for a while if you need. Just–” his eyes glanced down to Peter’s side again, where blood was slowly spreading. “Just let me take you to a place where we can get you fixed up.”
Peter stared into the whites of Nightwing’s domino mask, weighing his options. “Like your house?”
“No, god no,” Nightwing laughed. “There’s this free clinic, just a few streets down. We can take the Wingcycle. They don’t ask any questions there, I promise.”
“What type of a name is the Wingcycle?” Peter asked in return, following Nightwing out the door. “Why does everything here have such ridiculous names?”
Nightwing smiled as they walked towards together through the dark night, the wind blowing harshly. Peter shivered as he rubbed his hands along his arms. He was dressed in the clothes he’d worn to school that day, jeans and a worn out t-shirt. His suit was insulated against the cold, but it was shoved into the bottom of his backpack. He realized he couldn’t even swing home using his webs when this was over, as his shooters were almost completely out of fluid.
Ducking behind a few boxes stacked together haphazardly in an alley, Nightwing wheeled out a black motorcycle, complete with blue highlights and matched with the insignia on his chest. Peter whistled lowly, examining the bike. If part of the requirements of being a vigilante in Gotham was having a motorcycle, Peter might have to rethink his commitment to Queens.
Nightwing swung his leg over the side of his bike, looking over at Peter. “Hop on. I promise I won’t drive too fast. I’ll try not to, uh,” he winced, “Aggravate your side anymore.”
Peter got on behind Nightwing. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve had worse.”
He watches as Nightwing’s grip on the handles tightens, before he sighs and starts the engine. “Believe it or not, that doesn’t make me feel any better.”
After that they drive in relative silence, though Peter does notice that Nightwing drives slowly. They roll to a stop in front of a nondescript gray building. Peter gets off first, gingerly bringing a hand to his side. It's beginning to sting, but with all the food he ate it would probably heal in a day or two. But he couldn’t exactly explain all that to Nightwing, so he reluctantly followed him inside the clinic.
An older woman was standing behind the counter, scribbling something on a chart. As they entered she looked up, looking a little surprised to see Nightwing. She flipped the chart shut, clicking her pen off and tucking it in her lab coat.
“Nightwing,” she acknowledged, before her eyes slid over to Peter. “And who is that with you?”
Peter has the sudden realization that he hasn’t actually told Nightwing his name. He bites his lip for a second, thinking it over. “Peter,” he says, nodding at the woman. “Its, um, nice to meet you.”
The woman’s lip quirked up at this, and she politely nodded back. “Peter, I’m Dr. Leslie Thompson, but you can call me Leslie. It’s nice to meet you. Why don’t you follow me back here,” she said, and gestured up the stairs. With one last look back at Nightwing Peter followed her, the hero trailing behind him. She led him up the stairs and then down a hall before opening one of the doors. Peter walked in, carefully sitting down on the examination table. They were in a decently sized room, with a row of drawers and a window, showing the empty streets outside. Leslie reached over, pulled on a pair of elastic gloves and shrugged off her lab coat, placing it on the counter behind her while Nightwing hovered hesitantly by the door.
“Peter, can you tell me what’s going on?” She asked very matter of factly, and Peter fiddled with the hem of his shirt.
“I might’ve been lightly stabbed,” Peter mumbled, and Nightwing started from where he was standing in the doorway.
“What did you say?”
Leslie shot him a glare and Nightwing immediately shrunk back against the wall. She turned back to look at Peter. “Peter, would it be okay if I removed your shirt?”
“Would it be okay if I didn’t?” He asked quietly in return. Peter wasn’t ashamed of any of the scars on his body, in fact it was the opposite. Every stab wound or bullet hole in his body was a life he saved, someone who got to go home to their family. It was a person whose life Peter had changed for the better and no scar could outweigh that. But it would also be very difficult to explain that to Nightwing and Leslie without revealing that he’s Spiderman, which would come with its own plethora of issues.
Leslie’s face softened, looking down at him with weary eyes. “Can you just lift up your shirt then for me?”
Peter complied, tugging the edge of his shirt up. Leslie let out a sympathetic noise when she saw the wound, right above Peter’s hip. She reached out and gently prodded it with her fingers and he let out an involuntary hiss in response. Leaning back, Leslie snapped off her gloves and reached over into a cabinet nearby, sliding it open.
“It definitely is a stab wound,” she said dryly. “Good news is it somehow isn’t infected, so I’m just going to stitch you up and then you should be fine. Granted you don’t tear it again, or do whatever it is that led to someone stabbing you in the first place.”
“Thanks,” Peter responded awkwardly, not exactly sure how to respond. Leslie opened her mouth to respond, but Nightwing interrupted her.
“Leslie, could we speak outside for a second?” he forced out through gritted teeth and she placed down the medical thread she was holding.
“I suppose,” she replied, standing up from the stool she’d been sitting on and following him out the door.
They walked out together, the door setting with a sense of finality behind them. Peter watched them leave before his eyes were drawn to the lab coat Leslie had left, a phone like bulge in one of the pockets. Peter glanced back at the door but all he could hear was the muffled sound of Nightwing’s voice clearly unhappy. He stood up, keeping in mind the bleeding wound in his side, and reached over and slipped the phone out of her pocket.
She had one of the preset screen savers and Peter couldn’t help but notice it was a much older model than he was used to seeing, with everyone seemingly owning a Starkphone nowadays. But he paid it no mind as he swiped up with shaky fingers, almost collapsing in relief when it unlocked without asking him for a password. He opened the contacts on her phone, dialing in May’s number.
As the phone rang Peter wondered what excuse he would use this time. Sorry I got involved in a hostage situation? Hopefully she hadn’t been too worried, or maybe he got lucky and she was still working the night shift, with no idea he was even gone. If he sounded particularly pathetic enough, May even might let him stay home from school tomorrow.
The phone beeped, and Peter immediately started rambling. “May, I am so so sorry, there was this whole thing with this guy and his gun, well now that I think about it I guess the gun wasn’t technically his, but anyway I ended up kind of lost but I promise that I’m heading home right now–”
“I think you have the wrong number,” a gruff voice responded, adding a “Sorry,” before abruptly hanging up the phone. Peter pulled the phone away from his ear in shock. He glanced down at the screen, checking the numbers he’d dialed in, but that was May’s number. Peter knew it by heart.
With a sinking feeling he navigated the phone to the internet, typing in Iron Man. The search engine loaded for a second before compiling a screen with results. Peter frantically scrolled through the headline titles, but none of them had anything to do with Tony. He even opened the images, but no red and gold suit was there. He typed in Tony Stark, but all that appeared was some random guy’s facebook page. Peter typed in Avengers, Captain America, Stark Industries, all to no avail.
Finally he typed in superheroes, desperate to see anything he recognized. But what appeared was an entirely different cast of heroes than he’d expected, each in colorful yet utterly unrecognizable outfits. With shock settling over him he numbly cleared the search history before slipping the phone back in Leslie’s pocket. There was no way this was real.
Peter’s been told from a very young age that he was smart. Before a radioactive spider bit him and he gained abs overnight, his intelligence was all he had. He held it close to his chest, wielded it like a weapon along with his sharp tongue because he had no other options. Through years of being bullied and picked on, it was always the one thing he could fall back on. It was also what Tony had valued the most, beyond him just being a kid with powers. It had gotten him access to his personal lab and a front row seat to genius inventions hidden inside.
It was also what May had been most proud of, what Ben had been most proud of, the two of them sitting on either side of Peter when he first opened that envelope form Midtown telling him he’d gotten a scholarship, where Ben had wrapped him tight in his arms and May had softly kissed the crown of his head.
Point is, Peter’s smart. He knows it, his friends know it, even Flash grudging acknowledges it. Yet as Peter sat there, the only possibility that came to mind was impossible. It just couldn’t be true. Peter clenched his fists, looking down at his hands. He had to be in a different universe. There was no other option.
Peter could feel his breath speed up in his chest and suddenly the room felt like it was shrinking. With trembling hands Peter grabbed the medical thread Leslie had left on the examination table and shoved it in his backpack. He grabbed a chair in the corner of the room and shoved it under the handle of the door, the wood impacting the door with a thud.
The voices immediately quieted outside, and someone twisted the handle, only for the door not to open.
“Peter?” Nightwing said, still jiggling the doorknob. “Peter, hey, what’s going on in there?”
Peter frantically slammed the drawers open, looking for some medical tape or gauze and a needle. He felt bad from taking from Leslie, who’d been nothing but kind to him so far, but he needed to leave and he needed to leave now. He eventually found what he was looking for, shoving it into this backpack along with the other supplies. He closed the drawers, and Nightwing started pounding on the door.
“Peter, whatever is going on, I can help, I promise!” He shouted, still hitting the door. There was a sudden loud crash, like Nightwing was throwing his body with all his weight against the door.
He rushed over to the window, pulling it open. They were on the second story, but that was nothing to Peter. He’d made much worse jumps in much worse conditions. Peter swung his legs out the window, hands sticking to the wall. He looked back to the door, which was shaking and the chair was sliding across the tiled floor, no doubt about to give out. With guilt forming in his chest, Peter called out one last, “I’m sorry,” before dropping and disappearing into the night.
With one final heave Nightwing slammed the door open, stumbling a little from the shock of it. But all that faced him was an empty room and an open window, curtains fluttering softly. He ran to the window, looking out. But all that stared back at him was Gotham, no Peter in sight.