Chapter 1
Notes:
Linked here is a spotify playlist that's entirely Gotham vibes jazz ambience that I put together for the writing of this fic! Personal favourite is 'Jazz in My Pants'. https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5NfekoScAGmRqXazRGkTPD?si=0424fc758cbd42da
Here are some loose ages for the characters in the story based on what some internet sleuths have put together and for what makes sense in my head for this story. These don't affect the story much, but could help with visualizing dynamics :).
Alfred: Immortal (/hj)
Bruce: 43
Kate: 31
Dick: 26
Barbara: 25
Cass: 24
Jason: 23
Steph: 20
Tim: 18
Duke: 18
Peter: 16 (discorporating and recorporating has this number particularly iffy)
Damian: 10
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Peter Parker
???
Turns out being shunted into a different reality is just as painful as you’d expect.
There’d been no warning, Peter’s sixth sense blaring only as his back had passed through the tear in the fabric of reality. If he wasn’t so preoccupied with trying to breathe through the unexpected onslaught of agony, he’d totally be nerding out about his first steps into another universe.
The other Peters got to it first. Guess it’s his turn.
Though, he can’t say the other two had reported the experience of having their atoms rearranged to suit the metaphysics of the universe in question. Seems Peter isn’t quite as lucky as his counterparts, landing himself in a distant branch of the multiverse.
Awesome.
In a lot of ways, the feeling is similar to the blip. Most people had felt a faint tingling seconds before their demise. Others had more of a stark numbness, mostly those with heightened abilities.
The worst could feel the individual strands of their DNA unravelling. Ten bucks to the fella that can guess what Peter got sacked with.
Now, as all his usually stable particles are being jumbled up and rewritten, Peter can at least count himself as fortunate that his memories are remaining intact.
It’s the small things in life.
Unfortunately, his pain tolerance can’t quite keep up with this level of sheer awful, and after one too many unending seconds of bad, Peter passes out.
~ ~ ~
Dick Grayson
Gotham City - September 21st
Dashing over the rooftops of Gotham never really lost its touch, the sensation of flight at Dick’s fingertips giving his stomach a fun flippy feeling.
The darkness of the city loses its weight on the threshold of the sky, light pollution chasing away the shadows of the night. He’d been trained on the utility of the dark for years, but he never felt beholden to it.
That will to grasp onto that which is bright is what set Dick apart from Bruce when he stepped into his own, the older man growing to understand that fundamental difference between them.
He hasn’t forgotten where he came from, and it’s easy for him to step back into old habits as he maneuvers across the city skyline.
With some of the family’s fringe members away from Gotham on mission, Dick had been recalled to give a helping hand. Tim’s been putting in too many hours and Jason’s still having issues with playing nice with Bruce, so it’d been on his shoulder to pick up the slack.
Damian’s just as spry as ever, but he'd been cooped up in the city for too long, pushing Bruce to arrange a play-date with Jon under the guise of training. With everyone gone, the manor has gone back to the way it was when Dick was first taken under Bruce's wing, curbing the aggravation that had built with their newest case.
A slew of shoddy Lazarus pits that’d been found dotting Gotham’s abandoned haunts, their frequency and gradual improvement making Bruce jumpy. Nobody had been able to successfully replicate the regenerative abilities of the real deal thus far, but somebody has been working on it.
A lot.
One such pit that Dick had found was complete with a half-decomposed corpse floating within, halfway to the zombie stage. It had not been fun sticking the man’s body back in its grave once Alfred had traced his DNA to a nearby cemetery.
Jason’s been on edge since he’d gotten wind of the Bats’ newest problem, the previous night's outburst leading to him giving Dick the silent treatment. He’d been doing better recently, going so far as to bump his shoulder with Dick’s a week ago.
Baby steps.
Here’s to hoping that the whole mess will blow over soon.
~ ~ ~
Peter Parker
???
Time gets wonky as Peter falls into an in-between state. He figures he hasn’t been turned into dust via a Thanos wannabe collecting more Infinity Stones, that experience having been closer to the instant wakefulness of being put under with morphine, years gone in a blink.
They'd also been destroyed as far as the Avengers were aware, Tony's sacrifice saving them from any possible future use.
Small sensations keep Peter tethered to reality, blips in his awareness that fade in and out of his consciousness. There's a weight keeping his eyelids closed and a steady pressure around his whole body, a heaviness in his still lungs. Faint tingles dancing across his skin.
It’s almost peaceful. Maybe this place isn’t so bad.
Wait.
Still lungs?
Peter tries to move, fear blooming in his mind like a bruise.
That faint sensation of pressure over Peter’s body gains a distinctly wrong edge as he grasps for consciousness, eyebrows twitching together in discomfort. His muscles feel leaden, chained into inaction by something out of his control.
The heart is a muscle.
A faint prickle crawls across the back of Peter’s neck, breaking through the heavy blanket that had settled over his mind.
Something’s wrong.
His sense of unease grows until it bursts across his skin, skittering in a current that puts everything into sharp clarity.
Something’s really wrong.
It’s time to wake up.
Forcing his eyes to open, Peter instinctively tries to draw breath into his lungs. Problem one slams into his awareness as he convulses around the sludge that’s filling them.
Panic starts to edge into his brain, kicking his muscles into gear. Drawing his limbs in close, he can’t see much aside from the colour of vibrant, sickly green.
There’s an inkblot of darkness in front of him, or well, above.
Working against the oppressive force of gravity, problem two arises in the weakness of Peter’s body with its extended lack of oxygen. Forcing himself towards the surface takes every ounce of his strength, frustration mounting with every second he goes without a proper breath.
He needs air. He needs air.
The first touch of nothing on the skin of his hands is a special kind of bliss. He has to all but drag himself out of the pool of green, the scrape of concrete on his body unbearable with the sensitivity of his skin.
The sounds and smells of his surroundings assault his senses, having been muted by the liquid he’d been submerged in. Vehicles roaring down streets and voices calling out are near deafening, worsened by the putrid odor wafting out of the sludge.
Rolling onto his side, Peter’s lungs seize in an attempt to expel the stuff that’s in his lungs. He can barely muster the force to get it out, no air flowing in or out to help with the process.
It takes nearly a full minute of coughing before his brain registers that he's breathing, and with that his heart decides to make itself known.
It thumps a dizzying staccato in his chest, pushing previously inert blood into a surge through his veins. The sense of wrong that’d suffused his body refuses to abate, the tingling at the back of his neck sticking around.
Slowly but surely, all of Peter’s faculties come back online. He feels a bit like the old boxy computers that his elementary school kept around for far too long, the creaky software barely keeping up with its base functions.
He promises to never make fun of another floppy disk again.
Ah good, his sense of humour’s back.
Blinking the last remaining bits of sludge from his eyes, Peter takes stock of his surroundings. Set up around the circumference of the pit he’d crawled out of is a homemade lab a la Adrian Toomes. If only the old bird could see him now.
Metal tables with janky chemistry equipment are strewn about near the walls, traces of solutions left in the hard to reach places. Used coffee cups are stacked in a mesh garbage can near the corner, a rickety cot sat nearby.
A live-in lab then.
A shiver traces up Peter’s spine as a breeze drifts through the space, a quick glance around revealing it to be a rundown warehouse. He should’ve guessed he'd been left to zombify in a place like this, abandoned buildings being ground zero for everything that goes bump in the city.
It takes a couple of tries, but he’s able to stagger his way over to the cot on shaky legs, finding a few useful belongings. Most importantly, he scrounges up a spare set of clothes, the jeans and hoodie fitting loose on his thinner frame.
Glancing towards a window, Peter finds himself distracted by the reflection staring back at him from the darkened exterior.
In large part, he looks the same. Maybe a bit younger than he had been before the multiversal travel scrambled his matter, though that could be the psychological effects of crawling out of a death pit showing on his face.
His eyes are wide, giving him an easy view of the discoloration of his irises. Where there was the usual plain brown shade, there’s now a slight hue of green that gives the illusion of a striking hazel.
Even stranger is the bleaching of a clump of hair by his widow’s peak, the strands standing out as a bright white.
He’s moments away from abandoning his reflection to investigate the chemistry equipment when his senses pick up on someone landing on the roof. The sound of their feet is feather-light, barely audible even to Peter’s enhanced hearing.
Reacting on instinct, he darts to a nearby wall to start climbing it. There’s a split second where he thinks he’ll just slide down it, unsure of this universe’s relationship with human-spider DNA comingling, but he sticks and scrambles to the ceiling as usual.
Tucking himself into a corner, Peter waits.
~ ~ ~
Dick Grayson
Gotham City Harbor - September 21st
Seriously? Another one?
Despite having found all of the pit sites abandoned, Dick takes the cautious route and slides into the warehouse through a window. Using the rafters to move further inside, he doesn’t notice anyone moving about.
The pit at the centre of the room’s letting curls of green-tinted steam rise from its surface, filling the air with all sorts of nasty smells. Hooking a line to a beam, he descends slowly towards the floor.
Stepping around the edge of the pit, it looks unremarkable compared to the others. It isn’t bubbling or churning like it’s ready for use, and Dick can’t spot a body floating within.
What captures his attention is a pool of slime near the ledge, the arrangement of the droplets leaving him with a bad feeling.
Shit.
Speaking into his mic, Dick tries to keep his voice on the level. “Hey B, hear of any high profile rogues going missing in the past month or so?”
“No.” Succinct as ever, Bruce’s response is followed by, “What did you find?”
“Another Lazarus pit, but this one looks like it was used.” Tilting his head, Dick scans the puddle again. “Recently.”
There’s a grunt and the sound of a fist hitting flesh from the other side of the line. Ah, he found some action. “Any sign of whoever might’ve been in it?”
“Not that I can see.” Turning his gaze up, he spots the trail leading to a cot but it stops there. “I didn’t hear any screaming and nobody came tearing out of the place, so I think I just missed them.”
“Understood.” The sounds of the fight cut off and Bruce pauses, three seconds passing in his usual 'I’m about to ask you to do something I don't want to' moment of hesitation. “Get into contact with Red Hood. He’ll want to know.”
It’s a surprising level of consideration considering Bruce’s usual level of stoicism where his tentative allies are concerned. Dick spares him the teasing and ends the line of communication with an affirmative.
Sending word to Alfred, he requests the equipment to be collected for investigation back at the cave, not wanting the authorities to squirrel it away.
Casting one last look around the room, he has a fleeting thought of worry for whatever poor soul found themselves in that pit.
Turning towards Crime Alley, he takes the front door, missing the spider that slips out the window and into the night.
Notes:
We're gonna get into Lazarus pit side effects at a later time, as I'm a fan of the idea of it affecting Peter differently with his enhanced abilities and altered DNA. No flying off the handle yet...
Chapter Text
Jason Todd
Crime Alley - September 21st
The telltale crunch-zip heralds Dick’s arrival on Jason’s rooftop, the instinctual flare of annoyance accompanying the disruption of his previously peaceful night.
The city had grown quiet over the past few days, calm settling in the streets. It’s left Jason feeling antsy, fingers itching with the need to do something. If he’d learned one thing, it’s that Gotham city doesn’t rest, and when it does, it’s never anything good.
The built up energy had him irritable enough to snap at Bruce and Dick, blame heavy on his tongue as he’d put the Lazarus pits on their shoulders.
It was unfair of him, Dick’s priorities lying outside of the boundary of Gotham. Bruce is only one man, and he’d been shouldering more responsibility lately with half of his team gone.
Worse than the guilt is the knowledge that Dick has already forgiven him. The man’s far too gracious, easily forgetting slights against him without a second thought.
It’s one of his more enviable traits, grudges slipping from his hands where Jason had learned to grip onto them. He can’t tell who between them had inherited their perspective traits from the old man.
Smothering his irritation, Jason keeps his eyes on the streets below as Dick wanders up behind him. His footsteps are easily audible, the soles of his shoes crunching over debris and trash left from whoever was here last.
Considerate as always.
The vigilante drops down beside Jason, propping one leg up against the lip of the rooftop. “Thought it’d be harder to find you.”
“I forget to turn my tracker off?” Jason’s voice is drawling, unconcerned. It’s a giveaway, though he isn’t trying hard to play the asshole.
“Like you’d let that slip your mind.” The corner of Dick’s mouth quirks up, his domino mask crinkling around his crow’s feet. “You forgive me already?”
“Something like that.”
Dick’s foot dangles over the side, heel bouncing against the brick. He takes a deep breath into his lungs, undoubtedly pulling in the comingled scent of piss and stale garbage that’s so common in the Alley. “Nice night.”
Small talk. Really?
Jason sighs in response.
“Touchy.” Dick teases him, leaning closer as if going for a shoulder bump that he abandons halfway through.
Alright. Jason turns to Dick, seeing a thin layer of grime marring his suit. It bothers something deep inside to see evidence of the other man overworking himself. “There a reason you’re on my side of town? Not sure that the Red Hood’s the kind of guy that Nightwing’s supposed to hang around with.”
Dick’s eyebrows draw tight together. “I don’t care about that.”
“Your friends might.” Push him away, get him back home. Safe.
“Alright, fine.” The 'you win' goes unsaid. Dick’s foot stills in its idle movements. “I found another pit.”
Ice floods through Jason’s veins, the familiar rise of emotions swelling at the mention of the pit. He swallows them down, willing his heart to slow.
Dick continues on after a moment, timing his words to the steadying of Jason’s breaths. “Old warehouse by the harbor, dug straight into the concrete foundation.”
He pauses, swallowing as he parses the best way to finish his report. It’s for Jason’s sake, giving him a moment to steel himself. He relaxes the curl of his fingers, settling them on his thighs as a go-ahead for Dick.
“Someone was in it.”
'Was' being the operative word.
“Who?” Jason surprises himself at his ability to keep his voice level.
“I’m not sure.” There’s a note of defeat in Dick’s voice, ever the bleeding heart. “Didn’t hear or see anyone when I got there, just the evidence that someone had crawled out.”
Fuck. Fuck.
Images push at the back of Jason’s eyes, flashes of when he’d woken up submerged in suffocating green. The panic that’d crowded his mind, the need for escape. Terror.
Worry that the Joker was waiting for him just above the surface.
His head twitches to the side as he instinctively tries to shake the memories from his head, nonsensical. Dick is quiet beside him, still as if he’s trying not to spook an animal.
Too kind.
Forcing down a growl, Jason pushes himself to stand. He gives Dick a look that conveys his disinterest in being followed and turns towards the stairs, shooting one last remark over his shoulder. “I’ll call you if I see anything.”
It’s his favourite dismissal, one that Dick likes to follow up with 'no you won’t'.
This time, he says nothing.
~ ~ ~
Peter Parker
???
Wandering unfamiliar streets in clothes far too big for him and missing his suit, Peter can’t say he loves the déjà vu feeling of it all.
Last time he’d been sent reeling after a confrontation from his hero, the lives of over a hundred people sitting heavy on his shoulders. He had almost failed them, one stupid slip up leading to a cascade failure that could’ve ruined him.
This time, he’s got nowhere to go and no Aunt May to lean on. He’s really on his own.
He doesn’t recognize the city he’s in, par for the course being in a new universe and all. He’d seen on select businesses the word “Gotham”, suitable for the general doom and gloom that permeates the air.
He’s grateful for the sweater he’d been able to poach, the hood doing wonders for keeping the light drizzle at bay.
The roads are largely empty save for a few vehicles that roll past. Nobody pays Peter much mind, just another kid who’d fallen to the wayside.
He can’t help but have his mind wander back to the man that’d found the warehouse, clad in a black and blue suit. He’d moved with a grace similar to Black Widow’s, swinging down on a thin wire that had easily held his weight.
Seems like this world’s got its own vigilantes, and well-funded ones at that.
Peter had chosen to take the cautious route, his sixth sense keeping at a low buzz with the man’s presence. It hadn’t spiked when he’d wandered a bit close, giving some hope that he’d been of a good nature, but it hadn’t lessened either.
The loss of his shelter had been a hard pill to swallow, the calling of one ‘Alfred’ shattering any hope of sticking around the lab. He hadn’t been thrilled at the thought of sleeping near that green sludge, but he'd been low on options. Now, he's even less so.
Trekking vaguely northward, he keeps his eyes out for a possible replacement shelter.
Exhaustion weighs heavy on his mind despite the extended nap he’d been given, any restfulness ruined by the shock of resurrection. He can feel the reality of that hovering at the edges of his mind, delayed until the moment that he can stop.
As Peter passes road sign after road sign, the feeling of eyes on him grows. The smells of the city grow deeper, the taste of gunpowder and violence sticking to the asphalt.
If he were sane, he’d turn heel and try his luck elsewhere. Getting into a fight on his day of being in another universe isn’t exactly the smartest move, but rundown city cores tend to have more condemned buildings to hole up in.
Besides, Peter can defend himself just fine.
With truly ironic timing, a hand shoots out from an alley to his right. Fingers clamp tight around his wrist and he’s pulled into the dark.
The click of metal against his temple has him freezing instinctively. He’s got a dozen options to free himself, but most would involve bodily harm against whoever’s holding him against the brick wall.
The person’s wearing a hood pulled low over their head and a scrap of cloth tied around their mouth. They’ve got a tattoo of a spider web plastered to the middle of their forehead and a scar across an eyebrow.
In typical mugger fashion, the woman barks an order at him with a raspy voice. “Give me all your money.”
“Very original.” The quip falls from Peter’s mouth before he can stop it, the presence of a gun has his vigilante instincts coming online.
The muzzle presses harder against his head. “You think this is funny?”
Alright, maybe he should cool it with the attitude.
“I don’t have anything to give you.” Peter raises his hands in surrender, feeling the twitch of the gun at the movement. “I stole these clothes, found nothing in them. Guess the pocket change fell out in the dryer.”
“Shit.” The gun falls away and the mugger takes a couple of steps back. She keeps the weapon trained on Peter as she gives him a once-over, checking for the outline of a wallet. “How old are you?”
Peter pauses for the briefest moment, weighing his options. He can risk being seen as an easy target to appeal to the mugger’s morality and give his estimated age in this universe, or go with the truth and risk being seen as a threat.
Given the question, he goes with the former. “Sixteen.”
“Another kid, huh?” Something weary creeps into the woman’s voice as she lowers the gun. “You ever steal anything before those clothes?”
Keeping his guard up, Peter pushes himself off the wall. “No.”
“Hmm.” The hum sounds a bit surprised. Guess Peter’s looking rough. “You headed to a shelter?”
He shrugs, unaware there are any around.
“I’m not gonna follow you, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Suspicious bunch around here. The woman nods her head to the mouth of the alley. “Got one down a few blocks. I’d recommend against staying the night. They do their best but disease sticks to those kinds of places.”
Peter’s well aware, May having lost several night’s sleep over that exact problem over at F.E.A.S.T. “Thanks for the tip.”
“Get out of here.” She gestures back towards the street with her free hand, to which Peter heeds the dismissal. It’s when he’s almost out that she calls out to him again. “You get the Red Hood asking about this, tell him I didn’t know you were a kid, yeah?”
Not wanting to have a bullet buried in his back, Peter nods. With that he sets back into the night, turning to head towards the shelter.
The Red Hood, huh? Doesn’t ring true to the blue guy’s getup back by the docks, but it could be something tied to his abilities. That, or another vigilante.
True to the mugger’s word, it’s a handful of blocks down the road. As Peter stands across the street, a couple of people wander inside with their belongings tucked beneath their clothing. It looks packed, a small crowd loitering near the desk just inside.
Feeling the curl of hunger in his stomach, he weighs his options. He could try his luck and wait just inside, maybe get some food and clothes, though there’s a good chance they’d insist on him staying. Maybe call CPS.
Other option is leaving and trying his luck in finding shelter. Given that he’s not great with the cold and the constant rain gives him an option for drinking water, Peter turns away.
Besides, the people in there probably need it more than him. He’s got abilities to keep himself out of harm’s way and he’s still got a while until hunger will become a real problem.
Kicking back into gear, Peter continues his slow meander down the road.
Whether it’s the cold, the empty stomach, or the constant tingling of his sixth sense, he’s left unaware of the pair of eyes that follow his hooded figure, watching on from above.
He finds a condemned apartment building to hunker down in as time tips over to the next day, vines and flora unlike any he’d seen growing from massive cracks in the foundation. Careful to avoid walking on them, Peter makes his way to the top floor where the damage is lessened.
There are hints of previous tenants left in photos on the walls and rotting food in the kitchens. Most of the valuable belongings have been stripped from the place already, though he wouldn’t have taken any regardless.
He treads into a room that was once obviously a teenager’s, posters of unknown bands taped to the walls. The décor’s a bit grunge for Peter’s liking, but it fills him with nostalgia, thinking of back to the apartment he'd shared with May.
Shoving the thoughts aside, he pulls on a fresh set of clothes. They all smell musty, reminding Peter of mothballs.
Curling up on the mattress, Peter finds a corner with the least amount of springs jutting out and passes out.
Chapter 3
Notes:
Getting to the bigger chapters now! I hope y'all enjoy :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Jason Todd
Crime Alley - September 21st
Crime Alley isn’t a stranger to wayward souls, the streets clogged with desperate people who’ve got nowhere to go. They’ve been pushed to the darkest corner of Gotham, life expectancy halved by virtue of the pollution that clings to the air and the increased chances of finding a knife shoved into their backs.
For Jason, it’s home.
He’s grown fond of the hardasses that can grit their teeth at the unfairness of life, carrying on with spines made of steel. The lack of police oversight gives him leeway to run his business as he pleases, taking out threats without having to appeal to a higher moral standard.
Though, that doesn’t mean that he hasn’t grown to despise the twisting streets of the blood-soaked district. The pavement gleams ruby with the spilled blood of folks that don’t deserve it, illuminated by flickering lights from dying street lamps.
There’s no end to the scum that choose to make people’s lives misery, pushed to do the worst that humanity offers by desperation or simple sadism.
It's a dog-eat-dog world after all.
Worst of all is the reality that he’s barely made a dent in his efforts to change the place for the better. He isn’t exactly the shining example that the people here need, but he’s better than the alternatives.
He gets it, why the people that land themselves here refuse to leave. Why they don’t accept the generous donations of the Wayne Foundation’s outreach programs.
Dirty hands can’t stand the feeling of clean money.
That, and there’s a certain amount of pride that comes with living on your own merit in a place that’s hellbent on killing you.
Jason wonders if it’s pride that has the hooded kid turning away from the shelter, rain soaking into the darkened fabric of his sweater. He’d stood across the street from it for a brief minute, back to the building that the vigilante’s perched on.
The place is busy, a common occurrence on bleary nights. It’d take a while for the kid to be seen by staff, and his chances of getting a bed slim.
Regardless, hard linoleum flooring beats the threat of hypothermia or getting your brains blown out in a random shooting. After all, shelters are to be considered under the Red Hood’s protection.
None of his business, what the kid decides to do to survive is on him. God knows there’s enough of them on the street that Jason can’t afford to keep tabs on every single one.
Shrugging off his idle curiosity, Jason stands and sets about his usual rounds. It’s a 50/50 shot of finding any real action, the Alley working in extremes. When the rain falls, criminals seem to unanimously decide whether they’re all going out or staying crammed in their little hidey holes.
After an hour of patrolling, it seems to be the latter.
It gives Jason too much time to think, his mind occupied with what Dick had told him. The influx of Lazarus pits was already a bad sign, but a functioning one signals the start of something new. Something bad.
The side effects of a pit aren’t consistent, reliant upon time of death and mental fortitude. Jason’s stint in one had left him teetering on the edge of broken, his psyche fractured after being ripped away from a forgotten afterlife.
He’d settled with an unhealthy relationship with rage, restlessness and an inclination for violence fueling his nightly escapades into a territory with the highest crime rates on the eastern seaboard.
Worst case scenario, a figure from the Batman’s rogue gallery has been brought back in an ever common twist of fate. It’d suit the fevered pace in which the pits had been popping up, some maniac set on bringing back their twisted hero to take down the Bat.
Although, that might not be the worst option. A Lazarus-roided sociopath could be the one that finally does Bruce in. The thought makes Jason feel all warm and fuzzy.
He lets that comfort him as he turns in for the night, retrieving his motorcycle before heading to his place. He spots a few bodies scurrying into the shadows as he goes, a spark of pride igniting at the knowledge that his reputation precedes him.
Pulling into the garage that functions as his pad, he kills the bike with one final rumble of the engine, the sound echoing in the space. There’s an old oil stain on the concrete where he parks it, a souvenir from the building’s past as a chop shop.
It’s luxurious by the Alley’s standards, most of the furniture in working order. A ramshackle kitchen’s set where the owner’s office used to be, equipped with full electricity and plumbing. The bed’s set just outside of it, crammed by the wall that’s got the only functioning outlet.
It’s barebones but his nonetheless. Home sweet shithole.
Setting his weapons on the workbench, Jason takes a moment to appreciate the sound of the rain pattering on the rooftop, a small pinging coming from where the water hits some metal ventilation. It’d been his comfort back at the mansion, its secluded nature making the place too damn quiet when the weather decided to cooperate.
Casting a glance out one of the windows, a light in the sky catches Jason’s attention.
The signal’s up.
~ ~ ~
Bruce Wayne
Gotham City Police Department - September 21st
Standing in the gloom of the department’s rooftop, Bruce waits for Gordon to make his way up. The man’s fellow officers had learned to begrudgingly accept the Bat’s claim of the roof, operating as a sort of neutral area for all parties.
There’s a dull ache in his knuckles, radiating down to the tips of his fingers. Raindrops cling to his eyelashes where they’ve somehow slipped beneath the cowl, threatening to invade his waterline.
His eyes stay focused on the skyline, back turned to the rooftop access door. Gordon’s never been one for stealth, the cracking of his bad knee and harassed grumbling usually giving him away before he has a chance to push his way onto the landing.
The hinges give a sharp shriek as the rusted metal door swings open, heralding the commissioner’s arrival. He’s a tad bit out of breath, his physical training falling short to his decades long habit of smoking cigars and cigarettes.
Gordon wanders up next to Bruce, unafraid of the imposing figure that the vigilante cuts into the night air. “You know, the light’s supposed to be for me to get into contact with you.”
Inwardly, Bruce cracks a wry smile at the dry comment. He doesn’t let it show on his face, keeping his profile turned to the side as he ignores the other man’s words. “Nightwing located another pit.”
“Oh yeah?” It’s a jaded sort of response, no surprise colouring the commissioner’s tone. “How many’s that now?”
“Five.” A harsh gust of wind rips at Bruce’s cloak, the fabric nearly getting caught around Gordon’s ankles. The other man shuffles a step away, scowling at the drops of water that stick to the hem of his pants at the contact. “This one was used. Recently.”
Gordon turns his attention away from his pants to look back at Bruce, a glimmer of concern showing through at the news. “You don’t say.”
Looking over at the shorter man, Bruce feels an odd sense of companionship at Gordon’s response, the man’s intuition unerringly spot on. “Have your officers reported any suspicious activity tonight, anyone acting erratically?”
Memories of Jason’s acidic green irises crowd Bruce’s mind, the boy’s pupils pinpricks as raw emotions swirl unbidden beneath. He shoves the thoughts away, stifling his regret.
“Nothing that’s been brought to my attention, but I’ll put out a word with the usual candidates.” Officers that Gordon’s grown to trust, ones that Bruce has personally vetted. He shuffles his weight onto his good leg, hands settling themselves worriedly onto his hips. “You think this could become a big problem?”
Nothing good ever comes from the pits. Bruce thinks to himself but neglects to voice aloud. He turns from Gordon and stalks to the edge of the roof, doubtless that the commissioner has read Bruce’s opinion on the matter in his silence.
Stopping just shy of the plunge, Bruce calls back, “Look for green eyes and a white streak.”
And then he’s gone.
~ ~ ~
Peter Parker
???
Peter’s experience with death and its quietude has not extended to his sleeping mind, his rest plagued with muddied snapshots tinged with a faint edge of panic.
The slog through his memory-fueled dreams is simultaneously vivid and uncontrollable, sensations crawling across his awareness with no way to wake himself from his slumber.
He feels the burn of the Goblin’s explosives through his suit and the way the fabric grows tacky with May’s blood. He feels the way his anger had burned through his lungs, muscles loose as he didn’t bother to hold back his strength.
The tip of the Goblin’s glider is an inch away from the man’s heart with no sign of stopping when Peter jolts awake, his heart beating a mile a minute. There’s a split second where he thinks he’s back in the pit, terror fueled by the weight of a blanket sitting heavy over his body.
Stumbling out of bed, it’s only his preternatural grace that keeps him from falling into a heap on the soiled carpet.
It takes a handful of long moments for reality to sink in. Last night was real. His heart wasn’t beating just twelve hours ago.
He died.
Stumbling out of the room, Peter barely makes it to the toilet before he’s heaving. There’s nothing for him to expel, so he’s just left clutching onto the basin for dear life. The porcelain crumbles beneath his grip.
Well, at least he’s still got all of his abilities.
The thoughts brings along another wave of holy shit as the realization slams into him that he’s not in his home dimension. Unless he’d been teleported to some obscure Canadian metropolis he'd never heard of, there had never been a Gotham city that Peter had ever seen on a map of the United States.
There’s also the distinct sense of wrongness that hasn’t left Peter. His sixth sense had let up in its incessant tingling, normalized to the low level danger that seems to permeate the atmosphere here.
He’s just… unwelcome. Jumbled together and made to fit into a place that isn’t home.
His breath catches, throat sticky with the sudden loneliness that settles on his shoulders. Back in Queens, he could check in on MJ and Ned to remind himself that he’d been loved, that they’d accepted him for all of his oddities.
Seems he’s out of luck in this universe.
There could be some version of his friends in this world, wandering around with a stand-in, off-brand Peter. It’s an almost comical idea, his brain conjuring the image of a cardboard cutout of himself running around with equally inorganic versions of Ned and MJ.
A sound that’s half laugh, half sob punches out of his chest. Man he’s losing it.
Sitting back, he brushes the dusting of porcelain off of his hands and goes to stand, fighting a wave of vertigo. His stomach flips. Step two of staying alive: find food and water.
The plumbing’s been shut off to the whole building, none of the taps spitting out any water when Peter tries them out. It’s not surprising, whatever happened here being a potential risk to the city’s plumbing given the strangeness of the plants. New step two: find a functional bathroom.
He picks his way out of the apartment and grabs a trucker hat with Arkansas printed onto the front, plucking it off of a coat rack by the door. Taking the elevator shaft, Peter crawls his way down the sides until he’s on the first floor, prying the sliding doors open with his hands.
Slipping out a lobby window, he surveys the street. Nobody pays him any mind as he steps out of the alley, pulling his cap low over his face.
Picking a direction, Peter pushes onwards.
The rain’s let up since last night, but clouds hang low in the sky, blotting out the sun. Moisture clings in the air alongside a cover of smog, painting the world in a wash of grey.
He spots a convenience store down a block, equipped with grates that span the length of the windows and door. Heavy metal bars are adhered to the exterior with graffiti scrawled across their front, various tags layered over one another.
Very secure.
Pushing into the establishment, it reminds him a bit of the bodegas back at home. A wall of fridges spans the far end, filled with sodas and energy drinks. There are shelves of cheap snacks and basic hygiene products, capped with a spinning sunglasses display.
All it’s missing is a sandwich counter and a cat.
The cashier looks up from her phone, sizing Peter up with a cursory glance. Her eyes linger on the pockets of his hoodie, assumedly looking for the outline of a weapon. He puts on his best disarming smile and wanders up to the counter. “Hey, do you have a bathroom I can use?”
She lowers her phone a touch, wariness climbing onto her face. “Why?”
“I don’t have anything on me. You can check if you want.” Peter holds his hands up in surrender, letting the girl see his empty pant pockets.
“Fine.” She fishes out a key from behind the desk, the metal jangling against a bright piece of red plastic. “Five minutes.”
“Thank you.” Peter takes it and proceeds to the back of the store, unlocking the door. It swings open to reveal a dingy exterior, fluorescent bulbs highlighting the mold that’s seeped into the grout.
He hurries along, giving himself a quick sink bath with the available hand soap. It’s got the generic pre-chewed pink bubble-gum scent, thick enough to make him feel slightly nauseous. He pointedly keeps his gaze away from the mirror, uncomfortable with the uncanny feeling that his altered appearance gives him.
At the four and a half minute mark, Peter steps out with his cap snug over his head. He’s not really a hat guy, but he figures it’s wise to remain as anonymous as possible in a place like this.
He hands the key back to the girl with another smile, though her guard remains as raised as ever. She returns her attention to her phone, dismissing Peter.
He figures she’s written him off as harmless as she doesn’t raise a stink for him loitering around. He meanders his way over to a stand that has magazines arranged messily atop tiered shelves, the covers lightly curled with water damage.
His eyes bounce from headline to headline, picking out names rather than stories. If this universe is similar to his own, the tabloids are never to be trusted. Good for names though.
Interestingly, there’s a common thread between the magazines in Peter’s world to this one: superheroes. A team called the Justice League has got everyone’s attention, speculations running wild about the identities of the heroes.
The more Gotham specific tabloids are focused on a handful of public figures including James Gordon, Lucious Fox, Rupert Thorne, and Bruce Wayne. Commissioner, businessman, mayor, and entrepreneur respectively.
A voice from Peter’s right has him nearly jumping out of his skin, though he stills himself before he can so much as twitch. “You know, if you keep your hands in your pockets, she’s going to think you’re stealing.”
“I’m not.” Peter responds reflexively, pulling his hands from his pockets and turning to look at the newcomer.
He has to tip his head back to see the man from behind the brim of his cap, finding a pair of bright green eyes peering down at him. He’s wearing a leather jacket and has a bike helmet tucked beneath an elbow, half of a chocolate bar clutched in his hand as he chews on a mouthful.
His dark hair is pressed a bit flat from his helmet, the ends curling a bit from the humidity. There’s a patch of white at his widow’s peak, mirroring the one Peter’s got hidden beneath his hat.
Either this guy’s into the emo scene or he’s got something very interesting in common with Peter.
Turning his eyes purposefully towards the guy’s snack, Peter levels an unimpressed look at it before commenting, “Isn’t that stealing?”
The guy takes another bite, chews, blinks, and then responds. “Not if I plan on paying for it.”
“And do you?”
The guy doesn’t respond for a second, looking down at Peter like he’s the one acting odd. “You going to buy anything?”
“No.” Shoving his hands back into his pockets, Peter fends off the slight chill invading his fingers. “I’m reading magazines.”
“You into the Justice League or something? Bruce Wayne?” Peter shrugs at the questions, not wanting to respond incorrectly. “Pretty sure you gotta buy these if you’re gonna read them, Arkansas.”
The nickname confuses Peter for a second until he recalls his hat, a moment too late as he instinctively corrects the man. “I’m from Queens.”
Stupid.
“Apologies.” The guy shrugs off Peter’s snappishness easily, finishing off his candy bar. The wrapper crinkles in his hand as he lowers it. “Though that begs the question why you’re wear-”
A gunshot echoing from outside has the guy cutting himself off, his and Peter’s heads whipping towards the sound. It’s muscle memory that has him taking off towards it, shoes squeaking against the tiled floor.
He spots the cashier ducking behind her counter, phone left on the counter. She isn’t calling the cops.
No time to dwell on that, Peter’s shoulder slams into the door as he dashes outside. A shriek from within a labyrinth of alleyways has him shifting trajectory, balance shifting easily mid-step.
He makes it about ten feet into the lane before a hand is snagging onto his hood, the fabric pulling tight against Peter’s neck.
He twists before it can do any damage to his windpipe, whirling to face whoever grabbed him. The guy from the store’s still got his helmet clutched in one hand while the other is gripping Peter’s clothes, who knocks off his hold with a, “What the hell, man!”
The guy levels Peter with a harsh glare and states, “You’re staying right here.”
“No way, dude!” Peter stars to back up, drawing the guy along as he keeps trying to pass him. “They could have like, a bunch of guns or something!”
Another shot rings out and the guy breaks out into a sprint with a low growl at the back of his throat, effectively giving up on his attempts to stop Peter. “Stay behind me.”
Yeah right.
Notes:
Yippeeeee the boys meet at last!
Chapter Text
Jason Todd
Crime Alley - September 22nd
Rushing towards where the gunshots had gone off, Jason can hear the footsteps of the kid behind him. He’s keeping up surprisingly well, breaths coming in even despite their pace being at a dead sprint.
The kid reminds him of Tim, indignant fire in his hazel eyes. His head had jerked around at the sounds of the gunshot and he’d been off just as quick, pushing through the door before Jason could get a hold of him.
He’d almost clotheslined the kid on his hood, but Queens had spun with surprising grace, a lightness to his feet that had Jason thinking of Dick.
The kid’s got his sense of justice too, Jason unable to get him to stay back without wasting time. With an almost comically lame excuse, he’d refused the older man’s order to remain in relative safety.
That leaves him in his current predicament. The two turn a corner and find a small crowd huddled at a dead-end.
Five guys stand with their backs to the lip of the alley, each holding onto a weapon. The closest has a pair of douchey Ray-Bans perched on his nose, completely unnecessary on an overcast day like today.
Goon Two’s got a blue flannel on, patches sewn onto the back like he’s some sort of lumberjack gangster. Goon Three has a revolver for god’s sake, the thing looking almost as ancient as Alfred. Goon Four is chewing on a piece of gum rather obnoxiously, a golden canine tooth on display with the cocky smirk playing across his lips.
The one furthest from Jason is the obvious leader of the crew, kitted out in a black leather jacket and holding a pristine beretta.
Two teenagers are pinned to the wall by the men looming over them, twin holes chipped into the brick wall next to their heads where bullets had dug into it. The younger of the two looks barely over fourteen, his hands clutching onto the taller girl’s forearm with a white knuckled grip. There’s a small cut on the girl’s cheek.
“-our protection, yeah?” Leather Jacket prods at the younger one with the muzzle of his gun, the metal biting into the soft skin of his forehead. “We’ve been needing more runners.”
The weight of his guns are heavy in their holsters, but it’s too risky with the teens in the mix. The old fashioned way then.
Jason doesn’t call out or grab their attention before he’s driving his elbow into the temple of Ray-Ban. The others whirl around, weapons raising.
Gripping his helmet, he throws it at Bubblegum, forcing him to dodge. There’s the scuff of a shoe and Jason remembers-
The kid-
The blur of a dark hoodie streaks by as the kid speeds past Jason, his form dropping low. One of his legs kicks out as a shot goes off, the bullet going wide as Flannel’s weapon gets knocked aside.
He twists and uses his momentum to latch onto Revolver’s shirt, wheeling around to send him off balance. Queens ducks beneath one his flailing arms, letting him slam face first into a wall. He goes down.
Beyond where the kid’s engrossed in his fight, Leather Jacket raises his weapon. The muzzle’s aimed at Jason.
Refocusing, Jason spins Ray-Ban so the man takes the bullet intended for him. The punch of it has the guy seizing with a jerk, a shocked gasp pulling into his throat. There’s a gurgle as Ray-Ban slumps over, falling still.
The kid turns with eyes wide, leaving him wide open.
Jason’s too far, helpless as Flannel pulls his pistol level with the back of the kid’s skull.
BANG.
With unnatural reflexes, the kid ducks and rips the pistol out of the man’s hand. He grabs the outstretched arm and turns, flipping Flannel over his shoulder. There’s a crack as his head hits the pavement, and he doesn’t get up.
Dodging past Queens, Jason engages with the last two. One of his knees drives into Bubblegum’s diaphragm, sending him crumpling as he goes to catch his breath.
Leather Jacket’s finger squeezes over the trigger as Jason wrenches his wrist upward, sending the bullet skyward. Using his grip, he twists the other man’s wrist until it cracks. There’s a roar of pain as he tries to pull away.
Jason refuses to let go, turning his attention on the teenagers as he shouts at them. “Go!”
With wide eyes, they dart away from the fight. Bubblegum tries to grab at their ankles but they weave around him. The kid guides them past, turning to Jason as he focuses on the man he still has in his hold.
The pounding of anger in his head urges him to snap the guy’s neck, indignation at the treatment of the kids burning through his veins. How dare they, in my territory.
Easily audible steps approach from behind Jason, bringing to mind Dick’s habit of doing the same. A young voice calls out, “You got him, man. It’s okay.”
The kid- Queens-
Breaths harsh in his chest, Jason swallows his bloodlust. Palming the side of Leather Jacket’s head, he slams it into the bricks hard enough to leave him with a concussion.
It doesn’t feel like enough.
His heartbeat’s pounding in his ears, blotting out the rest of the world as he stares down at the body crumpled at his feet. It drowns out the words that are coming from Queens’ mouth, only his tone audible as his sentence ends with a questioning lilt.
It isn’t quite loud enough to block out the sound of a small scuffle. Jason’s head jerks around-
Just in time to see Bubblegum pushing his pistol under the kid’s chin. The Arkansas cap falls from the kid’s head and-
He’s greeted by the sight of mousy brown hair disrupted by a shock of white.
Jason freezes.
“Let me walk or I swear to god I’ll plug a bullet into this kid’s head!” Queens’ green tinged eyes are wide as he looks to Jason, arms held out as if he’s trying to stop the older man from acting. “Don’t you fucking move!”
Like an idiot, Queens starts talking. “We’re okay, man. We’re cool.”
“Shut the fuck up.” Bubblegum hisses and starts backing up with the kid in tow. “Stay where you are!”
He pushes his pistol tighter against Queens’ chin. It’s angled in a way that a bullet wouldn’t kill the kid, but it’d blow half his face off. Jason’s hands itch to reach for his weapons.
Catching Queens’ gaze, Jason tries to convey calm but finds the kid has beaten him to it. Trust me.
Seconds inch by at a snail’s pace, the scrape of shoes over cement loud in the silence. Civilians would have cleared the surrounding streets with the gunshots, survival instincts pushing them away from the firefight. It leaves a vacuum of noise, every sound that much louder in its absence.
Jason’s body remains tense, ready to swipe up one of the weapons that had fallen during the fight. The kid keeps staring, breathing calm despite the proximity of a gun to his head.
When they’re at the lip of the alley, Bubblegum slips up.
He turns his head to look towards the street. Queens moves in the span of a blink.
Before time can catch up, the muzzle of the weapon is in his hand. With the clench of his fist, the metal crumples.
Holy shit.
Queens’ head snaps back and there’s a crunch of bone as he breaks the man’s nose. Stumbling forward, the kid shifts his weight onto one foot before he plants the other into Bubblegum’s chest.
The criminal gets sent into the brick wall at his back, a grunt escaping as the oxygen is ripped out of his chest. He falls, unmoving.
Without a hint of hesitation, the kid rushes over to check his pulse, letting out a whoosh of relieved air after a moment. Jason’s urge to put the men down at his feet leaves him, not particularly fond of the idea of spooking the teen.
The kid’s going over to check on Ray-Ban, but Jason knows the man is long gone. There’s a tremble in his hand as he checks for a pulse, grim acceptance in his eyes before he’d even knelt down.
“Hey Queens, we gotta go.” Jason retrieves his helmet, thankfully unharmed, and stops next to the kid.
He looks up, body language unsure. The white streak in his hair is on open display. A beat passes. “I…”
“C’mon, I know a place. Best not to get caught by these guys’ buddies when they come asking who beat the shit out of them.” Queens stands at that, unable to argue with the logic. Jason tacks on, “Don’t forget to grab your cap.”
When the kid complies, Jason trades the hat with his helmet. “Put that on. We’re going for a ride.”
~ ~ ~
Dick Grayson
Wayne Manor - September 22nd
“Come on, Bruce, we gotta keep him in the know.”
Arguing with Bruce Wayne’s gotta up in Dick’s ‘Top Ten Least Favourite Things To Do’, the old man having a stubbornness that rivals Jason’s.
The response he gets is stoic silence as Bruce focuses on the lab equipment strewn about on the table in front of him, Alfred having delivered it in the early hours of the morning. Dick had only just changed out of his suit before he was making his way to the cave, curiosity getting the better of him.
It’s the same quality of that which can be purchased from a cheap bulk retailer, consistent with the other labs they’d found in the city. The glass had remained consistently sterile despite the lesser quality, indicating a level of experience.
They’d dusted for prints time and time again, finding nothing. It’d been a frustrating, vexing pattern.
At least until the latest pit’s success had given them a possible breakthrough. Alfred had collected DNA samples from the spot where someone had crawled out it, currently being ran through testing upstairs.
The case would also be progressing much faster if they had the help of a certain ex-sidekick who lives smack dab in the epicenter of where the pits had been springing up.
“Bruce.” Dick walks up beside the older man, planting a hand on the table to lean into his peripheral. “Jason deserves to know.”
Bruce breaks his gaze from the lab equipment with a frustrated sigh, bags heavy beneath his eyes. He looks tired, neglecting his usual post-patrol shower to start working on the case. “Why?”
“I know that he made it clear he isn’t interested in helping, but we can’t shut him out. What if he finds something and chooses not to spill because you’re giving him the cold shoulder.” Dick urges.
Bruce scrubs a hand across his brow, his weariness clear in an uncharacteristic display of candor. The strain of his history with Jason is clear in the scrunch of his brow, regret a common emotion when the topic is broached.
“I can’t make him talk to me, Dick.” He drops his hand. “Even if I wanted to reach out, he would never listen.”
Dick softens his voice. “You can still try.”
Bruce turns his face towards the wall of screens near the cave’s elevator, hiding whatever’s playing out across his face. He’d grown adept at lying to the world, but Dick had broken through his mask long ago.
It’s a tough thing for Dick to ask. Alongside the mistakes that Bruce had made as a mentor and caretaker, he’d also failed where it mattered the most to Jason; as Batman.
Dick had been acting as the bridge well enough, but the bad blood has been left to fester for too long. All it’s done is cause more pain.
There’s a shift in Bruce’s posture, his obstinance crumbling-
Beep.
A single tone from the computer heralds the end of their conversation, Dick gritting his teeth at the interruption. Bruce takes the out, wandering over to sit on the tall swivel chair.
The results from the test fills one of the screens, a chart opening from the file Alfred had sent from the lab upstairs. The two of them scan the table together, twin expressions of confusion falling on their faces.
Bruce leans back, fixed on the screen as Dick steps up next to him. “This is all wrong.”
Dick reads the confusing jumble of genetic markers that stray uncomfortably far from the expected results. “It barely looks human.”
Alfred’s voice rings through the intercom by the desk, his accent giving his words a clipped quality. “There are no matches to be found in your databases. I am running a wider scan to discern the source of the abnormalities.”
“Not a rogue then.” Dick chatters idly, glancing at Bruce. “Could be good news.”
Bruce grunts noncommittedly, erring away from optimism. “Add other species to your field of search, Alfred. We could be dealing with extraterrestrial bodies.”
“This will take much time, Master Bruce. Perhaps you should get some rest.” Alfred’s tone leaves no room for argument, pulling a shit-eating grin across Dick’s lips.
Seems like Batman has a bed time after all.
“You as well, Master Richard.”
Dick’s smile falls.
~ ~ ~
Peter Parker
Somewhere in Gotham? - September 22nd
Riding a motorcycle’s a lot like that time he’d hitched a ride on the Iron Man suit with his webs. Well, except that he isn’t 100 feet in the air and clinging onto someone’s back rather than a spindly thread.
The physics principles are pretty similar, sticking tight to the body of the bike as to avoid air resistance and drag. Peter has to lean at the right moments to avoid sending himself and the guy splattering across the pavement, close enough to web slinging.
They’re going way too fast for his first time on a bike, but Peter isn’t going to complain. It’s thrilling.
The residual adrenaline from the fight has his heart thrumming with a heavy beat, lights blurring as they streak past. His limbs feel jittery as he adheres his hands to the bike, energy coursing through them with the need to move.
He almost feels disappointed when they pull into an old garage, one of the doors opening with the click of a button.
Peter slips off first and his knees feel like jelly when he plants his feet on the ground. He wavers in place as the guy leans the bike on its kickstand, holding his hand out so he can be handed his helmet.
The guy passes Peter’s hat back in return, but pauses as he takes in the his uneasy footing. “You okay?”
Peter goes to respond but finds his voice failing as his vision crystalizes into static. His empty stomach churns in a reminder of his unintentional fasting, edging into nausea as the body swaps to cannibalizing its fat stores.
The guy takes Peter’s silence in stride, looping one of his arms around his shoulders as he lugs Peter towards a room in the corner. Choosing to trust the silence of his sixth sense, Peter lets himself be guided away from the bike.
He’s settled onto a creaky chair in the corner of a rundown kitchen, the static in his brain abating as blood flow gets easier through his upper extremities. The guy leaves him there, going to poke around in his cabinets as he asks, “How long has it been since you’ve last eaten?”
Peter rests his head in his hands, his skull feeling a bit too heavy to hold up for the moment, and answers with, “I dunno.”
There’s a crinkling sound and then the light tap of a plastic wrapper against the crown of Peter’s head. He looks up to see the guy holding out a protein bar. “Start with this, see if you can keep it down.”
He follows it up by placing a glass of water on the table beside Peter, a drop tracing its way down the exterior of the glass. The guy perches on the counter, no other seat available for him to occupy. He waits as Peter eats the bar slowly, gaze focused pointedly away.
It’s an unexpectedly considerate gesture.
When it’s clear that the food’s going to stay down, the guy pipes up first. “Name’s Jason by the way.”
“Peter.” He sets the wrapper of the bar on the table and takes the space in properly. “I like your place, it’s cool.”
There’s a moment where Jason seems to be gaging Peter’s truthfulness with his compliment, but accepts it with a “Thanks.”
Silence falls between them as neither is quite sure how to proceed. Jason’s back to studying Peter like he’s a math equation, the space between his eyebrows dimpling.
Alright, looks like it’s up to Peter then.
“Hey man, thanks for the help.” Peter rubs his palms together in an idle motion, the tingling in his limbs fading as he encourages circulation. “I don’t want to get in the way or anything. I’ll be fine on my own.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure there, Queens. Those guys are gonna remember your face, and odds are they’re tied to Cobblepot or the Falcones.” The names don’t ring any bells, but they reek of organized crime. “Arguably worse, the Batman’s looking for someone with a streak just like yours.”
Jason points to his hair, effectively making his point.
Peter had noticed a few mentions of “The Bats” running across tabloid headlines, but figured it’d been a pest problem unique to Gotham. He’d dealt with his own avian inspired characters before, so he supposes he’d been too hasty in his assumptions.
He looks up at Jason’s patch of white-toned strands and asks, “Are you sure he won’t go after you?”
Jason snorts, his lips curling into a sardonic smile. “Not something I’m gonna sweat about.”
Feeling like he’s on the outside of a private joke, Peter shifts the topic. “How d’you know so much about what the Batman wants anyways?”
“He works with the Gotham PD and I keep up with their radio chatter.” Something tells Peter he isn’t doing so within the bounds of the law, but calling him out on it feels unwise. “That pit you crawled out of? There’s been a bunch popping up in the past few months.”
Peter tries his best not to think about the pit, calming the instinctive uptick of his heart as he avoids dwelling on the lingering memories. “Those things suck, man.”
There’s a brief pause, the residual amusement that had hung between them dissipating.
“Yeah, they do.” Jason’s voice rings hollow as he commiserates with Peter, breaking his gaze. “Found myself in one a few years ago.”
Peter looks down and picks at a hangnail as he tentatively asks, “What are they for anyways?”
“Lazarus pits are designed to heal wounds and rejuvenate life, but they can bring back the dead on occasion. They’re just as likely to strip you of humanity as they are to bring you back whole.” Jason leans his head back against a cabinet, the hinges creaking with the slight weight. “Usually come with side effects, short and long term.”
Peter thinks of his altered appearance and nightmares, but isn’t sure if that fits within the norm. He isn’t quite sure how to respond.
Jason fills the silence. “Were you a meta before?” Peter gives him a confused scrunch at the term, prompting him to elaborate. “Metahuman? Abilities, powers, etcetera?”
Ah. Figures that he’d notice Peter throwing full grown men into walls and the like.
Peter chews on the question for a second, unsure if he would fall under what metahuman might mean. It could have implications he’s unaware of, but it seems to fit the bill well enough.
He takes a bit too long with his ruminating, Jason interrupting his thoughts to say, “I don’t really care if you were. We just gotta be carful with all of this.”
“Yeah, sorry, it’s just the last time that people knew it didn’t go so well.” Bricks thrown, shouted insults, protests, Aunt May. Peter nods. “I’ve been this way for a while.”
“Okay.” Jason accepts the truth neutrally, pushing himself off the counter to stand in front of Peter. He nods his head towards the door, attempting to break the tension that the conversation brought. “Here, c’mon. I’ll give you the tour.”
The garage feels reflective of its owner, pragmatic with a hint of grunge. The furniture is obviously used, worn in and in various states of repair. Tools are scattered about the far end by the bike, with workbenches lining the walls nearby.
The living space is crammed together, almost like an afterthought. It’s tidy and well organized, a bookshelf with slightly bowed wood holding novels on a variety of subjects.
There are a considerable amount of weapons stored on racks beside some worn training equipment. The setup is similar to that of Tony’s compound, though the quality isn’t nearly as refined.
Suspicious of the average cost of weapons, Peter breaks the quiet air by asking, “How do you afford all of this?”
It’s a mite insensitive of a question, but Jason isn’t exactly showing any of the usual signs of being a secret millionaire.
The answer is unsurprising. “I steal.”
“Dude.” Peter’s unimpressed response comes quick. “So not cool.”
“Not from civilians, idiot.” The insult isn’t said with any real malice, more tacked on as if Jason’s used to correcting reflexive assumptions. “Crime syndicates, mobs, corrupt politicians, the like.”
Peter nods. Better.
Jason clocks his approval, crossing his arms. “Are you gonna to be a pain in my ass about how I conduct my business?”
“No.” Pause for comedic effect… “Not yet anyways.”
“Great.” Jason presses his fingers into his eyes. “I’ve found another moralistic do-gooder to nag at me. Just what I wanted.”
Peter mimes zipping his lips, a genuine grin stretching them wide.
He kinda doesn’t mind Jason.
Notes:
Yay they know each other's names!
Chapter 5
Notes:
Yippie longer chapter! Also, Tim and Barbara have entered the building.
Enjoy my beloveds~
Chapter Text
Tim Drake
Wayne Manor - September 23rd
Tim loves his team, he really does, but sometimes silence really is bliss.
Barbara’s keeping to herself in the passenger seat, scrolling through something on the screen of her phone. Her quiet conversation with Alfred had petered out as they’d crossed into Gotham, post-mission exhaustion settling in as they get closer to home.
Tim keeps his attention on the buildings that pass by outside the car window, the city welcoming him back. The cloud cover is sparse, letting bouts of sunlight shine through on an uncharacteristically beautiful fall day.
He knows that they’re pulling up to the manor when the sun is blotted out by a long shadow, the turrets of the old building reaching high into the sky. Alfred slows the car and comes to a stop by the front door, the gate clanging shut a short distance back.
Exiting first, Tim pulls Barabara’s chair from the trunk and wheels it over, latching the breaks so she can settle herself onto it. He moves to retrieve their bags but find someone has beaten him to it.
“Hey Timmy!” Dick is grinning at him, shifting their belongings to one hand so he can slam the trunk shut.
Fondness blooms in Tim’s chest at the sight of the vigilante, stifling a smile of his own so he can playfully rib him with, “Just when I thought I’d be getting some peace and quiet.”
“He’s so mean to me.” Dick pouts at Barbara, leaning down to drop a kiss on the top of her head. “Good to see you, Babs.”
“You too, Dick.” She responds bemusedly, releasing the breaks on her chair so she can start making her way towards the manor. “What’re you doing in our neck of the woods?”
“Seeing as you two vacated Gotham along with most everyone else, I figured Bruce would appreciate some backup. Not that he’d ever admit it.” Dick strides alongside Barbara, refusing to hand Tim his stuff as he pointedly ignores the boy’s attempts to retrieve his bag.
Tim yields to Dick’s obstinance, settling his hands in his pockets instead. “Any trouble with the rogues?”
“Nope, none.” Suspicion tingles at the back of Tim’s mind, curiosity piqued at why Dick would linger without due cause. “How was the mission?”
Tim’s left leg twinges as he climbs the steps to the front door, the bruise spanning most of his thigh making itself known. Should’ve taken the ramp. “About what you’d expect from an army of homicidal robots. Babs made the whole thing a walk in the park.”
“All you need is the right algorithm.” She instructs, tone light and mirthful. “It was cool seeing how you work in the field with the Titans. I’m so used to Bruce’s ‘Oracle, give me this and that and a million other things’ that it was fun being the know-it-all for once.”
“Babs, never let anyone tell you that you’re not a know-it-all.” Dick cajoles her with mock sincerity, regretting it a second later when Barbara digs her knuckles into his side. “Ow!”
Barbara leaves him to recover, passing through the double doors as Tim holds them open. “I’m going to go check that nobody messed with my systems and check in with dad. Tim, keep Dick out of trouble.”
Dick hands her bag over, rubbing over the spot she’d hit him. “You know, I am the older one.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” Tim cuts in before they can launch into more bickering, settling a hand on Barbara’s shoulder. “Thanks again for your help.”
“Any time.” She gives him one last smile before she’s off, leaving Tim and Dick in the foyer.
Tim tries to get his stuff from Dick again, and the older man dodges out of his reach to start making his way towards the residential wing. Following behind begrudgingly, Tim asks, “So, what’s really been going on since I left?”
“So not telling you.” The response is blunt but expected, delivered in Dick’s usual cheerful manner. “It’s resting time for you. Don’t think I didn’t notice you favouring your right leg when walking up the steps earlier.”
Tim sighs, huffy at the coddling. “I’m fine.”
Dick stops in front of the boy’s room, finally setting his stuff down. “And you’ll be even better after a shower and after resting this.”
He knocks his knee into Tim’s bruise to make a point, staring pointedly as the boy clenches his jaw in discomfort, gritting out a dig through his teeth. “You can be a real ass sometimes.”
“I learned from the best.” Dick ruffles Tim’s hair before he can move away, striding down the hall. “Dinner’s at six. Alfred’s making your favourite.”
Tim calls out to his back, “You know it’s only a matter of time before I figure it out. You can’t stop me, Dick.”
“Oh, I’m aware.” His voice echoes against the stone as he turns a corner. “But I sure as hell can slow you down.”
~ ~ ~
Peter Parker
Jason’s Garage - September 23rd
As far as Peter is concerned, Jason’s couch is the most comfortable things he’s ever slept on.
After Ben died, Peter and Aunt May had been forced to move into an apartment with a single bedroom to save money on a single income budget. With May working extra shifts, she needed the bed to be able to sustain her health. Peter really hadn’t minded sleeping on their little sofa, his smaller stature making it the perfect size.
Waking up in the garage, he thinks that it might be his body’s association with the childhood memories that have him sleeping through the night.
As he blinks up at the ceiling, he can’t hear the telltale beating of Jason’s heart nearby. He pushes himself to stand and shuffles into the kitchen, going to fill a glass with water when he notices a piece of paper and pen on the table with two objects set beside it.
There’s a beat-up phone with scratches across the screen sitting face up alongside a small wad of cash, both of which Peter ignores for a moment as he scans the note.
Out for the day. Phone is for you, password is 5343. Text is fine, call for emergencies only. Keypad code is 5271.
Score.
Tapping on the screen, Peter inputs the password to find it scrubbed of whatever was on it previously. There’s only one contact with Jason’s number, no photo set for the ID. Checking for data, he sees far more than he needs to get by.
Double score.
The wad of cash seems to be about 300 USD, albeit a bit crumpled. Giving it the sniff test, there doesn’t seem to be anything noticeably illegal clinging to the fibres of the bills.
The amount seems a bit overkill, but Jason had instructed him last night to find some clothes and necessities. He’d phrased it as if annoyed at having to share his own stuff with Peter, but there hadn’t been any real bite to his words.
In an odd sort of way, Jason kind of reminds Peter of Happy.
Feeling cooped up in the garage, he scrounges around through some of Jason’s old stuff, keeping away from the places he’d been instructed not to poke around in. He fills a fraying backpack with some books on this world’s history and a college-level biology textbook, wondering what use Jason would have of them.
The Arkansas cap sits atop the coffee table, reminding Peter that he should find a replacement. Given the potential danger his streak of white hair imposes, it’d be wise to stock up on hats and hoodies.
Returning to the kitchen, he flips over the note and scrawls an update on the back just in case Jason gets back before him.
Checking out the city, don’t wait up.
Stepping outside of the garage, Peter has a moment to relish having a map app again as he familiarizes himself with the layout of Gotham city. With the help of several travel guide websites, he finds himself drawn to a particular district named Little Italy.
The trip shouldn’t take too long, needing only a quick bus trip. Stopping at a newspaper stand, Peter buys the latest edition and asks for his change in coins, and then he’s on his way.
Riding the bus never ceases to feel nostalgic, regardless of the fact that he’s in a completely new city. He doesn’t have any music to drown out the sounds of the city, so he catches snippets of conversations shared between people on the sidewalk.
Topics ranging from the usual mundane small talk to the latest supervillain attacks pique Peter’s interest. He feels as if he can get a better understanding of the city through the lives of its citizens, noticing a common thread of toughness among Gotham’s people.
They stay regardless of what hits them. Sounds like Peter’s kind of place.
The city itself is quite beautiful as he moves out of ‘Crime Alley’, a dour sobriquet of Park Row. Towers extend high above the skyline to the south, window panes glinting when the sun breaks through the clouds. Winding rivers break through the island, geographically similar to facets of New York’s landscape.
As the bus trundles into Little Italy, Peter’s enjoyment of the city deepens. The place shares a likeness to parts of Queens with bodega-esque establishments lining the road. Employees of small markets and street vendors call out to passersby, offering deals and specials to entice them to the business.
Stepping off the bus, Peter figures his first priority should be getting the necessities and some of his own clothing. Jason’s stuff fits a bit big on him, and he’s only known the guy for about 24 hours now.
There are a few thrift stores along the main strip, blissfully devoid of price gouging. He grabs nondescript shirts, sweaters and pants, finding a pair of lightly scuffed sneakers that he could easily run in for a long while.
He feels like he’s struck gold when a baseball cap catches his eyes, Queens emblazoned across its front. An all black dad hat is sat next to it, both of which Peter snags.
It’s only a quick stop at a chain grocery store before he’s all set, just in time for his stomach to let out an audible growl.
Right, breakfast.
On the other side of the road is a quaint coffee shop, the signage looking homemade. Peter jogs across the street with his bag bouncing on his back, filled to the brim.
A redheaded girl on a wheelchair is waiting outside, tapping on her phone as she assumedly messages someone. Peter slows in front of the door, ruminating a second before asking, “You heading in?”
She shifts her attention to him, blue-green eyes taking in Peter as he stands with his hand on the doorhandle. She looks a few years older than him, setting her phone on her lap to wheel a bit closer. “Yeah, thanks!”
He holds the door open for her and enters after. She waves him to line up before her, urging him as she assures him that “My dad’s on his way, you go ahead.”
There’s only a couple of people in front of Peter and they order quickly, so it’s when Peter’s stepping up to the counter that the girl’s dad shows up. He pays them half a mind, unable to shut their conversation out as he orders a drink and some food.
The man wanders up and stoops down low to pull the girl into a hug. “Hey pumpkin, sorry I’m late.”
“It’s alright. Dick dropped me off a few minutes ago.” There’s the sound of wheels coasting over the floor as they move to join the line.
Peter fishes out a bill and pays, moving to claim a table by one of the windows. The conversation of the girl and her father joins the rest of the mumbled chatter filling the café, though he picks out that it’s her birthday today.
He’s just about done spreading out his stuff when his order is called out, a few moments passing by before he gets up to grab it. When he’s returning to his table, he hears another order called for a “Gordon”.
The girl’s dad stands from the table next to Peter’s and wanders over, and upon walking up to the counter, is greeted by a staff that’s holding out a small pastry box. “Here, for your service, sir.”
“Ah, thank you.” The man fishes into his pocket and jams a bill into the tip jar, looking a bit uncomfortable at the attention. “There, even stevens.”
When he returns to sit with his daughter, Peter catches her teasing him with a quiet voice. “The perks of being commissioner.”
Not wanting to eavesdrop in the interest of being considerate, Peter focuses on his work. He’d snagged an unused notebook from Jason’s bookshelf, flipping it open to the first page.
Digging into the textbooks, he finds that this universe runs differently from his own but shares more parallels than he’d initially believed. Certain major events happened much the same way, though important figures seem to be missing.
The heroes that Peter had grown used to learning about in school aren’t mentioned once. Aliens and intergalactic relations are more openly discussed, one of this world’s greatest supers being from a planet called Krypton.
Seems like a pretty standup guy, Peter’s newspaper covering a story of how “Superman” had stopped a bus from careening into a river.
Switching to biology, there’s only a single chapter devoted to alien biology. It’s primarily focused on alien-human genetic crossing, some of which has been successful in the past.
Most useful to Peter are the couple of chapters devoted to the “Meta-gene”, a latent mutation that’s dormant in members of the human race. It rings similar enough to Peter’s genetic mutations, though that’d been triggered by a radioactive spider rather than anything pre-existing.
Given that his being had been reconstituted to fit the metaphysics of the world, it could be possible that this body had been retrofitted with some version of the meta-gene.
With his scribblings filling numerous pages, Peter’s so lost in his studies that he doesn’t notice he’s being watched until a voice is being directed right at him. “What’re you working on there, kid?”
Looking to the side, he sees the commissioner looking at him expectantly, his daughter missing from the table. Peter clears his throat, finding his voice as he answers. “School project.”
“You’re doing a hell of a lot of research over there.” The man nods to Peter’s textbooks.
“I like research.” Peter shrugs, giving a small smile. “You’re the commissioner, right?”
“Gordon.” He holds his hand out.
Peter shakes it, careful to keep his grip loose. “Peter.”
“Nice to meet you, Peter.” Gordon looks back to the research spread across Peter’s table. “What’s the project about?”
Shit. Quick Peter, think of something.
“I’m looking into gene pool diffusion of the meta-gene within a population so I can make a city-wide model. Could help to understand Gotham’s rogues based on geographical location and family history.” Peter reins himself in a bit. “Good for developing programs… and stuff.”
Nailed it.
Gordon is quiet for a spell, seemingly taken aback by the answer he’d been given. “Quite the project.”
Peter had done a similar one back in Midtown, but more socioeconomically based. He’d gotten an A on it, and May had bought him a cupcake to celebrate. “Feels important to know.”
“Yeah, it does.” Gordon sits in thoughtful silence for a moment. “Know what? Your work could do lots of good for the GCPD. You think you could send that my way or drop off a copy when you’re all finished?”
Maybe nailed it a bit too hard. Keeping the strain out of his voice, Peter chirps back, “Sure!”
“I leave for one minute and you’re off bothering some poor bystander.” Gordon’s daughter cuts in, unknowingly acting as Peter’s savior. “Sorry about him.”
Peter waves off her apology, smiling. “Oh it’s fine.”
He awkwardly returns to his studies as Gordon stands, gathering his and his daughter’s belongings. The commissioner gives him a little salute. “Nice to meet you again, Peter. If you drop by the precinct, tell the front desk you’re there to see me.”
Peter nods and waves in farewell. The girl gives him a polite smile and a lingering look as she moves alongside her dad, looking away as she goes to ask him a question.
Seems this city is full of interesting characters.
~ ~ ~
Jason Todd
Crime Alley - September 23rd
Jason’s day is spent doing what he does best: beating heads in.
He’d left the garage in the early hours of the morning, slipping past Peter’s sleeping form. The kid hadn’t so much as twitched as Jason moved about, exhausted from the fight and his time on the streets.
It hadn’t occurred to him until he’d been slamming his fist against a criminal’s cheek that he’d kinda taken Peter in. They’d set ground rules when eating heaping plates full of buttered noodles, and Jason had willingly parted with some of his belongings in the interest of the kid’s safety.
It’s a position he never thought he’d take up. It had been something to chuckle about in the past, strays always having been more of Bruce’s thing.
If only the old man could see him now.
The prospect of seeing Bruce’s face made telling him almost tempting. He’d almost certainly launch into a long-winded tirade about why Jason’s actions were ill advised, but it’d be worth it.
Not worth it enough to place Peter into Bruce’s path, though.
The financial support and proper care that the billionaire could offer would usually make him a better option, but Jason’s options had narrowed upon seeing that shock of white nestled in the boy’s hair. Bruce couldn’t understand.
There’s also a part of Jason that would never willingly put another person into the path that he’d walked. With the kid’s talent for fighting and metahuman abilities, he’d be turned into another one of Bruce’s child soldiers before the year was done.
No way. Not again.
So that’s what has Jason beating the snot out of one of the guys he’d pummeled just yesterday, kitted out with his telltale crimson mask. It’s the one who’d been sporting the patched flannel, the idiot having donned it the day after pissing himself in it, just begging to be hunted down.
Dropping his voice to a low growl, Jason feels his patience wearing thin. “Who’s your boss.”
Flannel’s voice is reedy and wavering with fear, and yet he responds with a defiant, “I’m not telling you shit.”
“And I’m not playing around. I’ve already broken seven bones in your hand, meaning I’ve got 199 to get through as I wait for you to talk.” Jason plants a boot on Flannel’s wrist and twists his heel, a snap echoing through the air. “198.”
“Fuck!” Flannel pants into the air as his mind falls into panic. “You’re just going to kill me anyways, man!”
“You should’ve thought about that before going after kids, dumbass.” Jason grabs a pinky and twists back. Snap. 197. “The rest of your friends are already dead. I can draw this out as long as I want, so the only person you’re sticking it to is yourself.”
Jason reaches for Flannel’s elbow, steading himself to yank it the wrong way.
“Fine, fine!” Flannel screeches, pupils dilated to the point of swallowing the brown of his irises. “I work for the Kennel Master, over by the Bowery, in the old theatre. I promise!”
Bingo.
Jason unloads a bullet into Flannel’s neck and stands, stepping over his convulsing body. He’ll get there eventually. “I believe you.”
Straddling his bike, Jason takes off onto the streets.
Batman’s gonna be pissed. Four bodies in one day. Oops.
Not feeling particularly regretful, Jason veers towards the boundaries of Crime Alley and passes into the Bowery. The old cinema is closer to the water, a prime spot for drop-offs of all kinds of nasty goodies.
Seems it’d been claimed by a Kennel Master when Jason had been distracted by the Lazarus pit problem, his hold weakening on the East End. The name doesn’t sound familiar, meaning a new player’s trying to get a foothold.
Jason has to leave his bike a few blocks from the cinema, storing it out of eyesight. Twilight is beginning to fall as he comes upon the building, spotting a window up high that makes for an easy way in.
Slipping through, the interior’s a mix of old Art Deco décor and organized crime supplies, crates stacked along the far wall. Tables are strewn about the floor, cleared of anything incriminating. Jason clambers onto one of the beams crossing the ceiling, wholly encased in darkness.
Standing before a crowd of a couple dozen gangsters is a man dressed in a gaudy white suit, his tie an obnoxious leopard print monstrosity. Sat on either side of him are two Dobermans, leashes looped around the man’s wrists.
Given the getup and the dogs, Jason assumes this is the Kennel Master. Seriously, why do all of his rogues have to pick the stupidest names.
The first few minutes that Jason catches have the group discussing illegal business deals with allied gangs, when the next shipment’s coming in and who sent it. It’s stuff that he can pass along to Batman if he needs to throw the man off his scent, none of it worth Jason’s attention.
“Sir.” One of the goons speaks up, a scratchy woman’s voice interrupting the mundane topics. “The boys who’d gotten beat up by that kid turned up dead. Burke says it was the Red Hood.”
The Kennel Master clicks his tongue in admonishment. “That’s on them for goin’ after a kid, putting the Hood on our trail. Any sign of the little shit?”
Jason’s grip on his pistol tightens.
“No sir.” Another guy answers, voice quiet as if to not incur the wrath of their leader.
“That’s disappointing.” One of the Doberman’s ears perk up as if sensing its owner’s displeasure, head wheeling around to watch for a kill command. “How ‘bout this. I’m setting a bounty out on that kid. 100k to whoever can bring him to me alive. Any squirt that can toss a grown man’s gotta be worth talkin’ to.”
Fuck.
There’s a chorus of ‘Yes, sir’ that echoes against the brick walls, the bloodlust in the room rising by several degrees. The implication of an open bounty set on a kid has Jason’s blood boiling.
This asshole’s looking for a turf war with the Red Hood.
Stalking along the beams, Jason’s about two seconds away from dropping several grenades on these idiots’ heads when the entrance of someone new has him pausing. The outline of the person is waif-like, thin skin sitting upon a breakable body.
Their voice is distinctly male as they say. “Apologies for the interruption. The pit supplies are prepped to be sent out.”
Interest piqued, Jason slinks back into the shadows.
The Kennel Master waves his hand with a disinterested expression. “Good. Make sure it reaches its destination. Keep an eye out for the Red Hood.”
The man nods turning to proceed out a back entrance. He comes to a stop when his boss calls out to him, as eager to fall to heel as the Dobermans.
“Careful with the cargo.” The Kennel Master chides the man in a sarcastic lilt. “I heard that stuff’s radioactive.”
Huh.
“Yes, sir.”
Hovering in the rafters, Jason’s left with too few moments to make a call. Leaving the Kennel Master alive could prove to be a problem down the line, especially with that new bounty, but the the pits are personal.
Sorry, kid.
Holstering his weapons, Jason slips out of the theatre.
Chapter 6
Notes:
Small edit on previous chapters to add some dates into the fic :3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Dick Grayson
Gotham City – September 23rd
When Dick gets a text from Jason unprompted, he nearly pitches himself off the side of a building.
He’d recover just fine if he did, but the surprise of seeing a message from the ex-Robin had him forgetting that he was in the middle of sprinting along the lip of a rooftop.
It’s a concise text, consisting of a location and an order to come alone. If they hadn’t made amends since the early Red Hood days, Dick would be worried about a set up. Now he knows it’s a request for help, one that the other bats aren’t welcome to tag along with.
Activating his comm and switching to an empty line, Dick pauses in his movements to speak into it. “Hey, Oracle?”
There’s a pause before the response. “Talk to me Nightwing.”
“I’ve got a ping from the East End.” Dick wanders to face the northernmost island, pocketing his phone. “Gotta go dark.”
Barabara isn’t the biggest fan of losing track of members of the team while they’re out in Gotham, her sense of control dwindling as unknown variables increase. Her displeasure is obvious in her voice when she asks, “How long until I should send someone to find you?”
“Give me three hours. I’ll reach out if I need more time.” Dick switches off his tracker. “Check my latest texts if you need to find me.”
“Be careful out there.” The faint clacking of keys is audible through the channel, undoubtedly Barbara prepping to hack into Dick’s phone if need be. “Tell Jason I say hi.”
There’s absolutely no way that Dick will let slip that he’d given the team a heads up, Jason’s trust much too tentative. Dick agrees regardless and then turns off his comm.
Hoping that he won’t come into contact with Batman as he heads towards the East End, Dick sets out into the night.
The ping he’d been sent is in the south-eastern edge of the Bowery, nestled into an old harbor. It’s largely gone out of use, the area having grown much too dangerous for legitimate companies to invest in the area.
In the absence of legal business, syndicates had set up shop for deliveries by water. Police made busts every so often when public interest spiked in cleaning up Gotham’s waterways, but it hardly ever made a difference.
Given the reputation of the area, Dick would assume that he’s going to be interrupting some delivery, one that Jason isn’t willing to let slip him by.
As Dick makes his approach on the Bowery, he dials Jason’s number in his phone and hits the call button. It rings for a few seconds before it connects. “I’m just swinging in now. Where are you?”
Jason’s voice is quiet when he responds, slightly tinny as he talks through the material of his mask. “Steel factory that the city shut down ages ago, the one with the three stacks.”
Scanning the skyline, Dick spots the stacks jutting up from the surrounding buildings. There’s no activity along the water, the delivery in question being en route or already arrived. “On my way.”
Landing atop the roof of the tallest adjacent building, Dick finds Jason crouched in the shadows. He looks uninjured, attention fixed on the factory before him.
Slinking up next to him, Dick mimics Jason’s posture and cases the place, finding multiple entry points through large windows set on the wall. The interior is too dark to see inside, making it a gamble should they go in swinging.
“So.” Breaking the quiet, Dick turns to look at Jason proper. “What’s going on?”
It’s a mite casual, but Dick had never had much reverence for being stoic on mission. Jason’s usually the same, the two of them having learned the advantages of being glib while interacting with criminals on the usual.
Jason doesn’t fire back with a sarcastic comment, instead keeping his eyes fixed on the factory as he updates Dick. “Interrupted a meeting with a new player, guy by the name of the Kennel Master. He’s been delivering whatever’s going into the pits.”
Ah. That explains the seriousness.
Dick’s mouth runs before he can stop it. “What kind of a name is the Kennel Master?”
“That’s what I’ve been asking myself.” Though Dick can’t see Jason’s mouth or eyes, there’s dark humor evident in his voice. “Won’t last long here though. Put out a bounty on a kid, capture only.”
Dick bites back a curse, Jason’s intent heard loud and clear. He doesn’t fly by Batman’s rules where kids are involved. Either this gets wrapped up quickly or bodies are going to start dropping, given that some haven’t already.
Unsure of how to broach the potential issues that could crop up with a Red Hood killing spree, Dick focuses on the mission. “The kid involved with the pits?”
There’s a slight pause, then, “Not sure. The bounty was just set when I overheard them discussing the delivery of supplies for the pit.”
A bit vague by Jason’s standards, the other man having been taught by Batman on how to read between the lines. Either his technique is slipping or he’s hiding something.
Dick figures that now isn’t the best time to call him out on it, letting it go for now. “So, what’s the plan.”
“Wreck the place, see what they’ve got.”
So no plan. The usual m.o.
Shrugging, Dick stands. Jason walks with him to the edge of the roof and together, they fall.
Fighting with Jason is a thing of its own. They’d both been trained by Bruce, both honed to be weapons, but their styles had diverged to better suit their physiques.
Dick’s training in the circus allow him fight with speed and grace, his natural agility letting him thin the herd before anyone knows he’s there. His partnership with Bruce was one of efficiency, striking quick from the shadows.
Jason was built for another purpose, his bulk making him into more of a bruiser. He could take hits without flinching, doling out punishment with a strength that could crack bones. He preferred to announce himself so he could draw the enemy towards himself, luring them into his reach.
In short, the two of them balance each other out.
Jason wages war on the ground, guns firing with precise shots. They’re non-lethal for Dick’s sake, knowing that a death count could tarnish Nightwing’s good name. Dick’s free to flit about the space from up high, soaring on a wire as he picks off people trying to flank the Red Hood.
It takes a few seconds for the gangsters to realize what had hit them, shouts echoing as they call out in alarm. Lights flash from the muzzles of their guns, bullets starting to fly.
There’s little consideration in their attacks, a true ‘every man for himself’ type deal. Dick watches as they pick one another off, desperation turning them against each other. Jason uses this to his advantage, weaving behind cover in a way that has their fire going haywire.
It’s absolute chaos.
The whizzing of a bullet over Dick’s shoulder has him looking towards the catwalks, seeing a few bodies running along the platforms. Swinging onto one, he kicks a foot out to strike across the face of a nameless goon, knocking them out easily.
There’s the cocking of a couple of guns behind him. A timer starts in Dick’s head.
Whipping out his escrima sticks, Dick cracks his weapon across the barrel of a man’s rifle. Pings sound as bullets ricochet off metal beams, careening off into the dark.
There’s a second where he can see terror in the man’s eyes, awareness that there’s no winning against Nightwing. Dick gives him a grin and tosses his other escrima stick into the diaphragm of the woman who stands behind, her shot going wide as she staggers back.
Jabbing his elbow into the man’s temple has him crumpling onto the catwalk, a clang echoing out. The woman’s working on getting air back into her lungs when Dick slams her head into the railing beside her.
The man’s body breaks her fall. Eh, she’ll be fine.
Four seconds, not bad.
Dick ties the three of them together and to the rail, positioning them so they won’t choke on their own spit or something.
A shout from below draws Dick’s attention back to Jason. Looking over the side of the catwalk, he watches as the vigilante slams his shoulder into a ganger’s chest. He executes a flawless takedown and slams his fist into their nose twice, a crack sounding from the poor guy’s face.
Yeesh.
A series of pops comes from the far corner of the room and Jason jerks back. A grunt escapes from his throat as he rolls behind cover, one hand going to his arm.
Oh absolutely not.
Hooking his wire around a beam, Dick drops down behind the remaining goons. He jams the ends of this escrima sticks together and locks them, whirling a staff to connect with a guy’s skull.
Kicking out the knee of another, he spots Jason standing from afar, pistol clutched in one hand as he aims for Dick’s head.
Ducking instinctively, there’s a BANG and the dropping of a body right behind where Dick had been standing. He whirls around to see a woman lying on the ground, completely still.
Striking the last gangster out, Dick looks for the telltale pool of blood to begin seeping out of the woman’s skull.
“I’m using rubber bullets, dipshit.” Jason calls out, voice unimpressed. “Wouldn’t have shot you either.”
“I know.” Dick retorts with absolute certainty. He looks back over to Jason and has a surge of alarm as he sees the other man still holding onto his arm. “You alright?”
Jason wanders over and lifts his palm, skin glimmering in the same shade of red as his helmet. “Just a graze.”
Aware of Jason’s habit of downplaying injuries, Dick wanders over to check regardless. It’s not too bad, a graze being a suitable diagnosis. The younger man’s head turns towards the ceiling, conveying an eyeroll.
“You’ll live, champ.” Dick slaps him in the uninjured arm, just to be an ass. He dodges a retaliatory strike and gazes about the space. “What’re we looking for?”
Jason starts to tie the gangsters up, casting a glance at some boxes stacked to the side. “The shipment arrived a bit before you showed up. Should be near the loading bay.”
Wandering over to one end of the building, Dick starts poking around in some of the crates. Various hazard symbols are painted onto the sides, citing potentially toxic and radioactive materials.
Dick leaves the radioactive one to Jason, his post-Lazarus pit biology making him a bit more protected against unstable isotopes. Cracking open a lid, he whistles low. “Jeez, these guys weren’t messing around.”
Reaching in, he plucks a sealed glass tube of venom from its padded slot. He’d done extensive studies on the stuff, a drug synthesized to augment one’s physical abilities for a considerable period.
He’d only faced Bane once while the goliath was hopped up on the stuff. He had to hold him off on his own while Batman raced to join the fight, leaving him with a break in his arm that ached on cold days.
“Hey, Dick.” Jason calls from a small distance away, his form crouched in front of the crate that was marked as radioactive. It’s front opening, and inside is a black metal safe with a spin dial. “You got anything for this?”
“Sure, but it could be trapped.” He chews on the inside of his cheek, erring on the side of caution that’s about to shoot him in the foot. “The gear for that’s in the cave.”
Jason stills.
He’d been to the cave on a couple of occasions when needing medical attention, but he avoided the place like the plague. It was about as dangerous as a no man’s land in Jason’s eyes, whatever pleasant memories he might’ve had corrupted long ago.
Dick waits, braced for a shift in Jason’s mood…
“You’re right.”
“I know tha-” Dick starts but cuts himself off, back straightening as he looks to Jason. “Wait, what?”
“I said you’re right.” Jason repeats, his tone a mix of frustration and impatience. “We have to be careful with this stuff, can’t risk losing it.”
Dick has a moment of thinking back to the impulsive boy he’d met years ago, scowl on his face as he stared up at the old robin. He bites back a smile, pride blooming in his chest.
Jason looks over as Dick stays oddly quiet. “You’re being weird about this.”
“Can’t I have a moment to be proud? Little Jason all grown up.” Dick teases, squawking when he gets shoved to the side. He catches himself easily, firing off an indignant, “Why’d you have to ruin it, man?”
Jason stands and shakes his head, steps leading him towards the exit. “I’m never calling you for help again.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Dick makes a yapping mouth with one hand, prompting Jason to flip him off over his shoulder. “I’ll keep you updated on what we find.”
Jason neglects to respond, leaving a smiling Dick in his wake.
~ ~ ~
Jason Todd
The Garage – September 23rd
Rolling into the garage, Jason has a moment where he remembers he isn’t coming back to an empty pad anymore. He’s got his weapons on full display in his holsters and he’s obviously been in a fight, scuffs and dirt clinging to his clothes, not to mention the graze he’d taken hasn’t been treated yet.
The kid’s sitting on the stool of one of the workbenches, a leg dangling down as he toils away at something. There’s the handle of a screwdriver clenched between his teeth, his focus entirely on his project.
Though Jason hasn’t spent much time around Tim, he’d seen the younger boy in a similar state of concentration when out on patrol. He had the same wrinkle in his brow, the same idle movements as he got lost in his thoughts.
Peter looks up when Jason kills his bike, taking in his haggard appearance without any change in his demeanour. He doesn’t look surprised or wary of the weapons strapped to Jason’s body, but alarm creeps onto his face as he takes note of the graze.
“Hey, you alright man?” The kid stands in one fluid movement and comes over at a hurried pace, leaning to get a better look at Jason’s injury.
“I’m fine.” He waves off Peter’s concern, stepping off his bike to start shrugging off his heavy gear.
The kid doesn’t let up, following as Jason sets his stuff down. “You know first aid, right? You should probably put something on that to make sure it doesn’t get infected. I took a course back in high school and I’ve gotten pretty good at stitches if you need any help.”
Jason goes to interrupt the kid’s worried ramblings with nonchalance, but pauses. “What d’you mean ‘gotten pretty good at stitches’?”
Peter trips over his words for a second before landing on, “You found me on the street, dude. I’ve been in a couple of fights before.”
The words ring as true, but it gets Jason thinking about how Peter had been pulling off some serious moves. Moves that Gotham street kids shouldn’t know. “And who taught you how to fight?”
“A couple of people.” Peter’s arms cross in an obvious tell of discomfort.
Jason presses his fingers over one of his eyes tiredly, feeling the weight of the day settle in full force.
The kid’s got a past, one that landed him into a Lazarus pit. He talks and interacts with the world like he’s years older than he is, and doesn’t seem to care that Jason’s got a whole armory sitting a dozen paces away.
“I’m not trying to interrogate you, Queens, it’s just…” Jason looks over at Peter. “Who are you?”
The kid’s eyes move between Jason’s, the shade of green in their eyes matching. There’s something curious on Peter’s face like he’s trying to understand the question. “I’m just Peter.”
Jason sighs and moves along, stepping into the bathroom. It’s when he’s pulling out the first aid kit that the kid’s talking again, his reflection obscured behind Jason’s bulk. “I-… okay.” He stops as if psyching himself up. “You’re a vigilante.”
Keeping his attention on the kit, Jason replies. “Yeah.”
“I know that you use both metal and rubber bullets because I they smell different.” Peter steps up beside Jason, tugging the suture supplies out from beneath the older man’s hands. “I can dodge bullets because I can feel them coming.”
Jason’s starting to understand just how not normal the kid is.
“Right now, I can hear your heart beating at around 85 BPM and a couple having an argument two blocks away.” The kid threads the needle with practiced efficiency. “I had to wait months to throw a punch because nobody was around to teach me how to not accidentally kill someone. All I’d done before then was stop runaway vehicles and trip up thieves.”
Peter swallows. “I wore a mask, and all it did was get the people I love killed. Then, it got me killed.”
Jason wants to say something, but doesn’t. He just takes off his jacket so the kid can start to stitch up his arm.
“I don’t want to get you killed by being someone else.” The needle breaks skin but Jason can barely feel it, too concentrated on the kid’s words. “So I’m just Peter.”
Stillness falls in the ensuing minutes. Jason isn’t sure what to say in response, and doesn’t trust himself to say anything.
The implications of the kid’s words have him feeling hollow, empty in a way that the pit’s green hue wants to feed. He wants to go back into the city to punish whoever made this kid feel like he needed to use his powers for others, who took his childhood away.
Instead of doing that, Jason just breathes.
The kid wasn’t lying about knowing how to stitch a wound.
It’s when Peter’s tying off the final stitch that Jason finds what he wants to say. “Think I like you best as ‘just Peter’.”
The ensuing smile that Jason gets is warm.
~ ~ ~
Peter Parker
Jason’s Garage – September 26th
The May Parker that exists in Peter’s memory is indistinguishable from the real thing.
Everyone else is remembered as an idealized version, coloured by the way that Peter had grown to see the best in them.
Tony Stark gleamed gold and red in his armor, always a few paces ahead of Peter as he left footprints on the ground for him to follow. He’d been bathed in light when he’d saved the universe, eyes dimming with the power of the stones as his chest stilled.
Ned’s cheeks were prone to tinting pink, his habit of rambling landing him in a few embarrassing situations over the time that he was Peter’s best friend. MJ changed frequently with her proclivity towards nonconformity, though her favourite flower had Peter seeing her as a combination of all the shades.
May Parker was always tinged in hues of the spring. She wore happy colours because she wanted to breathe that into the world. She couldn’t cook for the life of her, but she made up for it with a green thumb, new beginnings flourishing under her care.
She always believed in seeing the best in people.
For the longest time, Peter’s dreams of her were a lively verdant shade. Sunlight filtering through a leaf or around the stem of a flower. She brought warmth.
Now, the colour has changed. It’s sickly and thrumming.
The Goblin wrapped himself in the shade, let it flow through his veins uninhibited. Peter had pumped him full of it in an attempt to save him. It took May away from him, warped his memories of her until all he could see was her broken body.
Her eyes are green as she blinks up at him. “Peter.”
He sees her in the pit, trapped as her body isn’t strong enough to pull her out. He kneels as she chokes on the green, calls out for him to stop.
Peter reaches in to save her, and it’s as he gets a hand on her wrist that he’s on the Statue of Liberty. His knees ache, his knuckles ache from the fist he’d slammed into the metal, bending it with murderous intent.
The Goblin’s standing in front of him, arm outstretched as he has an injector pumping green into Peter’s neck. He’s cackling with maddened glee, twisting Peter into a monster like him.
Peter can’t find it in himself to care.
He swings a fist, then another. The third connects, and the Goblin makes a wounded sound.
That isn’t right. The Goblin only ever laughed at pain.
“Peter!”
The green thumps in his chest and he almost ignores the voice.
“Wake up!”
A fist connects with his face and Peter’s head whips to the side. There’s no ache of pain, a well placed blow only meant to stun.
Blinking his eyes open, the ache in Peter’s muscles persists from his dream. The skin over his knuckles is scratched up, red weeping out of the tiny cuts.
A wave of vertigo hits as he realizes he isn’t lying down, rather standing with his feet planted on the ground. The crumbling of stone reaches his sensitive ears, and his attention snaps to something moving in the corner of his eye.
Spiderwebbing out are cracks in the brick wall, an impact point dug into the usually unyielding surface. The dent is about the size of a fist.
A voice calls for his attention from a few feet away, cautious. “Peter? You with me?”
Peter tenses reflexively at the sound, and turns to see a man watching him carefully. He’s wearing rumpled sleep clothes, a streak of white hair hanging over his forehead. Peter can smell the beginning of a bruise forming over his cheekbone, acidic and rusty.
Jason.
“Wh-” Peter’s voice falters as he registers the scratchiness in his vocal cords. He swallows and tries again. “What happened?”
“You were dreaming.” Jason’s hands are held out as if he’s calming a wild animal, making himself look unthreatening.
Peter’s awareness creeps back in, reality separating itself from his dream. He looks to where he’d noticed the bruise on Jason’s face. “Did I hurt you?”
“It was a pit dream. I get them too.” Jason noticeably doesn’t answer the question, taking a step towards Peter. “That wasn’t you.”
Legs feeling sapped of strength as the adrenaline wanes, Peter staggers back to sit on the nearest surface. He finds himself propped atop the coffee table, hands trembling with residual terror. “Holy shit.”
“Holy shit is right, kid.” Jason moves soundlessly over and kneels before Peter, dipping his head to look into Peter’s eyes. “Lemme take a look at you.”
“I’m sorry.” Peter wants to look away, but keeps his attention directed towards Jason to lend sincerity to the apology. “For hitting you.”
“Again, it was the pit dream, not you. The green in our eyes glow a bit when we’re caught in whatever hell the Lazarus pit has us in. It’s one of the side effects.” Jason explains, settling back on his haunches. “I thought you were spared them cause you didn’t show any of the signs. Thought your meta abilities counteracted them.”
The ‘I was wrong’ goes unsaid.
Peter feels the churning of fear in his gut at the thought of what he could do under the pit’s influence, prompting him to ask, “What are the other side effects?”
“Mostly anger. I’ve been working on control since I came back, but I can still lose it.” Jason settles himself to sit on the couch, leaning his elbows on his thighs. “Pit rage can bring out bloodlust, worsened by panic and fear.”
Peter just nods.
Jason looks tired as he tells Peter all of this, the bags under his eyes darkened in the low light. “Could affect you different than me, so keep an eye on yourself. Heightened emotions, changes in your abilities. Stuff like that.”
“I had nightmares before, but nothing like that.” Peter clasps his hands together to stop the shaking, doing his best to pull it together. “Don’t remember much from the first day.”
“I was scared shitless when I came back. I don’t remember much from those first few months, bits and pieces coming to me at times, but it’s all hazy.” Jason looks off into the middle distance. “Remember a woman helping me at one point. She was speaking a language I didn’t understand. Next time I came back, there was blood on my hands.”
There’s a moment where the two of them just breathe together. It’s nice not to have to explain himself to Jason, that he just gets it.
“Call me if it gets bad.” Jason stresses. “That counts as an emergency, yeah?”
Peter nods, breathes out a, “Yeah.”
Jason nods, satisfied, and stands. He moves back over to his bed to give Peter some space, sitting on the edge of it as he checks the time on his phone.
“Hey Jason?” Peter calls out, looking over to the other as he grunts. “You can call me too, if it gets bad.”
There’s a look on his face like he wants to decline Peter’s offer, but he holds his tongue to say, “I’ll keep that in mind, kid.”
Figuring it’s the best that he’s going to get, Peter lies back down.
He doesn’t fall back asleep.
Notes:
'Tis the time for the pit trauma to show its face >:3
Chapter 7
Notes:
Wanted to give you all a thank you for the comments thus far! I love hearing from you, specially being new to the fandom. Y'all are the realest.
Enjoy the chapter my beloveds~
Chapter Text
Tim Drake
Wayne Manor – September 27th
It takes Tim four days to get his hands on what Bruce and Dick have been working on.
The first day is spent being watched over like a hawk by Alfred, the butler never letting Tim leave his sight. It’s the usual treatment that they face post-mission, partly to ensure nobody can hide any injuries and partly to give Alfred peace of mind.
The second day is spent celebrating Barbara’s birthday. She’d pushed their plans back to help with the mission and promptly pulled Tim into helping her organize a small party. Bruce had a meeting with the JL but Dick had joined in their festivities, ensuring Tim didn’t slip out early.
Day three is a joint effort by Bruce and Dick, each running interference when the other was preoccupied with the case.
Day four presents him with the perfect opportunity.
Bruce has some business to deal with at Wayne tower and Dick is out in the city with Barbara, leaving Tim free reign of the place. There’s a satisfied smirk on his face as he steps into the cave, the damp air welcoming him home.
Everything is in place, no visible damage to any of their gear. Tim’s suit has been repaired and is ready to be donned the next time he sets out into the city.
The first and simplest order of business is searching the computer. They all have to keep detailed records of their missions, filing reports that date back to the first time they don the suit.
Opening up the relevant files, Tim starts to scan through the happenings of the past month. It starts out relatively normal, with no significant break-outs from Arkam.
Then Tim stumbles on the jackpot.
Lazarus pits. In the handful.
Tim leans forward in his chair, slowing his pace as he reads through the details of the pits. Initially they’d all turned up as failed attempts, but the most recent one had a survivor crawling out.
Someone that’s still out there.
Attached to the report is a DNA analysis that has Tim’s mind whirling, intrigue and curiosity hooking into him. He can feel the excitement of a good case building, the loose strings dancing along his fingertips.
The DNA is a confusing jumble of human and non-human genes, creating an alien-looking genome. There’s a background process running it through the various databases that Bruce has access to, though none have come up with a match.
There’s work to be done there, problems oftentimes needing a human touch in their line of work. Tim leaves it for now, figuring Bruce is on the right track with his search.
The latest mission report comes from Dick having an unofficial jaunt with Jason Todd, over in the Bowery. No major injuries to report and a package retrieved by Alfred after the captured forces had been sent to the authorities.
The contents of the package aren’t cited in the report save for vials of venom. Interesting.
Onto the evidence room.
Leaving the computer behind, Tim wanders over to the section of the cave that had been carved out to house all of the evidence from ongoing or unsolved cases. Everything’s organized meticulously into lockers and sectioned off rooms, catalogued with painstaking detail.
Finding the appropriate section of the evidence room, Tim wanders in to see a safe plunked in the middle of an open space. He rounds the metal box, noting that there’s been no attempt to break into it since its retrieval.
“You’re supposed to be resting.”
Tim turns to see Bruce leaning on the wall, one eyebrow raised as he watches his ward inspect the safe. The admonishment’s said with fondness, no real bite behind the scold.
“I’m fine.” He isn’t lying, his leg well on its way to recovery. Wandering in the cave won’t set him back and his brain’s been atrophying over the past couple of days. “You’ve been busy.”
“Dick has become very fixated on the issue.” Tim can assume why, the reason starting with ‘J’ and ending with ‘ason’. “Though I admit it’s with good reason. Lazarus pits are never a good sign.”
Tim grunts in agreement, returning his attention to the safe. His head tilts as he considers it, scanning the heavy metal and the spin dial set near its centre. He moves closer and crouches before it, asking behind him, “Trapped?”
“Almost certainly.” Bruce’s clothes chafe as he crosses his arms. “It’s made of lead, or at least lined with it on the exterior. Whoever it belongs to doesn’t want the Kents to get their hands on whatever is inside.”
Tim’s interest only deepens. The owners of the safe would have to know about Superman’s abilities to get the correct material to stop his x-ray vision.
Lead isn’t the most durable material, and given the ability for Batman to find someone strong enough to crack the safe in half, it’s an easy bet that a forceful entry would trigger a trap or ruin the contents on the inside.
Bruce stays quiet as Tim thinks through the problem, likely having made the same steps in his reasoning when he’d first looked it over. It’s his way of lending to the Red Robin’s training, only helping with the solution when it became obvious that Tim has hit a wall.
“Have you done any work on cracking the right combination?” Tim stands and looks over to his mentor.
Bruce nods, stepping up next to Tim. “The spin sensor detected the last digit and I calculated every possible combinations from there, but…”
He trails off, urging Tim to finish the problem that he’d ran into. It doesn’t take long for Tim to diagnose the problem, completing Bruce’s sentence with, “… the contents could be ruined with too many failed attempts.”
Bruce nods, a small spark of pride on his face. He’d grown more overt with his praise as of late, spurred on by the dangerous happenings in their lives and the tribulations of raising Damian. Caring for several troubled children certainly made him a quick study.
Though he’d yet to learn the merit of verbalizing his approval.
“I’m running a probability equation to find the most likely combinations. Using the right tools, the first attempt can narrow our options by sensing give in the locks’ notches.” Bruce settles a hand on Tim’s shoulder, prompting his ward to look at him. “I’m entrusting this task to you, Tim.”
Responsibility settles as a familiar weight on Tim’s shoulders. When he’d first taken on the mantle of Robin, it was a rare thing for Bruce to give up control of any aspect of a mission.
Allowing Tim to take point on cracking the safe isn’t just an attempt to keep him off patrol for a couple more days. Out of his whole team, Bruce believes that Tim is best suited for the task.
Nodding, Tim returns his focus to the safe. Bruce’s hand slips off his shoulder as he turns to leave, giving his ward space to focus.
~ ~ ~
Peter Parker
GCPD Headquarters – September 28th
Standing in front of the Gotham City Police Department Headquarters, Peter’s stomach churns as he builds up the confidence to enter.
He’d been in the city for a week and the reports of the police force in Gotham weren’t the most commendatory. Fraught with whispers of corruption reaching deep into the ranks, it’s obvious to Peter that he shouldn’t go around introducing himself to everyone.
From being paid out by the mob or actively working alongside rogues in the past, there’d been ebbs and flows in who held control of the police. The crime rates in Gotham made them react more violently, retribution a common theme across the various precincts.
Reporters who exposed these truths to the public often found themselves beaten or mugged after publishing particularly damning evidence of the corruption. The best among them didn’t live long enough to continue their crusade, getting caught in someone’s crosshairs before the week was out.
The one figure that seemed to stand above the rest is Commissioner Gordon. Though the man had slip-ups in the past, he worked tirelessly to improve the city. Mumblings of him turning a blind eye to a particular vigilante group in Gotham had Peter’s interest piqued.
Swallowing down his worry, Peter tugs his Queens cap more securely on his head and jogs up the steps of the building, pushing through the front doors.
The standard Gotham architecture reaches into the police headquarters with the building being made primarily of brick. The interior’s well lit with an abundance of windows lining the walls, illuminating the desk that spans the foyer.
“Hey there.” A man’s voice calls out from behind the desk, a pleasant smile on his face as he calls out to Peter. “What can I help you with, son?”
Peter steps up to the desk and gives a small smile in return, keeping his hands out of his pockets to avoid looking suspicious. “I’m looking for Commissioner Gordon? He told me to ask for him at the front.”
The receptionist types something into his computer for a moment before asking, “May I ask what this is about? The Commissioner usually requests people to make appointments, but I can call up to check if he’s got a free moment.”
“Oh, I’m sorry!” Peter’s quick to backpedal, his confidence waning. “I can come back at another ti-”
The sound of wheels over the laminate flooring heralds the presence of the girl from the coffee shop, her voice ringing clear as she cuts in. “Hey, kid!”
Peter turns and sees she isn’t alone, a taller man with her. He’s well built with effortlessly styled dark hair, dressed in casual albeit expensive clothing. He wanders beside her with an easygoing gait, thumbs hooked into his pockets.
Not wanting to leave the girl’s greeting hanging, he replies as she comes to a stop before him. “Hey!”
“I didn’t introduce myself the other day. I’m Barbara, though my friends call me Babs.” She turns to look up at the man beside her. “Dick, this is Peter. He’s the one working on that project I mentioned.”
“Good to meet you, Peter.” Dick holds a hand out for Peter to shake, a friendly grin tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Seems like quite the project.”
Peter scratches the back of his neck, hiding behind the brim of his cap. “Thanks. It’s just for school.”
Barbara saves him from any further embarrassment. “You looking to drop it off with my dad?”
“Yeah. Are you visiting him?”
Barbara nods, mirth twinkling in her eyes as she says, “The man would be surviving off gas station sandwiches if we didn’t bring him a proper lunch once in a while.”
“Why don’t I just give you the project?” Peter swings his bag off his shoulder, starting to pull at the zipper. “I wouldn’t want to take up your time with him.”
“Oh that’s fine, I want to hear your thoughts on it. I’m sure Dick does too.” Barbara glances up when Dick nods in agreement. “You should be able to show off your work, Peter.”
A light flush dusts his cheeks, and Peter gives up on trying to squirm his way out of his meeting. The receptionist waves them through, informing them of a meeting that the Commissioner should be wrapping up soon.
Peter lets an officer search his bag, Dick hovering nearby as Barbara greets some people who call out her name. She has to extract herself out of some small talk before they’re piling into the elevator.
Dick turns his attention to Peter as they ascend to an upper floor, nodding to his hat. “Queens, huh? You just visiting Gotham or did you move?”
“Moved here just under a month ago.” Peter hooks his hands around the straps of his bag, turning his attention from the floor numbers to Dick. “It’s been a bit of a change.”
He nods his head in understanding, continuing the conversation easily. “Came to one hell of a city. What school are you going to?”
Peter sees Barbara give Dick a look, but he doesn’t mind the questions. He’d been building his story in his head the past few days, filling gaps with Jason’s help. “I’m doing classes online for now. Getting used to a new school on top of a new city seemed like a bit much.”
The elevator doors slide open before them, Barbara exiting first. She starts to lead them towards an office in the corner, two voices reaching Peter’s ears from inside. He recognizes one as the Commissioner, the man negotiating funding for the upcoming quarter.
“I can imagine.” Dick grimaces in sympathy. “Saw that engineering textbook in your backpack earlier, pretty hefty stuff. You studying above your grade?”
“Dick, come on.” Barbara gives the taller man another look. “Stop interrogating Peter.”
Dick goes to defend himself but Peter gets there first, easing Barabara’s worries. “It’s cool! I don’t really know anyone who wants to talk about this stuff.”
“Yeah, Babs.” Dick sticks his tongue out at Barbara in a distinctly childish move, one that wins him easy points with Peter. “One of my brothers had the same textbook. I could barely flip through the thing without getting a headache.”
“Engineering’s cool, but it can do that to you, yeah.” Peter chuckles good-naturedly, feeling at ease with present company. “How many brothers do you have?”
“Three.” Dick’s expression turns fond. “Jason, Tim, and Damian. I’m the oldest. Do you have any siblings?”
Peter’s mouth opens to respond but the door swings open to reveal a woman in a crisp suit standing next to the Commissioner. They’re saying their farewells, hands clasped in a shake. Dick steps to the side to allow the woman to pass by, giving her a polite nod.
Commissioner Gordon glances at Dick and Barbara with a haggard sigh. “I’m a grown man, I can…” His gaze moves past Dick to settle on Peter and he straightens as if greeting a colleague. “Peter! The front desk didn’t let me know you were coming.”
“We swiped him up as we came through.” Barbara moves into the room, patting her father on the arm in lieu of a proper hello. “Seems he’s done with his project.”
“That so.” Gordon steps back and sweeps an arm as an invitation to enter. “Come on in.”
Peter follows behind Barbara as Dick and Gordon share a handshake in greeting. The Commissioner’s office is well kempt, cluttered with personal items that give a comforting touch. Photographs of key moments in his career are scattered amongst various citizenship awards, with a couple pictures of his family settled near the desk.
The desk is the most chaotic spot in his office with papers strewn about the surface. The majority seem to be financial documents, left out from his meeting with the city’s funding department.
Gordon settles behind it and motions for Peter and Dick to take the seats set on the opposite side, settling onto leather cushions that are a bit too stiff. “Good to see you again, Peter. Sorry I couldn’t meet you downstairs.”
“It’s no worry, Commissioner.” Peter’s hands feel clammy and he resists the urge to rub them on his jeans, awareness that he’s sitting with the Commissioner of the GCPD sinking in. “It’s just a high school project after all.”
“Nonsense.” Gordon shuts down his platitudes with gruff authority, though not unkindly. He gets a small glare from Barbara at that, chastising him for his lack of manners. “Come on, show me what you’ve got.”
Peter nods and digs into his bag, nerves brewing with three sets of eyes focused on him. His time in the public eye should’ve helped with his discomfort at being the centre of attention, but the whole Mysterio debacle had undone most of his progress.
Tugging his file from his bag, he scootches his chair closer to the desk to start covering the details of his report.
His initial research had him delving into what was available in the public records on Gotham’s rogues gallery. It was hard to determine which criminals would fall under the “meta” umbrella, some using a deceptive mix of technology to wreak havoc across the city.
The other issue was finding details about the rogues themselves. Nobody in the city’s official institutions seemed to care about the history of the villains beyond that which made them “bad”. Most often, that which makes them bad is their classification of meta and thus assumed as being a threat to public safety.
Gordon listens to his initial findings with a neutral expression, nonplussed at the casual exposure of the police’s lack of due diligence surrounding the city’s greatest problem. Peter can see Dick and Barbara shifting to see his findings more easily, necks craning to read what’s on the files.
Feeling emboldened by their interest, he presses on.
With apprehended metas, the police don’t really try to rehabilitate them and employ more violent tactics during arrest. The standard procedure of the courts seems to be to just throw them in Arkam, an institution with an abysmal record of keeping villains secure and well cared for.
The places where metas and consequently rogues pop up have the densest populations, the highest crime rates, and the lowest socioeconomic standing. These neighbourhoods also see the heaviest police presence and subsequently the most arrests.
Peter spreads out a few articles he’d collected about politicians pushing to ‘improve Gotham’s roughest neighbourhoods’. “Most of these people became corrupt or died soon after getting started on improving things, but kind of did more harm than good in the end.”
“The city puts effort into developing the infrastructure of Gotham’s notorious sectors, but there’s nothing in there to actually help the people. Sure, they help make jobs, but it’s usually only a matter of time before the projects fall through.” Peter’s mind conjures a picture of Crime Alley, of the pit he’d crawled out of. “Empty warehouses, unfinished construction sites, and abandoned buildings are ground zero for pretty much everything bad in this city.”
Dick and Barbara snort at that.
“People that end up in these neighbourhoods can’t get out, and with Gotham actively helping to trap them, the meta-gene flourishes in an unchanging gene pool.” Peter spreads out a map marked with points of interest of meta rogues, finding them to be clustered in noticeable zones. “It’s a cycle.”
On the inside, Peter hopes to no end that the data won’t be used to skyrocket police presence in the points of interest.
“These zones are where Batman and his team operate.” Peter pulls a final group of papers from his file, unfolding another map marked with locations that the city’s vigilantes had been spotted. “They seem to claim particular areas with some variety, but largely keep to their sectors. I can’t say for sure if any are metas, but they’re part of the equation regardless.”
Gordon’s brows scrunch at the remark, looking up at Peter. “They making the problem worse?”
Peter chews on his lip, the thought being one that had plagued him for years in Queens. “Yes and no. Crime rates and death rolls would go through the roof without them, but there’s a reason the Joker keeps getting out of Arkam; he’s looking for a fight with Batman. It’s the vigilante paradox.”
Gordon nods and sits back, eyes skipping over the pages strewn about his desk. Peter’s entire project has taken over the surface, replacing the financial documents that lie forgotten below. The Commissioner wraps up his thoughts on Peter’s project with a, “Damn, kid.”
Peter quirks a smile at the roundabout compliment.
“What would you do then?” Dick’s voice cuts through, Peter having almost forgotten he was there. The question is earnest, genuine curiosity in the Gothamite’s words. “To help fix this.”
“Well, that’s kind of a hard question.” Peter gets some chuckles at that. “You can’t really get rid of vigilantes when the cat’s already out of the bag, though I wouldn’t anyways. Building a relationship with official entities helps, but too much oversight leads to conflict.”
Peter had been privy to the implosion of the Avengers firsthand.
“Anybody that has tried to bring too much change too quick wound up dead, so everyone’s stopped trying.” He fiddles with the strap of his bag, unsure of where to look. “I guess I would start with how metas and criminals are being handled. You can’t kick them out or keep them trapped forever, so why not work with them instead.”
Admittedly, there’s a bit of bias creeping into his solution as a meta currently living in Gotham, but it’s a genuine step in the right direction regardless. Dick nods at Peter’s proposed solution, looking as if he’s genuinely considering it.
“Hell of a report.” Gordon takes in a deep sigh. He looks up at Peter with a small crinkle at the corner of his eyes. “We should hire out-of-city consultants more often.”
Barbara pipes up after having kept quiet for the majority of Peter’s presentation. “You’re going to ace the assignment for sure, Peter. You should be proud.”
Peter shrugs, not sure how to take the praise. “It’s just data.”
“Not many people would bother looking at it if you didn’t piece it all together.” Gordon responds, a bit surprisingly. “Let alone take it to the Commissioner.”
Peter’s phone vibrating in his pocket gives him an excuse to duck out of the uncomfortable amount of attention, excusing himself with a sheepish expression.
Stepping out of the office, he can hear the trio delve into quiet conversation. He pulls his phone out of his pocket to see Jason’s ID on the screen for a call that’s trying to connect.
Letting it connect through, Peter pulls the phone up to his ear. “Hey.”
“Hey.” Jason greets, barreling on to ask, “Are you out in the city?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Your bounty problem’s gotten a bit worse.” Peter’s stomach swoops, his fried nerves stirring at the prospect. Jason doesn’t seem thrilled either, tension evident in his voice. “Could you head back to the garage?”
“Sure. I’ll be back soon.” Before Jason can request it, Peter tacks on, “I’ll keep you updated as I go.”
“Stay safe. See you.”
The call ends and Peter breathes for a second to calm himself, piecing together a nonchalant expression. Walking into the police commissioner’s office with a doom-and-gloom aura wouldn’t exactly help him to get back to the garage quickly.
Stepping back in, Peter sees the three adults looking over the maps he’d scribbled over. He moves over to where he’d left his backpack, zipping it up as he pulls it into his hands. “Hey, sorry but I’ve got to head out. It was really cool being able to share this with you, though.”
“Pleasure’s all mine, Peter.” Gordon stands and reaches across the desk, holding a hand out for Peter to take. The guy’s big on handshakes apparently. “Come back if you do any more work like this. It can do some real good around here.”
Peter takes the Commissioner’s hand in his own and thanks him for his time, waving to Dick and Babara as he leaves. The officers on the floor don’t pay him any mind, leaving his trek to the elevator uninterrupted.
The doors are about to close when a hand jams itself into the crack, nearly catching the offending limb between them. They open with a small rattle, revealing Dick who steps in beside Peter.
“You ran out quick there, almost didn’t catch you.” Dick teases lightly, rubbing at the hand that got lightly clamped in the doors. “Your work really was well done.”
Damn, these people really love their compliments. “Thanks, man.”
“I just wanted to ask; I’ve got some connections over at Wayne Enterprises and they’re big on funding up and coming researchers. Scholarships, stuff like that.” Dick watches the floor numbers tick down, nonchalant as ever. “I dunno if you were wanting to continue on with your project, but they’ve got an engineering department if that’s more up your alley.”
Peter listens to the pitch quietly, being reminded of the day that he’d met Tony Stark in his apartment.
“I could bring you for a tour if you wanted, just to get an idea of the place.” Dick looks down at Peter then, earnestly kind in a way that’s uncharacteristic to Gotham. “My brother Tim’s probably a couple of years older than you, but I could rope him into it if you wanted to make some connections.”
The elevator doors slide open and Peter steps out alongside Dick. He’s a bit taken aback at the offer, unexpectant to the connections that his new acquaintance has. It’d seem too good to be true if he hadn’t just seen the other man acting all familiar with the Commissioner.
Besides, if the guys turns out to be shady, Peter could get away without too much difficulty.
“Could I have some time to think about it? I’ve just got a bunch going on, being new to the city and all.” Dick nods at Peter’s request. “Could I get your email or something to reach out?”
“Sure!” Dick accepts a pen and scrap of paper from Peter as he fetches it from his backpack, jotting down an email and phone number. “Reach out with either, though a text is probably easier for me not to forget.”
“Seriously though, thank you for the offer. That sounds so cool.” Peter grins up at Dick, hoping to convey his gratitude. He gets a smile in return and he waves as he starts to head down the street. “I’ll see you around, man.”
Dick waves back and turns to rejoin Barbara, leaving Peter with a lot to think about.
~ ~ ~
Jason Todd
The Garage – September 28th
Shit shit shit.
The Kennel Master bumped up the price on Peter’s head, adding another zero to the bounty. He should’ve known that the man wasn’t patient enough to wait more than a week.
He shouldn’t have those resources from his place at the bottom of the food chain, his operations too low stakes to bring in that kind of cash. If he’d allied with any notable syndicates in the area he might’ve been able to swing it, but he’d remained unattached as far as Jason’s aware.
Something’s not adding up.
It’s making him jumpy, agitated. He’s got to get a grip before Peter gets back, the kid having too much on his plate already to have to deal with a pissy Red Hood.
Speaking of, he should be back by now.
Looking at his phone for the nth time, he gets a text from the kid in question. Just stepped off the bus.
Jason types out a quick response, I’ll meet you on the way.
He shrugs on his jacket before stepping out the door, fingers curling around the knife he has concealed in his pocket. There’s a light misting of rain hanging in the air, droplets clinging to the fabric of Jason’s clothes.
Bits of gravel crunch beneath his boots as he heads towards the nearest bus stop, keeping his eyes peeled for the telltale Queens cap. The kid’s attachment to the thing rankles Jason’s hometown pride, fueling several teases he’d made for wearing another city’s name in Gotham of all places.
He almost misses Peter as the kid’s keeping his head down on the other side of the street, making his form smaller to blend into the crowd. It’s good technique, enough to get him by during the daytime.
Crossing the road, Jason steps up beside the kid. “Hey.”
The brim of the cap lifts as Peter looks up to him, serious expression melting into one of pleasant greeting. “Hey.”
Reaching a hand up, Jason squashes the hat down further as he pushes on the kid’s head, earning him a sound of indignation. “Good to see you made it in one piece.”
“Not now that you’ve bludgeoned me.” Peter pushes Jason’s hand away, fighting against a grin.
“Always the bad guy.”
Companiable silence settles as they keep a steady pace back towards the garage. People huddle beneath awnings and umbrellas, the smell of wet garbage wafting out of alleyways.
Peter pipes up with a question, voice low as he asks, “Did you have a busy day?”
The intent behind the question is clear, ambiguity giving way beneath the secretive tone in Peter’s voice. “Sorta. I talked to a couple of sources and they told me of the new zero that’s been added to your total.”
“Great.” Peter doesn’t seem to be panicking at the development, more so accepting it with grumbly annoyance.
“I grabbed a couple of things that’ll help keep you safe.” Jason’s shoulders loosen a touch as he sees the garage in sight. The crowd has dwindled to nothing, leaving them with no cover. “No guns, I promise.”
Peter nods and waits as Jason punches in the code for the door, stepping inside. He leaves his shoes by the door, a habit that Jason had never picked up. The halls of the manor were always too cold to go without some footwear, and the floors of the garage are unforgiving concrete.
The two move about the space in silence, finding comfort away from the rain as they put away their belongings. Peter ducks into the bathroom to change into dry clothing, giving Jason a second to gather the stuff he’d bought for Peter.
He settles onto the couch to wait, dropping three lukewarm pizzas onto the coffee table. It had taken Jason a couple of days to realize just how much food Peter needed to maintain a healthy weight, his metabolism running like crazy.
He suspects it’s still not quite enough, but the pinch of guilt on Peter’s face had him standing down. For now.
The kid steps out of the bathroom and hangs his clothes to dry, clicking on the space heater as he passes it by. Flopping onto the couch next to Jason, he plucks a piece of pizza from its box with a heartfelt “Thanks, man.”
They chat for an hour as they demolish the pizzas, Peter hounding Jason for information about Gotham city. He tries to remain as unbiased as possible, but it gets difficult as the kid broaches Wayne Industries and Batman.
It seems he’s been doing research on his new city of dwelling, curiosity an inherent trait in the boy.
Jason had come to realize that the kid’s nothing short of genius, his brain having a massive capacity for information and highly developed critical thinking skills. He’d been tinkering with some of Jason’s leftover gear in his free time, improving Bruce’s old designs with the barebone materials he keeps strewn about the garage.
When the kid’s finishing up the last piece, Jason reaches beside the couch to pull a duffle bag onto his lap. Materials clank inside, drawing Peter’s attention. Jason takes a measured breath as he collects his thoughts, finding it oddly difficult to find the words. The kid gives him time, busying his hands by tidying the remains of their dinner.
“What’s in here isn’t for the purpose of you going out at night to punch criminals or save kittens or whatever you used to do. I don’t want that for you.” Jason keeps his attention fixed on Peter, trying to convey that he isn’t joking around with this. “But with the bounty only getting higher, you need to be able to protect yourself.”
Peter’s mouth opens to make a protest, but Jason beats him to it. “I know you know how to fight, but that can only get you so far. People are looking for you, Peter, and they aren’t going to stop.”
The kid’s mouth closes and he nods. He seems to understand the real danger he’s in, but can’t help defending his capabilities. It reminds Jason so much of himself that his jaw aches.
“You’re a smart kid, one of the smartest I’ve met. I trust you to know what you’re doing. You don’t come back from the shit we have without learning a few things.” The two share a small smile, and Jason hands over the duffle.
Peter zips it open like one would a present, careful with it as if it were something important, precious. He reaches in and pulls out a matte black metal mask, one equipped with gas filtration capabilities and a voice modulator.
The interior is lined with fabric to avoid chafing. It’s design is basic, but Jason figures that Peter could tinker with it on his own. He says as much, watching as ideas brew behind the kid’s eyes.
The next two items are batons similar to Dick’s escrima sticks, though missing the ability to conduct a charge. Peter twirls them in his hands with a bit of experience, only fumbling for a second before Jason corrects his hold.
A few high quality articles of clothing are folded at the bottom of the bag, made of a durable but flexible synthetic material that the army would kill to get their hands on.
Finally, Peter pulls out a small square box the size of his palm. A clear cover is affixed to the front of it, protecting a button that’s nestled into the body of the device. He looks at it for a moment before glancing at Jason. “Is this your self-destruct button or something?”
“No, idiot.” Jason palms Peter’s face before the kid can dodge, swiping the button from his grasp. “This is the most important thing in the duffle. You ever get into trouble, press it. Someone will come find you.”
“Okay.” Peter gazes at the assembled stuff on his lap, something soft on his face. “This is really cool of you, Jason.”
The Gothamite doesn’t mention that he stole the most expensive of the stuff, figuring Peter wouldn’t be the biggest fan of that tidbit of information. “It’s really not that much of a hassle.”
“It’s not just this, man. I’d probably be dead on the street or losing my mind to the pit stuff without you.” Peter rubs a finger along the edge of the mask, eyes fixed on his lap. “You just- I dunno… make me feel safe.”
The kid’s ears grow steadily more red as Jason sits with that.
For so long he’d been the scary Red Hood, the man to make Crime Alley’s boogeymen afraid of the dark. He carved a bloody path through Gotham while wearing a dead man’s name, leaving his humanity behind so he could keep a few kids alive.
People had grown to spit his name, those who didn’t get that there was always someone willing to do something worse than what’s already been endured. Jason had accepted that, wore his indifference as armor when he was condemned as a criminal.
He’d never been safe for anyone to be around since he came back from the dead as a madman.
For a second, Jason Todd kind of wants to cry.
Instead, he just smiles and ruffles Peter’s hair.
Chapter 8
Notes:
Plot plot plot.
Enjoy :3
Chapter Text
Tim Drake
The Batcave – September 30th
Let it be known that when Tim Drake is given a job, he will stop at nothing to get it done. It’s a point of contention for Bruce and Alfred, the habit bringing results but often to the detriment of Tim’s time in fresh air.
Oracle is in the cave with Tim, fingers dancing over her keyboard as she keeps track of Dick and Bruce on patrol. The lack of comms traffic means a slow night, the two vigilantes keeping their focus on the Lazarus-Kennel Master problem.
Tim’s claimed the evidence room as his base of operations, his laptop and tablet set on the floor as he runs simulations for opening the safe. There’d been 161,700 total combinations for the lock, and Tim had whittled it down significantly with probability calculations.
All in all, it’s a slow and slightly maddening process.
He’s stuck between a few options, largely based on assumptions about the owner of the safe. If they were smart, they would settle on an entirely random combination, but given that Dick had swiped the box from a man called the Kennel Master it’s not the safest bet.
Otherwise he could request the team to dig into the Kennel Master’s history to figure out potential important dates. Issue there is that they don’t know if that’s his safe to begin with, and time isn’t on their side.
Based on the precautions that the owner had taken to protect the safe against Kryptonians specifically, they possess some modicum of intelligence. Troublesome, as smart enemies are always the most dangerous.
By the end of his ponderings, he’s settled on five combinations. A bit too much for his comfort, but the team needs results to progress with the case.
Picking up his communication device from the floor, Tim connects to the line. “Batman, I’m gong to open the safe.”
“Understood.” There’s a pause before Bruce continues on, landing on a roof so he can give Tim his undivided attention. “Would you like backup?”
“I’ll be fine. Oracle and Agent A are nearby to provide assistance should I need it.” Tim settles his communicator down, pulling his tablet over to select his first combination.
There’s a crackling zip before Bruce is giving Tim his blessing to continue. “Be patient, Red Robin.”
Tim had to convince Batman to let him be Robin; he knows patience better than anyone. Figuring the thought is better kept in his head, he focuses back on the project. “I’ll reach out when it’s open.”
In truth, they’d lucked out with the choice of a combination safe. Digital locks are fraught with possible technological malfunctions and lockpicking a standard keyhole becomes dangerous for the hands when traps factored in.
Easy to crack, but easier to mess up.
Combination locks have sticking points that Tim had been trained to detect, the challenge coming from parsing the real one amongst the false manufacturer added pins.
In the interest of keeping things difficult for anybody trying to break into the safe, the owner would pick big numbers. More spinning means more room for error, relying upon the proclivity of criminals towards impatience.
Given that the owners anticipated this potentially falling into Superman or Batman’s hands, they’d be aware of the former’s ability to work the problem out with logic. They could assume the deductions Tim is making now.
So Tim settles for bigger numbers, but not the biggest.
Taking a steadying breath, he starts to spin the dial.
He keeps a consistent spin as he counts the distance from the zero to the first sticking point, muscles loose to avoid cramping in his hand. There’s the telltale pressure of a false pin, too much give to be the real number.
Keeping the dial moving, Tim narrows in on the digits that he’d come across most often in his calculations. Taking a chance, he stops on 52.
The number sticks with no give.
Glancing down at his list, he confirms three codes that begin with the digit in question. Onto the next.
Spinning it the opposite direction once through, he follows the same process of feeling for the false pins. Perspiration is gathering on the back of his neck, cooling quickly in the frigid cave air.
The dial catches on 44.
Tim can feel phantom tension crawling up his spine, imagined tightness with his focus split on staying relaxed and breaking into the safe. He’d always had the problem of convincing himself of truths, his mind and will blending into physical sensation.
Letting go of his concentration, he settles on 22.
There’s a click from inside.
The lock disengages.
“Well done, Master Tim.”
Tim turns to see Alfred standing where Bruce had been loitering couple of days ago. The older gentleman is standing with his usual proper posture, but there’s a coiling of his muscles that denotes a hint of worry.
It seems he’d been readying himself to rip Tim away from the safe should it have blown up in his face. Ever the worrier.
Sending the butler a wry grin, Tim picks up his comm to report to Bruce. “The safe is open.”
“Well done.” Bruce’s reply comes through, similar sentiments echoed by Dick and Barbara in the moments following.
“I’ll keep you on the line as I investigate.”
Alfred stays hovering over Tim’s shoulder, ready to provide assistance as the boy pulls open the door to the safe. It swings soundlessly, revealing a series of tubes set into place to stop them from rattling around inside.
Several traps line the inside of the safe that would’ve activated with any other attempt to break into it. They remain inert as Tim goes about disarming them, one set near the dial should he have failed his attempt at cracking the code.
The four vials all differ in appearance. The most recognizable to Tim is green Kryptonite in liquid form, emitting a faint glow.
The other three spark Tim’s memory, but he doesn’t want to make any assumptions based on appearance alone. Addressing Bruce, he makes a quick report. “The safe contains liquid green Kryptonite and three vials of unknown materials. I’m going to run some tests.”
Bruce grunts his acknowledgement. He always get quiet when he’s worried.
Leaving the Kryptonite, Tim runs a few quick tests to check for any harmful energy signatures beyond the low level radiation being emitted from the alien rock. The other tubes come out clean, allowing him to pull them free. One of them weighs oddly heavy in his hand despite there being only a couple of grams of it.
Barbara has the scanner prepped when Tim rejoins her, giving him space to run the tests. He clicks the tubes into place, watching as they slide into the machinery.
The process usually takes a few minutes, giving Tim time to shake off the residual adrenaline from his earlier safe cracking. He patches back into Bruce and Dick’s comms, mind whirling with possibilities. “This isn’t good.”
“Green Kryptonite rarely is.” Bruce’s succinct agreement comes through with the rumbling of the Batmobile registering behind it. “The prospect of it in a Lazarus pit doesn’t bode well either.”
“That explains the failed attempts though.” Dick pitches in. “It can’t be easy to integrate that into something so volatile.”
Tim recalls what Dick had found alongside the safe, cogs spinning. “Do you think the venom was a part of it too?”
“It’s a possibility.” Bruce’s voice adopts a dire quality. He isn’t exactly a fan of the drug, not with his personal history with it. “I’m returning to the cave.”
The computer emits a beep to signal the end of its scan of the material, the tubes releasing from the port to be retrieved. Three files are dropped and opened by Barbara, who scans them alongside Tim and Alfred.
The first, that which Tim had the biggest suspicion about, proves to be dionesium. The report prattles off information about unparalleled regenerative abilities, able to revive dead tissue. It’s sickly green colour is reminiscent of the Lazarus pits, confirming how they’d been popping up over the city.
The second is electrum, a metallic alloy that’s usually a standard blend of gold and silver. It expands the capabilities of dionesium to lend to the revivification abilities of the metal.
The final element is one that Tim hadn’t beheld in person, one whose name feels almost ironic; batmanium. Bruce hates the stuff, in part because of the name but also because of its physical properties. It’s past the point of molecular instability, stuffed with atoms while retaining an impossible density.
Tim also hates it.
Barbara types in a command to send the files to the computer in the Batmobile, and they all wait for his reaction. Long seconds pass until they hear the revving of the engine as it passes through the entrance of the cave.
Bruce joins them at the computer, looking to the elements contained within their tubes as if confirming their existence. “The dionesium and electrum wouldn’t be surprising with the Lazarus pits considering their capabilities, but the… batmanium brings in another issue.”
“They’re missing some elements, but these all lend to multiversal travel.” Bruce settles heavily on a nearby chair, settling his chin on one hand as he thinks. “The batmanium’s strange stability could extend to the radiation of the Kryptonite, allowing it to stabilize the element within the pit.”
Bruce is musing aloud, but Tim picks up on his train of thought. “And the venom help the subject to endure the strain of the raw elements.”
Bruce’s eyes close, realization setting in.
“Someone’s been building an organic weapon.”
~ ~ ~
Jason Todd
The Garage – October 1st
“Come on man, no fair!”
Peter’s complaints fall on deaf ears as Jason lays down the ground rules for the spar. The kid had badgered him for pointers since he’d been given his gear three days ago, his handling of the batons ruining any of their usefulness.
Jason had been resistant at first, not wanting to fall into the same pattern that Bruce had established. It had taken a heartfelt conversation about Peter not using these lessons for crime fighting to convince Jason.
His final rule prompted the whine from Peter, that being the kid’s inability to rely on his meta abilities. They’d work up to them eventually when Jason grew confident in Peter’s technique, but that would come after laying out the boring groundwork.
“It’s this or nothing.” Jason shrugs, finishing up his taping of Peter’s knuckles. “You gotta know how to throw a proper punch before working with batons.”
“I know how to throw a proper punch.”
Jason stands. “Then show me.”
It’s exactly the challenge that Peter needs, that or he’s realized his arguments will get him nowhere. Jason releases his hands so Peter can stand, the kid rolling his neck and stretching his shoulders, loosening his muscles.
They move to where Jason’s training gear is set up, taking their places on the mats. Peter shifts on the balls of his feet, getting used to the give in the mats. Determination’s set on his face, a need to prove himself plain as day.
“Alright, show me what you’ve got, Queens.”
They settle into their stances, Jason scanning Peter’s form to ensure he’s carrying himself correctly. His fists are held a bit too loosely, but it could be a leftover habit of holding his strength back all the time.
Peter throws the first jab, projecting the move with the slightest twist of one of his feet. Jason dodges out of the way easily, nodding to encourage Peter to continue. The kid kicks out with a leg, going to Jason’s side.
He clamps an arm around the leg, going to tug Peter off balance. He doesn’t get far as Peter keeps himself in place with strength alone, the boy twisting to free his limb from Jason’s hold.
The move earns him a chastising look from Jason. “No powers.”
“Sorry sorry, habit.” He looks genuinely apologetic, stance loosening. “It’s hard to turn off.”
“Exactly.” Jason hones in on the wording, Peter stumbling into his biggest problem beautifully. “I saw you throw two men into walls in our first fight on accident. Finding control could mean a world of difference if you lose it again.”
It’s a sobering thought, Jason’s mind wandering back to the damage that Peter had done to the wall after his nightmare. The pinch of worry on the kid’s face tells Jason he’s thinking the same.
“It’s just…” Peter begins, hesitating as he finds his thoughts. “I had found that control before, but I feel different after the pit. Everything’s just… sharper.”
Jason settles a hand lightly on the kid’s shoulder, trying to ease the tension that had grown. “That’s why we’re working on it now, Peter. Having a proper baseline will make everything muscle memory, giving you more brainpower to focus on control.”
Peter nods, shaking out his hands as he lets the concept sink in. Retaking his stance, they start exchanging blows.
The kid’s better than Jason expected in all honesty. There’s a lot of room for improvement, shaving off little unnecessary movements to help conserve energy, but he’s got a natural affinity for fighting.
His flexibility rivals Dick’s, though Peter admits that’s something that organically developed alongside his meta abilities. He’s been taught a few martial arts forms, albeit only bits and pieces to create a confusing blend of unrefined moves.
Jason starts with little corrections of his stance, instructing him on how to integrate more fluidity into his combat style. He’d be better off training with Dick given the similarity in their physiques, but Jason had watched him enough times to know the gist.
They work away at it for a couple of hours, Peter listening to Jason’s pointers with rapt attention that has him learning quick. It’s when they’re taking a break that it dawns on Jason to ask, “What are the extend of your abilities anyways? I didn’t want to pry, but it’ll help when we move on to working with them.”
“Oh, uhm.” The kid doesn’t seem bothered by the question, taking a swig of water before he starts listing some. “Enhanced senses; vision, hearing, smell, touch. It can be a lot sometimes but I’m used to them.”
“Advanced healing, endurance, agility, metabolism, and strength.” Peter lists them with his fingers, pulling another hand up to add to the toll. “Sixth sense, spidey sense, Peter tingle, whatever you wanna call it.”
“Peter tingle?”
“May, my aunt, called it that.” A flash of grief passes across Peter’s eyes at the name. “Anyways, it’s like a warning for when there’s danger nearby, getting stronger based on the threat. It kind of like, shrieks when there’s a bullet heading my way, and I can instinctively dodge.”
“Oh we absolutely have to test that.” Jason gets an affronted look from the kid at that and he pulls his hands up in surrender. “I won’t shoot you! Just y’know… throw stuff at your head when you’re not expecting it.”
“So not cool, dude.”
Jason makes no promise to abstain, pulling focus back to the topic at hand. “What else?”
“I can stick to walls and stuff.” Peter makes an abortive motion towards one of the walls. He stands at Jason’s perplexed expression. “Alright, here.”
The kid wanders over to one of the walls and then starts to wander up the wall. It’s more of a crawling motion, hands planted to help combat gravity as it complains about Peter defying it. He makes it all the way up to the ceiling and hangs down from one hand, entirely too casual.
“I really have no idea how to react to this one, Queens.”
“Tell me about it.” Peter pulls his body up and stays perched upside down, seemingly content sticking high above. “Imagine how it felt to try to pull your hand away from a wall only to realize you can’t.”
Curiosity tingles at the thought. “What triggered your powers?”
“Radioactive spider.” Peter responds plainly as if it’s no biggie. “Though I think the pit’s part of it now.”
Jason shrugs, figuring the kid’s got a better idea of his meta stuff than him.
He watches Peter move about the ceiling for a bit, pointing this way and that to get an idea of how the kid’s sticky powers work. It looks like the kid’s having fun, showing off a bit as he does a couple of tricks.
“Hey, look.” Peter climbs into a darkened corner and wraps his arms in close. “I’m Batman.”
Jason snorts. “Yeah kid, you really look the part.”
“Speaking of, have you met the guy?” He’s on a roll now, words escaping him as they move as fast as his brain. “You’re a vigilante, so you must’ve come across him at some point. He doesn’t seem that keen on other heroes in Gotham besides those he’s worked alongside.”
Can’t argue with the logic there. Jason pushes aside the mild discomfort at the question and shoves his hands into his pockets. “Once or twice.”
Peter ambles across the ceiling and drops down, finally allowing gravity to do its thing. He peers curiously at Jason. “What’s he like?”
A hundred descriptive words come to mind; self-righteous, aloof, frigid, unfeeling. The thing that comes out of Jason’s mouth isn’t like any of them. “Untouchable.”
The kid keeps looking at him with his too intelligent, green tinged eyes and it makes Jason feel exposed. Permeable.
“Peter, can we talk about something else?”
The kid breaks his gaze, one hand coming up to scratch at the back of his neck. “Yeah, sorry, you just didn’t seem to be his fan when we were first talking about me being wanted in Gotham and I’m just not sure if he’s worth trusting with everything if there-”
“Peter, enough!”
Silence falls in the garage, their voices replaced by the falling of raindrops on concrete. Jason’s breathing is loud in his ears, almost drowning out the heavy beating of his heart. There’s the feeling of something squeezing around his throat.
Peter’s looking at him again, eyes wide but still so understanding. He’s quiet, his enthused rambling cut short by Jason’s temper.
Jason presses his fingers to his eyes, grinding his words out through the pulsing frustration. “Kid, I- I’m sorr-”
“It’s okay!” Peter rushes to accept Jason’s apologies, voice a bit smaller but still so bright. “I get it. No man’s land.”
“Yeah. Something like that.” Jason lets his hands fall and takes a breather, his heart rate refusing to slow. He needs to go before he can fuck things up more, has to get out.
He can’t let Peter see him like this. The kid doesn’t need Jason’s problems piled on top of his own.
“I’m going to head out, grab some air.” Jason cringes internally at the lack of subtlety, pausing so he can add, “I’m not mad at you. Just… yeah, no man’s land.”
“I’ll clean up around here.” Peter tries for a small smile for Jason’s sake, to try to make things feel okay. “Reach out if you need anything.”
Jason nods, pulling his helmet into his hands. The kid’s watching him so he neglects grabbing any of his guns, content with the pistol that’s stashed in his jacket pocket from earlier.
He mounts his bike and it rumbles lowly. The mask stashed in the compartment is an almost physical weight, latching onto the green whispering at the back of his mind.
The kid’s toying with the tape on his hands, their sparring session long forgotten. His head turns at Jason’s call, expression pensive. “Don’t wait up.”
Peter nods, and Jason sets out into the night.
~ ~ ~
Bruce Wayne
Gotham City Skyline - October 2nd
The hour has long since tipped over to the next date when Bruce comes across an unexpected visitor.
His focus is split between the goings on of Gotham’s night life and the contents of the safe that Dick and the Red Hood had recovered. Part of him knows he shouldn’t be on patrol when he doesn’t have his undivided attention on his surroundings, but there’s still too few of them in the city to allow complacency.
He doesn’t want to think about the implications of the safe, how close they were to having another unknown variable running around in Gotham. With the success of one Lazarus pit, he can’t allow any more slip-ups.
They need to find the survivor, and fast.
Part of him is tempted to reach out to the Red Hood, his insights invaluable. Crime Alley and the Bowery are fraught with potential locations of Lazarus pits, the presence of organized crime and the Kennel Master necessitating their collaboration.
But Bruce can’t bring himself to make the call.
It’s not for worry of being brushed off or getting into another spat. He can weather Jason’s anger, deserves it even, but he can’t put his wellbeing at risk for Bruce’s mistake.
Jason had been right in their last argument, words spat and tinged with venom. This is your city, Batman. How many more kids will have to crawl out of those pits before you get your act together.
He’s so preoccupied with his thoughts that he almost doesn’t notice the figure crouched at the edge of a rooftop, clad in black and balanced on the balls of their feet.
Bruce doesn’t recognize them, none of the telltale colours of his known allies. They aren’t moving, keeping a steady eye on the street below. There’s nothing that reads as dangerous in their stance and no weapons are visible in the outline of their form.
They look young.
Making his way over to an adjacent building, Bruce keeps his movements soundless as he angles for a better vantage point. The figure stays still aside from a twitch of their head as they watch a couple amble by below.
Wreathed in shadows, Bruce scans their profile.
The kid is perched with his elbows resting on his legs, confident in his ability to balance on the precipice. A hood is pulled low over his head with a black cap secured beneath, and the outline of a mask is just visible from behind the fabric, concealing the lower half of his face.
He’s wearing high-quality clothing designed to stretch beneath a hoodie and a pair of basketball shorts, keeping Bruce from seeing his build. The shoes are well worn, either hand-me-downs or second hand given how tightly the laces are secured.
It’s an interesting blend of cheap and expensive gear, ideas brewing in Bruce’s mind. The teen is either an adept thief, has fallen into the care of someone who’s funding this endeavor from afar, or is purposefully mixing up his style to confuse onlookers.
As he watches, the teen’s surveyance of the city looks practiced, his head shifting in small, nearly imperceptible movements. It’s as if he’s listening to something, perhaps a device hidden beneath the hood.
Bruce hasn’t so much as twitched when the boy turns to look right at him.
He doesn’t look startled to find the Batman watching him from the shadows, eyes calm and calculating. They’re a warm hazel colour, uniquely bright and striking.
The teen’s voice is modulated as he says, “Hi, Batman.”
Leaping the gap between the buildings, Bruce stays a safe distance away from the boy. “You don’t seem surprised to see me.”
“I came to this rooftop to talk to you.” He shrugs, youthful in his casual comportment. “You should change up your patrol routes more often.”
A reply balances on the tip of Bruce’s tongue, a lesson on drawing attention towards oneself for the sake of others. He swallows it back, saying instead, “Chasing after vigilantes isn’t safe.”
“Why?” The teen stands in one fluid motion, shoving his hands into his pockets as he steps towards Bruce. “I thought it was your job to protect the little guy.”
“It is.”
“Alright.”
Bruce’s eyes narrow, unsure about what the kid wants from him. He goes to ask, but Oracle’s voice in his comm has him pausing. “Batman, there’s an incoming transmission from Robin. Are you free to receive?”
The teen’s head tilts again in that minute shift, barely a twitch. Interesting.
Bruce raises a hand to his ear and presses on his earpiece. “No.”
The teen quirks an eyebrow then. “Need to step outside to take a call? I can wait.”
“Why were you looking for me?” Bruce shifts his body to look less imposing, for what little good it does.
“I was talking to a friend of mine and he said something that really got me thinking. We’ll get back to that in a second.” The boy continues on conversationally. “But first I wanted to ask why you dislike metas.”
“I don’t.”
“You’re not a man of many words, are you?” There’s a hint of frustration in the boy’s voice, but he hides it beneath a veneer of glibness. “Alright, man, I guess I’ll take your word for it.”
Bruce stays still, letting the boy ruminate.
The kid watches him for a few moments, before wandering closer, head tipping back so he can look into the lenses of the mask. There’s no fear in his expression, but his steps are measured as if he’s anticipating an attack.
“I can see what he meant, though. Untouchable.”
Bruce uses the proximity to memorize whatever features he can, finding himself fixated on the colour of his irises. The green is gem-like, a bright shade that nearly drowns out the dark brown that lies beneath.
The possibility of coloured contacts filters through Bruce’s thoughts, but there’s too much evidence pointing to one conclusion. The teen is a meta, one who’s grown to believe that Batman doesn’t like his kind.
The kid turns and wanders away, returning to where he’d been standing moments ago. He seems keen to leave, his hands pulling free from his pockets.
“Wait. I can help you.”
“Figured it out, huh?” The teen steps up to the ledge and turns, heels frighteningly close to the sheer drop. “I’m doing fine, staying with someone who can watch my back. Just focus on helping the little guy.”
Firing off a quick salute, he falls back.
Bruce darts forward to try to catch him but he drops out of view, the distance far enough that he’s out of Bruce’s sight for a few seconds.
Peering over the lip of the roof, there’s no corpse lying on the pavement, just open air. No footsteps are audible from below, the boy having vanished into thin air.
“Oracle.” Bruce straightens and calls into his comm. “Open a new profile for a meta in Gotham. A young boy found me on patrol and exhibited clear signs of having abilities.”
“On it. What should the priority be for locating him?”
“Low, for now.” Bruce pulls out his grappling gun, aiming it high as he sets back out on patrol. “We need to show him he can trust the Batman. Patch through the transmission from Robin.”
Chapter 9
Notes:
As a heads up to the readers that have been following along, I added a loose age approximation for the homies in the story to give a better sense of the dynamics. There's a chance of it changing and new characters being added as we go along, but that's the core group for now.
I would love to add Kate Kane and Luke Fox eventually, but this family's got so many peeps already that it's tough to get to 'em all :) /lh.Anyways, enjoy~
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Dick Grayson
Wayne Manor - October 18th
The weeks following the discovery of the safe’s contents are maddening.
Tim arguably fares the worst, running himself ragged with his newfound obsession with the survivor’s DNA. He’d barely cracked the abnormalities even with knowing what had been in the pit, too many variables up in the air to make any ground.
Bruce remains frustratingly vague about some kid he met on a rooftop, redacting the details he’d written on the boy’s appearance. They all had a suspicion that he’s somehow connected to the Lazarus problem based on timing alone, but everyone besides Bruce had been barred from investigating.
Jason continues his radio silence, wrapped up in his newfound conflict with the Kennel Master. He’d been sticking to Bruce’s ‘no killing’ rule after four bodies were reported in a single day, not wanting to draw Batman to the Alley, but he’s been staying away regardless.
Barbara’s been the steadiest of all of them, though she’d been running on less sleep than she needs. Keeping everyone afloat as they chased dead ends can’t be easy, something that she got too little thanks for.
Damian is set to return to Gotham within the next couple of days, often bringing some measure of chaos.
And Dick, well he’s just waiting for the next shoe to drop.
He’d had to return to Blüdhaven for a few days to check up on his city, putting out a small fire in the shape of a gang that had noticed his absence. The remaining time away from home left him with an anxious feeling as he made the trip back to the mansion, mind running with the mess they’d stumbled into these past month.
The Lazarus pits, Jason, the safe’s contents, all of it.
Listening to Peter’s project had him mulling on the question that had been plaguing him for a decade. Putting away criminals and fighting crime has brought hope to the people of Gotham, but what good does that do when nothing has changed?
They’d suffered loss after loss, and they didn’t have much to show for it.
A few rogues turning a new leaf helped to give the feeling of progress, but the worst still turned up with relative frequency. Their family had expanded, but that’s just more people to get hurt as they’re thrown at an ever-growing problem.
So it was a pleasant distraction when Dick’s phone lit up with a text from Peter, asking about his offer of touring Wayne Enterprises.
He’d almost given up hope that the boy would take him up on his invitation. The kid’s got a bright future ahead of him, his sense of right and wrong coupled with his intellect paving a path of open doors.
He reminds Dick so much of Tim. It’s partly why he’d offered to loop his brother into it, though it would also do him good to socialize outside of galas and the hero community.
Timmy’s got absolutely no social life.
The text itself was unsure, Peter’s hesitancy plain in his diction. He’d introduced himself like he was writing an email, complete with the comma and everything. The kid had apologized for taking up Dick’s time for god’s sake.
He’d replied within the minute, and they’d agreed to meet on the 18th. Tim had thrown up a few half-hearted complaints about taking time away from the investigation, but showing him Peter’s project had him acquiescing to Dick’s request.
That brings them to now, Dick and Tim stepping into the lobby of the tower to see Peter waiting there for them.
He looks nervous as he stands with his hands in his pockets, attention turned to passersby outside the paned glass wall. There’s another hat pulled over his hair, plain black this time, and he’s wearing a simple sweater-jeans combo.
The kid admittedly does look out of place among the primped up suits and pencil skirts that come with the business territory, but Dick and Tim are fortunately dressed similar.
Raising a hand to stand out in the open space of the lobby, Dick calls out. “Peter!”
The kid’s head turns and a small look of relief passes over his face, tension bleeding away. He weaves around a few small groups caught in their own discussions and comes to a stop before the Waynes. “Hey guys.”
“Hey.” Dick returns, looking over at his brother as he introduces the two. “This is my little brother, Tim.”
Peter accepts the hand that Tim reaches out with, the latter’s voice much too formal as he says, “Good to meet you, Peter. Welcome to Wayne Enterprises.”
“Thanks.”
“This isn’t a business meeting, Timmy.” Dick pulls the shorter boy into a headlock, mussing his hair to try to shake some of the seriousness away. He turns to Peter and offers an apology, “Sorry about him, he ran the place for a bit.”
Peter’s eyes widen with considerate awe. “No way, that’s awesome man.”
Tim looks pointedly embarrassed, the tips of his ears tinted pink. “It wasn’t for very long.”
“Still.” Peter presses, earnest admiration plain to read in his expression. “This place is huge, I can’t imagine how much work that would’ve been.”
Dick watches bemused as Tim keeps trying to dodge Peter’s attempts at congratulating him for his hard work, giving it a minute before coming to his brother’s rescue. “Alright, you two, let’s get onto the tour.”
He guides them towards the elevator, security letting them through without any hassle. Peter gets a couple of curious looks from some of the company’s senior employees, undoubtedly wondering if Bruce had found himself another ward.
Tim and Dick swap with filling Peter in with the day-to-day operations of the Wayne Enterprises tower, taking over where the other isn’t as experienced. By and large, it’s Tim that’s giving their guest the tour, his time as CEO giving him more insight.
They spend a good deal of time talking about the Research Institute and the Foundation, though there’s relatively little presence in the tower given its focus on business and entrepreneurship. Tim asks a bunch of questions around the research that Peter had done, listening enraptured with a gleam in his eye, the one that’s usually reserved for Red Robin.
It’s when they come upon the section of the tower devoted to their Technologies branch that Peter’s interest peaks. He points out various projects in development and inquires about their purpose, spouting off observations about the quality of engineering at a dizzying pace.
“You’re really into all of this stuff, huh?” Dick muses as they wander down the hall, Peter and Tim just ahead of him.
“I was in the robotics club back at my old school.” The kid stops to look at a chunk of a Martian ship’s hull that’s on display, uncaring to hide his open wonder. “I like to keep my hands busy.”
Tim steps up next to him, his earlier professional demeanour having dissolved as he spent more time in the younger boy’s presence. “What kind of projects were you working on?”
Peter pauses and has a vaguely hesitant look for a second before he’s answering. “My most recent project was developing AI, but before that it was more of a chemistry based thing. I was trying to make a flexible but durable material that doubled as an adhesive.”
“Huh.” Tim’s head quirks to the side, thoughts running in his head. “For what purpose?”
“A bunch. Once you have the basic formula, you can do pretty much anything with it.” Peter’s expression shifts to a more wistful one. “Before I moved, I was working on how to use it for medical purposes. Would’ve done wonders to pack a wound in an emergency.”
Would’ve.
The kid’s turn towards melancholy and his wording has a small ache building in Dick’s chest. It’s easy to assume the reason why he would want to develop that sort of technology, most likely one that the Waynes are acquainted with.
Dick can only assume that Tim’s thinking the same given his silence.
Their musings are interrupted as Dick’s phone lets out a cheerful chirp, a notification pushing through his ‘do not disturb’ setting. He steps away and pulls it out, seeing a slew of messages from Alfred all delivering a similar message.
Your youngest sibling has returned.
Damn it, he wasn’t supposed to be home so soon. Damian never reacts well when he receives a less than noteworthy homecoming, though he’s insistent that he hates being the centre of attention.
There’s no way he won’t get up to something.
“Hey, I’ve got to head out.” Dick jogs back over to where Tim and Peter have started to discuss something. “My youngest brother, Damian, is back and doesn’t do well without someone around as a distraction.”
Tim’s brows scrunch. “Isn’t Alfred around?”
“He can only hold out for so long. Damian’s gonna know I’m in town, and when he realizes I wasn’t there to give him a homecoming...” Dick supplies, earning him an understanding nod from Tim. “You’ll be cool finding a ride home?”
Tim has plenty of options to get back to the manor, the question being more for Peter’s sake. The kid shrugs and replies, “I like taking the bus, and I’ve got a friend who can swing by if I need him to.”
“Okay, well don’t stop the tour on my account. Sorry again for ditching.” Dick gets waved off, the two boys unbothered by the change in plans. “I’ll see you around.”
He turns and heads back down the hall they came through, speeding up when he rounds the corner. If he’s lucky, he’ll catch Damian before the hellion can break free of the manor.
~ ~ ~
Peter Parker
Wayne Enterprises Tower – October 18th
Look, Peter never said he was smart.
He’s been called brainiac, genius, clever. There’s an objectivity in that his reasoning and logic skills might be higher than average, but he’s worked at it since he was a kid. With parents like his, he had a lot to live up to.
He’s not above admitting that accepting Dick’s offer for a tour of Wayne Enterprise might not have been the best idea.
The place is absolutely incredible, rivalling the brilliance of Stark Industries. The company has reach into most markets, standing as a pinnacle of innovation. Their model thrives despite having a focus on being environmentally friendly and providing its employees outrageous benefits and salaries.
It’s astounding in its ability to uphold its grasp on the economic stage while maintaining a strong moral backbone.
But it’s definitely not covert. At all.
Dozens of eyes follow Peter as he trails behind two potential inheritors of the business and walks past countless cameras in the corners of hallways and rooms. Peter isn’t quiet as he engages with the tour, conversing with Dick and Tim openly.
Yeah, not subtle.
He’d just been feeling stifled at the garage, energy building as he remained cooped up. He’d dismantled most of Jason’s old gear and cobbled together a pair of rudimentary web shooters for the hell of it, just because there was nothing else to do.
The books had been read through twice, and Peter’s side projects weren’t keeping his mind suitably occupied anymore.
Jason tried his best to keep Peter company, but he’d been going out into the city to work on dealing with the bounty as more criminals caught wind of it. It was sapping him of his energy, leaving visible bags beneath his eyes.
They kept sparring but Jason was holding back, his instruction progressing at a snail’s pace.
Peter understands the need to learn the basics and can’t fault Jason for his carefulness, but it had become obvious that he’s stalling for time. There’s something keeping him back from really investing in their training.
And Peter has a feeling that the ‘something’ in question is Batman.
His conversation with the hero had been impulsive and admittedly stupid, but he couldn’t shake the look in Jason’s eyes when he’d snapped at Peter.
The slightest hint of a verdant glow in his eyes had accentuated his desperation to avoid talking about Batman. It wasn’t anger or fear that drove the reaction.
It was hurt.
There hadn’t been many answers to glean from talking to the caped crusader in question. He hadn’t spoken or acted like any hero that Peter had met before, entirely unwelcoming throughout the duration of their interaction.
But therein lies the problem; he wasn’t at all like what Peter expected. He’d met heroes who concealed corruption behind false smiles and those who used crime fighting as an outlet for sadistic inclinations. Batman was nothing like that.
He didn’t leave Peter stranded on the rooftop and he answered his questions, albeit frustratingly vague in his responses. There wasn’t a hint of deceit in his offer to help, and he’d made an attempt to catch Peter when he dropped off the roof.
The conclusion that Peter had come upon was the one he hoped wasn’t the case: Jason’s discomfort with the hero is personal.
Unable to push for details in fear of setting his friend off, Peter turned to other avenues of gathering information.
Wayne Enterprises stands as one of the world’s foremost supporters of heroes despite the CEO having no connection to any super in question. There was no alter ego that he flaunted, though he acted similarly to Tony in his early age, a model on his arm at the end of every social event.
He came up squeaky clean in Peter’s research beyond the countless scandals that reporters had been eating up for a decade. He’d taken several wards under his wing, adopting a handful of kids that stepped in and out of the limelight.
There had to be something up in the company, but there were no hints of immorality or hidden malfeasance. The company is completely legitimate.
All in all, it’s become a frustrating puzzle.
Peter tries to pay attention as Tim continues the tour, finding the other boy’s enthusiasm for the company’s dealings genuinely interesting. Dick’s departure had been unexpected and robbed Peter of his most familiar face, but Tim seems like a cool guy.
The ex-CEO pauses at the end of an explanation of the Biotech lab’s current focus on cancer research, giving Peter a considering look before asking, “You really don’t have to agree, but could I get your input on a personal project of mine? I’ve ran into a problem that’s been killing me and a fresh pair of eyes could really help.”
“Yeah, man. What’s up?”
Tim nods his head down the hallway leading towards the elevators, stepping in that direction. “Here, I’ve got it in my office.”
Peter’s sixth sense remains dormant as he follows Tim, figuring that the amount of cameras around the building would hold plenty of evidence against the teen should he go missing.
Man, maybe Jason was onto something when he said Peter’s sense of personal safety was underdeveloped.
They step inside of an elevator and Peter dutifully looks away as Tim punches in a code to ascend past the floors available to the company’s employees. It’s nearing the top of the tower when it finally slows, the doors opening to reveal a single sprawling office.
The design is modern but comfortable, appearing more as a lounge than a formal business space. It’s tidy and with little personal effects, one side almost entirely devoted to a library-like arrangement of bookshelves.
“Just give me a second to pull it up on my computer.” Tim steps towards the massive desk set near one of the corners, several adjustable monitors set atop its surface. “Feel free to look around.”
Peter mutters to himself, “Dude, this place is insane.”
Tim either doesn’t hear him or doesn’t take the opportunity to boast, leaving Peter to his own devices. He finds himself drawn to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows that are set into the wall, staring over the expanse of Gotham below.
He’s once again struck by the lack of familiarity of the city, used to seeing Queens from this perspective. The height is a welcome thing, Peter having grown used to it over time as his crime fighting stunts kept drawing him higher and higher.
Once he’d been to space, well, a penthouse view really didn’t feel all that far from the ground.
Tim’s shoes squeak on the waxed marble tile floor as he joins Peter by the window, casting the younger boy a sideways glance. “Not wary of heights, are you?”
“Kinda the opposite.” Peter muses, unable to pull his gaze away from the sights below. “Crazy view.”
“One of my favourites.” Tim stands there for a minute, equally enraptured as his guest. He nudges Peter with his elbow to get his attention, backing towards the computer. “I’ll show you what I’ve been working on.”
Following behind, Peter is shown a set of documents occupying Tim’s monitors. The first shows a DNA test, the genes laid out in tables. The second has a 3D model of the strand, separated in correlation to the previous file.
The final shows the work that Tim had done on it already. He’d underlined the sections of the DNA that denoted it as being that of a human, making up the majority of the genes. The rest were separated into categories with similar characteristics, a few notes jotted down.
It’s clear that Tim has been working on this for a while.
Peter hadn’t done much work in the way of DNA beyond what he’d learned in high school and a few medical textbooks he’d leafed through out of boredom.
Beyond that, he worked alongside Tony to analyze his DNA, his mentor insisting in the off chance that the radioactive spider bite had some dangerous side effects on his genome. Nothing had come up, but they’d monitored it over time on a semi-annual basis.
It’s perhaps that basic understanding that has him pointing to a section of Tim’s notes. “Wait, I recognize this group. These come from-”
The rest of Peter’s sentence gets stuck in his throat as he gazes confusedly at the screens, heart hammering away in his chest. He’d only seen that particular group once before, Tony cracking some joke about arachnid-human egg suppositories as he identified which of Peter’s genes had been changed by the bite.
This is Peter’s DNA. It’s gotta be.
Why the hell is Tim studying Peter’s DNA?
“Peter?”
He swallows, feigning a bout of confoundedness for the stutter in his delivery.
“Sorry, just… that project I mentioned, the adhesive, was meant to replicate the durability-flexibility ratio of organically made silk. Nobody’s gotten close with synthetic materials, and so I went to the world’s experts on it.” Peter looks meaningfully at the gene sequence. “Spiders.”
Tim blinks at Peter. “Spiders?”
“Yeah. Their bodies make the stuff, so I checked to see if there were any clues in arachnid DNA that could explain how they mastered the formula.” Peter chews on the inside of his cheek as he dodges around the truth. “Didn’t get that far. Bio’s never been my forte.”
Tim looks back to the screens, thoughts running overtime from behind his eyes. He highlights the section that Peter pointed out and sets the computer to run it through several databases.
Nothing comes up, though the computer tries its best to find close matches. Several species of spider pop up, but nothing has the exact sequencing written on the screen.
Peter isn’t surprised, but Tim certainly is, a confused look on his face as he turns to Peter. “I mean, you’re right, but…” He trails off into contemplative silence.
“It could be an unknown species.” Peter offers, going for a tone that makes the suggestion seem like a throwaway. He knows it doesn’t exist in this world, the variant uniquely bred in a lab under radioactive conditions. “That or it got jumbled up somehow.”
Tim’s eyebrows furrow deeper.
“Hey, man, what have you been work…” Peter’s thoughts stop, crystallize. His hair stands on end.
There’s a red dot trained on the back of Tim’s head.
MOVE
“Tim!” Peter yanks on the teen’s arm as cracks spiderweb out from the glass with a bang. They skid across the floor, bullet punching into the ceiling as it misses Tim’s skull.
Alarms blare within the next half-second, bathing the room in red. Peter and Tim duck behind cover as another window is marred by a bullet. The tempered glass remains in place, keeping the streets below safe from falling shards.
Shouts echo from the floors below, reaching Peter’s sensitive ears.
“Peter!” Tim yells over the wailing of the alarm. The smell of blood hits Peter’s nose and he spots a graze on the boy’s arm. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine!”
His response is punctuated by the room being doused in darkness, the world falling to silence for a single moment.
Screams of fear sound from beneath them.
“They took the generators out. You’ll be safest here, just don’t move in front of the glass. If the power’s out, then the elevators aren’t going to be working.”
Tim’s talking to him calmly, unaware that Peter’s been in worse.
“People are scared and the stairs are going to bottleneck. They’re going to get trampled.” Peter’s voice comes out determined, unafraid. “You have to help them.”
The teen’s jaw ticks as it clenches, his sense of duty towards Peter warring against his concern for the civilians below.
Peter gives him the tiniest of smiles. Nods. “I’ll be okay.”
Tim bites out a curse. “Stay here. Call Dick.”
Peter doesn’t voice his response aloud. Like hell, they almost killed you because of me.
Instead, he nods and watches as Tim moves expertly about, keeping out of sight of the windows. Spots of crimson dot the floor where he moves, though he seems ambivalent to the pain of the wound.
He casts Peter one last look before pushing into the stairwell, checking to see if the younger boy has gone for his phone.
Peter makes a show of pulling it out and sees a flurry of text notifications, some from Dick but most from Jason. The emergency exit door closes. He powers his phone off.
Rolling up the sleeves of his sweater, Peter’s never been more glad for his boredom. Sending a mental apology to Tim, he engages his web shooters and dashes towards one of the broken windows.
~ ~ ~
Damian Wayne
Gotham City - October 18th
When Damian returns to Gotham, he finds that his family has made a mess of things. Such is often the case given their occupation as vigilantes, but he feels acutely irritated when he returns to the manor to find it empty.
Pennyworth had dutifully picked him up from the airport, asking polite questions about how Damian’s training with Jon had been. The butler artfully dodges around the topic of Batman’s activities while he had been absent, instead prattling on about the goings on of the business.
Father does not welcome him when Damian arrives, depriving him of the opportunity to grill the man for details. Investigating the personal chambers of the various members of the family reveal that Drake, Grayson, and Gordon had been spending considerable time in them.
Given their ownership of dwellings within Gotham city, Damian deduces that they have been working on a lengthy case.
It makes their disappearance from the manor that much more vexing, Grayson in particular. His older brother has a habit of treating their time together like a minor holiday, insisting upon at least one outing for the sake of ‘team bonding’.
Damian knows it’s a ruse, but he neglects to point it out for the simple reason of finding a modicum of enjoyment from their time spent together. He would not admit under pain of death that he finds himself missing the eldest Wayne sibling when he has been in Blüdhaven for too long.
It was a fleeting notion of wanting to share a meal of Pennyworth’s within the confines of the manor that had Damian ending his training with Jon two days early, his goals having already been met.
The Kryptonian boy seemed a bit put out by the hasty departure, but disappointment is an emotion that heroes must grow used to. Damian had earned himself a good-natured eyeroll when he voiced this opinion, unknowing of how to digest the fond look that accompanied the sass.
The two beings that seem elated at Damian’s return bolster his spirits, Titus and Alfred the Cat greeting him upon entry into his room. He greets them accordingly, lavishing them with his attention.
“It would seem that father and his wards have been busy.” Damian instructs his companions, scratching a finger beneath Alfred the Cat’s chin. “I expect a full report of the actions they took in my absence.”
Alfred the Cat mews.
“Hmm.” He gathers the feline into his arms and stands, pacing while Titus trots in his footsteps. “I suppose conducting a personal investigation would be prudent.”
This is the perfect opportunity to train his analytical skills.
It’s endlessly aggravating that Drake has a natural affinity for finding out the truth, casting a large shadow that must be filled with something greater. Damian often has to take several strides to reach a conclusion while his predecessor only requires a step.
Changing into a stealth conducive outfit, he packs Alfred the Cat into a backpack alongside some necessary supplies. Titus gives a small whine at being left behind, to which Damian apologizes with a treat.
He ghosts down the hall towards the kitchen and spots Pennyworth as he types a message into his phone. The butler isn’t the biggest fan of communication via text, begrudgingly accepting it when his calls are not accepted.
Damian would guess he is requesting Dick’s return to the manor, something which would waylay the investigation. That will not do.
Using the butler’s distraction to his advantage, Damian uses the tunnel routes to get to the cave, unwilling to show his hand by using the elevator. It costs him precious time, but he discovers his father’s whereabouts within the hour.
Searching another’s communication logs is frowned upon within the family, but Damian has little patience to spare as the minutes tick by. Beyond the attempts of Pennyworth to get father to return to the mansion to greet his child, there is a brief exchange which catches him slightly by surprise.
Father had received a message from Todd earlier that day requesting to meet.
It is Robin’s job to guard the Batman, and thus it is a foregone conclusion that Damian must be in attendance. Given Todd’s suspicious nature, he would not approve of father bringing backup, and as father did not request aid, he would not approve of Damian arriving unannounced.
This is a stealth mission of the highest calibre.
The first order of business: transportation. Commandeering a vehicle from the garage would notify Pennyworth and he would escalate his attempts to reach father and Grayson. They are all equipped with tracking devices, leading to a swift conclusion of the operation.
Drake would sooner betray Damian’s plan to father than aid him, which is assuming that he would reply in the first place. Public transportation is too uncertain, and civilians insist upon finding Damian’s parents as they assume ineptitude.
Thus, Damian is driven to a measure he would never had thought himself capable of employing: uber.
He departs from the cave and navigates himself through the web of sensors and alarms that would give away his position. Once suitably far from the mansion, he orders himself a ride.
A girl by the name of Lynn accepts his contract, picking him up with little fanfare. Her only comment beyond asking for the destination is “I like your cat”, to which Damian gives a curt nod. She receives a suitable tip for her compliment and silence throughout the drive, several hundred dollar bills passed into her hand.
Wandering into the outskirts of the Bowery, Damian finds it as deplorable as usual. It is on the cusp of Todd’s territory, a neutral ground upon which he has chosen to meet with father. They are to convene in a factory that Todd cleared alongside Grayson.
The range of father’s heat signature detectors forces Damian to stay up high, to which he enters the building through a vent on the roof. Alfred the Cat stays admirably quiet, still as he has fallen asleep in the backpack.
Dropping into the building, Damain hears his father speaking below. He remains out of sight, aware of the abilities of perception that the men below possess. “-Jason, you requested to meet.”
It seems that Damian has missed some of their conversation.
“Yes, but not to talk about-” Todd cuts himself off, agitated as he often is around father. “I need to know what you have on the Kennel Master.”
“I won’t help you put him in the ground.”
“I just need him off the streets.” A hint of desperation in Todd’s motives. “I’ve been doing things your way, Bruce. Just help me on this.”
There’s a scuff of a shoe on concrete as one of them shifts in place. “Five bodies have been found in the past month. I know those were you.”
“Yes, but I didn’t have a choice. They were forcing kids into the drug trade, tried to hurt another one.” This same argument, again. Damian suppresses a sigh.
Thankfully, father brings an end to their endless debate. “Why ask for help now?”
“The Kennel Master put out a bounty on a kid. It started out small, something I could handle.” Todd sounds tired, drained. “It got bumped up to one million two weeks ago. Yesterday, it went up to ten.”
Ten million for the capture of a child. Damian is unsure of if he had ever ran such a high price.
If there is one thing that father and Todd can agree on, it’s that protecting minors stands above any personal or unresolved tensions. It is what has kept father from running his ex-ward out of the city, that and the attachment that has him vulnerable where the other man is concerned.
Damain wishes he could say he is free of the same weakness.
He possesses barely there memories of Todd’s visage from the time he was a boy under mother’s watch. He required a guard before he could handle a blade, a task entrusted upon the shell of a boy.
His clearest recollection was when his guard lost sight of himself, believing to be surrounded by enemy forces.
The last time he saw Todd, the boy was attempting to end the life of Talia al Ghul. His back remained turned to his charge, no strike straying too close to Damian’s vulnerable form.
Perhaps even then, Todd did not stray from his conviction.
The following day, Damian’s guard had vanished.
Damian never shared this with father, clinging to the faint memory of being protected like a child with a stuffed toy. There were moments where Todd would stare as if trying to recall a dream, but he would shrug out of it with feigned indifference.
It’s that which makes him want to help Todd. Mother would scoff at the sentimentality. Father might be a bit proud.
“Let me meet the kid.” Father acquiesces, offering his help without asking for any favors. “I can-”
“No.”
“This has already gone too far, Jason. The Kennel Master shouldn’t have this many resources.”
“I said no, Bruce!”
“I can’t help you if I don’t know who I’m protecting!” Father matches Todd’s volume, drawn to emotion in a way that’s unique to the lost Robin.
Tension crackles in the air. There’s a sharp exhalation from Todd, an intake, then-
An alarm is sounding from their phones.
Damian’s stays silent, set to ‘mission mode’ to avoid interruptions while engaging in stealth. He pulls it out and sees that Wayne Enterprises has been attacked, Drake inside.
Father curses.
“Go.” Todd instructs, his own footfalls leading towards the exit. “Help me or don’t, I’ve got people I need to protect.”
Damian hears them leave.
Father will attend to Drake, and it is doubtless that Grayson will assist.
Todd exits from the door beneath Damian’s perch. He slips back out and watches as Todd runs to his bike, his phone still in hand. He punches in a number and pulls it to his ear. “Peter, come on…”
A second passes and Todd is pulling the phone down, the call going to voicemail.
He shoves the device into his pocket and turns on the bike, engine roaring as it ignites. Reaching into the small storage, Todd secures a red muzzle and domino mask onto his face. The Red Hood sets out into the city as Bruce Wayne speeds in the opposite direction.
It seems as though Damian will have to deal with this Kennel Master himself.
Notes:
The child has arrived just in time for a crisis.
Chapter Text
Jason Todd
Crime Alley – October 18th
Rain is pouring down in sheets as Jason’s bike skids to a stop in front of his garage, fear crowding thick in his mind. His heart is pounding, fingers refusing to unclench around the handlebars of the bike.
He slams through the door, leaving his bike outside for easier extraction. He’s dripping water all over the floor, leaving a trail through the garage.
Peter isn’t home yet.
The tracker in his phone had pinged his location to the Wayne tower, Jason’s mind whirling as he tried to reason why Peter would be there. Bruce was standing in the old factory, removing his usual prime suspect from the equation.
Hearing that Tim was in the tower at the time of the attack, Jason had connected the dots.
The Red Robin is known as nearing Batman’s equal in intelligence, having figured out the hero’s identity when he was a child. Peter’s a magnet for trouble and had left despite Jason’s endless cautioning. Either Tim figured out the identity of the pit survivor or the universe is playing some sick kind of joke on them.
Whoever fired on the tower doesn’t care about catching people in the crossfire and isn’t worried about making Bruce Wayne their enemy. They’re confident in their ability to skirt whatever the Prince of Gotham might be able to throw their way.
This isn’t gang territory. This is the Kennel Master’s benefactors making a move.
Jason was too late.
He rushes about the garage, gathering whatever they might need while on the run. Disposing of anything that’d give away his identity, Jason is just stocking up on weapons when there’s a slam against one of the windows.
Whipping his pistols out on instinct, he pulls his fingers off the triggers when he sees a humanoid form adhered to the dampened panes of glass. Having left it unlocked for emergency use, Peter slips inside.
“Jason?”
Holstering his weapons, Jason rushes over. “Peter!”
With inhuman speed, the kid almost bowls Jason over as he burrows himself into his arms. Peter’s breathing is laboured and his hands are shaking where they’re clutching onto Jason’s jacket.
He returns the hug, his mask pressing against the kid’s hair. It’s pressed flat with rain, Peter’s skin freezing as his soaked clothing saps his body of any heat.
The urgency of their situation has Jason breaking the hold much too quickly, taking Peter’s face into his hands so he can check for injuries. “Hey, are you okay?”
“Yeah.” Peter nods in a quick jerk, adrenaline blowing his pupils wide. “I was at the tower, I-”
“I know. Tell me what happened.” Jason waits, but Peter’s mind is going to fast for him to get any words out. “Were you followed?”
“No.” The kid gets the word out with confidence. “I used my web shooters to get around, and my senses didn’t pick up a tail.”
“That’s good. You did good, Queens.”
Peter nods, eyes fixated on Jason’s face, and that’s the moment he remembers he’d never told the kid about who he became when he painted the streets with blood. Something must show in the pinch of his brow, because Peter’s settling a hand on his arm gently. “It’s okay. I knew.”
This kid. Jason smiles behind the mask. “Okay. We have to go.”
Jason turns to grab his bag, missing the way Peter’s eyes go wide. Two hands are twisting into his jacket and he’s getting thrown to the side.
A window shatters.
There’s a pained gasp and the sound of a bullet hitting flesh. Jason rolls out of the throw and looks up, watching as Peter stumbles back a few steps.
Blood’s pouring from his leg.
The kid darts over to Jason, one hand pressing against his wound. He looks confused amongst the fear. “I don’t get it, nobody was-”
“That doesn’t matter, go!”
A bullet chips into the concrete flooring and a figure crashes through one of the windows. They land and roll expertly, clad in black. Definitely not from a gang.
Jason lugs Peter along, firing at the assailant. They dodge behind the couch, allowing escape in favor of staying alive.
The bike is thankfully unmarred, giving them a fighting chance at getting away. Sliding on, Jason revs it and they’re taking off.
One of Peter’s hands is sticking to the body of the bike, his digits stained red. The sight has Jason fighting back his emotions, teeth gritting as he pushes down a swell of verdant-tinted haze.
The lenses of his domino mask allow him to see despite the downpour, but it’s Peter’s tap on his side that has him noticing that they’re being pursued.
Three matte black motorcycles speed behind them, the riders helmetless. Jason doesn’t recognize a single one, their expressions devoid of emotion.
A good ol’ chase then.
Speeding up, he relies on his knowledge of Crime Alley to guide them down narrow passages and difficult turns. They gain some much needed distance, but can’t shake their pursuers. They’re good.
Peter shifts his weight and turns, legs pulling up the body of the bike. He perches on the back, trusting Jason to keep control of the bike as he sticks tight.
There’s a thwip from behind and the crunch of metal as a bike starts rolling. Chancing a look behind his shoulder, Jason sees one of the pursuers stuck to the wall with webs.
Fitting.
The other two escalate in response, pulling weapons from their holsters as they start to fire at Jason’s ride. He takes a sharp corner to navigate out of their line of fire, but ends up along a long straight.
A bullet pings off the metal of the bike. Shit.
Peter’s hand taps at Jason’s shoulder and he points to an upcoming overpass.
Oh, this kid’s crazy.
Gunning it, Jason builds more speed. The kid shifts again, planting one foot on the side of the bike as he finds the machine’s centre of gravity.
Unholstering a weapon, Jason fires at the motorcycles behind them, giving Peter room to maneuver.
Thwip.
Jason’s stomach swoops as the bike’s wheels leave the cement. Peter remains adhered to it as he pulls them in an arc, a cry of exertion reaching Jason’s ears as Peter takes on over 500 pounds of weight on an injured leg.
The webs hold, and Peter fires off two more strings to correct their trajectory. He shifts and then the bike is slamming back down atop the overpass, leaving their pursuers on the road below.
Peter settles back onto his seat and his forehead drops against Jason’s back.
The kid is hurting. Bad.
Reorienting their path towards his safehouse, Jason foregoes traffic laws in favour of reaching their destination.
He’s going to get them there. He has to.
From the corner of his eye, he sees Peter use his webs to staunch some of the bleeding, trembling fingers pressing hard against the wound.
Jason really messed this whole thing up, huh?
He turns down a side street, closing in on the safehouse. The road is empty save for the two of them, as surefire as a home run.
Just a bit further.
A blot of orange stands out from the darkened hue of twilight. There’s a flash, a pop.
Deathstroke.
One of Jason’s wheels blows out.
The resulting burst of air pressure sends the bike into a roll. Flesh meets concrete over and over, skin scraping against the unforgiving surface.
There’s a moment where Jason just lies there, air pushed from his lungs. The world is reduced to the five basic senses.
The smell of gas and rain. Streaks of colour. Pain. Ringing in the ears. The taste of blood.
A word crosses his mind: Peter.
The blurring of the world doesn’t stop Jason from pushing himself up, summoning the strength he didn’t have when the Joker stood over him. The kid is trying to stand, wheezing coughs punching out of his chest.
Peter tenses.
In all their training, Jason had become well acquainted with all of the kid’s tells. He never dropped the habit of twisting his heel before a punch. He always kicked out with the left foot first.
He stiffened when his spider sense warned him of danger.
Peter had already taken one bullet for him tonight.
Turning, Jason steps into the path of the bullet. Slade had been aiming for Peter’s head, banking on the Red Hood’s instinct to protect.
Warmth blooms over Jason’s ribs, followed by agony. He’d been shot before. The feeling is an old friend.
“Jason!” Peter’s voice cracks around his name.
Something tugs at his hip. Another bullet lodges into his thigh, a matching wound to the one that had carved its way into Peter’s leg under an hour ago.
Jason’s strength gives out.
A bang sounds just over his head and his eyes focus on one of his holsters, empty.
“You sure you don’t want to learn how to shoot? It could come in handy.”
“No. I just… I can’t. It’s a line that I can’t cross.”
Jason forces his head up and sees Slade clutching at his shoulder atop the roof he’d perched on. The assassin abandons his rifle and drops out of view, his mission complete.
He wouldn’t have left otherwise.
“Peter?”
~ ~ ~
Peter Parker
Gotham City – October 18th
The gun clatters as it falls from Peter’s hands.
It felt exactly and not at all how he expected, the force of the bullet firing negligible with his strength. The shot was loud, sounded more deafening than he’d grown used to.
Bile pushes at his throat. He just-
He can’t think of it. Not now.
Jason needs him.
Peter’s body aches as he loops one of Jason’s arms over his shoulders, the hurt layering and pounding along with the frantic beating of his pulse. They have to get out of the street, the growl of approaching bikes dancing along the edge of Peter’s senses.
His leg feels as if someone is driving a molten spike into it with each step, but he forces one leg in front of the other. They help each other along, though Peter can feel Jason’s strength waning.
He doesn’t know where he’s going. Every corner they take looks the same.
There’s too much blood coming from his chest. His lungs are getting tacky as liquid trickles in through the wound, the sound of his tissue sticking audible as he struggles to draw in breath.
The people looking for Peter draw ever closer. Jason is safer without him.
Unable to carry Jason any further, Peter props him up against the wall of an alley. A dumpster conceals his body from sight, the trail of blood mingling with the heavy raindrops that settle into puddles.
Peter presses his hands into Jason’s chest, red squelching through his fingers. He’s been here twice before, hopelessly trying to keep a guardian alive as they lay dying beneath him. It's always his fault.
Jason keeps trying to help but his skin slips against Peter’s with the crimson that paints them both. He’s looking down, wheezing, doing his best to keep himself together.
The motorcycles stop as they come upon the wreck of Jason’s bike.
Peter closes his eyes, doesn’t want to let go.
They’re out of time.
Pulling his hands away, he uses the last of his webs to seal Jason’s wound the best he can. He reaches into his pocket and finds a small cube, pulling it out to press the button.
Peter gently urges it into his friend’s hands, guiding them to press against the webs to maintain pressure. He gathers his bravery and smiles, a small broken thing that’s supposed to bring comfort. “You gotta stay here, okay?”
Jason’s eyes are blinking sluggishly behind his mask, energy waning as his body has settled. He shakes his head in a slow motion, attention turning up to Peter.
“Your job is just keep breathing for me, alright?” Peter’s hand tightens over Jason’s. “I’m gonna lead them away.”
“No-” Jason objection is smothered by a wet cough, each intake rattling down his windpipe.
“Told you I’d be a pain in your ass.” The attempt at levity sounds like a goodbye. Jason reaches for Peter, grasping at his wrist. “You were my hero when I had nothing. Let me save you this time.”
Jason’s hand slips back onto his chest when Peter draws away, devastation plain on his face. His legs twitch in a desperate move to stand.
But Peter’s already gone.
~ ~ ~
Bruce Wayne
Gotham City – October 18th
Tim is alright.
He’s sitting in an ambulance looking harried and upset, frowning as a paramedic bandages a wound on his arm. A shock blanket is settled around his body, hanging loosely as he tries to subtly shift it off of him.
A crowd mills about in front of the tower, reporters and shaking employees creating a wall between Bruce and his son. Several canopies have been set up for people to huddle beneath, shying away from the rain.
Dick is talking with Lucious Fox beneath the awning, faces grim as they converse with low voices. Fox’s assistant is speaking into their phone, taking point on cleaning this whole mess up.
An officers holds a hand up to stop Bruce as he approaches the tape, but backs off upon realizing who she’s looking at. He’s waved through, making a beeline for Tim.
Settling a hand on the teen’s shoulder, Tim looks up as Bruce asks, “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” A glance at the paramedic confirms the truth, earning him a huff. “There were some minor injuries aside from mine in the panic, but Fox and I were able to aid in the evacuations.”
“Good.”
The crunch of shoes on the sidewalk heralds Dick and Fox’s arrival beside Bruce. The younger man settles a hand on Tim’s head, “You alright there?”
“I’m fine.” He’s always been testy when he feels like he’s being coddled, a trait shared with Damian. Tim moves out from beneath Dick’s hand, something worried settling in his eyes. “Did Peter call you?”
Dick’s brows furrow, Bruce mirroring the action as he doesn’t recognize the name. “No. He was with you.”
“I got him to hide in my office and he was going to call you. He told me to go.” Tim’s hand grips onto the blanket slung over his shoulders, body tensing. “I was going to find him but I got pulled into the ambulance.”
Dick straightens and starts scanning the crowd, Fox looking about as lost as Bruce. Ducking into Tim’s eyeline, Bruce vies for his attention. “Who is Peter?”
“A friend.” Dick supplies, shouldering the burden. “I invited him for a tour of the tower.”
“Bruce, he saved my life.” Tim’s words have Bruce’s attention snapping over, grim awareness on his son’s face. “He pulled me out of the path of the bullet.”
“Okay.” Bruce takes a breath to steel himself. “I’ll check the office. Stay here.”
Looking back to the tower, the lobby is swarming with police taking statements and paramedics checking over the civilians. With a nod to Lucious, Bruce pulls out his phone to temporarily disable the cameras as they wander inside.
By virtue of being Bruce Wayne, engaging in stealth while in his civilian persona is difficult. His bulk and tall stature makes him stand out in a crowd, and his tendency for scandal makes him prone to scrutiny.
To account for this, Fox runs interference as people start to take notice of their presence. He sweeps their attention up, allowing Bruce to blend into the throng of bodies.
Ducking into the private elevator, he watches the floors tick by with the illumination of numbers.
The loss of power during the attack is troubling with the tower’s dense security and high-tech generators. Neither were damaged during the shooting, meaning that someone had to hack in or manually disable them from within the tower.
There’s also the matter of the bullets used, as very little has proven to be able to penetrate the glass he’d installed into the tower. The attacker would need advanced weaponry to damage it, no less punch through.
The elevator lets out a pleasant ding as it reaches Tim’s office, the space thankfully clear of police presence. They hadn’t been able to get the access code to the floor from any of the Waynes, something Bruce would like to keep that way.
The room is deceptively clean, marred only by dust and stone littering the floor where it had rained down from the ceiling alongside fragments of glass. One of the panes has fallen from its frame, harsh winds blowing rain through the open gap.
Approaching it, Bruce sees that it hadn’t completely shattered, rather lying on the tiled flooring in a single piece. There’s a hole where a bullet had bore through, the bulletproof material maintaining a rough shape.
The seal along the edge of the frame looks as if it was ripped, either by pulling or pushing. Given that the rubber and space bar are designed to endure heavy weather conditions, it would take a great measure of force to be torn away from its holding.
Looking up, the radius of the hole that the bullet carved into the ceiling would indicate a higher calibre, likely from a sniper rifle. He can run reconstructions later when police aren’t moments away from filing a search warrant.
The impact point of the bullet and the trajectory through the window would’ve had the shooter atop one of the low lying roofs of the nearby buildings. A harder shot, but an easier getaway.
Tim’s computer and monitors are all Wayne tech, so they’ve weathered the rain that’s blown onto them. Punching in the password, his work fills the screens.
The latest documents pulled up are the DNA test results that Tim had been working on. On another monitor, a scan had been run comparing a section of the unknown genes to those of spiders.
He’d found some matches.
Suspicion growing, Bruce accesses the security cameras from the floor and rewinds it to before the power outage. Scrubbing forward, there hadn’t been any activity in the office until Tim and Peter had exited the elevator.
The teenager is wearing a black baseball cap, making it difficult to see his face with the angle of the cameras. He stands by the windows for a few minutes until he’s drawn over to the computers by Tim.
They’re deep in discussion, fingers pointing at the screens as they collaborate. It’s endearing to see Tim talking alongside a peer, their expressions matching as they ruminate on the problem.
Then, Peter is stiffening and turning towards Tim, eyes latching onto the speck of red light that’s dancing over the back of his head. Reacting with miraculous speed, he latches onto Tim and pulls him to the ground as the bullet scrapes along the older teen’s arm.
They take cover, ensure one another’s safety, then the feed cuts out.
Bruce hits the rewind button, stopping a few seconds before the first shot is fired.
Pressing play, he leans closer.
The two boys are reading over the documents, something Tim was not supposed to share outside of the team, and then Peter’s body is tensing.
The angle of the shooter would not allow him to see a glint in the window, nor the red of the laser. No alarms were tripped, and Tim didn’t move in any alarming way.
Tim, the Red Robin, didn’t notice. He almost-
Think about that later. Focus.
When Peter saved Tim, he moved in a blur. Inhumanly fast. He found sturdy cover, acted calm under pressure. Disappeared when the coast was clear.
Bruce looks over his shoulder at the pane of glass sitting on the ground.
He thinks of a boy in his teens standing on a rooftop in a black cap and mask, turning to peer towards a still, silent Batman.
For the second time in one day, an alarm sounding from Bruce’s phone has his heart dropping to his feet.
Distress signal: Jason Todd.
Notes:
The boys have been separated ;n;
Chapter 11
Notes:
Small tw for allusions to human trafficking, comes after "But progress isn't a thing that happens over a single night". Nothing described or discussed in length /gen
Enjoy my friends <3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Bruce Wayne
Gotham City – October 18th
The first half of the drive to the distress signal’s origin is lost to the turmoil that churns in Bruce’s mind. He can’t think, doesn’t know how he got from Tim’s office to the garage.
The last time he’d seen that beacon active, he’d found Jason’s body broken upon the crook of the Joker’s crowbar.
He can’t do it again.
He can’t fail Jason again.
Dick is following on his bike, barely keeping up with the frantic weaving of Bruce’s car in and out of traffic. The screen affixed to the car’s interior updates him with the fastest route, maneuvering him down side roads and old service tunnels that have been put into disuse.
The signal is coming from near one of Jason’s safehouses, their locations disclosed not long ago in an unexpected show of trust. Bruce hadn’t snapped that olive branch yet, hadn’t snooped, not even when bodies had surfaced in Crime Alley two weeks ago.
It’s on the edge of Newtown that Bruce brings the car to a stop, skidding as he slams on the breaks. He nearly runs over the mangled remains of a familiar bike, blood going cold at the sight. The front wheel had been burst, Bruce having no time to see what caused such damage.
He leaves the engine of the car running as he rushes down the alley. Dick is right behind him, doing well to fight back the fear that’s only a glimmer in his eyes.
For a moment, Bruce thinks that Jason had dropped the beacon in a chase, seeing no sign of the man nor a trace to follow.
Then he spots the soles of two boots just barely visible behind a dumpster, unmoving.
No.
He darts over and sees Jason slumped against the wall, hands limp in his lap. They’re soaked with crimson from where they’d been pressed against a wound in his chest. The beacon is on the ground next to him, pulsing with a faint red light.
His eyes are closed behind the mask, not giving even the slightest twitch at Bruce and Dick’s presence.
A sharp intake of breath comes from where Dick is standing behind them.
Bruce kneels, uncaring of how the fabric his pants gets soaked with red, and presses a hand against Jason’s wound. There’s a makeshift bandage stretched across it in a lump, wound packed by strand-like filaments.
The fingers of his other hand dig into Jason’s neck where his pulse should be, feeling an unsteady beat that’s growing weaker as the seconds trickle by.
There’s another bandage on his thigh, no telling if the bullet wound had broken through an artery. Lacerations and bruises litter his skin, blood loss difficult to gauge with the rain that washes it all away.
Looking up at Dick, he gives him an order. “Call Thompkins to the cave.”
Dick nods and pulls out his phone, hands trembling almost imperceptibly despite his ability to stay calm in times of crisis. Bruce zones out of their conversation, reaching into his pocket for a small injector.
Jamming it against Jason’s thigh, he pumps pure adrenaline into the injured man’s body.
A handful of seconds pass where nothing happens, the words too late repeating on loop in Bruce’s head.
Jason’s chest expands in a gasp.
He chokes on fluid, coughs racking through his damaged lungs. His eyes blow wide with panic, heart kicking up to a frenzied pace.
Dick, having concluded his call with Thompkins, is there in a second. He presses his palms against the wound in Jason’s thigh, earning a strangled cry from the injured man.
“Shh shh.” Bruce tries to calm Jason’s addled state, discarding the injector to cup a hand around the back of his neck. “Jason, it’s me.”
“Bruce?” Jason sounds disbelieving, something young in the quaver of his words.
“Yeah, chum.” Bruce slips back into the old nickname, watching as Jason’s fingers twitch in response. “You have to stay awake.”
Jason nods, his breaths sounding like water rattling down a pipe. They have to move.
“I couldn’t save him.” Jason’s voice lowers to a slurring murmur, adrenaline waning. “I’m sorry, Bruce.”
Bruce bites back a curse, Dick looking over in concern. Bruce adjusts his hold as he looks to his eldest. “We need to get him to the cave.”
Dick nods, shifting to get his arms beneath Jason’s body. Pulling away brings a pain that’s almost physical, a lance going through Bruce’s chest at the sound that Jason makes when he’s lifted.
He moves ahead, opening the passenger door to let Dick settle his injured brother inside. Jason has gathered some of his wits, focus set on keeping pressure on his wound.
Bruce sets the computer to bring them home, Dick lingering at the door. “I’ll meet you there.” He departs with a nod, throat moving around a heavy swallow.
Jason’s head lolls as Bruce hits the gas, wheels squealing as they try to gain traction on the rain-slick asphalt. He’s quiet, face turned away from the windows, breaths laborious and wheezing.
Bruce can’t help but think of how they’d been talking just earlier that day, their long exhausted feud standing in the way of making amends. Jason was asking for help, and hadn’t gotten it.
Always too late.
Jason’s head drops against his chest.
Bruce sets the car to autopilot, twisting in his seat to reach into a side compartment. He pulls out a blood transfusion kit and yanks up his sleeve, donning a pair of latex gloves. Swabbing a patch of skin on each of their arms, Bruce slides a needle into his arm and holds it high, affixing the opposite end to Jason’s.
After a moment, gravity does its job and red begins to siphon through.
Not this time.
~ ~ ~
Dick Grayson
Wayne Manor – October 18th
Tim is waiting alongside Alfred and Leslie Thompkins when Bruce and Dick arrive at the cave, a stretcher prepped to cart Jason to the med bay. They all converge when the car rolls to a stop, pulling up to the far end of the runway.
Dick gets to the door first, uncaring of the way his bike falls onto its side, paint flaking off as metal scrapes against the ground.
Pulling it open, he swallows down the rise of fear as he sees that Jason has fallen unconscious again, a line connecting his arm to Bruce’s. His skin is icy, heat drained from the rain and lack of blood circulating in his veins.
He’s still, quiet in a way that Jason never is.
Leslie shoulders her way past Dick, ordering him to give her space. She disconnect the line and presses gauze to the injection point, turning to look at the men gathered around her. “Get him on the stretcher.”
Dick and Tim move together, careful to avoid jostling Jason’s injuries. Alfred grabs onto the handlebars and follows the doctor's directions, the two hurrying away once their patient has been settled atop the padded surface.
The driver side door opens and Bruce pulls himself out, one hand braced on the roof of the car. He’s gripping it as if needing it for balance.
His skin is pale, vitality waning with the amount of blood he’d given on the way.
Dick goes to assist but Tim has beaten him to it, looping one of Bruce’s arms over his shoulder. He gets a bit of perfunctory complaints, Bruce claiming he doesn’t need the help, but he doesn’t shove the teen away.
It’s the biggest sign that Bruce is at his limit. He never lets anyone help him.
Dick starts to follow, the pair trudging their way towards the med bay, but Tim turns to lock eyes with his older brother. There’s an upset curve to his mouth, but his gaze holds nothing but resolve as he turns to look meaningfully at the Robin suits.
Following the eyeline, Dick finds himself looking at Damian’s suit.
Damian.
Looking back to Tim, Dick’s eyes widen in understanding. It earns him a nod, trust given that he’ll see to the problem.
The pair draw further away, leaving Dick on his own. Emotions thrash within his chest, each vying for his attention.
Anger that someone would dare hurt his brothers. Worry for what state Bruce will be in when dust settles. Fear that Damian’s gotten himself mixed up in all of this.
Closing his eyes, Dick fills his lungs and presses the emotions into a single thought. They need me.
Weaving over to the computer, Dick shoves a comm into his ear. “Oracle, come in.”
The response is immediate. “I’m at the clock tower. I heard what happened, to Tim and Jason.”
“It’s just you and I tonight. If you hear from Bruce, don’t let him go out.” Dick knows it’s too much to ask, but he does it regardless. “Damian is missing from the manor, and somebody shot my little brother.”
“I’m pulling up the city’s feeds now.” Barbara cuts right to the chase, connecting her search to the cave’s computer systems. Dick watches as she accesses the server’s uses throughout the day while the CCTV is running, searching for any sign of Jason.
She finds Damian’s earlier use of the computer first, opening a brief exchange of messages between Bruce and Jason. They’d met in the Bowery minutes before the shooting at the tower, creating a point of convergence for all three.
Damian wouldn’t be able to stay away, his protectiveness of Bruce outweighing his common sense.
They split from there, only a vague shadow making up Damian’s form before he’s moving out of frame. He’d been trained extensively on how to avoid detection by city cameras, both by Batman and the League.
Jason is easier to follow, racing through Crime Alley towards his garage. The cameras in the surrounding blocks were shot out when he’d moved into the place, not wanting Oracle to be keeping tabs on him quite so easily.
A smudge of orange on one of the cameras has Dick calling out, “Wait.”
Barbara is already ahead of him, inching the tape back frame by frame until that bit of orange is visible again. Mid-dash is a humanoid figure, clad in telltale shades. “Is that…”
“Deathstroke.”
A familiar hate burns through Dick’s mind, hand clenching on the mouse until the plastic cracks.
Deathstroke had chosen hunting Robins as his favourite pastime, and with Damian out in the city, it means his prey of choice is rife for the picking.
Jason’s blood is dripping from Dick's hands, seeping into the keyboard.
Slamming a fist against the desk, he stands and stalks to where his suit is stashed.
Within a minute he’s at his bike, hefting it off the ground. A quick spin of the wheels and it’s oriented towards the exit.
“You’re my eyes and ears out there, Oracle. Lead the way.”
~ ~ ~
Barbara Gordon
The Clock Tower – October 18th
Barbara wouldn’t give up being Oracle for anything.
The Joker could come prancing into the Clock Tower and threaten to blow her brains out if she didn’t give it up, and she’d just spit in his face. Bruce could ban her from active duty and she’d just hack her way back in.
They need her. All of them.
Alfred needs someone to watch the manor’s cameras when he’s asleep. Bruce needs someone to keep his children alive when he can’t bear to take another step.
Dick needs someone to believe in him. Tim and Damian need someone to remind them that they’re human, Duke much the same.
Kate needs to be reminded that she’s a part of the family. Steph and Cass need someone who will try to understand.
Jason needed someone to save him.
And Barbara needs… she needs this.
On days like this, that urge to help just makes everything feel worse.
Her fingers cramp and stiffen as she refuses to take a break, the keys and mouse yielding beneath her hands. Another night’s sleep lost to the shadows of Gotham city, a headache building behind her eyes as she splits her attention three ways.
A third of the screens flit between CCTV feeds as she searches for answers on how Jason wound up shot and slowly bleeding out in an alleyway.
Others track Dick as chases after his youngest brother and the monster who would give anything to be the one to put the kid in the ground.
The last of the monitors are kept focused on the cave. In one, Bruce is slumped tiredly on a chair, skin pale as he has his head in his hands. In another, Tim is pacing, mind running as he fixates on his failings of the day.
One feed is patched into the room where Dr.Thompkins and Alfred are performing emergency surgery, Barbara watching as they move around Jason’s battered form. They’re patching the hole in his lung, blood being fed into his veins just as quickly as he’s losing it.
There’s an ache in her knuckles. Maybe in another world, she would’ve been the one to finally take Deathstroke off the map.
But they need her here, and so here she will stay.
~ ~ ~
Dick Grayson
Gotham City – October 19th
“Dick, I have a hit on Deathstroke.” Barbara reports, steady despite the chaos of the day. “He’s receiving payment on a rooftop in the Narrows. I’ll send the coordinates.”
They come through on the GPS that had been installed onto his bike, pointing him deep into the twisting maze of roads that makes up the small island. He alters his course and asks, “Who is he with?”
“I’m not sure. I can’t see their faces.”
Worth a shot.
Barbara continues after a moment of hesitation. “I found the footage of Red Hood’s crash. He was with someone, looks young. They don’t show up on any cameras after they drag him into the alley.”
I couldn’t save him. I’m sorry Bruce.
“Send the footage to the cave. Hood mentioned a bounty being set on a kid, capture not kill.” Dick veers around a car, earning him a honk as he blazes past. “Finding him is top priority. He might’ve been Deathstroke’s intended target.”
“So all of this was just a ploy to get him alone, away from the Red Hood’s protection.” Barbara sounds about as pissed as Dick feels.
“Seems so.”
“The kid was pulling off some crazy moves.” Barbara’s voice is somber. “He’s gotta be a meta.”
Dick thinks of the teen that Bruce had met on that rooftop, the way that the older man had refused to let them in on the case.
Metas hadn’t been treated well in Gotham throughout the years, Batman’s distrust of powered individuals creating a hostile environment. He’d improved in his perception, in large part due to Duke’s presence in his life.
But progress isn’t a thing that happens over a single night. Meta fight clubs and trafficking remained too common in Gotham, police turning a blind eye to the issue, something which had come to slap Dick across the face after Peter’s-
The running of his thoughts comes to a stop.
He’d almost forgotten about-
Peter.
The brilliant kid popping up out of nowhere, equipped with a strong sense of justice and a will to try to bring about change.
Peter’s disappearance from the tower, his first priority being the people in the floors below, urging Tim to help them. His work in making an adhesive bandage for bandaging wounds, one that would work exactly like the substance that had packed Jason’s wounds.
The meta meeting Batman atop a roof, one that had Bruce enabling their protocols on sensitive cases.
Jason refusing to work alongside Bruce and Dick, keeping something from them. Someone.
The Lazarus pits. All of it.
“Dick?”
“I know who it is.” He kicks up the speed of his bike. “The kid. It’s Peter.”
Barbara is silent. A quiet curse filters through Dick’s comms, the realization settling in. “The attack at the tower, it wasn’t targeting Tim.”
“No. He was just collateral.” Dick races across the bridge into the Narrows. “Whoever’s going after Peter isn't afraid of making big moves.”
“Couldn’t have been the Kennel Master. His operation’s still too small to be pulling this off.”
“Seems he’s got a benefactor.” Dick pulls to a stop, killing the bike. “I’m closing in on the location, going dark.”
“Be careful, Dick.” Barbara tacks on, “Kick his ass, yeah? For the Red Hood.”
That, he can do. “You bet.”
Grappling up to the rooftops, Dick moves from building to building, flying in arcs over the gaps between. The world feels darker away from the street lamps below, the only illumination coming from the light pollution of the city.
That, and the reflection of faraway towers on sharpened metal.
Dick tucks into a roll as a knife breezes past his cheek, dodging as he pulls his escrima into his hands. The building he’d landed on used to be an old chemical plant, the ideal haunt for what feels like all of Gotham’s nasties.
He turns to see Deathstroke strolling forward, an arm reaching back to unsheathe one of his blades.
“Took you long enough.” The mercenary spins his sword idly. “My meeting wrapped up ages ago.”
Dick sets his shoulders, eyeing Slade. “Been a long day. Your throws could use some work.”
“It’s bad form to kill your opponent before they know you’re there.”
“Hasn’t stopped you before.”
“True.” Slade shrugs, stopping his advance a dozen feet away. “Don't forget your manners. I’m still waiting on my ‘thank you’.”
“From me?” Dick’s fingers tighten around his weapons. “You shot the Red Hood and attacked innocent civilians.”
“Given that you haven’t launched yourself at me in a vengeful haze, I would assume that the Hood yet lives.” Slade takes a few steps to the side, Dick mirroring his movements. “I could have done it, a couple degrees to the left and boom, there goes the heart.”
Dick struggles to keep his cool with the blasé way that Slade’s talking about ending Jason's life. “So why didn’t you?”
“Too much hassle. Besides, that one came back once before and I heard he’s got quite the bone to pick with the Joker because of it. One of you hounding me is enough.” He gives a pointed stare through the lenses of his dual tone helmet. “Did what I was contracted to, anyways.”
“Separate the target from the Red Hood.” Slade shrugs at Dick’s words, confirming them with the lack of a sharp-tongued retort. “Not your usual m.o.”
“Yeah, well, I like this city. It thrives on chaos, makes for the big bucks.” The reminder of Deathstroke’s primary motivator never ceases to annoy. “It would be a shame if anything were to change.”
“And you’re such a paragon of upholding the old Gotham traditions then?” Dick tosses his escrima up before catching them, dark satisfaction rising when Slade tenses at the action.
“You don’t get it, do you?” Slade shakes his head, stalking around Dick. “This whole thing isn’t about capturing the kid, or getting him away from the Red Hood. This is all just a set up for the main event.”
Dick narrows his brows but doesn’t go for the obvious bait.
“Never mind that. I heard there’s a little birdie out in the city tonight, one that flew too far from the nest.” Deathstroke’s head tilts, smile almost visible through his helmet. “I heard he’s your favourite.”
Dick darts forward.
“Attaboy.”
Metal meets metal as Dick catches Slade’s blade with his escrima, sparks screeching as the blow glances off in a slide.
Dick’s back bows as he bends to avoid a wide swipe, the tip missing his throat by a hair’s breadth. Slade bends his elbow and slams it against the vigilante’s temple, sending stars across his vision.
Bringing his escrima down on instinct, Dick catches Slade’s wrist in a blow that has his sword clattering from his hand. The blade is kicked aside as the two grapple, skittering out of reach.
Dick brings his knee up to slam against Slade’s side, feeling a couple of ribs give way with a snap. He gets shoved back, feet skidding as he keeps his balance.
Slade chuckles, clutching at his side before standing. “Not holding back, are you Nightwing?”
“You threatened Robin, almost killed Red Hood. Got innocent people hurt.” Dick lets his jovial mask slough off. The anger, worry, and fear move in to replace it. “Shot a teenage boy. Sentenced another to die.”
Slade laughs and meets Dick’s next strike in the middle, pulling a knife from his belt. He cuts a line across Dick’s cheek, blood weeping from it to trace down to the vigilante’s chin.
Dick doesn’t feel a thing.
He slams the palm of his hand against the pommel of the knife, sending it flying. He uses the same hand to jab at Deathstroke’s throat, earning a choke as he damages the mercenary’s windpipe.
Reeling a foot back, Dick slams it against Slade’s chest to send him tripping back. More of his ribs break with the force of the blow.
But Slade isn’t one to be caught on the wrong foot. He lets himself fall, pulls a pistol from its holster, and lifts it to point at Dick’s head.
Before he can fire, the muzzle is being deflected. A shot rings out, bullet going wide. The dark shape of a batarang deflects off and disappears over the lip of the roof.
“Nightwing!” A younger voice calls out, the open concern killing any of Dick’s hope that it’s Damian. Two roofs over, Red Robin is vaulting a gap, bo-staff clutched in one hand.
“Another bird, my lucky night.” Slade rolls into a crouch, reaching into his belt. “But three’s a party and I’ve had a busy day.”
The mercenary pulls a device out of his pocket and leaps back, pressing a button. “Watch your step.”
There are several pops from beneath Dick’s feet and the roof crumbles away. He shoots out a grapple on instinct, but a bullet carves through the wire.
Then, he’s falling.
His senses sharpen, chemicals burning in his lungs as he gasps. Drops of rain crystalize in an odd bit of clarity, Dick’s only thought being: Man, I’m so stupid.
Of course Slade would have a plan.
His brain is sorting out a Plan B when there’s the zip of a grappling line and the hole in the ceiling is being blotted out by a cape. A hand wraps around Dick’s forearm and then his shoulder’s getting jarred in its socket.
Tim’s jaw clenches around a yell as he takes Dick’s full weight onto his joints. The cable holding them up creaks but holds, leaving them dangling over the vats below.
Tim looks down, breath huffing. “I got you.”
“Thought it was my job to catch you, Red.” Dick smiles up at his brother before casting his gaze about the room. “How many chemical plants does one city need?”
Tim lowers them onto a walkway, disengaging his hook. “How ever would our revolving door of rogues continue without them?”
Dick goes to hit Tim on the arm jovially, but stops when he sees a patch of red blooming on his arm… right where he got shot a few hours ago. “You’re still hurt.”
“I’m fine, honestly. Probably just popped the stitches.” Tim settles his hand on it, pressing down with a grimace. “I didn’t know you were going to be in a fight. I came out to look for Peter and Damian, that’s it. I swear.”
“About Peter-”
Tim cuts him off. “He’s the one that was with Jason right? The one Deathstroke was after?”
Dick nods, finding a proud smile tugging at his lips despite the exhaustion settling in. “Should’ve known you’d figure it out.”
“Dick, it’s my fault he’s out there.” Tim shrugs off the praise, too caught in his self flagellation. “I left him in the tower, should’ve guessed that he was in trouble, there were so many signs-”
It’s Dick’s turn to interrupt, laying a steadying hand on the top of Tim’s head. “Hey, leave some blame for the rest of us. I think we can all take some here.”
Tim swallows, gaze moving to Dick and then back away. He looks tired.
“We’ll head back to the cave, get patched up. Slade’s done for the night.” Tim’s mouth opens around an argument, but Dick continues before the teen can interrupt. “We can’t help Peter or Damian in this state. Running ourselves into the ground will only get us killed, possibly even them.”
Closing his eyes, Tim nods his head, teeth clenched. “I’m going back out tomorrow though, whether you and Bruce like it or not. They need us.”
“You’re right, and I couldn’t stop you even if I wanted to.” Dick takes the lead as they start to exit the building, making a mental note to get it cleared of dangerous chemicals after they leave.
They have enough problems as it is.
Notes:
Add a tally to Tim's "I'm fine" counter. Also, very therapeutic writing Slade's ass getting kicked by Dick, ngl.
Chapter Text
Alfred Pennyworth
Wayne Manor – October 20th
Being the butler for the Wayne family and their estate is a task unfit for the weak willed.
Keeping the grounds presentable and caring for its occupants makes for an unending list of chores, one that Alfred has found contentment in. He had not chosen the occupation for the funds, instead finding a peculiar peace in righting small wrongs such as a dusty picture frame or a lumpy settee.
There were many other professions that would have suited his more… violent skill set. MI-5 did not let him go easily, attempting to entice him away from a life of comfort with outrageous salaries.
Perhaps, in another life, he would have chosen to forgo his father’s wishes of succeeding him as the Wayne’s butler. He might have found excellence in military endeavours, potentially paving the way for the modern era of heroism.
In this life, Alfred accepted the mantle upon seeing a child clutching onto the banister of a grand staircase.
The boy was small but gazed at the war-hardened man with a curiosity that was evasive in Gotham. Many grew to understand the danger that came with wanting to know more, hardened by what the city could so easily take.
Then came the settling of a purpose on Alfred’s shoulders, an unexpected swell of paternal vigilance blooming as he was introduced to the young Master Bruce.
His role evolved into one of parentage after the boy’s parents passed, Martha and Thomas shot in front of his eyes. None were worthy of Bruce’s trust aside from Alfred in the coming years, isolation clinging like a shadow to a darkened corner.
Then, Master Bruce inherited the violence that Alfred had always sought to keep from him.
It was a plague that infected the Pennyworth line, every generation finding a war to entice them towards death. They each would grow to discover temperance, though never without a cost.
Alfred believed for too long that the lack of blood shared between himself and Master Bruce would spare the young man from this fate. He held such care and benevolence that it seemed impossible for him to come to know the pain of a blow across the brow.
A naïve man, Alfred used to be.
Gotham demands a tithe from Master Bruce, and it is one that would be paid countless times over.
There is no denying that the city has bettered with each bone that Master Bruce has broken, that the world owes its continuance to the efforts of one man. It is a thing for Alfred to be proud of, that Master Bruce would become a paragon among the cosmos.
But he feels equal shame in his staining of the Wayne family name, as the burden of bloodshed had not stopped with Master Bruce.
Dick Grayson brought with him light and wonder, a biproduct of his upbringing. This would dim with he weight of leadership, and the clinging of death’s reaper to his shoulder.
Jason Todd nearly brought the family’s violent legacy to an end, leading Bruce towards a future where he would become a proper father. His end would tether them all to the dark forever more, the streets running red with the blood he had shed.
Timothy Drake would have brought balance if it were not for the grief that still clung to Bruce. His determination brought the Batman back to the city, but there lay a boy shattered beyond what the Waynes could mend.
Damian Wayne found them in a sullied state, eager to claim a title that he could not understand. There was no separating him from conflict, no matter how much Alfred would try.
The others would come to sense the corruption and remain at a suitable distance, avoiding the family name. There may be some absolution to be found there, that the stain could not be spread with association alone.
Looking upon the mess that has befallen the defenders of Gotham now, what might be needed the most are those who have fared better in their detachment.
Alfred’s skin had been covered in all manner of viscera, but the blood of one under his care never seemed to truly wash off. He would see it in his dreams, sense it when elbow deep in the dish pit.
Having held his hands within the body of Master Jason, he is reminded once again that crimson is not his colour.
The Wayne family is fracturing, and as their butler, it falls to Alfred once again to keep it all in line.
“Master Kate, I believe it would be prudent to organize a return to Gotham.”
~ ~ ~
Dick Grayson
Wayne Manor – October 20th
Dick is with Jason when the girls get back to the manor.
Damian is still missing, using every bit of his league training to elude Bruce and Tim’s combined efforts to find him. They’re still dealing with the aftermath of the attack on Wayne tower, focus split to give Damian the upper hand.
Dick has taken more time off of his civilian job, easily accepted with the excuse of a family emergency. The Titans offer to lend a hand with whatever’s gone wrong in Gotham, but Bruce’s strict policy of no outside interference has him turning them down.
Jason hasn’t woken yet, not even the slightest twitch of a finger, looking uncharacteristically small on his cot. The white strands of hair that fall over his face almost blend into the pallor of his skin, limp and greasy with his inability to be moved and properly cared for.
It’s haunting to see him in this state. Dick had been off-world when he first died and Bruce held the funeral without him, unable to stand the thought of leaving him on a stainless steel table in some morgue’s basement.
There’s an endless list of things that need to get done, but Dick finds himself unable to pull away. His hand cools atop Jason’s, heat siphoned by the other man’s skin greedily with each passing moment.
Steph finds him there, stepping up behind Dick’s chair to look down at Jason. “You weren’t kidding. He really does look like shit.”
“Yeah.” Dick forgoes the quips that he’d become adept with hiding behind. “He’ll pull through.”
Steph wanders to the foot of the cot. “He’s stubborn, I’ll give him that.”
A smile quirks on the corners of Dick’s lips at the words, Steph’s observation spot on. Resisting the urge to wander down memory lane, he asks, “Did you get debriefed?”
“Mmhmm. Real mess we’ve stumbled our way into, huh?” She crosses her arms, a sigh dragging out. “Lazarus pits, two missing kids, Deathstroke, a ganger intermediary, an attack on the tower, and everyone running on fumes.”
“Sounds about right.”
“So just another Tuesday.” Steph grins, a cynical tedium to her delivery. “I heard you had a rough run-in with Slade.”
“You know, it’s rude to twist metaphorical knives, right?” Dick gets a pointed look for his attempt at deflection, receiving a silent order to spill. “Yeesh, you look like Bruce when I break one of his thousands of priceless vases.”
“Dick.”
“Alright, fine. I lost my cool, got distracted.” He withdraws his hand from Jason’s, arms crossing over his chest. “Slade was accepting payment while my brother was-”
Dying.
Dick closes his eyes, letting out a slow breath through his nose.
He doesn’t much feel like chatting anymore.
Steph doesn’t let the quiet settle. “I never knew Jason before he became the Red Hood, not like you or Bruce. Hell, even Tim knew him as Robin, looked up to him as a hero. To me, he’s always been the kingpin of Crime Alley.”
Opening his eyes, Dick turns to Steph as she looks down at Jason with a considering gaze, one lined with steel. “Despite that, he’s still one of us. I don’t take it well when someone I care about gets hurt, so I can’t judge you for slipping.”
“I’ve been trained better than that.”
“You’ve been trained to put your humanity aside for the sake of others, often at your expense.” Steph counters. “It’s not wrong to be a person sometimes.”
He’s not sure how to respond to that.
“You’ve been putting the family above yourself for so long it was bound to happen eventually. It’s kind of nice to see you stumble for once. Jason would pay good money to see that.”
Dick huffs a laugh and follows her gaze down to the man in question. “He’d kick my ass if he found out I’ve been just sitting here instead of being out there.”
“Well, then we’d better hope he isn’t listening.” Steph pats Jason’s leg. “Putting your escapades of manly emotional expression aside, tell me about this Peter kid.”
~ ~ ~
Peter Parker
Gotham City – October 20th
Peter is at his wit’s end with this city.
People don’t bat an eye as a bludgeoned teenager limps past, nobody bothering to offer a simple ‘are you okay?’. He isn’t exactly one for attention, but little acts of kindness do help to restore a man’s faith in the world, something he’s sorely running low on.
A heavy rainfall has battered Gotham since the night that Peter had been separated from Jason. Puddles fill corners that would’ve been ideal to slump in, fellow homeless snapping up any non-State funded shelters.
Scraps of food left out in trash bags after closing hour are ruined in minutes, moisture trickling in as the waste is thrown into flooded dumpsters. Peter’s past the point of hungry, stomach churning in equal parts desperation and nausea at the prospect of food.
It has his senses going haywire, the back of his neck tingling without cease like the day he’d crawled out of the pit.
The sounds and scents of the city crowd around him, lights burning into his retinas to create a migraine that hasn’t let up in over 24 hours. He’s jumping at shadows, flinching at passersby like they’re about to try to grab at him.
The injuries he’d sustained like to make themselves known as often and as unpleasantly as possible. Purple-black bruises mar his skin, above which reside angry red lacerations from when he’d slid across the asphalt. The bullet wound in his thigh is on fire, puckered and looking worse by the hour.
Peter had briefly considered visiting a clinic or hospital, but a dozen reasons not to quickly outweighed it. Whoever’s been targeting him might not have any qualms about attacking a healthcare facility, and he can’t risk putting civilians in harm’s way.
The complete lack of documentation of his existence would raise too many red flags for the hospital to allow him to leave. Beaten and shot with no guardian and no files to be found anywhere, CPS would be on his case before he could say ‘I’m from another dimension’.
There’s also the issue of his meta abilities and how he’d be treated because of them. Peter’s not exactly a fan of being added to some government list, especially as a homeless teen.
His phone had been totaled in the crash and there’s no guarantee that he’d even make it to Gotham General in the first place, so why waste the effort.
Besides, he’s not entirely sure if he deserves treatment.
He’d failed.
Tim nearly had his brains blown out because he’d tagged along to his brother’s tour of their father’s business. He hadn’t even known Peter before they’d met in that lobby, marked as a target the moment they shook hands.
The safety of Jason’s garage is lost, its location compromised because Peter couldn’t keep his head on straight. He’d cost his friend a home, the place he’d carved out for himself in a city that seemed intent on taking it all away.
The crash happened because Peter had grown complacent, because he foolishly thought he could have some semblance of peace. He’d left Jason in some alleyway after he’d taken bullets to the chest and thigh, shots which had been aiming for Peter.
Peter failed in the one way he swore he never would again.
He failed to keep a loved one safe.
It’s why he doesn’t hesitate to make his way back to the East End, chasing whispers of an up-and-coming crime boss who’d stood against the Red Hood. The Kennel Master had been hunting him since day one, and Peter’s gotten really damn tired of it.
Making his way to the gang leader’s self-appointed territory had taken the better part of two days. With gathering intel, avoiding public transport, and walking on an infected wound, the going had been slow.
Jason had killed the men that they’d fought in the alley, a thought that brings up all sorts of complicated feelings. It leaves Peter with little to go off of beyond ‘somewhere in the Bowery’.
Eh, he’d worked with less before.
Peter’s lugging himself down a side street when a door unlatches to his right, revealing a stocky woman dressed in a cook’s smock. She’s decked out in tattoos, a familiar spider web etched into her forehead.
Much like the first time they’d met, Peter blurts out a quip to his ex-mugger. “I like your tattoos.”
The woman startles when he speaks, seemingly lost in her thoughts. “Jesus kid, you scared the shit out of me.”
“My bad.” Peter grins at the irony. “Glad to be one getting the jump on you this time.”
“Yeah yeah, laugh it up.” She grouches, a pained feeling blooming in Peter’s chest at how it reminds him of Jason. “You’re still out on the streets? Thought I told you to get to a shelter.”
“I had a place to stay for a while. Didn’t work out.” He shrugs. “You find some decent work here?”
“Decent enough. Almost shooting a kid had me reevaluating some things.” She moves past Peter, hefting a trash bag onto a pile of garbage. “When the Hood started dropping bodies, I figured that acting stupid was going to land me as just another crook collecting flies in some darkened alley.”
“Well, glad to hear something good came out of me getting slammed into a wall.” He earns himself a chuckles at that. Peter chews on the inside of his cheek, debating. “Can I ask you something?”
The lack of specificity earns him a suspicious glance, but the woman nods. “Shoot.”
“What did you want to be when you were a kid?”
She blows out a breath, drops of rain soaking into her clothes. She doesn’t seem to care, used to the damp conditions of the city. “Hell of a question. If you can believe it, an engineer. Got a degree and everything, but life got in the way of all that.”
“Yeah, I get it.” Peter glances up at the sky, seeing the last vestiges of the day’s light ebbing away. “You think you could do me a favor?”
“Sure, kid.”
“Do you have any paper handy? I have to write something down.”
“Here, c’mon inside. The rain would ruin it in two seconds flat.” The woman steps inside the establishment, beckoning Peter when he hesitates. “You can hide in the break room, just get in here.”
Figuring things can’t get any worse than they already are, Peter follows her inside.
The kitchen’s obviously breaking a handful of food safe regulations, starting with the lack of cleanliness. Unable to see past the swinging doors, it seems to be an all American style diner fit with all the usual greasy suspects.
There’s just one other employee puttering around in the kitchen, giving Peter and the woman stank eye upon noticing the unexpected guest. He opens his mouth to question what some street kid is doing inside when he’s cut off by Peter’s friend. “Can it, Nick.”
The man flips her off, but leaves them be.
Scurrying along, Peter’s deposited in the break room as the woman goes to grab him some paper. It’s hot and humid so close to the kitchen, though not uncomfortable enough to keep Peter’s eyelids from drooping.
The slapping of a notepad on the table in front of him has him jolting back to awareness, the woman settling on the seat across from him. “This ain’t a bed and breakfast, kid. Eyes up.”
“Sorry.” Peter focuses on the way his clothes are sticking to his skin to chase the lethargy away, accepting a pen from the woman. “This might take a bit.”
He gets a noncommittal wave as silent permission not to mind the time, taking it as a go-ahead to start writing.
Remembering the exact formula for his webs takes a bit, its synthesis having become so routine that he hadn’t relied on its equation in a while. He doesn’t mind the woman’s curious gaze as she looks over his work, figuring that she deserves some context for his request.
When he’d entrusted his web fluid to Tony, it’d been on the basis of ‘holy shit, Iron Man is going to make me a suit’ and trust that the inventor would make good use of it in the instance of Peter’s death.
Now as he writes a note to Tim, it feels the same as that first time he’d handed the formula over. He’s giving a piece of himself away, entrusting part of his identity to someone who could do a lot of good or a lot of bad with it.
Ripping the paper from the pad, Peter hands it to the woman. Her eyes skip over the note, allowing some privacy despite the strangeness of the situation.
It’s that courtesy that cements Peter’s decision as the right one.
Turning his attention back to the notepad, the tip of his pen hovers for a minute. The woman gets called back to the kitchen by her coworker, annoyance steeped in their voices as they fall into some argument.
Not wanting to cost the woman her job, Peter puts pen to paper.
The words come easier the more he writes, a small note building to a letter. There’s no guarantee that it’ll reach its recipient, the man dead in all likelihood.
He’s just finishing up when the woman returns, scowl abating somewhat. “You done?”
“Yeah.” Peter folds up the letter, blinking back a bit of moisture that had gathered along the line of his lower lashes. “Do you have a baggie or something to keep them out of the rain?”
The woman nods and reaches into a cupboard, pulling out a box of sandwich bags. Peter grabs two, slipping the letter into one before stuffing it into his pocket. He keeps his formula separate, holding it out for the woman to take.
“I know this is a lot to ask, but can you take this to Wayne tower?” The woman’s brow quirks at Peter’s request, already looking as if she’s going to decline. He pushes on regardless. “Ask for it to be delivered to Tim on floor 74, and that it’s from Peter. Tell him I’m sorry about his window.”
“Kid.” She accepts the letter, though it’s largely because Peter’s pushing it into her hand as she’s distracted by her incredulity. “Who are you?”
A small smile plays at Peter’s lips and he shrugs. “I’m just Peter.”
“Well, ‘just Peter’, I can’t give you much but I can offer this.” She holds out a plastic shopping bag, the smell of greasy goodness wafting from within. “Fucked up an order.”
Nobody’s placed a single order since he came in, but he doesn’t call her out on it, instead accepting with a heavy swallow and a nod. Words feel hard, for whatever reason.
Might be because he’s tired of goodbyes.
He stands and moves past her, footfalls following behind as he moves to the back door. He stops as he steps back into the rain, turning to look over his shoulder. “I don’t think I ever caught your name.”
“Mary.” The slight pause before has Peter wondering if she doesn’t like it, though he doesn’t get why. It’s his favourite name.
“It suits you.” Peter shoves his hands into his pockets, shopping bag rolling up his write. “Thank you, Mary.”
With that, he turns and disappears into the city.
~ ~ ~
Damian Wayne
Crime Alley – October 20th
Damian is beginning to understand why Todd could not secure the Kennel Master in the time since he first surfaced. The crime boss has an irksome habit of slipping into the shadows like vermin in the sewer, escaping retribution at every turn.
It is not a good sign that a common thug would be a challenge for Damian’s training, indicating a depth to the case that was not written in Grayson and father’s reports.
The confessions he’d pulled out of the Kennel Master’s underlings continuously fell short. He’d had to turn to digging through the organization’s scant documents to narrow his search, pointing him towards a section of tunnels running beneath the Alley.
His continued escapade into Gotham city has revealed a new challenge as he faces life away from the luxury of Wayne manor. Though his missions frequently bring him into discomfort, it can be alleviated by the gear and resources allotted to him by father.
Equipped with only a small selection of weapons, gadgets, and Alfred the Cat, the streets of Crime Alley have been anything but welcoming.
It is perhaps the misery of the district that has aided him in alluding father and Drake, with the attack on the tower providing a timely distraction. The weather provides additional obscurity in washing away Damian’s trail, fate working in his favor.
Where it has turned its back on him is through its removal of shelter and provisions. Securing both had been a constant challenge, in part because he has to ensure Alfred the Cat is fed before he can find food for himself.
The early hours of a new day are trickling in when the discovery of a condemned apartment building yields potential, with much of the building being inaccessible. Ensuring his backpack is secure and Alfred the Cat is not at risk of leaping out, Damian begins to climb.
The twisting of sizeable roots up the side of the building provides ample footholds to grip onto, and the locks on the windows are of inferior design. Breaking in is simple, revealing a dust addled abode.
Wandering through, there is little of use. No sound is emitted from within but Damian extends a staff regardless, unsure of what could lie waiting in the dark.
Alfred the Cat shifts in his backpack.
Something moves in Damian’s peripheral.
Sweeping low with the staff, it connects with something that has a bit of give but sends a crack through the air. There’s shout and a thump as a body falls, Damian rounding on the intruder.
Planting a foot on their body, he points the end of the staff at their neck.
“Whoa whoa!” Two hands are raised and a teenage boy is looking up at Damian, pain pinching his young features. “We’re cool, man!”
“State your name and business.”
“I was just looking for a place to sleep, I swear.” The teen stays unmoving, wisely keeping his hands held up. “Didn’t know it was occupied. I’m Peter.”
“You may refer to me as Jon.” Deeming Peter as not a threat, Damian takes his foot from the teen’s chest and ignores the skeptical look he gets at the fake name.
“Alright, Jon.” Peter sits up, legs sprawled as he leans back on his hands. “Jeez, you hit hard.”
A childish part of Damian preens at the compliment but he shoves it aside, instead making a quick observation of the teen in front of him. “Your leg is injured.”
“You did just almost break my shin with your staff.”
“I exerted as much force as was necessary to apprehend you.” Damian sniffs. “I’m referring to the wound in your thigh.”
He can’t see the nature of the injury, only the way that Peter is holding it immobile. With the ashen quality of his skin and the slight tremble in his hands, Damian assumes it is nothing to scoff at.
“I’m alright.” Peter perjures. Damian stands in silence, waiting for the teen to crack. After a handful of painful seconds, he sighs. “How about this. I’ll tell you if you help me off the ground and share some food with me.”
Damian suppresses the urge to shift on his feet. “I cannot accept, as I do not have any rations.”
“That’s fine, I do.” Peter holds out a hand with a small twitch of a smile. “C’mon, man.”
It is oddly gratifying to be referred to as ‘man’. Enclosing Peter’s palm within his own, Damian aids the teen to his feet.
Notes:
More characters and connections abound. Welcome back random mugger named Mary, you have not been missed but felt convenient for the narrative.
Also, the lack of Jason POV is always felt in there being less italicized internal thoughts.
Chapter 13
Notes:
Probably got some medical innacuracies in here, but it's Batman and we've got Lazarus pits in this story, so just chalk up any mistakes to magic.
Enjoy my beloved readers.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Peter Parker
Crime Alley – October 21st
The quiet padding of “John’s” feet barely registers in Peter’s enhanced senses, near soundless on the stained carpet. It’s odd to have to strain to hear them, reminding him of that brief period he’d been around the Black Widow.
His sixth sense had barely enough time to give even a tingle before his back was slamming against the ground, wounds flaring in protest to the sudden movement.
He would assume they’re the reason for his reflexes failing him, but he’d fought in worse conditions.
That, and Peter had been on the receiving end of that exact move when sparring against Jason.
John’s put his staff away since deeming Peter an okay dude, though he insisted on following behind the teen as they wander further into the apartment. The kid could probably just poke Peter’s injured thigh and he’d go down like a sack of potatoes, so the caution really is unnecessary.
God his leg hurts.
The pain abates somewhat when he settles on a rickety dining chair, John placimg his backpack on another as he sits across from Peter. The contents of the shopping bag had gotten a bit squished when he’d been taken down, but beggars can’t be choosers.
It’s when Peter is setting out the food that he notices a small shift in John’s backpack. He blinks, watches as it moves again.
“Is there something in your bag?”
“No.” The backpack visibly twitches.
“It is hungry?”
John’s eyes narrow at Peter.
He slowly reaches over and unzips the top, and Peter watches as a tuxedo cat pokes its head out. It gives itself a shake, collar jingling a bit.
“His name is Alfred the Cat.”
Alfred the Cat jumps atop the table, earning himself a bit of admonishment from John. The reprimand is ignored as the cat struts up to Peter, leaning close as its nose twitches.
“Hey, man.” Peter holds a finger out, grinning as Alfred gives it a light sniff. “Cool name.”
There’s the sound of styrofoam sliding over wood as one of the takeout containers is tugged towards John. Inside is a green salad with some of the limpest lettuce that Peter’s ever had the misfortune of beholding.
John gives Peter a look like he’s daring the teen to take the salad from him. Not wanting to end up on the wrong side of the kid’s bo-staff again, Peter lets him have it.
There’s a grilled cheese and hamburger left, the former of which Peter claims. He deconstructs the burger, giving the beef to Alfred the Cat and dumping the veggie toppings on John’s salad.
He has to force down each bite of his sandwich, stomach twisting and throat closing as it has gotten used to the emptiness. The smell of grease is overwhelming, Peter’s only reprieve being the scent of cat coming from Alfred.
John doesn’t seem overjoyed at his deflated salad, but he finishes it regardless. Leaving the plastic cutlery inside the container, he turns his attention to Peter with a strict gaze. “I have upheld my end of the bargain. Tell me of your injuries.”
“Gunshot wound on the thigh.” Peter says around a mouthful of grilled cheese. “Bruises and cuts pretty much everywhere, a half-broken tibia.”
“I did not fracture your-” John pouts as he notes Peter’s cheeky expression, twisting it into a scowl. “Why were you in the path of a firearm?”
Peter loses his good humor. “Protecting a friend.”
When he doesn’t elaborate, John crosses his arms. “You are withholding details.”
“Anyone ever tell you that you’d be a great investigator? You’ve got the whole interrogation thing down, scary face and everything.”
There’s a moment where John stares at him as if parsing the sincerity of Peter’s comment. “You are attempting to divert my attention.”
“Is it working?”
“No.” The kid pulls Alfred the Cat into his lap, two sets of eyes boring into Peter now. John’s stare narrows.
“Jeez, cool it with the eyebrows.” Peter tries not to balk at the severity of the look, sliding down on the chair a bit. “A gang leader sent a bunch of guys after me. I got shot.”
“What is the name of the criminal?”
“Don’t know his actual name, just that he goes by the Kennel Master.” There’s a small inhalation from John that’d go unnoticed without Peter’s senses. “You know him?”
He can’t help the concern that creeps into his voice, thoughts building of how many other kids he might have bounties on.
John is back to scanning Peter, a clinical coldness in his gaze as he says. “I am searching for him. You are the one who has a bounty of ten million dollars for your capture.”
He doesn’t phrase it as a question. “I hope you’re not hoping to cash that in for yourself.”
“I have no need for the money.” John turns his nose up, seemingly insulted that Peter would think that of him.
“I wouldn’t be mad. You just ate a salad with about as much flavour as the container it came in.” Peter gets the click of a tongue for that, something that women nearing the century mark seemed to do around youth. “Why are you looking for him then?”
“To dismantle his operation.” John says it with such conviction that Peter forgets for a moment he’s a pre-teen.
“With no backup?”
“I do not require backup.” John spits out the last word as if it’s an insult.
“Alright, well, I hope you don’t mind a tag-along cause I’m going after him too.”
John levels a mildly disdainful stare Peter’s way. “You will slow the pace of the investigation with your festering wounds.”
“That’s rude.” Peter can’t really argue with that. “I should point out that I know what the guy looks like, and my art skill are nowhere near good enough for a composite sketch.”
John and Alfred the Cat stare at him once more.
Peter stares back.
“If you impede my progress, I will leave you behind.”
Peter grins. “Deal.”
John stands from the chair, rounding the table on his way to the bedrooms. “We will reconvene in the morning. I am leaving your corpse if you perish in the night.”
Cute kid.
“John?” The time it takes for the kid to turn at the name confirms its falsity. “What’s your real name?”
The kid considers him for a few long moments. “Damian.”
He disappears into a room.
Damian. Suits him.
Wait. Doesn’t one of Dick’s brothers share that name?
~ ~ ~
Cassandra Cain
Wayne Enterprises Tower – October 21st
Returning to Gotham during an emergency is not one of Cass’ favourite things.
She had grown used to her life after Bruce, enjoying the lessened worries that the man brought with his presence. He has many flaws, but a care for his wards is something that has never been a question to her.
Thus, it brings her discomfort when he is not doing well.
In the silence, Cass notices.
His hygiene is well maintained but lacking, body washed but missing the detail that often went into maintaining his opulent veneer. The line of his torso is straight-backed and tense, muscles given no reprieve in the hours between patrol.
Bruises have developed beneath his eyes from too little sleep, and there is a saturation of the veins in his eyes from indulgence in drink. It is not enough to warrant concern, but that is perhaps because Bruce wishes to keep his misery from his sons.
This is not the first time she has seen him in such a state. It is her self-appointed duty to be the one to rectify the problem, as she is the only one who can peer this far beneath the mask.
Bruce had once confided in Cass that she brought a sort of peace that was entirely unique to her. He didn’t have to explain himself or dread the inevitable breaking of silence.
It had grown to be a point of pride, that he associated her with something like calm.
This is perhaps why he does not subtly urge her away as she slinks around the cave behind where he sits at the computer. Video feeds and news articles are splashed in vibrant colours across the screens, all focused on the attack that the tower had endured.
He has always taken attacks against his civilian persona strangely, detaching himself from Bruce Wayne in order to maintain objectivity. This is a time where there is only space for the Batman, for the detective.
Cass carries out the first step in her plan when she sets a mug of hot water with lemon beside his left hand. It would go untouched on the right, for that hand is needed for the mouse.
The mug had been a gift from Dick that was accepted with chagrin. The eldest offspring had embossed the words “World’s Best Dad-tective” in Damian’s handwriting with a poorly drawn bat behind it, something that had nearly put Dick in the way of painful retribution.
Cass is unsure if any of the others are aware that it is Bruce’s favourite mug.
She chooses it so it attracts Bruce’s attention, drawing him from the headspace of the Bat. It is a heavy mantle.
“Cass.” Bruce blinks, eyes dry from the lights of the monitors. His expression slowly shifts to one of welcoming, stone-like severity melting away.
“Bruce.” She greets with a small twitch of a smile.
His hand curls around the mug, posture softening. “How was training with Kate and Steph?”
She gives him a thumbs up.
He nods. Good.
She turns to the screens, tilting her head in a silent request for him to tell her about the case.
Having gotten used to her version of nonverbal shorthand, Bruce gives an updated debrief on what he’s been working on.
The bullet and the rifle are expectedly unmarked. Given that Deathstroke had been pursuing Jason directly following the attack, he could not be held responsible. This leaves them without a suspect.
There had been no follow-up attack on any of the Waynes in the days proceeding. Dick and Tim had come to twin conclusions that it was impersonal, the true goal being to isolate their friend Peter.
The camera feeds surrounding the tower showed no unknown or suspicious individuals entering the tower prior to the attack. There had been no damage to the generators, indicating that they were shut off manually alongside the power by Enterprise personnel.
A member of the maintenance crew had aided in the attempt on Tim’s life.
There’s a pinch of hurt on Bruce’s face at the admission, though he does his best to hide it. It is not a pleasant thing, to be betrayed, even if it is by one you may not have a personal relationship with.
Part of being a hero is to know the pains of the world. Much of Gotham’s darkness bleeds from the struggles of its people, something that Bruce has endeavoured to aid in his company.
He could be a much richer man, could stand above Lex Luthor in economic power, if he did not extend generosity to those that worked beneath him.
It must hurt to have that kindness turned into a blade buried in the back.
Cassandra wants to help.
She reaches past Bruce to access the tower’s cameras, scrolling to the moments before the power went out, finding the one that was trained on the electrical grid. It’s a massive, sprawling space buried in the basement with thick concrete to keep it safe from danger.
“Take me.” Cass points, steely determination set with no room for argument. “Talk, and I will watch.”
She’d never been to the tower nor the galas, the sea of faces far too much to bear. Nobody knew of Bruce Wayne’s elusive daughter, the one who could barely string a sentence together.
They could not know of her ability to read a person better than any novel. She could be circumvented, especially not when Bruce needs her.
He looks taken aback. “Are you sure?”
She nods. She can do this.
“Alright.” Bruce stands, laying a soft hand on her shoulder. “Tim will accompany. If you need to leave at any point, let us know.”
She nods again, moving alongside him out of the cave. He splits off to “freshen up”, leaving Cass to fetch her brother from wherever he’s locked himself away.
He’d been residing at the manor upon Bruce’s request, acquiescing to give their father some peace of mind. Cass estimates that Dick had a hand in convincing him, persuading the young man with the usefulness of being in close proximity to the cave.
Knocking on his bedroom door, Cass opens it upon his calling. He is sitting on his bed with a laptop perched on his crossed legs, barely looking up to greet her.
He looks very similar to Bruce, body language a replication of the eldest Wayne’s.
“Bruce sent me a message, I’ll be ready in a few minutes.” The fixation of his eyes upon his computer indicates otherwise.
Cass sits beside him and starts to urge the screen closed. Tim huffs an annoyed sound, countering her movement. She squints at him.
“Come on, Cass. This is important.”
She tilts her head and arcs her brow in a quick quirk. And Bruce’s orders aren’t?
Grating out a sigh, Tim sets his laptop aside and stands. He snatches up some clothes and wanders into his ensuite, closing the door.
Steph peeks curiously at what Tim had been working on, finding him scrolling through the CPS database. He’d been searching for an individual under the name “Peter”, his frustration leading Cass to believe he’d come up with no hits.
On another tab, there is the Justice League’s database on metahumans.
The door to the ensuite opens and Tim steps out, irritation lessened in the minutes they’d been apart. Out of all of her siblings, he’s the most adept at controlling his moods, life in the upper echelons of society teaching him how to hide himself away.
Cass isn’t sure she likes that he can do that.
They meet Bruce in the car park, sliding into their seats. Tim takes the passenger side, leaving the back for Cass to curl up in. The engine hums nicely as they roll out of the estate, en route for the tower.
Bruce fills Tim in with the plan, how they’ll use an inspection of the generators as an excuse for Cass to find the mole. Tim gives her a meaningful look for her help, a quiet apology on his face for his earlier terse behaviour.
She forgives him with a wave.
The conversation turns to Peter, Tim conveying his findings. “I couldn’t find him anywhere. Dick said he was from Queens and didn’t see any tells that he was lying about it, but there weren’t any records of him attending school there.”
“Are we sure he wasn’t just using a cover story?”
“Could’ve been, but he’s obviously educated. Might be a secret society kind of thing, but he’s not showing any of the maladjustment of that lifestyle.” Tim gets a glance from Bruce at that, the two thinking of Damian. “He’d have to be good, really good, to get that past me, Dick, and Jason.”
The pitch of Bruce’s breaths alters the slightest bit at Jason’s name. He’s still hurting about his estranged son’s injuries.
“We can’t rule it out, but I agree. You and Dick are our experts on this, I trust your judgement.” Bruce leads the car in a smooth merge onto the highway. “There’s too much up in the air to be making rash judgements.”
Tim turns his gaze out the window, looking into the choppy waves below as they pass over the R.K. Memorial Bridge. “This is a mess.”
Cass hums in agreement.
The rest of the car ride passes in relative silence, Tim and Bruce engaging in some quiet chatter. It’s enjoyable, drops of water racing to the bottom of the window for Cass to watch as she listens to them talk.
They come upon the tower after a small bout of traffic, the exterior bereft of the police presence that had been swarming it in the news. There are a few people in the lobby, though fewer than Cass had noticed in the CCTV in the past.
Bruce parks in the lot he’d purchased next to the skyrise, slotting in next to the other luxury model cars. She follows in his shadow as they cross the street with Tim wandering a step behind his father.
Heads turn when they enter, Bruce Wayne commanding attention like none other. His shoulders are hunched and his expression is mildly placid, both facets of his civilian persona. It does not suit him.
The receptionist inquires about the nature of their visit, informing Mr. Wayne that Mr. Drake’s office has not been repaired yet as per his request. He assures her that there is not time crunch on the project, neglecting to mention that it’s because he’s working on upgrades for the building’s windows and security.
He requests to be brought to the tower’s power grid so he may thank the engineers. The woman seems touched by the time Bruce is making, every facet of her expression showing genuine gratitude. Not the mole.
Cass remains silent as they’re led down, focusing on the faces they pass. Some gaze at Bruce like he is a deity among mortals, others with bewilderment about why he is here. Most look at Tim, respect gleaming for his presence after such a blatant attempt on his life.
They do not seem to care much about Cassandra’s presence, figuring her for a secretary of sorts. She does not mind, preferring to remain unremarkable to the public eye.
Stepping out of the elevator, the grid is impressive to behold. It siphons energy from the city but recycles much, charging the generators with the excess power to be ready in case of an emergency.
Or it should have been.
The assembled group of lead engineers dutifully answer the questions that Bruce already knows the answers to. Tim maintains his filial duty, stepping in to guide the falsely perplexed CEO through the complicated concepts.
It is impressive, to see them complete the steps of this dance in person.
Bruce tilts his head in a move that exposes his neck, something that Cass nearly giggles at. “So, if the generators are always charged, what happened with the blackout?”
“That… we are unsure of, sir.” A young woman in personal protective gear responds. She looks perplexed, taking the grid’s failure personally. Not the mole. “We ran diagnostics and found nothing out of order at the time of the outage.”
Tim cuts in. “What systems did you test?”
“All of them. Everything came up fully operational.” She notices Bruce’s confused look. “In emergencies, it’s common for something to blow, whether its hardware or software. A good grid runs best when there’s some catastrophe going on.”
Another woman pipes up, eager to be heard. She weaves to the front of the group. Not the mole either. “We have backups for the backups, but nothing came back as a failure, least of all something that’d stop the generators from kicking in.”
“Wow, you all sure know what you’re talking about.” Bruce gets some smiles at that, returning them with a slanted one of his own. “So who’s in charge of those backups?”
A balding man raises his hand and starts to explain his role.
Someone is looking at Cass.
She’d been trained to notice the weight of a gaze, to pick out a pair of eyes in a crowd. The attention skitters away in moments, but her attention is piqued.
Looking between the assembled bodies, there is a young man with a clipboard in his hand, fingers pressing into the textured surface as if he needs grounding. A lightly damaged ring is set on his finger, cheap metal for a marital band.
He’s fixated on Bruce and Tim as if enraptured, turning to look at his colleagues a moment too late as if he is a second behind. He is too tense for the casual set of his posture, leaning on one leg as if he is too aware of how he is standing.
A hundred other observations flit through Cass’ mind, each pointing to one conclusion. She has found her mole.
His name tag has written: Morton.
The elevator opens behind them and a pair of feet walk towards the group, slightly hastened. It is the receptionist, who ducks close to Tim to pull him aside.
Cass watches, reading her lips as she says, “There’s a visitor here for you with a delivery. She’s very insistent.”
“What’s the delivery?”
“A letter in a sandwich bag. Security already tested it.”
“Alright, I’ll be up in a minute.”
Tim wanders back and sets a hand on Bruce’s shoulder, informing him that he’ll return shortly. He locks eyes with Cass with a silent question, which she answers with a concise nod.
He gives her a proud grin as he walks past.
~ ~ ~
Tim Drake
Wayne Tower – October 21st
For the first time in days, it feels like they have a lead. Cass’ nod was complete with a look of quiet confidence, a certainty that she’d found the mole.
The receptionist, Remy, is apologizing for bothering him, something he’s quick to thank her for. She’d come back to work within the week of the attack, if anything Tim should be the one showing his gratefulness.
So he does.
She waves him off bashfully, some of her worry easing. The lobby opens before them and they step into it, Remy leading him to where his visitor awaits.
He takes her appearance in stride, unexpected as it is. Clad in rain speckled casual clothing, her tattoos set her apart from the tailored suits that usually loiter in the tower. There’s a spider web on her forehead, an initiation rite for an old gang that Batman took down called the Weavers.
Given that there’s no spider resting in the middle, she’d never gotten far up in the ranks.
He wanders up and reaches a hand out. “Tim Drake.”
“You the one up on floor 74?” The accent clinging to her words would have her growing up in the Narrows, though the Weavers started west of the Bowery.
Wary at the specificity of the question, Tim hesitates before answering, dropping his hand. “That’s me.”
“I got a message for you.” She holds up the sandwich bag, shaking it a bit. “Kid down in the Alley wrote it for you, asked me to deliver it here. From what I could see, floor 74 is way up there. What’s an uppity priss like you doing with a street rat?”
The breath in Tim’s lungs punches out of him. He resists the urge to snatch the note, shoving his hands in his pockets to hide how they curl into fists. “What’s their name? The kid?”
“What, you got more than one?”
“If it’s who I think it is, he’s got people coming after him.” Tim hisses in a quiet tone, angling away from the nearby group of businessmen. “People I’d very much like to keep him away from.”
She looks down at him, sizing him up. She hands him the letter.
Walking over to an isolated corner by the elevators, Tim rips open the bag. Unfolding the papers, he isn’t sure what he’s looking at for a moment.
A complex series of chemical equations are scrawled in careful penmanship, written in scratchy ink. Directions break up the different reactions, culminating in a guide to synthesize… something.
The final paper has a small note scrawled on it.
Hey Tim,
Saw on the news that everyone got out fine after the attack. Sorry about disappearing on you, not cool of me. Also sorry I didn’t call Dick.
I’m trusting you with this because you seem to really care about what you can do for people. You could’ve hidden in your office, but you went to go help, and so I figure you won’t use my formula to start sticking it to the man. Hah.
Think you could do me a favor and check on nearby hospitals for a guy named Jason? He’s kind of rude, tall, has a bit of white hair at the front. He helped me when I didn’t have anything, and I didn’t really get to say thank you for it properly.
Good luck with the DNA.
It’s unsigned, keeping Tim unassociated with the name of its author.
He looks up at the woman who’d followed, her eyes wandering almost protectively over the letter. “His name, what was it?”
“Peter.” She answers, voice having lost its edge after having read the letter upside down. “He said he’s sorry about your window.”
Looking back down at the formula, he goes for a long shot. “You ever work in a chemistry lab before?”
“Think I’m cooking over in the Alley or something, kid?” The touchiness rears its head but ebbs as Tim waits her out. “Yeah, I got a degree in chem and engineering.”
“I’ll offer you a job here if you go to my lab and follow these directions. He trusted us with this, and I need to make sure that it’s right.” The woman blinks at Tim, shocked. “Can you do that?”
“Jesus, sure.” Takes the papers back. “You sure your moneybag employees are gonna let me through?”
“My lab stays vacant, but if anyone gives you trouble, tell them you’ve got platinum clearance.” Tim tugs his phone from his pocket, pulling up a number. “Punch 1725 into the elevator.”
He leaves her then, call already dialing. It connects.
“Dick.” Tim pushes out the doors, eyes following him curiously. He heads for the parking garage where a spare car is waiting. “Peter’s in Crime Alley about to do something real stupid. He gave me his formula.”
“I was just about to call you.” Dick sounds stressed, a bit out of breath. “Jason’s missing.”
~ ~ ~
Jason Todd
Gotham City – October 21st
Waking up from a near death experience is arguably worse than waking up from dying.
The Lazarus pit had given him a nice dose of madness to curb the initial shock that his body had gone through post-demise. It gave him a couple of side effects both positive and negative, but it really didn’t leave any aches and pains after it was all done.
Creaking his eyelids awake in a medical cot is really not fun.
There’s the nauseating scent of antiseptic and lights that are set far too bright, drilling a migraine straight into Jason’s brain. His skin is itchy where tubes and electrodes are pulling at it, chafing against the shitty material of his medical gown.
Then comes the wave of pain as he tries to sit up, chest igniting in a wildfire. Gritting his teeth, Jason clutches at his ribs, finding a heavy bandage stretched across his side.
What the hell?
The room is vacant aside from him and the medical equipment, though there are signs that visitors have come in and out. Chairs are askew, far too many shoved around for a standard hospital ward.
Alright then, he’s at the cave. Most likely has been fretted over since…
Nope. Not remembering.
His chart should be at the foot of the bed, if only he could sit up. Suck it up, sunshine, the Red Hood doesn’t let a hole in his chest keep him down.
Swallowing around a parched throat, Jason fights to get his body to make a 90 degree angle. His muscles shake, arms straining as sweat starts to bead, but gets himself somewhat vertical in the end.
Gingerly scootching over, he captures his mark. Flipping through the chart, he sees all the standard stuff. No pain meds to be administered, blood type O-, blah blah blah.
Notes. Bingo.
Bruising. Lacerations. Internal bleeding. Collapsed lung. Two GSWs, one to the thigh and one to the chest.
Motorcycle accident.
A darkened street. The flash of a gun’s muzzle. Pushing himself off asphalt. Deathstroke.
Peter.
“You gotta stay here, okay?” A breath. “I’m gonna lead them away.” The clipboard cracks under Jason’s grip. “Let me save you this time.”
He should be here. He would be here if he could.
He’s gone.
Peter’s gone.
Green thrums through Jason’s veins, pushed along by the laboured beating of his heart.
They took him from me.
Nothing really hurts that bad anymore.
There’s some gear he stashed around here, guns that Bruce and his birds never got to.
Jason tears himself free from the monitors, machines screeching as they call for help. He doesn’t pay them any mind, slipping from the room.
He’s got some unfinished business to take care of.
Notes:
Jason back in da world fr?
Missed u and ur drama buddy.
Chapter 14
Notes:
I swear these chapters just keep getting longer and longer y'all.
Edit: apologies for forgetting when I first posted this, but trigger warning for animal harm. There isn’t any graphic physical abuse actively happening, but dogs are being harmed via starvation.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Damian Wayne
The Bowery – October 21st
Damian awakens to Alfred the Cat stepping on his head and the sound of a curse coming from the nearby bathroom.
He had been trained out of the brief period of drowsiness that would come with rousing from sleep, able to push himself to his feet with only the slightest urge to grumble.
Alfred the Cat jumps down beside him, attempting to get him to trip.
He does not.
Breaths frost in the air as the sun’s warmth remains trapped behind the clouds, urging Damian to pull his pet into his arms to share heat. Stepping out of the room, he sees his newfound ally tending to some of his wounds.
Peter’s estimations of his injuries would appear to have been greatly minimized, with swathes of skin marred by bruising and lacerations. There is a disruption of the line of his injured thigh beneath his pants, the wound beneath wrapped tightly with a bandage.
Considering there are no medical supplies around, it has most likely been bandaged with torn scraps of clothing.
There is a stab of regret for how he’d struck Peter down the previous night, though it was a pre-emptive attack based on the perceived threat of harm. That would not feel pleasant, particularly with the likelihood of the injury being infected.
The adolescent turns and startles at Damian’s appearance, shoulders jumping. “Dude, you have got to start making noise when you walk around.”
“I disagree.” Damian watches as Peter puts his shirt back on. “I’m issuing a reminder that I will leave you behind should you get in the way of the investigation.”
“I’ll keep up.” It is a good sign that he does not doubt his abilities.
“We shall see.” Damian lets Alfred the Cat slide from his arms, watching as the traitor rubs his body along Peter’s shin. “I tracked the Kennel Master to a series of tunnels beneath the Bowery. You will point him out to me and then remain hidden.”
“What about Alfred?”
“He has been instructed on the protocols.”
“You trained your cat in combat tactics?” It seems like a rhetorical question, but the silence after suggests it is not. A beat passes. “Never mind, that actually makes total sense.”
Unsure of how to respond, Damian sniffs and turns. “Are you prepared to leave?”
“Sure, yeah.” Peter retrieves a sweater that he assumedly found within the building, his outfit different than that of the previous day. The only remaining article of clothing is the black brimmed cap that has not been removed in Damian’s company.
Given the dark tones of the fabric, it seems he is aware of the merits of stealth. Perhaps the adolescent is not as doomed as Damian initially believed.
Settling Alfred the Cat back into the backpack, they scale the side of the building in tandem. Peter lags behind slightly, skin pale and injured leg shaking when he settles onto the street. He utters no complaint despite this.
There is a moment where Damian wonders if the adolescent had been trained by Mother, his willingness to prioritize the mission over his suffering notable.
The thought is dismissed quickly, but suspicion remains at the back of Damian’s mind regardless.
Their journey to the Bowery is quick, their combined knowledge of the streets aiding in their progress. However, locating an entrance to the tunnels proves to be unexpectedly difficult, the daylight lessening far too quickly.
Many of the usual access points have been soldered closed, the heavy metal of the manhole covers melted to their frames. It is frustrating, the sentiment of a clock hanging over their heads an almost tangible one.
Soon, twilight will fall and the Bats will be out.
He has not attempted to hide his path through the city well enough, favouring a brisk pace instead. He cannot be disrupted, not when he is so close.
The sun is setting when they discover an inferior weld. It is patchy, something that would succumb easily to a few small explosives.
Unfortunately, Damian did not have time to bring any when he first fled the manor.
He clicks his tongue. “We will have to regroup and discover a new way in.”
“My bet’s on the only way in being guarded by like, fifty guys.” It is far too large of an estimation, but Damian allows Peter to continue. The adolescent ruminates before settling down on one knee. “Move back.”
Intrigued, Damian acquiesces.
Peter slots his fingers into one of the holes of the manhole cover, settling his other hand on the asphalt beside it. Bracing himself, he begins to pull.
There’s a sharp shriek as the metal gives way, tearing with one heave. Alfred the Cat reacts from within Damian’s bag, shifting as he is discomforted by the piercing sound.
Peter tosses the mangled disc aside with nonchalance, peering down the hole.
Damian quietly seethes. “You did not mention you were a metahuman.”
“You didn’t ask.” Peter shrugs, pointedly keeping his eyes from meeting Damian’s. “Just like I didn’t ask why a pre-teen’s hunting a crime lord with a bo-staff.”
Tt.
Damian steps up next to Peter, noting that the ladder rungs have been removed from their concrete mooring. He does not have a grapple, forced to leave it behind as they are all affixed with a tracker.
Father’s paranoia is as much of a hinderance as it is a blessing.
Peter does not seem upset, turning his attention to Damian now that his anger has abated. “I have a way down but you have to climb on.”
The adolescent nods to his back, indicating that Damian should climb atop it. His nose scrunches in response, having always found the position to be degrading, but their options are limited.
Tightening the straps of his backpack, Damian clambers onto Peter’s back, fingers digging into his shoulders. Once he is settled, Peter lowers himself through the hole and begins to crawl down.
Adhering to the walls without any equipment.
Drake would abscond the Wayne fortune for a chance to study the manner behind the meta’s abilities, having failed many attempts to create a device that is mimics a facet of Peter’s natural biology.
Damian feels triumphant that he is first to see it.
He drops from the adolescent’s back when they near the tunnel’s bottom, igniting a flashlight to peer down both directions. Orienting himself with his mental map, he begins to head east.
“Tell me the range of your abilities.” Damian does not receive a swift answer, finding a dubious expression on Peter’s face. “I must know in order to be sure of your safety in a combat scenario.”
“You’ve seen the biggest ones already. There’s just enhancements across the board from there.”
“You are avoiding the question by being vague in your answers.”
Peter’s head turns skyward, finding the roof of the tunnel. “My metabolism is behind without the right diet or food intake, so it doesn’t matter anyways.”
Damian clicks his tongue. “You are the one who insisted upon sharing your food.”
“Yeah, well, you seem to know what you’re doing better than me, so I figure you’d need to be on your A-game more than me.” He punctuates his thought with a shrug, casual in his short-sighted generosity.
Damian chooses not to question him further.
Peter looks down, gaze flickering to Damian’s backpack. “What all do you have in there?”
“Two smoke bombs, three ranged weapons, and a staff.” He has an errant regret for leaving his katanas behind, foolishly having left them in his room for cleaning.
“And Alfred.” Peter’s lip quirks in a lopsided smile. “Don’t think I want to know what kind of moves you’ve taught that cat.”
“You do not.” Damian fights the twitch of his own, smothering it with the pinching of his features as he squints into the gloom. “We are getting close.”
“Wait up a sec.” Peter approaches a wall and hefts himself partway up, settling a hand on the metal of a pipe. The angle of his head shifts in small increments, a faraway glaze to his eyes as he focuses.
He’s listening to them. Damian watches, curious about what it would be like to have such awareness at all times. It's a thought that comes often to him around Jon, an odd comparison given the differences between the two boys.
“They’re going to expand operations with the tunnels. Older ones run deeper beneath the city, used to stay out of Batman’s notice for so long.” Peter’s fingers slide against the corroded metal. “They’re moving something heavy, scraping it along the concrete.”
The adolescent pauses, then. “The Kennel Master’s here. He says it’s ‘all thanks to their friends in high places’.”
Damian files that away, asking, “How many are gathered?”
“Ten, maybe twelve?” Peter lowers himself down gingerly. “It’s hard to tell with all of the movement and echoes.”
“We will approach using stealth.” Damian switches off his flashlight, dreading voicing his plan. “Using your ability to adhere to walls, we will drop from above under smoke cover.”
Peter grins. “Awesome. Mission Impossible style.”
Damian sighs.
~ ~ ~
Bruce Wayne
The Bowery – October 21st
“It’s the Batman!”
A wave of gunfire fills the darkened facility, arcing wildly as the people below try to hit Bruce with luck alone. He’s safely nestled behind a concrete support beam high above, waiting as their clips gradually empty.
Across the building in a similar alcove is Red Robin, remaining out of sight to provide backup when necessary. He’d always held a pragmatism that suited vigilante work, choosing to observe when others would leap into the fray.
“Batman, I’m detecting a shaft extending below the building, likely an elevator or lift.” Oracle’s voice comes clean through the comms. “Robin was last seen entering a service tunnel that runs below your current location.”
Bruce doesn’t respond, keeping his presence unknown to the gangsters below.
There’s a very human part of him that itches to ask for an update on Nightwing’s team, wanting to know if Jason had been located. In his current state, they’re operating on a clock, one that will inevitably end with a body cooling on Gotham’s streets.
The true question is if it would be wearing a familiar face or not.
He swallows the question down, smothering it beneath the impartiality of the Bat as he focuses on the task at hand.
Reaching into his belt, Bruce pulls an EMP emitter and aims it towards the fuse box in the corner, dropping down as he tosses it. The lights are cut with an audible chunk, fear permeating the air as visibility is lost to the human eye.
Bruce and Tim have no such issues, equipped with night vision.
Landing behind a thug, they don’t have any time to turn before their head is being slammed against the surface of a nearby table. All eyes swivel their way, watching as their comrade’s body slumps to the ground.
“Shit!” A nearby woman levels her pistol with Bruce’s head but her aim is off by nearly a foot. The gun is ripped from her hands and she’s kicked back, rolling before she comes to a stop.
She uses the darkness to flee. Unexpectedly prescient of her.
Bruce dodges low and disappears behind an industrial electrical box, bullets pinging off the metal. He creates some distance, not wanting to be close should the casing be penetrated.
A call from a dozen paces away catches his’s attention, voice nearly fading out beneath the popping of gunfire. “Someone call the boss!”
Bruce sweeps his gaze across the space, spotting as a thin figure scrambles for their cellphone. They were too far away from the initial EMP burst, the light from their device illuminating their terrified features.
They’re too distracted to notice the Red Robin lowering behind them.
A single crack of his bo-staff has them falling unconscious, phone shattered by the opposite end of the weapon.
Tim joins the fight as he always does, every step sure and necessary with no measure of energy wasted. He doesn’t move with the fluidity and showmanship of Dick, or the cold detachment of Damian.
He moves similarly to Bruce, his technique a near one-to-one of his mentor’s. He hadn’t bruised his knuckles on the street before donning the mantle of Robin, not like Jason was. It has the fight finishing with brutal efficiency, neither feeling the urge to play around with their targets.
Bruce presses a hand to his comm while Tim secures the unconscious gangsters strewn about. “Send the GCPD to bring them in with instructions to remain aboveground. We don’t know what they might have in those tunnels.”
“On it.” Barbara disappears into another channel, juggling the needs of both teams as they pursue separate goals. She returns after a moment. “The police have been contacted and will send a squad out to collect.”
Tim wanders over to the elevator shaft, working out how to pry the doors open. Bruce moves to a private line with Barbara, voice low when he orders, “Report on Nightwing’s team.”
“Jason is moving erratically enough to make it difficult to follow him through the city. He’s avoiding cameras and sticking to roads that the police tend to avoid.” Barbara sighs, something pained creeping in as she says, “It’s like he was… before.”
When the pit was in control.
Jason and Bruce had never spoken about what he’d done after becoming the Red Hood, their allyship too tentative to risk broaching the topic.
The young man’s actions could not be wholly forgiven regardless of the pit’s hold on him, not when he remained unapologetic about them. The gap between him and the team wouldn’t ever completely close, as much as it pains those who knew him before.
Hearing that he’s using his knowledge of the team’s weaknesses against them, Bruce can’t help the tightness of his chest at the thought of Jason returning to that place.
“Batman?”
Tim is watching Bruce with an even gaze from where he’s crouched in front of the open doors of the elevator. He’s as steady as ever, pulling his mentor from his head as he’d always done.
Pushing it all down, Bruce moves until he’s alongside Tim. He looks down to see a style of lift often used on construction sites, a rickety platform suspended by cables settled at the bottom of the pit.
Sounds of a fight echo from below.
Bruce hooks a grapple and begins to descend, Red Robin following just behind.
~ ~ ~
Peter Parker
The Bowery – October 21st
Stuck to the ceiling, Peter can count 13 people wandering about the space. The goons are pushing cages around, some empty with the doors yawning open as they await their occupants.
The majority contain cowering dogs that are whimpering inside, emaciated with their ribs visible, a sight which has Damian’s nails digging painfully into Peter’s skin.
Off to one side is an old lift settled on the ground, ready to be hefted skyward by four thick wires. It looks like an absolute safety hazard, but could work as an emergency exit should things go south.
Alfred the Cat had been left in the relative safety of the tunnel, just close enough to hear a whistle from Damian when the coast is clear. Peter is doubly glad for it as the canines below don’t signal their presence, scents ignored with the imminent danger of the humans surrounding their cages.
Directing the flow of work is the Kennel Master, two Dobermans sitting at his heels. The guy’s exactly how Jason described him, looking like an 80s action movie mobster, complete with animal print tie.
His salt-and-pepper hair is slicked back, layers of gel keeping it pressed against his skull. The man is surprisingly good looking, though the effect is ruined by the general eau-de-villain that wafts from him.
Pointing him out to Damian, the kid nods and gives him a severe look with a hand signal to stay.
Yeah, sure.
Things really speed up from there.
The fight starts out on a high note, Damian unleashing his smoke bombs on his unsuspecting victims before dropping amidst them.
Chaos erupts, dogs barking as safeties are clicked off. Peter can’t see what’s going on, the thick haze blocking his view of Damian.
When the first bullets start to fly, he doesn’t think. He can’t have another death on his conscience, can’t let this kid die because of his bounty.
Man this is going to hurt.
Peter lets go of the ceiling, twisting mid-air to land in the smoke. Despite his careful maneuvering, his injured leg roars in a bright flare of pain pain pain.
Swallowing back a shout, he pushes past the swell of nausea and forces himself to move. His senses blare and he dodges, air buzzing as a bullet carves through the smoke an inch past his head.
Beneath the pops and shouts, Peter hears a thwack and a body fall, much too heavy to be Damian. Seems the kid’s doing alright.
A shadow coalesces in the bright flashes emitted from the muzzles of the goons’ weapons, outlining a built figure. He strikes before they can react, tearing the gun from their hands.
Snapping a fist out, he catches the man across the nose, bald head jerking to the side. He can feel the effects of Jason’s training, wide arcing punches traded for whip-quick strikes.
Peter ducks beneath a lazy swing, the man dazed from the blow. A return hit and he goes down, legs folding like a blanket against the ground.
There’s another buzz from Peter’s senses and he ducks beneath the butt of a shotgun as it tries to connect with his temple. He encloses his fingers around it before it can get pulled back, wood splintering with the force of his grip.
He’s getting really tired of guns.
He jerks the weapon’s owner closer with a single tug, catching them across the chest with his forearm. They stay down, coughing as they try to pull air back into their lungs.
Peter cringes, hovering near them. “Sorry ‘bout that.” He knocks them out.
The smoke is starting to dissipate, figures clarifying in the room. Sounds of the fight blur together, though that could also be the blood thumping in Peter’s ears.
It’s beating to the same drum that’s pounding against the wound in his thigh.
From behind him, he hears a unique zip, one he’d heard only twice before. The first was the night he’d crawled out of the pit, as the shadow of a man descended on a wire.
The second was the day he’d stalked Gotham’s greatest hero to a rooftop, the sound a herald of stark eyes peering through the dark.
The Batman.
Turning, Peter watches as a black shape lands atop the lift. A loud clang echoes in the cavernous space, new shouts following in its wake, all tinged with a particular kind of fear.
A pair of white lenses hone in on Peter.
DOWN.
Rolling to the side, a blur passes over Peter’s head as one of the Kennel Master’s dogs lunges. He loses sight of Batman as he darts back, a plan forming in his mind.
He keeps moving until the barking of several dogs is right behind him, a low humming of his sixth sense alerting him to the agitated animals in near proximity. The Kennel Master’s pets prowl before him, weaving back and forth as they gain on him.
The second Doberman growls before launching itself at Peter. He lets himself fall back against its weight, planting a foot against its stomach before launching the canine overhead.
There’s a clang as it tumbles into an open cage, paws scrambling against the slick metal ground. Peter kicks out a leg and the door slams shut, the latch falling as the force rattles it down.
A snarl sounds right behind Peter’s ear, mere inches away as he’s become distracted by Doberman #2. A brief image flashes through his mind of teeth against his jugular when he hears something spinning through the air towards him.
Scrambling back, he watches as a grappling line lassos around the dog’s legs. It falls to the ground in a heap, struggling against its bindings as a young man comes to a stop beside it.
The Red Robin peers at Peter with a worried expression. “You okay?”
An automatic rifle raises behind the vigilante’s back, muzzle pointed at Peter.
Darting past, the skin of Peter’s hand burns as he grabs the barrel of the gun, bullets peppering the ceiling. He looks beyond it to the woman that’s holding it. “Dude, PETA would’ve had your ass for that.”
A staff knocks against her temple and Peter looks to see Damian turning to him with a slightly pleased expression. It’s quickly smothered behind an annoyed one, moment ruined as the kid nags. “You were instructed to remain out of combat.”
“Got bored.”
A large shadow barrels towards them, fabric falling from their shoulders.
Batman?
Slicked back hair and an animal print tie charge through the last vestiges of the smoke.
Not Batman.
One of Peter’s ribs crack as the Kennel Master slams into him, body thrown several feet back. A grunt escapes from his lungs, the pained shout smothered by all the air escaping from his chest.
Peter’s leg nearly gives out as he pushes himself to kneel, world going fuzzy as his body goes cold and clammy. He can’t really feel his hands, all of his focus put into staying conscious.
Shaking the static from his gaze, he sees the Kennel Master has ballooned in size. The veins in his neck are bulging, pulse pounding in his neck.
Peter spits out a wad of blood from where his teeth had clamped onto his tongue. “Heavy weight championships ended last week, buddy.”
He doesn’t get a response. Lame.
The Kennel Master takes another run at him, but draws up short as a grappling hook digs into his arm. With a roar, he tugs on it, drawing the Batman into close quarters.
Peter’s still trying to push himself to his feet as the two start exchanging blows. Batman is a force to be reckoned with, experience brimming with the way he reads each of the Kennel Master’s attacks and counters them fluidly.
Batman ducks beneath agile strikes, using the other man’s momentum against him. He has a perfectly blended fighting style, swapping between martial arts forms seamlessly.
The chaos hasn’t stopped in the meantime, the last of the Kennel Master’s forces still putting up a fight. Their numbers are dwindling, but their ammo stores are holding up against the combined forces of the Bats.
The blast of a shotgun slams against Batman’s back, knocking him off balance and into the Kennel Master’s hold. A hand wraps around the Caped Crusader’s neck, grip lined with steel. Two voices shout from different ends of the room, each calling out to the hero.
Peter isn’t quite so far, using the Kennel Master’s single-minded focus on the Batman to his advantage. Gathering the last of his energy, Peter darts forward and hooks his legs around the crime boss’ neck.
Ignoring the voice in his head that says this is a bad idea, he starts to squeeze.
Batman is dropped to the ground, Damian and the Red Robin darting over to check on the hero.
The Kennel Master reaches up and locks his fingers around Peter’s legs, going to pry him off. His grip is bruising, arms swollen with muscle from whatever he’d taken.
His thumb digs into Peter’s bullet wound, and the world whites out.
Peter must only be out for a few seconds, but when he comes to he’s on his back with a new source of agony coming from his head. Two hands settle on either side of his temples and he’s lifted, neck twinging as it holds the weight of his body.
You ever see this really old Star Trek movie, the Wrath of Khan?
Distantly, Peter can see three people sprinting over from behind the Kennel Master’s back, but he doesn’t think they’ll make it in time.
He’s too tired to move, doesn’t have anything left.
Peter’s heartbeat is too loud to be able to hear the words that the Kennel Master’s mouth is forming.
It’s why he misses the sound that precedes the spray of blood bursting from the man’s neck.
There’s a hole going through his throat. That wasn’t there before.
The ground comes up to meet Peter, body slumping to the side.
Someone has a pistol held aloft, a streak of white hair standing out among darker strands.
Somehow, Peter finds the energy to smile.
Jason.
He lets go, darkness pulling him under.
Notes:
The downfall of the Kennel Master: a bad welding job. Pay your blue collar workers, people, it could save you from a bullet to the neck one day.
Also context for Wrath of Khan: bro crushes people's heads with his bare hands. Kinda gnarly.
Chapter Text
Dick Grayson
The Bowery – October 21st
Dick is welcomed to the fray by chaos, Steph and Cass flanking him as he skids into the room.
Bruce and Damian are fighting Jason off, pushing him away from two bodies slumped on the ground. Groaning gangsters are twitching on the cold floor, the barking of dogs echoing in the cavernous space.
A pool of blood is spreading from a hulking body, both hands pressed to a bleeding neck as they choke on the liquid pouring from their wounds.
Tim is crouched over a smaller body, checking vitals with a focus that isn’t wavering, not even as gunshots ring out from the nearby fight. A familiar face is tilted to the side, the sight of Peter’s still form sending ice through Dick’s veins.
He shouts orders while Bruce is preoccupied, pulling his escrima from their holsters. “Spoiler, tend to the big guy, Orphan, help Red!”
Bruce and Damian don’t react to his presence as he turns to aid them, the two of them moving together in harmony. Jason’s holding his own, aware of their tactics while bolstered by slight enhancements from the Lazarus pit.
He’s moving as if he’s uninjured, twisting his body this way and that as if it hadn’t recently been put through surgery. Drops of scarlet fall to the floor beneath him, glowing verdant eyes burning from behind a bloody nose.
Dick joins the fight by knocking Jason back, his brother’s body clanging against the side of a cage. The canine inside shies away, barks returning with a vengeance when the noise subsides.
“Jay, snap out of it!” It’s a useless attempt, evident when he gets a bullet fired his way in response.
Damian is there in the next second to knock the weapon from Jason’s hand, metal clattering against stone as it slides out of reach.
Bruce’s voice comes through Dick’s comm. “Nightwing, keep him distracted.”
Trusting the older man, Dick follows the order as Damian falls into step with him. They settle back into old roles, harkening to the days that they took up the mantles of Batman and Robin together.
It helps with forgetting who they’re fighting against. He slides into that detached corner of his mind, blocking out the pained grunt that he knocks from his younger brother.
Damian isn’t pulling his punches, targeting the ribs on Jason’s injured side. It slows their opponent down, shirt growing damp and dark as the wound starts to weep.
This can’t be good for the kid’s psyche, fighting family a sore spot. He’d been forced into the position too many times, having nearly killed most of them at least once.
It has Damian off his game just enough that Jason gets in a good hit, sending him flying back. Dick instinctively goes to catch him but is wrenched away by a hand around his neck.
His back slams against the ground, one of Jason’s forearms bearing against Dick’s throat. His airway cuts off with a strangled gasp, eyes wide as he looks up to the poisoned hue of his brother’s irises.
Dick tries to heft Jason’s bulk off of him, but his arms get pinned beneath a boot and a painful grip.
Damian pushing himself to his feet.
A shout. “Peter!”
Jason’s weight lessens as his head snaps up, looking to where the alarmed cry had come from.
Dick follows his gaze, expecting to see Tim pushing air into a young boy’s unmoving chest.
Instead, he finds two hazel eyes barely slitted open as they look towards the commotion. Peter’s hand is reaching out, fingers weakly splayed towards Dick and Jason.
Tim’s tone shifts towards one of authority, attention fixed just beyond them. “B, now!”
There’s a blur as Bruce barrels into Jason’s side, rolling until the younger man is beneath him. Jason snarls and tries to knock him off. He gets a couple of blows in before a tranquilizer is being jammed into the meat of his bicep.
Dick rolls over, blood rushing to his head as he sucks in air greedily. He pushes himself to stand with unsteady legs, muscles weak from a lack of oxygen.
“Jason, stop!” Bruce struggles to keep him pinned, teeth gritted as he waits for the sedative to take effect.
It doesn’t take long, Jason’s strength waning as the seconds tick by. His breaths wheeze out of his chest with the recently patched hole in his lungs doing him no favours.
“Nightwing.” Bruce’s voice pierces through the pace of Dick’s thoughts, body losing tension as the fight ebbs out of him. “Take Peter and Jason to the cave. Spoiler and Robin will assist. Batwoman is waiting with transport above.”
Nodding, Dick moves to pull Jason to his feet. The sickly light in his eyes has faded, replaced with a bone-deep tiredness as he searches for his kid.
Steph gingerly lifts Peter into her arms and Jason tries to step towards them, not getting very far as Dick is the only thing keeping him upright. Damian whistles and Alfred the Cat comes trotting over to twine around the boy’s ankles.
Jason doesn’t tear his focus away from Peter, his free hand twitching where it hangs limp. The teen’s limp in Steph’s hold, eyes closed once more.
“He’s okay, Jay.” Dick mutters to his brother, earning himself a glance. “We’re going to get him some help.”
Jason’s head bobs in a nod and they step onto the lift, ascending as they watch the rest of the team tend to the Kennel Master and his crew.
~ ~ ~
Damian Wayne
Wayne Manor – October 22nd
Peter had been on verge of going into septic shock when he is delivered to Dr. Thompkins. He’d overheard her discussing treatment with Pennyworth, the butler having to prepare a blend of strong antibiotics to aid Peter’s body in fighting off the infection.
Damian is not supposed to see the proceedings of the teen’s medical care, but Gordon had allowed him to access to the camera feed when he had threatened to break his way in.
The fabric that had been tied around his thigh became adhered to the injury, necessitating removal by gingerly peeling it with a scalpel. Once gone, it revealed an inflamed and weeping wound that would have rendered any lesser human inert.
Damian feels a begrudging flicker of respect at the teen’s display of tenacity, having joined the fight despite the risk of worsening his condition.
There is an accompanying surge of anger that he would go against Damian’s orders. There was a reason he instructed Peter to remain out of the fight, every sign pointing towards the teen being in no condition to engage in combat.
The Kennel Master had nearly crushed his skull between his palms, stopped only by Todd’s timely intervention.
If Peter had died, it would have been Damian’s fault. Inarguably.
Todd is in an adjacent room being treated by Pennyworth, his stitches torn in the midst of combat. Kane hovers nearby should he return to his altered state, ready to apprehend him once more should he strike out against the butler or attempt to leave.
The scuff of a shoe over the cave’s floor signals the end of Damian’s solitude.
“You shouldn’t be watching that.” Grayson’s voice has Damian turning, finding his eldest sibling wandering over in lounge clothes. “What’d you threaten Barbara with to get her to hack into the feed?”
“That is none of your concern.” Damian turns back to the screens, unsure of how this conversation will pan out. “With Todd’s behaviour and Peter’s unknown history, I thought it prudent to watch over Dr. Thompkins and Pennyworth.”
“Not calling Peter by his last name, huh?” Grayson pouts, having attempted to urge Damian to call him ‘Dick’ for years.
Damian crosses his arms. “He did not disclose his surname to me.”
“I should’ve thought of that.” A beat passes where Damian would have once insulted him for his shortsightedness, letting the moment go as the man’s expression softens. “I was worried about you.”
“I am aware. I took great pains to avoid your interference in the case.” He sniffs and returns his attention to the surgery. “I am capable of caring for myself. There was no need for the team to take undue time to ensure my safety.”
Damian curses himself for his choice in words, knowing how Grayson will interpret them.
A soft hand lands on his shoulder, the computer chair swivelling to force Damian to look over at his sibling. Grayson’s eyes are slanted in concerned. “You’re a priority to us, someone we love to care for, even when the whole of Gotham is falling apart. You know that, right?”
He falters beneath the sincerity in Grayson’s face, uncomfortable with the way he wears his emotions. “That is not what I meant.”
A pained smile. “Maybe not, but I still need you to know that it’s true.”
Damian stays still as his sibling fusses, allowing Grayson to brush something from his cheek though he had washed away all signs of grime from his body. “I will make note of it.”
He does not tolerate it long, smacking the offending limb away when he tires of the mother hen treatment. Grayson relents, though not without a ruffle to Damian’s hair.
They watch the progression of the surgery for some time. Pennyworth concludes his treatment of Todd, leaving him to rest and purge the remaining tranquilizer from his system.
Father finds them there when the sun is beginning to rise, quickly followed by the rest of the team. He receives a report from Grayson, leveling a scolding look at Damian for watching the feed.
They disperse to divest their gear and clean themselves up, a weariness present in all of their eyes. Breakfast is shared in the dining room, all but Cain summoned as she had volunteered to watch over Todd.
Very little conversation is shared, everyone’s minds occupied with the events of the past few hours. The majority of words spoken are requests for condiments, often uttered in a near whisper.
It is Kane that disrupts the quiet air that had settled, lowering her fork to rest on her plate as she finishes her meal. “Any news on the Kennel Master?”
“Steph stabilized him on scene, and he’s undergoing treatment at Gotham general under police supervision.” Father steeples his fingers, skin scratching against stubble as he rests his chin upon his hands. “He may not have long. The severity of his wounds and the strain that the venom had on his body might be too much for his body to handle.”
Drake looks up from his mobile phone, a troubled frown on his lips. “Do you think he knows Bane? I don’t know how he would’ve gotten access to the formula without some past connection.”
“It’s possible, but we can’t be sure of it until we’ve got a positive ID from the GCPD.” Father stares down at the table, deep in thought. “With Bane in Arkam, it seems that he’s either running things from afar or someone’s gotten their hands on venom production in Gotham.”
Damian has never been a fan of family meetings, finding that the team has a habit of ruminating over problems when they could be taking swift action instead. They are also boring, though father is insistent on his attendance for the sake of developing his teamwork skills.
For the first time in a while, he finds he has something to add. “While Peter and I were planning our attack on the Kennel Master’s forces, he mentioned having ‘friends in high places’. Perhaps they are underlings for figures of higher importance.”
“It was his guys that were transporting the cache of venom that Jason and I found.” Grayson leans forward, mimicking father’s body language. “With what was in that safe, we could be dealing with something bigger than we initially thought.”
“But to what end?” Drake, ever the pragmatist, demands. “There hasn’t been an influx of venom on the street, and we still don’t know what the Kryptonite was for. None of the Supers operate anywhere near Gotham, and we don’t call on them for low level street crime.”
He huffs, sitting back as he concludes. “The electrum and Batmanium don’t make much more sense. Only lead we have is the Dionesium, which really has only one likely source.”
Grandfather.
Cold blooms in Damian’s chest at the thought of Ra’s Al Ghul, very little pleasant memories coming to mind. Everyone keeps their gaze pointedly away, but their attention settles on his shoulders regardless.
Father looks up from the table, turning his attention towards Drake. “You and Barbara can start looking into the applications of the heavy metals. I’ll check in on Bane if we get nothing from the Kennel Master.”
He does not mention contacting grandfather.
“If I may.” Kane raises a hand, composed as she asks, “What are we going to do about Peter and Jason?”
“They will stay at the manor for the time being. Peter’s involved in this somehow, whether it’s willingly or not.” Father states this in a tone that leaves no room for argument. “He is under our protection until we figure out what’s going on.”
Kane eyes father warily. “And if Jason doesn’t approve of this?”
Father’s mouth tightens.
Grayson responds first, countering with his usual level of optimism. “He wants Peter safe at any cost. If that means staying at the manor, he’ll do it.”
“For now, we’ll start with preparing room for the two of them.” Father draws the discussion to a close, Pennyworth gathering their dishes. “Get some rest.”
Damian stands and wanders from the room, the events of the past few days beginning to drag his shoulders down. The heaviest weight is father’s gaze on his back, carrying the promise of a conversation in the near future.
~ ~ ~
Jason Todd
Wayne Manor – October 22nd
For the second time in 24 hours, Jason blinks to awareness in the med bay of the Batcave.
He isn’t alone this time, a pair of dark eyes peering at him from behind a fringe. They’re assessing him, uncanny in the way they’re unblinking.
He’d only seen Cassandra once or twice out in the field, the girl an enigma. She was quieter than Bruce, a small slip of a thing that he’d only heard whispers about. The Orphan, Black Bat, daughter of Lady Shiva.
She’s watching for signs of pit madness, reading the shifts in his expression and body language. There’s the echoes of it in his mind, a syrupy fog clinging to the edges of his conscious mind. He trudges through it, trying to find clarity in the muddled memories of what he’d done.
“What happened?” His voice rasps out of his throat, scratching its way out into the air.
Cassandra passes him a water bottle in lieu of responding, not that Jason really expected one. He doesn’t know his adoptive sister that well, but is aware of her tendency away from spoken word.
Her hands move in familiar shapes, signing out some context. Older brother.
Then, she points to her phone.
Ah. Dick is on his way. Great.
Jason grunts in response, letting his head drop back onto his pillow. His breaths are coming in rough, feeling as if he’s on the verge of an asthma attack. His chest is tight, an ache pounding from beneath his ribs.
After a minute, Cassandra stands and gives a small wave, one that Jason returns with a bit of bewilderment. She steps out, leaving him alone for a few blissful seconds until she’s replaced by a much more irritating substitute.
“Hey, Jay.” Dick closes the door, wandering next to the cot. “How’re you feeling?”
He snorts. “What d’you think?”
“Don’t be an ass.” Sitting next to Jason’s knee, Dick fixes him with his patented ‘worried brother look’. “Seriously though.”
“Feel like shit.” It’s as accurate as he can get, everything amounting to some level of ‘bad’. “What happened?”
“You got shot twice after getting thrown in a motorcycle accident, went through intensive surgery, and then jumped into a fight with a barely sewn together hole in your chest.”
Jason nods. Sounds about right.
“Bruce is pissed by the way.” Dick levels a different look his way, one that tells Jason that dear old dad isn’t the only one that’s mad at him. “You almost killed his only lead.”
Hold up.
Scrunching his brows, Jason imagines the weight of a gun in his hand. His finger twitches around the phantom trigger, muzzle aimed at…
A man holding a smaller body aloft, head clenched between his palms.
Tim’s voice calling out a name, one that cuts through the haze of green. A hand reaching out.
Jason shoves himself to sit up, ignoring the way his stitches pull. “Peter!”
“Whoa, hey!” Dick keeps him from vaulting off the cot, palms pressing down on Jason’s shoulders. “Peter’s okay, he’s just next door.”
“But he-” Trying to knock Dick’s hands off of him, Jason struggles in vain. “Dick, you gotta let me-”
“I really don’t want you to get tranqed again, Jay, you gotta calm down.” He holds Jason’s head instead, forcing their gazes to meet. “I’ll bring you to him, but you have to breathe. Alfred would kill both of us if you popped your stitches again.”
He sucks in a wheezing breath, the influx of memories slowing.
He slogs through them, remembering the panic he’d felt when he’d awoken to Peter missing. He hadn’t put up a fight against the anger rising in him, welcoming it so he could set aside the pain of his recent injuries.
Then it was just the thrumming of violence in his veins, wanting the Kennel Master to know the feeling of losing everything. The satisfaction he felt when he’d carved a bullet straight through the man’s neck.
Fighting off the figures that kept him away from Peter. Dick, Damian. Bruce.
“Shit.”
Dick’s lip quirks up a bit. “Coming back to you?”
“Yeah.” The steady beep of the ECG slows as Jason calms. “How much does Bruce’s protégé wanna kill me for throwing him across the room?”
“Didn’t ask.” Dick settles back, letting go of Jason’s head. “He’s been standing vigil by Peter’s bed since he woke up from his nap. Something about paying back a blood debt.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah. Apparently, your kid stopped some dogs from getting caught in the crossfire.”
“That’ll do it.” Jason shakes his head. “Also, not my kid.”
Dick raises a brow. “Mhm, cause you’ll lose it to the pits for just anybody.”
“Are you going to take me to him or what?”
Hands raised, Dick surrenders. “Okay okay, just gimme a sec to get clearance from Alfred.”
He knocks twice on the door and it opens to reveal that the butler’s waiting just outside. He strides in with his usual prim posture, fussing about with the medical equipment.
Dick backs to the corner, keeping out of the way. He’s all but throwing Jason to the wolves, focusing on his phone as he stays out of what’s about to transpire.
The silence is thick, every second tantamount to torture as Jason waits for his verbal lashing. Bruce might’ve legally been his father, but nobody knows how to put him in his place more than Alfred.
“Is it not customary to avoid tracking mud on freshly waxed floors, Master Jason?”
Oh boy, here we go. Jason swallows, nods.
“Then may I ask why you not only did that, but then proceeded to ruin the work I put into keeping you alive?” Alfred stops in his fiddling and looks to Jason. “You nearly gave me a fright with the stunt you pulled last night.”
All at once, Jason is a boy again, huddled in a too soft bed with far too much responsibility resting on his small shoulders. “Sorry, Alfred.”
A hand with papery skin settles on his cheek, turning his face upwards. Alfred looks down on him with a look he’d missed more than the comfort of the mansion, more than being Robin. It’s one filled with paternal concern, tinged with heartache.
“I have already lost you once, my boy. I do not believe I would endure losing you again.” Alfred turns his gaze to Dick. “Any of you.”
The two young men nod in unison, throats tight enough to stop whatever words they might’ve said.
Alfred returns to freeing Jason of his medical confinements, measuring his vitals as he goes. “I expect you to remain nearby so I may ensure your continued survival, Master Jason. You are not to leave this ward until given a clear bill of health.”
Again, Jason nods. Several objections try to claw their way out of his throat, but he knows better than to argue when Alfred is in a mood.
Seems he’ll be at the mansion for the time being.
The butler breezes out without another word, already onto the next task. Dick peels himself off the wall and raises his brows in a silent question. Ready?
Sliding to the edge of the bed, Jason takes it slow. At the barest hint of him wavering, Dick pulls the arm on his uninjured side and slings it over his shoulder, taking on some of the weight.
It’s slow going, every step sending a pulse of pain through Jason’s nerves. He trudges along regardless, pulling on every bit of his dog headed stubbornness to make it the dozen paces it takes to make it to Peter’s room.
True to Dick’s word, the kid is just next door.
He’s passed out on the cot, head turned towards the exit. The evidence of the crash is still painted across his skin, guilt churning in Jason’s gut at the sight.
Bags pull on the skin beneath his eyes, accentuated by the absence of a healthy flush across his face. He looks gaunter than the last time Jason saw him, cheekbones as sharp as they were the day Peter crawled out of the pit.
Damian’s perched on the corner of the bed, crouched between the teen and the door. He levels a vicious glare Jason’s way when he enters, muscles coiling in preparation for a fight. “Todd.”
“Cool your jets, terror tot.” Jason gets teeth bared his way for that. “I’m just here for a visit.”
“I’m not sure that’s wise given your notable lack of control.” The twerp’s head tilts. “I thought mother trained you better than that.”
Little shit.
“C’mon, Dames, it’s fine.” Dick pleads with Damian, looking more and more apprehensive as him and Jason trade verbal blows. “I think Bruce was looking for you anyways.”
The young vigilante’s eyes narrow. “Father knows where I am.”
“Dick if he doesn’t get the hell out in two seconds…”
“Alright, out.” Dick leaves Jason braced against a wall and approaches Damian, pushing him towards the door with a hand to the back of his head. “Stop using Peter as an excuse to avoid Bruce. I’ll uphold your blood oath while you’re gone.”
He gets a grumbled insult but Damian doesn’t put up any more of a fight, sending one more glower Jason’s way before he’s gone.
Dick returns to guide Jason settle onto one of the chairs next to the cot. He moves out of eyeline, quickly forgotten as reality set in.
Peter’s okay. He’s here.
Something shakes loose deep in Jason’s chest and a faltering breath rattles out of his lungs. His shoulders slump as the last vestiges of tension drain from his frame, one hand rising to brush Peter’s hair from his face.
“Hey, Queens.”
Notes:
I prommy you'll get a more in-depth reunion soon besties. We need both these idiots to be conscious first.
Chapter 16
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Tim Drake
Wayne Manor – October 22nd
Tim receives an alert from the tower that someone is leaving his personal lab, and all at once he remembers the woman he’d left alone with vague promises of being given a job at Wayne Enterprises.
There’s a flare of guilt for how he’d deserted her with barely a word, though the circumstances of his departure didn’t offer much chance to exchange information. He hadn’t even gotten her name before hightailing it out of there.
Adding another task to his endless list of things to get done, he sets about getting ready to head to the tower. The rumbling of his phone on his table signals a call, a glance at the screen revealing it to be a call from Barbara.
Picking it up, he sets it to speaker. “Hey, what’s up?”
“I got an alert from the tower that someone left your personal lab, and last I checked everyone’s over at the manor.” There’s the suspicious sound of typing coming from Barbara’s end. “You know what that’s about?”
“Yeah, just a helping hand.” Tim tugs a sweater over his head, fixing his hair at it gets knocked askew. “Are you still at the clock tower?”
More typing. “Wrapping up soon. I’ve been mapping out the tunnels that the Kennel Master was using, and looking into how they connect to the older ones that Damian mentioned in his report.”
Tim frowns. “Have you taken a break since yesterday’s mess?”
Barbara pauses. “This is important. We need to know how to get into the tunnels if we’re going to go after the people who’ve been funding the Kennel Master.”
“Babs.”
She sighs. “Fine. Show me what you were working on at the tower and then I’ll put in some rest time.”
Tim smiles, triumphant. “Deal.”
The call disconnects and Tim gathers the last of his belongings. He makes a stop down in the cave, finding Bruce alone at the computer. He bypasses his adoptive father to check in on Peter, peaking into the observation window.
He’s still unconscious, but a glance at his vitals shows his condition had improved significantly. Some colour is filling his cheeks again, vitality returning with proper care.
Jason’s asleep in a chair next to the bed, feet crossed atop the mattress with his head lolled back. It’s a far cry from the last time that Tim saw him, stress and fear roiling from him in waves as he fought his way towards the teen.
Bruce steps up next to Tim, looking through the window alongside him. “So this is the Peter that everyone’s been talking so much about.”
Tim glances over and nods, seeing an inquisitive expression on Bruce’s face.
“He sure leaves an impression.” The older man crosses his arms. “And lots of questions.”
“At least we have confirmation on who the pit survivor was.” Tim eyes the streak of white in Peter’s hair, thinking of the baseball cap that’d stayed firmly on the teen’s head throughout his tour of the tower. “Makes too much sense to be anyone else.”
Bruce grunts in agreement, keeping any further considerations to himself. He turns from the window and nods towards the computer, wandering over to pick up a strange device from atop the desk.
Following behind, Tim sees it’s a wristband of a sort. It’s piecemeal tech, cobbled together from cannibalized gear to serve some purpose. Bruce hands it to him to inspect, finding an empty cartridge still held within.
“I believe Jason’s wounds were packed by whatever this projects. The bandages dissolved before we could analyze them.” Bruce’s tone sounds almost grumpy at the loss of a clue. “Take it with you. The product of your… lab assistant’s work might work with Peter’s tech.”
As always, Bruce knows all.
Tim nods, putting the device into his bag, carefully avoiding Bruce’s pointed look. Waving a hand in farewell, he heads out quickly thereafter, the weight of his mentor’s gaze as effective as a lecture.
Taking one of their more nondescript cars, Tim picks Barbara up before they’re off to the tower. She looks as she always does mid-case, hair askew from pushing it away from her face all night. There’s a distant glaze in her eyes, her mind running too fast to notice that her body is lagging behind.
It’s a feeling that Tim is well acquainted with.
They proceed to the lab in silence, finding it to be surprisingly well taken care of. The necessary instruments have been left out but cleaned, ready to be used in further replication of Peter’s work.
The cot that Tim has in the corner’s been used, blankets slightly rumpled. He gets an admonishing glance from Barbara at that, fully aware that it speaks volumes of his work ethic that he’d keep a bed in his lab.
At the far end of the lab is where the completed product is sat, kept in an air-tight container next to the original equation. It’s nearly transparent in its liquid form, looking a bit like glue.
A handwritten note is placed beneath the vessel.
The kid’s work is spot on. The stuff starts to break down once exposed to oxygen, gone in about two hours. Learned that one the hard way.
Looking forward to working with you. Send the paperwork to my place down in the East End.
Keep the shit stirrer out of trouble.
Her address is scrawled at the bottom of the paper, complete with name and number. The note reminds Tim of Jason, irreverent in the ways that most East Enders are.
Barbara reads over the note when Tim’s done, quirking a brow at it before turning to him. “Interesting hire.”
“At least she seems to know what she’s doing.” He plucks the container off the counter, pretending that his ears aren’t getting warm under Barbara’s scrutiny.
She sets the note down. “Is this what Peter used to seal Jason’s wounds?”
“Bruce seems to think so.” Tim drops his backpack onto the counter and pulls Peter’s tech out from within, handing it to Barbara so she can look it over. “Peter talked about it when he was taking a tour of the tower but he made it sound like he’d never finished his work.”
“Looks finished to me.”
Tim hums, foregoing a response as he mulls over how he’s going to eject the empty cartridge from within the slot. He’s used to working on his own gear, stuff that’s made from top-of-the-line Wayne tech.
With what Peter has been tinkering with, Tim runs the risk of breaking it if he isn’t careful.
He analyzes it alongside Barbara, finding that it’s made from bits of Jason’s old gear. There’s the deployment mechanism of a grapple affixed to the slide of a handgun, both of which are involved in projecting whatever’s put in the cartridge.
Pulling back the slide as one would cock a gun, Tim’s able to tip the cartridge out. It’s shaped like a medical ampoule, albeit with a metal attachments at the head and base. Two prongs stick out from the top, mimicking the look of a spider’s spinnerets.
A modified butane valve allows it to be filled without any air slipping through. It’s a marvel that the tech functions, comprised of so many mismatched parts. It doesn’t seem like it was designed to last long term, fragile but easily replicable.
Tim and Barbara have to get inventive in the lab to mimic the design of a butane filler. It’s the fun kind of work, the two of them forgetting the stress of the past week as they nearly cause a canister to burst.
After nearly an hour of trial and error, they’re able to fill the ampoule. It clicks back into place easily, and Tim puts the wristband on. The metal chafes against his skin uncomfortably, some corners digging into the soft inside of Tim’s wrist.
Barbara moves a suitable distance away, unsure of the effect of the tech. “You sure about this?”
“Of course.” Tim says, shrugging to disguise his lack of surety.
“You do realize Peter is a metahuman.” Barbara points out. “The thing could end up ripping your arm off.”
He shoots her a look. “Very helpful, Babs.”
She shrugs. “Your funeral.”
Ignoring her, Tim blows out a breath and holds out his arm, fingers resting over the palm-top trigger. Grounding himself, he flexes his wrist back.
A spindly white thread shoots from within the tech, slamming onto the far wall. It flares out, looking like a clump of webs as it sticks and holds fast.
“Holy-” Tim pulls his arm back, releasing the trigger.
Barbara wheels over, skirting a finger across the front of the material. It pulls slightly when she withdraws, having adhered to her skin with the barest of touches. “Fascinating.”
Tim joins her and snags a stir rod as he goes. He pushes it against the webs and then pulls it back, but finds that he’s unable to. The material stretches but refuses to let go, threatening to snap the glass rod as he continues to tug.
Cool.
An idea comes to mind, and he grabs a pair gloves from a nearby cupboard. Slipping them on, he aims upward and shoots. With his free hand, he snags the webs near the tech and watches as the rest elongate, creating a long thread.
Reaching up to grab at it from a higher point, Tim lifts his feet from the floor and finds his weight supported by the deceptively thin string. It flexes a bit, acting like a stiff bit of rubber as his body dips slightly downwards.
He turns his attention back to Barbara and finds her gazing up at Tim in wonder. “Yeah, he definitely finished his work.”
~ ~ ~
Bruce Wayne
Wayne Manor – October 22nd
With Jason secure in the cave and the team resting, Bruce feels his weariness seep into his bones with finality. It’s a common occurrence after a case has gone on too long, his body forcing him to throw in the towel.
He hadn’t moved from the computer since Tim left, drawing strings between reports that date back months. The thread traces back even further than the first appearance of the Lazarus pits, extending into a dark that Bruce can’t see past.
With the rapid development of the case, everything would’ve had to be in place before Batman could catch scent of the plot. There wasn’t a hint of the Kennel Master until Peter’s appearance in Gotham, popping up mere days after the success of a pit.
The heavy metals and Kryptonite would’ve been shipped in from the outside, transported in tunnels that could be as old as the city. They’re labyrinthian and nearly impossible to map, prone to collapse at the slightest shift of the soil above.
With the Kennel Master keeping his stores of venom off the streets, his behaviour would lead to some level of loyalty towards his benefactors. The most likely reason would be fear, understandable with the possibility of Bane, Deathstroke, and Ra’s Al Ghul being involved.
Kryptonite has various sources, with a sizeable portion remaining in Bruce’s possession. A couple Justice League members keep a sliver as collateral, taking inspiration from Batman’s paranoia.
He’d been careful to monitor each of their intentions with it, only entrusting those that could be more easily apprehended should they use it without due cause.
The most likely source of the Kryptonite is in Metropolis, with a man whose interests remain strictly outside of Gotham. Lex Luthor had shown a near single-minded focus on Kryptonians in the past, his attention diverting only when another’s goal aligned with his own.
Tim was correct that Superman and his affiliates aren’t in Gotham enough to warrant the presence of Kryptonite. Their aid has been prohibited except under specific circumstances, none of which have been met in the past couple of years.
It’s vexing.
Bruce suspects that many of the answers he seeks lie in a nearby room, kept at bay as a teenaged boy recovers from his wounds. He doubts Peter would know of the motivations behind the Kennel Master’s actions, but he remains suspect nonetheless.
Peter had been pushed out of their hands time and time again, but was allowed to remain with Jason for a significant amount of time. Deathstroke hadn’t captured the teen, just took Jason out of the picture, nearly permanently.
Any attempts to dig into Peter’s history yield no results. Bruce would suspect that his records had been erased from the various government databases that he’d accessed, but there were no traces of his existence in any physical documentation either.
It’d admittedly felt odd breaking into schools across Queens to search through their printed copies of past yearbooks.
Then there’s the matter of his DNA.
The nature of his meta abilities suits the portion of his DNA that is reminiscent of an arachnid. Much remains unknown of how the meta-gene becomes activated, less so about how or why it manifests differently across individuals.
The rest of his DNA is admittedly a mess, with no traceability to parentage or family. Cloning isn’t viable, as there has to be a maintenance of the donor’s genes for the resulting life to be functional.
That, and Peter had emerged from a Lazarus pit, not a cloning tube.
Too many strings, all connected to one boy.
It’s times like these that Bruce feels the weight of his responsibilities as Batman settle on his shoulders the heaviest. He had failed Peter the moment that the teen had been submerged in that pit, forced to claw his way back to life and into a nightmare.
Batman can’t be everywhere, but he should be there when it counts. He hadn’t been there for Peter when he needed help the most. Instead, Jason and Damian had to step in to cover for his shortcomings.
His whole team had been shouldering his burdens for too long, and faced the consequences in his stead.
Dick mentioned what Damian had told him, the way the boy had responded to his brother’s urgings with disbelief. It’s clear Bruce had let his son stall their talk for long enough.
His joints creak as he stands, protesting as they take on his bulk. He steps away, forcing himself to leave the case behind.
Alfred meets Bruce as he enters into the mansion, a coat draped over his forearm. Glancing out the window, there’s a steady downpour that dyes the world in shades of grey.
The butler gives his usual once over of Bruce, lips thinning almost imperceptibly at how he’s been neglecting his health. “Master Damian is tending to his new project in the barn.”
Bruce sighs, shrugging the coat on. “I really shouldn’t have let him keep them. Titus is already handful enough.”
“I do believe he would have found a way to smuggle them in if you had not given permission.” There’s the ghost of a wry grin on Alfred’ face, his soft spot for Damian evident. “Do ensure that he’s made aware of dinner in an hour.”
Bruce puts that task at the forefront of his mind. He knows better than to incur the wrath of Alfred.
Stepping out of the manor, it’s a short walk to the far end of the property. The small barn houses the various animals that Damian had taken in over the years, barring Alfred the Cat and Titus that reside in his room.
Sliding open the doors, the space inside is dark save from a single bulb that dimly flickers high above. There’s a slow drip coming from a leak in the ceiling, the excess water falling into the wide water basin.
Low growling comes from Bruce’s left, followed by a quiet shushing. Looking to the source of the sounds, he sees Damian crouched before the large, enclosed area that houses the Kennel Master’s two Dobermans.
A pair of young eyes turn upward to look at Bruce. “I was making progress before you intruded, father.”
“Apologies.” He leans against the door, not wanting to spook the dogs further. “Come wash up before the rain gets worse. Dinner’s in an hour.”
“I am aware.” Damian stands, staring down the Dobermans before turning. “Forgive me for being curt father, but I don’t believe that fetching me merits distraction from the case.”
It’s a roundabout way of telling Bruce to get on with it. He grunts and nods his head to the outside in a silent order to follow.
Damian huffs and gathers his things, trudging behind Bruce as they slowly wander back towards the manor. It strikes him how small the boy is then, clothed in farm garb with his hair flattening from the rain. He tucks in close, likely subconsciously, using Bruce as a shield from the rain.
Looking down at his son, he asks, “How are the dogs faring?”
“There are acclimating, albeit slowly.” Damian doesn’t seem phased by this, aware of the time it takes to unlearn violent habits.
“That’s good.” He lets his lip quirk up a touch. “Just let us know when you take them on walks, alright?”
“I would not lose control of them.” Damian clicks his tongue, a habit he’d never seemed to shake. He stops alongside Bruce as they pause beneath a glass canopy, turning to look up at his father. “Are you not angry at me?”
The question is said more like a conclusion, assumptions being made by a boy who’d learned of gentleness second-hand.
“I thought I was, but I understand now that what I was feeling was fear.” Bruce moves to sit on the bench before them, the stone cold beneath his thighs. “Currently, I’m just grateful that you’re home safe.”
Damian stands next to Bruce, resolutely refusing to sit. “There was no need to be worried, father. I could have apprehended the Kennel Master without your assistance.”
“I’m well aware.” It isn’t overconfidence, as much as Bruce begrudges to admit it. “I was scared because there had just been an attempt on Tim’s life, and Deathstroke was loose in the city. He intended to making you his next target.”
He gets a scoff in response. “Wilson does not pose a threat to-”
“That isn’t the point I am trying to make, Damian.” Bruce interrupts gently, though he doubts that his son could come out of a fight with Slade unscathed. “Tim got shot, Jason nearly died, and Dick was barely keeping a hold of his temper. In the face of all that, I needed you.”
Damian’s expression flickers, shock bleeding through his usual aloof attitude. He sits then, mulling over Bruce’s words in silence as he looks to the drops that fall upon the surface of a nearby pond.
“Tim was the one that made me aware of why Batman needed Robin, and it took me a while to realize just how right he was.” He settles a hand on the boy’s shoulder, urging to him to meet his gaze. “But more importantly, you are my son, Damian. That matters more to me than what Robin could ever offer.”
There’s a hitch in Damian’s breath, felt only through the touch of Bruce’s palm. The rain patters on the glass above them, nearly drowning out the quiet apology. “I’m sorry that I caused you distress, father.”
“It’s forgiven.” Bruce lets his hand drop. He resists the urge to ruffle his son’s hair, knowing it’d only irritate him “You did good work, though you nearly gave Dick a heart attack.”
“That would not have been my fault. He does not watch his cholesterol as he should.” There’s a petulant tilt of Damian’s nose upward, but it only brings a fond smile onto Bruce’s lips.
“Don’t tell Alfred, he’ll rain hell on the poor man.” Bruce rises from the bench and pulls his jacket from his shoulders, waiting for his son to stand before he drops the heavy material atop Damian’s head. “We’ll be in a similar state if we don’t get back soon.”
A small face peeks out from beneath the fabric, an annoyed glare pointed upward. Damian stomps away, and Bruce couldn’t care less that the end of the expensive garment is dragging through the grass.
Not when he had glimpsed the smallest of smiles on his son’s face as he huddled beneath the warmth of his father’s coat.
Notes:
Bruce and his sons make me soft, okay? Damian gets to chill out a lil' in this fic, just as a lil treat for his blood pressure.
Chapter 17
Notes:
Trigger warning in this chapter of discussing human trafficking, specifically children and metahumans.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Kate Kane
Gotham General Hospital – October 22nd
The Kennel Master wakes up at 10:53 p.m., and Batman is en route within the next minute.
Batwoman gets there first. She’d been waiting, aware of how this would all go down before it even happened.
She holds far fewer illusions than her fellow vigilantes about Bruce’s role in the city and his reasons for donning the cowl. He’s a hero, one of the greatest that she’d ever met, and he’d inspired her just as he had the rest of Gotham.
But he’d never claimed himself to be a good man, and Kate knew the opposite to be true.
Bruce has grappled with loss and the weight of a city upon his shoulders since he was a child, and it’d left him hollow in places. The Batman filled those voids, urging him to bloody his fists on sodden streets for the better part of two decades.
The moments where that darkness yawned wider came when his family was in danger, or when children came to harm for the sake of another’s greed. Both had transpired under his watch.
From what Kate could tell, he intends to question a dying Kennel Master without the presence of another member of his team. His anchors.
Bruce may not know it, but he’s going to do something stupid tonight. Batman is helpless against the call of vengeance, no matter how much he lies to himself and says it’s for justice.
It’s why Kate had cloaked herself in the shadows of the Kennel Master’s hospital room, waiting for him to awaken since she’d left the manor.
Bruce slides in through the window, the latch unlocked by Commissioner Gordon when he’d last done a sweep of the room. The officers outside are chatting about a coworker’s kid’s birthday party, themed after the Flash.
Moving to the foot of the hospital bed, Bruce sees what Kate has been staring at hours. The dying man’s body twitches as his muscles flex unbidden, skin stretched thin to the point of leaving permanent marks. He’s fallen back asleep, waking fitfully without pattern whenever his vitals spiked.
His heartbeat is visible through the rapid pulses that pass through his engorged veins, moving along to the rhythm of the monitor. He’s one scare away from a heart attack, something that Kate wouldn’t be adverse to.
Written upon his medical charts is his legal name: Dario Gigante.
It’s a comical name in retrospect. The connection to the Falcones makes it a little less funny. They’re bad news, with a bloody legacy that reaches far into Gotham’s history.
Brother to one Rocco Gigante, it would seem that Dario was setting his sights on reclaiming the turf that the Penguin had taken from his sister-in-law’s family since the death of their don.
Kate doesn’t want to know what it would be like to have to call Sophia “The Hangman” Falcone a sister.
Thank god they nipped this one in the bud. That whole family had issues.
“Batwoman.” Bruce calls without turning. “Report.”
Unsurprised at his awareness of her, she rattles off the events of the past few hours. Nothing had been said by Dario since he woke up, the crime boss more than aware of how his words could be used against him.
Bruce had already received word of the Kennel Master’s name and family connections since his identity had been confirmed. Having only a slight stint with organized crime in the past, it would seem that Dario had been planning this return for a while.
The steady pace of the heartrate monitor kicks up and Dario’s body jerks, eyes flying open to stare unseeing into the room. His breaths choke out of him, the muscles of his throat contracting and constricting to partially obstruct air flow.
Damn. Venom’s a hell of a thing.
Bruce and Kate wait for the fit to pass, unable to do anything to alleviate the strain. The spasms die down gradually until Dario’s left blearily looking up at the Batman, a mocking glint in his eyes.
“Was wonderin’ when I’d get to talk to the famed Bat of Gotham.” His words are slurring, the effect of his haughtiness ruined by his weakened state. “Hoped I’d get to snap your neck before the reaper came knocking, but I’ll settle for telling you to shove your questions up your ass.”
Ballsy.
Bruce is undeterred, looming over Dario as he asks, “Who were you moving the venom for?”
“The kid make it?” The former crime lord ignores Bruce’s question, smiling wide from behind his oxygen mask as silence stretches. “Ah, never mind. I’d be beaten black and blue by the Hood if he’d kicked the bucket. Not sure even you’d be able to stop him from poppin’ a cap in me at that point.”
He’s playing a dangerous game. Stepping up closer, Kate redirects the conversation. “Who funded the bounty?”
Gold gleams from Dario’s teeth, canines sharpened with precious metal. “The humble taxpayers of Gotham.”
“Why invest so much into catching one kid?” Kate stalks along the edges of the dark. “I heard he beat up a few of your men. The slight against your pride can’t cost that much.”
“Ain’t about the pride, sweetheart. Metas have their uses, ‘specially the young ones.” His gaze slides back over to Bruce, feverish with the bloodshot quality of the whites of his eyes. “Fear’s a powerful tool. Put a mongrel in a cage and they’ll tear through anything to break their way out.”
Batman is deadly still.
Dario isn’t done. “I’ve seen it. Back them into a corner, give them a taste of violence, and the stage is set.” His head tilts. “You’ve seen it too. So many Robins with broken wings and bloody claws.”
Bruce snarls and pulls the front of Kennel Master’s medical gown into his fist. “Why?”
“Money. Prestige. Power.” He sneers in the Batman’s face, spitting the ugly truth now that he’s already been branded a dead man. “Kids die, a handful a day. What’s another when it’s one more step towards ruining you?”
He’s released to slump back against the bed, groaning as it jars his failing body. Bruce stares down at him, not bothering to hide the loathing. “All of this, for revenge?”
“The sweetest kind.” A shaky laugh fights its way out of Dario’s lungs. “The Falcones. Sophia. My brother. Dead, ruined, because you think you can rebuild this city.”
“They chose their lot, same as you.”
The smile widens, teeth speckled red. “And I don’t regret a second of it.”
The Kennel Master was right. If Peter had died, there would’ve been nothing left to find, not with what Jason would do with him.
A part of Kate wonders if he should be set loose.
“I’ve seen cases like yours before. Your body will fail, sooner rather than later.” Bruce moves towards the window. “I would suggest getting your affairs in order.”
“Ci vediamo all'inferno” I’ll see you in hell.
Kate follows behind Bruce, slinking into the night. There’s nothing more to learn, the dead man’s secrets fated to be taken to the grave.
Dario Gigante is dead within the next hour, one bullet in the brain before the police could get around to questioning him. Kate can’t find it in herself to care.
~ ~ ~
Peter Parker
??? – October 23rd
Oh. I’m not dead.
The thought comes to Peter as his body comes back online, the experience much nicer than the last time he clawed his way back from the brink. He’s lying on a soft bed, blankets pulled up to his chest with a pillow behind his head.
A sensation like a small bruise is being pressed upon dots the inside of one of his elbows, reminding Peter of getting booster shots in his school gym. Small pads are adhered to odd points along his skin, freshly swapped out given the lack of itchiness.
His thigh feels hot, but there’s no pain. It’s a relief, to be free of pain after too many days of forcing himself to push through it.
Whoever treated his wounds must have access to the good stuff. His metabolism has a habit of burning through standard meds used by hospitals, something that gave Tony a heart attack when he learned that Peter had his wisdom teeth removed by conventional method.
It takes the sum of all of his strength to lift his eyelids, quickly getting tired of staring at the back of them. The lights are low in the room, a considerate gesture given his enhanced senses.
The humming of medical equipment comes from his left and right, confirming Peter’s suspicion that he’s in a hospital or medical ward.
There’s also the quiet sound of breathing, nearly audible beneath the steady beeps. The push-pull of air is slow and even, following the rhythm that’s indicative of a deep sleep.
Letting his head loll to the side, he sees his bedside chair is occupied. With his head propped up on one fist, Jason looks far better than the last time Peter saw him.
He’s dressed in a t-shirt and sweats, rumpled and soft like the clothes he wore around the garage. His skin has a healthy flush now that he’s not about to die from blood loss, any visible bandages clean and free of spots of crimson.
The wave of relief that floods Peter sends prickles dancing across his eyes, and he has to fight back the tears. He’d been trying so hard to remain optimistic about Jason’s condition, but doubts plagued him and invaded his dreams regardless of how much he reasoned with himself.
He finds himself counting the breaths that hitch Jason’s chest up and down, focusing his senses to hear the light wheeze at the end of each inhale. It reminds Peter of how his lungs sounded before the bite, back when he would tap out of gym early with the onset of an asthma attack.
He sits there staring for thirty minutes, then an hour. He savours the calm and peace, knowing that it could break at any moment, his life having a habit of ruining moments like this.
He watches as Jason slips towards wakefulness, body shifting in small movements. He pulls in a deep breath and his eyes drearily blink open, gaze pointed to the floor with the angle of his head.
Jason closes them again and drags his palm across his face, wiping away the last vestiges of sleep.
He sits up taller in his chair, shoulders rolling to release tension or a crick in his neck, and then he’s looking at Peter.
Surprise replaces the drowsy grump that had settled on his expression, muscles going lax as all of his attention hones on Peter’s wakefulness. Seconds pass where they just stare at one another.
Peter’s lip quirks. His voice is raspy, crackling and quiet as he says, “Hey, man.”
Jason says his name in a whisper. “Peter.”
He stands and settles onto the edge of the cot, eyes roving across Peter’s face. It’s hard to gauge his expression, the meds making everything feel a little bit surreal.
Jason’s hand lifts, hovers, then settles on the mattress. His gaze is gentle, searching. “Scared the shit out of me, Queens.”
“Says the one that took a bullet to his lung.” Peter croaks through a retort, throat sore with a lack of moisture.
“Here.” Jason grabs a flimsy cup of water and helps Peter drink, carefully avoiding tipping too much into his mouth. It’s a bit embarrassing, though he’s quick to move past it when questions press at the forefront of Peter’s mind.
Swallowing, he savours the cool water as it acts as a balm atop his vocal cords. Clearing them, he asks, “Is everyone alright?”
Jason fondly shakes his head with a smile, bemused by Peter’s priorities. “Everyone’s fine, mostly just worried about you.”
“And what about you?” Jason’s brows furrow, confused by the question. Peter elaborates, eyes drifting pointedly to where he’d been holding Jason together in that alley. “You got hit worse than me.”
“Yeah, but I got patched up faster than you.” Jason shifts, bringing a leg up to sit more comfortably. “That, and I wasn’t running around on the streets for days with an open wound.”
He punctuates the sentence with a look, one that has Peter diverting his eyes to his lap. “Sorry.”
“No- I don’t want an apology. Kid, I-” He cuts off with a sigh, fingers rubbing at his forehead as he pieces together his words. “I can’t… lose you. We’ve barely known each other a month, but when you ran off, I thought you were gone. For good.”
It’s a stilted speech, Jason having difficulty with getting the words out. “When I saw you in the Kennel Master’s hands, I lost it. Nearly killed him, right in front of B and the rest of them, and I…. it felt right. It felt good. And I just- I-”
The sentence trails off, frustration clear in the way that Jason balls his hands into fists.
He doesn’t need to finish, not when Peter already understands.
Jason had been alone, standing in the face of everything that’d happened to him without a net to fall back on. People existed on the periphery, but none of them really got it, not without needing to be told.
Peter had been there too. Still is sometimes.
Loneliness like that never really goes away.
“My aunt.” Peter starts, voice faltering, chest crushed by the weight of her name. “May. She died protecting me. Bled out in my arms, and I couldn’t do a thing to stop it. It was my fault.”
“Before that it was my mentor, Tony. Before that my uncle Ben. My parents.” Peter can’t look at Jason, not as he says, “And after everything, I couldn’t… hold it together anymore. I didn’t want to.”
He smiles, a fake and faltering thing. “Got rageful. Bitter. There wasn’t an after in my head. Not one that I could see. Not one that I wanted.”
It hurts to say it aloud, to admit it.
“For a while I pretended like I had a future. There was a picture in my head of what I would become, a symbol to keep me going, to help me get back up. I bled for it, suffered for it.”
Peter looks up at Jason then. “But I don’t need it anymore.”
Peter musters his voice, draws on that damaged little thing that makes him feel brave. “I know…” A hitch of breath. “I know that you can’t lose me, but I can’t afford to lose you either.”
Jason’s eyes flit between Peter’s, something fragile on his face. It looks like something that’d been broken before, shattered.
The hand that had hesitated before reaches to cup the back of Peter’s neck, Jason’s palm warm. He’s pulled forward until his head is resting against a solid shoulder, the fabric of the t-shirt against Peter’s cheek soft.
“Dammit, kid.” Jason’s chest moves with each breath, just like the ones he’d been counting earlier. “You sure don’t pull your punches.”
“Nah.” Peter closes his eyes, something genuine tugging at the corners of his lips. “You taught me better than that.”
He can almost hear the matching smile on Jason’s face as he says, “Damn right I did.”
~ ~ ~
Bruce Wayne
Wayne Manor – October 23rd
Sitting in his office high above the cave, Bruce mutes the audio from Peter’s room.
Pinched between the fingers of one hand is a piece of paper sitting in a plastic sandwich bag. A single word is visible, scrawled on the outside in neat handwriting: Jason.
Bruce taps it on the wood of his desk, thoughts filtering at a steady pace. A thousand things could be written upon the page, each a unique arrangement of the same 26 letters.
The pragmatic, analytical part of him knows that it’s his job as a detective to read whatever is contained in the bag. Too many mysteries surround the boy that sits in the infirmary, each posing a potential danger to Bruce’s family.
A metahuman dropped into the heart of Gotham, brought to life with the power of a Lazarus pit. His presence would bring about the emergence of extinguished threats, antagonistic forces gathering along the peripheral of Batman’s city.
He’d watched Peter fight, saw the measured violence behind his strikes. The teen is formidable, easily honed with enough training and guidance. He’s disarming, capable of winning Jason’s loyalty in a short period of time. A genius.
A threat.
The part of Bruce that’s still human knows that the letter was written when Peter believed himself to be walking to his death. They’re the words of a frightened child, one who’d handed over his life’s work because he couldn’t bear the thought of something good going to waste.
From what Bruce’s sons had said, Peter’s earnest and kind in a way that’s hard to find in Gotham. He gave half of his meal to feed Damian and his cat, food that was needed to keep his body going.
In the fight, Peter had only used the necessary amount of force. He’d barely spilled even a drop of blood. He quipped and told jokes. Drew the Kennel Master’s attention when he’d gotten his hands around Bruce’s neck.
Peter nearly died protecting him, a stranger. A hero at that, someone he isn’t supposed to save.
Bruce taps the letter atop the desk again.
He turns his gaze to the monitor, seeing the teen has back fallen asleep. Jason’s still sitting next to him, facing away from the camera. His shoulders are curved, spine sloped so he’s curled the slightest bit over Peter, protecting him from the outside world.
There was a picture in my head of what I would become, a symbol to keep me going, to help me get back up. I bled for it, suffered for it.
Another tap.
My aunt, May. She died protecting me. Bled out in my arms, and I couldn’t do a thing to stop it. It was my fault.
A drawer slides opens, the brass knob pulled by Bruce’s hand.
I know that you can’t lose me, but I can’t afford to lose you either.
He sets the letter inside, kept within reach.
Kids die, a handful a day. What’s another when it’s one more step towards ruining you?
Notes:
Bruce "Paranoia" Wayne, you nosy goose.
Also I genuinely didn't mean for the irony of the Kennel Master using venom with his last name being Gigante. It was only when writing the chap that it hit me. Also also, yay he's dead!
Chapter 18
Notes:
Dearest readers, lemme know if it reads wrong to not have Alfred referring to the various Waynes (+ Peter) without 'Master' in front of it at times. Other than adding it in dialogue or when it otherwise felt right, it got a bit too wordy to have him use it every time.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Alfred Pennyworth
Wayne Manor – October 23rd
The soft chiming of Alfred’s pager notifies him that Peter has regained consciousness once again, finally allowing him the chance to give the poor boy some proper food.
He’s been relocated from the medical ward in the cave to a room upstairs, all done while the teen was unconscious. It seemed to rankle something in Master Jason to have to skirt the truth with the unexpected change, the young man grinding his teeth as he once again set about keeping his vigil.
It is a benefit to Peter regardless, his new abode much more pleasant than the confining walls of the subterranean space. Natural light filters in through the window that looks out across the estate, facing northward and away from the city.
Having prepared for the waking of their newest resident, it doesn’t take long for the meal to be prepared. Setting a bowl of squash soup upon a metal tray alongside a glass of juice and a small treat, Alfred maneuvers through the halls towards Peter’s room.
Giving three quick raps against the door, Jason opens it to allowing Alfred entry.
Peter’s expression is quite open and plain to read, a refreshing change from the mental gymnastic required to keep up with the Waynes. He gazes at Alfred as if surprised by his stately appearance, likely expecting a nurse or care aid.
Unable to stop the instinctual softening of his eyes at Peter’s inquisitive expression, Alfred greets him. “It is good to see you awake, Master Peter.”
“It’s good to be awake.” Peter glances at Jason, searching for reassurance in the young man’s continued relaxed state. Satisfied by Jason’s comfort with Alfred, Peter completes his thought with, “Sir.”
“There is no need for such formality. Alfred will suffice.” He steps up next to the adolescent and sets the tray on the bedside table, searching for Peter’s approval via glance before helping him to sit up.
Peter settles and accepts the food as it is set across his lap. He looks to the butler, hesitantly responding. “Peter’s fine. For me.”
Jason speaks up from his chair. “I’ve been trying for years, kid. Alf doesn’t drop the ‘master’ thing for anyone.”
“It is for the sake of propriety, Master Jason.” Alfred replies in a deliberate, pointed way. He turns back to the youngest amongst them. “I may refer to you as Peter should anything further cause you discomfort, however.”
Peter’s hands idly adjust the tray, eyes rounded as he gazes between the older men. “I’m cool with whatever.”
“Very well then, Master Peter.” Alfred nods in acceptance. “Am I correct that you are yet to be informed of the status of your current condition?”
Peter nods. Alfred cannot help but direct a chastising glance at Master Jason for his inattention.
“Well.” Alfred begins, setting the room as he speaks. “The wound on your thigh very nearly sent your body into septic shock, the infection having reached your bloodstream. Myself and Dr. Thompkins believe that it was only due to your enhanced metabolism that you were spared any damage to your organs.”
From the corner of his eye, Alfred notes Jason’s jaw clenching and the sharp turn of his head as he looks out of the window. He had already been informed of Peter’s prognosis, but having it repeated back would not do well for his guilt.
“Though your various contusions and abrasions will fade quickly, the sustained stress that your body endured will prolong your recovery. It will likely take longer than you might be used to.” Alfred stops at the foot of Peter’s bed, fingers laced together at his front. “A proper diet and rest would help expedite this.”
Peter nods again, accepting the reality of his condition easily. He doesn’t seem surprised, glancing at Jason to ask, “You told them about my…”
Alfred steps in, eager to alleviate any distress. “Your metahuman status was apparent given your physiology, but rest assured, you need not worry about any ill will that might be harbored against you because of your genetic code.”
Peter swallows, a measured breath leaving his chest.
“Besides, I’m here.” Finally getting a word in, Jason makes his intention to stand beside Peter apparent. It nearly brings a smile to Alfred’s face, the young man’s care for the teenager a fierce thing.
Alfred ponders aloud. “Perhaps it would be beneficial for you to become acquainted with Master Duke. He is due to return quite soon, and I believe the two of you would quite enjoy one another’s company.”
“Oh, uhm, question about that.” Peter picks up his spoon and stirs his soup, looking down to hide his hesitancy. “Where exactly are we?”
“Ah. I believed Master Jason had informed you.” Alfred sends another look at Master Jason. “You are currently under the care of Master Bruce Wayne.”
Peter stops his stirring. “Huh?”
Alfred refrains from commenting on the lack of etiquette, resisting the urge to correct ‘huh’ with ‘pardon’. “As a primary financier of heroes such as the Batman, Master Bruce is at times entrusted with the care of those who are in need of protection.”
There is a slight souring of Peter’s expression. It is a thing that many of the estate’s residents have done in the past, showing a displeasure at the notion of needing help. With the adolescent’s time on Gotham’s streets, it would not be surprising that he would have developed a sense of pride around his ability to care for himself.
“He is quite interested in meeting you. Master Dick and Master Tim spoke quite highly of you.” Jason scowls while Peter perks up at the mention of the two, prompting Alfred to continue. “It seems you have made quite the impression with Master Damian as well.”
“Damian’s okay?”
“He is quite alright.” Alfred assures Peter, though he adds a cautionary note. “Although, I would suggest that you prepare yourself for a verbal lashing. The young master does not take a circumvention of his tactics lightly.”
Peter cringes. “Noted.”
“I shall leave you to your meal, Master Peter.” Approaching the door, Alfred pauses with his hand on the knob. “The button on your table will alert me should you require anything further.”
“Thank you.”
“Thanks, Alfie.”
With the gratitude of the two youths following him out, Alfred sets about the remaining tasks of the day. He spots the blur of a shadow disappearing around a nearby corner, the other denizens of the manor likely growing impatient in their anticipation of greeting their newest housemate.
Sighing, Alfred wishes Master Jason good fortune in keeping them at bay.
~ ~ ~
Damian Wayne
Wayne Manor – October 24th
Once Peter is suitably conscious and relocated, it takes Damian 27 hours to infiltrate his room.
The folly rests in Peter’s insistence of Todd taking some time to care for himself, persuading him to “chill” and “wash off his stench”. From his spot in front of the cave’s computers, a smile creeps across Damian’s face.
With the adolescent’s constitution remaining quite frail, it does not take long for him to fall asleep once more. Damian ensures the other members of his family are distracted before ascending to the manor.
He creeps through the halls silently, using every bit of his training to evade notice. He allows Alfred the Cat to trot behind him, the feline just as capable of employing stealth as Damian.
Twisting the knob of the door, it swings open soundlessly. The light inside the room is low, bulbs dim as not to disturb Peter’s rest while remaining bright enough to allow vision should there be an emergency.
Damian jumps to land atop the mattress, feet light to keep from waking Peter up. With a click, a staff extends in his hand just as Alfred the Cat starts to paw at the adolescent’s face.
Peter’s eyes slowly drift open, blinking as his gaze narrows to the blunt end of a weapon pointed to his nose. He follows the staff to it’s wielder, brows scrunching as his lagging mind attempts to comprehend the gravity of the situation.
“Damian?”
“Be grateful that I am not teaching you this lesson with the blade.” Arranging his expression into one of disdain, Damian does not move his staff. “You will tell me your surname.”
“Huh? Wait, what?” Peter twitches away from Alfred the Cat’s paw as it bats once more at his cheek. “Why? Hold on, what’s going on?”
“I didn’t see a traumatic brain injury on your file, so it should not be this difficult for you to understand. Your surname. Now.”
Peter sits there baffled. Seconds tick by.
It’s long enough that whatever Peter intends to say gets interrupted by the door slamming open, a tall figure shouting. “Damian!”
A familiar arm wraps around his middle and he’s pulled from the mattress, instincts from Damian’s earliest days as Robin telling him to allow the grapple. He’s settled on his feet easily, Grayson keeping a hand settled on his shoulder.
Alfred the Cat watches on impassively, claws catching as he starts to knead the blankets.
Grayson snatches the bo-staff from Damian’s grip. “Give me that.”
“I was gathering intelligence.”
“No, you were harassing our guest with a weapon.” Collapsing the staff, Grayson turns to a stunned Peter. “I’m so sorry.”
“No sweat. He got me with it the first time we met, so I’m used to it.” Peter says unhelpfully. “But, uh, it’s good to see you.”
Grayson’s hand is knocked from Damian’s shoulder, a bright smile alighting as he steps up next to Peter. “You too, Peter. I heard you’ve had a bit of a rough go lately.”
Peter shrugs. “I’ve been better.”
Crossing his arms, Damian wanders to the opposite side of the bed from Grayson. Alfred the Cat gives him a cursory look, remaining on the soft mattress after a few moments of deliberation. Traitor.
Peter glances over to Damian and then looks to the feline, a pensive look settling on his face. “Wait. Did you name your cat after your butler?”
Turning his nose up, Damian is unsure of the intent behind Peter’s incredulity. “Indeed.”
“No judgement.” Peter’s lip quirks. “I mean, they are both wearing tuxedos.”
It is an apt description of them both, noting the parallel that had helped inspire the name.
Grayson integrates into the conversation, explaining, “Alfred got him for Damian from the shelter. They’d called him a hopeless case, but he’s come around.”
It is one of Damian’s proudest achievements, that he would give a wayward creature a home, though he would never tell a soul. The sentimentality in Grayson’s voice indicates that the man is aware of this fact.
Peter does not help the irritating ball of emotions in Damian’s chest as he says, “He seems happy here.”
The adolescent strokes his hand along Alfred the Cat’s back, prompting a loud purr from the feline’s chest. He claims Peter’s lap, curling atop the blanket.
Damian climbs onto the mattress once more, settling into a crouch at the foot of the bed. “You will not use my cat to distract me from my goal.”
Grayson sighs, pulling a nearby chair to sit upon. “Peter, you don’t have to tell us your last name if you don’t want to. Really.”
“No, it’s okay.” He remains focused on the animal in his lap, running a hand through its fur comfortingly. “I just… why do you want to know so bad?”
There’s a hint of trepidation in Peter’s voice. Grayson looks to Damian with an expression that requests him to be cautious, ever the soft-hearted one.
“It is for no other reason than to refer to you with the etiquette that I was raised with.” Damian responds simply. “It is customary to refer to others as their surname.”
It is a slight lie, as knowing Peter’s last name would offer other uses, but given Drake and Father’s inability to find anything on the adolescent, knowing it has little benefit to the case.
“Oh, okay.” The answer is accepted easily, Peter’s worry clearing. “It’s Parker. Sorry, I would’ve told you earlier if I’d known.”
Damian waves off the apology. “I did not ask.”
“He’s acting all cool about it now, but he’ll never go back.” Grayson teases, as he is often wont to do. “I’m his brother and I haven’t even gotten the first name treatment.”
“Referring to someone with their given name indicates a sentiment of respect.” He levels a smug smirk at his sibling. “You have not yet earned the right.”
Grayson clutches at his chest. “Et tu, Brute?”
A lightness grows in Peter’s eyes as he watches Grayson pester Damian, a small laugh huffing from his chest in a way that doesn’t disturb the animal resting on his lap.
His efforts of keeping Alfred the Cat tranquil are ruined as the door slams open, reminiscent of Grayson’s entrance. Standing with his chest huffing is Todd, looking beyond harried.
“You!” The four occupants of the room remain silent as he stalks up to Damian, finger pointed in his fast as Todd states. “I thought I told you all to back the hell off.”
There is no glow encroaching upon the man’s iris, and Damian is rather certain he could apprehend the former Robin should he prove to be a problem. Sneering, he responds, “You have no authority over me, Todd.”
“No no, you don’t get to ‘you’re not my dad’ me.”
Peter, seemingly a pacifist at heart, proverbially steps in. “It’s alright, Jason. I only got lightly threatened before Dick got here.”
Todd looks to the adolescent then, taking in the ease at which Peter sits upon his bed. Out of them all, Alfred the Cat is the most disturbed, ears slightly lowered in annoyance at the commotion.
Sighing, Todd loosens the tension in his form. “You need to rest, Queens.”
“I got a nap in.”
Grayson stands, telegraphing his movement as he rustles Peter’s hair. “It’s okay. About time we hit the sack anyway.”
Damian is unfamiliar with the idiom, but assumes it has something to do with physical training. That, he agrees with.
He drops from his crouch atop the mattress, Alfred the Cat following his lead. Todd opens the door wide for them, his expression lightly scolding as if it holds any meaning to either of them.
Grayson offers a sheepish wave, sending a conciliatory apology look to Todd as he walks past.
Stopping at the threshold, Damian turns to look at Peter once more. “Regardless of the blood debt owed, I will not forgive you should you disregard my orders again.”
He does not want to see Peter held aloft in another’s hands as he was in the Kennel Master’s again. Better a swift end than one at the hands of such a vile foe.
Peter’s expression softens. “Loud and clear, man.”
Grayson begins leading Damian down the hall, though not far enough that they don’t hear Peter inquire with Todd, “Wait, blood debt?”
~ ~ ~
Bane
Arkam Asylum – ???
Chained to the wall by unyielding manacles, Bane is helpless against the smile that creeps across his face when the Bat descends upon his cell.
Arkam is a place where one can find little comfort, cold walls and frigid guards greeting the inmates upon waking each morning. It has tasteless slop and insect infested mattresses, stained by whatever poor soul met their end upon its lumpy surface.
For Bane, it’s become a place of opportunity.
Kept alive by some poor mockery of venom, the weakness of his body forces him to focus on his mind. It’s what has kept his sanity all these years, tempered by the scant breakouts he’s managed in moments of desperation or precise calculation.
His latest project, well, it’s given him much to think about.
Something resembling glee alights within him at the appearance of the Batman, a shrouded figure stepping out from the dark. The man gives nothing away, but Bane knows why he is here.
A low grumbling chuckle kicks its way up from his diaphragm. “I was wondering when you would stop by.”
It’s an admission, one that Bane is happy to give.
Perhaps a Bane of the past would’ve spat at the idea of what he’d given his ironclad grip on venom to. That version of him had whittled away as the cackles of Arkam tried to worm their way into his mind.
The hero gazes down at the kneeling form of Bane, his chains pulled taught minutes before the crusader’s entrance as a twisted herald of his arrival. “You gave it up willingly.”
If it’s an attempt at shame, it fails. “Si. I admit that I was curious about what they would do with it.”
“It got an ally of yours killed.” There’s no need to guess who.
“Ah, the esteemed Gigante. Died of his own hubris, I would imagine.” Bane laughs, a dark thing that curls through the air. “I hoped that would be the case. Pollino would lose his thumb if it weren’t shoved so far up his own ass.”
“Treating allies as means to an end never ends well.” The Bat hovers outside of the harsh circle of light that streams against the concrete floor, stark eyes burning from within the dark. “I thought you were smarter than that.”
A sneer tugs at Bane’s expression at the words. “The Kennel Master was no ally of mine. He was merely… tolerated.”
“You were forced to work together by circumstance.”
It’s equally prompting as it is conclusionary. “You are falling behind in your investigation, Fantasma. It is I who should be saying that you should be smarter than this… or perhaps it is that you have encountered difficulty or delay?”
There is no response beyond the narrowing of white lenses.
A frisson goes up Bane’s spine, every sacrifice worth it to hold power against Gotham’s Dark Knight, the hero equally enchained as the villain before him.
“It was a heady thing, to be known as the man that broke the Bat.” Bane’s fists curls tight, chains clinking as his arms tug forward. “But the world has forgotten as I have been left to rot, and the title grows thin when there is nobody to challenge it.”
Batman turns, feigning disinterest at Bane’s words. The door to his cell opens, a deranged howl echoing through the halls of the sanitorium.
Metal cuts into skin as the manacles resist the pull of their prisoner’s weight leering against them. “You are not the only one who hides in the shadows. It is time that you learn to fear them as we did.”
The cell door closes with a deafening slam, but not even it can deter the sweet thrill of victory.
Notes:
Heehee villain POV fun.
Translations (I'm so sorry i they're wrong, I do not speak Spanish):
- Pollino: ass/donkey/idiot.
- Fantasma: ghost/shadow.
Chapter 19
Notes:
As always, love my readers. Thank you all so much for keeping up with the series, y'all are the best :)
Enjoy~
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Peter Parker
Wayne Manor – October 26th
With the help of a carved mahogany cane and an ambling Jason beside him, Peter gets a tour of Wayne manor.
It’s part the next step of his physical therapy track, to get his recovering muscles used to moving around for extended periods again. Alfred had been correct that he was healing slower than usual, his body only now starting to tolerate solid foods.
It’s a goddamn blessing to have access to the butler’s full range of cooking, Peter being introduced to a whole new level of cuisine. There’d been a couple of fancy restaurant meals with Tony, but those weren’t catered to specific tastes or had a particularly homey vibe.
Alfred’s got a special blend of comfort and gourmet that beats out anything that Peter had ever tasted, readily available for each meal of the day. They’re all balanced, giving his enhanced metabolism all it needs to expedite the recovery process.
It’s what has him out of bed sooner than any of them had expected, Peter’s health bouncing back easily. Though his leg still aches, the sluggishness that he’d always had difficulty shaking has all but disappeared.
Jason leads him down the various hallways, sticking close in case Peter’s strength gives out. The mansion’s a masterpiece in and of itself, dark wood and wrought stone comprising of the shell of the home.
Works of art are hung on the walls, oil and acrylic pieces that depict scenes of Gotham or members of the Wayne lineage. Statues and plants sit nestled in corners, all dusted and properly cared for by the estate’s caretakers.
Tall windows allow light to stream in, brightening the darkened shades of the mansion. The curtains are drawn back, allowing Peter to see the sprawling grounds that surround them on all sides.
The exterior matches the mansion in opulence, everything maintained to perfection. It all makes him feel a bit out of place, clad in another’s clothing because he’d lost all of his own thrifted garments.
As Jason regales Peter with stories of living here, another piece in the puzzle that is “Jason Todd, the Red Hood” slots into place. He’s recounting a tale of how he’d concussed himself skateboarding down the grand staircase, voice fond, but there’s a pinch around his eyes as if some part of it causes him pain.
Having access to a place like this, it begs the question why the man would choose to live in some old garage smack dab in the most dangerous district in Gotham.
The civilian part of Peter knows the tendency of rich kids to want to prove themselves in the big wide world, away from the money that’d come to define them. It suits Jason fine, but it’s not the whole picture.
The vigilante part of him wonders if had been the bodies that Jason had put into the morgue that had him driven away from home. That, or the Lazarus induced tint of his friend’s eyes. Maybe both.
There are all the signs of a deeper story, all held within the walls of the mansion. Peter has yet to meet its owner, Bruce Wayne a busy man by all accounts. Something tells him that the billionaire is where all the answers lie.
“-ter? Peter?” A hand falls against his shoulder, head turning to see Jason staring down at him. “You alright there, kid?”
“Yeah, sorry.” Shaking himself from his thoughts, Peter focuses his attention on their conversation. “This place is just… huge.”
Jason eyes him uncertainly, gauging whether he should accept the excuse or not. Letting his hand fall, he looks around them. “I had the same reaction when I first got here. I didn’t get how someone could need so much space for just one person. Took me a bit to get it.”
Peter hums, hearing the melancholic taper at the end of Jason’s sentence. He’d heard of the Wayne family tragedy, a defining moment of Gotham’s past as the city lost one of its one-per-generation hope.
This mansion was passed down to Bruce when he was still a child, the halls far too big for one so small.
“You bumming out our guest there, Jason?”
They turn to see Barbara approaching with a young woman at her side, clad in casual clothes with her blonde hair pulled back into a braid. Her blue eyes gaze at Peter with interest, a friendly quirk to her mouth.
Not waiting for an answer from the man, Barbara stops before Peter and smiles up at him. “It’s good to see you up and about, Peter. I would’ve visited, but your guard dog there wasn’t letting anyone in.”
Jason directs a glare her way. “He needed rest, and once I let one of you in, the rest of the damn mansion would’ve descended on him.”
The two start bickering in a back-and-forth, Peter watching bemusedly and unable to get a word in. The blonde next to Barbara rolls her eyes and sticks her hand out towards him, ensuring to avoid reaching for the one currently holding onto his cane. “I’m Stephanie, but everyone calls me Steph.”
Peter accepts the handshake, feeling the strength that lies in the grip of her hold. “Peter, though I have a feeling everyone knows that already.”
“You’d be correct. Secrets don’t last long around here.” She drops his hand, eyes darting to his leg and back. “How’s the leg?”
“Sore. Getting better though.” Peter shifts his footing, taking some weight off the offending limb. “Alfred gave me some PT exercises to get my strength back, which has helped.”
“Been there before.” Steph cringes at a memory. “He really puts you through the ringer.”
Joining their conversation, Barbara’s equally sympathetic. “I do not envy you. The man really doesn’t hold back.”
“And he’ll be so much worse if we don’t keep the pace up. Chop chop, Queens.” Jason gives a verbal nudge, walking backwards to entice Peter to keep walking. “You still haven’t seen the best room in the house.”
Curious, Peter follows behind. Barbara and Steph join them, asking a few questions as they go. Having already spent time around the older of the two women, Peter finds himself chatting the most with Steph, intrigued by the new face.
She seems cool, at ease despite the stranger wandering around her home. She keeps much of her focus on Peter, asking about his interests and hobbies.
Jason’s quiet, listening passively to the conversation. He grunts at the odd time that Peter mentions him, responding to a couple of Barbara’s questions with one or two word answers.
They stop in front of a set of double doors, a light sweat starting to build atop Peter’s brow. The strain of walking is making itself known as the ache in his thigh spreads to his hip and knee, back twinging from his uneven gait.
Steph cocks a grin and gives a little salute. “I’ll leave the nerd room to you three. See you around, Peter.”
She continues down the hallway and turns out of view, quiet as she goes.
“Always onto the next thing with that one.” Barbara huffs and shakes her head, fond and good-natured. She turns to look back up at Peter. “I’ll leave you guys to it, but let me know if there’s anything you need. Both of you.”
“Will do, Babs.” Jason voices his agreement as Peter nods. “Thanks.”
She gives them a wave and turns to head in the direction they came from, setting her phone in her lap to fiddle with it as she draws further away.
Looking back towards one another, a moment passes before Jason quirks a brow. “You ready?”
“Man, I’m gonna be so disappointed if this ends up being a closet or something.”
“Ye have such little faith.”
With an admonishing shake of his head, Jason pushes open a door and steps inside, holding it open so Peter can follow.
Beyond is a massive library, the ceiling reaching past to the second floor. The walls are lined with shelves, each filled to the brim with books on all manner of topics.
The space is dimly lit, the light cast by the chandelier fractured by the crystals that hang below. Plush couches and cushions are strewn about, throw blankets and pillows heaped atop them.
All at once, Peter knows why Jason had left this for last. The little collection of books he’d kept at the garage were organized in a similar manner, arranged in the same way by genre and size. It’s obvious this room is special to him.
“Whoa.” Peter steps into the middle of the room, leaving Jason where he hovers by the door. “This place is awesome.”
“I used to spend hours in here. I made it a challenge to myself that I’d make it through all the books, not knowing that B was swapping them out just to mess with me.” Jason’s voice is thick with nostalgia. “Nearly gave Alfie a heart attack when I holed up in here for the better part of two days.”
Peter looks back at him, smirking. “Always knew you were a nerd. The leather jacket and bike couldn’t fool me.”
“Yeah, yeah just don’t spread the word.” Jason leans his hip against the door jam. “Can’t have my reputation getting any more tarnished than it already is.”
Peter mimes crossing his heart, absolutely intending on breaking that promise. Ignoring the mounting pain in his thigh, he approaches a shelf to run his fingers along the spines. “Steph was right though, this definitely is the nerd room.”
“Wait till you see Tim’s lab.”
Peter can’t stop the excitement from showing on his face, eyes all but sparkling. It earns him a fond chuckle.
“Real quick, before I forget.” Jason starts, tone veering towards something more serious. “Let me know if they get to be a bit much. I know this all might be overwhelming, especially considering everything that happened.”
“Sure.” Peter drops his hand from the books, an index finger moving along the ridges and grooves of his cane.
“Specially Bruce.” Jason’s eyebrows furrow a bit, eyes pinched with something adjacent to concern. “He can be a bit intense, even if he means well. If he says or does anything that bothers you, come straight to me.”
There it is again, that look.
“You… you don’t have to stick around if being here is hard.” Looking down, Peter bites at the inside of his cheek. “I’ll be fine.”
“Kid, you don’t gotta-” A sigh, then the sound of footfalls on a rug. They stop a few feet away. “Peter, can you look at me?”
He does as Jason asks, finding the man with his head tilted down as he tries to catch Peter’s gaze.
“I’m not going to leave you here. It’s still my home, even if it’s got… history.” Jason lifts his hand falteringly, still unsure of touch even after everything they’d gone through. It lands on Peter’s shoulder, close to his neck. “You’re still my priority, okay?”
“Okay.” Peter tries to let it sink in, pushing back the quiet insecurities that whisper at the back of his mind. “Could we stay here for a bit? It’s nice.”
Jason nods, pauses, then squints. “You overdid it on the leg, didn’t you? You were supposed to tell me-”
“You were excited, okay?” Peter lets himself be led to a couch, Jason throwing a blanket on his head. “Hey!”
The man flops down next to him, careful not to jostle Peter too much. “Pain in my ass.”
Peter hides his smile with the blanket.
~ ~ ~
Tim Drake
Wayne Manor – October 26th
Tim finds Bruce lost in the case, eyes unwaveringly fixated on his office computer. He doesn’t look up as the door opens and closes, ignoring Tim when he sits in the chair on the opposite side of his desk.
It’s not quite night, not yet time for the Bats to fly from their cave. Tim wonders if Bruce would realize the passage of it without the help of the team, the man having a habit of letting it pass him by.
“Bruce?”
A blink.
“Bruce, the manor’s on fire.” Nothing. Tim sighs. “I’ve sold all your shares in WE so I can invest in LexCorp instead.”
A pause, then, “In a minute.”
“Alrighty then.” Standing, Tim grabs the monitor and flips it around.
The move earns him a frown from Bruce as he finally looks up, a grunt rumbling from deep in his chest. “Tim, now is not the time.”
“Ah, so we know about time now, do we?” The comment is not appreciated, evident in the older man’s expression. “Let’s focus on what’s going on in Bruce Wayne’s life next.”
“I am.” It’s adjacent to a growl, much more Batman than Bruce. “The engineer who cut the tower’s power during the attempt-”
“Jared Morton, 28, recently hired out of Gotham University’s engineering program, one of the most promising PhD students from his year.” Tim rattles of the information. “Threatened with harm to his family, he received a call the day of the attack, presumably the one that told him to disable the generators.”
“Why didn’t you-”
“I did.” Tim lifts the untouched manila folder that he’d left on Bruce’s desk the day before. “You grunted and said, ‘in a minute’.”
Bruce leans back in his chair and scrubs a hand across his forehead.
He looks at the end of his rope. He’d gone in to question Bane alone and came out with very few answers. The villain had confirmed his involvement alongside his willingness to work beneath some higher entity, something that his pride hadn’t allowed in the past.
Whatever Bane had said to Bruce, it set him off worse than before. He hadn’t let his attention waver from the case since, a big step back from the progress he’d made since Damian and Peter had been retrieved.
“Bruce, when I first became Robin, it was because I could see you losing yourself. I saw it in the hospital’s records and in the way you fought, like you had nothing to lose.” Tim softens his voice. “I saw it because I’ve always been good at noticing things, at finding patterns where others might think there’s none.”
He looks at his fingers as he picks at his cuticles, faltering as he continues. “Where I lose focus is when it comes to myself. I push people away, and they get hurt because of it.”
Bruce lets out a heavy breath. “Tim…”
“Dick once told me that he thought we were related somehow, partially because I was your neighbour and you have a history of instigating affairs, but also because we share similar habits.” Tim turns his gaze to Bruce’s hands, his dad rubbing at his calluses and scars in an repetitive, idle movements. “It’s why I can tell you that you need to let this case go. At least for a bit.”
“I can’t do that.” Bruce responds in a knee jerk reaction. “Not with what’s happened. You nearly died.”
“Sure, but isn’t that part of the job? Just because I wasn’t in a suit doesn’t mean I didn’t know the risks.” Tim urges. “Peter popped out of nowhere, a genius with no connections and a need to do good. You really think I didn’t clock the signs?”
Bruce’s mouth twitches in amusement, some tension draining from his form.
“Dick didn’t just offer the tour because he thought Peter had potential. Sure, he might not have been consciously aware of it at the time, but he knew Peter needed help.” Tim pushes the monitor back around, the screensaver showing the Wayne Enterprises logo. “He still does, Bruce.”
The older man chews on Tim’s words for a minute, silently digesting their meaning. It’s one of Tim’s favourite things about him, that he values the opinions of others when all the cards are down. The tricky part is just getting him to listen.
“How is he settling in?”
It’s the closest to an admission of fault that Tim’s going to get. He stifles his victorious grin. “Good. Alfred said his recovery’s progressing quickly, better than expected. I saw Jason showing him around the manor today.”
Bruce’s brows furrow in thought, attention caught by something in Tim’s words. “Have you spoken to Peter since he woke up?”
Ah. Shit. “No.”
“Why?” There’s a knowing look to Bruce’s eyes, one that doesn’t seem particularly pleased.
“Everyone at WE is still settling after the attack, and I’ve been running tests on the elements we recovered from the safe.” Tim hurries on to ask, “Did you get the details of the tech Babs and I tested?”
“Yes. It was quite impressive.” Bruce responds in a measured way, the same way he talks whenever he’s about to lecture one of them. “It seems you’ve been quite busy, Tim.”
There’s a mischievous glint in his eye, one lightly tinged with irony. It doesn’t bode well for Tim.
“No no, you aren’t about to use my awesome speech against me.”
“Oh, I absolutely am. I believe it started with something about time, and then focusing on Tim Drake’s life?”
Tim buries his face into his hands with a groan. “You’re the worst.”
“And you need to listen to yourself sometimes.” Bruce stands and moves around his desk, sitting on its surface in front of Tim. “You have some good ideas stashed in that brain of yours.”
The tips of his ears redden slightly with the praise, a tell he’d never learned to fight.
Bruce drops a hand on his head. “Seems like we could both stand to listen.”
Tim drops his hands, releasing a breath. “Seems so.”
A knock at the door has them both turning, an unexpected sight greeting them. Hip cocked against the frame, Jason quirks a brow. “Am I interrupting something?”
“Just knocking some sense into him, same as always.” Tim takes the opportunity to flee, knowing that he won’t get another chance like this.
“God knows he needs it.” Jason smirks, sharing in the fun.
He knocks his knuckles against Tim’s shoulder as he passes, the gesture a surprising bit of familiarity. They’d made progress since the whole Titan’s Tower incident, back when Jason left him as a bloody pile on the floor for taking the mantle of Robin, but it seemed Peter had helped him loosen up a bit more.
Tim returns the look, giving him a quick salute.
From behind him, he hears Jason ask Bruce, “Up for a spar, old man?”
Notes:
This'll go well.
Chapter 20
Notes:
Bit more introspective with this chapter :). This fic has grown to have a bigger focus on the characters than I originally anticipated /pos. It's quite fun to get into the minds of the fam, specially the more complex ones like Bruce (my beloved), who has to routinely balance his empathy/humanity with his duties as a hero/father/CEO.
I shall spare you the essay on his character, and conclude with a simple 'enjoy'!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Jason Todd
Wayne Manor – October 26th
This is a bad idea.
The image of punching Bruce Wayne across the face comes to mind.
Never mind, this is a great idea.
Tim gives Jason a salute and then he’s wandering away, bound to end up working on some WE spreadsheets or project. The kid desperately needs to learn to take a load off.
Crossing his arms, Jason steps further into the room, giving Bruce a quick once over.
There’s the slight bloodshot quality to his eyes, dry from staring at a screen for too long. Files are strewn about his desk, all pertaining to WE business, some crinkling beneath Bruce’s thigh as he’s sat on the edge of the wooden surface.
He looks stretched thin, fraying.
Perfect.
“Feeling up for a spar, old man?”
Bruce quirks a brow, not having anticipated the question. His gaze is assessing, likely trying to figure out Jason’s motives for his offering to spend time quality time together.
An incline of his head. “Meet in the gym in five.”
Given they have no gym in the manor, Jason assumes he means the cave. It’s commonplace to speak in code when there’s a guest in the house, paranoia driving Bruce to keep any hint of the truth from others. Seems Peter hasn’t made the cut.
Having already changed into suitable gear, Jason heads down to the cave and starts stretching, loosening the muscles that had gone stiff from his time off recovering.
Though the wound over his rib still looks gnarly, the ache in his lungs has abated over the past few days. The Lazarus pit had left him with a plethora of psychological quirks, but he can’t knock the benefit of having a juiced up rate of healing.
Bruce steps into the cavernous space dressed in athletic clothing similar to Jason’s, knuckles already wrapped. He moves onto the mats to stretch, passing over the roll of tape with a light toss as he does.
Looping the adhesive material around his knuckles and fingers, it creates a protective layer that’d mean a bit more if his knuckles weren’t already scarred to hell and back.
Dropping the tape on the side of the mat, Jason asks, “All the usual rules of engagement?”
“No weapons.”
“Lame.”
Backing to a corner of the mats, Jason foregoes offering a hand to help Bruce up, instead waiting as the man moves to the opposite side. They settle into ready stances, nearly identical in form.
They’d done this whole song and dance a hundred times before, every twitch of their bodies a familiar tell. Bruce had made his first breakthrough in Jason’s training by instructing him to read his opponents like a book, every shift offering an abundance of information.
Tough luck that the old man was the one to show Jason all of his tricks. It’s what makes them each other’s worst natural enemies.
Bruce won’t hit hard enough to do any lasting damage, and Jason was cut straight from his cloth, though without the pacifist compunctions.
They both know who will be the first to break the standoff, so there’s no point in wasting time.
Throwing a careful left hook, Jason breaks the seal on the spar. It’s easily blocked and returned, the blow glancing off his forearm. The swings are slow by their standards, the two relearning each other after too long spent as real adversaries.
“So.” Jason starts, pausing as he tries to get Bruce with a grapple. He can’t quite get his arms around the man’s neck before he’s knocked back. “Where’ve you been?”
Bruce kicks out, forcing some distance as Jason to leans away. “Around. Working on the case.”
“That what Tim was busting your balls for?” Not caring to stifle the grin, Jason rolls his shoulders. “Seems like dear old dad’s been playing the absent father again.”
Bruce darts forward and lashes out with a fist, the blow just skimming past Jason’s cheekbone. It’s faster than before, the ante upping as Jason brazenly pushes at Bruce’s buttons.
“It would help if we knew more about the subject of the investigation.”
Jason catches the next punch, twisting Bruce arm back into a hold. “He doesn’t need to be bothered with that, interrogated.”
Bruce reaches a hand back and flips Jason over his shoulder, pinning him to the ground. “I don’t have a choice.”
“Yes, you do!” Jason gets his legs up and knocks Bruce back, rolling to his feet before stalking along the edge of the mat. “You start digging into him, and I’ll bring him down here. Show him why Bruce Wayne has such a vested interest in the Dark Knight.”
A warning look crosses Bruce’s eyes, his steps mirroring Jason’s. “You know I can’t allow that.”
“You’re a detective. I thought you loved the truth, though I guess it’s only when it serves you.” Stopping, Jason grabs two staffs and tosses one to Bruce.
“I said no weapons.”
“I don’t care.”
Reaching out in a blurring swing, the wood meets in a loud crack. Bruce sweeps his staff low and Jason dodges over it, blocking the follow up attack.
“I can’t keep lying to him, Bruce.” Jason catches the knuckles on one of Bruce’s hands with the blunt end of his weapon, a grunt escaping the man’s throat. “He’s smart, observant. He’ll figure it out sooner rather than later, and-”
“We can’t.” He knocks Jason’s staff aside and slams a foot into his stomach, his barely-healed ribs protesting. “We don’t know a thing about him.”
“I do!” Snapping the length of wood in half by bending it over his thigh, Jason takes to dodging Bruce’s attacks rather than meeting them. “Peter’s good, he’s-”
Bruce drops his staff and seizes Jason’s improvised batons, knocking them from his grasp. “A threat.”
“He’s a kid!”
Dropping low, Jason wraps his arms around Bruce’s middle and twists, feeling a pop in his ribs. It knocks his opponent off his feet, the two of them rolling until Jason is crouched atop Bruce, one knee planted in the middle of his chest.
One hand wrapped in Bruce’s shirt, the other is pulled back as a fist, ready to strike across the older man’s cheek. “He’s not a mystery to solve, not a danger, not some… problem to be shoved into Arkam when he falls into a Pit rage. He’s just a goddamn kid, Bruce.”
Same as I was.
Bruce’s breath come out laboured, strained by the weight of Jason’s body on his ribcage. He doesn’t make a move to dislodge his former sidekick, just stares up at the face that glares down at him from above.
“I’ve met him before. Once, at the beginning of the month.” Bruce says evenly, expression giving nothing away. “He found me on a rooftop. Tracked my patrol routes, told me to switch them up more often.”
Jason’s fist dips, anger fading. “He… he what?”
“He asked me why I disliked metas. Then, under a week later, Commissioner Gordon is talking to me about all these changes he wants to make, all under the advisement of some kid named Peter.” A small slip of a smile. “He impressed me.”
Bruce makes to sit up, and Jason moves off of him, their spar forgotten with the candor of Bruce’s words. They sit across facing one another, the distance that separates them too far to cross but not so much that they can’t hear each other out.
“It is undeniable that Peter is dangerous, because he’s shown to be able to create actual change. In you, in Gotham.” Resting his elbows on his bent knees, Bruce continues. “He’s a kid, and a threat. Those can coexist, no matter how much I wish they couldn’t. I need, and want to get to know him before I can trust him.”
Jason scowls, considering Bruce’s words.
They’d been at odds time and time again, the same story running through without end. They make progress, and then one of them breaks that uneasy trust with word or action, and it all starts anew.
Jason had grown up with a Bruce that the others didn’t get to see, a man who had already watched one child grow up and who had learned from his mistakes. He hadn’t allowed his son to patrol on school nights, and had a lightness that had come to him easily.
The Bruce that raised Jason did not yet know the weight of loss that comes with the death of a child. His child, his son.
It’s why Jason’s final words were an apology to Bruce.
It’s like some part of him knew the toll it would take. If the death of the man’s parents had given rise to the Batman, there was no telling what darkness he’d be pushed into with Jason’s death.
The effects had been curbed by Tim, Alfred, and the others, but Bruce remained changed regardless.
He took the same risk every time he let a new kid into his home. He can’t help the undercurrent of fear as Peter’s been given a room in Wayne manor.
It isn’t just the kid’s ability to change Jason or Gotham that’s the problem.
It’s that he could change Bruce. In all honesty, he probably already has.
Something shifts on its axis and the picture clears. Batman’s primary objective is to bring Gotham’s criminals to justice, but Bruce’s had always been different. The man beneath the mask would bleed himself dry in the pursuit of protecting others. He had already on multiple occasions.
He can’t protect people from what he can’t see, and Peter had emerged from a world of unknowns.
Damn it.
“You’re still an asshole.” Jason stands, looking down at the tired man sitting at his feet. After a moment of deliberation, he offers a hand.
Bruce accepts it, his weight hefted to his feet with Jason’s help. Bruises are already blooming from where they’d struck after they’d stopped pulling their punches. “Yeah, I know.”
Stepping back, Jason retrieves the snapped ends of the staff and toss them into a nearby waste bin. He turns to Bruce, watching as he unwraps his hands. “I am serious about not wanting to lie to Peter. We can’t keep him in the dark forever, not with what’s coming after him.”
Bruce opens his mouth to respond, but Jason interrupts. “I won’t tell him, not yet, but if he doesn’t figure it out or you don’t spill within the year, I will.”
Bruce considers the terms, mouth thinning with displeasure. A moment passes, tense, before he’s giving a sharp nod.
Satisfied, Jason turns and heads for the cave’s exit, looking forward to a good night’s sleep after another enlightening conversation with his dad. He throws one last remark over his shoulder. “You’re still leaving your center open, Bruce. That armor of yours can’t protect you from everything.”
He gets no response, not that he was expecting one in the first place.
~ ~ ~
Dick Grayson
Bristol, Pennsylvania – October 27th
It feels wrong to leave the manor when things are only just starting to settle, but wandering the hallways aimlessly never did much good for Dick’s psyche.
It’s what drove him from home in the first place, back before Jason’s induction into the family. The vastness of the house and the weight of Bruce’s expectations were chipping away at Dick’s patience with each passing day, pushing him to hop one city over.
The problem this time around isn’t in his dad’s attention, but rather the feeling that they’d only just made it out by a hair’s breadth. They hadn’t won this round, not by a long shot.
Peter would have died if it weren’t for his meta abilities, the teen kept going by sheer will and determination as he dodged something like three different attempts on his life.
Damian had left home of his own volition, driven into Gotham with notions of having to prove his worth to the family. He hadn’t believed himself worth the effort of being searched for, his words echoing in Dick’s head when there was nothing else to fill the silence.
Everyone else is working the case from various angles, all pitching in to lift the weight from Bruce’s shoulders. It’s weighing them all down, tiring them out as time trickles through their fingers.
And Dick’s stuck in the middle of it all, his mind whirling with too many things that need his attention. He’s caught in a static loop, rendered useless as his brain lags with being pulled in too many directions.
He’s the one that throws in a quippy line when the tension grows too thick. He’s the one to coax the members of his family from their heads, using soft words and offerings of whatever they might need.
He’s the one that acts as the example, and if he can’t keep it together, it means that everyone else is faring so much worse.
Eventually, he’d broken from the loop, Dick’s feet taking him to the garage before he knew where he was going. The car responded to his fingerprints, the engine purring in a way that speaks of money.
Pulling away from the manor, Dick is left to his thoughts, radio silent. The sound of rain plinking atop the roof is calming, the environment opening up outside the car’s windows.
He passes by Tim’s old house, the residence having been purchased by a fellow Gothamite business mogul who wanted safety away from the city. The exterior had been redone since its acquisition, something that had Tim looking away from the mansion whenever they pass it by.
The neighbourhood dwindles until it’s just trees extending to the left and right of the road, red maple and sweetgum reaching high above on either side. The leaves have already turned and are midway through their fall, covering the dampened ground in warm shades.
It’s early enough in the morning that very few cars are on the road, commuters only just beginning to rise from their beds. This is usually the time that Dick would be going to sleep on a patrol night, freshly rinsed of whatever grime that Gotham or Blüdhaven’s streets had left on his body.
Dick sticks to side roads, avoiding the bland sights of the interstate. The asphalt curves and rounds over hills, forcing him to slow as the wheels weren’t designed for traction in heavy rain.
He snorts. Should’ve taken the Batmobile.
The peace of the drive doesn’t last long. Inevitably, his mind returns to the people he’d left behind in the manor.
It’s likely that one of them had noticed his departure. Damian seeking out companionship. Bruce receiving an alert about someone leaving the property. Cass reading his restlessness from the shadows. Alfred and his omnipotence.
Just as likely that someone will ask him why he left. Steph and Kate’s boldness and bravery in searching out the truth. Jason’s blatant need to know what’s going on around him. Tim’s thirst for knowledge. Peter’s concern.
All of them looking to Dick, seeing him as the example.
Gripping the wheel with blanched knuckles, Dick jerks it to the side, the spinning of the tires sending pebbles pinging against the undercarriage. His foot slams down against the breaks, inertia opposing the sudden shift in velocity.
The engine shuts off, rumblings disappearing as the cylinders stop firing. Now it’s just Dick and the rain, the sound of his breaths a bit too loud in the confining space.
Stepping out of the car, he notes a splatter of mud crawling up a few inches from where the tires had spun it up. He’ll have to get that cleaned, Alfred having too much on his plate as it is.
Dick wanders over to a nice patch of grass and sits, water soaking into the fabric of his sweatpants. Drops fall onto his shoulder and sink into the cloth that rests upon them, darkening it with each second that passes.
Looking out into the forest, Dick just breathes.
His early childhood had been spent close proximity to the outside world, the circus troupe always on the move as they wandered between cities. It’d been a major adjustment to get used to the manor and being chained to Gotham, the beds far too soft and the towers far too looming.
Home smelled so clean, bereft of body odour and animal musk. Bruce and Alfred were so polite, the newly orphaned Richard Grayson grappling with what was pity and what was propriety.
He never truly settled. He’d been grasping for reminders of his old life when he first donned the Robin costume, finally able to swing through the air once more and be rendered filthy by unclean air.
It feels like a return to his roots, to sit here and let himself be dirtied by nature. Leaves are kicked up by a gust of wind, some fluttering to fall upon his lap.
His hair flattens and then falls limp, the strands sticking to his skin. The expensive product he’d used to style it that morning loses its grip, rinsing out as water runs in rivulets down his neck.
Dick thinks of Blüdhaven, of the news reports he’d seen of his city. Small crime had gone up by 2% over the past month, undoubtedly linked to Dick’s disappearance. None of the news cited Nightwing’s sabbatical as the cause, but online hero forums had made the link, questioning where he’d gone.
He hadn’t any other choice. Peter and Damian’s lives had been hanging in the balance, forcing him to stay in Gotham. Tim nearly dying, then Jason a couple of hours later.
Dick forces out a breath, pulls another in, the scent of decaying leaves in the air. He exhales, steadier.
He packs up all of his thoughts, reminiscent of the day he’d moved out of the manor with each box marked with scrawled sharpie. He compartmentalizes, sorting through the tangle of emotions in his chest, separating what’s needed now from what can be dealt with later.
Slowly, he returns to the world, settled in a way that he often is after meditating. Bruce had taught him the value of that, how the simple act of breathing could heal both the body and the mind.
Standing from the grass, Dick returns to the car. He turns it on and maneuvers back onto the road, his heading pointed back towards the manor.
Pressing down the knob for the sound system, it’s clear that Alfred was the last one to drive. Soft sounds of classical music float through the body of the vehicle, similar to that which plays during the preparation of dinner.
Dick leaves it on as he makes his way home.
Notes:
Whoop dee doo, the spar didn't go well, how did you all guess? /lh
Chapter Text
Peter Parker
Wayne Manor – October 28th
Peter Parker meets Bruce Wayne on just another rainy day in Gotham, the man both exactly and nowhere near what he expected.
The guy’s built like a house, with bulk on a level equal to Captain America’s hidden beneath a cashmere sweater and slacks. He oozes old money, reserved about it in a way that Tony never was.
He’s good looking in a stately but rugged way, perfectly coifed but with some scruff that disrupts the cut of his jaw. There are a few scars visible on his hands, shiny tissue stretched over strong fingers.
They’re sitting on plush leather chairs in a sitting room, separated by a mahogany coffee table. A Persian rugs spans the length of the room, the fibres stiff beneath Peter’s socks. His cane leans against his thigh, fingers rolling it restlessly against the fabric of his sweatpants.
Alfred sets teacups in front of each of them, a herbal scent curling up from it. He stands, gives a small bow of his head. “I must attend to other matters, but do call for me should my presence be required.”
Then, it’s just Peter sitting before the Price of Gotham.
“I, uhm…” Peter starts, a bit unsure of where he wants to go with his introduction. “I wanted to say thank you. For letting me stay here, sir.”
“Don’t worry about calling me sir, Peter. You’re a guest in my home, not an employee.” Mr. Wayne is settled comfortably, at ease in his manor. “And there’s no need to thank me. If anything I should be the one extending my gratitude.”
Peter’s brows draw together in confusion, wondering what he’d done besides lying unconscious for days and then taking up a guest room.
“You saved the lives of my sons, although Damian might object to the notion.” The man’s lip quirks in a wry, fond way. “I saw the recording of what you did for Tim at the tower. He wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.”
Peter bites his tongue as he tries not to correct Mr. Wayne. Tim had been put in the path of danger because of him, not the other way around. Pretending to be embarrassed, Peter drops his eyes.
There’s the sound of fabric shifting over leather as the CEO leans forward. “I also want to apologize for what you’ve gone through since arriving in Gotham. I feel a sense of responsibility for this city, and it’s clear that both it and I have failed you on multiple accounts.”
Peter blinks and looks back up, surprised. “No, don’t worry about it! I…”
His words trail off, unsure of how to relieve whatever guilt that Mr. Wayne might be feeling. He worries at the skin of his thumb with his nail, reaching for something to say. “I wasn’t alone, not for long anyways. I don’t feel… failed.”
“Regardless.” Mr. Wayne reaches for his tea, holding the saucer in one hand as he warms his fingers with the cup. “I admit that I didn’t want to meet you for the sole purpose of due diligence. I read your work, the assignment that you submitted to the GCPD.”
“You did?”
“Yes. I grew curious when Dick and Barbara mentioned the conversation you had with the Commissioner.” His expression looks amused as he continues, “I had quite the board meeting afterwards.”
Heat crawls up the back of Peter’s neck as he recalls the digging he’d done into Wayne Enterprises. While much of it came through clean, the money they put into community development was funding a load of dead programs that hadn’t been updated in years.
Fighting the urge to duck his head, Peter meekly responds. “That uh… sorry about that one.”
“It’s alright. It showed me places where I’d grown complacent.” Mr. Wayne’s voice goes soft. “There isn’t much love felt by the city when it comes to the East End. It’s easy to forget that it’s just as much a part of Gotham as the other districts.”
There’s an admission there, one that Tony had made before. Peter remembers the way his mentor had looked at him when he talked about protecting his neighbourhood on that alien ship, and when he told the billionaire that he was there to protect the little guy before that.
Peter pulls on his courage and looks Mr. Wayne in the eye as he says. “I guess that’s why Jason does what he does.”
It’s a gamble, one made on too many assumptions.
He focuses on his senses, leaning on a trick that he’d always felt uncomfortable using. He hears the steady beat of Mr. Wayne’s heart remain level at Peter’s words, his muscles loose. He’s completely calm in the face of Peter’s implication.
So he does know.
Mr. Wayne’s expression remains neutral, but a curiosity glimmers in his eyes. After a moment, he asks, “He told you?”
“No. It wasn’t a hard stretch to make when he was pulling off some crazy moves fighting a bunch of thugs in Crime Alley.” Peter’s words are bolder than he feels, unable to stop them as they tumble from his lips. “That, and the wall of guns really gave it away.”
“May I ask your thoughts about that? Based on your report, I would assume that you have a dislike of firearms.”
“I do.” He pulls his stiff leg up and tucks it close to his chest. “I can’t say that I like him using them, kind of hate it in all honesty, even though he uses rubber bullets.”
Mr. Wayne nods, staying quiet to allow Peter to talk without interruption.
“I can’t hate him for it though, not knowing what I do about him. It’s not much, but I can fill in some of the blanks myself.” Peter chews at the skin of the inside of his cheek, wondering how to proceed. “I don’t remember a lot about the day that I… arrived in Gotham.”
“I was alone. Scared, confused. I got mugged before the first night was through.” He dwells on the murky memories of the day he’d crawled out of the pit, the endless buzzing of his sixth sense. “I think I’d be dead without Jason.”
There’s a part of him that’s afraid that he would’ve ended up with something worse.
“He didn’t have to help me. Could’ve left the nosy meta kid to learn life’s lessons the hard way. The same way he had to.” Peter smiles. “But he chose to care, and for me that’s enough to warrant forgiveness.”
Mr. Wayne had shifted to lean on one hand, thinking through Peter’s words. He doesn’t voice what’s going through his head, but there’s no anger in his consideration.
The man nods, stands, and sets his teacup on the table. He looks down at it, then at Peter. “May I show you something?”
Not expecting the question, it takes Peter a moment to reply. “Sure.”
He pushes himself up from the armchair, cane held loosely at his hip. He doesn’t have much use for it now, but it has grown to be a comfort in hand, easy to fiddle with when he has nothing else to do.
Mr. Wayne leads them to the foyer, grabbing two woolen coats from a nearby hook. They’re long, reaching near to the floor. He holds one out to Peter, a bit too big and assumedly Tim’s. Quirking a brow, he asks, “Up for a bit of rain?”
Unable to help his curiosity, Peter shrugs it on. Sliding on a pair of sneakers, he follows Mr. Wayne deeper into the manor.
~ ~ ~
Bruce Wayne
Wayne Manor – October 28th
Peter stands beside Bruce atop one of the manor’s turrets, completely at ease with the height as they look out over the estate. From this high up, the towers of Gotham are just barely visible over the treeline, the city aglow with light pollution.
The raindrops that fall on their shoulders are heavy but infrequent, hinting at a heavy storm to come. The air is just warm enough to keep their breath from misting, with the slight chill being kept at bay by the lining of their coats.
“This is where I come to think.” Bruce says, keeping his gaze pointed southward. “Alfred showed me the stairs when I nearly fell as a boy trying to climb to the roof.”
Peter huffs, the laugh more polite than genuine. “Man, he’s always had a handful to deal with, huh.”
“We’d all be ruined without him.” Bruce smiles, feeling a sense of pride for his butler. “He kept me going after the death of my parents, pushed me to get up in the morning. I bribed my CPS case worker to allow him to be my guardian.”
Peter is quiet, listening in a way that isn’t laden with guilt. There’s the shadow of loss in the way he doesn’t extend his sorrows, aware at how empty the words can sound.
“Peter.” Bruce urges, requesting the teen to look over at him with the utterance of his name. “Who was meant to care for you?”
He’d heard the conversation shared between Peter and Jason as the younger boy talked of the people he’d lost. Names and roles uttered in a tone of mourning: May, Tony, Ben, Peter’s parents.
The name ‘Peter Parker’ hadn’t come up on system registries. From what Bruce could tell, he had no guardian.
Peter confirms with a word. “Nobody.”
Bruce forces himself to keep his eyes open against the weight of those three syllables. “What happened?”
“Everyone forgot.”
Bruce’s jaw clenches, angry on Peter’s behalf. His throat aches in a way that’s all too common, indignation felt at the life that the teen’s had to endure.
His reaction is observed by Peter, received with both surprise and apprehension. Bruce isn’t a man who wears his heart on his sleeve, so the slip of emotion would act as an affront to whatever impression that Peter might have built of him thus far.
“You… you know what this means, right?” Peter raises a hand to touch the pads of his fingers against the whitened strands of his hair. Bruce grunts his assent. “I don’t really know how I-… how I ended up in there. Not all of it.”
His hand slips back into his pocket as he speaks. “But before, I made some big mistakes, ones that cost me everything. I got… erased, I guess.”
The teen stops his recount there, evidently hoping that it’s enough to fill in the gaps in his story.
It makes sense, that Peter’s lack of history is something that he’s aware of. He evaded Dick and Tim’s questions well because he had rehearsed his answers beforehand, choosing a backstory that’d leave little traces to follow.
Though the manner behind his disappearance could have several causes, worrying ones. Magic, human intervention, alien technology. Nothing good.
Reaching into his pocket, Bruce holds cold metal out for Peter to take. “Did it have something to do with this?”
“I was wondering where that went.” Peter takes his piecemeal tech into his hand, voice sounding a touch nervous. He pauses, fingers fiddling with the wristband as he glances at Bruce from the corner of his eye. “I’m guessing you have questions.”
“None, if that’s what you want.” The detective in him wants to dig in, but he shoves it down. “I just need to know if you’re going to be giving Alfred any trouble by sneaking out in the middle of the night.”
Peter’s eyes widen and he looks away sharply.
Bruce hopes that the answer will be no. A part of him doesn’t want to chase the teen away from fighting crime as the Batman, his attention already split in too many directions.
Another part of him can’t shake the image of Peter behind held aloft by his head, neck straining as the Kennel Master goes to crush his skull. Bruce had already seen the bad ending of that night in his dreams, his mind punishing him for his failures.
“I think I need trust myself before I do that again.” Peter’s voice is quiet. “I will eventually. It’s part of who I am, but I not sure that I’m same person that I was… before.”
Bruce smiles at Peter when he peeks up, expression tinged with understanding and a touch of sadness. It’s never easy to hang up the cape, especially for one so young.
“I think that’ll save Jason from going gray for a bit.” He voices his approval, Peter giving him a small chuckle. Turning his body towards the teen, Bruce sets a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to die for a cause to be a hero, Peter. There are other ways.”
Youthful eyes blink up in question, the green so striking.
“Wayne Enterprises funds heroes across the globe through sponsorships and grants, but that’s not all.” Bruce explains, taking a chance. “Who do you think makes all of their tech?”
“You’ve shown remarkable aptitude in multiple subjects, impressing both myself and my sons. Your inventions are inspired.” He glances down at the wristband still held in Peter’s grip. “Talent like that should be given opportunity to grow.”
“But…” Peter stares up at Bruce with something akin to disbelief, voice a bit faint. “I don’t have a college degree. I never got to finish high school.”
“Formal education isn’t a requirement, and besides, am I correct that you have moved beyond the level of secondary school already?” Bruce asks, getting a nod in response. “With the correct testing and a legal identity, it should be easy to obtain those credentials.”
“Mr. Wayne, I-” He falters with an exhale. “I don’t know what to…”
“You don’t have to say yes to any of this.” Bruce ducks his head a bit, trying to convey his earnestness. “Your place in my home isn’t one of an investment. There are no expectations of you delivering a return.”
Peter nods, his expression loosening though it stays awed.
“You wouldn’t be formally recognized as an employee. None of my children besides Tim are, though they have access to the whole tower.” Bruce explains. “If anything, you would be more of an unofficial intern.”
A laugh bursts from Peter’s chest, a bit unexpectedly. He sobers up, amusement and embarrassment in his eyes. “Sorry, just…”
“It’s alright.” Waving away the teen’s outburst, Bruce eases off. “Again, there is no need to accept, and you can take as much time as you need to think it over.”
Peter calms, his gaze bright as he looks up at Bruce. “Thank you, I’ll consider it. I think… I would really like to help, even if it’s from the sidelines.”
Bruce nods, respect growing for the young man before him as he resolutely strives towards good. He looks back out to Gotham, content that its darkness hadn’t swallowed up the hope that stands beside him.
For a moment they stare at the horizon together, the air settling nicely.
Peter’s voice sounds young as he asks, “You think we could stay up here for a bit longer?”
Bruce looks over to him, remembering that night that they’d met on the roof. Peter had been crouching so near to the ledge, comfortable and in his element as he listened to the sounds of the street below.
He’d reminded Bruce so much of his Robins in that moment, poised as he kept watch over his city. It’s only now that he realizes it, feeling the flutter of a phantom cape atop his back.
Something in him relaxes, relishing the rain on his skin as he nods. “For as long as you want.”
Notes:
Peter: If I had a nickel for every time that a billionaire/playboy/philanthropist offered me an internship as a cover for superhero activities, I'd have two nickels. Which isn't a lot, but it's weird that it happened twice.
Chapter 22
Notes:
Whew! Apologies for the slightly longer wait, here's some more comfort and science stuff :D
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Cassandra Cain
Wayne Manor - October 29th
The new resident of the house is interesting.
There is a brightness to him that’s akin to a clear day, eyes light when he interacts with Cass’ family. He is spoken about often, a new and fascinating fixture in their lives that could prove to be permanent.
Cass has not yet formally met Peter, though she had spent time in his room when he was unconscious. She had seen him wander through the halls of the manor in passing, always too far to engage with properly.
He is easy to read, body language and expression open to the world. It is refreshing among so many secretive people, though she cannot fault her siblings and parent for their habits.
Peter’s footsteps are light and fluid, denoting a natural agility alongside some manner of training. His eyes scan over a room habitually, hazel irises falling upon possible points of exit and nooks to hide away in.
He is still in a bit of pain from his injuries, though it’s in large part due to the soreness that comes with retraining his muscles. The cold weather has not helped, frigid air leaving scar tissue and mended bones aching.
Cass happens upon him in the kitchen, the adolescent tucked atop a stool by the island. Alfred is preparing lunch, pinching dumpling dough between his fingers.
Classical music is playing a slow and meandering symphony. The butler’s head moves the slightest bit when the orchestra swells and ebbs.
It is an endearing sight.
Peter is writing in a fresh notebook, his ideas scrawled in neat handwriting. A laptop is perched open by his elbow, a periodic table bright on the screen.
Sitting down next to him, Cassandra holds a hand out. “I am Cassandra Cain. Cass.”
Peter puts down his pen and shakes her hand, the skin of his palm warm and callused. “Peter. I’ve seen you around.”
“Yes.” Cass’ head tilts as she looks at Peter’s notebook, unsure of what some of the symbols mean. Some of it is English, taking her a few long moments to parse the meaning as the letters swim in and out of understanding. “What are you working on?”
“Just a, uh, project.” Peter taps the end of his pen against the paper as he constructs his sentence, figuring out how to explain it to Cass. “There’s a design I want to try out, but it’s something I’ve never really worked on before.”
Nodding, she watches as Peter sketches out a rough shape on the page. His art skills are admittedly bad, but the design is simplistic. It’s a circular shape with wires and a slot for something to be set within, unlike anything Cass had seen.
“It’s meant to be a power source, something that a friend of mine thought up.” The hint of sadness in Peter’s voice tells of what might have happened to this friend. “I think he’d want it to be used for good.”
Cass pulls a pencil between her fingers and moves it towards the paper, glancing at Peter for permission before drawing a small heart on the corner of the page.
Peter smiles at it then looks at her. “Are you into science at all?”
Shaking her head, Cass responds. “Dance, acrobatics.”
“Cool. I’ve done some gymnastics before.”
Alfred speaks up from where he’d remained silent throughout the conversation. “Master Dick is quite experienced in acrobatics and gymnastics. Perhaps the three of you could make a day of it.”
“Yeah, that’d be awesome.” Peter agrees, looking to Cass. “That is, if you’d want to.”
Nodding excitedly, Cass pulls out her phone and hands it to Peter. They had all been given his number already on their ‘work phones’ as Bruce has come to refer to them while not on patrol, but it’d be strange for Peter to discover he’s already in all of their personal phone contacts.
He inputs his information and hands the phone back to Cass. She promptly makes a chat with him and Dick, speaking into the microphone to send a message. “Gym with us when?”
Turning it off, she grins at Peter, excited at their shared interest. He smiles back, his pocket buzzing as Cass’ text is received.
“Lunch is nearly ready, Master Peter.” Alfred has a pleased look on his face, seen in the deepening of the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes. “Your work would not benefit from any accidental spills that might occur.”
Peter puts his belongings to the side, accepting the dish that Alfred hands over. It’s heaped with food, far more than Cass could stomach.
She doesn’t comment on it, accepting her smaller portion with anticipation. They eat side by side, the silence comforting as the music plays on in the background.
~ ~ ~
Tim Drake
Wayne Enterprises Tower – October 30th
“Delivery.”
Dick’s voice at the door pulls Tim out of his thoughts, looking up to see his eldest brother standing at the door to his lab with Peter in tow. He blinks in surprise, standing from his stool when he realizes he’s staring.
“Hey, guys.” Tim approaches them, seeing Peter glancing about in interest. “Welcome to the lab. What’s up?”
“Seems Peter here might be joining R&D for our secret friends and wanted to get a better idea of what kind of stuff we get up to.” Dick’s hand is on Peter’s shoulder, his tactful nature shining through. “Thought you’d be the best to explain it.”
“Bruce really doesn’t wait around, huh.” Tim huffs, surprised at the glimpse that his dad is giving Peter into their business. It’s not unwelcome considering everything the teen had done for them. “I’ll show you around.”
Dick loiters at the door while Tim shows Peter his space, the two building a nice back and forth as the younger takes a look at some of the projects that are still in development. The lab itself isn’t that remarkable, not compared to what Lucious has few floors up his use.
The tour doesn’t take that long given that it’s one room and Peter seems to be familiar with the ins and outs of a place like this. Dick falls asleep on the cot in the corner, having returned earlier that morning from a quick trip to Blüdhaven to put out a small fire.
Peter’s drumming his fingers on the stainless steel table, excess energy brimming in a space of invention, when something catches his eye. He wanders over to where Tim had been seated earlier, finding the formula for his webs held within a stack of papers.
There’s a small smile is on his face as he says, “Mary got it to you.”
“Yeah. Helped me work it out too.” Peter looks up at Tim in surprise at that, to which he elaborates. “Offered her a job here. Figures that if she can decipher your chicken scratch, she can do anything.”
“Yeah yeah.” Peter lets the lighthearted dig roll off his shoulders, similar in the way that Jason does the same. “That’s awesome to hear, man.”
“Also uh…” Tim starts, gaze flicking down. “I’m sorry you were put in a position where you felt like you had to give your work to me like that, and that I haven’t been around much.”
“It wouldn’t have felt right with anyone else.” Peter responds, forgiveness in the softness of his tone. “And don’t worry about it. With getting shot and helping to run this company, I really can’t get mad at you. Besides, the manor’s got enough going on anyways.”
Tim huffs and nods his head, conceding to the point. He scratches at his neck before saying, “In the interest of transparency, I know that the DNA we were working on was yours. I didn’t at the time, but with how you came under Bruce’s care, we had to check for any issues and the system matched the samples.”
It’s a risk to tell Peter, giving the teen an opportunity to wonder at how they’d gotten their hands on his DNA in the first place. Tim’s got a lie settled on the back of his tongue in case he’s asked about it, but it tastes sour on his palette.
Peter sits on a swivel stool and twists left to right, eyes fixated on the table with something like guilt. “Sorry I didn’t tell you back then.”
“I wouldn’t have either, if I were you. Honestly, I’m surprised you didn’t think I was pulling some sick power play, asking for your help in decrypting your own genetic code.” Tim jokes, leaning his hip against the surface top.
“I was getting a bit worried, but then bullets started to fly and the whole DNA thing kind of slipped my mind.” Peter breaks the stare he had going on the table. “I’m guessing that’s what confirmed my meta status then?”
Tim nods, asking softly, “May I ask what activated your abilities?”
“Radioactive spider bit me.” The answer comes in a flat tone, Peter aware at the bizarre nature of his meta origin. “Some scientists thought it’d be fun to mash an experimental isotope and a common house spider together to make some sort of miracle cure.”
Tim tilts his head, interest piqued. “Experimental isotope?”
“Yeah. I don’t really get it since it breaks the laws of physics, chemically stable despite its high atomic density.” Peter’s recounts, the element sounding familiar. “Didn’t get a good look at their work before leaving, but I’ve got an idea.”
Tim nods encouragingly.
“I think they used nuclear fission or something similar to force it to give off radiation in short bursts. Doing it over a longer period of time in proximity to the spiders would help avoid the complications of Uranium or similar elements.” Peter talks with his hands, demonstrating the bursts with his fingers. “Do this over a few generations, and you’ve got radioactive spiders.”
It’s a solid theory, impressively so.
Pulling up his own stool, Tim tugs his laptop over to pull up a sim program, talking all the while. “So then as they’re firing neutrons at the isotope, the stability of the element means it keeps its shape while releasing the radiation.”
“Exactly, but again, breaking the laws of physics. The weak nuclear force shouldn’t be able to hold up against fission with the size of the isotope’s atom.” Peter looks to the screen, watching as Tim punches in the parameters of the simulation. “Stable radiation isn’t a thing.”
“It might be, whether we like it or not.” Tim pauses in his typing, looking to the teen beside him. “So then, if it was a spider that was altered by this radiation that bit you, how does that translate?”
“Haven’t really tested the ins and outs of what it means, nothing besides the obvious meta abilities.” Peter chews the inside of his cheek, debating on what he’s going to share. “Theoretically, I could have some resistance or adaptability to energy and radiation. I figured that’s what made my healing factor what it is, getting more out of less.”
It’s a fascinating concept, one that’d be ethically dubious to test, needing Peter to withstand potentially damaging amounts of radiation. Not an option then.
Tim nods, filing the information away. He turns back to his task, finishing the simulation.
Using the scans they’d taken of the Batmanium sample, he emulates nuclear fission with the impossible element. The program struggles with figuring out the possible outcomes, requiring a good deal of tweaking as Tim and Peter’s swap ideas.
Forgoing several key concepts vital to the physical foundations of the universe, he and Peter watch as the nucleus rebounds off the larger atom to release a burst of radioactive energy. It produces a substantial amount, the particles vibrating but retaining the shape of the atom as the nucleus fires off in another direction.
With no protons or neutrons knocked free, the reaction avoids the dangers of similar radioactive elements that sit near it on the periodic table. The original particle is free to rebound off another atom, continuing endlessly. Improbably.
There’s a bout of silence as they contemplate the meaning of their discovery, its potential boundless. Storing energy to later be released, trapped by that impossible density. The possibilities of translating that raw nuclear energy into thermal, radiant, electric.
Peter breaks the quiet atmosphere. “Holy shit.”
~ ~ ~
Duke Thomas
Wayne Manor – October 30th
Coming home from space is always an interesting ordeal, something that Duke can’t say he’s used to.
He isn’t brought to the Watchtower often given that he’s small fry compared to the Justice League members, but once John Stewart had learned of his abilities, he’d been invited up to see how his abilities could potentially interact with the Lantern Corp’s rings.
It had been nothing short of grueling, amounting to intense mental taxation as he fought to meet the will of a Green Lantern. The first couple of weeks became a haze of fighting back migraines, earning him specialty training on how to hone his will before any progress could be made.
Thankfully, Jon had been the only one that Duke had trained with. His control is fine tuned, a testament to the time he’d spent in the Corps.
From what Duke had learned of the others that frequented the Watchtower, Hal Jordan had shown to be a lot to deal with and Kyle Rayner ran the risk of bowling Duke over with his raw power. The others that possessed a ring tended to stay away, either due to a lack of invitation or being busy with their galactic responsibilities.
It’s refreshing to return to Earth, to breathe unrecycled oxygen. The manor’s still standing, and upon stepping inside, Duke is greeted by the smell of Alfred’s cooking.
He has barely enough time to get his stuff into his room before a set of footsteps are steadily approaching the door, audible to give him warning.
With the door ajar, Steph doesn’t ask for an invitation to enter before she’s pushing inside to yank Duke into a hug. “Hey! You’re back in time for dinner.”
She wraps her hands around his arm and tugs him away, his belongings abandoned on his bed. He can’t help the fond chuckle that’s prompted by her excitement. “Good to see you too.”
“Did you hear word of what’s gone down since you left?”
“Read up on Bruce’s messages just last night.” It had been a hell of a catchup, complete with a clear order to keep the family business on the downlow. “How’s the new kid settling in?”
Steph slows so they’re walking side by side, arms still linked together. “Good. He was at the tower with Tim earlier, the two of them working on some new stuff.”
They step into the dining room together, finding most of the family there. It’s uncommon to have everyone together like this, their busy schedules and hectic lifestyles keeping the unit fractured most of the time.
Kate isn’t in attendance, though she’s wont to show only when they have an official meeting to discuss family or vigilante matters.
Bruce is sitting at the head of the table with Cass and Tim to his left and right, speaking quietly to the two of them. Next to Cass is Barbara who’s chatting amicably with Dick, Damian seated across from them as he listens with a bored expression.
Furthest from Bruce is Jason Todd, taking Duke aback despite knowing that he’d been living at the manor while recovering. His chair is tipped back on its hind legs, his fingers linked behind his head as he pretends to doze.
Duke hasn’t interacted much with him much given that they operate at different time frames and he’s been very clear about his dislike of others in his territory. He’s much more at ease than what Duke would assume, likely due to the teen sandwiched between him and Damian.
Currently writing in a notebook, the newest resident of Wayne manor glances up as Duke and Steph wander closer. He’s got a solid, wiry build similar to Tim’s and a friendly air about him, the corners of his lips turning up as he sees a new face.
Unable to help himself, Duke lets his vision deepen as he tugs on his meta abilities, watching as the light in the room starts to warp. He sees the familiar striations of photons that warble around his teammates, unique and distinct to each person.
He can’t tear his eyes away from those that are emitted by Peter’s form, completely singular in their oddity. They’re disconnected and in conflict, both drawn in and expulsed to create a static, jittery signature.
There’s an element that’s similar to Jason’s, Peter at odds with the natural world now that he’s defied the sanctity of death. His fractured aura is consistent with individuals who aren’t tethered to their universe, the light around him almost seeming forced to comply with his presence.
It’s wrong.
Trying not to let his uncertainty show, Duke lets his powers slide out of use as he takes a seat across from Peter, waving as he gets a greeting from the rest of the group. He focuses on the newcomer, grinning. “Hey, I’m Duke. It’s good not to be the new guy around here anymore.”
“Peter.” The upward curve of Peter’s mouth turns into a smile, polite if not a bit overwhelmed with the goings on around him. “Tim said you were away on a retreat?”
“Yeah, a specialty training thing. Just getting to know some people that’re involved in international work.”
“Oh cool.” Peter spins the pen in his fingers, looping the end in figure eights. “Was it through the business?”
“Not entirely.” Duke thanks Alfred as he sets some food before him and Steph, the butler nodding his greeting. “Bruce has some more personal contacts that’re more suited to my interests, and I’m not that involved with WE anyways. Speaking of, Steph mentioned you were over there earlier today?”
Peter starts telling Duke about his project, a bit haltingly at first as he gages the interest of his audience. It’s nothing that Duke is particularly specialized in, but he’s got enough of a grasp to keep up with the concepts.
He can tell that Jason’s listening in, something about his expression giving away his interest, though he tries to maintain his aloof attitude. It’s surprisingly sweet.
Barbara starts listening in partway through and she has more in the way of questions, curious about the possible applications of Peter’s research.
Feeling a set of eyes on the side of his head, Duke glances over at Bruce to see the man looking his way, a question in his eyes. His head is tilted the same way it does on mission, a silent request for Duke’s particular insight into a mystery.
What did you see?
Letting the strangeness of Peter’s aura show on his expression, Duke conveys his worry with a look and the shake of his head. Nothing good.
Bruce nods and pulls out of his detective mode, features arranging pleasantly soon after as he looks at the people gathered around his dining table.
Duke’s musings are interrupted by a shout of alarm, his head whipping back to see Jason scrambling to catch himself on the table. There’s a mischievous look on Peter’s face as he settles back in his seat, his foot having knocked against the tilted legs of Jason’s chair.
As the teen starts to get chewed out, Duke forgets about his worry, just glad to be back home.
Notes:
Gonna get into some longer time skips now that all the fam is back, give Peter some time to settle in the manor properly.
I hope the science stuff made some sense. Trying to make sense of DC and Marvel's take on theoretical physics and find commonalities was a true task, but twas enjoyable in the end :)
Also, yay Duke's finally here!
Chapter 23
Notes:
Spoiler alert for Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, although given that the book's like two centuries old, it's a bit redundant /lh
Enjoy my dears!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Bruce Wayne
Wayne Enterprises Tower – November 9th
Bruce stands from behind his desk in the tower, extending a hand out. “Welcome to the team, Peter.”
The teen stands and accepts the handshake, a small smile on his face. Tim pats him on the back once in congratulations, pleased that Peter has made his acceptance of the position formal.
Bruce lets his hand drop, sliding it into his pocket as he says, “The paperwork confirming your identity and high school diploma should finish being processed soon. It has all the necessary documentation we discussed that help to make your life believable.”
Peter’s eyes get the slightest bit misty, the news holding more meaning than Bruce thought it would.
“We are in the process of arranging a personal lab for you, but Tim has offered to share his in the meantime.” Bruce continues, Tim nodding his assent. “There is also the lab in the manor should you prefer to conduct the majority of your work there.”
“Thank you. I, uh, I really don’t know what to say.” Peter rubs the back of his neck, a bit bashful at the offers. “Might be easier to work in the tower for now, at least with our current project.”
“Tim’s mentioned it a couple of times, though he hasn’t told me much in worry of taking credit of your ideas.”
Peter’s mouth opens, assumedly to defend Tim’s input on the project, but is beaten to the punch by the older boy. “Before you say anything, all I’ve really done is show you how to run simulations with our tech. The concept is all yours, Peter.”
Peter acquiesces, and his expression shifts to something a bit more wistful. “Not really. Tony came up with all of this forever ago. I’m just reinterpreting it.”
“Tony?” Bruce asks, keeping his voice soft. He’d heard Peter mention the name a few times now, but hadn’t been able to investigate without any concrete information on the teen’s background.
“He looked out for me, taught me a bunch about… everything.” Peter huffs a laugh, reminiscing. “He messed up all the time, but he always found a way to fix things. He was my hero.”
Bruce sees Tim glance at him, something meaningful in his gaze though he tries to hide it.
Peter clears his throat, shaking off his pensive mood. “The energy output of the reactor is a lot, but it’s proportional to the amount of Batmanium housed in its care. With a decent chunk, it could power the equivalent of a few city blocks. Get enough, and it could keep Gotham’s lights on indefinitely.”
“That, and it wouldn’t produce any environmental impact.” Tim chimes in, not hiding his attempt at angling for Bruce’s investment in the project. “After the initial boot up, the reactor would be self-sufficient.”
Bruce had already decided to support their research since he’d heard Peter talking to Duke about it at the dinner table, but he lets them continue. The two of them mention the applications for hero tech, bringing to mind the idea of sticking a reactor into the Watchtower.
They bounce off one another well, their excitement palpable as they discuss implementing it into Gotham city’s infrastructure. Bruce has been all but forgotten, content to listen to their ideas in silence.
It’s when Tim goes to search for his laptop that Bruce intervenes, clearing his throat. “Before the two of you leave, there is one last thing I wanted to discuss.”
Peter looks over and settles into his chair, looking a bit embarrassed by how he’d forgotten about the CEO sitting just a few feet away. “Oh, uh, sorry ‘bout that. What’s up?”
“Though your technological contributions to the company were at the forefront of our discussions, I had hope that your work might also involve expanding the business’ role in the community.” Bruce explains. “However, I understand if that is too much alongside your current project.”
“No, not at all!” Peter hastily corrects Bruce. “I would love to, but uh, don’t you already have an outreach branch here?”
“We do, but many of the staff don’t have the level of experience you do.” He counters. “Degrees are useful in many ways, but you lived in Crime Alley, got to see what it’s really like there. Most importantly, you care, more than most.”
“That… that makes sense.” The teen looks a bit taken aback by the earnest response. “I’ve got a couple ideas I could look into developing.”
“Thank you. That’s more than I hoped for.”
Tim pokes his head into the room, laptop in hand. “You coming, Peter?”
“Yep!” Peter stands, pausing to say, “Thanks again, for all of this. It means more to me than you might think.”
Bruce smiles and nods, watching as Peter joins Tim. Their voices carry through the doorway as they wander away, continuing their earlier conversation as they head towards the lab.
~ ~ ~
Dick Grayson
Gotham Rec Centre – November 16th
“You’ve got this, Pete. Just hold your core on the downswing and you’re golden.”
The teen nods from where he’s standing on the platform across from Dick, fingers holding onto the trapeze bar with a sure grip. He’s psyching himself up, going on about physics and pendulums as he takes a moment to wipe sweat from his palms.
Peter had taken to the art like a pro, likening the experience to when he’d first tested out his web shooters. They’d blown through the basics in a day, tentatively moving onto duo techniques. The teen had only just grown comfortable when he’d asked to take the tricks up higher, giving them more space to fly.
Cass is on the opposite side of the rec centre, practicing moves on the balance beam. There’s a coach eyeing her from afar, no doubt wondering how she’d shape up on the Olympic field.
There are only a couple of others around this time of day, those who have early morning or evening occupations. They’re minding their own business, making use of the Wayne Enterprises-funded public space.
It had been one of Bruce’s first gifts to Dick, ensuring that he’d have complete access to the equipment whenever he felt nostalgic for his circus days.
Sharing it with the rest of the family always felt right, giving them a glimpse into something that Dick holds close to his heart. He’d implemented advanced gymnastics into training, forcing the Titans to learn trapeze under the ruse of building trust.
Watching as Peter looks to Dick with a determined glint in his eyes, he thinks there might’ve been something to the idea.
Peter’s shoulder square and he nods. “Just like we practiced.”
Dick grins. “Just like we practiced.”
With one last steadying breath, Peter leaps off the platform.
He follows Dick’s instruction perfectly, keeping his legs tight as he builds momentum. He’d had a bad habit of letting them loose when they’d first began lessons, trying to account for an elasticity that doesn’t exist.
When he reaches the peak of his swing, Dick readies himself. Seconds tick by, just a few, until the timing is perfect and then he’s joining Peter in the air.
The feeling is like coming home, elation alighting in his chest at every swoop of his stomach. He can’t help the smile on his face, finding a matching one on Peter’s face.
Dick pulls himself upside down, hooking his feet over the bar so he can hang by his knees. Blood starts rushing to his head, sweat cooling his skin as he tenses his muscles. Checking to see if Peter’s looking, he asks, “Ready?”
The teen’s grin is sharp, the answer clear in his excitement. They swing away from one another in mirrored arcs, then back together, the perfect moment presenting itself.
With a whoop, Peter lets go.
He takes to the air like he was born for it, confident as he tucks his body into a flip. The move is carefree, transitioning smoothly as he reaches for Dick’s hands.
The thought occurs to Dick that he would’ve slotted in well with circus troupe, his infectious energy key to performance. Haly would’ve given his left arm for a kid like Peter, able to stand alongside the Flying Graysons.
Emotion bubbles up in Dick’s chest as he grips onto Peter, holding tight as gravity threatens to pull him away. There’s a cheer from below, Cass having wandered over to watch, her hands clapping excitedly as they swing high above.
Peter looks up at Dick, the world blurring beneath him. “Seems we have an audience.”
“Let’s give her a show then.”
Using Peter’s weight to build more momentum on the downswing, Dick gives the teen a heft and lets go. He twists into a corkscrew and flips upright, switching his orientation se he can grab hold of the vacant bar.
Dick cheers, keeping his arms held up as he pumps them in celebration. Cass whistles at them, a bright smile on her face.
Switching back to hang down by his hands, Dick watches as Peter settles back on the standing platform. The teen leaves the bar to continue in its swing, giving it to Dick so he can be free to soar on his own.
Reaching the pinnacle of his swing, he leaps the gap. He pulls his limbs in tight, wind in his ears as he pulls off a triple. He’d learned his lesson from Tim to keep his showboating to a minimum, quads a bit too telling with Nightwing’s tendency to pull them off.
Landing on the platform next to Peter, Dick lifts him into his arms as he nearly careens into the teen. He laughs celebratorily, giddy from their success.
Peter’s chuckling along with him, waiting to be set down before saying, “That was awesome, man.”
“Glad you enjoyed it.” Dick ruffles the kid’s hair. “The real trick now is learning to do a quad. Think you could pull that one off?”
Peter’s grin matches Dick’s. “Challenge accepted.”
~ ~ ~
Jason Todd
Wayne Manor – November 21st
It’s weird to be comfortable in the manor again. The conflicted feelings haven’t disappeared, but rather have become smothered beneath an unexpected contentedness.
There isn’t that constant worry gnawing at the back of his mind when the kid is out of his eyesight, disappearing in increments as he put on weight and healed from his injuries. He knows that the security systems of Bruce’s home are top of the line, second only to the people that live under its roof.
He’d been able to get out as Red Hood again with Peter gaining more independence. The Alley welcomed him back, his territory re-established with the death of the Kennel Master, leaving him with the small fry and Black Mask.
It’s slower going than usual, Jason having to be extra careful about staying within the Batman’s approved level of lethality, or lack thereof. One misstep and Peter’s back in the thick of it without anything to guard him from the target pained on his back.
Though, Jason’s got a sneaking suspicion that he’d be the only one chased out of the manor if he were to mess it all up. Peter had broken through the Wayne’s walls with almost frightening efficiency, even the fringe members.
He’s been doing gymnastics alongside Cass, with a very excited Dick acting as their instructor. It’s distanced enough from combat training that Jason can’t complain, although Peter will doubtlessly find some way to make it unnecessarily dangerous.
The kid’s been singing Dick’s praises as he teaches him how to throw his body about in the air, irritating Jason to no end as the hero smirks at him from afar.
Tim can relate to Peter with the science stuff, the two of them collaborating on some crazy projects. It’s the kind of stuff that has Bruce getting all worked up, his enthusiasm showing through the blueprints that he’s drafted, integrating the theoretical tech into his own.
Whenever possible, Damian totes Peter around while directing him this way and that, the teen humoring the little shit’s antics with an amused expression. Damian claims it’s so that Peter can earn his stay, the lie flimsy at best with Alfred around.
Steph and Duke aren’t around often, the two of them valuing their independence from the family unit, but they hang out with Peter every so often to show him around Gotham.
On one occasion, the kid had gone on and on his admiration for Signal, how he’s improving the city’s perception of metahuman as he worked in the daylight. All the while, the hero in question was stood right there, fighting back a telling flush.
Alfred’s been teaching Peter some of his recipes, something that only Jason had been able to accomplish out of the lot of them.
His chest got all warm with the old butler’s approval of the kid that first time he saw them in the kitchen together, the moment caught by Alfred as he spotted whatever expression was on Jason’s face.
The only person who isn’t as sold on Peter is Kate, though she’s rarely around to develop any relationship other than distance fueled by suspicion. She’s working the case in the meantime, helping to dismantle whatever’s left of the Kennel Master’s operation by scouring the old tunnels beneath Gotham.
And Jason… he can’t help but wonder when the next shoe is going to drop, and whose neck will fall underfoot. He’s getting too complacent, loosening his hold too much.
It’s just that he can’t help but enjoy a good thing while he’s got it.
It’s something he’d failed to do in the past, back before the Joker got hold of him, letting the moments pass without savouring them. He hadn’t learned his lesson when he was at the garage with Peter, too busy taking the Lazarus pits personally to spend time with the kid.
Almost losing him put things into perspective real quick.
With Peter becoming folded in with the Waynes, it’s only a matter of time until Jason’s shaken loose. It’s not a thing that would be done with malicious intent, more a natural progression of getting something better.
Out with the old, in with the new, all that jazz.
Figuring that now’s a better time than never, Jason heads to find the wayward teenager. He hadn’t mentioned any plans for the day, having gotten into the habit of updating Jason of his coming and goings so there’s no risk of him freaking upon discovering Peter’s missing.
He isn’t in any of the usual spots, lounging on his bed or typing away in the lab. A quick peek into the media room reveals a darkened screen and vacant couches. The kitchen’s barren, Alfred down in the cave as he keeps the team’s weapons from rusting.
It’s nearing the thirty minute mark of Jason’s search when he finds Peter curled up on the cushions of a bay window, a book perched on his lap. Drops of rain streak down the glass, the panes fogging with the temperature varying on the outside and inside.
The sitting room is vacant aside from the quiet teen, the embers of a dying fire glowing in the hearth. It’s a peaceful sight, one that Jason doesn’t feel like breaking.
Before he can retreat, Peter’s eyes shift from the page to where he’s standing. “Hey.”
“Hay is for horses, Queens.” Jason says in greeting, earning him a good-natured scoff. “What’re you reading?”
“Frankenstein.” The book is flipped over in Peter’s hands so Jason can see the cover, the title scrawled amid golden filigree. “A bit on the nose, but I’ve always waned to read it.”
“It’s a good one.” Jason looks to where Peter’s holding his place with a finger, nearing the very end of the book. “Which part are you at?”
Peter looks down as he cracks it open again, gaze skimming the pages as he finds his place. “Victor died on the boat, and the monster found him.”
Ah.
“I remember that bit. Hard not to, seeing as it’s the end.” Jason sits next to Peter, settling by where his feet are propped up. “Keep going.”
“You want me to read it for you?” Peter asks, a bit incredulously. Jason nods, relaxing back.
Starting a bit uncertainly, he read, “’My heart was fashioned to be susceptible of love and sympathy: and, when wretched by misery to vice and hatred, it did not endure the violence of change, without torture such as you cannot even imagine.’”
He stops, looks back up. Jason gestures for him to continue.
“’After the murder of Clerval, I returned to Switzerland, heartbroken and overcome. I pitied Frankenstein; my pity amounted to horror: I abhorred myself.” Peter flips the page.
“But when I discovered that he, the author at once of my existence and of its unspeakable torments, dared to hope for happiness; that while he accumulated wretchedness and despair upon me, he sought his own enjoyment in feelings and passions from the indulgence of which I was forever barred, then impotent envy and bitter indignation filled me with an insatiable thirst for vengeance.”
Peter reads on, falling back into the cadence of the words. He pauses at odd times, checking to see if Jason’s listening and still interested.
It’s nice to be read to after being the narrator for so long. Jason has a habit of shooing away anyone who tries to interrupt his reading time, unknowingly feeding this trend.
Before everything fell apart, Dick would bug Jason into reading for him. He always requested different voices for the characters, though teenaged Jason was too embarrassed to do it at the time.
With the cold of the glass seeping into his back, he stays quiet.
“When I run over the frightful catalogue of my sins, I cannot believe that I am the same creature whose thoughts were once filled with sublime and transcendent visions of the beauty and the majesty of goodness.”
Peter leans his head against the glass, his hair flattening. “’But it is even so; the fallen angel becomes a malignant devil. Yet even the enemy of God and man had friends and associates in his desolation; I am alone.”
Jason remembers some of these passages, has heard them quoted here and there. It’s clear why the book’s so popular, even in the modern age. When he first read it, he hadn’t understood. Not really.
“The light of that conflagration will fade away; my ashes will be swept into the sea by the winds. My spirit will sleep in peace, or if it thinks, it will not surely think thus. Farewell.”
“He sprung from the cabin-window as he said this, upon the ice-raft which lay close to the vessel.’” Peter takes a breath, and reads the final line. “’He was soon borne away by the waves and lost in darkness and distance.'’”
He closes it with a thump.
They’re both quiet for a bit, Jason lost in memory while Peter’s mulling it over after his first read through.
Jasons can’t help but ask the question, “So, what d’you think?”
“Victor sucks, man.”
A laugh barks out of Jason’s chest at the unexpected summary. “Yeah?”
“Definitely.” Peter nods to confirm his opinion, amusement in the quirk of his lip. He sobers a bit. “I mean, he was written to not be the best. Maybe at one point he really was doing it all for a good reason, but it kind of just became for the sake of being the monster’s creator.”
Jason pulls his legs up, resting his arms on them. “That isn’t such a bad thing to be.”
“True, but he hated what he did the second it was alive.” Peter traces the pad of his fingers over the cover. “He didn’t even like, try.”
“Maybe he realized what he did when he saw it, knew the mistake he had made.” He shrugs, not really believing the stance, but arguing it nonetheless. “It might’ve been that there were things in the monster that he had lost, innocence and goodness. Some people think the monster was just Frankenstein the whole time.”
“I can see it, but I feel like he’s more of a reflection.” Peter lifts his head from the glass, cheek a bit red. “They became pretty much the same by the end. Both on their own. Victor refused to make a companion and his monster killed Henry as revenge.”
“Making him hate the monster even more. It’s a sick turnabout, Frankenstein’s vow to kill the monster being the thing that kept him going.” Jasons huffs, a bit humourlessly. “Guess it’s what got both of them in the end.”
“Imagine being Walton on the boat, helping this guy go after some thing you just barely spotted, and then finding it on the ship.” Peter puts the book down. “It then waxes poetry about your dead friend and how he’s the worst before jumping out the window.”
“Hell of a time.”
Jason tries to think of a new subject, finding the current one to feel like it’s littered with land mines. He pulls on an easy one, foregoing a segue. “How’s everything going with the projects?”
“Pretty good. The reactor’s hit a snag with finding a design that can deal with the energy output.” Peter doesn’t react to the change in topic, answering easily. “We can’t do much work on it until we get some stuff delivered, so I’ve been working on the program instead.”
‘The program’ had become Peter’s baby as of late, consisting of reviving old Wayne Enterprises outreach programs with a new framework. He’d asked for Jason’s input on bringing it to the East End, figuring it’d be good to ask the Red Hood about his territory before flooding it with Bruce’s money.
The sting of the program’s source of funding eases with what it can do to help Gotham’s metahuman population, putting new supports into the works. It allows the metas to remain anonymous while offering help, letting them hold onto whatever safety they need with different levels of intervention.
It’s nearing its final stages, needing a go-ahead by the city council before it can proceed. Given that it’s a Wayne Enterprises project, it’s a no brainer that the program’s going to be rolling out before the end of the year.
The politicians don’t like upsetting the Prince of the City, not when its his money that runs through Gotham’s veins.
“If we get the green light, Bruce wants to get it going as soon as possible.” Peter draws the company’s logo on the foggy glass. “He, uh, wants to announce it at the holiday gala.”
An image of Peter standing beside Bruce Wayne before the vultures of Gotham burns its way into Jason’s brain, a flare of emotion accompanying it. “He does?”
“He said I don’t have to attend or anything, since I should be keeping my name off anything big and staying out of the public eye.” That eases some of Jason’s worry, but none of the indignation on Peter’s behalf. “It would help with funding.”
That sounds exactly like something Bruce would pitch to get Peter on board.
“Do you want him to?” Jason asks, his voice surprisingly even.
The kid mulls over the question for a few seconds, sorting through whatever’s going on in his head. He looks to Jason, and replies. “I do.”
Jason quirks a brow, wordlessly asking if he’s sure.
“I do, really. It’s a lot, definitely overwhelming, but it could do a lot of good.” Peter nods to himself, pleased that he’s come to a decision.
Unable to help himself, Jason rustle’s the kid’s hair. Something like pride’s flooded into his chest, wondering how some twerp from Crime Alley had gone so far in so little time. “You got a name for anything yet?”
“I’m thinking of going simple with the Metahuman Assistance Program, or M.A.P. I wanted to get May’s name in there somewhere, but it’s not a good idea to have anything that could trace back to me.”
“Still for her sake in the end.” Jason offers, gentle with his tone. “That’s all that matters.”
“Yeah.” Peter accepts with a small smile, made content by the thought. He searches Jason’s face for a moment, something new setting in his expression before he’s saying, “I wanted to ask, is all of this cool with you?”
A bit puzzled, Jason shifts so he’s facing Peter more fully. “Why do you ask?”
“I dunno, I just…” He tries to find the words, fingers starting to pick at the cushion. “You told me to go for the internship when I asked, but with the projects and everything, I’m not checking in that much. A lot’s changed for you too.”
This kid and his damn heart.
Jason sighs and scoots closer, looping an arm over Peter’s shoulder before tugging him into a loose hug. He almost knocks the book onto the floor, taking it into his free hand as he says, “Of course I’m cool with it. I’m proud of what you’ve done around here, Queens.”
Peter draws back and blinks at Jason, eyes wide. “You are?”
“Sure am, kiddo.” He knocks into the teen lightly. “Peter Parker’s turning out to be a pretty cool kid to hang around. Don’t tell him though, it’ll go straight to his head, and that’s already big enough.”
Peter laughs, the sound brightening the room. “I dunno. I have it on good authority that this Peter Parker guy’s in need of more compliments. Also, rude, he does not have a big head.”
“It ain’t ego that’s making it big. Turns out there’s a decent amount of grey matter floating around in there, though sometimes he forgets to use it.” Using the arm settled on Peter’s shoulder, Jason tugs the kid into a noogie.
He gets slapped away with many complaints, the effect ruined by the smile on the kid’s face.
That grin’s enough to dispel the worries that had been clouding around Jason, at least for a little while. A quote from the book in his hand comes to mind: I felt suddenly, and for the first time in many months, calm and serene joy.
Notes:
Can't believe DC just stole Frankenstein's monster for Batman's second Robin, smh /j
Chapter 24
Notes:
Gala time bb.
Warning: A certain Metropolis CEO dingus is in attendance, and the man can be a bit of a creepozoid, so be wary of that. Nothing overt or predatory, just heebie jeebie worthy for some.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Damian Wayne
Wayne Manor – December 13th
Galas are tantamount to torture, making them the perfect method to hone one’s will and ability to withstand the blandest of small talk. Telling Damina of this trick is how Grayson got him through his first gala, a desperate bid to avoid any harm coming to the guests.
It does not help with the dread that comes the week prior, Damian’s hesitancy bleeding into his comportment. His attitude had been a bit shameful, if he is being honest.
The Holiday Gala is an annual occurrence, held at Wayne Manor to celebrate the convergence of celebrations happening in the month of December. Important figures from all over the globe are invited, fostering good will as Gotham’s informal ambassador opens his home to the attendees.
There is much preparation beforehand. Father and Alfred must draft the guest list and extend the invitations, arranging refreshments and accommodations for those who RSVP yes. Then comes the decorations, opulent but not so much that the public would see it as a gross expenditure.
The security of the manor must be retrofitted to suit the needs of the gala, with the grounds open to all manner of strangers. Meanwhile, the entrance to the cave is doubly protected, all but put on lockdown to ensure any curious minds won’t find its covert entrance.
Father then plans any necessary drama that he requires to maintain his public persona. He collaborates with any fellow heroes that are aware of his identity, ensuring that there are no misunderstandings.
Finally, there is the most dangerous task of all: securing the presence of the Wayne family members.
Drake is the easiest, his attendance a given. He almost seems to enjoy them, having grown up with such gatherings and thus understanding how to make his version of fun in the misery of his siblings.
Kane often agrees to events that strengthen her ties to the Wayne name, having to keep up appearances as a blood relative. Gordon is there alongside her father, maintaining the estate’s security with her cell phone as she remained below the eyeline of her fellow guests.
Grayson, Brown, and Todd will be present for the sake of security, though the resurrected son will be disguised as a guard rather than outing himself as alive to the public.
Spared from the ordeal is Cane and Parker, who have a stake in remaining unknown to the gala’s guests. The former will patrol the streets of Gotham alongside Thomas, while the latter will stay hidden in the private wing of the manor.
It is hard not to be jealous of Peter’s free pass, Damian needing to step into his role as father’s sole blood heir. It is important to build repertoire in his youth should he receive inheritance of the company in the future, though Drake remains first in line given his experience in the role of CEO.
The night before the gala, Peter had accompanied Damian through a final check of the manor. His path had come across that of the teen when he was on his way from the lab, eyes slightly bloodshot from working on a screen for too long.
It was then that Damian had been able to ask if Peter had attended such an event before. The response he received was that of an affirmative, though he did not do well in them.
“With everything going on, it makes my senses go haywire. People talking, forks scraping plates, heels on marble tile, sound bouncing off crystal chandeliers.” An exaggerated shudder. “Not my thing.”
Now, as the first guests begin filtering into the manor, Damian can sympathize with the sentiment. It feels as if vultures have descended upon his home, their eyes anticipating his evisceration as he becomes their intended meal.
Those who walk through the doors exactly on time consist primarily of the elderly and those who wish to leave as early as possible. They linger near the walls, commenting on the art and décor as they mill about the foyer and ballroom.
Alfred directs the waitstaff to offer appetizers and aperitifs, ensuring none are left unattended. His sharp eyes keep watch, making note of the guests and their behaviours. Damian studies under him for the time being, surely not avoiding the strangers for as long as he can.
Over the next two hours, the more notable guests begin to trickle in.
Michael Holt, who moonlights as Mister Terrific, chats with fellow intellectuals in the study that was left open to the public. Drake makes pleasantries with him, discussing further partnership with his speciality in technology.
The hunched form of Superman mills about awkwardly as he keeps up the Clark Kent act, stumbling around clumsily as he searches for quotes. The slightest tilt of his head gives away his vigilance, an ear kept out for trouble.
Selina Kyle lingers along the edges of the ballroom, no doubt intending to entrap father in another fruitless romantic entanglement.
Walking arm in arm are Oliver Queen and Dinah Drake-Lance. A comment by the Green Arrow about the drapes misses its mark as it was Alfred who selected the dark crimson shade, a fact that would incite terror in the hero were he to know the true mark of his insult.
Oswald Cobblepot shmoozes with businesspeople in darkened corners, sliding through the crowd like oil in a bay. Brown remains in close proximity, easily keeping herself out of his sight as she jumps between conversations.
Arriving fashionably late, father wanders down the grand staircase to where the masses await. He is accompanied by Grayson, the eldest son appeasing the faces below with a grin. They’re quickly enfolded into the crowd, the carrion creatures looking for a piece of the Gotham’s breadwinner.
“Must sting not to stand with them. Ah, Dick Grayson, ever the golden boy.”
Voice serpentine and crooning, Lex Luthor stands beside Damian with his gaze fixed on father. He looks down with a contrite smile, holding a hand out. “I don’t believe we have shared a word yet, young man. Lex Luthor.”
“Damian Wayne.” He stiffly accepts the handshake, clawing for every lesson he’d been given on high society pleasantries. “I hope this evening has been to your satisfaction thus far.”
Forcing the phrase from between his lips feels akin to pulling teeth from one’s own gums.
“Oh, it surely has been.” Luthor stands tall, forcing Damian to tip his head back. “If I may, what is an heir to the Wayne family fortune such as yourself doing on the outskirts of such a fine gathering?”
Attempting to stay away from blithe interactions such as this. The reply is bit back in favour of searching for a more genteel alternative. Lying to Luthor would bring about disaster, and so Damian goes for the truth. “Observation is a tool that many forget the usefulness of.”
“Very astute, young man. It is how I spotted you slinking about over here, after all.”
Damian looks to the crowd, feeling the distinct sensation of a serpent coiling around his neck. He wishes to flee, but cannot show weakness in the face of such a foe.
He’s the son of Talia Al Ghul and Bruce Wayne. Heir to the Mantle of the Bat and the Demon’s Head. He will not cower.
“Is it not your purview to stalk about the crowds in search of hands to shake beneath a table?” Damian pointedly glances at the hand he shook, not so subtly chafing his palm against the fabric of his pants. “I believe my father has skirted your attempts to make such deals before.”
“Sharp tongued little thing, aren’t you?” The businessman comments testily. “Have you not heard of the age old adage, ‘manners maketh man’?”
“I prefer honour over etiquette.” He tips his head just so that he’s giving the illusion of looking down on the man before him. “Lies are the tools of the weak, and thus I dislike spending time in the company of those who tell them.”
“Must be a lonely life for you then, young Wayne.” There’s a hint of pity in Luthor’s voice. “I wonder how many secrets your father hold over you.”
Damian’s brows furrow, ready to defend this slight on his bloodline. He opens his mouth around a retort but the approach of a familiar gait has Luthor speaking over him.
“Ah, here he comes now.” Luthor’s tone dips, voice quieting so the following words stay between them. “I wonder if he’ll make himself another prince soon, perhaps even tonight. So many beautiful women, so many shares of the company to split.”
A vicious riposte nearly tumbles forth, but father’s sweeping his arms wide as he greets Lex Luthor, acting as if they were old friends. There’s tension in his body and eyes, his fellow CEO aware of his “Brucie” act.
He clasps a hand onto Luthor’s shoulder and motions for Damian to leave with his fingers out of the other man’s eyeline.
Unsure if it is an act of mercy or an attempt to keep Damian from enacting revenge on Luthor, the order is followed with haste.
~ ~ ~
Clark Kent
Wayne Manor – December 13th
The Waynes sure don’t do things in half measures, that’s for sure.
Having known Bruce for over a decade, Clark had come to expect this level of a lot. The man knows the perfect amount of grandeur to leave the rich impressed while not stepping into gaudy, likely in large part because of Alfred’s hand in the decorations.
These kinds of gatherings aren’t usually assigned to Clark, Perry preferring to keep him on the “hero stuff” and fluff pieces. It had taken a bit of string pulling on Bruce’s end to secure Clark’s invite, the Batman wanting another set of eyes at the gala.
He hadn’t given any details as to why, which was unfortunately to be expected. It’s helped keep Clark occupied and away from boredom, stretching his senses to keep tabs on anything out of the ordinary.
There’d already been a near miss with Damian, the boy’s patience visibly thinning as he interacted with Luthor. Something protective had bubbled up at the sight, Jon’s attachment to Damian making the prickly boy a part of the family.
Once that fire was put out, it hadn’t taken much long to figure out the reason for Clark’s attendance. Tucked deep into the private wing, an unfamiliar heartbeat drums away.
The clacks of a keyboard join it in intervals, a laptop if Clark were to guess. Someone’s working away while a couple hundred strangers mill about a relatively short distance away, spared the monotony of the gala.
Clark’s a bit jealous of this mystery person.
At least he’s got free access to the finest catering that Gotham has to offer. He chews on an appetiser happily. Don’t mind if I do.
The clearing of a throat to his right has him focusing on what’s going on in front of him, finding Bruce standing there with a quirked brow. There’s a glass of champagne in his hand, fingers pinching the worrying thin neck. “Get any good quotes tonight?”
“A few, though not many are interested in talking to the press when they could be enjoying these canapés instead.” Clark pops another one into his mouth and makes a show of nearly choking on it.
Bruce feigns concern for Clark’s esophagus, eyes wide with a faux sheen of slight drunkenness. He humors the antics for a suitable amount of time before saying, “You might get more interviews if you spend more time in the crowd and away from the hors d'oeuvres, Kurt.”
“It’s Kent.”
Bruce waves his hand dismissively, acting like an ass to keep his public persona alive. It’s obnoxious as ever. If Clark tried that he’d be waving his job and social standing bye-bye.
There’s a message hidden in his words, the meaning clear in his request for Clark to rejoin the masses. It’s request that he should mind his own business.
Too bad. He doesn’t do half measures when the safety of one of the Bats is at stake.
“I think I’m happy here, though.” Clark rubs his hand along the back of his neck bashfully, Bruce’s eye twitches. “Just can’t help myself.”
“Maybe you should learn to.” There’s that vague warning again.
Nope. Not gonna work. Time to switch tactics.
“Care to make any comments or quotes yourself?” What’s going on, Bruce. “For an old pal?”
A sigh from the Prince. Fine.
“Off the record, of course.” Bat business. “This gala isn’t simply to celebrate the holidays. WE is hoping to announce some new community projects we’re implementing, some youth outreach sites in Crime Alley and a meta assistance program.
A meta kid from Crime Alley.
Ah, so that’s why Jason’s around.
There’s truth in there, the projects both a message and a reality.
“A very noble cause, Mr. Wayne.” A genuine smile tugs at Clark’s mouth. “Looks like Gotham’s on the up and up.”
A recognizably smooth gait approaches, Dick melting out of the crowd next to them, settling a hand on Bruce’s elbow before whispering in his dad’s ear. It’s all for show, the both of them aware that Clark can hear everything he’s saying.
Looks like it’s speech time.
Bruce turns back to Clark. “It was lovely talking, but I must leave you here.”
He hands Clark his champagne, some of the sparkling liquid splashing over onto his hand and shoes. Come on, there’s a table right there. The CEO’s lip just barely quirks into a smirk before he’s turning away, steps leading towards the grand staircase.
Not even the canapés make up for these things anymore.
Clark stays where he is as Bruce wanders halfway up the staircase, stopping to turn towards the crowd. It’s a testament to his presence that the people below quiet down without much signal, the volume in the space lowering considerably.
Shifting his posture into one of confidence, the Prince addresses his court.
“Thank you all for your attendance tonight, I know it is quite a trip for some of you.” A smile and cursory nod to a few of the guests. “The holidays are a bright time for many of us, filled with light and time spent huddled inside with family. I, for one, am glad for the excuse to get my kids to finally come visit.”
Dick chuckles and shakes his head from where he’s leaning against the banister, on cue for the crowd to titter politely at the joke. There’s the complaint of Tim from afar as he’s shoved a bit too hard by Oliver.
“It is far too easy to forget that this isn’t the case for many. Yes, most of us make donations to food banks or volunteer at soup kitchens when it gets cold, but it’s become habitual. A good show for the public.” Some of the guests look taken aback at that.
Clark smothers a grin.
“We forget about the most vulnerable.” Bruce’s voice falters in a way that’s genuine. “The majority of Gotham’s homeless population is comprised of youth, kicked out of their homes because they’re different. Because they’re metahumans.”
There’s a ripple through the crowd. It’s an almost visible thing, a shockwave as Bruce’s voice reaches their ears.
Clark can already see the article he’ll write, words already forming themselves into a structure in his mind. This is big, this is-
Clark’s head tilts. Weird.
The smallest of crackles dances along the edge of Clark’s hearing, fizzing and popping with electricity. Electronics stutter, rendered useless.
Focusing his sense, the click of heels on waxed hardwood stands out among the small shuffles that the guests are making on the smooth tile below. The footsteps are moving away, moving towards…
Crap.
~ ~ ~
Peter Parker
Wayne Manor – December 13th
Tucked away in the manor’s lab, Peter feels a surge of gratitude that he hadn’t been pressured to join in the festivities. It’d been much the opposite, Bruce and Jason urging him to stay away from prying eyes, those that might be curious about the new face wandering about the Wayne’s estate.
He’d done some substantial work on the reactor, the missing parts having solved the energy distribution problem. The challenge now lies in getting the Batmanium’s fission reactions going, needing a strong enough initial surge to keep the power levels stable.
Tony had told tale of how he’d manufactured his first stable Arc Reactor, though the information is shaky at best. The man’s got a flair for the dramatics, the story having changed every time he told it.
The one constant was a plasma accelerator, the inventor nearly bisecting his lab as he moved the beam to intersect with the core.
So, Peter’s got to work out how to put together a laser. Pretty cool stuff.
Starting the simulation, he swivels around as the program adjusts to the parameters, giving his eyes a break from his screen. Focusing on his hearing, he checks back in with the party.
It’s a good moment to do so, a single voice ringing out as Bruce gives a speech.
Peter’s chest warms as he hears the words echo down the halls, allowing himself a moment of pride for what they’d done together. The man could be a bit distant, but he’s got Gotham’s best interests at heart, something that puts him in Peter’s good books.
He’s so focused on the speech that he doesn’t hear the footsteps approaching until it’s too late, the door to the lab swinging open.
Standing at the threshold, is a man that Peter hoped he’d never meet. Clad in a custom tailored Armani suit and wingtip oxford shoes is Lex Luthor, CEO extraordinaire of LexCorp.
Doing a day of research into the man’s past revealed a string of questionable decisions and a bunch of allies with even more questionable moral standings. Leaning on Ned’s hacking lessons, he took a quick peek into some of Lex’s holding companies, his search revealing dubious shell companies and possible ties to crime syndicates.
The usual supervillain stuff.
It’s obvious now that they’re in the same room, Peter’s sixth sense spiking as a set of emerald eyes fall on him. The gaze is piercing, intelligent in a way that doesn’t bode well.
Carefully keeping his muscles loose, Peter goes for a simple question. “Uh, can I help you?”
Stupid. Idiot. Bad question.
“I am quite alright, young man.” Lex steps in, the door swinging closed as per lab safety requirements. Damn WHMIS. “I don’t believe I have seen you among Mr. Wayne’s gaggle of wards before.”
“I’m Tim’s friend, Peter.” He sends a mental apology to Jason. “You’re Lex Luthor, right?”
Peter sticks to his stool, neglecting a handshake.
“It seems my reputation proceeds me.” Lex’s head tilts, considering. “Often it is customary for businessmen to shake hands when introducing themselves. Has Mr. Wayne not informed you of such formalities?”
“Oh, uh sorry.” Knowing he’s wandering right into the trap, Peter stands to greet Luthor properly. The man cuts the distance between them before Peter can distance himself from his work, his palm enfolding around the teen’s.
With a strong shake, Luthor lets go. “Interesting that a friend would be left sitting in the private wing toiling away as a celebration goes on nearby.”
Tell him to go away. It’ll be fine, he’ll be chill. It doesn’t matter that this guy has held positions of incredible political power in the past.
… Oh who am I kidding.
Taking a step back, Peter skirts the line of what’s civil. “I’m not good with big groups of people. Tim and I are gonna hang out after the gala’s over.”
It’s not a lie, Tim having insisted on seeing Peter’s progress when all of the guests leave. He’d been so preoccupied with organizing the party that he hadn’t had time for the project, understandably so.
“Very kind of the boy.” Lex replies mildly. His attention slides to the side where Peter’s simulation has finished running through. “Complex work you’re doing there, Peter. I remember constructing my first plasma accelerator.”
“Yeah?” He sends out a quick prayer to literally anyone to get him out of this interaction. “That’s cool.”
Luthor hums, stepping around to look at the screen. “Why don’t you sit, and we can take a look at this together?”
Peter sits, angling himself so he can keep Luthor in his sight. Green eyes read over the lines of the equation, symbols piecing together the energy output of the beam.
“Hmm, I see.” Luthor leans a hand against the table, somehow keeping his prim posture as he relaxes. “You are attempting to accelerate the particles outside of a vacuum while keeping the output containe-”
For the second time that day, the door to the lab opens while Peter’s too distracted to anticipate it.
A man stumbles in, tall with a solid build. There’s a pair of glasses slightly askew on his nose, the quality of his suit making him look a bit like a fish out of water. His bright blue eyes squint in confusion as he says, “Wait, this isn’t the bathroom.”
Luthor straightens, annoyance bleeding from the line of his shoulders. “Clark Kent, as fatuous as ever. I don’t believe you will find a story worth writing about this far from the party.”
The newcomer looks between Peter and Luthor, confusion turning to suspicion. “Am I interrupting something?”
“Peter and I were just getting to know one another. It seems like Mr. Wayne has found himself another prodigy to squeeze for ingenuity.”
The statement is punctuated by Luthor’s hand falling on Peter’s shoulder, just short of a friendly pat with the way that the man’s thumb digs into the back of his neck. His sixth sense shrieks, rumbles, then settles, Peter’s attention more focused on Clark Kent.
The reporter tenses almost imperceptibly, eyes hardening as they fall to where Luthor’s palm is resting on Peter’s shoulder. “That’s quite the statement, Mr. Luthor. I’m sure it would make a great headline.”
“Yes, your thinly veiled threats are greatly appreciated, Kent.” Luthor’s arm drops, the proximity easing as he takes a step back. “I wish you good luck on your work, Mr. Parker.”
With that, Luthor strides out of the room. He gives no sideward glance to Mr. Kent as he leaves, a charged silence sparking between them. The door shuts, cutting him from view.
There’s a warble in the air, soundwaves vibrating against the drums in Peter’s ears. He blinks, something falling from his shoulders, a weight.
“Son?” Mr. Kent is standing closer than before, hands held out unthreateningly in front of him. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah.” Peter nods, his senses uncaring of the man before him. “I’m okay, Mr. Kent.”
“Please, Mr. Kent was my father. Call me Clark.” He smiles, bright with Midwest charm. He moves closer, shifting so he can see the exit in his peripheral, keeping watch. “Do you need me to get anyone?”
Peter shakes his head, taking his phone into his hand to send out a text about Luthor’s intrusion. He keeps it nonchalant, informing Barbara that he’s with Clark and safe.
Now that he’s not stuck under the weight of Luthor’s attention, he recalls some of Clark’s writing. He’d been a centrepiece in Peter’s research of this world’s heroes, the man seeming to be the Daily Planet’s expert on the topic.
His opinions veered towards the positive, but he stayed objective when necessary. He frequently stood up for metahuman and extraterrestrial rights in his pieces, going toe-to-toe with Luthor’s more overtly critical views.
Peter’s phone starts ringing, Barbara’s contact flashing on the screen. Giving Clark an apologetic look, he accepts the facetime.
He starts before she can begin questioning him. “Hey, I’m okay. Look, I’m even with a responsible adult.”
Peter angles the phone so Clark’s in frame, the man ducking down so he’s visible. He brings a hand up in a wave, leaning against the table so he can hear Barbara more easily.
“That’s good to hear, Peter, but stay on the line while someone heads your way. We need to ensure that Luthor isn’t waiting around for Clark to leave.”
Peter can’t hear the murmur of the crowd behind Barbara, the woman likely having retreated to a bathroom to make the call. She continues, “Jason’s checking the surrounding halls and Dick’s keeping an eye out in the ballroom.”
Peter casts a glance at Clark, curious why Barbara’s referring to Jason by name with a reporter nearby. His gaze sticks, noting a growing pallor in the man’s skin and a faint sheen of sweat over his brow.
“Hey man, are you alright?” Peter sets his phone down, standing so he can more easily assess Clark’s state. “You’re not looking too good there.”
“Yeah, I…” Clark presses a hand to his head, expression pinched with something like pain. Barbara’s asking questions through the tinny microphone of Peter’s phone, ignored in the face of whatever’s going on with the reporter.
Moving slowly, Peter helps to guide Clark to sit on his stool, the man looking perplexed at his sudden illness. Footsteps approach rapidly outside the room, audible this time as Peter’s settled into vigilante mode.
Bruce and Jason barge their way in, Peter getting a bit tired of people slamming their way into his space. They take in the situation quickly, the older of the two going to Clark while Jason checks on Peter.
They act the same, checking for any injuries with practiced analysis. Peter had been subjected to Jason’s fussing before, but he’d never seen Bruce be anything but calm and meticulous. He’s never been this… intense.
There’s still an undercurrent of that in his expression, no traces of panic as he deals with a crisis, but it’s pointed. He’s focused and almost clinical as he asks Clark a series of questions, checking his pupils and pulse.
“Hey, Peter, look at me.” Jason vies for his attention, earning it with a hand to his shoulder. “What happened?”
“I don’t know.” Peter reports honestly, trying to keep tabs on Clark while he recounts the events of the past minute. “Lex Luthor was here, asking about my work, and Clark came in looking for the bathroom. He got Luthor to leave, and then a minute later he started getting all pale and clammy.”
“I’m fine.” Clark interjects weakly, shoulders bowing beneath an invisible weight, clearly not fine.
“You’re very much not fine, Clark.” The reply comes from Bruce, tone dry as he voices Peter’s internal diagnosis. He ducks low and pulls one of the reporter’s arms over his shoulder, hefting Clark to stand.
It’ll be slow going with the two of them, Clark seeming like a heavy man with his build. Peter itches to help, but isn’t sure he’s willing to give away his meta status to a near stranger. “Jason, I’ll be okay here. They need your help.”
Jason’s lip thins, clearly unenthused at the idea, but a glance at the older men has him standing. He takes on a portion of Clark’s weight, turning to Peter as they approach the door. “Stay here.”
Peter nods, and they step outside.
Keeping focus on the trio, Peter hears three sets of shoes stumbling their way towards help. Their path takes them deeper into the private wing, curiously not moving towards any exits that would facilitate pickup via ambulance.
A door opens, closes, then silence.
What the hell?
The sounds of the party are still going on, easily audible. He can pick out Tim and Barbara’s voices, the two communicating the best way to clear out the guests without raising any alarms.
He can’t hear Jason’s footsteps or Clark’s laboured breathing. He should be able to hear them.
There’s a trickle of distress that leaks into Peter’s chest, his senses failing him for the third time today.
Why is there a room in manor that he can’t hear into?
With a heavy thud of his heart, Peter doesn’t quite feel as inclined to stay put anymore. He doesn’t have much of a choice, stuck in place as the mansion’s filled with strangers and he has an acute sense of dread that he might see Lex Luthor again far too soon.
Glued to his seat, he tries not to let his fear get ahead of him.
Notes:
Uh oh.
Chapter Text
Tim Drake
Wayne Manor – December 14th
“Bruce, what the hell happened?” Jason breaks the seal on the meeting. “You promised that Babs would have eyes on Peter the whole time.”
Tim stifles a sigh. Great start.
Most of the team is gathered in the Batcave, strewn about the sprawling space. Kate declined the invitation, busy with her pursuit of the case. Alfred’s upstairs, setting the manor back to the way he sees fit and reintegrating proper security measures.
Duke and Cass are keeping Peter occupied in the city, taking him to wander about a museum despite the teen’s reluctance to go.
Getting Jason to help coax Peter out of the manor set a timer on the bomb that is the Red Hood. His muscles are tense, ready for a fight, form looming from where he’s leaned against an equipment table.
Dick is standing nearby, carefully examining the expression of his younger brother. Coiled near Bruce, Damian is similarly wound up, eager to defend his father’s honour at the barest hint of a slight.
Barabara is by the computer, having come to a stop next to where Tim’s sitting, the two backlit by the wall of monitors.
Steph’s perched on the hood of the Batmobile, gaze sharp as she takes in the scene before her. She’d chosen a good distance away to sit, able to slip away should the meeting go south.
Tim’s a fool, having come down early to work on some cases he’d left lie for too long. Now, he’s stuck right in the thick of it.
Equally trapped is one Clark Kent, looking a bit like he’d rather take another dose of Kryptonite than be stuck in a family meeting.
Jason’s slight against Barbara’s skills doesn’t go unnoticed by the woman, her response coming before Bruce can speak up. “I did. Luthor had some device that shorted out the alarm’s motion sensors.”
“The great Oracle losing her omnipotence?” Jason’s tongue drips with venom, eyes worryingly striking in the low light. “I knew I shouldn’t have-”
“Enough.” Bruce’s voice rings clear in the cave, low and rumbling in a way that’s rarely used outside the cowl. “We can blame one another in our own time, but trading insults won’t help anyone, least of all Peter. Besides, we have a guest.”
Clark shrinks as he’s mentioned. Jason bristles at Bruce’s commands, simmering, but stays quiet.
“We’ll go one by one.” Bruce casts his eyes across the group, the stare landing on his eldest. “Dick, report.”
“Everything went smoothly on my end, no disruptions in the crowd or outside the manor.” Dick’s completely still, a tell for when he’s feeling under pressure. “Green Arrow sent word that Luthor didn’t do anything notable for the rest of the night, returning to Metropolis after the party concluded.”
Bruce nods, turns to Steph.
“Cobblepot did what he usually did, met with his known associates, but didn’t settle any deals or broker any new alliances.”
There’s a ripple of relief that goes through the group, nobody keen on the idea of the Penguin getting involved in the current mess. With the Kennel Master’s end, it left a bit of a vacuum where his operation was concerned.
Tim pipes up, figuring that Bruce is sorting through dead leads first. “Neither Mister Terrific or I saw anything either. Whatever Luthor was up to, he was acting alone, at least at the gala.”
There’s a grunt of acceptance from Bruce, and he looks to Jason. There’s a tensing of the man’s jaw before he shakes his head, nothing to report beyond what’s already been said.
Barbara picks up the slack. “The cameras were disabled by some sort of jammer that targeted the live video feeds. I had to manually reboot all the devices that were affected.”
“I heard the tech activate in the middle of your speech.” Clark adds. “It’s what tipped me off that something was wrong.”
Damian steps forward, arms crossed tightly over his chest with his gaze drilling into the cave floor. “The fault is mine. I was charged to guard the way to the private wing, but I abandoned my post following my interaction with Luthor.”
Tim blinks, a bit thrown by the boy’s willingness to show his guilt. He’s usually not against owning up to his mistakes when it’s something that affects the mission, but he’s all but admitting that Luthor had him rattled.
“What did he say to you?” Dick asks, concerned.
Damian’s voice comes out in a slight snarl. “He was speaking ill of father, of his reputation.”
They’d all heard the cutting remarks that the tabloids liked to make about Bruce. Damian’s age made it difficult for him not to take it personally, worsened by the way he finds importance in defending the family’s honour.
He’s definitely not telling them everything, but it wouldn’t accomplish anything to press Damian for more answers, not with so many people around. Tim can wager a guess on what had upset the boy so badly.
He’d been called the Prince’s Bastard more than once, resulting in several outbursts that nobody could blame him for. Being named as a mistake by the public had left some scars, ones that ached when pressed upon.
It’s made Damian feel like his position in the family is unstable, liable to be pushed out when he’s no longer useful. With Luthor’s ability to find the right buttons to press, he’d surely banked on this weakness to get Damian to crack.
Bruce, having likely made the same connection, sets a hand on Damian’s shoulder. “I signaled for you to leave, it’s not your fault.”
The boy’s head jerks in a quick nod, though his expression is still shadowed with shame. With the way that Bruce’s attention lingers on his son, it seems like the two of them are going to have a heart-to-heart when this is over. Sucks to be Damian.
“Clark, you heard some of what Luthor and Peter were talking about.” Bruce refocuses on the objective of the meeting, looking to his friend. “What did they discuss?”
“Ah, uh, it was less of a discussion and more of an interrogation, I’m afraid.” The Kryptonian grimaces slightly at the memory. “Peter maintained that he was Tim’s friend, but Luthor didn’t seem to be buying it.”
Rude. I have friends.
“He took interest in Peter’s work, the plasma accelerator he was working on.” Definitely not a good sign. “It seemed he was going to help with it when I intervened, and well, he was not happy. He grabbed onto Peter like, uh…”
Clark appears at Dick’s side, pausing for a moment so he doesn’t startle the man before setting his palm near the back of Dick’s neck. “Like this.”
There’s the creak of leather as Jason’s fingers dig into his jacket, his brows furrowed in equal parts anger and confusion. “And Peter didn’t try to break the hold?”
Clark shakes his head as he drops his hand from Dick’s shoulder. “No. He didn’t say anything until Luthor left. He was a bit out of it for a few seconds, which I thought to be a crash from the stress. His heartrate was all over the place.”
Tim has the urge to bury his fist into something, perhaps a certain someone that’s bald and extremely rich. Looks sort of like a cleaning product’s mascot.
He’s sure he’s not the only one. From the corner of his eye, Tim can see Bruce eyeing Jason a bit warily. He looks like he’s on the verge of snapping, breaths coming in slow and even as he fights back the emotions that are surely building.
Everyone else is faring pretty much the same, although without the bonus of having to wrestle down any pit rage.
“Something caught my attention, near the end.” Clark rests one arm over the other, pondering. “When Luthor left, he called Peter ‘Mr. Parker’, but I only heard Peter introduce himself with his first name.”
There’s a narrowing of focus from the Bats, Bruce allowing a trickle of worry to creep into his voice. “So he knew about Peter before, that he was there. He wouldn’t have risked breaching security so brazenly without a goal in mind.”
Bruce’s tone makes it clear that he’d come to that conclusion prior to the meeting, Clark’s words confirming it as fact.
Luthor doesn’t make mistakes like that. He chooses his words, plans them out, and holds onto those that others give him. The slip was intentional.
Tim looks at Bruce. “Intimidation tactic?”
“Likely.” He pauses, thinking something through. “Peter’s identity was made real just over a month ago, giving Luthor plenty of time to find it. He’s telling us he’s been monitoring Peter, both his physical location and through online spaces.”
Goddamn it. Dick sighs, sharing in Tim’s quiet frustration.
Then Bruce, in all his ‘mission mode’ glory, asks Jason, “What did Peter tell you?”
Jason’s mouth sets. “Nothing.”
Match meet flint.
“Jason, you were meant to-”
Flame meet gasoline.
“Meant to what, Bruce? Pressure him into talking when he’d just been cornered by Lex Luthor in a place he was meant to be safe?” Jason’s hands ball into fists. “Interrogate him? Get him to spill all of his secrets?”
“No!” Bruce is stepping forward now, clawing for the control he’s very quickly losing control of. “We need to know what happened from his perspective. He’s enhanced, might’ve seen something. Clark-”
“Is a grown man who can deal with a little bit of Kryptonite poisoning.” Superman’s voice cuts through the argument. “I know you’re worried about that, but we can’t push Peter into talking, even if what happened was alarming. Jason, how has he been?”
There’s a moment where the former Robin keeps staring at Bruce, breaths coming out sharp. Then, all at once, the tension drops from his body, worry taking its place. “Distant, unsure. Given, it’s only been a day, but something’s bothering him.”
Dick looks troubled, his growing attachment to Peter clear in his agitation. “Can’t blame him. Things were finally starting to settle, and then Luthor comes in to knock him off balance again.”
A solemn quiet fills the cave, the last dredges of anger slipping out the back. Weariness and a sense of shared failure fills in, everyone pondering their role in the disaster.
“I’m sorry.” Surprisingly, Bruce is the one to apologize. “I was not vigilant enough, and Peter paid the price. I promised you that he’d be safe here, and failed when it mattered most.”
There’s real shame there, the kind that pushes the Batman to patrol beyond his limits. It’s what keeps him standing with one foot in the grave, a sense of responsibility for everything that happens in his city.
Sure, Bruce had a hand in what happened, but he’s not alone in this.
Tim, pulling on the words of another, stops Bruce before he can self flagellate any further. “Save some blame for the rest of us, dad.”
There’s a smile from Dick, a quiet one. “Tim’s right. We need to focus on keeping this from happening again, not the best way to beat ourselves up about it.”
The weight in the air eases when Bruce nods, refocusing on the mission. Jason stays quiet, but his fingers aren’t clenched tight anymore, allowing Bruce to take point as he musters the team.
Everyone else listens at attention, taking orders as they’re given. Tasks are distributed best as they can with the limited intel. It’s suggested that Clark should return to Metropolis to continue monitoring Luthor, though it’s just as likely that it’s for the hero’s protection.
Together, they get to work.
~ ~ ~
Peter Parker
Gotham Museum of Art – December 14th
God, whose idea was it to leave the manor.
Peter tucks his hands into the pocket of his hoodie, shoulders curved as he keeps his head down. The brim of his hat keeps the direct glare of the overhead lights away from his eyes, the thudding ache in his head abated somewhat.
There’s too many people around, too many voices chatting about ‘what do you think this one’s about’ and ‘I could probably make this one at home’. He can smell the chemical that the janitors used to clean the floors, and the perfume of a woman standing a dozen feet away.
Cass and Duke were lost to the crowds ages ago, and Peter can’t bear the thought of looking at the screen of his phone. That’s a big no-no for heightened senses going haywire.
Just find a quiet spot and wait for it to tide over. You’ll be fine, just breathe.
The voice in Peter’s head sounds a bit like Jason’s, low and soothing. He wants to call him, tell him that he wants to sit and read a book in the library. Wants to tell him that he’s scared of what’s being kept from him.
Peter’s feet start moving beneath him, guiding him somewhere hopefully quiet,
Jason’s heartbeat, strong and sure. A door. Nothing.
He had walked into the room with Bruce and Clark, and then dodged Peter’s questions later that night when asked about the reporters condition.
Is Clark okay? Did he get medical attention?
He’s alright, Peter. Had one too many hors d’oeuvres.
Sure, not like the guy was looking two seconds away from keeling over just minutes after the strangest interaction in Peter’s short life.
Then, this morning, Jason’s pawning Peter off to Cass and Duke like it’s a great idea to go out into the public. He didn’t seem the most enthusiastic about the idea, but still.
Jason lied to him, and then pushed him away.
It stings. Hurts.
And now Peter’s alone in the middle of a goddamn museum that belongs to a city that’s tried to kill him. Twice.
His feet stop.
Looking up, Peter finds himself in a trippy exhibit. The lights are low, kept ominous to suit the art that’s displayed on the walls and floor.
There are a couple of people milling about, moving along the displays at a pace that makes their interest seem more polite than genuine. Most of the paintings have a dark motif, sombre colours with vibrant strings hanging in front.
Someone’s got an interactive audio tour playing through a pair of cheap headphones, the info reaching Peter’s hearing. It tells him this is the work of a group of artists, all of whom were born and raised in Gotham.
The piece in the middle is huge, spanning a sizeable portion of the space’s dimensions. Thin, crimson threads are strung from the ceiling to the floor, pulled taught so they don’t bow. Peter tilts his head, considering what it’s supposed to look like.
“Hey, Peter.”
A hand lands on Peter’s shoulder, the contact making his senses ramp back up. He jumps, blaming the events of the previous day for the gasp that comes from his throat. The grip releases as quickly as it had fallen, allowing him to see who’d snuck up on him.
Mary’s standing there, palms held up to signal surrender. “Sorry, kid. Thought you heard me.”
“Sorry.” Peter replies on instinct, forcing his body to relax. His senses are settling, easing now that he’s with a familiar face.
“You alright there?” Her expression is one of concern, head dipping so she can look him in the eyes. “Last time I saw you, you were looking worse for wear.”
“Yeah, I’m alright.” Peter feels a bit of shame churn in his stomach, having forgotten about his friend with all that had happened. “Sorry for not checking in with you.”
“Anyone ever tell you that you apologize too much?” The question’s rhetorical, but Peter nods nonetheless. Mary quirks a grin and shakes her head. “The Wayne kid told me you were fine, so don’t sweat it.”
Peter sends a quiet thanks to Tim, making a note to verbalize it later.
“I know you just told me I apologize too much, but I’m sorry for asking you to do what you did. A lot of people would’ve told me to beat it, so I appreciate it.”
“It was payback for mugging you.” Mary shrugs off the gratitude. “Besides, I landed a job ‘cause of you.”
Peter beams. “You did?”
“Offered by the one and only Tim Drake-Wayne. I made sure your work didn’t get lost, and he sent me the hiring form.” She shrugs. “Gotta do a bunch of background stuff before I’m officially hired, but I’m getting paid to do nothing in the meantime.”
“That’s awesome.”
They fall quiet for a moment, both turning to look at the art before them.
A question comes to mind. “Are you here with anyone?”
“Nah.” She leans on one foot, glancing down at Peter. “Doing nothing means a bunch of free time. That, and I like the exhibit.”
Interest piqued, Peter tilts his head. “Yeah?”
“You ever hear the story of Arachne?”
Ah, that explains Peter’s draw to it. “A bit. She was a weaver, right? Got turned into a spider?”
Mary nods, casting a look about the space before she elaborates. “Ovid, the Roman poet, wrote her story in the Metamorphoses. She was a nobody, her dad working with dye and her mom dead. She excelled in weaving, and was defiant in the face of Athena when the goddess came to make her humble.”
“She challenged Athena in a competition. The goddess made a work that idolized her fellow deities, but Arachne chose to depict them in another light.” Her lips pull into a full smile, an odd one. “She mocked them, shamed them for their failings.”
Mary looks down at Peter then. “When she was declared winner, Athena struck Arachne. She shamed the mortal until death, and even then she was not allowed to rest.”
“She was brought back as a spider, cursed to weave forevermore.” She concludes, “She still kept spinning; the spider has not forgotten the arts she used to practice.”
Peter stares up at her, surprised by the lesson.
Mary notes the look, shrugs. “I took a classic lit course in uni.”
“You went to university?”
“Don’t sound so surprised, kid.” Mary chastises Peter lightly. “Double major in chem and engineering at Gotham University.”
“I’m not surprised, just…” Peter smiles. “That’s awesome.”
“You say that almost as much as you apologize.”
“Yeah, well I’m a creature of habit.” He very much isn’t, but Mary doesn’t have to know that.
“Here.” The woman pats Peter’s arm and backs up, moving a few feet away from Peter. He looks at her confusedly, wondering what she’s up to, until she says. “Come see this.”
Peter goes. Mary gently coaxes him to stand a certain way and points over his shoulder to the tangle of strings. From the new angle, the piece is revealed.
The massive form of a spider clarifies as the angles match up perfectly, strings twisting and twining to form a body and legs. The arachnid’s coiled tight, poised to lurch forward.
It looks like something’s missing with the piece, he notes almost distantly. His brows pull together. “It doesn’t have a web.”
“No, it wouldn’t.” Her head’s tilted as she considers the spider. “The homalonychus species keep themselves buried beneath rocks and dead plants. This one’s out in the open, unprotected.”
He’s never heard of this species. He considers it.
“Peter?”
There’s a small tug on his sleeve. He turns his head, and Cass is beside him, Duke behind her.
“You snuck off, man.” Duke’s voice sounds relieved, tension dissipating as he looks about the room. “What’re you looking at?”
Peter turns to look at Mary, figuring she’d be better at explaining, but she’s gone. He returns his gaze to his friends, finding Cass frowning at him. He shrugs. “Spiders.”
Notes:
Oh batfam, you're all so dramatic /lh
Chapter 26
Notes:
To quote Jagc2002's Chap 24 comment: Let him cook.
Enjoy~
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Alfred Pennyworth
Wayne Manor – December 16th
Alfred is a patient man. He has weathered the attitudes of far too many rebellious children to be anything but. He’s trained in numerous techniques that hone his will, allowing him to remain objective in the face of crisis and tragedy.
These skills lend well to his role as the touchpoint of the Batman and his allies. He has done his best to pass along these lessons of restraint with varying levels of success, each step met with a backslide in turn.
It is in stillness that Alfred can recognize the slow passage of time, and note when it is being ran thin.
The team had let the case fall to the wayside in the pursuit of rest, something he has been glad for. The persistent bags beneath the family’s eyes eased somewhat and tasks were being distributed only when necessary.
Such was the case until two days ago.
Now, his home has been compromised and a child under his care is once again being targeted. He can’t sit idle any longer.
Kate has remained relentless in her search for answers, stemming the flow of illegal imports into Gotham. Jason has rooted out the last of the Kennel Master’s men, the stragglers finding themselves a new syndicate to graft to.
Steph, Cass, and Duke have maintained patrol to avoid suspicion and ensure the safety of the city. Tim is organizing the team alongside Barbara, the two of them searching for leads and planning accordingly.
Dick has been called back to Blüdhaven for a few days, taking Damian with him. The boy needs a break, though he’ll undoubtedly find some trouble to get into while with his brother.
Bruce is spreading himself thin as he wages war anew in Gotham, his strikes heavy and blood yielding. The moon is new, and thus the night must be dark.
This leaves the manor with a sole conscious occupant, with Duke asleep after the patrol he ran during the day. From the cave’s monitors, Alfred watches as Master Peter exits his room with silent steps.
The teen’s wanders about, his head on a swivel as he checks to see if anyone is in the halls. He is in a sweater and basketball shorts, curiously without socks despite the cold flooring.
It’s likely he’s anticipating using his adhesive abilities.
Curious, Alfred follows his path through the manor. The teen’s head tilts, listening for something, and then his brows are drawing together in confusion as he notes the emptiness of the rooms.
He stops, thinks.
Then he turns back and begins to make his way towards the lab. He’s moving with surer steps, a clear goal in mind. He comes upon the door of the lab and pauses again, a focused look crossing his face.
His head turns, facing the direction of Bruce’s office.
Ah.
Typing a series of commands into the computer, Alfred stands from the chair before slipping a communication device into his ear, prepared should there be an emergency. He ensures no sensitive information is left open and then makes his heading for the far end of the cave.
Perhaps the evidence storage is due for some organization.
~ ~ ~
Peter Parker
Wayne Manor – December 16th
It’s gotta be in the office, whatever the thing is that everyone’s hiding from him. The path of Jason and Bruce’s footsteps had proceeded to about this point, and the only other room nearby being an unused music parlor.
Peter sets a hand carefully on the doorknob, listening for any sign of a trap or alarm. He can hear a current humming in the wall, a faint buzz that he’d come to notice running all throughout the manor.
The electricity coalesces in certain points, powering cameras and security measures. It’s charging something in the office’s door, but whatever it is remains dormant as Peter twists the knob.
He steps inside. The space is dark and empty, completely silent aside from the faintest sound of Peter’s breaths and the shifting of nocturnal wildlife outside.
Peter finds Bruce in his office more often than not, the man looking up from behind his computer whenever someone cracks the door open to talk to him.
Thinking back, there were definitely times where Bruce would subtly minimize or close whatever he was looking at upon seeing who had walked inside. Peter had chalked it up to WE CEO business in the past, but the options feel a little less limited now.
Besides the desk, there are a couple of chairs set in the middle of the room and an unlit fireplace that’s likely against code. Nearby is an old grandfather clock, the metal of the pendulum polished to a perfect gleam.
The wall connecting to the hall has a set of bookshelves flush against it, spanning to the left and right of the door. They offer a glimpse into Bruce’s interests with old medical textbooks, philosophical prose, and a scattered limited edition fiction books.
Knickknacks and keepsakes are set between the clustered spines, photos of the Wayne family and various awards found among them. There’s a spelling bee trophy tucked away with Jason’s name on it, free of dust with Alfred careful tending.
The sight makes Peter feel a bit guilty for poking around, but he can’t let it get in the way of his search. Setting a palm against the side of one of the shelves, he sticks to the wood and lifts, shifting one side of it over carefully.
He only needs to move it a few inches, just until he can see the wall. Set into the flat surface are unfamiliar devices, but it isn’t hard to guess their purpose. They almost look like speakers, shaped to catch soundwaves along their rounded edges.
They’re keeping whatever happens in the office held within its walls, away from any prying ears.
Suspicions confirmed, Peter eases the bookshelf back to where it was. He knows that attempting to hack Bruce’s computer wouldn’t go well, so any further investigation will have to be done the old fashioned way.
Moving to the center of the room, Peter looks for anything amiss. The fireplace has been used too recently be anything of interest, flame being too difficult to control to allow any sort of complex mechanism.
There’s likely a safe behind one of the paintings in the room, but that wouldn’t warrant the kind of security that Bruce is employing. Most rich people keep valuables stashed away in hidden lockboxes, the reality being no secret that needs to be kept.
It’s in the silence of the space that Peter finds a clue. His gaze lands on the grandfather clock, and while the pendulum is swinging in time with the passing of seconds, the hands remain at a standstill.
There’s absolutely no way that Alfred would leave an antique broken, especially something as classic as a grandfather clock. He’s too detail oriented, especially when it comes to family heirlooms.
Bingo.
Reaching up, Peter spins the second hand to test the gears that lie behind the façade. While he isn’t well versed in the standard sounds that come from the inner workings of a clock, he would wager they don’t usually sound like a spin dial.
His senses make it easy work, a slight variation in the clicks signaling he’s set the hand to the right position. The minute and hour hands work in the same way, and upon getting the final digit correct, the grandfather clock is swinging forward alongside a portion of the wall.
Putting aside that all of this is a secret that’s being kept from him, he’s gotta admit this is cool as hell.
Peter steps inside slowly, hearing the security measures stay dormant yet again. There’s just a simple latch on the other side of the entrance, and so he pulls the wall closed behind him.
Rather than stepping on the rickety elevator, he takes the stairs. They’re carved into the stone foundations of the manor, descending quite a while as one step only just leads to another.
When he reaches the bottom, Peter can admit that he wasn’t at all ready to find what he does.
The stairs open up to a massive cave, the chittering of bats reaching his ears from where they hang high above. Lights buzz from where they’re set on the walls and floor, illuminating a high tech setup.
There’s a training area, a desk set in front of a wall of monitors, a dinosaur statue, a few empty platforms big enough to fit vehicles, and a goddamn plane. Pieces of tech are strewn about, grappling hooks and various weapons set on tables out in the open.
A couple of tall hallways branch off from the main chamber, leading beyond what Peter can see from his angle. A massive tunnel looms near where the plane is parked, the runway that stretches through it lit by potlights.
Off to one side are display cases, and within them are set a series of suits. Some look old, others ruined with heavy damage, but they all obviously belong to the same person.
Batman.
Uniforms for Nightwing, Robin, Red Robin, Spoiler, Orphan, and Signal are also there waiting, though there are fewer variations. There’s nothing around for the Red Hood despite the vigilante having been seen working alongside Batman before.
It makes sense, knowing Jason’s difficulty wi-
A harsh breath punches out of Peter’s chest.
Reality clocks him with vicious truth.
Holy shit.
He’s an idiot. A fucking idiot. How didn’t he realize earlier. He was a vigilante once. He knows the signs, wrote the handbook.
Jason Todd, the Red Hood, having a complicated relationship with Bruce Wayne, his once-adoptive father. ‘What’s he like?’
Untouchable.
Bruce Wayne is Batman.
Damian wandering around Gotham looking to take down the Kennel Master, curiously trained to a deadly degree. Tim being the CEO of Wayne Enterprises, a company who openly funds heroes across the globe but has a particular tie to Gotham’s Bats.
Cass staying out of the limelight despite being an heir to the fortune, practiced in ballet to a degree that reminded Peter of the clips that he’d seen of the Black Widow. Duke’s extended “specialty training” trip.
Dick’s disappearance to Blüdhaven, his trips coinciding with timely reappearances of Nightwing. The way he belongs in the air, the last of the Flying Graysons.
Jason taking a dip in a Lazarus Pit and returning to whip Gotham’s underbelly into shape. Him taking all of Peter’s oddities in stride. The beacon that he’d given up, the one that got him help despite how close he’d been to dying.
All of them, lying to him for so long.
He’s had to keep a secret identity before, knows how hard it is to keep the truth from people who you care about. Peter wouldn’t have trusted himself in their position, a random kid who has powerful people coming after him for seemingly no reason.
He gets it, so why does it still feel like the roof of the cave is collapsing in on him?
Peter takes a breath. Figure things out now, freak out later.
The computer’s on, left by whoever was in here last. A trickle of suspicion crawls down Peter’s spine, but he isn’t sure when he’ll get another opportunity like this.
Sitting on the chair, he does what he feels like he really shouldn’t: look himself up.
The processing power must be through the roof as the command runs through without even a second’s delay. Every file not requiring a special password is there for Peter’s viewing, strewn about the many desktops.
Ned would have a field day with this thing.
Peter sorts through the info he already knows, seeing the documents that Bruce had put together for him. The speed at which he got those legalized makes sense in hindsight, with the computer being tapped directly into the agencies and institutions that Peter needed to be added to.
There’s a full assessment of his known abilities, although his sixth sense isn’t mentioned, just vaguely theorized as a biproduct of his heightened senses. It seems as if Jason had decided to keep that one to himself, winning him a couple of points back.
Scattered among the files is Peter’s DNA, which has the input that he’d given Tim. A new note at the bottom of the page catches his attention.
'The modifications of the Lazarus Pit led to alterations of P’s physiology beyond his known metahuman abilities. Abnormalities in his genetic code are in part due to the splicing of his DNA with that of an unknown species of spider, but may also be a biproduct of the elements that were present throughout P’s revival.
Effect of Batmanium: Unknown.
Effect of Dionesium: Physical regeneration and stabilization post-revival. Potential contribution to advanced healing.
Effect of Electrum: Revival.
Effect of Venom: Increased chance of survival with integration of new elements. Potential contribution to heightened strength and agility.
Effect of Kryptonite: Theorized low level radiation emitted, enough to affect SM but remain undetectable without very close proximity.
Monitor effects of special elements on multiversal (dis)connection. Abnormalities noted by SL.
The radiation emitted by P was enough to leave SM in a weakened state after approximately five minutes of exposure. Possibility of experimentation on P to render him a biological weapon against those of Kryptonian origin.'
Peter can hurt a Kryptonian, and apparently already has. He wracks his brain, trying to pinpoint who… oh.
A broad figure tensing upon seeing Peter alone with an unknown adult. Shoulders bowing under the weight of an invisible force, perspiration building and a weakness of the voice. Clark Kent.
There’s only one name that would make sense with the acronym SM.
In the span of an hour, Peter’s landed himself with the two most dangerous pieces of information that he can think of. That, and the knowledge that someone was using his body to try to make a biological weapon.
He feels wrong. His skin doesn’t feel right anymore, the weight of his bones too obvious where they sit within him. This isn’t him.
He doesn’t feel like Peter Parker.
He has to go, has to-
The echo of an engine roaring down the tunnel hits his ear drum, gaining fast as it speed down the runway.
Shit. Shit shit shit.
Closing as many tabs as he can, Peter springs from his spot at the desk. He aims high and shoots a web, pulling himself up to the ceiling of the cave. The surface of the rock is rough against his skin, cold and grounding.
The Batmobile rolls to a stop, deadly metal rumbling with the power that’s contained in its body. The growl of the engine cuts and the Dark Knight is stepping out, just as imposing as Peter remembers.
Even more realization slot into place. ‘But first I wanted to ask why do you like metas’ answered with ‘I don’t’ and then ‘I had hope that your work might also involve expanding the business’ role in the community’ not long after.
“Alfred.” The Batman’s growl is so oddly unlike the calm, low rumble of Bruce Wayne’s voice.
The butler steps out of one of the cave’s halls. “Yes, Master Bruce?”
“The drones should be finished mapping out the tunnels soon, and I need you on-” Batman pauses in front of the computer. Fuck. “Did you open these files?”
Alred steps up next to the imposing man, completely at ease. “No, Master Bruce.”
There’s a clear lack of suspicion in the butler’s voice, some breezy quality to it that speaks of something more.
They look to one another, a silent conversation passing as the seconds trickle by.
“Afred, what did you do?”
“I do not believe it is in your best interest to place recriminations upon me.” It’s said in a chiding tone as Alfred chastises the Batman. “That boy has been left in the dark far too long, and with the events of the past week, I wager that his place here has not felt the most secure.”
Batman argues. “This is a decision that the whole team should get a say in.”
Alfred’s brows furrow. “Peter is standing with a foot out the door.” The lack of ‘master’ in front of his name has Peter taken aback, the sentiment shared by Batman as he’s rendered silent. “He is afraid. Had I not disabled the alarms, they likely would have sent him fleeing into the night.”
Peter winces, unsure of how he feels about Alfred’s words. Sure, he might’ve freaked if a bunch of alarms went off, but he wouldn’t have ran. Wouldn’t have left.
Right?
Batman sighs, and reaches up to pull back the fabric of his cowl. Bruce Wayne is left standing there, a tired and slightly shamed expression on his face. “Is he up in his room?”
Peter freezes. The thought occurs to him that this place definitely has cameras.
“No, sir.” Alfred responds plainly. “He is right above us.”
Shit.
~ ~ ~
Jason Todd
Wayne Manor – December 16th
Jason returns to the cave with his heart in his throat and the sound of a full bellied laugh from Bruce.
On the way to the cave, his brain had conjured up all sorts of ideas about how the Batman was going to handle this reveal. Peter standing stiff with a looming vigilante behind him, the kid hunched over as he’s been told to pack up and move out.
It’s a bit unfair towards Bruce, but the man’s love of secrecy has Jason feeling jumpy.
Instead, he’s greeted by the sight of Peter engaging in some animated story while Bruce is almost wiping away tears. He’s still in the suit albeit sans cowl, Alfred standing next to him with a faintly amused twist of his lips.
All at once, Jason doesn’t know how to approach.
He’s saved by his bike, as the trio looks over when the engine cuts. They sober up, waiting as Jason makes the small walk over, the details of Peter’s story kept between them.
“Hey, Queens.” He stops before them, a bit awkward as he tries to find a way to broach the topic. “You alright?”
Peter nods. “Yeah.”
Jason looks at Bruce, then Alfred, trying to gage their states. Bruce is stoic as always, lending no help whatsoever. Alfred’s telling Jason not to fuck this up with his eyes, easier said than done. “How did you get past all of the alarms?”
Bruce responds for Peter. “Alfred added Peter to the system when he realized that he was investigating the manor.”
The underlying truth hidden in the statement hits Jason in the chest like a blow, that Peter was pushed to the point of poking around rather than asking an adult for answers. He has to swallow around the guilty itch that crawls up his throat.
“Thank you, Alfred.” Jason shoots the butler a grateful look, pausing before asking, “Is it alright if I have a word with Peter alone?”
A bit surprisingly, Bruce acquiesces to the request. “Of course.”
Alfred walks alongside Bruce as they head off, making their way towards the lockers so the Batsuit can finally be taken off.
The silence lingers for a bit too long, pressing Peter to blurt out a surface thought. “The Batmobile’s cooler up close.”
“I’d offer to take you a ride in it, but I definitely don’t have clearance for that.” Jason jokes a bit lamely, the jest falling flat with the obvious stress in his voice. “Should we head up to your room? Everything in the cave’s recorded.”
Peter nods, falling quiet again. He follows Jason’s lead as they head to the elevator, stepping through the grandfather clock when they reach the top.
The silence is stifling by the time they make it to Peter’s bedroom. The kid’s bare feet pad over the hallway runner, likely icy cold from the temperature of the cave.
They step into the room and Jason looks around to see that it looks well lived in. He’s started to make the space his own, with the posters and clutter being a relatively recent addition.
Science puns and pop culture crazes make the room feel more lived in, no longer looking like it’s a glorified guest bed. Some of Peter’s clothes are left on the floor, two of which are sweaters that he stole from Jason and Dick.
The kid sits on his bed and Jason takes the desk chair, pulling it over so they’re closer together. He takes a second to really get a feel for Peter’s emotions, finding them somewhat plain on his face.
There’s the tension around his mouth that gives away his unease, and the pinch between his brows that means that he’s worried about letting Jason down. Worst of all, there’s the lightest glimmer of hurt in his eyes.
“Peter, I’m sorry that I kept all of that from you for so long.” Jason starts, trying to catch Peter’s gaze in his own as the kid keeps his eyes trained on the floor. “I can’t imagine it’s been easy feeling like you’re on the outs.”
“I get having to keep a secret identity safe, Jason, it’s alright.” The nail of Peter’s thumb bites into the skin of his finger. “I just…”
Jason suppresses the urge to reach out and stop the picking, waiting the kid out.
“I feel stupid. I was a vigilante, wore a mask and everything, and I didn’t put together the clues that were right in front of me.” Restless fingers run through the curled mop of hair on Peter’s head. “Everyone in this house doesn’t act exactly normal. I mean, you’re literally the Red Hood.”
Jason twitches as Peter says the name aloud, the two of them having let the reality of his other identity lie for too long. He isn’t ashamed of it, not one bit, but the kid’s got history with guns.
It feels like a step in the wrong direction that Peter would face the truth in this context.
“You have a hospital level medical ward, a crazy security system running through the whole place.” The kid’s on a roll now, counting off with his fingers. “Bruce is a genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist. How did I not see the similarities?”
There’s something feverish in Peter’s tone, pitch getting higher. “Tony’s told that story a hundred times. I’m an idiot!”
Jason blinks at the oddity of the statement, but doesn’t press. Wouldn’t do good to start interrogating Peter when he’s on the edge of hysterics.
Instead, he interrupts the teen’s rambling. “You’re not stupid, Peter. Part of our training has us learn how to divert attention away from what would’ve otherwise been obvious signs.”
Peter’s eyes sharpen at that, his expression getting even more complicated as he dissects that statement. Jason realizes his fuck up and wants to ram his head through a wall.
Good going, Todd, admit to the kid that everyone’s been gaslighting him. That’ll go over great.
“Wait, no, that’s-…” Jason cuts himself off with a sigh, running a hand over his face. “It wasn’t anything against you. Everything was just so complicated and you had just gotten settled in, and just when the timing started to feel right, the gala flipped it all on its head again, and…”
It still feels like he’s putting his foot in his goddamn mouth.
He’s proven right when Peter asks, “You mean when I hurt Superman on accident? When I showed you all that I’m dangerous?”
Oh, fuck.
“You went on the computer?”
“Not for that long, but…” Peter looks away. “I saw enough.”
Jason pushes his frustration down, all of it aimed at himself. “You aren’t a danger, not to us or Superman. You’re too good for that, kiddo.”
“I shot someone, Jason.” Peter hisses the words, sounding horrified and far away. “When I fired, it hit where I wanted it to. I was aiming for the shoulder. You don’t just do that on the first try.”
“Yes, you do. The human body can do incredible things under stress, and it was to protect me.” God, what else has been bothering this kid?
The debate stops with that, thoughts swirling behind Peter’s eyes. He’s hard to read in those moments, something that has trepidation leaking into Jason’s mind.
“Promise me.” The kid urges, the faintest glow where the green in Peter’s eyes. It bleeds into the brown, growing in fervor as he reaches out to grab one of Jason’s wrists. “Promise me that you’ll stop me if I hurt someone. If I get to that point.”
Nausea churns in Jason’s gut, horror building at what he’s asking of him.
He remembers then, the coiled tension in Peter’s body when he was having his first pit dream. Jason was all but begging the kid to stop as his fist reduced brick to dust, right where Jason’s head was a second before.
He remembers being scared, afraid that Peter was going to get hurt when he wasn’t awake to hold himself back.
“Kid, you gotta breathe.” Jason tries to guide Peter’s palms to his chest so he has something to mimic. “Come on, with me.”
“No.” Peter holds fast, the sickly light building as he gets more worked up, the bones of Jason’s wrists creaking beneath the strength of his grip. “You have to promise, Jason. Please.”
“Okay, okay. I promise, alright?” There’s that familiar flare of hate at the back of Jason’s mind, drilling straight into his sense of self. “Take some deep breaths for me, okay?”
Peter nods at Jason’s acceptance, his flare-up abating somewhat.
The kid’s eyes glance down to where he’s still holding Jason, and he lets go with a gasp. “I’m sorry, Jason, I-”
“It’s forgotten.” Jason reaches out, not wanting the kid to tuck himself away. Peter hesitates, nose twitching as his senses dial up. “Hey, don’t worry about it.”
Scooting forward, Jason pulls the kid into a hug. He maneuvers Peter’s head to rest against his chest, setting his ear right where Jason’s heart beats below. “Just breathe.”
Together, they breathe.
The two of them stay there for a few calm moments, the vestiges of tension bleeding out of Peter’s shoulders. Jason feels a bit like Dick, his older brother having offered a similar comfort in the past.
It’s kind of nice to be the support for once.
“Don’t be mad at Alfred.” Peter’s request is muffled by Jason’s clothes. “He let me down there to protect me.”
Jason sighs. “I’m not mad at Alfred.”
There’s a beat and then Peter’s pulling back. His eyes peer into Jason’s, far too intelligent for a boy of his age. “Don’t be mad at yourself, either.”
Promise me that you’ll stop me if I hurt someone.
I promise.
Adding another lie to the pile, Jason says, “I’m not.”
Notes:
Oh, actions with good intentions but unexpected consequences my beloved.
Everyone say thank you to Alfred for keeping the whole Batfam from descending on Peter the second he stepped behind that clock.
Chapter 27
Notes:
Once again just going to voice my appreciation of y'all's continued support and love of this story! Apologies for the slightly longer wait on this guy, had a buncha uni projects, a paper, and a final exam all due in a week.
Enjoy~
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Dick Grayson
Wayne Manor – December 17th
Two days. They can’t even get two full days before something new is going pear shaped.
Damian’s pouting a bit where he’s sitting in the passenger seat, his eyes resolutely fixed out the window. There’s nothing new to look at, the manor’s driveway unchanged in the 36 hours they’d been away.
Alfred stands at the front door, waiting to greet them. Dick leaves the car out front, needing to head back to his place after the meeting. The little grump beside him has school tomorrow, and he’s missed too many days to allow Dick to swing a jailbreak.
Damian’s bag is light in Dick’s hands, but there’s a phantom weightiness that comes from too many cancelled plans. Intuitively, he knows that Damian wouldn’t give Robin up for anything, but that doesn’t make the disappointment lessen.
He runs ahead of Dick, passing Alfred by without a greeting. The butler doesn’t look surprised, sharing a dispirited glance with Dick as they lock eyes.
“I shall bring the young Master’s belongings to his room.” Alfred reaches out and takes the bag, settling his free palm on Dick’s shoulder. “The meeting is convening in the dining room.”
“Thanks, Alf.”
Dick makes his way to the dining room, finding everyone present besides Bruce.
Tim and Cass are sat in their usual spots near the head of the table, both looking down at devices, Steph watching whatever Tim’s up to. Barbara and Kate are chatting about patrol, comparing notes on their current cases.
Duke looks antsy, likely wanting to get out on patrol with the sun’s still high in the sky. Jason’s similarly keyed up, one of his legs bouncing beneath the table.
Damian takes the spot next to Jason, leaving Dick to sit next to Duke. He gives the young hero a small smile as he takes his seat, folding one leg up comfortably.
He doesn’t have time to ask what’s going on before Bruce’s heavy footfalls are approaching from the nearby hallway, pausing for a brief moment before he steps into the dining room.
He does a quick headcount and nods, then looks over to the door. Bruce nods, and then another figure is joining him near the head of the table.
Peter looks nervous as he moves beside Bruce, his gaze bouncing from person to person. He gives a weak grin, the pads of his pointer fingers and thumbs rubbing together uneasily before he hides them behind his legs.
Bruce stands just before the teen, letting Peter hide in his shadow as he starts the meeting. “Apologies for the impromptu meeting. I’ll cut right to the chase. Peter knows.”
The news is met with wide eyed silence, most of the table’s occupants surprised at the news. Dick’s among them, having figured that it’d take some level of world-ending disaster to bring Peter into the fold with Bruce’s brand of paranoia.
Casting a glance at Jason, Dick notes that his expression’s unchanged from its usual sullen scowl.
“He discovered the cave’s entrance late last night during patrol, and made the necessary conclusions to note its connection to all of our identities.” Bruce reports blandly, Peter shrinking back even more. “He has made it clear that he has no intention of revealing anything to the public.”
Even more silence.
This is painful.
Ever the one to break awkward air, Dick grins wide. “Welcome to the team, Pete!”
Everyone kicks into gear at that, coaxing the teen out from behind Bruce’s bulk. A glimmer slowly builds in his eyes, excitement brewing as he’s brought into the fold.
Bruce shoots Dick a grateful look.
Kate and Jason seem less enthused, watching the warm welcome with slight detachment. Their hesitancy is for distinct reasons, Jason’s born of a will to protect while Kate’s just being her usual self.
They all know not to take it personally.
Peter sits next to Dick, his usual spot near Jason taken by a slightly heartened Damian. Dick gives the teen a friendly slap on the arm, earning himself a retaliatory nudge.
“Now that we’ve established that, I need to make a few things clear.” Bruce wrangles their attention back. “Peter will not be joining us on patrol nor will he be engaging in any vigilante activity regardless of his newfound knowledge.”
Damian looks a bit peeved at that, likely having already started planning on how to whip Peter into shape. Dick pities the poor teen.
Bruce forges on. “However, he will have access to the cave’s systems once he has been given the necessary introductions. With his work at WE, this will also allow him to integrate his tech into rotation.”
“Uh, if I may.” Peter raises his hand as if he were in class. “The reactor’s nearly done, and so I can start working out how to work it into the cave’s grid. All we need to do is built it. From there, if anyone has any ideas on how else you’d like it to be used, let me know and we can work on it.”
Bruce nods, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a small smile. He waits to see if Peter has anything else to add before he’s continuing.
“There is also the matter of his training.” He clasps his hands together, his favourite pose when he wants everyone to listen carefully. “Given the danger that he’s in, Peter has agreed to begin training alongside the team.”
“Duke, I’m hoping that you’ll be able to work with Peter to hone his metahuman abilities.” He nods to the two of them. “I am aware that they work quite differently, but you are well versed in tempering capabilities that the rest of us don’t have.”
Duke and Peter exchange an excited look, the same young gleam in their eyes.
“For combat training, I will-”
“No.”
Oh boy, here we go again.
Jason’s elbows are on the table, fingers slightly curled inward to a loose fist. He’s glaring at the table, jaw working as he clenches and unclenches it.
Dick goes for mediation. “Jay, it’s not like that.”
“No, Dick. This is why I kept him away for so long.” Jason states, turning to level Bruce with a stare that has the man’s lips thinning. “I knew we’d get here eventually. He’s a kid with no parents, smart, kind, and good, primed to be twisted into another one of your soldiers. You just can’t help yourself, can you?”
Bruce’s expression turns stormy.
Damian twists in his seat, lips pulling into a snarl. “Father is trying to help.”
“Oh yeah?” The ex-Robin sneers. “He’s got no issues throwing you into the middle of a firefight and you’re ten. How many of us have died under his watch, huh? Let’s see a show of hands.”
The rebuttal comes from Steph this time, beginning with an ironic snort. “It’s not like you were turning down the cape when you first started.”
“Look where that got me.” Jason’s voice drops dangerously, his body tensing. “If it weren’t for his goddamn mission-”
Thwip.
A glob of webs stretches over Jason’s mouth, shot from the band that’s wrapped around Peter’s wrist. Jason shoots him an indignant look, anger bleeding into the edges with how he’d been interrupted mid-tirade.
“Jason, come on man.” Peter says, apologizing with a look and the softness of his tone. “This is my choice too. I know there’s a lot of shit I still don’t know, and I know it’s a lot, but…”
The teen sighs, looks down. “I hate that I’m dragging you all down.”
“Peter, you’re not.” Tim urges, Cass nodding in agreement.
“I am. Luthor messed with your security because he wanted to get to me. You and Jason got shot because you stood within five feet of me.” Peter’s breath shudders, his momentum faltering for a second. “Damian stood alone in Gotham because the Kennel Master was tearing the city apart trying to find me.”
Dick’s mind unhelpfully tacks on that venom’s come back to the ports, and the scourge of Lazarus pits that’d encroached upon Gotham.
“It all connects back to me.”
None of them can argue that, even if Peter’s not the one to blame.
“I read your report on me, what you’ve added to the DNA test.” Peter looks down at the table. “I can’t- won’t be a danger to you, not if I can help it. I know how to fight, but if you can learn how to stop me, I’m happy to show you.”
Jason pulls the webs off his mouth, but stays quiet. He’s looking at Peter with this expression, too complicated to pick apart entirely. Dick can see care, sadness, and a bit of residual annoyance, but there’s something mixed up in there.
Something that looks the slightest bit haunted.
Surprisingly, Kate’s the one to speak up. “Not bad, kid.”
“Thanks.” Peter gives them a wry, tired smile.
Bruce takes that as his cue to refocus the meeting, looking to Jason. “We can discuss the finer details of Peter’s training in private, but nothing will happen that’s not seen your approval beforehand.”
“And, Peter.” He vies for the teen’s attention. “This isn’t in so we can learn to take you down. We all want you safe, nothing more.”
Dick swallows back the urge to call bullshit, aware of Bruce’s endless list of contingencies. The statement is true enough, the man wanting Peter to be protected as he would any that he’s grown to care for, but there’s no doubt he’ll be collecting data on the teen as they spar.
Bruce isn’t done. “We’ll also work on updating your file with anything that you believe should be filled in. That came come later should you prefer. It’s been quite the day.”
“No, it’s okay.” Peter says, “Not like I’ve got anything up.”
“Alright.” Nodding, Bruce straightens, signaling the end of the meeting as he dismisses them. “We’ll be down in the cave should you need either of us. Peter, whenever you’re ready.”
A couple of conversations break out as Bruce leaves, Peter lingering so he can introduce himself to Kate formally. She’s looking down at him bemusedly, some of her suspicion trickling away as he rambles on about her work as Batwoman.
Jason stalks off first, Tim following thereafter. Damian doesn’t stick around either, ducking out of the room before anyone can catch him.
Soon enough, Kate’s drawn away by Barbara so they can finish their earlier conversation, allowing Dick to snag Peter’s attention. “Hey, Pete.”
“Hey.” Peter looks up at Dick, looking a bit drained.
“How’re you feeling about all this?” Reaching out, Dick ruffles Peter’s hair a bit to get him to loosen up. “When I was brought into the fold, it was just Bruce and Alfred, not a whole ‘knights of the round table’ deal.”
“It’s… wild, but then again I’ve gone through the whole secret identity reveal thing before.” Peter’s lips twist into amusement, looking as if he’s sharing an inside joke with himself. “It’s just nice to know, y’know?”
Dick feels guilty at that, the familiar sting that hits him every time he has to hide his secret from someone he loves. “I’m sorry I lied to you about it for so long. It still hurts to have things hidden from you, even if you know why we kept it from you.”
The kid nods, accepting the apology with a small smile. He looks away as if remembering something, a wistful look crossing his face. “You wanna know something? You were actually the first person I saw when I woke up here.”
Dick’s head tilts, trying to think back to when he’d have seen Peter.
“In that warehouse, where the pit was. I was stuck to the ceiling when you came through the window.” Peter huffs a laugh. “It’s all a bit hazy and dream-like, but I remember the symbol on your chest. Took a bit of research before I realized I got up close with Nightwing.”
Dick smiles in return, but internally he’s cursing himself. He could’ve saved everyone so much pain, Peter in particular, if he’d just looked up.
“Don’t beat yourself up about it.” Peter says as if reading Dick’s mind. “We don’t know what would’ve happened if you’d seen me, and besides…”
He looks over to the door that Jason had walked out of just a minute ago. “I don’t think I’d want to change a thing.”
Their conversation ends quickly thereafter, Peter drawn away by his earlier agreement to help Bruce with filling out his profile. The team gives him grins and friendly pats as he goes, an edge of apology to them.
Dick watches, wondering what’ll come about from this development.
~ ~ ~
Damian Wayne
Wayne Manor – December 21st
“Parker. You will accompany me as I complete my schoolwork.”
Damian’s standing before a befuddled Peter, the teen’s greeting cut short by the order. Not waiting for a decline, Damian grabs hold of the front of Peter’s shirt and begins dragging him away.
To his credit, Peter doesn’t fight the pull. He lets himself get pushed into Damian’s room, curiously gazing about the space.
It’s suitably clean, the clothes neatly folded in drawers or hanging in the armoire. The majority of the mess comes from Damian’s various interests, a violin left in the corner and art supplies stacked haphazardly on an easel.
Damian sits upon the ergonomic swivel chair he has in front of his desk, leaving Peter to fend for himself. The teen pulls the art stool over, lowering its height before perching on it.
“Alright, what’re we working on.”
“I negotiated with my instructor to allow me to complete advanced work for additional credit throughout the holiday break.” He drops the mathematics workbook on the surface in front of them, flipping to the right page. “I do not need the equations to be correct, but it is beneath my standard to leave my work incomplete.”
Peter looks over the sheet. “So, I’m just checking your answers?”
“Indeed.”
With that, Damian gets to work.
He had already learned many of these concepts when under the instruction of the tutors that grandfather had hired, but it still requires his focus. It was expected that he would have a grasp of the sciences, mathematics, social studies, and languages before allowed on a mission, such knowledge invaluable for his station.
If anything, the schoolwork enabled him to hone his base of knowledge. Unfortunately, it is boring.
Peter supervises in relative silence, offering bits of advice on how to move through the equations with more ease. It is unexpectedly comfortable to have him look over Damian’s work, the prickle that comes with being surveilled largely absent.
It is… nice. Unfortunately, Parker is keen on breaking the quietude.
“Damian?” Peter prompts, answered with a hum. “You didn’t actually need my help, did you?”
The pencil scratches on the paper, an answer filled in.
After a beat. “You did that one wrong.”
“It would seem I need your help after all.” It’s a pointed request to let the topic go.
Peter is not in a giving mood, it would seem. “You absolutely messed that one up on purpose.”
Damian stares down at his work.
“I’m not mad. I like hanging out with you.” Peter’s head tilts more, trying to catch Damian’s eye. “I just feel like there’s a reason you want me here.”
With a terse sigh, he puts his pencil down. “I dislike the unexpected.”
Peter nods, and replies a bit unsurely, “Me too.”
“Much has changed in the past months, some of which occurred while I was not present.” Damian turns to Peter, arranging his expression into something stronger. “I have grown used to your and Todd’s presence in the manor, but it required much adjustment.”
“Oh. Uh, I’m sorry that we kinda moved in-”
“That did not upset me.” Damian interrupts, chastising Peter with a look. “With your lack of interest in defending Gotham and Todd’s dislike of your training, I cannot help but be apprehensive of your position here.”
There’s a minute twitch of Peter’s eyebrows, confused and a bit hurt. Damian curses himself for his inability to phrase things correctly.
“When you are safe and no longer requiring our protection…” He looks away, focusing on a very interesting section of the wall. “Where will you go?”
“Oh.” Peter breathes the word out as if coming to a realization, though Damian cannot be sure of which conclusion he has reached.
“It is a foregone conclusion that you had a life prior to your waking in the Lazarus pit, and thus it would be understandable that you would wish to return to it.” Damian continues on, ensuring that he isn’t interpreted incorrectly. “But I must ensure that we are made aware of your plans given the sensitivity of the knowledge that you’ve recently comes to possess.”
“I’m sticking here.” Peter responds with a soft look on his face, similar to that which Richard looks at Damian with. “I don’t know how this is going to end, but I’m happy here.”
It is a reassurance, and yet doubt still picks at Daiman’s mind.
Turning his eyes downward, a question falls from his lips. “Do you not miss your home?”
“Sure I do.” The teen’s expression shifts, sadness encroaching. “Queens was all I ever knew, and I loved it there.”
Damian thinks to snowcapped mountains and ancient woven tapestries hanging from stone walls, his mother’s hand smoothing his hair away from his forehead. “Then why do you not wish to return?”
“I do, in some ways, but there’s nothing waiting for me there. I uh… there was an accident that was my fault, and everyone I knew forgot about me.” Peter explains quietly. “I don’t think I could get them back, even if I really want to.”
Peter’s eyes close with the finality of his statement, pain settling across his features. With a blink, it clears somewhat. “And besides, I don’t want to leave anyone here.”
There’s a meaningful look that they share, heavy in a way that does not feel smothering. Loss is a tiring thing, and Damian is not keen on experiencing it again.
Deep in Damian’s backpack, a note sits with its contents whispering at the back of his mind. It tells him that his true home is not in Gotham, not with the way that father and Grayson will choose the city over him at any turn.
It was scrawled in grandfather’s handwriting, looping and curving in the script of his native tongue.
He is not sure when it was slipped into his belongings, how a League assassin would blend into the masses of children flooding the halls of his school.
Then again, Damian was only a child when he took his first life, and loyalty comes easiest in the naivete of youth. It is not below the Leagues standards to train an operative before their age has reached double digits.
Displeased by his thoughts, Damian returns to more pleasant ventures.
“Will you continue to aid me with my schoolwork?” He requests. “I believe my last answer was incorrect.”
“Sure thing, man.”
Damian does not mind the nudge of Peter’s shoulder into his own.
~ ~ ~
Dr. Jonathan Crane
Arkam Asylum - ???
It’s on a day so similar to the others that Jonathan Crane receives a visitor.
They’re often barred, too many fans of the Scarecrow looking to get advice on how to synthesize their own gas or toxin. He’d stopped receiving the letters long ago, although he isn’t upset by that.
Many of them lacked anything of interest as they proved to be ramblings of rabid fanatics, rarely anything intellectually stimulating. It gets boring to have your own ideas regurgitated at you time and time again with the standard diction of a fifth grader.
There had been no visit from Batman, not in a long time. There was no reason to as far as Crane is aware, and yet the dismissal stings.
He has ways to contribute, his genius wayward but unmistakable. There is a part of him that yearns for the connection, to see the man who can still inspire fear in the Scarecrow.
Getting dragged over to the partitioned room, there is a sense of anticipation that builds in him. It only balloons when a sack is shoved over his head, the environment around him obscured by dark cloth. He’s sat upon a cold metal chair, and left to wait.
Time passes, seconds punctuated by the loud push-pull of breath into Crane’s lungs. The game begins, and he is kept on the backfoot.
Sometime between now and never, the door screeches open and footsteps approach.
Disappointment fizzles. Not the Batman. His feet don’t pitter patter on the ground, not even the birds he’s so fond of toting around.
“Hello Dr. Crane.” A voice greets him, plain. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“A pleasure?” He replies, unenthused. “I had reason to believe that my fans were barred from visitation privileges.”
A hum. “I am not your fan, Dr. Crane. I have studied your work quite intensively, but I would not say that your actions or morals have inspired me in any way.”
“Ah, a fellow intellectual then.” A bit more interesting, but still dull. “I’m afraid that any attempt for me to share my knowledge will come at a cost for both you and I, one I’m not keen to pay.”
“There’s no need to worry about that. I’ve taken the necessary precautions to ensure that our meeting will go… uninterrupted.” There’s the shuffle of fabric, the visitor settling in their chair. “I’m here to offer you a deal.”
Crane’s head tilts, sharp and twitching. “A deal? Do elaborate.”
“I mentioned I have studied your work, and while it is impressive, I am looking for something a little more subtle.” Another shift, and then the sound of paper rustling. “Your fear gas targets the amygdala, stimulating it to release adrenaline and cortisol in the excess.”
“Correct.”
“The amygdala is intrinsically linked to the globus pallidus, key in the ‘fight or flight’ phenomenon.” A pause. “Your gas lets it run wild, the fear response resulting from the quirks of the individual. I seek to... alter this side effect.”
Crane can’t say his interest isn’t piqued. “Curious.”
“I have done the necessary work to synthesize it, but I would benefit from the input of the toxin’s progenitor. I want to know if it will work.”
A clawed hand scratches at the back of his mind, something sweet lolling along the edge of his tongue. Excitement.
The voice is still measured, unwavering as they make their offer. “In exchange for your assistance, you will be set free from Arkam. I will not provide you with anything, and once you step outside the gates, you are on your own.”
Hmm. The terms give little leeway for any hope of an extended release, but they’re tempting nonetheless. Plenty of havoc can be wrecked upon Gotham in a few short hours, enough to buffer the bats into a swarm.
Being used as a pawn is not the most pleasant of things, a veritable blow on the ego, but it’s necessary at times to keep the soul alive.
“I believe we have a deal.”
Scarecrow holds out a palm, and fingers enfold around it.
The cloth is removed, and the work is placed in his lap.
It is correct, invariably so. With a nod of his head, the room is bathed in red, and the figure vanishes between pulses of crimson light.
“Good luck.”
Swiping the sack from the floor, he dons the ebony mask, fear rising alongside the reminder of the weight of an executioner’s axe. The Batman operates in darkness, and so it is there that he must be met.
With a smile, the Scarecrow sets into the night.
Notes:
Doh.
There’s now a one-shot holiday fic that happens between this chapter and next, so check it out if you want some comfort :).
Chapter 28
Notes:
For the sake of spoilers, I'm going to put additional warnings in the end notes! Ignore how ominous this sounds /j.
Enjoy...
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Peter Parker
Wayne Manor – January 8th
Peter has a problem. Well, several problems and a mistake.
The first few problems are in the background, ones that can’t be solved.
His senses give him issues more often than not, the world too clear as it has been built for people under the “normal” category. This one’s manageable, the manor’s distance from the city making it a haven. He’s got methods of breathing through it, hodgepodge gadgets for when it gets really bad.
He’s got troubles of the past written all over his body, scars from battles that his healing factor couldn’t erase. The worst of them have dug into his mind, festering at the edges with the seep of green into his body.
J. Jonah Jameson said it best: Everywhere Spider-Man goes, everything Spider-Man touches, comes to ruin.
The newest of these background problems revolves around his existence in this universe, his self a patchwork of disjointed bits and pieces. He’s a jigsaw puzzle to be solved, the resulting image too distressing to look at. To face.
These background problems are easy to push aside when he’s got something to distract him. This works best when it’s another person that’s keeping his mind away, Peter finding comfort in a familiar face.
This is where he finds his first non-background problem.
Jason isn’t talking to him.
It’s not a malicious thing. There’s no cold glance before the older man is turning his back and walking away.
Peter and Jason have shared words since the meeting. They celebrated the holidays together, exchanged gifts and lit candles alongside the rest of the family.
But every smile had an underlining tension to it. There was a look in Jason’s eyes that wasn’t there a month ago.
Peter doesn’t know what it means.
He’s afraid to ask.
After Peter’s introduction to the team, Jason had pushed himself up with a scrape of his chair before leaving. He’d left the manor, gone back to Crime Alley to find an outlet.
Peter didn’t realize until after, the congratulations and apologies of the team taking his attention before he’d gone down to the cave to work with Bruce. The man had almost tried talking Peter out of taking this step, stressing the notion that he’s not expected to help them even though he knows.
Peter had responded with resolution, Bruce surrendering thereafter. The teen had been so wrapped up in the changes that he didn’t notice Jason hurting until it was too late.
Now there’s a gap he can’t leap. It’s an unfamiliar feeling.
The empty spot in his life filled by training alongside the others. Peter’s thrown into the thick of it, and it’s a great distraction.
Bruce teaches Peter new fighting techniques, blending instinct with Jason’s past instructions into something even more refined. Damian watches from the sidelines, shouting out pointers with an amusingly sharp tongue.
Dick and Cass integrate new techniques into their dance and acrobatics training, easily used to evade attacks. Steph joins them at times, excited to show off.
Tim and Barbara give him an in-depth introduction to the cave’s systems, navigating through the endless files and programs. It’s sophisticated, rivalling Tony’s without the added benefit of Jarvis and Friday’s capabilities.
Duke works alongside Peter to understand the boundary of his meta abilities, explaining with his photokinesis as best as he can. It’s an amazing power, many of their lessons getting off track when Peter starts asking questions.
Alfred teaches Peter how to make a good cup of tea, and how to administer emergency aid.
Jason stays absent, signing off on all the training from afar.
There’s no time for quiet nights in the library, as Peter’s learning to listen to their codes through the comms. He doesn’t go on outings to the city, wrapped up in researching through the Batcomputer.
Time escapes him, enough so that he doesn’t hear the building of the violin’s high strings in the background. He misses the signs that something’s about to go wrong.
It’s later in the day, Peter sparring against a stern but gentle Bruce, when non-background problem two arises.
The sound of an alarm comes from the computer, the lights in the cave shifting from white to red and back. Bruce abandons their spar, Peter following behind, as they make their way over to bank of monitors.
There’s been a breakout at Arkham.
A high priority target slipped through the guard’s grasp. Scarecrow.
There’s been no sign of him yet, but there’s only one place he’d go.
Gotham.
Footsteps pound down the staircase, and the team piles into the cave. Kate and Barbara are missing, both at their respective homes, and Duke’s likely still making his way down after a long day of patrolling the streets.
Alfred trails behind them, proceeding at a more leisurely pace as he sets about preparing the necessary gear.
Peter watches as they draw together, hovering at the fringes as he’s unable to provide any input. Plans are shared, groups made with expected efficiency. Barbara logs on as Oracle en route to the Clocktower, chiming in with her opinions.
Duke will be on civilian duty, too exhausted to be expected to fight. He tries to argue, but his complaints are quickly countered with cold logic.
Bruce, Damian, Dick, and Steph will look for signs of Scarecrow in his usual haunts. The youngest of them will trail the other two from afar, poised to look for a weakness or opening.
Jason and Cass are assigned to patrol near the hospital and city hall. Tim and Kate will act as the go-betweens, ready to aid either team should they need backup.
Unexpectedly, Bruce addresses Peter. “I know you’re still getting used to the cave’s systems, but can you help Alfred monitor the situation from the cave?”
It feels monumental to be included, even if it’s far from the action. Peter nods, serious as he says, “I’d be honoured to be your guy in the chair.”
He gets a few smiles despite the situation, his comment working to ease the team’s nerves. Bruce breaks the meeting, everyone splitting off to get ready.
Jason gives Peter a lingering glance before following.
Alfred guides his assistant to the computers, assigning Peter to watch the various police and news frequencies for any sign of odd activity. He’s left there as the butler goes to prep the medbay, readying for the worst.
There’s a pang of something pained in Peter’s chest as his fingers fly across the keyboard, entering command after command. Ned would be so jealous.
“Hey.”
Looking to his right, he sees Jason in the full Red Hood getup. He’s got the helmet on rather than the muzzle that he’d been sporting more recently, though the front is removed so Peter can see his expression.
The rest of the team is moving to their respective transports, splitting off into teams. A few linger, checking in with one another last minute.
“Peter, I…” Jason’s eyes search Peter’s his words trailing off as he’s left at a loss.
Peter just smiles, stands, and hands Jason a small black box.
It’s a piece of tech he’d been tinkering with, plucked from an array of identical buttons. It’s hooked up to emit one signal, going to one destination.
Pressing down on the thumb that Jason has settled lightly over the button, Peter’s cellphone alights from where it’s set on the desk, the small device blaring with an alarm, a distress signal.
Another two clicks in quick succession, and it stops.
“You’ll come back.” Peter says with absolute certainty.
Jason’s expression holds a promise, though he just nods. There’s an aborted twitch, like he’s going to pull Peter into a hold, but the rev of an engine has him stepping away.
Then he’s gone.
The cave goes quiet. A new problem arises.
The waiting is hell.
It’s a test of his patience, to keep his eyes on the screen when he knows he would do good for the team. His senses could help pinpoint any distant sign of Scarecrow, and he can call out last minute warnings with his “spidey sense” as Dick had come to call it.
Sure, he’s helpful in the cave, but he wants to be able to protect the people that have given him so much.
Hours pass.
Nothing.
The only radio chatter are seldom updates whenever someone switches up their route. Bruce, Dick, and Kate coordinate between the teams, communicating their paths through the city.
Peter checks in with them individually, though a few stay silent with their necessity for stealth. Cass and Tim give the smallest of hums. Damian ignores it, haughty in his silence.
He’s just about to check in again with the youngest member when a throat clears, the sound echoing in the cavernous space.
“Young man.” Alfred’s calm voice breaks Peter’s concentration. “Perhaps a break would do you some good.”
He doesn’t entertain the thought for a second. “Can’t.”
“As to be expected.” The butler doesn’t seem surprised, more fond. “Might I mention that you could set a precedent by being the first to learn a modicum of self-care?”
“Ship’s already passed, A.” Peter chirps back, hoping to alleviate Alfred’s worry with a quip. “I’m fine, honest.”
The comm in Peter’s ear hums as someone patches through. There’s a small chime that denotes it as Damian’s, and that he’s secured a private channel.
Alfred continues on. “I must admit I am rather tired of that phrase.”
The hairs on Peter’s neck stand, a chill creeping along his skin.
The crackle of sound, then a voice, unrecognized. Masculine, deep. Cold.
“Hello, Peter.”
Peter stiffens.
“Careful now. Mercy comes with your cooperation, and I would like to carry this conversation without an audience.”
Playing his tension off as a sigh, Peter stands with his hands raised in surrender to Alfred. “Alright fine. I’ll take a break, but promise that you’ll keep me in the loop.”
Alfred’s hand rests lightly on Peter’s shoulder, the comfort unknowingly prescient. “As if I would dream of doing anything else.”
Not wanting to leave, Peter steps away.
The voice returns. “Well done. I trust you know your way to someplace discreet.”
Hating his lack of choice, Peter retreats to his room. Casting one last look to Alfred, he leaves the cave.
The trek upstairs feels endless, each second feeling like it’s being wasted. There’s a timer atop Peter’s head, sand trickling as moments pass.
Closing the door to his room, Peter expands his senses for any devices, leaving his phone on his bed before retreating to the ensuite.
Lowering his voice to a low growl, Peter pushes back his anger as best he can. “What did you do to Robin?”
“Very little, although I understand if you don’t believe me.” The tone is oddly smooth, although not enough to dull Peter’s suspicion. “I have a vested interest in keeping the boy alive.”
Icy fear prickles in fractals through Peter’s veins. “What do you mean?”
“Sentiment weakens all men equally, something I cannot claim to be exempt from.” The voice shares, Peter’s brows furrowing. “I will not cull a member of my bloodline without proper reason.”
A stone drops in Peter’s stomach.
It’s no secret where Damian heralds from on his mother’s side. It had been one of the first things that Bruce had instructed Peter on, the League of Assassins standing as one of the Batman’s greatest adversaries.
Leading them, the Demon’s Head. Ra’s al Ghul.
“I understand you know who I am given your silence.” There’s a hint of pride in Ra’s’ tone, ego inflated by infamy. “And so you grasp the gravity of the situation.”
“Batman’s going to notice Robin’s disappearance.”
“Indeed he will. The detective is known for his perception, and so I urge you towards silence so precious time is not wasted. I need not be pushed to action.”
Feeling as if something’s coiling around his throat, Peter quiets.
“Very good.” It’s said to Peter like he’s a child, a pat on the head for the smallest of accomplishments. “In five minute’s time, a vehicle will be by the manor. You will get in without arousing any suspicion, and be without tracker or communication device.”
Peter’s eyes close. He breathes out, slowly.
“Failure to comply will force my hand.” Ra’s says this with finality, and Peter can’t doubt the truth of his statement. “Do ensure to use this distraction wisely.”
The comm cuts out.
There’s a bout of silence, dread mounting.
Nightwing interrupts it. “Scarecrow spotted just south of Old Gotham!”
“Masks!” Batman barks his order. “En route for support, all others maintain objectives. Batwoman, Red Robin, Signal, be ready to administer antidotes to any civilians caught in the crossfire.”
A series of confirmations filter through, Damian’s lack of response lost in the chaos.
Peter knows what he has to do.
Pressing a hand to his ear, he secures a line to Alfred and Barbara, not wanting to distract the others. “I’ll prepare extra antidotes in the lab. Gotham PD’s right there.”
It’s a horrible play against Barabara’s worry for her dad, the Commissioner on shift with the breakout. With his age, the fear toxin could send him into cardiac arrest faster than most.
Believing the manipulation as a kind gesture, Barbara replies earnestly, “Thank you.”
“Do not take long, young man.” Alfred chides, militaristic steel lining his tone. “I may need your assistance in restraining our allies should one fall under the effects of the toxin.”
“I’ll be back in a flash.” Peter lets the lie roll of his tongue, the words ashen. “Promise.”
He’s left to his own devices. Four minutes.
Leaving his room, Peter snatches his phone along the way. It’s habitual, a last minute comfort. He wants to text Jason.
Instead, he makes his way to the lab. It’s a quick trip. Three minutes, thirty-two seconds.
Booting up the synthesizer, Peter punches in the command for the correct antidote. Thinking to the toll of the Scarecrow’s previous attacks and the geographical location, he increases the output.
The lab hums to life. Two minutes.
Peter puts his phone down, aware of the tracker in it. He wasn’t supposed to leave tonight, so there’s no hidden bugs in his clothes, nothing planted with a tight hug. He was supposed to be safe.
He takes the comm out, keeping it switched on to avoid any suspicion. He hopes they won’t notice. He hopes they will.
He can’t hear the buzz of electricity on him. Just stillness.
There’s a notepad on the table, a pen beside it.
‘I'm sorry’
One minute, fifty-two seconds.
Peter’s still in his workout gear from his spar with Bruce earlier. It reminded him of Jason’s first gift, the high-quality tactical fabric. He’d taken it from Batman’s personal belongings.
I steal.
Dude. So not cool.
Not from civilians, idiot.
Man, he’s really missed Jason.
Peter’s going to make it back. He is.
From his time with the Waynes, he’d learned one important lesson from them all, from Bruce in particular. Paranoia is how you keep your loved ones safe, but it’s a weapon that you will most often turn against yourself.
He leaves the manor, clicks a button on his web shooters. The security gets caught on a loop. No alarms blare, no sensors trip. One minute.
He crosses the lawn. Thirty seconds.
Peter jumps the gate. A car is approaching, windows tinted. Ten seconds.
It stops, and Peter gets in the back.
Wayne manor fades from view.
Time’s up.
~ ~ ~
Peter Parker
Gotham City – January 9th
It’s an insult that he’s taken to the café where he first met Commissioner Gordon, a message that he’d been monitored even then.
There’s nobody out on the streets, the warnings of the breakout clear in the news. Only a few cars pass by, their passengers looking afraid as they gaze outside their windows.
Peter can relate.
He pulls his bravery in tight as he steps out the vehicle. There’s a single person lounging in the café, one hand raising in a wave.
Feeling as if he’s approaching the executioner’s block, Peter walks inside.
The stranger is sitting in the same spot that Peter was when he first came here. He’s got a mug of coffee on the table, half finished, the steaming cup sat beside a sleek pistol.
He’s wearing a mask. Grey and black.
“C’mon over.” The hand he used to wave beckons Peter over. “Take a load off. The hard part’s over.”
“Can’t say that puts me at ease.” Peter retorts before he can stop himself.
“I’ll excuse that one, but don’t test me.” The man sets his hand on the gun, casual in his threat of violence. “I’m surprised you showed.”
Peter isn’t sure how to respond to that.
There’s something familiar in the man’s build, the way he holds himself. He’s dangerously casual, reminding Peter of Dick in a twisted way.
“Do I know you?”
“Yeah, kid.” Dark irony coats the man’s voice. “You shot me.”
Peter feels himself blanche. His eyes drop to the gun, recognizes it too. His heart thuds, hard.
He’d only learned after the fact of who he’d hit that night, was taught to recognize Deathstroke’s telltale dual toned suit. He’s missing the orange, the pigment bled to create the dull grey, blending in as just another assassin.
“Gotta admit, that was a hell of a night. Pulled some fancy tricks there, swinging webs and taking names.” Slade Wilson slides the weapon off the table, ejects the clip. “Look, there’s only one bullet left. Could’ve offed me then and there. Would’ve saved you a lot of trouble.”
Peter dips into his anger to smother the fear. “Sorry to disappoint.”
“I’d say we can work on that, but this is my last stop on this shitshow.” The gun’s put back down, Slade’s head tilting consideringly. “Can’t say I understood the fuss about you until today. You lied like a champ, kiddo.”
The urge to vomit grows. Peter changes the topic, thinking to what he’d been taught about the rogue. “You were listening. I thought you hated Ra’s.”
“Yeah, well, enemy of my enemy and all that.” Slade swipes his hand dismissively. “Besides, you’re going to help me ruin all of their hard work.”
Suspicion bubbles at the back of Peter’s mind.
“You’re their weapon, carefully crafted to serve a purpose. There’s no getting out of this now.” Deathstroke leans forward, steepling his fingers. “At first, I wanted to watch the show up close. Gotta admit, it was fun seeing good ol’ Nightwing toe that line again.”
“But, I had the thought that the maniac who built you might want to clear the roster. I know too much, and I can guess at all the fun little tricks they’re going to teach you.” He nods his head to Peter, as if giving him pre-emptive props.
“I don’t kill.”
“You will, given enough time.” Peter hates the surety in Slade’s assertion. “They’ve got something funky in that brain of yours. Some chip dialed to their biosignatures, uses your freaky meta stuff to get you to follow orders. I dunno how it works, but I caught a glimpse of the design.”
A handshake. Sit. Peter sits. Time spilling through his fingers.
“You’re all tied up with strings, Pinocchio. You’re going to figure out how to break out of the control.” Slade leans back, still infuriatingly casual as he says, “And then you’re going to die.”
Promise me.
“Find someway to do it, cause otherwise you’ll be a puppet for the rest of your life. I’ll give you fifty bucks if you can get one of the Bats to do the deed.” A pause, a searching eye from behind the mask. “Oh, don’t have such a long face. It won’t be that bad. You’ve already done it once before.”
Twice. “I didn’t want to die.”
“Nobody does, kid.” Deathstroke sighs. “You were on borrowed time anyways. Might as well put on a show before you go nuclear.”
Peter swallows, mind running wild on a faulty line. He gathers his horror and smooshes it flat, focusing on what’s important. “Where’s Robin?”
Slade doesn’t blink at the change in topic. “Oh right, I almost forgot.”
He whistles once, sharp, and the door to the kitchen opens. Two mercenaries usher a thrashing Robin forward, his eyes obscured by a blindfold and hearing blocked by high-tech muffs. Solid metal bands keep his limbs trapped together, hindering any possibility for escape, and there’s a cloth in his mouth.
Peter darts towards the boy, Slade calling out a reminder behind him as he goes. “Don’t forget, one bullet left.”
It’s a stupid threat given the numerous weapons concealed on Deathstroke’s person, but Peter heeds the warning regardless. He doesn’t go for the restraints, kneeling before the boy before pulling the gag out gently.
Damian starts shouting insults at the first chance he gets, curses slipping into his tirade.
The muffs are crushed in Peter’s hands, and then he’s taking off the blindfold.
Assessing the situation quickly, Damian’s eyes dart around for any hint of a threat first. They narrow when he sees Slade, but then widen as he looks to Peter.
His face crumples but arranges itself into fury before the weakness can take hold, a conclusion reached as Damian glances between him and Slade. “No. Tell me you did not do this-”
“Robin, we don’t have any time.” Peter hates himself for interrupting, Damian’s head shaking as he pre-emptively denies whatever’s about to be said to him. “It’s going to be okay. I have a plan-”
“Imbecile!” The kid snarls, reactive in his worry, anguish. “You are a fool!”
“I know, I know.” Peter steadies Damian as he thrashes again, trying to dislodge the grip that the mercenaries still have on him. It feels wrong that Peter’s left unshackled, the bindings so small around the young boy. “I need you to do something for me.”
Damian’s expression almost fractures, but holds strong in its righteous anger. “I refuse! You will do it, I don’t care.”
Emotion crawls up Peter’s throat but he swallows it down, has to get this out. “Sit with him for me, okay? Ask to read Frankenstein, get sad about the ending, what it means for people like us. Ask him to help you with your work, even though you don’t need it.”
“I need to know you’ll be okay.” A heavy breath punches out and back into Peter’s lungs. “Please, Robin.”
Damian’s muscles uncoil, his head dipping beneath the weight of Peter’s request. It’s too much to ask of someone so young, but he has to. He has to know that Damian won’t pull away again, that he’ll reach out, even if it’s just for Peter’s sake.
A quiet reply. “I will hate you forever if you go.”
Peter remembers the first and only time he’d told May he hated her. She’d burned his favourite meal after the first day of school, the one his mom would make him every year. Earlier that day, Flash christened him with the title of ‘orphan’, the first one to call him that.
Stop trying to be her! I hate you!
He’d regretted the words as soon as he said them, and had to watch as grief spilled into May’s eyes.
Ben sent him to his room, and he’d cried all the way up. His uncle followed him soon after, and soaked Peter’s tears into an already dampened shoulder.
Little Peter had forgotten that May was grieving too, that she’d lost family just as he had. He remembered this when Ben died, knew that she bent to the left when she needed to be held up.
“That’s okay.” Peter doesn’t cry, doesn’t let anything show but soft affection. He reaches around and gives Damian a hug, keeping his next words between them. “You’re the best little brother anyone could ask for.”
A heavy hand clasps onto Peter’s shoulder and he’s yanked away.
“Time to go.”
Damian surges forward, fights against his restraints. “No!”
A needle slides into the side of Peter’s neck. Cold seeps into his veins, his eyelids getting heavy in seconds.
Shoes squeaking against floor, Peter’s heels drag as he’s moved away from Robin.
One of the mercenaries asks a question, the distance making his words all warbly.
Slade’s close enough that the words register. Peter has to focus to make sense of it, the arrangements of letters losing meaning quickly.
“We don’t get paid if the kid bites it. Your grandpa fled too fast little birdie. I would’ve loved watching his expression as you bled out in front of him, so far from his beloved pits.”
Damian keeps fighting. Peter is so proud of him, the spark he holds that he refuses to let go out. He’s such a bright kid.
There’s the movement of a small blur, and something’s colliding with Damian’s temple. He slumps to the floor.
“Leave him. The bats will come soon enough.”
Peter’s eyes slide closed, and he realizes what his problems have led to. The cascade failure that has his life crumbling before his eyes.
It all ends with a mistake.
One mistake. One word missing, never uttered.
He didn’t say goodbye.
Notes:
Warnings for: discussion of the death of a minor, needles, kidnapping w/ use of an anesthetic drug.
Let me know if there's something I should add!
Chapter 29
Notes:
Feels strange to wish this given the... everything happening in the fic atm (/lh), but...
Enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Jason Todd
Gotham City - January 9th
“Robin located.” Kate’s voice comes through on the comms, her relief tampered by her worry. “He’s bound and unconscious, but otherwise unharmed.”
Jason’s breath comes easier, the pace of his thoughts slowing with the retrieval of their youngest teammate. The push of firelit memories abates, the scent of blood and rotten warehouse wood whisking away.
“All teams, return to original tasks.” Bruce’s voice does not seem pleased. “Scarecrow’s gone. Get Robin to the medbay.”
Letting out a small curse, Jason guides his motorcycle in a quick U-turn to orient himself back towards the hospital.
He can’t blame Bruce for prioritizing Robin’s safety with everything that’s been going on. His hypervigilance hadn’t come without a cost, and everyone can feel the curveball winding back.
Scarecrow slipping away, well that one hurts.
He’ll reappear sooner rather than later, likely with flare. The rogue’s got a penchant for quick comebacks, his patterns predictable.
Dick shares words of encouragement through the comms. “We’ll get him, B.”
There’s a grunt from Bruce’s end, but it gets cut off partway.
Odd.
Jason keeps on his path, seeing nothing out of place. The roads are vacant, a bit off-putting considering Gotham’s penchant for late-night amblers.
A bad feeling stirs in Jason’s gut. The night is quiet.
“Red Hood, Nightwing.” Bruce voice cuts through the silence, clipped. “Return to the cave.”
They know better than to argue when Batman’s got that tone. The crackling of Jason’s earpiece cuts out, the line going dead.
Something’s wrong with Robin. Gotta be.
A few civilians had been hit by the Scarecrow’s toxin, but they’d been given the antidote before being rushed off to the hospital for monitoring. The team knows better than to keep any major injuries hidden, especially when it comes to fear gas.
“Wing?” Jason patches through to Dick. “You know what this is about?”
“No.” He sounds stressed, the engine of his bike audible in the background. He’s gotta be pushing its capabilities in his haste, mind jumping to the worst case scenario. “You don’t think…”
Jason shakes his head, forgetting for a moment that Dick can’t see him. “B would call a code blue if it was that. He might just need help keeping the little twerp down.”
Dick doesn’t respond, returning his focus to getting back to the cave.
Despite his verbalized optimism, Jason is feeling anything but. Bruce has a way of skewing his priorities when there’s a crisis, getting short on words when he’s pushing back panic.
Oftentimes, it doesn’t help anyone but himself.
With the manor residing outside Gotham city proper, the trip back is long, the distance feeling tripled whenever there’s an emergency. Jason revs his bike to go faster, the world blurring around him in his haste.
Pulling into the cave’s entrance, he sees the Batmobile alongside Dick and Kate’s motorcycles. None of them are around, Alfred similarly missing.
His unease skyrockets.
Cutting the power of his bike, Jason moves towards the computer, typing in a command to access the camera feeds. They’re all empty save for the medbay, everyone piled into one room. There’s no audio enabled, the default set to mute.
Damian’s on a bed, awake. Bruce has a hand planted on his shoulder, keeping the kid from leaving the cot.
Dick is talking to Damian, back turned to the camera with his palms held out placatingly. Kate’s by the door, acting as a sentry.
Alfred’s moving around, getting tests ready, but there’s a pinch in his brow that has Jason’s unease turning to fear. The butler doesn’t show emotion unless something’s really wrong.
Hitting the audio, Jason gets to hear what Robin’s shouting into the room.
“-must alter the mission!” Damian tries to push Bruce away, his shoves uncoordinated. If Jason were a betting man, he’d put money on a concussion being the cause. “He must be located!”
“I’ve already sent word to everyone, Damain.” Bruce tries to go for calming, but he’s still got the cowl on, the white lenses giving nothing away. There’s an odd undercurrent in his tone. “You can’t assist in your condition.”
“Take a breath.” Dick urges in a soft voice. “Scarecrow will pop up eventually.”
“No!” The kid persists, finally getting Bruce to let go. He pushes himself to sit, wavering enough that he has to hold himself up with a hand against the mattress. “Richard, we must find him!”
Dick moves to sit beside Damian, acting as a barrier as he asks, “Who?”
“Peter!”
Dick sucks in a sharp breath.
The manor’s cameras show no other signs of life.
Bruce’s tone. Alfred’s expression.
You’ll come back.
Jason’s finger presses a button, sleek and familiar. Bruce's design, but altered by Peter's hand. It had been given to him just a few short hours ago, a gift in lieu of words. Words he should’ve said.
Click.
Silence.
He’s taking the stairs three at a time. They sound of boots on stone is drowned out by the thudding of a heart.
Click.
Silence.
Halls blur. Paintings on the wall. Laboured breathing.
Click.
Silence.
A door slams open. Science posters on the wall. A rumpled bed, vacant. The space, empty.
Click.
Silence.
There are voices calling a name, sound bouncing through the house. The footsteps start again.
Click.
Silen-
Jason steps into the lab, an alarm blaring from the phone sitting on the nearby table. It rattles against the stainless steel surface.
There’s a notepad beside it. A familiar looping scrawl, neat despite the antsy energy that its author is so full of.
I’m sorry
He can’t hear the alarm anymore. There’s something in his ears, viscous, choking. He’s drowning.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Silence.
~ ~ ~
Bruce Wayne
Wayne Manor - January 9th
Sound guides them to him.
Amid the chaos, Jason’s vocal cords strain and shred, voice rasping beneath the shrieking of an alarm.
It’s a pained, horrible. The last time Bruce heard it, it’d been from his own throat, torn from his chest as a still body weighed his arms down.
He’d cradled too many of his children in that hold.
It’s worse to hear it from someone else, from someone he loves. He can’t take that kind of pain from others, no matter how much he might try.
The Batman does not panic, has trained himself out of the reflex.
In this moment, he is startlingly human. Bruce loses the tight grip of his control.
“Jason!”
The door to the lab is ajar, knocked off its hinges. Shattered glass and twisted metal is all that’s left of the lab, Jason standing hunched in the middle of the storm.
His breaths squeeze out of his lungs at a frenzied pace, wheezing whenever the last of his air is punched out of his lungs. They’re coming too fast, his strength waning as he’s deprived of oxygen.
There’s a steady drip of blood from his hands, gloves torn in the midst of his violence. His helmet is gone, discarded from where he’d tried to bury it into the wall, the impact evident in the cracks that spread from the epicentre.
Bruce doesn’t think, doesn’t care that Jason could hurt him in this state. He doesn’t see the Red Hood, the Dark Prince of Gotham.
He just sees his son.
Jason’s knees crack against the floor, back bowing as he doubles over. Bruce doesn’t make it to him in time to stop his weight from falling onto his kneecaps, the sound of bone on tile echoing in the fractured space.
Taking the spot in front of Jason, Bruce kneels amongst the shards of glass. The vestiges of his suit protect his skin from the sharp edges beneath, having had no time to fully doff the armor.
Reaching forward, Bruce tries to grasp gently at Jason’s hands. His forearms are seized by tight fingers, nails digging into fabric. Crimson rivulets trace down the sides of Bruce’s gauntlets, seeping in where the Kevlar fades into a more flexible material.
Jason looks up.
The rage is faded, glow vacant from his eyes. There is only grief, anger giving way beneath the weight of reality.
Peter left, and all current evidence supports that he won’t be returning. Not under his own power.
Anguish swells in Bruce, a wave that threatens to pull him under.
“Bruce, I can’t-” Jason’s voice is small, barely audible as he fights for air. “He’s-… I-”
Disentangling a hand from his arm, Bruce lets Jason curl it into the fabric of his cape. “We’ll find him, Jason.”
He can’t tell if his words are making it through, his son’s words stuttering out. “They’re… they’re gonna change him. I can’t-”
Jason stops, his fist tightening. “They… they need to die, Bruce.”
Bruce’s heart cracks.
It’s another type of grief, to watch someone you love become a person they would’ve once hated.
He can still see the bright quirk of a young boy’s smile, the cheerful whoop of freedom as a fledgling vigilante soars across the rooftops. He sees the kid he found on the streets, fiery defiance in his eyes as he looked up at Batman with a tire iron gripped between his small fingers.
He can still see him whenever he looks at Jason.
That boy’s on his knees, gripping onto Bruce like he used to after a nightmare. He’s wishing death on another, nails pressing deep as if to squeeze the life from someone’s body. His hands are stepped in red, their fault of their staining lying solely on his father’s shoulders.
Bruce’s grief is what had pushed him to anger in the past, his guilt and denial smothered beneath the comfort of rage. He’d pushed Jason away in the face of his bloodlust, uncaring that he was the one who’d passed it down to the younger man.
It’s what usually has recriminations building on his tongue, but Bruce is absent of them now.
He knows that Jason won’t do it, not when it’s for the sake of a child who would feel nothing but horror at the prospect of a vengeful execution.
“Jay.” Bruce calls softly, rigidity sliding off his frame as warm brown is met by vivid green. “Peter needs you.”
Jason’s eyelashes flutter in a series of rapid blinks, gaze sharpening with clarity as he tries to understand the meaning behind the words.
“The Red Hood is the defender of Crime Alley, but Peter got to know Jason Todd first.” Bruce’s free hand moves to curl behind Jason’s neck, cradling the back of his skull. “He needs his hero. He needs you.”
Brows scrunching, Jason’s expression morphs into that of a deep, complicated emotion. Bruce looks away, allowing Jason privacy as he finds his way back to himself.
The nod of Jason’s head is felt through the hand that Bruce still has on his nape, the small movement followed by an assured, “Okay.”
Dick moves in Bruce’s peripheral, and Jason turns to look at his older brother. Giving them space, Bruce leaves the room, not wanting to intrude on the words that will be shared between the two.
Alone, he lets his failure crush the breath from his lungs.
He braces a hand against the wall, shoulders curling in a move similar to Jason’s when he’d been standing alone in the mess of the lab
Bruce thinks of the first conversation he’d shared with a young and unknown metahuman, the way he’d looked at the Batman without fear despite his belief that he was hated by the vigilante.
I can see what he meant, though. Untouchable.
Then, he remembers when they’d met as Bruce and Peter, the adolescent recovering from the injuries he’d sustained in protection of that same vigilante. He’d stood brave even then, resolutely defending his guardian, both Jason and the Red Hood, despite the power that Bruce held in the moment.
But he chose to care, and for me that’s enough to warrant forgiveness.
They’d spent more time together in the past couple of weeks since Peter’s discovery of their secret. He was every bit as capable as Bruce believed him to be, adapting to the changes without issue.
A part of Bruce didn’t want him there, wanted the adolescent to stay out of their world. Too many young heroes get lost in the pursuit of good, and he’d come to see Peter as a part of their family.
He’d proven himself to be a blend of the best of each of them. Quips while sparring to ease the tension. Quiet suggestions to improve their systems or tactics. Brilliant inventions that will improve the whole of Gotham, protect its people. His people.
Joy. Laughter. Contentment.
A light, snuffed out.
No.
Bruce clenches his jaw, grits his teeth.
Peter isn’t gone. He won’t allow it.
To give up on him would be to give up on hope, and Bruce had made that mistake one too many times already.
They’ll find him. They have to.
Notes:
:(
Chapter 30
Notes:
This one's lovingly dubbed "the exposition chapter" in my notes.
On a more serious note though, I'm gonna put some trigger warnings for: imprisonment of a minor, implied dissociation, and altered mental states. There's also vaguely obsessive behaviour by some villains. Lemme know if there are tags anyone feels are missing!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Peter Parker
??? - ???
Peter awakens with a jolt and a clang. Nausea flips in his stomach as his mind wars with his body, taking a few seconds to digest waking up vertical.
Cold metal clamps his wrists and ankles to something behind him, equally frigid and unforgiving. A few flexible straps loop around his torso, having kept his back from bowing awkwardly while he was unconscious.
Casting a look around, very little is visible in the space. A dim bulb flickers above his head, leaving the corners cast in shadow. The air is damp and thick with the worst of Gotham’s miasma, trapped somewhere that air doesn’t flow.
There’s a persistent fog in Peter’s head, a lingering fuzziness from whatever Slade had knocked him out with. His mouth tastes like what he always imagined a hangover to be like, gritty and tacky.
Reaching for his senses, they feel as smothered as his brain, the information coming in all jumbled. There’s stuff going on but he can’t make sense of it, an ache blooming between his ears.
Slowly, things clarify.
There’s a heartbeat, slow and steady, coming from nearby.
“Shhh. Breathe, Peter.”
Jerking on instinct, he becomes aware of an ache in his shoulders, a tension that’d built with the way he hadn’t been horizontal in who knows how long. His words come out weaker than he’d been hoping. “Who are you?”
“Soon.” The same voice replies, gentle. There’s a slight modulation to it, keeping the speaker’s identity secret. “I’m sorry it had to be like this, Peter. I had hope that gentler methods could be used, but things were progressing too slowly.”
Peter’s head thumps against the surface behind him as he tries to look up, scrabbling for clarity. “Things tend to get messy when you work with people like Deathstroke.”
“An unfortunate necessity, much like my reliance on the rest of them. You’ve met the big players already.”
“Ra’s al Ghul and Lex Luthor.” Peter concludes.
A small chuckle, sounding almost… proud. “Your intellect never ceases to amaze.”
It feels like a slap to the face. All at once, anger floods into Peter’s body, chasing away the vestiges of confusion. Everything he’d worked for, gone.
For what?
There’s an anchor, heavy in his chest, something to cling to as the waves threaten to pull him under. Keep your cool, Queens. Find out what they want.
“Why? Why did you do all of this?”
A beat. “For you.”
Peter snarls, feeling a bit unlike himself. “You didn’t do this for me.”
“I did.” They insist. “If you’ll allow me to explain.”
Clenching his jaw, Peter abstains from another retort.
“I grew up in Gotham city, born and raised in the Narrows. You don’t get opportunities there, not unless you’re exceptional.” There’s the scuff of a shoe, a step taken. “Problem is, exceptional doesn’t get noticed if you don’t have the resources to back it.”
“I found people that would help me, that’d give me what I needed to be someone. Turn all the right heads.”
The voice lowers. “The Batman killed that dream. Everything I worked for, gone. Dismantled, all while his Robin sang pretty songs of spiders washed out from their spouts.”
A small chill trickles down Peter’s spine, the stranger’s tone edging towards something that has his sixth sense humming.
“I shattered, broke. But out of that I became… different.” An uptick in their heartbeat. “Something else found me, something much bigger than what I had before. A Court, one whose webs stretched all throughout Gotham.”
“They helped me to realize what I could do. That nobody else can feel the strings that weave through our world, how we’re a part of a much bigger tapestry.” There’s awe in their voice, an eerie wonder. “Nobody can sense the threads breaking, branching.”
“There’s nobody else that could notice you.”
Peter looks to the side, trying to catch a glimpse of the stranger. “Me?”
“You were a ripple, Peter. Tangled but completely untethered. Torn from the fabric.” The wonder turns sad, almost pitying. “You inspired my work. I didn’t realize the strings could be tugged until you showed me.”
“The Court gave me a purpose, opportunity, but they were just a stepping stone. They funded my way into Gotham University, funded my research.” The steps stop. “Five elements, both the mundane and the extraordinary, to open up a gateway when they connect with a soul.”
A weight sinks in Peter’s stomach, his grip slipping from his anchor. This all sounds too familiar. Madness straining for five elements, five stones, all at the price of a soul.
“I held the key to getting to you, but the Court had other plans. They thought they could control what they didn’t understand.” The stranger spits the words out, condemnation in each syllable. “Twisted versions of the Dark Knight and their Robins came spilling through, and the Court was torn apart.”
Peter had read up on the incursion in the cave’s computer. Batman had been exposed to all five of the elements and reality tore itself open, versions of Bruce Wayne where he had stepped over the line spilling into the world from darker dimensions.
There had been images of them, one that standing out in particular. Batman clad in chains and spikes, a crimson lipped smile pulled from ear to ear. An audio clip of his laughter.
“I stayed in contact with what remained of the Court, but it was a shadow of its formal grandeur. I needed access to more resources, and an expert on Lazarus pits.”
“Ra’s al Ghul procured the necessary materials, but we needed a way to import them into the city.” The stranger takes another step, getting steadily closer. “The Kennel Master’s ambition made him easy to manipulate, his dreams of reclaiming his family’s former glory a weakness.”
“Lex Luthor had one condition for his cooperation.” They sound annoyed, as if the megalomaniac was nothing but a pest. “Beyond the knowledge of our goals, he wanted the integration of Kryptonite into your biology.”
“Everything was in place, the calculations perfect.” They stumble into a ramble, almost as if making excuses. “Electrum and Dionesium would ensure your survival and heal any injuries. The Batmanium would stabilize the Kryptonite radiation in your body, keeping it from harming you. You wouldn’t feel a thing.”
“The one variable unaccounted for in the end was me.” The admonition sounds genuinely guilty. The voice is so close now. “I didn’t understand how far you were from me.”
“The threads between us tore you apart.”
A phantom sensation crawls through Peter, his DNA unravelling as his atoms were ripped to their base particles. Getting pulled away from his home, reduced to nothing, and waking up drowning. “Stop.”
“There was something missing, your body too weak to endure the stabilization process.” The voice doesn’t stop. “Bane took some convincing, but he gave us what we needed to save you.”
The stranger steps into the light. They have a smaller stature, their face covered by a bone white mask with eight eyeholes carved into the porcelain. Darkness stares out from behind. “I watched as you were born into the Lazarus Cradle, Peter. I saw you, that first night.”
“Stop.” Peter tries again. “I don’t want to hear this.”
“You don’t understand. I protected you, guided you towards safety, watched as you turned your back on shelter.” He can hear the voice beneath the modulator, feminine. “I did everything you asked of me, Peter.”
Peter shakes his head, feeling childish in his quiet denial. No.
“You knew you could trust me, and I never failed you.” A hand reaches up, the same one that’d given him food when he’d lost everything. Again. “I delivered your letter, and kept your secrets. We’re the same, Peter.”
“No, we’re not.”
“We’re both survivors. We know when to hide, when to bury ourselves beneath the dead so we can keep living.” A thumb hooks beneath the mask. “We keep spinning.”
The mask slides off, and Mary stands as a stranger anew. “Peter it’s me. I saved you.”
~ ~ ~
Peter Parker
??? - ???
He doesn’t remember what the Stranger said afterwards. Awareness returned when he’d been moved to a cell, the walls a thick enough stone that he couldn’t hear any movement or voices through them.
It’s quiet.
It gives him time to think.
It was all a lie. Right from the start.
Every goddamn time.
Tony withholding the truth about Captain America’s motivations. Mysterio taking advantage of Peter’s trust. The Green Goblin lying in wait so he can tear Peter apart.
The Stranger watching Peter from the moment he’d been brought back to life. Pushing him onto the streets of Gotham, nearly killing Tim and Jason.
Peter falls for it every time.
His body feels stiff, not his own.
An excerpt from Jason’s old biology textbook comes to mind.
Spiders don’t use muscles to move and extend their limbs. Instead, as is common with most arthropods, they use fluid and hydraulic pressure to hold their bodies up. That’s why their legs draw in towards their body when they die.
Sitting on a soft cot, Peter curls his knees in tight.
~ ~ ~
Peter Parker
??? - ???
Time keeps going missing.
At odd intervals, the door to Peter’s room will open and the Stranger will walk in. She’ll look at him with an expression, always the same one, always a lie.
She’ll walk up to Peter, hold out her hand, and expect him to grab it.
They’ve got something funky in that brain of yours. It’s dialed to their biosignatures, uses your freaky meta stuff to get you to follow orders.
Slade wasn’t lying.
Peter’s sixth sense will shriek, rumble, and settle. The Stranger will talk and at a point, something will have already happened.
There’s an awareness in that hiccup, like the moments before morphine kicks in. He knows that time has passed.
He knows something has happened, because there’s a scratchiness in his lungs and a tenderness of the skin over his cheeks as if there was something on his face.
Air always tastes sweeter in the hours after.
~ ~ ~
Peter Parker
??? - ???
“Hey, Jason?” Peter’s voice croaks, sore from disuse. “I’m sorry that I didn’t talk to you before I left. I should’ve told you everything. I wasn’t really mad that you kept secrets, or that you didn’t like me training with the others.”
Silence.
“I think this is all my fault.”
Silence.
“I’d really like to read another book together. Front to back this time.” The nail of Peter’s thumb picks at the skin of another finger. “You can pick, though maybe something happier would be nice.”
The sound of a water hitting stone, a drop falling from Peter’s chin.
“I miss you.”
~ ~ ~
Peter Parker
??? - ???
“If you’re so insistent that you saved me, why did you make me into this?”
It’s an odd day, the Stranger having neglected to hold Peter’s hand. She looks down at him, his steps falling alongside hers.
“Into what?”
There’s an old philosophical concept that Tony liked, one that he’d use as metaphor for the next generation of Avengers. It was a bittersweet hope for him, a fresh start built upon old roots.
If you took a ship and over time replaced all of the old, rotten planks with stronger and newer ones, could you still claim it as being the same ship?
Tony liked to think that the spirit of the vessel remained despite the ship’s matter being entirely replaced. It was a rare spot where he’d let scientific fact be overruled by sentimentality, some part of him wanting his team’s legacy to be carried on through spirit.
He applied the same logic to his suits, improving on the designs while keeping the mantle of Iron Man consistent. At one point, the hero had believed Peter to be his successor, unmarred by age and war wounds. A pristine replacement.
Peter looks at his knuckles, the scars that crisscross his skin. He doesn’t know how he’d gotten half of them. “Into something different.”
The Stranger doesn’t seem to understand what he means. Her answer is telling, giving away her confusion. “We’re going to make the city a home for people like us.”
He hates how she says it. We. Us.
“We’re going to save Gotham, Peter.” The Stranger smiles. “Together.”
~ ~ ~
Peter Parker
??? - ???
Ra’s al Ghul likes to play chess.
He’s on par with a grand master, maybe even a level above.
He hates it when Peter uses colloquialisms or shortens ‘got to’ to ‘gotta’. He likes to give Peter opportunities to win, just to see if the opening will be noticed, and then find some way to win anyways.
Peter hates Ra’s al Ghul. He plays games within games.
“Tell me, Peter.” Ra’s rolls Peter’s king between his fingers, having plucked it off the board from where it’d been knocked over. “What is your favourite novel?”
The winner gets to ask the other person one question. Ra’s’ questions follow no pattern.
“Frankenstein.”
“Interesting, if a bit uncharacteristic.” Peter levels a glare at the sovereign, knowing of the insult that lies undercurrent in his words. “Why?”
“That’s two questions.”
There’s a gleam in the man’s eyes at the snark, although it’s entirely unamused. “We could always start another match.”
“If you’re so smart, why don’t you try to figure it out?”
“You are both the inventor and the aberration.” Ra’s answers for Peter. “Striving for creation, hating the result of your curiosity, and all the while you remain the monster.”
“See?” Peter forces the words out. “You get it.”
“’Yet even the enemy of God and man had friends and associates in his desolation; I am alone.’” The quote brings the same discomfort that it did the first time Peter had heard it, though it had been uttered from his own mouth rather than that of his captor. “Are you alone, Peter?”
Peter isn’t allowed to ask questions in return, so he just goes for a barbed remark. “You’re the one that blackmailed me, helped bring me here.”
“Yes, using my grandson to do so. You did not have to go for the bait.” Ra’s head tilts. “Is it the fault of your desperation for connection that has you so cemented in solitude?”
Alright, enough.
“Damian hates you, you know.” Peter feels something rising up to his neck, a verdant haze settling over him. “He hasn’t drawn or painted a single picture of you.”
Ra’s al Ghul stares. There’s intrigue hidden deep in his gaze, something that had been absent before now, Peter nothing more than fleeting interest to pass the time.
“You’re scared of dying.” The wood of Peter’s chair creaks, the armrest gripped between his fingers. “I know what it’s like to die. It’s terrifying.”
A twitch of Ra’s brow.
“Living, winning is boring.” Peter glances at his king, still gripped in Ra’s hand. He looks up, locks eyes, acid green meeting. “I’m going to be there the next time you lose.”
For the first time, Ra’s al Ghul smiles at Peter. He has the same deranged twist that the Green Goblin had when he’d taunted Peter on the Statue of Liberty, the same fevered obsession.
It’s easy to remember why Peter had been so willing to cross over that line he’d promised himself he’d never toe. Why weight of the glider was so easy to swing down in a deadly arc.
“I look forward to it.”
The next day, Ra’s al Ghul is gone.
~ ~ ~
Peter Parker
??? - ???
The Stranger gives Peter a new name, though she still refers to him as Peter most of the time.
At times he’s referred to as her Fang. It feels like finality, the final step into his new designation as a weapon.
He has a new appreciation for Bucky Barnes’ story.
Peter’s time with the Stranger is different than Bucky’s with Hydra, missing a bunch of the awful that they’d put the soldier through. He’d been barred from reading the worst of the reports, but whistleblowers spilled a lot of Hydra’s secrets to the news with S.H.I.E.L.D. had imploded.
Imprisonment, cryostasis, brain washing, training, erasure of identity. Just a few key terms that seemed to stretch across the media when the Winter Soldier was made public enemy number one.
Peter’s got a few of them checked off.
Imprisonment? Yep.
Training? Assumed given the soreness of his body on some days.
Erasure of identity? Technically yes, although Dr. Strange kind of set that one up for him before he was dropped into the heart of Gotham.
Brain washing? Peter doesn’t like to think about that one.
Cryostasis is the biggest one he’s been spared of. It’s odd to be thankful for that, but the Stranger had shown a willingness to work with rogues in the past. One call up to the Mr. Freeze and the next thing you know, Peter’s getting surpassed by Damian in age.
The thought has him swallowing back tears. They drip down his throat like acid.
Don’t think about them. Don’t think about them.
Don’t let this place ruin the memories you have of them.
~ ~ ~
Peter Parker
??? - ???
“Mr. Parker, you really have to stop with these acts of rebellion. It’s unbecoming of you.”
Luthor.
Peter pulls his lips back in a sneer. “You mean trying to escape being kidnapped?”
“It’s more of a cashing out on an investment.” Lex corrects Peter coldly. “That is all you have ever been, young man.”
“What, one illegal experiment teen wasn’t enough for you?” Peter sends a mental apology to Superboy despite having never met the guy. “Last one didn’t seem to work out so well for you.”
“He served his purpose. Besides, you’re my avenue for correcting that small… mistake.”
Peter wills away the implication of that, pushing down the image of Clark Kent’s empty eyes staring up at him. “Wow, Lex Luthor admitting to a mistake. Somebody get my camera.”
“Ah yes, lashing out, very original.” Luthor steps forward, looking down his nose at Peter. “I hoped you might have seen reason by now. There is much that we could accomplish together if you set aside your misguided notions that I’m the bad guy here.”
Peter meets his gaze, unflinching. “Again, you kidnapped me. That’s lesson one in Bad Guy 101.”
A hand whips out and Peter’s jaw is gripped by a tight grasp. “You do not belong anywhere, to nobody but m-… us.”
Eyes flaring, Peter wordlessly points out Luthor’s slip-up.
“Nobody is searching for you, Peter.” Lex picks at the edge of Peter’s mind, his insecurities, with his words. “Bruce Wayne has made no mention of your name, no missing person’s case filed with the police.”
That’s standard procedure. It’s just standard procedure.
“Gotham’s vigilantes have much better things to occupy themselves with than searching for the boy that never existed. Would they not have rescued you already?”
They’re coming for me. They are.
“Your family never existed. You made it up.” Luthor releases Peter, his head dropping as he unexpectedly has to hold it up himself again. “The sooner you realize that, the sooner our work can begin.”
Deep in Peter’s mind, he clings to the rough texture of hempen rope, cast steel keeping him grounded. His anchor. Stay strong, kid. Deep breaths, remember?
Tilting his chin up, Peter just stares. He isn’t sure what expression he’s making, but he’s sure it matches the defiance that’s igniting in his chest. That’s it, Queens.
“Have it your way.” Luthor waves his hand, frigid anger settling over his features. “In due time you will come to know the error of your decision. I have let my business in Metropolis go unattended for too long.”
Then Luthor’s gone too.
~ ~ ~
Peter Parker
??? - ???
The door to Peter’s cell opens with a barely audible squeak of its hinges, and the Stranger steps through. “I see you’ve chased away my investors.”
“What, are you looking for an apology?”
“I’m not upset.” The Stranger steps closer to where Peter’s sitting on his bed, keeping a polite distance. “I should be thanking you.”
Peter tries not to let his surprise show on his expression.
“They were a means to an end. There’s no doubt that they’ll return at some point to give us trouble, but for now we can proceed to the next step.” The Stranger smiles, a quirk of her lip that Peter used to think was kind. “We have a few loose ends to tie up.”
Heart sinking, Peter doesn’t grace her words with a reply. He just closes his eyes.
Notes:
All is revealed! Kudos to those of you who guessed at the Court of Owl's involvement :3.
For additional context, they're a big player in the comics. The incursion I'm referring to is when Batman came into contact with Dionesium, Batmanium, Electrum, Nth metal, and Promethium, which opened a portal to the Dark Multiverse (as was orchestrated by the Court/Parliament of Owls). This is where the Batman Who Laughs is from alongside other versions of Evil Batman (TM), all of whom made Big Problems for our heroes.
The use of some of these elements is what helped Peter get teleported to Gotham, but I kept away from using all of them to avoid the implication that Marvel is just another Dark Universe of DC's /lh.
Hope the lore makes sense cause I am too far into this story to change it /lh.
Chapter 31
Notes:
Small warning for discussions of substance addiction alongside more informal types of addiction.
Also, there's a companion one-shot for the holidays (context for Future Readers, this released mid-December) that occurred between chapters 27 and 28! Have some comfort for your hurt.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Tim Drake
Gotham City - February 23rd
There’s a little known fact about Tim’s birth family that never made it into the public’s notice. Every one of the Drakes struggled with addiction, most in the abstract.
For fringe members, it often involved some reliance on substances, uncles and cousins falling to alcoholism and then gambling. Tim never got to meet these relatives, their names cut from any record that the press might be able to get their hands on.
Jack and Janet believed themselves above that, kept a tight control on the amount of wine they’d have during galas and dinner events. Their money was new, nothing like the legacy wealth that Bruce was born into, and so their social standing was so much more precarious.
They imparted the importance of this onto Tim time and time again, giving him ample reasons to stay vigilant. It became doubly important when he took the mantle of Robin, needing all of his faculties in order so he could stay alert to danger.
What Jack and Janet Drake could not recognize was that they’d fallen to the same pattern.
Janet needed prestige, clung to it with pointed-tip, lacquered nails. She dressed herself in finery and adorned her fingers with the rarest of jewels, keeping her chin tilted high with a gaze that left no question as to if she should be respected or not.
Jack was hooked on the chase, running after intellectual pursuits and the next big find. His hands were never idle, reaching for his phone to book a flight so he could uncover a new long-forgotten artifact in some hidden corner of the world. It’s part of what kept him going after Janet and the coma, a new push but this time in the pursuit of scavenging what was left of his life.
Tim never fooled himself that he was the exception, having taken after both of his parents in certain ways.
He takes slights against himself badly and holds himself to a higher standard, forging himself into a one-man army in preparation for the day that he has to take on Gotham alone. He needs excitement in his life, knows that he could never set aside the cape even under pain of death.
He thought that was it for the longest time, worked to keep these dark aspects of himself from showing. He used them to his advantage, covering for Bruce’s faults and the team’s weaknesses with wit and proper planning.
It took him far too long to realize that he wasn’t like either of his parents at all.
They’d drilled into him the importance of control throughout his whole childhood, and they died because Tim had let things slip through his fingers.
Janet, poisoned while in rags because Tim wasn’t checking in on them. Jack, murdered by Boomerang because Tim wasn’t home, thought he was safe.
Peter, taken, because Tim got complacent.
He didn’t inherit his parent’s weaknesses. He inherited Bruce’s.
Tim can feel the itch in his fingers when he’s away from the computer for too long, his mind whirling when he tries to distract himself from the case. It’s unhealthy, but bad things happen when Tim Drake loses control, and he’s been without it for too long.
He has the facts of Peter’s disappearance memorized, the times stamped into his mind. He still reads over the report, sat in the cave while everyone else is out on patrol. There’s nobody to monitor his work on the computer, Barbara off with Dick to search for signs of Peter in Blüdhaven.
January 8th, 7:52pm: Scarecrow is reported missing from Arkam, interrupting a spar between Batman and Peter.
January 8th, 10:27pm: Robin does not respond to a check-in from Peter, assumed reason is necessity for stealth.
January 8th, 10:41pm: Agent A attempts to persuade Peter to take a break. Peter is not interested until he stiffens the slightest bit, head tilted as he listens to his comm.
January 8th, 10:42pm: Peter agrees to taking a break. He returns upstairs to the manor, where he heads to his room.
January 8th, 10:46pm: Peter inputs the correct solution for the fear toxin antidotes. He leaves his phone and communication device on the bench, leaving the latter on to dispel suspicion for as long as possible. He writes a note: I’m sorry.
January 8th, 10:48pm: Peter activates the device on his wrist, referred to as his “web-shooters”, and the perimeter security systems perform a brief system reset. This takes a minute. Peter leaves the property and enters into an unmarked car.
January 9th, 12:14pm: Peter is taken to Estie’s Café. Slade Wilson converses with Peter until Robin is revealed, bound (see Robin_Report_3070).
January 9th, 12:16pm: Robin is rendered unconscious via blunt force to the head and left. Peter is rendered unconscious with an unknown anesthetic. He is removed from the café.
January 9th, 12:36: Last sighting of Peter on CCTV.
Damian’s report from that night isn’t pleasant to remember, half inadmissible with the fault he’d attributed to himself. They all harbor guilt, but the boy had been the last to see Peter, their last shot at getting him back.
It was Bruce’s voice over comms that alerted everyone to Peter’s disappearance. All teams, new directive priority alpha: locate missing metahuman aged 16, last seen at Estie’s Café. Brown hair with a white streak, taken by Deathstroke.
The lack of detail was laughable, but they didn’t need anything more than that. Nobody chirped back a quip or request for elaboration. They knew who had gone missing.
As the search stayed dry, they fell like dominoes. Succumbing to exhaustion or despair, they slowly came to the realization that whoever took Peter knew how to keep him gone. The reports were abandoned in favor of active searching, everyone deeming it a dead end.
Everyone but Tim.
There’s something in the back of his mind, a piece of the case that he’d let lie. It’s flaking like cracked paint, itching like a bad burn that’s starting to peel.
Nothing from that night’s report fills that hole, and so Tim has to turn the clock back.
The biggest event before that night was Peter’s discovery of the cave, when he’d read the file on himself. It’d been written largely by Tim’s hand, outlining him as a weapon.
He’d been labeled as such after his interaction with Lex Luthor and Superman, his body emitting a low level of kryptonite radiation. It adapted well with his past exposure via the spider bite, the energy bonding to his DNA rather than tearing it apart.
The radiation’s presence is subtle enough that it won’t affect a human’s health or trigger any tech designed to detect it, but bring a full-blooded Kryptonian to his knees. That kind of precision takes time, effort, and experience.
Pulling up the audio from the bug in Peter’s phone, Tim watches the interaction teen’s interaction with Luthor through. They’re fortunate the cell had been on the table, spared from Luthor’s interference as it remained disconnected from the manor’s security systems.
“Uh, can I help you?”
“I am quite alright, young man. I don’t believe I have seen you among Mr. Wayne’s gaggle of wards before.”
“I’m Tim’s friend, Peter. You’re Lex Luthor, right?”
“It seems my reputation proceeds me. Often it is customary for businessmen to shake hands when introducing themselves. Has Mr. Wayne not informed you of such formalities?”
Peter’s backed into a corner, feels pressured. Luthor is indicating a measure of knowledge about Bruce’s potential ability to instruct Peter’s behaviour. He shakes Luthor’s hand.
Luthor sticks in close, checks Peter’s work. The billionaire boasts about his first particle accelerator, one he likely had someone else draft up for him.
Enter Clark Kent.
“Am I interrupting something?”
“Peter and I were just getting to know one another. It seems like Mr. Wayne has found himself another prodigy to squeeze for ingenuity.”
Lex Luthor drops a hand on Peter’s shoulder. He tenses, but settles, eyes boring into Clark. He doesn’t look like he’s imploring help, gaze oddly empty.
The two men talk, exchanging barbs.
“Yes, your thinly veiled threats are greatly appreciated, Kent.” Lex lets go. “I wish you good luck on your work, Mr. Parker.”
Peter sits, staring at Clark.
“Hoo boy, Lex sure can be a piece of work when he wants to be.”
No response.
“Sorry if I startled you. I saw him wander away and I know that Mr. Wayne is a deeply private man. Although, having the press in the private wing might give him more worries than Lex.” A sheepish chuckle from Clark, meant to built comradery.
Still nothing from Peter.
“Son? Are you alright?” Clark moves a bit into Peter’s space.
Peter blinks, nods. “Yeah. I’m okay, Mr. Kent.”
Minutes later, Clark Kent is being ushered to the cave with symptoms of Kryptonite poisoning.
Some of the paint in Tim’s head flakes. Mr. Parker.
Tim rewinds the recording.
“I’m Tim’s friend, Peter. You’re Lex Luthor, right?”
Tim scrubs it forward.
“I wish you good luck on your work, Mr. Parker.”
Tim presses a finger to his comm, connecting his device to the shared channel. “Hey, did anyone notice P acting weird in the days or weeks after his run-in with Luthor?”
Bruce is the first to answer, voice gravelly. “Elaborate.”
“In the phone’s recording, Luthor referred to P by his last name without being expressly told beforehand.” Tim explains, “Then when he leaves, P just kind of… stops.”
“Stops?” This time it’s Cass piping up.
“P’s being spoken to, but he isn’t reacting.”
“Museum of Art.” Cass responds, continuing with, “December 14, 13:00. Arachne exhibit.”
Tim grunts in acknowledgement, navigating the system to pull up the museum’s security feeds. It’s an easy route, the team keeping an eye on Gotham’s art scene for when Catwoman finds her next score.
He moves through the CCTV recordings, attention bouncing between the different cameras. The quality isn’t the best despite the funds that the Wayne Foundation anonymously donated in the hopes that they improve them, the money likely having been funneled into some curator’s pocket instead.
After a few minutes of searching, Tim spots Peter walking alongside Cass and Duke. The teen looks increasingly uncomfortable as the minutes go by, the brim of his hat settled low over his eyes.
It has his vision impeded enough that he doesn’t notice himself wandering away from his friends, the two of them going on high alert when they catch Peter’s absence. Cass and Duke start searching the crowds, but Peter’s found himself tucked away in an odd exhibit.
It follows a vague spider motif, most of the pieces involving string and weaving. Peter’s staring at the piece in the middle of the room, head tilted.
Someone walks up behind him, feminine in figure, and sets their hand on his shoulder.
Peter turns, surprised, and the figure backs off. They share a few words and then the teen is relaxing, seemingly recognizing the stranger.
They talk, considering the piece before them, until they pat him on the arm and back up. Peter follows until he’s standing before them, his shoulders held gently as he’s turned. A few moments pass where they’re standing before the figure is leaving.
Peter doesn’t move, his attention set on what he had been looking at last.
It’s not until Cass and Duke find him that he snaps out of it, turning to greet them before looking around for the stranger.
“Cass, you were right. It was the same thing.” Tim’s tone is grave, unease mounting with the possibility of what this could mean.
“Red Robin, search for any leads with the exhibit.” The command is all Batman, his focus sharpening with the new development. “Nothing is a coincidence, not with this case.”
“On it.” Rolling the stiffness from his wrists, Tim gets to searching. “The exhibit’s an homage to Arachne, the weaver who faced Athena in a competition. When the goddess won, she shamed Arachne to death only to bring her back as a spider.”
“Hn.” Bruce’s succinct reply comes through. “Athena is the patron goddess of the Amazons.”
“True, but I don’t see any connection with Wonder Woman.”
Another grunt. “What symbols are associated with her?”
Tim types in a quick search. “Her aegis has a gorgon on it. Otherwise olives and olive trees, spears and armor, owls-”
There’s a bout of silence over the line. Someone hisses out a swear, likely Steph.
“We don’t know for certain if there’s a connection.” Bruce’s tone suggests that he’s pretty sure there’s a connection, but the man never passes up an opportunity for a lesson. “The myth’s origins could suggest a grudge, however.”
“Against the Batman?”
“It’s an unfortunately common motivation amongst Gotham’s rogues.” The dry response is more Bruce than Batman, a crack in the vigilante’s façade. “Games like this would indicate a level of intelligence which makes them all the more dangerous. Search who funded the exhibit.”
Tim starts to dig into the museum’s records. “If we are basing our guess off the owl angle, wouldn’t that make the exhibit a warning to the Court over the Batman?”
Jason cuts in. He hadn’t interacted on comms unless absolutely necessary, spending all of his time searching Gotham. His voice is a bit hoarse. “I thought the Court was finished.”
“Organizations like the Court never really go away. They either go deep underground or break into splinter cells. There’s been traces of them here and there, but nothing actionable.” Bruce would know best, having fought the same battles again and again. “The art could be a message to more than one target regardless.”
There’s another lull while Tim follows the paper trail that led to the exhibit’s funding. “Guys, whoever wanted this put up jumped through a lot of hoops to keep their name off the official records. It was mostly done anonymously or through third party fundraisers.”
Tim ignores the unclaimed contributions, focusing on the donations. Accessing their statements, he finds that most of them are shell organizations, their resources filtering through a network of other charities that all lead to similar origins.
“Most of the cash can be traced back to a bunch of public initiatives that went stale.” Tim cringes. “A decent chunk of it was from the Wayne Foundation’s old community projects.”
“Dario Gigante. When Batwoman asked him who funded P’s bounty, he said ‘the taxpayers of Gotham’.” Bruce voice drops to an irritated growl. “Wayne Enterprises recently updated their funding policies under the advisement of a new asset.”
Peter.
“You think the restructuring pushed them to accelerate their plans?”
“That could be the case. If they were reaching into Gotham’s public sector to start rebuilding the Court, cutting out the heart of their funding would cripple the whole operation given enough time. Not even Luthor could fund that much on his own, not without WE taking notice of their slow takeover.”
“Hmm.” Reaching for the centre of the web, Tim navigates through the list of applicants that got approval from the Wayne grants in question. Cross referencing between them, he finds a common name. “Got it. Last name, Tyler. Given names, Mary Elizabeth.”
Bruce sounds suitably perplexed. “Public official?”
“Not that I can find.” Tim reports back, widening his search in Gotham’s databases.
“You’re looking in the wrong place.” Jason’s tone is flat, dangerous. “Mary Tyler’s the woman who claimed to have inspired the old nursery rhyme ‘Mary had a little lamb’.”
Whose fleece was white as snow.
Tim’s gaze flicks over to where the museum’s feed is still open. He rewinds it to before Peter was alone, when he was accompanied by someone who he’d recognized. A feminine form stands close, hands curled over his shoulders.
“Jason, the book that Peter’s been obsessed with since reading it. Frankenstein.” Tim says haltingly, the answer settling in his hands. “Who wrote it?”
The response comes with a trepidation. “Mary Shelley.”
“Goddamn it.”
“Red?”
“I don’t know if he knew, but there could’ve been some part of him that felt that something was off.” Tim’s hands fly over the keyboard, pulling up files. “I’ve been pushing her application back. She came up clean, but there was just something there, like pieces of her history had been erased. I should’ve known, there’s always a trail.”
“Red Robin, report!” Bruce barks the order, concern badly masked.
“She was in the Weavers, B. Had the tattoo and everything, right smack in the middle of her forehead.” He knows he sounds crazy but he can’t stop the flow of words. “She gave me Peter’s formula, has a degree in chem and engineering from Gotham University. She was there the day that we were looking for the mole…”
The final piece falls into Tim’s lap, the final horrible picture that he’d been missing, that he’d been looking at from the wrong angle.
“Who, Red?” Jason snaps the question out.
“Mary!” He types in another command, images stacking on the monitors. They’re from the university’s website, the computer’s algorithm sorting through.
There’s a beep, and then there’s a blown out photo of Gotham University’s engineering PhD program. Standing side-by-side is “Mary” and Wayne Enterprise’s mole, Jared Morton.
“She used her knowledge of Morton to get him to disable the tower’s generators on the day of the attack, B.” Tim reports, defeated. “And not even a week later she’s in the lab working on P’s webs.”
“She was the last person who’d seen him, you needed to keep her safe and in a known location.” It’s a platitude, one that Tim doesn’t know if he deserves. “We can work on getting information out of Morton. It wasn’t all for nothing.”
“I’ll look into him.” Jason offers, that cold affect still in his voice.
“No.” The denial is immediate, earning Bruce the beginnings of an argument from Jason, which he swiftly cuts off. “Morton has been put into witness protection in Blüdhaven, and we need you in Gotham to continue the search.”
Jason grunts, not wanting to leave the city in fear of missing any signs of Peter.
“Nightwing will question Morton. Red Robin, start a file with all you know on Mary. Finding her could be instrumental in locating P.”
Tim doesn’t get an order. It’s a silent request from Bruce that he’ll rest.
He considers it for a moment. The tissue of his eyes is so dry, moisture kept away by the bright light of the screens in front of him. His shoulders are aching, muscles protesting the bad posture he’d been sitting with for hours. Days.
Maybe it’s time for Tim to rest.
Maybe. Maybe he’ll rest when that itch is gone. When he doesn’t feel the ghosts of Jack and Janet Drake breathing down his neck, reminding him to keep tight control of himself.
He wouldn’t want to fall to the same habits they had.
~ ~ ~
Dick Grayson
Blüdhaven - February 24th
Standing in Jared Morton’s temporary abode, the sight of Nightwing shrouded in darkness has the man all but trembling. His eyes are wide and set into a pale face, his energy getting twitchy as the seconds pass.
Dick should feel bad about it. After all, the man had just been looking out for his family.
But it had been at the expense of someone else’s, of Dick’s brothers, and so he’s feeling a little low on forgiveness.
Barbara is quiet in the comms, keeping an eye on the building’s surroundings. She’d been acting as his personal Oracle for a little over a week, citing that she needed a break from Gotham’s insanity.
Dick knows that she’s there to keep an eye on him. He can feel her gaze through the cameras hidden in the room, there to reel him back if he puts too much pressure on the guy who’d had a hand in his brothers getting shot.
Stalking a few steps closer to the other man, he leans against a wall with faux nonchalance, tilting his head to consider Jared. He toys with a slip of paper, the fabric of his suit gliding along its smooth surface. “Heya Morton. Think you could answer a couple of questions for me?”
Swallowing nervously, Jared’s head nods in a jerky motion. “Uh, yeah. What- what do you want to know?”
“Why don’t we start with what happened before the attack? Walk me through a day in the life.”
“W-well, morning shift starts with replacing the overnight guys. They give us a report of any hiccups or glitches in the systems and if anything needs to be looked after.” Jared’s eyes dart this way and that, searching the shadows. “Nothing was amiss so we just got to work.”
“You didn’t notice anything off about anyone?”
“No, sir. Just two of Mr. Wayne’s sons in the lobby during my lunch break, but that isn’t uncommon.”
Dick nods. “And they weren’t meeting with anyone?”
“Not that I could see. They looked to be waiting, but I didn’t stick around.”
No signs of a lie. “It was shortly thereafter that you got the call, right?”
“Yeah.” Jared runs his fingers through his hair. “The voice was modulated, so I couldn’t tell who they were, but they knew my address and my kid’s school. They knew her goddamn teacher’s name. They knew about-”
He cuts himself off, lip caught between his teeth.
“What did they know about? What did they ask you to do?” Dick urges, but is met with clammed-up silence. “Please, Jared, this can help save a kid’s life.”
The engineer’s brows furrow, his nerves abating with the connotation. “A kid?”
“They went missing and it all ties back to what happened that day in the tower.”
“Shit, I didn’t mean for anyone else to get hurt.” Jared croaks out, regret painted in broad strokes across his face. He closes his eyes. “They, uh, they wanted the power out for long enough to cause panic but not so much that people start getting hurt. They mentioned ‘washing’ someone out.”
“Okay.” Dick exhales a slow breath to keep his cool, focusing on the task at hand as he repeats, “Okay.”
“It wasn’t that long of a call, just a couple of minutes.” He looks back over. “Is, um- is that all?”
“One more thing.” Reaching his hand out, Dick hands the slip of paper to Jared. He watches as the engineer opens it and stares at the photo printed onto its surface. “Do you recognize the person in this picture?”
Jared’s eyes flick between Dick, the photo, and the window. “Mary?”
“You two went to Gotham U together, right?”
“Yeah, we were close in our early semesters. Her focus was more into chemical engineering so we drifted when I started specializing in mechanics.” He folds the photo back up. “Why, did she do something?”
There it is. “Why do you ask that?”
Jared hesitates a second before saying, “She was always one of the more… radical thinkers of our cohort. She tried to sell me on some project she was working on, wanted my advice on if it’d need a mechanical aspect.”
“What was the project?”
“She called it ‘the Cradle’. It was all theoretical work, but it was some advanced stuff.” He turns his gaze down to where he’s worrying at a hangnail. “She had to have been working with someone else. It seemed closer to bio engineering than chemical, stuff like tissue regeneration and gene multiplication using unstable elements on humans.”
Dick’s jaw clenches, a wave of anger threatening to knock him on his ass. The answers were here all along, right fucking here. “Why didn’t you report her to the board of ethics?”
“I should’ve. I don’t know why I didn’t. I mean, it was just theoretical at the time, and I just…” Jared’s nail digs in, a spot of crimson welling where skin meets keratin. “I couldn’t stand the thought of ruining her life or getting her kicked out. She’d been through a lot.”
“I tried to reason with her, tried to get her to see that what she was doing was wrong.” The engineer lets his head hang low. “In the end, my involvement with her work came back to bite me in the ass. The voice on the phone knew what I did, that I didn’t…”
Dick looks down at Morton, a silent judgement.
His stare is met by haunted eyes. “I didn’t mean to get anyone hurt.”
Dick isn’t quite sure how to answer that, but he doesn’t get the chance to figure it out as Barbara’s voice is crackling in his comm. “Nighwing, I’m getting movement outside the window!”
Reacting on instinct, Dick reaches out to push Jared behind the bed for cover. Sprinting to the windows, he crashes through and deploys his grapple, the end sinking into a concrete beam.
Stuck to the side of the apartments is a small figure clothed in black. Their features are obscured by a metal mask and hood, only the barest strip of skin visible around the nose, the shade light.
Please. Please be him. Please be alive.
They let go, and begin to fall.
“I’m in pursuit.” Dick reports, disengaging his grapple to push into a freefall. “O, send police reinforcements to Morton’s address.”
He gets an affirmative response. There’s no time to doubt the logic of his actions.
The target deploys a grapple similar to Dick’s, though it looks to be an older model. The tug of the line should be slower, but given the way that the target’s body is being jerked around, it’s been modified to sacrifice safety for speed.
They’re fast, but Dick is better.
Gradually, he closes the distance. The darkness of the late hour lessens with the proximity, and he gets to see more of who he’s chasing after.
Their grapple deploys, sticks into the side of a building, and they fall into a graceful arc.
Dick’s breath catches in his throat.
At the top of the swing, they twist in a familiar move, shifting their orientation so they’re facing Dick. For a moment, they’re flying in the blind, back turned to the direction that their velocity is carrying them.
There’s supposed to be someone there to catch them.
“Peter!”
Dick reaches out with a hand.
A web sticks to his chest, threads stretching across the Nightwing symbol.
There’s a tug, the world blurs, and then his back is slamming against the metal of an AC unit with a clang.
Dick blinks some spots away, a groan slipping from his lungs as he tries to draw oxygen back into them. He can hear Barbara asking for an update, but he’s too busy processing just how fast he’d been moved.
A shadow lands on the roof, crouched at the edge.
Green cuts through the gloom that sticks to Blüdhaven, the verdant shade fevered and aglow. Peter’s breaths pull in and out with a wheeze, laboured like he’s inhaling deeply polluted air. The sound is modulated, his mask a dark mockery of Jason’s muzzle.
There’s no recognition in his eyes, just a chilling emptiness. He doesn’t blink, entirely still, with his attention fixated on where Dick’s pulling himself to his feet.
He’s poised with muscles coiled taught and ready to strike, watching for any hint of a threat. That, or waiting for Dick to get close enough.
“Peter, it’s okay.” Dick holds his hands out in front of him, placating. “If you come with me, I can help get you back home. Please.”
He doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word. There’s no sign that he heard Dick, the only sound being the rasp of his breathing.
Taking a step forward, Dick tries again. “Tell me what happened. Let me help you.”
Peter’s head tilts, listening. For a moment he dares to hope that his words are making it through, but then Barbara is cutting in with a report. “Reports of a disturbance at Morton’s address. They’re requesting backup and an ambulance.”
Dick tenses, disbelief cracking through his desperation. “You-… you were a distraction?”
There’s the smallest break in Peter’s stillness. His eyes close in a slow blink, and when they open, the curl of his lashes stick together with the buildup of moisture.
“Pete-”
The teen’s wrist flicks and Dick has to dodge to avoid getting stuck to the AC unit. He loses sight of Peter for the briefest of moments and-
He’s gone.
Dick moves to go after him again, staring over the lip of the roof, but it’s as if he’s vanished. Slipped through his fingers.
He wants nothing more than to chase after, to give into the need to search, but he knows what Peter would’ve wanted.
“O, tell the officers I’m on my way.” Dick swallows down the lump that’d built in his throat, pushing himself off the building to head back to the apartment complex. “Contact B. Tell him… tell him Peter’s alive, and that-…”
He can’t get the rest of it out.
“I will.” Barbara promises softly. “I’ll try the CCTV, see if he shows up again. We’ll find him, Dick.”
Dick thinks of Jason's words back in the lab. They're gonna change him.
He doesn't ask aloud, can't let the thought be spoken into the world, but he can't help but wonder how much of Peter will be left when they do.
Notes:
Beep boop more Exposition.
!!!Peter Spotted!!! Also, felt like I was writing the script for a 2000s type espionage movie with all the hacking-financials-talk.
Chapter 32
Notes:
Hello everyone and happy new year! Here's a chapter update to herald the start of 2025. Apologies for the delayed update, I was out of country on holidays, but I missed y'all :(.
Quick side thing, but to prepare for the future conclusion of the fic (don't worry we've got several chapters before we get to that point), if anyone's got any ideas for one-shots in this verse send 'em down to the comments in any upcoming chapter! I've got ideas brewing already, but there's a chance that a suggestion could hook my attention >:3. Slash, non-con, and underage ideas shall be deleted to maintain the safe space we've created here <3
Anyways, enjoy my beloveds!
Chapter Text
Damian Wayne
Wayne Manor - March 14th
Everyone in the family has seen the recording from Grayson’s mask, their most recent sighting of Peter. It’s more of a confirmation of life than anything worth feeling hope over, his behaviour settling sour in their stomachs.
Todd had reacted the worst, which was to be expected. He’d run himself ragged as he searched in the week after, nearly getting himself killed when a group of thugs caught him unawares. He made it out relatively unscathed, but the ensuing argument between him and the team was far from pleasant to be involved in.
Damian cannot help but blame himself. He knows that he is not the sole bearer of responsibility, but thoughts of his role in Peter’s disappearance crowd his mind regardless.
If only he had given into grandfather’s wishes earlier, heeded the warning in the note that had been slipped into Damian’s belongings. He could have had more control over the situation, could have circumvented Peter’s capture.
But he did not. Instead, he shouted recriminations at Peter when he should have been maintaining his rationality.
I will hate you forever if you go.
Foolish words uttered by a foolish boy.
Damian’s hands tighten around the solid bindings of the book he clutches onto. It’s rare for him to spend his leisure time reading given that he is often too busy to relax and would prefer occupying himself with art.
There is a level of challenge in literature where metaphor and allegories are concerned that’s never much appealed to Damian. He values truth and straightforwardness in lieu of flowery prose, and books without them are often intended for children.
Thus, the hobby is one that he leaves to his siblings.
Today, however, he has a promise to keep.
There’s apprehension in the way that he hesitates to knock at the door in front of him. He tells himself that it’s the prospect of taking time away from patrol that has trepidation swirling in his chest, not the potential sting of rejection.
He is Robin, and so he must be brave.
Lifting a hand, Damian raps his knuckles against the solid expanse of wood.
The sound of bedsheets rustling confirms that the room is occupied. They cease after a moment, seconds dragging on as silence falls.
Then, footsteps approach from inside. The handle twists and the door swings open to reveal the unkempt form of Jason Todd.
His gaze drops from where he’d been looking straight ahead, likely having anticipated father or Richard’s presence over Damian’s. Confusion twists his features, though the look smooths out with some realization.
“Bruce is really scraping the bottom of the barrel with this one.” Todd crosses his arms. “There’s absolutely no way that I’m babysitting you right now. You all can figure out a better way to keep me here than brat-watch duty.”
“I was not sent to keep you from getting yourself killed, Todd, although I might not mind that outcome at present moment.” Damian fires back, annoyed at his brother’s rude response to his presence. “Honour demands that I ask something of you.”
A stare is leveled his way. “And you’re sure ‘honour’ doesn’t have a name that starts with ‘D’, ends with ‘ick Grayson’, and acts as a constant pain in my ass?”
“Honour is a promise made to someone who we both owe a blood debt to, and it is a promise that I intend to fulfill.”
The wilting look on Todd’s face melts away with the meaning behind Damian’s words, and then he’s stepping back to allow free entry into the room.
Moving inside, Damian sees that it is less of a mess than expected. There are no soiled clothes lying about and the bed is made, but there is gear and case materials strewn atop any available surfaces.
Small hints at his older brother’s youth remain in the room, although most of it had been done away with upon the insistence of its inhabitant.
A few trophies from Todd’s days as Robin remain, innocuous enough to slip beneath a civilian’s radar but full of meaning to members of the family. They are tucked away, nearly out of sight, almost as if out of embarrassment.
The simple fact of him keeping them had meant the world to father and Grayson. Even Drake looked nostalgic at the sight of a couple relics that he had bore witness to, harkening back to when he’d followed Batman and Robin as a child.
Unsure of where to stand, Damian chooses to move closer to the window should he require a quick exit. Todd has a searching gaze set upon him, his eyes landing on the book that’s held in the younger’s hands. “What’ve you got there?”
Damian opens his mouth to respond, but his attention lingers on the echoes of Todd’s past. He feels young as he sees the legacy that he has inherited, but also emboldened at the reminder of why he has such pride for the mantle of Robin.
It is perhaps this that has him ignoring Todd’s question in favor of asking, “Do you truly remember very little of Nanda Parbat?”
Looking taken aback, Todd tries to read Damian’s intention through his expression. “I-… where is this coming from?”
“It is a question I did not want to hear the answer to, but always wanted the truth of.”
“Why now?”
“There is too little surety in our lives, and I grow tired of being surrounded by mystery.” Damian grips the book tighter. “Answer the question.”
To his credit, Todd does not snap at Damian despite his usual propensity to do so. It is perhaps the exhaustion that has his will weaker, loosening his tongue for a rare bit of candor. “Everything after Talia put me in the pit is pretty clear. Before that point, it’s all smudged. Distorted to the point that I can’t say what’s real and what isn’t.”
Damian nods, trying to understand. “And do you recall… me?”
Inhaling deep and slow, Todd’s gaze drops to the floor. He chews on the inside of his cheek as he picks at a callus. “You remember that?”
“Frustratingly little of it.” Damian admits. “Fragments of how you were before the Lazarus pit are what largely remain.”
Todd pushes out another breath, the topic apparently difficult. “There isn’t much for me either. When I first saw you there was a sense of déjà vu, this feeling like I’d seen you before, but there wasn’t ever anything concrete.”
Fighting back his disappointment, Damian just nods.
“Don’t think I’d have left you behind if I had remembered.” It’s Todd’s turn to feel uncomfortable, his gaze straying away from Damian’s. “I was messed up back then, but I knew what it was like to be tossed aside. I wouldn’t have forgiven myself if I didn’t try. I just didn’t know you were waiting.”
At those words, something that’d been left unsteady settles between them.
Damian wasn’t aware that he had been awaiting the return of his missing protector since his disappearance. That his balance had been off since he’d first set his eyes on Todd again.
Mother never indicated that she felt anything but love for Damian. Nobody else elicits the same feeling of comfort that Talia al Ghul does for him, though others have tried. It is the simple fact that it was only her who would cradle him in a soft hold when he was still a babe.
Yet, she could never choose between Damian and Ra’s, for the immortal was her only protector after her mother’s death.
Jason Todd held no purpose beyond maintaining the life of his charge, and thus he was worthy of the utmost trust. This was taken away with the use of a Lazarus pit, and once again Damian was left alone.
As he looks to his brother, he understands that it was not Jason’s choice to leave.
Just like it was not Peter’s.
“You are forgiven.” Damian declares, and it is the truth. He holds out the book that he has yet to relinquish and allows it to be taken. “Parker requested that I read this with you. He stated it holds meaning for ‘people like us’.”
Jason’s hand glides over the word Frankenstein, his touch as soft as his voice. “Yeah. It does.”
“I wish to know what he meant.” Stepping away from the window, Damian tacks on, “If you are amenable to helping me understand.”
“Sure.” The agreement is uttered with the slightest of pauses, followed by another before Jason is asking a question. “Did he say anything else?”
It confuses Damian for a moment, as he had made a comprehensive report detailing the events of that night. Then, he realizes what Jason is asking.
“He said ‘I need to know you’ll be okay’. At the time I thought it was only me that he was referring to, but he wished that I would ensure your safety as well. Now, I believe he was referring to us all.” Damian moves to sit on the bed, tucking his legs tight against his chest. “Richard thinks the same.”
Jason moves to join Damian, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. “That sounds like Peter.”
The next words are muffled as Damian hides his face, shame burning hot. “I told him I hated him, that I’d hate him if he left.”
“What did Dick have to say about that one?”
“He told me that Peter would not have believed it given the circumstances. He said Peter would understand what I meant.” A scoff, indicating disbelief. “His platitudes do nothing to lessen the feeling that I should have said something different.”
“Yeah. You probably should have.”
Damian lifts his head to look at his sibling, surprised at the agreeance.
“Dick’s right too, much as I hate to admit it.” Jason shrugs with one shoulder, nonchalant in his particular kind of way. “When shit like this happens, there’s always something to regret. Nobody makes it through loss without wondering what they could’ve done better.”
Uncurling from his protective posture, Damian shifts so he can listen better.
“I’ve lost a lot of people. My mom. Barbara, Dick, Bruce. You, Tim. Roy. Every time I tell myself I’ll do better next time, that I’ll learn. Every time I do, but…” Jason sighs. “I got scared that getting Peter pulled into our lives would get him hurt. I thought he’d be safe if he stayed away from it all, and when he started getting involved, I saw him giving into the pattern.”
“Become a hero, become a martyr. It’s the same every time.” There’s frustration there, warranted given that Jason Todd is among the fallen. “So I pushed him away. We never got around to talking about it. Now I can’t tell him that I’m sorry, that I don’t care what he chooses to do. I can’t tell him that I’ll be there no matter what.”
Jason stares at the book, and Damian follows his eyeline.
“Then we will honour him in our regret, and we will learn.” Damian nods, resolute.
Jason nods, his jaw tight, and he cracks open the spine.
“I am by birth a Genevese; and my family is one of the most distinguished of that republic. My ancestors had been for many years counsellors and syndics; and my father had filled several public situations with honour and reputation.
He was respected by all who knew him, for his integrity and indefatigable attention to public business. He passed his younger days perpetually occupied by the affairs of his country; a variety of circumstances had prevented his marrying early, nor was it until the decline of life that he became a husband and the father of a family.”
Closing his eyes, Damian imagines the book’s contents to be narrated by a younger voice. Lighter, more likely to attribute senseless, silly voices to the different characters. He misses that voice, wishes to hear it outside of his mind.
This brings a small smile to his lips, a brittle but natural thing.
~ ~ ~
Jason Todd
Wayne Manor - March 18th
Hey Jason, it’s Peter.
Hopefully we’ll have found each other before you get a chance to read this, since I’m probably going to write some pretty embarrassing stuff in here. That’s kind of part of my whole schtick, putting my foot in my mouth because I don’t really know when to shut up. Given my luck, that habit extends to letter writing too.
I’m sorry I left you in that alley. I didn’t really see another alternative with you being shot and bleeding out. I’m doing fine, maybe a bit sore from the crash, but everything’s healing up okay. No need to worry, although you probably will anyways.
I never told you how lucky I am that we met in that random corner store. Sure, you’re a bit of an ass sometimes, but I figure that’s how you show people you like them. From what I’ve gathered, Gotham’s not exactly the easiest on street kids, and being new to the area and all that, I wouldn’t have fared well.
I probably should elaborate on the whole newcomer thing. I told you that I was from Queens, but I never got around to telling you that I’m not from this universe. I don’t know how common that is here, but it feels like a pretty big deal no matter where you land.
I’m not sure why I didn’t get around to spilling that vital bit of info. You might already know. There’s not a whole lot waiting for me back home, nobody who is going to miss me. There’s a part of me that doesn’t want to go back, leave saving the little guy to the Avengers. Another part of me feels like I’m failing them by staying away.
You’d probably know what’s best. Give me some hard truth that cuts through to the actual problem.
I’m not exactly the best at thinking things through all the way, but I’ve come to realize one thing at least. I don’t want to be alone again. I was fine with it at first because I was protecting the people I loved, but I don’t think I can go through that again.
If I don’t make it, could you do me a favor and send the guys who got me to the police? It would also give me peace of mind to know that you aren’t on your own again, so could you maybe find another street kid to give lukewarm pizza to?
You don’t mention your family much, but from what I can tell you kind of miss them. Might be cool to reconnect a bit, even if it’s while eating crappy diner food on random Tuesday afternoons when they’re the least busy. Just a thought, no pressure.
Man, I’ve got so much more I really want to tell you. It’s funny, for a guy who doesn’t shut up, I always seem to forget to say these things when I’ve still got the chance. Guess that just means we’ll have to find each other again.
Until next time,
Your friendly neighbourhood Peter Parker
~ ~ ~
Alfred Pennyworth
Wayne Manor - March 19th
Alfred has learned the merits of minding his business in a family of vigilantes. He has to know a great deal to act as their support and confidant, but keeping certain details unknown ensures their protection if he were to be questioned.
He has also learned the merits of snooping.
While cleaning the chaos of Master Bruce’s study, he had stumbled upon a letter that was meant to be delivered to one Jason. It had been tucked into a drawer and forgotten, the office coated in a fine layer of dust as its primary occupant had been spending the majority of his time in the cave.
An oversight if there had ever been one.
The penmanship matches that of a particular absent adolescent, and so Alfred takes it upon himself to make the letter’s final delivery.
Jason had barely uttered a word when it had been passed into his hands. He mumbled words too small for Alfred’s ears with a nod before retreating into his room, his attention riveted on the slip of paper clutched between his fingers.
He did not emerge for dinner that night.
Throughout the following day, Alfred hovers in the residential wing, close enough to provide any support necessary but far enough to give the young man some privacy. In his idle work, he finds himself tidying Peter’s room.
It is by all means a teenager’s room.
It had been refreshing to see the space transform with its new occupant. Once a guest room, it was given flair befitting an inquisitive young mind, with amusing science posters sitting amid glossy photographs, all stuck with blue tack.
The moments caught on printing paper are largely stills of Peter’s outings with members of the family. A few artistic shots of the city are interspersed within, arranged to break up the flow of the collage.
A small lump settles deep in Alfred’s throat.
Similar to Master Bruce’s study, dust has settled in the space. The lack of tidying had been a small bit of optimism on Alfred’s part, borne of a hope that its occupant would return fast enough that the hints of time’s passage would be wiped away with brushings of activity.
This was not the case.
Instead, the air has grown stale. Peter’s favourite stool in the kitchen has remained absent, stared at by Cassandra when she forgets and goes to fetch him for his lessons. His place remains set at the table, though no food is heaped atop the plate that sits at its centre.
The manor has gone quiet again. Alfred hates it.
But as is the case with this family, the silence does not last long.
Shattering the calm of the day is an alarm that blares from the manor’s security systems, alerting all occupants to convene at the cave. The door to Master Jason’s room bangs against the stop, the young man barely avoiding a collision with Alfred in his haste.
Moving at a more sedate pace, it only takes him under a minute to join the family in front of the computer. The source of the alert is originating from one of Gotham PD’s precincts, with reports coming in of another sighting of Scarecrow.
With the time he has spent out of custody, it is safe to assume he has been concocting something new to torment the city with.
Very little needs to be organized between the vigilantes before they are leaving the cave to hunt down Scarecrow. Alfred is left at the computer, monitoring the police’s radio chatter while Miss Barbara coordinates between the teams.
“All units, last sighting at the intersection of Lindon and Burrows avenue.” A woman’s voice reports, the quality indicating that she is an operator rather than an officer. “Gas is reported to be coming from beneath manhole covers. Masks non-optional.”
Another woman joins the line. “Batman spotted to the north of Newtown.”
“Keep your distance and provide as many updates as possible.” Commissioner Gordon rings clear, his voice familiar. “Batman’s going to need as much support as we can offer.”
“Red Robin and the Red Hood are also in the area.”
“Robin seen with Batman. Keep him safe, everyone.”
“Anyone seeing Scarecrow?”
“We’re working on evacuating civilians, sir. Radio Gotham General, they’re going to need as many antidotes prepped as they can manage.”
“Signal’s coming up from the Fashion District. Help get him through traffic on Sprang Bridge.”
“We’ve got civilians in the road. Reduce speed and be ready to use your backups.”
“Any updates on Scarecrow’s location?”
“Sir, we’re getting reports of an unknown near the Bowery. Black hood, black mask. They’re moving fast.”
Alfred’s brows furrow. He draws attention to the current topic, easy with the silence that’s overtaken their devices.
“That’s Orphan, newbie.”
“I’ve seen Orphan. It ain’t her.”
A sharp intake of breath from a member of the team.
Miss Barbara’s voice cuts through the police chatter. “I’m tracking the officer’s location. We have a new player on the field. Be ready for anything.”
Her message is clear.
The location is sent.
Their path is laid in stone.
Chapter 33
Notes:
Content warning for Scarecrow's appearance in this chap: needles and mind-altering substances in the form of fear toxin/gas.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Vicki Vale
Gotham City - March 19th
As a top reporter for the Gotham Gazette, Vicki’s learned to follow her gut when something happens in her mad city. So, when someone new manages to break into the Bat’s territory to take on the Scarecrow, she’s already hit the ground running.
She gets shouts of alarm as she bursts out of the office, swiping a camera as she goes. It’s one of their lighter models designed for heavier action, but it’s still got enough heft that she’s sweating in no time.
Filming is not really in her job description, but she’s got a responsibility to Gotham’s people. If nobody’s else will get to the truth, she will.
The streets oscillate between chaos and calm, bodies bunching together like ants in a hill. Making her way through the crowds is a dangerous gamble, people having a propensity towards panic when the Master of Fear is out of his cage.
The only alternative would be climbing into a helicopter, but that option has her too far from the action. That, and Vicki’s learned that she’s got double the chance of being targeted when she’s in an aircraft.
With a Wayne Tech gasmask set on the lower half of her face, she’s feeling confident with her odds.
The first challenge is tracking down where the real action is happening. With how public the Scarecrow has taken this latest attack, he’s easier to pin down than usual.
Just go in the direction that everyone else is running away from.
The second challenge is keeping up. Third is staying alive.
It seems like these could prove to be more difficult than usual as Vicki arrives on the scene.
The air is thick and heavy with fear gas, a fetid mustard yellow that’s caught within the narrow streets of the Bowery. It dances is dizzying swirls as rain carves through it, thickening the fumes into a deadly miasma.
There, in the middle of the lane, are two figures caught in a deadly dance.
Hefting her camera up, Vicki hides in the shadows and captures it all.
Jonathan Crane has fashioned himself a mask from a burlap sack, the eyes and mouth sewn with twine. A torn cloak keeps most of his body hidden, only flashes of his emaciated form seen whenever he lashes out, clad in darkened rags.
The Scarecrow’s voice scratches its way out, the fine muscles in his throat damaged from so many years of being exposed to his gas. It’s hard to hear what he’s saying as he’s swinging his scythe in maddened arcs, forcing the unknown vigilante into the defensive.
There’s a particular edge to Crane’s movements, something odd considering that he’s not facing off against the Batman. His attention is fixed on his opponent.
He’s interested, enough so that he’s not on the lookout for his chosen nemesis.
The vigilante that’s captured his fascination is short and lithe, lending to their style of fighting. The size of their limbs has Vicki’s estimation of age leaning towards young adult, if not younger.
They aren’t responding to the rogue’s words, moving in a way that’s unnaturally fluid. Their back bends and twists in a flow that’d have most people’s muscles tearing, their joints stretching to the point of near dislocation without any indication towards discomfort.
It’s bordering on unsettling, worsened by how their figure keeps low to the ground. Their hands brush and plant against the ground with a common frequency as they dodge Scarecrow’s strikes, nothing like the quick parries and dextrous evasions that the Bats are beholden to.
There’s also something… easy about their movements. Like little energy is being used up as they let the Scarecrow waste his own.
That part is familiar. The vigilante is reading his opponent, calculating the steps that will lead to victory.
Just like the Batman.
Vicki’s suspicions are confirmed when there’s an unexpected flash of movement and the sound of something shattering. Shards of metal clatter against the ground, and the vigilante is left holding the greater part of the scythe’s blade.
His other hand pulls the handle from Scarecrow’s hand, and both halves of the weapon are thrown to the side.
Oh my god.
No wonder this kid has kept away from the rest of the Bats. He’s a meta.
One of their fists whips out in a strike and Scarecrow’s going down onto one knee. He cackles as fingers wrap around his throat, uncaring as he’s held in a grip that’d just torn metal as if it were tissue paper.
“I see now, what she did.” Crane rasps, his hands dangling at his sides. “I can hear your breaths, what fills your lungs. You’re lost in there, aren’t you?”
The fingers tighten the slightest bit.
“A boy chained by fear.” A cough interrupts his ramblings, air just barely wheezing as its passage is constricted. “Delightful.”
Crane’s fingers flex and the shape of his gloves changes, something jutting past the tips of his fingers. Vicki gasps out a warning, and the vigilante’s head turns towards her in a sharp movement.
Surging up, the Scarecrow’s cloak falls from his shoulders as he sinks needles deep into his opponent’s body. Toxin held in a forearm-mounted mechanism pumps through them, poisoning the young vigilante.
He stumbles back, hands pressing against the injection sites. His shoulders hunch, body reacting instinctively to whatever’s happening inside of him.
Horror fills Vicki, a stone dropping in her gut. She’d gone through the company mandated safety briefing on Gotham’s rogues.
She’d seen the Batman in action, had watched him stagger with half the dose that the Scarecrow had just given to the boy. That same amount killed an officer a year back, sent into cardiac arrest within the hour at the age of 26.
Crane’s given him enough toxin to kill a grown man in minutes.
He’s just a kid.
God. He’s just a kid.
The sound of an engine registers at the edge of her hearing, building to a roar as a vehicle draws ever closer. The hulking form of the Batmobile cuts through Scarecrow’s fog, shadowed and dangerous like the beasts of old.
~ ~ ~
Bruce Wayne
The Bowery - March 19th
He’s alive. He’s still alive. We can still fix this.
The words repeat on loop in Bruce’s head as he brings the Batmobile to a screeching halt. Damian’s door is open before their velocity hits zero, but he holds himself back, taking stock of the situation before making any moves.
Bruce steps up beside him, jaw clenching at the scene in front of him.
Standing in the middle of the road, Peter does not react to their arrival. His shoulders are hunched as if he’d aborted an instinct to protect his vitals, expression obscured by a mask and hood.
He’s indifferent to the rogue that stalks around him, seemingly locked in place. The only indication to his status is the shuddering movement of his chest, barely visible but far too rapid.
Scarecrow barely pays the newly arrived vigilantes any mind, instead circling the unsteady form of the teen before him. Vicky Vale is off to the side with a camera, far too close to the action as per usual.
Robin’s posture is telling, his weight balanced on the balls of his feet as he holds himself back. His attention is split between the adolescent and the rogue, giving space for potential mistakes.
“Signal, get Miss Vale to safety.” Bruce orders into his comm as he notes the young man’s bright uniform from the roofline above.
“On it Batman.” Duke responds, lowering himself next to the reporter slowly to avoid detection by Scarecrow.
Trusting Duke’s training, Bruce focuses back on Peter.
He’s not looking at them, his head hunched as he struggles with something. With how he’s being studied by Scarecrow, it’s assumed that Crane had done something to him.
With what Bruce knows about Peter, he knows it won’t be long until the meta is recovered enough to be back in fighting shape. They need to deal with Scarecrow fast.
Moving forward with Robin in step next to him, Bruce is forced to stop when Crane holds the jagged tip of a blade against Peter’s neck. There’s no grip on the weapon, blood welling as the rogue clutches onto the shattered end of his scythe.
“Ah ah ah, Batman.” Crane tips his head. “We’re going to watch how this plays out.”
“I’m not interested in playing into your games, Crane.”
“This isn’t a game, it’s scientific inquiry. I traded my toxin for my freedom, and it’s only fair that I get to see what she did with it.” Angling the blade up, Scarecrow tips Peter’s chin up. “Cut the body’s response to fear but leave the mind adrift. It’s design is… elegant.”
Bruce had spent years studying Crane’s fear toxin and its varietals, prepping antidotes to counteract its effects.
It’s designed to stimulate the amygdala, inducing the creation of adrenaline and cortisol far beyond the body’s limits.
Most cases involve vivid hallucinations and symptoms mimicking the body’s natural response to fear. Those without training can have a more visceral reaction, reacting instinctively in fight, flight, or freeze.
Removing the body’s ability to do so would leave the toxin’s victim trapped in their mind with no outlet, a passenger in their own skin.
As Peter’s head is maneuvered by Scarecrow’s blade, it becomes all too apparent that he’s been locked away deep inside.
Crane rambles on. “It shouldn’t take long now. He’s far too small to be able to stomach a dose designed for you, Batman, and he was already lost long before I got my hands on him.”
The thought nearly has Bruce’s hand twitching towards his utility belt, almost breaks the ironclad control he has on his reactions. Damian’s hands ball into fists, likely itching to unsheathe the katana he has strapped to his back.
Two things happen in quick succession.
Oracle’s voice comes through their comms, her voice quiet. “Signal got Vicky to safety. Hood’s en route with Red.”
A strangled cry escapes Crane’s mouth as Peter seizes the hand that’s holding the blade, the rogue’s wrist breaking with a snap. In the teen’s grip is a syringe, the needle plunged into Scarecrow’s neck.
Crane shudders and then stills.
Now freed, Peter adheres a web to the side of a building and takes off.
“Robin, secure Crane and get him to the GCPD!” Bruce ignores his son’s shouts of anger, unwilling to leave the rogue for even a second, even if it means facing Damian’s scorn.
Slamming into the Batmobile, he takes off after Peter’s retreating form.
With the approach of dusk, he’s proving difficult to keep an eye on. The Batmobile’s tracking system keeps his location on the HUD, but he’s able to slip through thin alleyways that Bruce can’t follow him into.
Switching to grapple would solve this, but Peter’s webs give him an advantage. Their elasticity gives him greater maneuverability, and while Bruce has more experience, Peter’s abilities mean he can’t be stopped without some measure of injury.
Able to keep up with a bit of distance in the Batmobile, it becomes a game of attrition. Peter’s webs will run out eventually. They just have to keep on him.
“Oracle, track Peter’s progression and any possible escape routes. We need to form a perimeter around the Bowery to keep him contained here.”
“Like hell.” Jason growls through the line. “I’m going after him.”
“We can’t afford to make any mistakes-”
A weight slams into the front of the Batmobile as Bruce screeches around a corner. A set of burning verdant eyes stare through the windshield, locked onto the lenses of Bruce’s cowl.
He’s timing his attacks.
Gripping onto the wheel tight, Bruce keeps away from traffic while maneuvering to wider roads. Peter stares, waiting.
“Keep chatter on comms to a minimum.” One of Peter’s arms pull back before he’s driving a fist down, denting the Batmobile’s outer plating. “He’s using any distraction to his advantage.”
“That has to mean something.” There’s an inkling of hope in Tim’s voice, unexpected with his usual pessimist nature. “He’s still processing information, B, things going on in his environment.”
But is he really the one at the wheel?
Focus narrowing on a device in Peter’s ear, Bruce avoids clipping the corner of a building as one of Peter’s strikes causes the vehicle to jolt. “Oracle, isolate any unknown signals coming from my location. Track their origins.”
Hurry.
Staring out the windshield, Bruce knows there’s nothing he can do to stop what’s coming.
The teen’s blows keep raining down on the hood of the vehicle, the metal buckling. Prying his fingers into a small split in the plating, the uppermost layer is wrenched off with a shriek.
The engine gets exposed to air, rain hissing as it hits the overheating cylinders.
Peter read the Batmobile’s plans when he was working on implementing his reactor into its design. He knew the ins and outs of most of their gear, the layout of the cave’s power grid.
He’d trained with them, learned how they fought, the codes they’d share over comms, their patrol routes. He knows how their tech works and how to stop them.
The only person that Bruce could call, who would hear him from this distance and who knows who Peter is, is Clark. The rest of the Justice League is too unknown, could react in unpredictable ways.
But Clark is Superman, Kryptonian. He wouldn’t want to hurt Peter, and that’d be his downfall. With Kryptonite radiation oozing from his skin, Peter would have the Man of Steel at his mercy in five minutes.
With how he’s moving, he’d find the time.
Watching as Peter tears the Batmobile apart, Bruce sees Dario Gigante for what he’d been the whole time. A messenger, there to deliver the final blow at the start of the game.
Metas have their uses, ‘specially the young ones. Fear is a powerful tool. Put a mongrel in a cage and they’ll tear through anything to break their way out.
Kids die, a handful a day. What’s another when it’s one more step towards ruining you?
Bruce thought he’d stopped it when he’d tucked Peter away in the mansion, when he started to teach him how to keep himself safe. All he’d done was play straight into their hands.
As rain traces down the planes of Peter’s face, his hood long fallen away with the wind, Bruce can’t help but think that some of them look like tears.
A fist punches into the engine, and the Batmobile goes into system failure. Wheels skid, and the world turns upside down.
Ci vediamo all’inferno. See you in Hell.
~ ~ ~
Jason Todd
The Bowery - March 19th
Bruce is down.
The Batmobile’s a wreck, its engine a twisted hunk of metal.
The team is trying to get the door to open, but the body is too mangled, the vehicle flipped onto its roof. They’re working away at it together, years of training and gadget improvements coming together to save the Batman’s life. It’s all hands on deck.
Things are in flux. It’s hard to keep track of where everyone is, who’s at the wreck and who’s still focusing on finding Peter. Too many voices are overlapping, shouting questions and requests for updates.
Jason registers their voices in a distant corner of his mind, the one that he likes to hide things away in. It’s the one that’d gotten deeper and darker since he stepped out of the Lazarus pit so long ago, the one he’d never dared wander back into.
He’s on his bike, the engine roaring, and he’s on his own. He leaves the Batmobile behind, tearing into the streets of the Bowery.
“Hood.” It’s Dick’s voice that reaches him through the comms, a proverbial tap on the shoulder with the use of his name. “Where are you going?”
“I can’t let him get away this time.”
“He just totaled the Batmobile.” There’s Tim with his pragmatism. “You need backup.”
“Please, just wait for us. We almost have Batman out.”
“Don’t be an imbecile, Red Hood.”
“Brother, please.”
“It’s too dangerous.”
The voices of Jason’s family layer over one another, all urging him towards caution. They’re afraid for him, unwilling to lose someone else, someone they care about.
The thought has the smallest of smiles gracing Jason’s lips.
Revving his bike, he urges it to go faster.
He’s not going to let Peter slip through his fingers. Not this time.
“I’m sorry.”
He mutes them, leaving only one channel open. “Oracle, where’s the signal’s origin?”
“Hood, I can’t let you do this.” Barbara’s voice sounds resigned. She knows she’s fighting a losing battle. “It’s not him, not right now.”
“We don’t know that.”
“He could kill you.”
“No. He would never.”
A pause.
“Oracle, please.”
She sighs. “There’s an old theatre a few blocks south of your location. Whoever was talking to Peter was there last.”
Grip tightening, Jason takes a sharp corner. “I know the place. Get everyone to cover the exits once I’m in.”
“Please be careful.” Barbara urges. “Bring him home.”
Reaching up, Jason turns off his comm. He can’t be distracted, not anymore.
Notes:
Jason off on his own, what'll he do
Chapter 34
Notes:
Adding warnings at the end of the chapter to avoid spoilers.
Apologies in advance, besties.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Jason Todd
The Old Theatre - March 19th
Pulling up outside the theatre, Jason foregoes stealth for the more direct approach. He pushes through the front doors with guns in-hand. Safety off.
He finds the lobby deserted, a couple months worth of dust coating what Gigante’s men had left behind. With the only source of light coming from the beams that peek through the boarded up windows, Jason feels more than sees the violent history of the space.
Kate had cleared the theatre out in the aftermath of Gigante’s death, Batwoman spearheading the effort to extinguish of the last of the Kennel Master’s gang. With the GCPD taking all of the relevant evidence needed to indict the people they’d arrested, the remnants of the criminal operation had been left to rot in the condemned space.
There are blood splatters painting the room where stray bullets had become friendly fire, with three lives lost in the fight. Jason had read Kate’s report and forgot the names of the dead within the hour, their only legacy painted in red across mold-speckled walls.
He moves on.
The main theatre area is dark save for a few lightbulbs that are set into the ceiling high above, the air still. Jason spots where he’d crouched high above in the rafters on the day that he’d seen the Kennel Master for the first time.
He’d made a choice that night. The man who’d set Peter’s bounty sat unaware of the danger lurking above as Jason chose to pursue the truth of the Lazarus pits instead, a decision that had set the past few months into motion.
There’s no knowing what might have happened if he’d made a different call. In another world, Peter might be curled up on the lumpy couch in Jason’s garage reading away instead of following the whims of a stranger.
“Welcome, Red Hood.”
A feminine voice calls out from the far end of the room, her words echoing in the empty room.
Jason’s fingers are slipping onto the triggers of his berettas before the next moment has had the chance to get going. It takes him a second to find her, his training urging him to check all defensible positions before any open spaces.
Sitting with her legs dangling off the edge of the stage, is Mary.
She looks like the photos that had been shared with the team, unassuming if it weren’t for the spider web tattooed onto her forehead. She doesn’t seem worried about Jason’s presence, one of her heels thumping against the wood behind it as she swings her legs softly.
Her stare is even and unshakeable.
“Mary, I presume?” Jason moves closer, lessening her chance for escape as he tries to keep her distracted.
“Not my real name, but it’s one I’ve grown fond of.” Another kick against the stage. “Peter has taken to calling me the Stranger, as much as it pains me to hear it.”
“It suits you.” Jason fires back. “Where is he?”
She shrugs. “I gave him my final order not too long before you got here. Couldn’t tell you where he is at the current moment.”
Order.
“What did you do to him?” Jason hefts one of his weapons high, pointing the muzzle at the Stranger’s head. Her focus narrows, expression calculating as she hesitates to respond. “Tell me!”
“You had so much time to figure it out, Hood, and yet you still can’t see the bigger picture. I gave him a purpose.” The Stranger explains, irritation showing only in the way that her nails dig into the lip of the stage. “A life.”
“What, by taking away his free will? By turning him into a weapon? That isn’t living!”
“Keeping him caged up in Wayne manor is your idea of freedom?”
Jason moves closer. “You were the one that pushed him there. Then, you ripped it all away when you stole him from his home.”
“His home.” She scoffs, her expression cracking as her anger flares. “We are going to fix this city together. When I found him, he was nothing!”
Another step. “He’s a kid!”
“He’s much more than that now.” The Stranger pulls a device from her pocket, Jason tensing as her thumb settles upon a button. “Don’t worry Hood, I only wish to show you something.”
Her thumb presses down.
Light streams across the theatre, an image superimposed atop the stage’s back wall. Displayed is Vicki Vale’s latest broadcast, a video of Peter and Scarecrow’s fight narrated by the reporter.
“-ts of a new vigilante in Gotham, seen fighting against the Scarecrow.” The footage shows Peter dodging the rogue’s attacks, bending with preternatural grace. “Taking him on alone, there were signs of metahuman-like abilities as the would-be hero held their ground.”
Peter catches the blade of the scythe and snaps it.
“It doesn’t seem like the new face has caught only my attention, as the Caped Crusader was on scene to assist in the fight.”
There’s a cut and then the Batmobile is rumbling to a stop, Batman and Robin exiting the vehicle. Another jump forward, and Vicki is filming from atop a nearby building, the glow from Signal’s suit just barely visible. Then, Peter is injecting something into Crane’s neck.
Robin is dispatched to secure the rogue. Peter swings up on his webs, and Batman follows in the Batmobile.
The footage freezes on a still of Peter mid-swing, seemingly working alongside the Bats of Gotham City.
Vicki Vale’s visage returns to the forefront where she sits at her desk, another still image of Peter set beside her. He’s crouched low and perched on the balls of his feet, fingertips set lightly against the road beneath him, staring up at Scarecrow without an ounce of fear.
“The people are left wondering, will a new face be joining the ranks of the Batman’s trusted allies? Are they a breakout member of the Justice League or is this a response to Bruce Wayne’s advocacy for metahuman safety?”
The feed pauses.
For a moment, Jason can only hear the sounds of his own breaths.
“Already, he gives hope.” The Stranger’s voice sounds chillingly proud. She turns to Jason, body haloed by the light of the broadcast behind her. “Gotham is tired of seeing justice through violence, Hood. It’s time for a new era.”
He can only stare.
There’s a truth to her words. He’d heard them before, spoken from the mouth of an eager teenager who’d been given the opportunity to help the ‘little guys for real this time’.
This is what Peter had been working towards since he’d first cracked Jason’s old textbooks open. He’d put together his data before presenting it to Commissioner Gordon, then to Bruce Wayne in a bid to make the city better.
Better through hope and determination, not violence and vengeance.
The fact remains. “You can’t make a symbol out of a boy in chains.”
“He will learn, grow. When the Batman is gone, he won’t have to be afraid of the shadows anymore.” The Stranger’s head tilts. “Am I remembering wrong that you’ve been at the receiving end of the Dark Knight’s justice before?”
Jason’s jaw clenches, unseen by the woman before him. “We’ve settled our differences.”
“Have you?” She clicks her tongue. “You and the Bat follow a pattern. Fight, make-up, fall to darkness, repeat. Wouldn’t it be freeing to break the cycle? Do away with the man that set the city down a path of madness?”
The ghost of another’s breath itches at the back of Jason’s neck, the Crown Price of Crime twirling at the edges of his mind with the sound of pitched laughter. Far away, a bird’s bones are snapping, a shrike impaled upon the thorns.
“Enough!” Jason’s hands don’t tremble, but his trigger fingers start to twitch. “Tell me where he is!”
“Disappointing.” A button clicks and the theatre is once again shrouded in darkness. “Disarm him.”
Another breath across Jason’s neck. A wheeze on the inhale.
Crunch.
Metal folds in on itself. Jason’s pistols crumple within Peter’s fists, green eyes staring from behind the hood that’s pulled over his head.
Rainwater drips from the strands of hair that hand heavy atop his forehead, dropping onto the muzzle with a plink.
Jason recognizes the gear that Peter has on. It was stolen from Wayne Tower by the Red Hood and then gifted to a kid in a desperate bid to keep him safe. Then, it was lost the night that Peter Parker and Jason Todd were pursued through the streets by an unknown threat.
Someone has messed with the mask, the outside of the filtration systems soldered poorly to create an unnerving appearance. Four small vials are set into the metal, both familiar, set into pairs on the left and right sides of Peter’s face, angled to give the illusion of fangs.
Within them is contained a mustard yellow toxin that sits in liquid form, ready to be atomized into gas. One is empty, fear recycled by the mask every time air passes in and out of its rebreather.
Jason speaks in a whisper. “Peter.”
The twisted remnants of his weapons are pulled from his hands and Peter darts to the Stranger’s side, dropping the guns to the stage. The sound is loud with the hollow space that sits beneath the platform, painfully so to someone with enhanced senses.
He crouches so he’s at height with the Stranger, instincts urging him to avoid a posture of power while near the unarmed woman. His gaze remains fixed on Jason, staring as if he’s the most dangerous person in the room.
He looks like he’s been emptied out, Peter remade and erased in the span of two months.
“You wanted to know where he was?” The Stranger smiles, Peter turning his head at the sound of her voice. “Here he is.”
Something in Jason is telling him that the teenager he’s seeing isn’t Peter, that he isn’t here at all. The modulator barely picks up Jason’s words. “What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything. The marvelous thing about Peter’s abilities is that he knows who to trust and who to fear based on senses alone.” Memories gather at her words, Jason throwing pillows at the back of Peter’s head, none of which the kid ever caught. “I could hold a blade to his throat and he wouldn’t even blink.”
The Stranger settles a hand to rest on Peter’s shoulder, looking over at him. “The gas helps to guide it. Freeing Peter from his fear allows his senses to guide his morality, his reactivity increasing to external stimuli. With a proper voice there to provide direction, he’s spared from the weight of… any necessary hard decisions.”
Jason thinks of Peter’s face after the kid had awoken from his nightmare, knuckles bruised from where he’d driver them into the brick foundations of the garage. “You’re not freeing him from his fear, you’re drowning him in it.”
There’s a twitch of Peter’s head, a minute turn away from the Stranger.
The light in the kid’s eyes changes, eyelashes fluttering almost imperceptibly. A shift, a series of small twitches following the sound of Jason’s shout, his voice echoing in the theatre.
His kid, fighting back. His kid, still in there.
The Stranger’s grip on Peter’s shoulder tightens, keeping him still.
Fuck this.
Jason moves.
The Stranger ignores Jason as she croons in Peter’s ear. “This man is dangerous. End him.”
She presses a button, and another vial slowly empties.
Peter doubles over, the oxygen in his lungs thickened by whatever the Stranger has put into the fear toxin. He’s choking on his breaths, each inhale coming out as a wracking cough.
Stepping back into the shadows, the Stranger fades from Jason’s view. He doesn’t care, doesn’t spare her a single thought.
“Peter!”
Jason is sprinting forward, ready to catch the kid should his legs give out. He’s right at the edge of the stage and in his current state, there’s little chance that he’d be able to correct his orientation to avoid a concussion.
It’s his voice that provokes a reaction this time.
It’s years of fighting that has Jason bringing his arms up in time. A fist slams against his guard, the armor protecting the bones of his forearm cracking under the force of Peter’s strength.
Another punch follows quickly thereafter, swinging low, going for the ribs. Jason blocks it, and jerks his head to the side as Peter’s knuckles catch the edge of the helmet with a glancing blow.
It’s enough to damage the tech, Jason’s HUD fritzing with static. Error messages alight, blotting out whatever visibility was left.
Left to fight in the blind, Jason yanks the helmet off.
A foot slams into his diaphragm and he’s sent reeling back.
Peter doesn’t follow. He waits, the curl of his posture dangerous as he looks for Jason’s weaknesses.
Finding his footing, he slides along the aisle that sits between the last of the theatre’s seats before coming to a stop. He keeps his palms facing Peter, making himself look as unthreatening as possible. “Kid, it’s me.”
Not even a twitch.
“Peter, please.”
Please.
Jason takes a step.
Peter tenses.
The space between them closes in a blink, the kid’s form dropping low. Jason expects it, keeps himself grounded with a wide stance. A kick comes for his side, avoided with a quick dodge.
Peter whirls around and stands, abandoning his grounded stability. He lashes out with a series of quick jabs, and when Jason is forced on his back foot, he get a knee to the ribs.
There’s a crack as bone gives way to force, and Jason’s on his back.
Breath is driven from his lungs as Peter follows through, poised over Jason with a fist raised.
It slams down. Concrete breaks, cracks splintering out. The skin of Peter’s knuckles split as the target of his attack moves his head. Dust dances in the air, obscuring their visions for a moment.
Knocking the kid to the side, Jason tries to pin him. He has gravity on his side, but Peter’s adept in defying it. “Come on, Queens. Fight it!”
Jason can’t win in a test of strength, not with what he knows of Peter’s meta abilities. He has to fight dirty, has to use what he’s picked up in the short conversation he’d shared with the Stranger.
He knows Peter can’t fight this off alone.
Jason takes a chance. He hooks his fingers around the edges of Peter’s muzzle, refusing to let go as the kid tries to reel back. There’s a sound, animalistic in the way that it’s snarling, modulated with the mask’s tech.
The soles of Peter’s feet plant against Jason’s torso, sticking to the Kevlar chest plate he has strapped to his chest. There’s no chance of getting free, so he just braces.
Whatever breath that he’d pulled into his lungs is driven back out as Jason is sent flying back, landing in a sprawl on the stage. The mask stays in his hand, the straps breaking as Peter’s instinctive panic had him seeking distance.
A web stretches across its matte surface, keeping it held within Jason’s grasp, skin pulled taught as he’s stuck fast to the stage. Another anchors his other hand to the stage, strands piling until he can’t pull himself free.
Shit.
Footsteps thump, echoing as they draw near. Jason sits up as best as he can, watching as Peter gets closer.
Mask gone, Jason sees him for the first time in over two months.
Twin scars adorn his once unmarred visage, thin and fine. They trace along the line of his cheekbones, silvery skin reaching from his hairline to midway to his nose. It had been cut with scalpel-like precision by the mask over and over, the razor’s edge no longer dulled by a carefully tailored lining.
He’s pale, his lips cracked and dry. His features are sharper, hollowed by a lack of care, both from others and himself.
Peters breaths wheeze out of him, remnants of fear left in his lungs.
The tenderness he’d been shown has all but faded from view.
He settles atop Jason, keeping the vigilante moored with his strength. There’s no time to draw another lungful of air, Peter’s fist whipping Jason’s head to the side with a punch.
A left hook follows, blood scattered across the stage as Jason’s lip splits.
Right, then left. Another, and another.
“Pet-” A grunt, a deep bruise sure to form with the hairline fractures that crawl through Jason’s skull. Still, the words are forced out. “It’s okay.”
The kid switches tactics, trying to shut Jason up. Peter’s hand presses down, his palm splintering the collarbone that rests beneath it.
“I’m h- I’m he- I’m here.”
Peter abandons his attempt to trap the words inside. His fist raises.
Jason’s teeth clack as his jaw nearly dislocates, the blows getting sloppier. Muscles tear as he wrenches his hand free, catching the next punch. “I’m here.”
A high keen comes from Peter and then he’s trying to draw away, mind folding with what he’s endured.
Jason can’t let him go, won’t let him go. Not again. Not again.
Bring him home.
Bringing his arms up, he wraps them around the slight form that’s trying to push him away. One of his hands comes up to cradle the head that’s shaking side to side, palm gentle. Hands dig into Jason’s chest, pushing against the nauseating squish of a recently broken rib.
It’s agonizing.
“No- hey. Kid-” Jason’s cut off as Peter abandons his panicked withdrawal, the kid’s fingers clawing at Jason’s back instead. His thin arms squeeze tight, constricting in a desperate bid to experience comfort. “You’re o- you’re okay.”
A wheeze comes out heavier, Peter’s jaw working around something. Jason’s ribs creak where they’re being crushed, cutting off the questioning sound he makes.
Peter coughs, and a sound escapes alongside it, trailing at the end of his rasp. “-ise.”
Taking small sips of air, Jason gathers enough to ask, “What?”
“-romise.” A shuddering breath. “It’s in my head.”
“What is?” Peter’s arms squeeze tighter, a pained hiss snaking out of Jason’s lungs as something gives way in another one of his ribs.
“Her. The chip. I can’t-” A small gap is made between their chests as Peter pulls back, though the tight loop of his arms stays taught. “You promised.”
“No.”
“Please.”
The arms around Jason’s chest fall away, and then the world is blurring. Stars alight across his vision as the back of his head collides with a solid surface, feet barely scraping the ground as a forearm keeps his back pinned to a wall.
Looking into the eyes of the boy before him, Jason sees that only the smallest ring of brown is left in his irises. The poison of the Lazarus pit had festered with every piece of Peter that the Stranger had picked away, leaving the kid to lock whatever pieces he’d been left with away.
One of Jason’s sidearms slides from its holster, its safety disengaged before its being pressed into his hand. “Jason, before she comes back. You have to.”
“Not this. Don’t ask me to do this.” The gun falls to the stage with a thud, it’s weight nauseating.
A tear falls down Peter’s cheek, curving around the bit of baby fat that hadn’t quite given way to the Stranger’s cruelty. “You promised.”
In an act that mirrors the day that he’d made that promise, Jason takes Peter’s free hand and presses it to his chest, letting the kid feel his breaths. His heartrate is even, unafraid even as his life is held in Peter’s hands. “I said I’d stop you if you hurt someone.”
“I’m hurting you.”
Jason smiles, eyes soft.
He shakes his head. “You could never hurt me. My kid’s too good for that.”
The pressure settled across Jason’s collarbones lessens, Peter’s breaths coming out laboured.
“It’s okay, you can stop now.” The moment dangles in the air, spinning like paper snowflakes suspended on string. “You can let go.”
Peter exhales, his breath nothing but relief. His head falls against Jason’s shoulder, the fight draining out of him. Freeing his hand from the loose hold that’s keeping it held against Jason’s chest, it reaches over to the opposite arm’s web shooter.
“Thank you.”
There’s a click, and Peter drops.
~ ~ ~
Peter Parker
??? - ???
The difficult part of being a passenger to your own mind is sorting out the real from the not-real.
Time had been lost to him for so long that the moments of clarity were few and far in between. There was little opportunity for thinking or planning, something that the Stranger hoped for, planned for.
She fell for the same trap that most others did: she underestimated him.
Even at half capacity, Peter worked, didn’t give up. He couldn’t, not when so much was riding on this. He had to be ready.
Bit by bit, he changed his web shooters. Altered the EMP that had knocked out the Manor’s security systems. The Stranger never got the designs for this bit of Peter’s tech, having only been allowed access to the web formula.
On the insistence of Bruce, the wristbands could only be removed by members of the team. Seems the Stranger couldn’t figure out a way around this little issue.
Alone in his cell, Peter changed the EMP’s range and output. He set it to tear through anything within its grasp, shorting whatever electronics sat too close to it.
When that moment arrived, he’d be ready.
He hadn’t been prepared for how painful his plan would prove to be.
He’d theorized about the chip that Deathstroke had warned him about, how it was integrated into his biology. The Stranger had enough time to complete her designs before he’d been pulled into her universe, and so he figured it’d be thorough.
In the span of what feels like hours, Peter experiences what he figures a city-wide blackout would feel like in a human body. The humanity that had been left in him is rewritten by the bright pain of an electrical current, running on loop as its source it overloaded.
Then, all at once, it stops. The world is quiet. Safe.
When Peter’s eyes open, he’s not lying on a cold stage as he’d been expecting.
Jason has his head cradled in the crook of his arm, angling it so he can look into Peter’s face. His expression is visible with his helmet missing, tossed aside and into the shadows. Panic glimmers in his eyes, moisture gathered along the line of his lower lashes, brows drawn tight towards one another.
He looks like he did that night in the alley when Peter had to leave him behind: devastated.
The hold is surprisingly comfortable considering the armor and Kevlar. There’s no strength behind Jason’s grip, his hands soft as if he’s holding onto cracked porcelain.
A trembling palm smooths back errant pieces of hair from Peter’s face, the dampened strands starting to dry. He wants to reach out and touch the streak of white in Jason’s curls where they match, just to make sure this is real
The ringing in Peter’s ears abates, and he hears the words that are falling from Jason’s mouth in a horrified rasp. “What did you do?”
Peter swallows, forces himself to breathe around the laboured pounding of his heart. “Failsafe. Blew the chip.”
Jason quietly curses, two of his fingers pressing gingerly against Peter’s pulse. “You gotta breathe nice and even for me, okay kid? We’re gonna make it through this together, same as always, right Queens?”
“Yeah. Same as always.” The response is shaky at best as he talks around the throbbing in his chest. “Hey, Jason?”
Pressing a hand to his ear, Jason’s comm stay quiet, equally totalled by the EMP. He looks around, frantic, before returning his gaze to Peter. “Yeah?”
“You think we can go back to the garage after this?” A small smile tugs at the muscles in Peter’s cheek, the effect ruined as he clenches his jaw around another wave of pain. “ I- I kinda miss your shitty couch.”
Things were so much simpler back then, no arguments or talks about Peter being a weapon. There wasn’t a chasm between them, words gone unspoken, or regrets to be had.
He’d been in hiding sure, but for a golden moment, he’d been allowed to be a kid again.
The bravery that Jason had pulled onto his face crumples for a second, his attempt to reach the team abandoned as he realizes its futility. “Sure thing, Peter. We’ll order in, you’ll spill on the cushions for the thousandth time. It’ll be our thing again, just me and you.”
Tears gather and spill over at the phrase, relief releasing in a wave as Peter doesn’t have to be the one to say it first this time. “Jus-… just me and you.”
Peter feels his heart stutter, its beating laboured and weakened by the strain. It hurts, and it’s scary, but he isn’t afraid. Not anymore.
Jason’s still talking, urging Peter to do something. There’s guilt, a crushing weight that drives the remaining breath from his lungs.
He’s been here before. He knows how this goes.
Using the last moments he has, Peter’s words come out with a rattle. “I’m sorry.”
He lets his eyes slip closed.
Notes:
Chapter warnings for: mind-control of a minor, manipulative behaviour, more fear gas, descriptions of violence, self-sacrificial ideation/behaviour/discussion of the death of a minor.
About the chapter: NOTE THE FIC CONTENT WARNINGS TAGS DID NOT CHANGE! I WOULD ADD WARNINGS FOR IMPORTANT CHARACTER DEATHS.
I just like being dramatic.
Chapter 35
Notes:
Warning for this chap is discussing one's own mortality and possibility of death. No overt suicidal themes, but figured I'd stick a tw just in case for this one.
Once again, wanted to thank everyone for the support throughout my writing of this story :). There are still chapters to come, but we're getting closer to the endgame now and it's been such a fun ride~
Enjoy <3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Peter Parker
??? - ???
Sensation slips from Peter’s hands and everything settles into a buzzing, numb nothingness. It’s nice, a bit floaty.
Here, there’s nothing to worry about. There’s no space to think about who or what he might have left behind in the place that he came from. There’s just a static calm.
At odd moments, there are hints of brightness that dance at the edges of his non-awareness, something reaching out towards him. It slips past, sometimes a whisper of warmth and at others a lance of cold, both trying to cling on and pull him somewhere else.
At first, Peter stays away. They promise more, more time spent hurtling towards an uncertain future, more things to come, more choices to be made.
He doesn’t want that, not when he’s at peace.
But as most things do, the quiet doesn’t last.
His curiosity gets stronger and louder alongside a foreboding sense that the stillness isn’t safe. With that comes the eve of consciousness, and it’s then that things change.
In the span of a heartbeat, he’s somewhere else.
A soft surface stretches across Peter’s back, warmth enveloping his body. There’s a distant sound, constant and rhythmic, and it calls to him.
Blinking his eyes open, he’s somewhere familiar.
Science posters are stuck to cream coloured walls with blue tack, the space having once been a guest bedroom. It always felt too intrusive to ask to repaint it, so he’d insisted upon liking the bland, off-white shade of the room. The bed is off to the side, and there are small projects that litter available surfaces.
A home away from home.
Standing, Peter doesn’t feel the aches and pains that have plagued him since becoming a vigilante. He feels rested and reinvigorated, the shadows in his mind brightened where they’ve been clinging to its deepest corners.
The only light in the room comes from the hallway, streaming in from the crack at the bottom of the door. Sound filters through the wood, its tempo fluctuating somewhat.
Reaching out to twist the doorknob, Peter steps out into something unexpected.
“Hey, Underoos.”
Tony Stark stands by a workbench, a hologram suspended midair that’s depicting a set of complicated blueprints. He lifts the wielding helmet that had been hiding his features, and Peter is greeted by the familiar face of his mentor.
He’s rooted to the spot, muscles locking up as he watches breath push in and out of Tony’s lungs. His chest is bereft of the Arc Reactor, instead sporting a band t-shirt splattered with oil and grease.
There is no scarring or injury on him, nothing to reflect the state that Peter had seen him in last. He’s looking at Peter with clarity instead of that far-away gaze, cleared of the slackened expression that had hung from his features after he’d wielded the Infinity stones.
Faint music is playing in the room, classic rock filtering in through the speakers that are set near the ceiling. One of Tony’s brows is quirked up, a quizzical twist on his lips as he looks over.
That small movement shakes Peter out of his reverie, so familiar that it melts whatever hesitancy had built up.
“Tony?”
“You know any other genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropists?” There’s an amused twinkle in Tony’s eyes. “Come on, Mini-Me, gimme a hand with this real quick.”
Unwilling to pass on a chance to work with his idol, Peter crosses the space quickly. He stands next to the inventor, quickly taking in the complex wiring that sits in the chest of one of Tony’s old sentry bots.
Peter remembers watching the news coverage of Sokovia rising into the clouds, Ultron’s legion buzzing around the artificial meteor like bees around a hive. A part of him feels a bit twitchy around the sentry, wondering if some of Ultron’s code had survived his defeat.
“You know, it still feels weird working on these old things.” The older man chatters idly. “I didn’t get much of them back on account for the whole ‘robot mandated apocalypse’ debacle, but Fury pulled the right strings to get me a couple that weren’t too bent out of shape.”
Still musing at the uncanny feeling the android corpse inspires, Peter responds distractedly. “Yeah, sure.”
The sentry stares up at the ceiling.
“You know, I thought there’d be a lot more tears about now, some iteration of ‘Oh Tony, I missed you so much’.” Tony grouses. “You save the universe for a kid and all he can say is ‘yeah, sure’. Teenagers…”
Peter snorts, less anxious about the jab than he might’ve once been.
“Wanted to say kid, good job on replicating the reactor.” He nudges Peter’s arm with his elbow without turning away from his work. “Tough work, ‘specially with working unfamiliar elements.”
“Thanks. I didn’t know if it’d be breaking patent, but considering the new universe and all, I figured I was in the clear.” He jests while he chances a glance around. “Talking about unfamiliar… where are we?”
“You tell me, kid. It’s your mind after all.” Tony plucks at one of the wires near the sentry’s core, carefully trying to fix a tear in its EPR jacketing. “I could be a ghost, a psychotic break induced hallucination, an echo from the Soul Stone. Thems are your demons to grapple with, Voorhees Junior.”
He ignores the ‘in your mind’ bit, content to let that fact breeze him by. “Huh.”
“Yup.”
Peter pulls a nearby stool towards himself, sitting down on it heavily.
The sentinel’s chest is covered in pockmarks and blackened metal, looking to have been through the ringer. The core is significantly damaged, sparks jumping from where a current is still trying to flow through its cables.
The song in the background switches tracks, the rhythm faster than the last.
“So…” In true Tony fashion, the man doesn’t let the solemn moment settle. “What am I doing here?”
“I dunno.”
“Mm, not gonna cut it. Use that youthful brain of yours.”
Peter huffs, running a hand through his hair. “Can’t we just work without solving the world’s problems for a bit?”
“’Fraid not. There’s something that’s been bugging you recently, and as a mad scientists, I can’t let sleeping dogs lie.” Tony plucks a soldering iron from its stand and melts a drop of liquid metal onto the exposed core. “Dish the dish, bish.”
Dropping his hand, Peter rubs his palms against his knees, finding them to be uncomfortably clammy. “I just… I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“And what do you mean by that?” The question is asked in a vaguely disinterested tone, but Peter doesn’t take it personally. Tony’s just like that.
“These mistakes that I’ve been making, I haven’t fixed them or made any of them better.” A stray string sticks up from a hole on his jeans, easy to pick at. “I keep getting people hurt or killed, and I… I can’t help but think that every time I try to help, I’m just making everything worse. That it might be better if I just… stopped.”
Tony hums and sets the soldering iron back down. He looks to Peter, once again searching for answers in his expression. “Why didn’t you quit before?”
“May. Being Spiderman. Going to school and getting to see MJ and Ned.” The string snaps as Peter pulls it too tight. “You kept me going too. I wanted to be an Avenger so bad.”
Tony’s attention falters then, his gaze turning to the floor with a look of thinly veiled shame.
Peter pushes on, even though admitting it hurts. “Then everything happened with Thanos and Dr. Strange and the multiverse, and everything that kept me standing just… disappeared. After that, well, I guess I went away too. Now, the thought of going back is…”
The track changes. The start of the next song takes a bit to get going, silence ringing in their ears as Peter’s words sink in.
“The hard bit about the whole hero gig is finding your bottom line. You got to decide, at the end of the day, how much are you willing to lose?” A guitar strums, unexpectedly slow. “Are you going to lay down on that wire or are you going to sit by and wait for the next guy to come along and do it for you?
“When Cap first asked me what I’d do, I told him I’d cut the wire. Took me too long to realize that the choice is never that simple.” Tony continues, pulling on his usual anecdotes. “He taught me something else too: you gotta know when it’s time to walk away and leave the fight.”
The thought has something reactive flaring in Peter, apprehension filling him at the idea of letting something like that go. The other bit, the one that’s tired and baring its neck, doesn’t think that sounds so bad.
“Right now, whatever decision you’re about to make, it’s got to be the one you’re certain of.” Tony sets his hands on Peter’s shoulders, a good head taller as he stands bright and golden. “Nothing comes without a cost. Take it from the guy who’d paid it back in a lump sum.”
Letting the words sink in, Peter tugs on the shadows that he’d been hiding from. He lets himself think of what’s waiting for him outside of this bubble of safety he’s found.
The chip, the Stranger, Ra’s al Ghul and Lex Luthor.
Jason, the Waynes, the manor and being a part of a team- a family again.
The phantom ache seep in and he feels the weight of what he’d be going back to. His body is tired. He’d died before, and had to learn to live with it twice already.
Peter turns to the sentry and really looks at it. The core is misshapen, bent to form two primary chambers with wires that crisscross in and out of it. It’s so damaged that it looks near irreparable, kept alive by nothing short of a miracle.
For a second, it almost seems to move in a laboured sort of pulse.
Brows pinching, he looks to Tony. “What’s going on?”
The music cuts out for a split second, and something about it is wrong. Tony reaches over and smacks a palm atop the ancient CD player that he’s refused to part ways with, a mess of old and new tech keeping it going past its expiry date.
“You’re at the crossroads, Pete, and this time you’ve got your hands on the wheel. No stones or mad scientists to take that decision away from you.”
The tempo continues, Brian Johnson’s vocals carrying atop the band’s instruments, and the truth smacks Peter in the face. “I’m dying.”
“Not yet, but you’re in surgery.” Tony returns to working away at the sentry, hands splashed with oil. “Intensive from what I’ve gathered.”
Despite the gravity of the situation, Peter doesn’t freak out. He just looks at the sentry, at its hollow parts. “So this is just a ‘don’t go into the light’ kind of deal?”
“Maybe. Again, this is all in your noggin.” Tony shrugs, then nods at the emergency exit doors to the far side of the lab. “But before you take a step in any direction, you should probably take a look in there. Might help with all this.”
A tendril of fear curls taught at the thought of leaving, at stepping into somewhere unknown. “What if I want to stay here?”
“Well then your decision’s made and we’ll move onto a different project.”
Ominous.
Well, let it be said that Peter’s never been one to back down from a challenge.
Pushing himself to stand, he moves closer to the door. It had been in Tony’s old lab, used to shut DUM-E away when he caused too much mischief. Setting a hand on the push bar, he stops when his old mentor’s voice calls out.
“That guy that took you in, Bruce Wayne was it?”
Peter nods.
“Tell him to stop stealing my brand.”
Something unfurls in Peter’s chest and he laughs. “I’ll see you around, Tony.”
“In your dreams, Spider-Man.”
With a smile, he steps through the door.
~ ~ ~
Peter Parker
??? - ???
Time slips again. He knows he’s using minutes, hours, days to prolong the decision, keeping himself in between life and whatever comes after.
When he sees where he’s been led, he can’t find it in himself to care.
The colours that fill the room are vibrant, golden sunlight dancing across worn floorboards as the curtains flutter around a slow breeze. The décor is homely and inviting, plush cushions slightly flattened from prolonged use.
Plants dot surfaces around the space, ficus and string-of-pearl making it feel like spring despite Peter knowing that it’s not the right season. The apartment smells like orange from when the fruit had been cut and baked on a sheet, the dried pucks then put on a string to be used as decoration.
Music plays here as well, though it’s lively 90s pop tunes instead of Tony’s bassy rock. A voice hums along to the words, slightly off-key in the way that it always used to be.
The singing stops as a head turns to take in Peter’s entrance, long brown hair pushed over one shoulder so it doesn’t block the meeting of their gazes. Smiling softly, albeit the slightest bit sadly, is May Parker.
Peter doesn’t say anything, can’t get his mouth to open. He just puts one foot in front of the other until he’s burrowing in her arms, her head tilting to rest against his.
“Oh, Peter.” Fingers card through his hair and a kiss is pressed against his temple. “I’m so sorry.”
He shakes his head, refusing her apology. He doesn’t know what she could be sorry for, can’t accept the idea that she thinks she’d done him wrong.
He can’t draw away either. He knows he’s too old to cling onto her like this, using her as a lifeline like he would in the year after his parents died.
Little Peter would use everything up just getting through the day, making all the other kids think he was too strong to cry about his dead mom and dad. Then, when he’d come home, he’d let the strength in his legs go and he’d hang from May’s waist, refusing to talk when she’d ask what was wrong.
He’s long since grown past that stage of his life, had faced loss enough times to learn how to tuck it away in his own time, but it feels different now. He can’t bear the thought of being strong.
There’s nowhere to hide as he’s stuck in his mind. All he can do is face the truth of himself: he’s the point of convergence, the one to blame for everything that had happened to the people he loves.
“I can hear you thinking something ridiculous.”
May’s hands slide to cup Peter’s cheeks and they maneuver him away, giving space for them to look at one another.
Peter’s thoughts slip between his fingers as he sees her again, eyes glimmering behind the frames of her glasses. Her palms are soft but callused in certain spots, the roughness differing vastly from that which has built on Peter’s hands.
“May, I…” There’s too much to say, and no way of knowing where to start. “I-”
“I know.”
Of course she does. She’d always known him best, even when he’d been lying to her about Spiderman. She’d been his compass, the person that showed him the way home.
She brushes some of Peter’s hair back, tilting his face so he knows not to look away. “I know, which is why you have to listen when I say that you can’t stay.”
What?
“Why?” He feels affronted by her words, unable to stop the small bit of hurt that blossoms at the thought of being turned away. “But, May, I can’t-”
“Yes you can. You can’t stay here with me.” She moves her hands to settle on his arms. “You’ve been so strong, Peter, but you can’t give up. The boy I raised doesn’t let up when the going gets tough. He stands back up, and does what he knows is right.”
“But I’m tired.” Heat builds behind Peter’s eyes and a tear traces down one of his cheeks. “I’m so tired, and it’s too much, May. I can’t.”
May’s eyes get sad, and then she’s crying too. “That’s why, when you wake up, you’re going to tell that nice young man everything, and you’re going to make him listen.”
“What if he doesn’t like who I am now?” Doubt bubbles up, oozing out Peter’s like it’s an open wound. “I’m not the same person I was a few months ago, May. I’m… different.”
“You’re still in there, Peter.” May settles a palm against Peter’s chest where his heart beats, growing stronger with every word shared. “And even if you’ve changed, Jason isn’t going to leave. He’s been here the whole time, every day, asking you- telling you to come back.”
“He has?”
“Yep. Stubborn one, that one is.” May huffs, wiping the remnants of her tears from her face. “Reminds me of someone else I know.”
Peter laughs even though the jab isn’t really that funny, chest light as if he’d shed a weight he’d grown used to.
Using her thumb, May fusses over cleaning Peter’s face, earning her a customary round of complaints. She ruffles his hair, the gesture playful and familiar, and all at once Peter realizes that his time with her is running out.
This time, he doesn’t let things go unsaid.
“I really miss you.”
“I miss you too, sweetheart.” She looks at him, painted in shades of springtime. “I’m so proud of you.”
May pulls him to her again, and her lips press against his forehead.
“Love you, May.”
“I love you.”
Peter closes his eyes, and makes his choice.
~ ~ ~
Peter Parker
??? - ???
Warm.
For a moment, Peter thinks he’s somewhere else, a place where sunlight filters through ficus leaves. He thinks he hears the tempo of someone’s music playing, notes running through old speakers. He thinks he feels the phantom weight of a farewell kiss on his forehead, words spoken that he’d needed to hear.
Then, those sensations redirect.
The warmth comes from blankets layering atop his body, a space heater humming away nearby. A machine beeps steadily, monitoring someone’s vitals.
Peter feels settled, his mind quiet. He was helped here, guided to this space of tranquility by something that dances just out of his reach, their colours gleaming and lively.
There will be time to poke at his hurts later, at a time when there is enough strength in him to open his eyes. He’ll face everything that he’d done and that had been done to him, and he’ll make it through, because he’s alive and he isn’t alone.
But for now, Peter will trace his thumb along the flat edge of something that’s tucked beneath his hand. He’ll feel the sharp corners, and the faint seam that’s set into one of the object’s faces.
He’ll gather that which he hasn’t given, and he’ll push down on a button.
Click.
A sound. Quick and sudden.
“Peter?”
Notes:
The boy lives.
Chapter 36
Notes:
Febuwhump is on its way everyone >:3. I'm very likely going to be participating in the madness, so keep an eye out for new postings cause you know I love angst/whump shit. I'm still deep in the batfam trenches so I'm going to be sticking to writing them around members of the fam :D
Anyways, here's a new chap! Enjoy my friends~ (also note, I am not a medical professional, so take the jargon in this with a grain of salt)
Chapter Text
Jason Todd
May 6th - Gotham General Hospital
The worst part about waiting is that it leaves too much time to think.
The chair that had become Jason’s home over the past month and a half feels almost moulded to his body, the cushions starting to flatten permanently with continued use. It’s wide and expensive, meant to be lounged on by retirees for hours on end as they wallow in the end-of-life stage.
The room’s usual flimsy hospital armchair had been swapped out at Bruce’s behest when he realized Jason’s intent to stay at Peter’s side indefinitely. One hefty donation to the hospital, and the nurses who had been mean mugging him were suddenly all smiles and accommodations.
Jason couldn’t put much care into it, not when his priority rested on the bed in front of him, but he could admit that the preferential treatment was a nice bonus. The nurses checked in more frequently after he became a money maker in the hospital’s eyes, and they were moved into a cushy private room with a nice window view.
The whole situation stank of greed and corruption, but there’s little reason to think about that, not when there are more pressing things to worry at.
When the silence becomes too loud, Jason occupies himself by reading through the reports and files that the team upload as they dismantle what’s left of the Stranger’s network. She’s disappeared in the interim, but her steps aren’t completely untraceable.
Any bank accounts linked to her name were drained and closed by Barbara’s quick fingers. The ties she had to the community were ripped out and replaced by Tim and Bruce, with Wayne Enterprises stepping in to fill the vacuum that was left in their wake.
The members of the Court that remained loyal to her were sniffed out by Damian, Cass, and Dick. Many were found dead already, their throats torn open as a message. The rest were arrested and turned into the GCPD, though none survived the night.
Everyone else did what they could to erase the traces she’d left behind in the city, reducing her labs and safehouses to rubble. Her research was redacted, codified, and condemned to die a slow death in the Batcomputer’s archives.
The Stranger’s allies pulled out of Gotham in the wake of her defeat. Talia reported her father’s return to Nanda Parbat and Luthor’s deliveries to the docks ceased completely, leaving their ally stranded and without backup.
She’d been left high and dry with no avenue for escape.
Yet, the victory remains hollow.
Nobody can find her. The Stranger is in hiding, using every bit of experience she’d built in evading their notice.
It’s aggravating, but despite how much he’d love to see her standing at the wrong end of a gun, Jason can’t find it within himself to care.
He knows he should be thirsting for revenge, anger lapping at his heels for what she’d done. He should be resisting the urge to scour the city, wanting to bring the Stranger to the violent justice that she deserves.
Instead, he can only dwell on the boy that’s lying still in the bed before him.
Peter’s condition had been improving steadily, his Glasgow scale inching up with every test that the Leslie Thompkins runs. Where he’d once been unresponsive to most external stimuli, he’s now showing some eye movement and small twitches of his muscles when prodded.
Despite the hope flourishing, he still looks… wrong.
There are far too many tubes and wires weaving out from within his body, hooked up to machines that Jason had made himself an expert on. New scars pockmark his skin, telling stories that might never pass from their bearer’s lips.
He’s got shadows clinging to him that might never be dispelled, a darker edge that Jason once believed himself capable of protecting Peter from. He’d forgotten that it was a biproduct of Gotham’s cold crucible, her violence sparing none.
And yet. And yet. He’s still so small.
Jason’s hand still enfolds Peter’s easily. He still looks like he’s 120lbs max when wet. He still looks young and breakable, entirely at risk when unable to defend himself.
He still looks like a kid.
A kid that won’t wake up.
And that’s the worst part of waiting.
Jason’s spent the last month and a half thinking, but he’s also spent it begging.
When there are no nurses around to offer sympathetic smiles, no Leslie Thompkins to run the same tests over and over and over again, and no Bruce to attempt convincing him to leave, Jason talks to the kid.
He asks him to wake up and tell him that story, the one that had made Batman laugh so hard that Jason remembered a time where he’d been Robin and had done the same.
He tells him to wake up and get mad, to tell Jason that he’s a piece of shit for killing criminals and yell at him for failing him again.
He begs him to wake up and talk, talk about whatever the kid wants to ramble on and on about next. He’ll listen this time, won’t say a thing for hours if it means that Peter will keep talking, keep telling him about the things that matter.
He begs him to wake up, because Peter is his kid.
Peter is his kid, and Jason only realized it, accepted it, when it was too late. It was only when his kid was dying in his arms, breaths rattling and heart failing, that he finally figured it out.
Always too late.
When the team had found them in the theatre, Jason thought he’d run out of second chances. They’d gotten too many of them already, too many deaths rewritten.
He knew the distance between them and the hospital was too far. The Batmobile was gone and so was Bruce. There was no way they’d have enough time, not with Peter’s pulse fading from a race to a stutter.
He’d almost forgotten that his kid is a fighter.
Peter told him, buried deep in that letter. There’s a part of me that doesn’t want to go back.
And so he’d held on.
This whole time, Peter had been fighting to stay. Pushing through on the streets of Gotham, bloodied and bruised, because he’d found something worth staying for.
He didn’t want to go, and so Jason wouldn’t let him.
I don’t want to be alone again.
And so he wouldn’t be.
It’s that promise that has kept Jason at his bedside, rebutting every attempt that Bruce makes to get him to rest.
It’s that promise that has him tucking the button beneath Peter’s hand, an assurance that he’d be there the next time it’s pushed.
It’s that promise that has him ready when it is.
Click.
An alarm blares, quick and sudden.
“Peter?”
The kid inhales, his breath heavier than the thousand that came before it. The skin between his brows crinkles, displeased by the loud noise.
Jason stands, moves closer. Turns off the alarm without looking at his phone.
Peter’s eyes squint open. The lights are already dimmed so they emit the smallest of glows, ready for the kid’s enhanced senses. It takes a moment for him to find the room’s only other occupant. “Jas’n?”
Jason should be pressing the ‘call nurse’ button, but all rational thought flees when he hears his name croak from Peter’s lips. He hovers by the bedside, worried that he might accidentally jostle Peter’s injuries should he sit. “Hey, kid.”
He’s awake. He’s awake.
“Where-” The question is aborted as Peter sluggishly blinks, pieces connecting in his head as he takes in his surroundings.
“We’re at the hospital. You’ve been out for a while, so take it easy.” Jason perches gingerly at the edge of the mattress, ready to keep Peter down should he try to sit up.
With all the things he’d told himself he’d say upon the kid’s waking, he feels frozen, unsure of what to do.
“You… I-” Peter’s gaze moves across Jason’s form, some clarity returning as the disorientation wares off.
Jason’s been in his shoes before, waking up confused and wanting answers. He knows it’ll only be a matter of time, likely sooner rather than later, before Peter puts the pieces together.
He watches in real time as the kid’s mind catches up, memories clarifying as he realizes why he’s in the hospital. His blinking gets quicker, the haze dissipating as it is replaced by regret, tears gathering in his eyes. “You’re hurt.”
“I’m fine, Peter.” Hurrying to reassure the kid, Jason rests a hand on the sheets next to Peter’s hand. The slight slurring of his words has him worried and he checks over the vitals that fill the nearby screens, finding them unchanged.
There are so many complications that can happen after a major operation, and even more after being in a coma for as long as Peter was. Too many questions are left unanswered when a patient can’t respond, the brain susceptible to too many threats.
God, his kid had been on a feeding tube. His heart almost stopped.
“No, I remember. I hurt you. You were sad.” A frown pulls at Peter’s mouth, his waterline brimming with unshed tears. “You are sad.”
Pull it together, Todd.
“Not anymore, Queens.” Jason settles a palm on Peter’s cheek, swiping away a drop that falls from his lashes. He tries for a smile, cheeks dimpling as he lets his relief bleed into the curve of his lips. Now’s not the time to dwell on mistakes. “Not now that you’re awake.”
Peter’s watery gaze flits across Jason’s expression, gauging whether or not he’s lying. More tears fall in the wake of the first and the kid swallows before asking, “You’re really okay?”
“Yeah, kiddo. We’re all okay.” Resisting the urge to pull the injured teenager into a hug, Jason settles for fussing at his hair, brushing the oily strands back. “You’re the one that had us- has us worried.”
The moment is so reminiscent of Peter’s time in the cave’s med ward that Jason feels like no time has passed. Here the kid is, prioritizing other’s health when he’s the only one bruised and bedridden.
“I am?”
“Yeah, kid.” Jason’s fingers card through Peter’s hair and his bangs flop down across his forehead in clumps of strands. “They won’t stop blowing up my phone with questions and demands for updates.”
“Oh.” Peter’s quiet for a second, eyelids drooping as he surveys Jason in the pause. “Tell ‘em I’m okay.”
“Sure thing.”
There’s a small tremble in Jason’s hand.
He’s awake. He’s alive. He’s okay. You can breathe.
“Hey, Jason?”
“Mhm?” Jason’s free hand wanders to press the button to call the nurse, content that the kid’s settled.
“Can we stay like this, just for a little bit longer?”
There’s an expression on the kid’s face like he thinks Jason is going to say no, like he’ll do the responsible thing and call the nurse in.
But he can hear the underlying question. Can you stay? Can I stay?
There’s a big, loud world outside, but it feels far away in this moment. In this small room, there’s only Jason and Peter, nobody around to keep track of or be ready to neutralize should they move against either one of them.
There’s calm, and there’s safety.
Putting the button down, Jason nods and kicks his feet up.
The world can wait.
~ ~ ~
Peter Parker
May 8th - Gotham General Hospital
“So, do you want the good news or the bad news first?”
Sitting amid a mountain of pillows in his private room at Gotham General, Peter swirls a spoon through the cup of pudding that he hold gingerly in one hand. Three gazes are locked on him, all serious in a way that reminds him of a parent-teacher conference.
Jason is sitting in his usual chair, the front legs tipped back as he has his feet propped on the bed. He’s splitting his attention between Peter and the second pudding cup that’s on the bedside table, the twitch of his hand giving away his urge to snag it for himself.
Leaning against the wall by the corner is Bruce, cutting the same intimidating figure he usually does. One finger taps an even beat against his bicep, ever the patient one as he loiters.
Leslie Thompkins stands at the foot of Peter’s bed, a no-nonsense expression on her face as she looks down at her patient. She has his chart in hand, the plastic red clipboard decorated with a few stickers on the back.
Trying not to sink into his pillows, Peter picks at his blanket before responding, “Good news first, please.”
“Alright.” Dr. Thompkins begins. “Given the circumstances of your admittance to the hospital directly after the Scarecrow’s attack, you are under no suspicion by authorities or the press that you are a vigilante.
“Though you are officially emancipated under the eyes of the law, you were unable to provide consent to any medical procedures when you arrived here.” She looks to the man shadowing the corner. “Thankfully, Bruce had himself assigned as your power of attorney, and had me designated as your sole healthcare provider throughout your recovery.”
Peter glances to the side. “Jason isn’t my POA?”
“I’m still dead in the eyes of the State.” The response comes dry. “It’d be tough to explain how Jason Todd came back from being found dead in Ethiopia and why he’s got a minor listed under his care to boot. That, and Bruce has more pull.”
Something on Jason’s face tells Peter he isn’t the biggest fan of the arrangement, but they can’t knock the benefits as Peter’s not stuck sharing a room in the pediatric ward.
“As your POA, Bruce was also able to allow and afford top-of-the-line treatments befitting your unique biology.” Dr. Thompkins cuts in, getting the conversation back on track. “Only myself and a select few healthcare workers know of your metahuman status, all of whom signed NDAs without issue.
“A result of your continued exposure to the Scarecrow’s toxin is that you are effectively immune to it.” She flips a few sheets on her board. “We compared your antibodies with other immunized patients, and it would seem that your adrenal gland will no longer respond to the compound’s effects.”
It feels like a consolation prize.
Lowing Peter’s chart, Dr. Thompkins concludes. “Lastly, your body has healed of any physical trauma. There wasn’t much aside from some hairline fractures in your hands and minor damage to your airway and lungs, so no specialized physical therapy will be needed aside from building your strength back up.”
At that, Peter pointedly looks down at the blankets.
He’d remembered bits of his rescue in his dreams alongside snippets of his time with the Stranger. He’s figured out how he’d injured his hands, evident on Jason and Bruce’s bodies though they’ve tried to hide the damage he’d caused.
He can still see the bruises when their clothes shift a bit too much. He can hear the creak of Bruce’s bones where his ribs are still healing.
There’s the shifting of cloth and the sole of Jason’s foot is jutting against Peter’s leg.
I’m still here.
Breathing out, Peter steels himself. “And the bad news?”
Dr. Thompkins purses her lips, hesitating before she nods. “To be frank, your health is still a mess. When you were admitted, you were in cardiac arrest and at risk of total organ failure. Your hormone levels are still struggling to regulate and your immune system isn’t keeping up with what your body needs.
“Though your surgery was successful, it was just a temporary solution.” Her mouth slants, apologetic. “The road to recovery isn’t going to be quick, Peter, and it isn’t going to be easy.”
He nods, mouth dry.
Jason talks for him. “So, what are the steps?”
“Well, as a baseline the only people coming in and out of the room are medical staff and the three of us. We can’t take any risks, especially considering what your family’s night jobs involve.”
It’s upsetting to think about being kept from everyone longer, but it’s logical.
“Your heart suffered considerable damage when you went into arrest. It’ll heal in time, faster than normal thanks to your healing factor.” Holding out a small device, Peter picks out the Wayne logo on its side. “To alleviate some of the stress, I’m recommending the use of a pacemaker.”
“It can be removed later, but that’s where most of the uncertainty lies. There’s no knowing how long your recovery will be, or how many setbacks we might face. If we’re lucky, there’ll be none.” Dr. Thompkins sets down the chart, lacing her fingers together. “There are also optional treatments to consider.”
Already overwhelmed, Peter nods again to signal her to continue.
“The EMP you deployed destroyed the chip, but we were unable to remove it until you woke up.”
The rhythm of the heart monitor gets a touch faster as Peter hears that bit of news. “You mean it’s still in me?”
“You were in a coma for a dangerously long time, Peter, and messing with a patient’s brain while they’re still under isn’t advisable.” She instructs, firm but not unkind. “Now that you’re awake, we can remove it, but-”
“Please.” Peter interrupts, sheepishly settling when he realizes he’d cut her off. “Sorry. I uh, yeah, I’d like it removed.”
“Okay.” Dr. Thompkins accepts with a soft voice. “There’s also the matter of the Kryptonite radiation that’s still in you.”
Bruce clears his throat to pull attention. “We think we know a way to get it out of you, but it remains as your decision. If you go through with it, you’ll be given access to highly sensitive information that could put you in more danger.”
Peter’s trepidation grows. “What kind of danger?”
There’s a blur of something being thrown across the room and an empty pudding cup is bouncing off Bruce’s shoulder. Jason scowls over at him before turning to Peter. “He’s being cryptic about it, but it’s not the biggest deal. You’d get to see Superman’s secret base, which is only known by a select few in the Justice League.”
“Jason-”
Surprisingly, Dr. Thompkins is the one to cut him off, leveling him with a chastising look. “Can it, Bruce. Peter doesn’t need riddles right now.”
Peter looks at the pudding cup, wondering when Jason had stolen it, and tries to organize the influx of information in his already crowded mind. “Okay. Superman’s secret base. Sure.”
“Your decision doesn’t need to be made now.” Bruce backpedals, trying to recover from his conversational stumble.
“B might even be a little sad if you get rid of it.” Jason adds, trying to lighten the mood. “He loves holding things over good ol’ Supe’s head. He just has to crack you like a glowstick and sic you on the guy, and boom: the Man of Steel is cooked.”
“Boys.” Once again having to act as the adult, Dr. Thompkins shuts the two grown men up. “Ultimately, as Bruce said, the decision is yours. None of us can force you to undergo something you don’t agree to.”
Peter takes a steadying breath, trying to sort through everything he’d been told.
It all sounds daunting and exhausting, one thing after the other. He’d be relying on Bruce and Jason to keep him company, denying them the ability to take any time off.
He feels as if he has little choice, needing to get the chip out and needing to know he won’t be at risk of endangering Superman simply by standing to close to him. If he wants to get out of here as soon as possible, he’ll need the pacemaker and whatever treatments they offer to help him along.
Looking at the assembled adults, he sees matching expressions on their faces, all showing earnest empathy. A part of him resents it, feeling as if he’s being pitied, but he shoves it down. They’re just trying to be kind and he’s going to need all the support he can get.
“I’ll do it, whatever you think is best.” Peter replies, surety in his voice. “The optional treatments too. I can’t be a danger to anyone, not anymore.”
There’s a bout of silence that follows, words swallowed that will surely make their way out at a later time.
Dr. Thompkins sets her hand on the frame of Peter’s bed. “Alright then.”
Chapter 37
Notes:
Tying up a couple of loose threads in this one. Enjoy the callbacks, folks.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Bruce Wayne
May 17th - Gotham General Hospital
Bruce knows that Peter is strong, has seen many of his friend’s and family’s best traits reflected in him, but he also knows the toll that recovery can take on a person, especially one so young.
He has been through round after round of physical therapy before and he’s aware that it’s his own doing with his dedication to the mantle of Batman. Yet, he is not immune to the frustration that comes with feeling as if he has made no progress.
It’s a common stage for those who are healing from difficult injury. The process chips away at the mind, highlighting the failures of their current body as it’s incapable of performing tasks that had once been autonomic.
Despite Peter’s considerable will, it has become evident to Bruce that he is struggling.
The first bit of evidence presents itself in a slow shift of his mood, beginning in the days after his first surgery. Though the chip’s removal is done without any complications, its integration into Peter’s mind has his sixth sense on high alert for days without due cause.
He described it as a constant tingling across his body and a sense that something terrible was about to happen to him in that instant, at every moment. Jason quipped about that being Bruce’s modus operandi, but the joke fell flat as Peter jumped at the entrance of a nurse into the room.
Slowly, the fear abated, and then Peter was being wheeled away again so Leslie could implant the pacemaker into his chest.
This was much less involved than his previous treatments, but one can only awaken from anesthesia so many times without the uncertainty catching up with them.
When his physical therapy began, Peter’s temperament took a turn for the worse.
It did not present itself in the way he spoke or acted towards others, as he did a commendable job of staying outwardly optimistic. Instead, his decline occurred where nobody could reach him: inside his own mind.
When the conversation died out, he would cast his gaze outside and something distant would creep into his eyes. Breaking him out of his head proved difficult if he was left for too long, thus requiring more frequent check-ins.
This had Bruce bringing in Dinah Lance, the Black Canary, to act as counsel for Peter, but the adolescent remained resistant to her attempts at creating a connection. She assured Bruce that ‘these things take time’, but time had not proven itself an ally where Peter was concerned.
It’s after a particularly grueling session of PT that Bruce overhears Peter and Jason conversing quietly.
“You gotta eat, kiddo.” Jason’s voice is soft and quiet, muted as not to attract the attention of any passersby. “You know what Dr. Leslie said-”
“Yeah, I know, but…” There’s a sigh, frustrated and quick. “I’m not hungry, Jason.”
“You were deprived proper nutrition for two months, and then you were in a coma for almost two more. It’ll push back your recovery if you-”
“What if I don’t care about that, huh?” Peter’s words come out harsh, anger brimming just beneath the surface. “I’m not getting any better, and we still have to get the radiation out of me. You heard Bruce, we don’t know how the tech is going to react to my biology.”
“You don’t have to go through with that if you don’t want.” Jason urges. “We’ll just make sure that you and Supes are kept far enough apart for as long as you need.”
“I can’t- won’t be a hazard to anybody, invulnerable alien or not!” He cuts back in, determined despite the unknown risks. “I just…”
Jason hums in a bid to keep Peter talking, letting him air out his frustrations.
“I’m tired, okay?” The adolescent’s frustration crumbles with his admission, the sound of cloth shifting reaching Bruce’s ears as Peter moves. “I keep having to do this over and over, and I don’t want to anymore.”
“I know.” There’s a couple footfalls and then Bruce can hear Jason pulling Peter into a hug. “You might not want to hear this right now, but I promise to do everything in my power to make sure it’s the last time.”
It had been in that room that Peter had divulged the missing bits of his history, and while Bruce had his suspicions about the possibility of multiversal travel, the adolescent’s history with personal tragedy was startling.
Though they all suspected the level at which Peter had lost people he loved, the numerous encounters that he’d had with death is nothing short of distressing. In the wake of another close call, Bruce can only wonder at how it’s eating away at him.
“You can’t promise that.”
“You’re probably right, but I’m gonna do it anyways.”
It’s then that Bruce interrupts their heart-to-heart, not wanting to overhear anything that either party wouldn’t want him privy to. Peter’s lack of reaction gives away his wherewithal of Bruce’s presence over the past minute, but he doesn’t show any outward displeasure at this.
Bruce gently coaxes Jason out of the room to get some rest, and then he’s left in the room with Peter.
When alone, they usually spend their time together in contemplative conversation or playing various games. Peter claims that his aunt was a card shark and he seems to have taken after her, easily keeping up with Bruce’s tactics.
Tonight, he seems more interested in picking at his food. Last week, he’d unknowingly sweet talked the chef into preparing him more appetizing meals than what the usual bland hospital menu offers, charming the gruff man with his bright personality.
That seems to be a natural talent of his.
After a couple of painstaking bites, Bruce finds himself asking, “Have I ever told you of the time that Bane broke my spine?”
He can hear his children’s teasing at his brusque start. Segue Bruce, ever heard of one?
Eyes wide, Peter lowers his fork. “No.”
“Bane was in the midst of trying to take over Gotham, and I was the last person standing in his way.” Bruce leans back against his chair, hands lacing together. “He injured Alfred, and then dropped me onto his knee. Vertebrae T-8 through 10 shattered and the surrounding nerves were damaged irreversibly.”
“Tim was Robin at the time. He was the one to find me.”
He can barely recall anything from that night, but what he does remember is the sight of Tim’s eyes wide from behind his mask. He’d brough Bruce back to awareness by pressing his fingers to his pulse, his burner phone clutched tight as he asked Leslie to tell him what to do.
“I knew there was no coming back from that. Even with my resources, no surgery existed that could fix that much damage.” Shifting, Bruce forces the words out, uncomfortable with vulnerability. “I was bitter and angry, because I’d lost what mattered to me.”
“Jason was still dead, Alfred was recovering, and Tim was in no position to take over the household. I handed the mantle of Batman over to a trusted ally, but he wasn’t ready for it.”
Peter shifts on the bed, pulling his knees up to his chin so he can rest his head on them. He’s listening intently, expression neutral with his attentiveness.
“In the end, I found someone with regenerative abilities to fix my spine, but the recovery still took months.” His back is painted by the many scars he’d gained from the experimental surgeries, with each failed attempt acting as another blow to his psyche. “I’m not proud of the person I was in that time.”
Gaze dropping to the bed, Peter chews at the inside of his cheek. “Are you telling me not to be so hard on myself, because the Batman’s been through worse and he’s still fighting?”
“I’m trying to tell you that you are allowed to be angry because you’ve more than earned the right, and that you can’t hold it against yourself later.” Bruce explains. “Someone took away your freedom, and now your own body has turned against you because of what they did.”
“So, what am I supposed to do with all of it?” Peter challenges Bruce, his hands balling into fists. “I don’t like feeling the way I do, but I-… I can’t stop it.”
“Talking to people helps, though that’s a bit hypocritical coming from me.” He tacks on wryly, earning himself a twitch of Peter’s lips. “I dealt with it by putting on a bat-themed suit and beating the shit out of the man that hurt me, but that method might be a bit niche.”
Peter huffs a laugh at that.
“Whatever you decide, know that we’re all behind you.” Bruce leans forward and rests a hand on the side of Peter’s arm. “We may be different in many ways, but something I’ve come to realize that we share is our stubbornness. Use that, and when you’ve ran out, let someone take some of the weight for you.”
Nodding, some of the tension lining Peter’s shoulders ebbs away. The next time he looks outside, he doesn’t seem so distant.
~ ~ ~
Peter Parker
May 20th - Gotham General Hospital
Waking up in a panic is something that Peter has become intimately familiar with since he first awoke in the hospital. Usually, whispers from his dreams flit through his mind, memories of who he’d become under the Stranger’s guidance searing into his mind like images burned onto a screen.
Tonight, Peter is surprisingly calm despite the rapid hammering of his heart and the loud blaring of his sixth sense. He’s not covered in a thin sheen of sweat nor shaking from a phantom chill.
The curtains drift with a subtle breeze, the leaves outside rustling. Everything is silent and the night is dark.
Peter is deadly still, because there’s a gun pointed at his head.
Fingers wrapped gently around the grip, the Stranger stares at him down the barrel.
“Hello, Peter.” She says in a pleasant albeit quiet voice. “Don’t worry, I’m not here to hurt you.”
“Sure, cause the gun really brings a message of peace and love.”
“It’s just to ensure that you don’t act rash. I’m sure you can smell the sedative in the tranquilizer rounds.”
He can. “Why are you here?”
“In truth, I am meant to be killing you. My investors are less than pleased at the outcome of my work, and don’t wish for you to be used against them.” The Stranger keeps the weapon trained on him, not giving Peter an inch. “The real reason I’m here is to get answers.”
“For what?” Peter scoffs. “Looking for tips on how to take over Gotham? Want me to give you a letter grade for emotional manipulation?”
He knows it’s not the best idea to antagonize the person holding the gun, but he can’t help it. He wonders if Bruce had felt this bubbling anger when he fought Bane so long ago, if he still feels it.
“Where did I go wrong with you?”
“Where did- where did you go wrong with me?” Peter says with a seethe, tension building in his body. He hears Jason’s instruction in the back of his mind: breathe. “Start with the kidnapping and brainwashing, then work your way back to when you stole me from my universe, got me killed, and then brought me back with your stupid Cradle.”
“But you had nothing where you came from.” She seems genuinely confused, hurt plain to see. “You were untethered-”
“Yeah! I chose to do that, and it sucked, but it was my choice.” He fights to keep his voice low, not wanting any nurses to come running. “You turned me into something I never wanted to be. A man is dead because of me, because of what you told me to do.”
“That isn’t on your shoulders, Peter.”
“No? Why do I remember seeing his face then? Why do I dream of having his blood on my hands?” Peter spits, the bubbling growing into a boil. “Why do I remember the heat of an engine in my palm? It was still me, all me!”
The blood drains from the Stranger’s face. “But, you shouldn’t be able to remember-”
“Yeah, well, I do. And neither of us can take it back now.” He swallows and lets some of his fury wash away. “I chose to trust you, even though I’d suffered the consequences for that before. You showed me I can’t be like that anymore.”
“And you wanna know the worst part about all of this? It’s that you could have done some actual good. You could have been a hero.” Her eyes widen at his words. “The possibilities of your work- your genius- could’ve been endless, but you handed them over to the wrong people. You ruined what could have been hope for Gotham.”
With that final condemnation, the last of Peter’s anger is gone, turning to vapor. He doesn’t have the will to deal with it, leaving behind a solitary sense of fatigue.
The Stranger is looking at him like she’s never seen him before, as if she knew him in the first place.
“I don’t care what you do anymore. It doesn’t matter.” Peter is still, and he’s tired. “If I hear your name, or find your footprint, or hear your heartbeat, I will come after you. I wouldn’t stop, not until I knew you were gone.”
Let the cursed and hellish monster drink deep of agony; let him feel the despair that now torments me.
The tip of the Goblin’s glider gleams in the early light of the dawn. Peter’s vow comes out in a whisper. “I think I could kill you.”
His hand has felt the punch of a gun, the force of a bullet. He could even call it familiar.
A figure melts from the deep shadows behind the Stranger.
In one hand is clutched a gun, its grip unshakeable. The darkness that paints its wielder reads as safe to Peter.
The Stranger takes a step towards the window, an instinctive move as a threat presents itself. Jason advances, uncaring of the weapon that swings his way. His expression is lost behind the gleaming red of his helmet, but viciousness lines his body like armor.
No words pass between him and the Stranger.
Peter remains as the sole focus of her attention, and so he watches as she looks at him for the last time. He sees something in her eyes that could have been love.
He knows what she’s going to say before the words fall from her lips.
“I’m sorry.”
The Stranger disappears through the open window, and becomes lost in darkness and distance.
~ ~ ~
???
??? - ???
I think I could kill you.
The words play on repeat in her mind. She can’t get them out, no matter how fast she runs through the streets of her city.
It was here that she strung up her web, here that she chose her path. She would be the salvation that Gotham needed.
She thought she’d be the one.
Then, she thought Peter would be the one.
She was wrong.
She knows now that this city can’t be saved. It’s creeping malignance is bred into its core, a leeching hunger that can’t be sated.
She knows she’s next.
There’s a hunter on her tail, a silent specter that pursues her through the streets. It knows that she’s aware of its presence, and it plays with her fear.
She’s felt its eyes before, has seen its empty gaze from behind a pointed mask.
She runs, though she knows it’s useless.
She loses the ability to flee as a knife carves through her hamstrings.
It’s a precise cut, a quick flash of a blade. Her executioner is not merciful, and they let her understand the scope of her failures in silence. Time drips in rivulets around her ankles, shackling her to death.
She has displeased the Gods, and so they have sent a Talon to dispose of her.
“The Court of Owls has sentenced you to die.”
The blade, stained crimson by her blood, dances along the line of her carotid artery. She is left to die in disgrace.
There are no footsteps that leave, but she hears a set that approach. Reinforced boots stop next to her head, and then a figure is crouching down next to her.
A crimson helmet stares down.
“Hood.” The word comes out as a gasp, her breath choked from her by her own hands as she tries to prolong her life. “Please.”
The helmet tilts.
“Please, what?” The Red Hood’s mask has sunken and shadowed eyes, and yet one can almost believe to see themselves reflected in the dark. “Save you?”
There are more words brimming on her tongue, and yet all that escapes her throat is a gurgle.
“I’m just here to make sure the job gets done.”
A button pops, and then the light of a solitary, flickering lamppost is gleaming along the barrel of a gun.
“He-” She coughs, and drops splatter across her face. She swallows around the taste of metal. “He wouldn’t-… want this.”
For a moment, she believes her executioner to be wavering. She knows she speaks the truth, because she had made the same mistake before. She’d lied to herself and thought herself righteous, and a boy had paid the price.
“This isn’t for him.” The Red Hood lifts his weapon, and places the barrel upon her forehead. “It’s for me.”
Come see this.
It doesn’t have a web.
No, it wouldn’t. The homalonychus species keep themselves buried beneath rocks and dead plants. This one’s out in the open, unprotected.
She closes her eyes.
You get the Red Hood asking about this, tell him I didn’t know you were a kid, yeah?
Notes:
Blah blah blah, Frankenstein's Monster never getting an actual name and parallels to the end of Mary Shelley's work /lh.
I'm leaving it up to y'all's interpretation on if Jason pulled the trigger or not. In the end, he did get to watch her die, so he got catharsis regardless. Also, up to interpretation on whether Peter would have actually killed her or not, and/or if he would have hunted her down at the first sign of her. Point of the Ship of Theseus is to think about if he's still the same or if he's been made new by the changes, so discuss at will in the comments :3.
Chapter 38
Notes:
Apologies for the long-ish wait (by my standards at least kek), Febuwhump has been busy and I been splitting time working on this and the prompts :3. I will hopefully be able to use one or two of the prompts for this series, so keep your eyes out for any short one-shots in the upcoming month.
Without further adieu, enjoy~
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Peter Parker
Wayne Manor - May 24th
Peter’s return to the manor happens on a clear day, only a few clouds dotting the sky above. He’d seen the sun appearing with more frequency as he stared out his hospital room’s window, but being in a moving vehicle made it seem the slightest bit warmer.
Jason sits in the back seat across from Peter, typing on his phone as he keeps one boot propped against the cushions. Shooting disproving glances through the rearview mirror, Alfred drives them carefully through Gotham’s streets, approaching the R.K. Memorial Bridge.
He’d met them outside the hospital near the loading bay, standing with folded hands by the driver’s side door. Peter had just received a tearful goodbye from the few nurses that were allowed access to his room, so he’d already been feeling a bit emotional.
Upon seeing the weathered features of the Wayne’s butler crumple, tears gathering in the older gentleman’s eyes, Peter hadn’t been able to hold it in any longer.
Strong as ever, Alfred helped keep Peter standing as he let himself be held by the man, softly murmuring ‘my dear boy’ into his unkempt hair. He smelled as he always did: of fresh laundry, flower petals from the garden, and whatever he had cooked last.
Jason stood behind them, stoic if not for the small sniff that Peter had caught with his keen ears.
Swiftly thereafter, he was loaded into the car in fear of the paparazzi finding them. As they coast along, Alfred interrupts his glares at odd intervals to shoot small smiles in Peter’s direction.
Though the warm welcome loosened some of Peter's worries, he's yet to rid himself of the nervousness that he feels at the thought of returning to the mansion. It isn’t the fault of any of the residents, the lot of them having sent endless well-wishes, gifts, and messages through Jason and Bruce.
The problem lies with Peter, who had disappeared in the middle of a rogue attack only to be taken and turned into a weapon against them all. There hadn’t been any indication of them holding this against him, but he can’t help but feel culpable.
There’s also the matter of his recovery.
The various surgeries, physical therapy, and toll that everything had taken on Peter’s body is obvious just by looking at him. His calorie rich diet has stayed on track, and yet he’s still visibly thinner than he’s ever been.
It’s mostly apparent on his face, with persistent bags hanging beneath his eyes and newfound scars tracing along his cheekbones. Though he's healed, the echoes of his injuries persist on his torso and limbs, hidden at present moment beneath his clothes.
The everything that's going on inside had Dr. Thompkins advising a temporary pause in his medical procedures. Peter hadn't begun any formal treatment for it, but there's a reluctance regardless. There’s too much in there that they can’t fix, not with a scalpel or alien tech.
He feels stalled, waiting though he’d gotten the chip removed and the pacemaker installed. The Kryptonite radiation yet remains in his body, a constant threat that's simmering on the back burner.
Bruce stayed in contact with Clark as Peter regained his strength, the reporter acting as an advisor on the device that would hopefully fix the radiation problem.
Superman’s base is outfitted with a solar treatment pod that is capable of administering high levels of radiation, mimicking the energy emitted by a yellow sun. It can heal Superman at a faster rate than he would under the Earth’s sun, having been used to bring him back from the brink before.
Working together with Superman’s Kryptonian A.I., they’re retrofitting it to instead draw radiation out of a body. Given that the A.I. is familiar with Kryptonite, it is encountering no issues with registering it.
The issue lies in Peter’s DNA not being that of a Kryptonian or human, instead a mix of something entirely foreign to the ship’s intelligence network. Oscorp’s spider was never created in this universe, and the Lazarus Cradle’s influence only complicated things further.
The risk is low, but it’s enough that Peter has to be in better shape before they attempt it. Having discussed it ad nauseum, Peter and Jason decided on continuing his recovery in the safety of the manor to avoid any backsliding.
All that to say: not yet finished his treatments and nowhere near okay, Peter’s inbound to a reunion that he isn’t sure he’s ready for.
Jason must sense his hesitancy, as he’s turning his phone off to drill holes into the side of Peter’s head with an expression that says “Talk.”
Feigning ignorance, Peter asks, “What?”
“You’re brooding.”
“Nope, that’s yours and Batman’s thing.”
“Just means I can recognize it when I see it.” Jason doesn’t rise to the bait as Peter compares him to Bruce. “Spill.”
Alright, fine.
“Are you sure, really sure, that everyone’s fine with me coming back to the manor?” Refusing to look over, Peter watches as a bird coasts on the wind.
“What, did the truck full of stuffed animals not give away the fact that they missed you?” Jason returns, his tone dry. “It’s like Dick was trying to drown you in Nightwing plushies.”
They’d slowly overtaken a room of Peter’s room, later donated to the other kids staying in the pediatric unit when he’d been discharged. Secretly, Peter kept some of his favourites, sent ahead via careful planning of the space he’d had in his bags.
“Okay, yeah, but there’s a difference between sending a sick teenager some merch from Wal-Mart and letting a murderer-by-proxy live at your house.”
“Peter, Morton’s death isn’t on you.” Jason’s voice dips into sincerity. They’ve been over this a hundred times, and yet the responsibility still feels like a weight around Peter’s ankle. Dragging him down.
Feeling a bit petulant, Peter shuts down the topic with a grumble. “Agree to disagree.”
“Well, if it helps in any way, I’m a murderer-by-choice and they let me live there.” There’s a shrug of feigned nonchalance from Jason. “So there’s that at least.”
A retort is just on the tip of Peter’s tongue when a voice pipes up from the driver’s seat.
“My past is not so clean either, Master Peter.” Alfred chimes in from the front, Peter having nearly forgotten the butler could hear their conversation. “Believe me when I say that nobody in that house will disparage you for what you may or may not have done.”
Peter knows when to concede. There’s no arguing with Alfred. He settles for a joke to break the atmosphere. “Three killers in a car, what’ll Batman do?”
It pulls a snort out of Jason, so he counts it as a win.
It’s not even five minutes before they’re pulling into the driveway, and all of Peter’s nerves rush back in at once. He looks up at the looming mansion apprehensively, caught up in his head enough so that he misses Alfred turning the car off.
“Hey.” Jason’s quiet prodding snaps Peter out of it. “If anyone says anything, or if you need extraction, just let me know. I’ve had bombs wired throughout the house for ages just in case, and I’ve been dying to use them.”
Peter looks over and sees that the offer is sincere, Jason ready and willing to get him out of there if he gives the signal. A button sits snug in the pocket of his hoodie, nice and close like it’s been since he first woke up.
“Please don’t blow up the mansion.”
“No promises.”
It’s their way of sealing the deal, and with that Peter is stepping out of the car.
Jason and Alfred follow his lead, the butler proceeding to the trunk to begin pulling their belongings out from within. Hovering nearby to accept any bags, Jason is failing at looking chill, every bit of him radiating ‘please don’t be a disaster’.
Surprisingly, there isn’t a gaggle of vigilantes spilling onto the driveway as Peter half-expected. There’s no chaos, nobody yelling welcomes or accusations, no pitchforks or torches to be seen.
The manor almost seems empty, no faces peering out from between curtains or staring down from the roof.
That is, until the front door is being slammed open and something small is barreling into Peter’s side, nearly knocking him off his feet. It’s only thanks to his strength and adhesion that he stays rooted to the ground, a couple of calls echoing into the air.
A few of Peter’s aches and pains twinge at the rough treatment, but he couldn’t give less of a shit in the moment. Jason shouts something, voice half-annoyed and half-worried.
Looking down, Peter finds his attacker burying his face into the fabric of Peter’s hoodie. Only the top of his head is visible, but he’s recognizable regardless, the thick tresses styled into soft spikes.
More bodies emerge from the mansion, the man at the forefront shouting, “Damian!”
Then, everyone starts talking.
“Aw man, it was supposed to be a surprise welcome!”
“Steph, he has super hearing. We went over this. There was never going to be a surprise.”
“I mean, Bruce does have tech to make the house imperceptible to beings with heightened senses. I could’ve hacked it to affect the whole house if you asked.”
“Why do you only offer solutions after everything’s already gone to shit, Babs?”
“I dunno, it could be because it’s funny watching you guys fail.”
“Tim, she’s being mean.”
“Why should I care?”
A sigh from Cass.
“Silence!”
The order comes from the youngest of the Waynes, the boy currently gripping onto Peter like he’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground. Surprisingly, it works to shut everyone up, the scattered bickering going quiet all at once.
It has the side-effect of drawing everyone’s attention to where the voice came from, most notably, towards Peter.
“Uh…”
Silence.
Good one Peter. Doing a great job of convincing them not to lock you away in their super secret Bat prison.
Blurting out the only greeting that comes to mind, Peter waves. “Hey guys.”
“’Hey, guys’, he says.” Tim snarks, but the effect is ruined by the way his eyes are a bit too bright, the light reflecting off the moisture gathering in them.
Dick is the first to follow Damian’s lead, drawing Peter into a hug, squishing the kid between them. His grip is soft but firm, head dropping to rest atop Peter’s as he says, “I am never letting you out of my sight again, you hear me?”
Chuckling wetly, Peter wraps his arms around Dick.
Cass is next to join the hug, her forehead pressing to Peter’s temple. Her breath comes out shaky, but it’s an exhale of relief.
Tim and Duke get pulled in by Steph, a bright “Group hug!” leaving her as she clasps hands with Tim to enfold the group within their hold. Duke’s eyes roam the space around Peter’s form, a satisfied glint in his eyes as he sees something that nobody else can.
Barbara and Kate stay off to the side, both of them watching the assembled group with soft smiles. The older of the two gives Peter a nod, acceptance and begrudging respect shared with the gesture. Babs wipes something from her cheek, tension leaving her shoulders as she looks on.
Bruce stands alongside Jason and Alfred by the trunk, peaceful in their fondness. There’s a quick shove from the old butler, and the two men alongside him are stumbling forward, jostling the group as they’re forced to join in. Jason gets maneuvered to the middle by a mischievous Dick, and Bruce’s hand settles on the back of Peter’s head in a soft cradle.
Stuck at the centre of the assembled team, Peter realizes he doesn’t have anything to worry about anymore.
He’s got his family back, and this time, he isn’t going to let go. Not for anything.
~ ~ ~
Alfred Pennyworth
Wayne Manor - May 24th
Left to watch the family reunion from afar, Alfred is privy to the moment that Damian extracts himself from the group to slink away.
The boy goes unnoticed in the commotion, slipping between the feet of those taller. The reason for his retreat could easily be assumed as embarrassment for having ruined the surprise, likely the case for Barbara and Kate who let Damian pass them by without comment.
Alfred knows better.
Of the Waynes, he was the one who dealt with the boy most frequently when he first arrived in Gotham. At the time, he was nothing short of an upstart, believing himself to be owed respect and title based on blood alone.
He treated people as tools to be used or discarded, distancing himself from others with a sharp tongue and an even sharper blade. It was frustrating to be on the receiving end of his attitude, Alfred being one of three that were willing to stand within fifteen feet of the child.
He did so largely because Damian was his charge, and thus needed to be cared for as one of the family. There was also a small part of him that saw through the veneer of arrogance, saw straight through to the boy who was sent to live with an unfamiliar man in an unfamiliar city, far from everything he knew.
He also had the furthest thing from a stable upbringing, having already taken a life before being taught what it meant to be a killer. Anything short of viciousness was weakness, and so he was surrounded by those he believed couldn’t protect him.
In time, Damian realized the errors of his ways and found connection with others. He made friends and accepted his family, growing to feel shame for the person he used to be. Making amends took years, and continues to be an area of struggle in the boy’s life.
As Alfred watches him slink away, he sees doubt plaguing Damian once more, uncertainty shadowing his youthful features. It is not difficult to ascertain the reason why he would feel unwelcome or unworthy his family’s affections, and so Alfred uses the excuse of bringing the bags inside to follow behind Master Bruce’s youngest child.
First dropping Jason and Peter’s belongings off where they belong, Alfred tracks Damian down in his room. He is tucked into his chair, knees pulled up with a sketchbook propped on his thighs, the sizeable paper obscuring his face from view.
The animal companions lounging in the room lift their heads when Alfred enters, but they dismiss him quickly thereafter. Though not overly affectionate with them, as the mansion’s most constant occupant, he is known as the primary provider of food and thus an ally.
Remaining standing by the door, Alfred allows Damian the space he craves. He clears his throat and says, “Master Damian, I believe the festivities are to continue downstairs.”
A beat, and then-
“I am aware.”
“Then why have you withdrawn to sit alone in your room?” Alfred asks, though he suspects to know the answer, hoping that he’ll get a truthful response from the boy. “I seem to recall you were quite looking forward to today.”
“I was- am.” The hasty reply nearly cuts the tail end of Alfred’s comment off. “I simply do not wish to crowd Peter. There are already far too many people present, and it is overwhelming.”
A truth, although not the one that sits at the heart of the problem. “Yes, it seems everyone has gathered to see Master Peter after his absence. Do you not think he will be distressed when you are noticed to be missing?”
“No, I don’t expect he will be.”
Damian’s reply comes a bit quieter than his previous assertions, and it carries an undercurrent of hesitancy.
“And why do you think that?” Carefully choosing his wording, Alfred continues his prodding. “Master Peter inquired about you often at the hospital, and I do believe I saw him smuggling the gift you sent him into his luggage.”
Perking up at the insinuation that his gift was valued, Damian finally looks up from his sketchbook. “He enjoyed the present?”
“I don’t believe anybody could turn down a stuffed replica of Alfred. The feline version that is.” Alfred jokes, using the lightened air to once again ask, “Why do you think that Peter would not wish you to be around?”
“It was my fault that he was taken, and so it is my fault that he suffered as he did.” Damian summarizes, the paper beneath his grip crinkling as his fingers tighten. He continues after a slight pause. “It is unpleasant to be around people who hate you.”
Alfred refutes the idea on instinct. “I don’t believe Master Peter hates you, and to believe him capable of such things towards you is to speak ill of his character.”
“That is not the problem.”
A bit perplexed, Alfred inquires, “…You hate him?”
“No!” Damian’s exclamation startles his nearby pets, their ears perking up. He sits up in his chair, eyes wide. “I don’t- I…”
Alfred waits, allowing the youngest Wayne to collect his words. He seems to deflate, the indignant flame flickering out.
“I said I would hate him if he left, on that day. It was the last thing I said to him, before he…” The boy’s lips press tight together, gaze turning to the side.
He does not finish his sentence. Titus whines where he sits on the bed, reacting to his owner’s distress.
“Master Damian.” Alfred begins, moving closer so he can lay a comforting hand on Damian’s shoulder. “Though I do not think that your hatred was believed by Peter given the circumstances, in the odd chance that it was, you have been given a rare gift, one that you should not pass up.”
Expression scrunching, Damian looks on confusedly.
“You’ve been given the chance to apologize.” The boy’s eyes find Alfred’s again, his perplexity fading as he listens. “In my life, I have made many mistakes. I allowed children to be sent into war, and I failed this family too many times to be counted. I was not there for my son nor my daughter when they needed me most.
“Guilt and regret are feelings that I have become too familiar with, and thus I have missed my chances at making proper amends.” Clasping Damian’s shoulder tighter, though not enough to cause discomfort, Alfred says, “Do not become like me.”
Light shock plays across the youth’s face, seconds passing as he absorbs the advice. Quietly, he says, “I was unaware that you had a daughter.”
A smile comes to Alfred’s face, amused that this would be the point of focus for Damian. “I do indeed. She works in Special Reconnaissance and has had a few run-ins with members of your family.”
There’s a spark of pride in Alfred’s chest upon thinking of his child’s accomplishments, followed quickly thereafter by the familiar weight of remorse. Letting his hand slip from Damian’s shoulder, Alfred takes a step back.
“If you are not feeling up to the celebrations, I cannot fault you, but I hope that you will find time to speak to Master Peter.” Moving back towards the door, Alfred sets a frame right that had been knocked askew. “And that you will find the strength within to forgive yourself.”
Notes:
Omg he home.
Now time for A Bunch of Dialogue Chapters as Peter reintegrates with the familyAlso, yeah Alfred legit knocked someone up in the comics. His daughter's name is Julia.
Chapter 39
Notes:
Weewoo new chap! As a heads up, there will be a longer wait until the next update as I will be out of country and without a stable internet connection :(. You all will be in my thoughts regardless, and I will hopefully be able to read/respond to your comments as they come in :3.
Also, shoutout to the homies that I've seen recommending this fic to others! I've seen a couple of you in people's comments mentioning my work, and it truly warms my heart to see you out there in the wild and bringing more of the community to my humble corner of the internet <3. Another shoutout to the content creators out there who keep the fandom alive, you're what got me to this point O7.
Hey also! For my music fans, I have a Gotham Ambient playlist that has been my crutch the whole time while writing for anybody interested. It's entirely ambient jazz music that I felt fit the vibes of Gotham, so no lyrics or clashing genres :3. Here's the Spotify link: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5NfekoScAGmRqXazRGkTPD?si=0424fc758cbd42da
Y'all are truly the bestest as always, and I hope you enjoy the chapter~
Chapter Text
Dick Grayson
Wayne Manor - May 25th
The rest of Peter’s homecoming celebrations go off without a hitch, with only the initial surprise being overruled by Damian’s excitement.
Things calm down quickly from there, the assembled team members having been given a stern talking to about keeping things lowkey by the combined forces of Bruce and Alfred. It becomes more of a themed hangout than anything, with usually forbidden snacks making an appearance.
Assembled in the den, the air feels light and easygoing, with Alfred bringing out his best approximation of a New York pizza to give Peter a reminder of home. Based on the adolescent’s wistful smile, it seems to be a pretty good imitation.
Though side conversations crop up to take some of the attention off of their once absent member, Peter doesn’t appear to mind the focus being largely on him.
Bruce and Jason had been tight lipped about the teen’s condition while in hospital, but it had been obvious in time that Peter hadn’t been flourishing throughout his recovery period. Their spirits lowered alongside his, the two adults bearing the brunt of Peter’s emotional healing.
It isn’t that surprising, with Dick having gone through similar types of physical trauma before, but it always sucks to see it happening to someone else, especially one so young. There’s always a part of him that wants to take the suffering on in their stead, though life rarely awards him the chance to.
He sticks as close to Peter as he can, aware that he is drawing just short of clingy. Jason gives him a few exasperated sighs, but they’re all for show, the man having come to appreciate others showing care for his charge.
It takes a village and all that.
Soon enough, the team departs one by one. Damian was the first to leave, unexpectedly disappearing after his uncharacteristic display of emotion. Bruce and Kate filter out thereafter, Alfred leaving to tend to other matters.
The rest have to bow out to get ready for patrol, trudging away with groans and pouts at having to leave Peter behind. Duke gets to stay given his patrol running in the daylight, and he gladly rubs it in their faces.
Surprisingly, Jason stands a not long after everyone has filtered out, sharing a few words with Peter before heading for the door. He shoots Dick a look that says ‘look out for him’ as he leaves the room, perplexity following in the wake of his departure.
There’s some lighthearted conversation that dies out with every yawn that creaks out of Duke, the young adult seeming annoyed at his nigh geriatric sleep schedule. Peter good-heartedly coaxes him to go to bed, insisting that he’ll be around in the morning.
Then, it’s just Dick and Peter.
With a lack of a large audience, the cheer that had been abound in the teen’s expression diminishes, settling into something akin to exhausted contentment.
There’s still the shadows beneath his eyes and the gauntness to his complexion, but he seems to have been bettered by the joyful reunion. His eyes flit over to Dick, a decision seeming to have been made before he’s saying, “I’m sorry.”
Wait, what?
Blinking, Dick voices his confusion. “Huh?”
“I don’t remember everything super well, like the stuff that happened when I was gone, but I have bits and pieces.” Swinging his legs up, Peter lounges on the sofa with his knees drawn high. “I know that I drew you away from protecting Jared Morton. And for that I’m sorry.”
“Peter, that-”
“I’d been watching him before then. He was the best way to show you that I had changed, that we were willing to do anything-…” Peter drops his gaze, his thumb nail digging at his cuticles. “I heard you though. When you said you’d help get me home.”
Bittersweet sympathy pangs in Dick’s chest, emotion crawling up the skin of his throat. “You don’t need to apologize for what happened that night.”
“Jason’s been telling me the same, but I played a role regardless.” He sounds so decided, resigned to the reality of how tightly he’d been under someone else’s control. “Can I ask, how’d he die?”
“Dirty cop paid off by… well, you know.” Dick trails off a bit before picking the thread back up. “I’m thinking that Nightwing’s going to have to launch a personal internal investigation into Blüd’s police department. That shouldn’t have happened on my watch.”
“It’s not your-”
“Not my fault?” Quirking a brow at Peter, Dick asserts gently. “If you insist on keeping your slice of the guilt, don’t try to pawn me out of mine.”
Unable or unwilling to spare the energy to argue, Peter huffs with a sardonic twist of his lips.
There’s a beat during which the teen’s attention turns to the door, something heavy and worried in his gaze, before he’s asking, “How has Damian been holding up?”
Lips pinching into a line, Dick tries to think of the best way to phrase ‘not good’ without inadvertently lumping more blame onto Peter’s shoulders. Debating with himself, he settles on the truth, figuring that there had been too many lies as of late to warrant something less than.
“He didn’t take your absence well. He refused to go to class, saying that he couldn’t get his homework done.” Peter’s shoulders curl tighter at that, confirming Dick’s suspicion that the excuse had more meaning than meets the eye. “He took to reading though.”
Perking up the slightest bit, Peter stops his fidgeting to grip at his sleeves instead. “He did?”
“Yeah. When he wasn’t with me or Bruce, he’d go track Jason down and bully him into reading a chapter or two from a book.” There’s the usual blooming affection that comes at the thought of them interacting, Dick having caught them once with their heads bowed towards one another.
It had been a quiet moment, one he didn’t dare interrupt.
Peter smiles, the softness of it complementing Dick’s fond tone. “That’s good.”
“I was worried he’d withdraw again. He doesn’t take defeat well, especially when it involves family.”
The startled glance that he gets from Peter doesn’t need words, his surprise at being included in the household evident. Dick moves so he can bump his shoulder gently against the kid’s.
“What, you think Alfred would allow, let alone make, pizza for just anyone?”
“Well, I just-… I didn’t-” Peter pauses, sighs, collects himself before finishing haltingly, “None of this was ever supposed to be mine.”
“Don’t think it was ever supposed to be any of ours, Pete.” Dick agrees, surprising the teen a bit with his honesty, given his expression. “Most of us have seen versions of our alternate selves, and too many of them went down a darker path than what we thought ourselves capable of.”
Peter gives Dick a look like he understands where he’s coming from.
“It kind of puts it all into perspective that we’re the lucky ones. Yeah, shitty things happen, but we’re still here despite everything.” Locking eyes, Dick makes sure Peter is listening. “You don’t have to do anything to deserve it. Sometimes you have to fight for it, sure, but you don’t have to make sacrifices to be here.”
Once again realizing that Peter’s here, really here, he finishes with, “All we want is for you to be yourself, Peter.”
He’s home. He’s safe.
Leaning his weight against Dick’s, Peter says quietly, “Thanks.”
“No problem, Pete.” Lightening the mood a bit, he goes on to add, “Besides, you’ve come with a few bells and whistles that have really made things easier ‘round here.”
“Yeah?”
“Since you showed up, my estranged little brother’s been hanging around more. And not the asshole version of him either. This guy’s the real deal.”
“Well, I mean, he can be a bit of a troglodyte.”
“Sure, but that’s half the charm.” Slinging an arm atop Peter’s shoulders, Dick holds on tight. “For real though, you brought him back to us. Thank you for that.”
Sinking into the hold, Peter’s breathes the last of his tension out with an exhale. “All in a day’s work.”
~ ~ ~
Jason Todd
Wayne Manor - May 25th
Jason finds Bruce in the cave as most of the team is heading out, a few quizzical glances sent his way as he voluntarily goes to talk to his adoptive father.
The older man is sat at the computer, looking through files that have little relevancy in the current moment. He’d likely noticed Jason’s furtive glances over the past few hours, and chose to wait in a neutral space for Jason to make his approach.
Stupid, perceptive, old man and his annoying habit of showing off his omnipotence in his subtle, nearly unnoticeable ways.
Bruce keeps his eyes glued to the screen as Jason hovers nearby, giving him time to gather his thoughts. His body language is open and he’s clad in the Batsuit sans utility belt, leaving him as unarmed as he can be, his martial prowess notwithstanding.
Figuring that there’s no time like the present, Jason walks over to lean against the desk. “Hey old man, up for a chat?”
“Of course.” Bruce leaves the reports open, ready as an easy escape should either of them want an emergency exit from the conversation. “What can I help you with, Jason?”
“I wanted to ask if you got the paperwork I requested all sorted out.”
Bruce inclines his head in understanding before he nods, the movement jostling his cowl from where it hangs like a hood. “I did. All it needs is some confirmed documentation on your end.”
“Sure. Send me whatever’s needed.”
There’s a pause where Bruce scans Jason’s expression, his eyes peering through the veneer of professionalism.
“You know,” Bruce starts. “You don’t have to go back out into the public for this to happen. You can take on a different name with no ties to Bruce Wayne.”
It’s a decent offer, one that seems to hurt something in Bruce to propose. The slight pinch of discomfort around his mouth gives him away, and it says something about Jason’s ability to see through his dad just as much as his dad can through him.
“True, but I can’t pass up the protection that your name offers.” Jason sighs, crossing his arms as he slumps further against the desk. “If something happens again, people would be a hell of a lot more interested if you’re involved than not. Otherwise, I’d be just another faceless bum that got the short end of the stick.”
Humming, Bruce thinks about Jason’s reasons for tying himself back onto the older man, coming out with a question, “And you’re willing to deal with the heat that comes with being a part of the family?”
“Sure. I was the scourge of Gotham’s reporting scene back in the day.” He shrugs, a sharp grin punctuating his point. “I’ll get ‘em to back off if they cause any problems.”
“Have you talked about this with Peter yet?”
“Not yet. I wanted to make sure it was possible first.” Letting his smile slip, Jason looks towards the Cave’s exit. “He’s still a minor, so he’ll have some protections on the side of the law.”
“Like that’ll stop the paparazzi.”
“The kid’s tough, and if he says no, then that’s a no.” Jason summarizes. “He likes logic though, and if it gets Ra’s or Lex to back off even the littlest bit, he’ll bite.”
Bruce’s eyes sharpen in the way that they do when he notices a particularly telling clue, and Jason realizes the jig is up.
It’s always what isn’t there. Jason hears at the back of his mind, an old lesson from his Robin days.
He lets Bruce ask his question, phrased as a statement. “You’re not worried about her.”
Bullying his expression into one of neutrality, Jason looks at his dad.
“She’s dead, Bruce.”
The chittering of bats above is poignant as Bruce’s lips thin, his careful consideration turning into one of a familiar disproval. It’s always quickly followed by an accusation and a harsh tirade, rightfully earned only half the time.
In the furthest recesses of the cave echo the words of Bruce’s past recriminations. There are aches that Jason feels on bad days, ones that came from retributive blows, given by a once trusted hand.
This is the war they’ve waged since Jason first returned to Gotham with blood sticky on the soles of his boots, his hands already stained with the shade that he would choose as his mantle.
Still in the breaths that come after his confession, Jason waits for the moment that everything crumbles again, that it slides back into darkness just like the Stranger had warned.
Bruce sighs, a hand scrubbing across his face before his fingers dig into tired eyes.
He says simply, “Alright.”
Though he’s never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Jason can’t help the incredulous, “That’s it?” that falls from his lips.
“I don’t like the implications of her death, and I wish that it didn’t happen.” Bruce explains, frustration abound as his eyes cut into the middle distance. “There are always other solutions to get her to face justice, if not for mercy than for Peter’s sake, but…
“My morals are my own, and though I wish we didn’t differ in them, we’ve spent too long fighting over this.” He looks up at Jason, and there’s an aged quality to his regard that had built in his son’s absence. “I can’t hold onto this anger anymore, not when it’s served no purpose other than driving a wedge between us. I’m tired of it.”
Entirely speechless, Jason feels frozen to the spot.
“Maybe if there was trust, none of this would have happened as it did.” Bruce gives a meaningful glance at the report, those detailing the events of the past few months. “You came to me, that day when the Tower was attacked, and you asked for my help.
“I couldn’t do anything without knowing who I was protecting, but you couldn’t trust me because I hadn’t shown you that you could.”
Bruce stops then, putting the ball in Jason’s court.
He can’t say a thing for a bit, put on his back foot at the lack of a verbal lashing. There isn’t an apology for what Bruce hadn’t done, nor is there an expectation set that he wants one from Jason.
There’s just Bruce’s version of reality set plain, albeit worded in a roundabout way. He’s never been one for declaring fault, and his regrets were always felt and seen rather than spoken.
For all he’s told himself that he’s different from Bruce, Jason can’t deny he’d picked up some of his old man’s habits.
He’d always been seen as the fiery Robin, the one who was prone to anger. Others believed he’d reached to far into the flames and gotten burned as a result of his hubris, but all of Jason’s bullshit came after his death.
When he died, he was a kid. He was just a stupid, naïve kid with illusions of being a hero.
Death didn’t change Jason. Coming back to life didn’t change him either. He chose to change.
His return to Gotham was fueled by a need to make a point. He needed Bruce to see the errors of his ways, to realize that he’d been stuck in a holding pattern that never ceased, not even with Jason’s death.
Although the Lazarus pit could induce madness, it wasn’t the reason behind his drop in morality. There has never been any excuse for his violence. He chose his path, chose to drop bodies in Bruce’s city because he’d been the lesson not learned.
It hurt back then. It still does. He can’t say he regrets his choices, not without knowing the alternatives, but they hadn’t solved a thing.
He sees the exhaustion that’s written so plainly across Bruce’s face, and knows it’s reflected across his own.
“We’ve both fucked this up bad, haven’t we?”
A smile tugs at Bruce’s worn expression, and he huffs in agreeance. “Something to work on, I suppose.”
Something to work on.
“Whatever you say, old timer.”
No promises, no guarantees, but a start.
Bruce stands and pulls his cowl on, the whiteout lenses boring into Jason.
“Make no mistake, I will do my utmost to stop you from killing…” There’s a considering pause. “But I have a feeling that you have ample motivation to avoid lethality. At least, until that motivation is put under threat.”
It’s always what isn’t there, what isn’t said.
Giving Bruce a sidelong glance, Jason almost doesn’t ask, “Have experience with that, do you?”
With a pat to the younger man’s shoulder, he responds quietly, bittersweet in tone. “Ample.”
Then he’s off towards the Batmobile, leaving a struck Jason standing by the computer.
The reports remain on the screen where they were left open, a compilation of all that they’d been through in the pursuit of protecting one kid. Tucked within are contingencies for each threat that could come after Peter, detailed with a fervor that’s reserved for the people that Bruce holds closest to his heart.
Jason knows, cause he’s read over his own time and time again.
Apology accepted.
With the ghost of a smile, he closes them down, tucked back into that place where the Batman had learned to show his care.
Chapter 40
Notes:
We are BACK BABYYY!!! I missed you all and I hope you enjoy the chapter :3
Chapter Text
Peter Parker
May 27th - Wayne Manor
Tracking Damian down proves to be more of a challenge than Peter though it would be.
He’s known about the young boy’s background for a while, assumed that he’d know some way of evading notice from enhanced beings. He’d read about it in old reports, dredged up from the Batcomputer’s archives as he learned about the team-ups that everyone had been involved in.
It sucks to have it be used against him.
He knows it’s not intended to be malicious, and he tries to give Damian space. It can’t be easy for the kid, not with everything that’s happened, and it wouldn’t be fair to talk to him before he’s ready.
Yet, Peter can’t help but feel like he’s only letting Damian drift further away.
They’d grown close, enough to surprise the Waynes. From what Peter had gathered, the kid had always been slow to warm up to others, especially those that he didn’t see a reason to trust.
It’s not like Peter has ever thought himself to be particularly good with children. He’d comforted a considerable amount throughout his vigilante career, but Damian is quite different from the usual kids he’d had to calm down in the past.
Dick had mused aloud about the potential reasons before, wondering if their short team-up while on the streets of Gotham had built quick comradery. Could’ve also been that Damian bested Peter within the first few moments of them meeting, quickly putting him in the ‘not a threat’ category in the kid’s head.
Peter wonders if it was more the fault of their neutral introduction, no assumptions being made based on prior knowledge of Damian’s family or past misdeeds. It could be a combination of all the above for all he knows.
All that matters now is that Damian disappeared far too soon the day that Peter returned to the manor, and that he misses his friend.
The last time he’d let things lie, he’d almost lost the chance to make amends. He knows better now.
It’s Stephanie that gives Peter the push that he needed, tugging him into a darkened corner with a finger pressed to her lips. There’s nobody around so the secret meeting doesn’t make that much sense, but Peter isn’t one to ruin the fun.
She looks around almost comically before whispering, “You’re looking for Damian, right?”
“Yeah.” Peter nods. “Have you seen him?”
“No, but for a small fee, I can arrange a meeting.”
Peter stares at her for a second, wondering how serious she’s being. “Did you become a mob don while I was gone or something?”
“Who says I wasn’t one before.” Steph utters cryptically, waggling her fingers before moving on. “For real though, I can get the kid to meet me somewhere and we can pull the ol’ bait and switch.”
“You think he’d fall for that?”
“We meet up sometimes.” She shrugs. “I’m not as integrated into the Bats as most everyone else is, so team bonding has to happen during office hours.”
It’s something that Peter had noticed before his time at the manor had been cut short. Although Stephanie was considered a part of the team, she didn’t have any legal ties to the Waynes, Duke being in a similar situation.
“Man, that’d be awesome, Steph.” Peter scratches the back of his neck, casting a glance around. “You sure he won’t get mad though? Feels like we’re tricking him a bit.”
“From where I’m standing, it’s either this or an eternal standoff. Damian can be a slippery little twerp if you let him be, and he’s got his dad’s penchant for self-immolation via brooding.”
Snorting in amusement, Peter can’t help but agree, blunt as Steph’s words were. “Fair, fair.”
“I’ll set the whole thing up, so you just count on me.” Steph gives a little salute. “Keep your phone on you for the deets. I’ll tell your guards that you’re hanging out with me so they don’t sound the alarm.”
“Thanks Steph.”
“Sure thing, Spider-butt.” She punches Peter in the arm good-naturedly, albeit a bit hard. He doesn’t mind it much, glad to be treated as something other than glass for once. “And for my payment, I’ll take a promise.”
Peter hums in question.
“Don’t do that again.” Her expression slips into something more serious. “We finally had someone cool around here. Sucked to be the only one again.”
Though she’s keeping her words lighthearted, there’s an edge to her voice that makes her worry sound genuine.
“I promise.”
“Good.” Steph takes a breath, shoulders loosening the slightest bit, before she says, “Oh, and next time you’re gonna beat the snot out of Batman, let me get a video of it. Damn shame I missed that opportunity.”
Mortified and trying to hide it, Peter doesn’t feel the surge of guilt that he might have with anyone else.
~ ~ ~
Clark Kent
Fortress of Solitude - May 28th
“Bruce, you have to take a break.”
Clark stands a short distance away from where the other man is toiling away, the majority of his expression hidden beneath his cowl. Though the Fortress adjusted to suit the ideal temperature for a human, chasing away the cold of the Arctic, he’s still wearing most of his layers.
Bruce pauses his work, hands still buried deep within the pod. The technology is far from Earthly but he’s doing an admirable job of adjusting to the alien design, seemingly becoming an expert overnight.
Barely sending a glance towards Clark, Bruce’s response comes terse. “We are almost done. The merits of taking a break are negligible as it will push the completion date back unnecessarily.”
Holding back a sigh, Clark retorts. “Save me from the stubbornness of Bats. I will get a sentry bot if I have to.”
“I know the activation codes.”
“Not the override ones.”
Turning to give Clark a more meaningful look, Bruce expresses his disagreement to the statement with silence.
“Of course you know the override codes.” Turning his eyes skyward, Clark closes some of the distance that sits between them. “Bruce, give it a rest.”
Sighing like Clark is nothing more than a needy child, Bruce acquiesces. “There. Happy?”
“Very.” The Kryptonian forces himself not to comment on the immaturity of the snark. He follows behind Bruce as the human approaches the terminal, updating their progress logs as Clark watches on.
Keeping his attention on the holo-screen, Bruce states, “You want to ask me something.”
He’s not wrong. “How is Peter holding up?”
Silence follows, the kind that Bruce favors when he needs time to gather his thoughts. It’s telling, no easy ‘he’s fine’ response coming quick after the question was posed.
Clark recalls the boy that he’d seen in the lab, how he’d listened in on the conversation that preceded their meeting. Peter had been nervous in Lex’s presence, rightfully so, but he’d held his own admirably.
It hadn’t been difficult to notice how Peter had reacted to Luthor’s proximity, how he’d gone still and focused on Clark. He’d chalked it up to a cry for help at the time, and it had cost the boy greatly.
There was a level of responsibility that Clark felt for the child, though his involvement had been brief. Peter had been infected with the radiation that had sown the seeds of Krypton’s destruction, and Lex had only learned of its properties because of Clark’s existence on Earth.
Hearing that Peter harbored guilt for the threat that he poses to Clark had made offering the Fortress’ technology easy. His motivations quickly shifted from self-interest to an opportunity to get to know the boy more, seeing the makings of a true hero in the adolescent.
Waiting for Bruce’s answer on Peter’s condition only makes him want to finish the project more. If he has any hope of helping the kid out of the pit he’d landed in, Clark will take it.
“Peter is… still adjusting.” Bruce admits, bracing his hands against the console in front of him. “He seems to be happier now that he’s back at the manor, but he remains distant.”
“Distant how?”
“Everyone is blaming themselves for what happened to him, and Peter is blaming himself for his actions while under that woman’s control.” His head hangs, weary in the way that humans tend to get white battling exhaustion. “There is also the matter of Peter’s future.”
Clark considers the implications for a moment, moving to settle next to his friend. “You mean where he intends to go once this is all settled.”
Bruce had trusted Clark with Peter’s history after getting the go-ahead from the kid, an olive branch and necessity in equal measure. The knowledge is needed to conduct their work on the pods, but it felt monumental regardless given how that information had been used in the past.
With the many multiversal threats that the Justice League had faced in the past, the clear solution had simply been to put them back where they came from. Given that Peter has no ill-intentions, there’s no need to send him packing.
This leaves the ball in Peter’s court. He’d indicated an interest in staying prior to his capture, but they can’t rely on those wishes anymore, not with everything that had happened since.
Still keeping his gaze riveted on the holo-screen, Bruce nods. “We have the means to get him back to his home universe, but…”
“You don’t want him to leave.”
It’s one of Bruce’s faults, holding onto things too tight because he’s had far too much taken away from him. He’s battling with that urge now, weighing his newfound attachment against the boy’s potential wishes.
The human lets out a heavy breath as if he is relieved by the confession. “I don’t think the others have considered the possibility yet. They might attempt to sway him if I draw attention to it, and the decision should stay entirely his.”
“Is it so bad to tell the kid you want him around?”
“Peter feels immense responsibility for the implications of his abilities. He views Queens as his to protect, and I can see the distance weighing on him.” Bruce looks up, staring towards a distant horizon. “If I were in his position, I would not be able to stay away if given a choice. Not without knowing my city is in good hands.”
Clark sees it then, the core of Bruce’s attachment to the kid.
With so many of his Robins, he’d found a point of connection, something that cemented them as one of his.
With Dick, it had been the accident that had taken the boy’s parents away from him. With Jason, it had been his drive and tenacity. Tim had swayed Bruce with his intelligence. Damian and Cass came to him trained, determination carving them a place in the family.
Peter is unmistakably similar to each of them in unique ways. Clark hadn’t spoken to him directly since the gala, but he’d been told stories by the various Bats since the boy’s recovery.
The adolescent’s similarities with Bruce lie in their adherence to responsibility, each wielding power that can be used for such good. Though it manifests very differently, they both believe that they cannot turn a blind eye to that which plagues their cities.
Finding his resolve, Clark says, “Show him then.”
“Show him what?”
“Show him his city.” Clark raises a shoulder, lets it fall. “No matter what it might bring, Peter deserves to know.”
It’s not fair to lump it onto Bruce’s shoulders, not with everything that comes with the prospect of Peter leaving forever. Clark knows he has to do it regardless, as the only one who can offer the Batman the truth without recrimination.
There’s a beat where Bruce considers this, emotion brimming just beneath the surface. None of it plays across his face, but the tension in his form is unmistakeable.
It’s internally that understanding is found, acceptance cementing itself with the passing of seconds.
“Alright.”
~ ~ ~
Damian Wayne
Gotham City - May 28th
Damian should have known that Stephanie’s bid to meet was a ruse.
She had suggested an unusual place to convene, opting for a park bench rather than any of their usual haunts. She’d convinced him with underhanded tactics, mentioning the wildlife that had returned with the end of winter.
With Poison Ivy’s claim on the restoration of Gotham’s nature reserves, Robinson Park and its smaller counterparts had fallen under her unofficial jurisdiction. Damian cannot find it in himself to complain, enjoying the life that had come to flourish at the heart of the city.
He is in the middle of watching a nesting of infant birds when someone settles on the bench next to him. It becomes evident that the individual is not Stephanie Brown, and all at once Damian realizes he has been duped.
“I did not think you capable of such dishonorable tactics, Parker.”
“Yeah well, you drive a guy to desperation and you get to see what he might resort to.” Peter kicks one foot up to rest against the opposite knee, relaxing on the old wood of the bench. “Haven’t seen you around.”
“That was my intention.” An adult cardinal flutters to a stop atop the nest, and three small heads poke up and into Damian’s eyeline.
“Why?”
“The fellow members of my family have not left you alone, and I thought it prudent to give you space. That is all.”
“C’mon man.” The plea sounds tired, and it has Damian glancing over towards Peter. “Don’t do that.”
“I’m not sure what you’re referring to.”
“I think you do.”
“I assure you, I do not.”
“I’m not mad at you Damian.” The slight shift of his tone says otherwise, frustration budding.
“Then you are a fool.”
Imbecile! You are a fool!
Damian takes a quick inhale as he recalls his recriminations from that night, one he knows that the metahuman cannot help but hear.
The weight of Peter’s gaze is not heavy, but it is noticeable. The adolescent doesn’t say anything, calmly awaiting whatever he believes Damian will say next.
“I apologize.” As difficult as regret had been to voice in the past, the words come easily. “That was unkind and untrue.”
“Mmm.” Peter hums consideringly. “Maybe not that untrue. I did get myself captured after all.”
“That was not your fault.” Voicing his opinion a bit harshly, Damian bullies his volume down as not to frighten the cardinal. “I read your report. My grandfather can be quite persuasive, and he is not one to give empty threats.”
A righteous anger flits across Peter’s expression, and for a moment Damian thinks it to be pointed at him.
Then he remembers Alfred’s words, to believe him capable of such things towards you is to speak ill of his character, and reconsiders.
Ra’s had been leveraging Damian’s life in return for Peter’s co-operation. The adolescent had grown up in a very different environment, one that taught compassion over ruthlessness. He had not yet been normalized to grandfather’s will.
Damian cannot help the spot of warmth that blooms when he knows Peter’s anger to have been in his defense.
“Ra’s was there for a bit, when I was still with the Stranger.” Peter’s fingers twitch, and aborted clasp of a fist. “He’s a big fan of chess.”
Damian is aware. He had lost countless matches to his grandfather, each failure bringing a new lesson in war and strategy. “He is.”
“Bruce told me that he had a note sent to you a couple of weeks before the Scarecrow breakout, that he tried to get you to go back.”
“He did.” Damian swallows thickly.
“That was why you were asking me all those questions that day, wasn’t it?” Peter leans forward, trying to catch Damian’s eye. “About going home?”
“I should have known his words were of greater import. Grandfather is not one to take action without reason.” He does not look at Peter. “He was attempting to spare Gotham from the Scarecrow.”
Peter sighs, drops his leg so he can rest on his elbows. “I don’t think anything would’ve changed if you went with him.”
Damian looks over and sees grim acceptance on Peter’s face, feeling a bit surprised at the pessimism.
“If you went, Scarecrow likely would’ve been released anyways, and you’d be away from your team. Everyone was already on high alert, and planning can only do so much.” A shrug. “Might’ve delayed the inevitable for a bit, but who knows who could’ve been hurt in the meantime.”
The topic makes Damian feel unexpectedly angry, a flush crawling up his neck. It is being implied that their efforts would always lead to nothing, that they would never would’ve been able to protect Peter from his fate.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you guys were never the problem.” The admission comes out as a rush.
Oh.
“Everyone’s been trying to tell me that it isn’t my fault, and I know, but that doesn’t change how it happened.” Damian stares, silent, as Peter barrels on. “It doesn’t change what happened.”
“When I saw you in that diner, I had no way of knowing that either one of us was going to walk out of there alive.” Peter clasps his hands together, knuckles going white. “This amazing kid, the toughest I’d ever seen, was sitting there because of me, and I had no clue if he was going to see the next sunrise or not.”
I need to know you’ll be okay.
“And I don’t get to see him again, really see him, until everything is already over. I want to ask him if he’s okay, if he can forgive me for leaving him in that goddamn diner, but every time I go looking for him, he’s already gone.”
Peter inhales a shuddering breath, lets it go. “I’m left wondering if I’ve ruined this forever, cause I always wanted a little brother, and I fucked it up in the same moment that I finally realized I’d gotten it.”
Damian recalls a night where he and Jason had been reading Frankenstein together, and they reached the point in the novel where Henry Clerval was murdered by the Monster.
It was horrible.
Jason stumbled over his words, the first time he had done so in his narrations, and Damian almost couldn’t bear to hear it. It had been too real, to hear Victor lose the man who he called friend, brother.
He didn’t get his Clerval back, and died in pursuit of revenge.
It’s a story that has been seen through time and time again.
It nearly came for them.
Shifting abruptly, Damian encircles his arms around Peter’s middle. His face buries into the warm skin of the other boy’s shoulder, and he croaks out the words that he hadn’t allowed himself to utter since Peter’s return. “I’m sorry. I don’t hate you.”
There’s only the smallest of hesitations before Peter is melting into the hug. “I know, buddy.”
There are more apologies lumping at the back of Damian’s throat, that he regrets avoiding Peter and that he was never angry at him. He wants to tell him that they’re brothers, and that he won’t run anymore.
But then Peter’s grip on Damian is tightening, and he realizes that he already knows. He is no fool, and he’d seen right through Damian since the day that they met.
He doesn’t have to make anything right. They’ll be okay.
Chapter 41
Notes:
Doozy of a chap to write, this beast took me forever with all the science-medical lingo. As I am not an expert in either field, do not take what I wrote as gospel.
Enjoy~
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Tim Drake
Wayne Enterprises Tower - May 31st
Sitting in the lab with Peter, the chaos of their work strewn all about the space, things almost feel like they’re back to normal. It’s almost like the nightmare of the last few months had never happened, that they’re just a couple of teens working away at a project together.
Two laptops sit on the metal countertop in front of them, one running something like its hundredth simulation of the day while the other displays the complex blueprints that Tim had been working on.
He’d had nothing to occupy his brain with while Peter was in the hospital, so he’d toiled away at the work they’d left behind while the teen was recovering. A decent collection of potential applications for the reactor are ready to go should everything go off without a hitch, the new power source a likely game changer for the hero scene.
It had nearly been left unfinished, another project to be forgotten with time. Tim hadn’t the heart to complete the project, not without Peter being there, and so it had been put on hold until the adolescent was back.
Besides, the meta held pieces of the puzzle that Tim didn’t. So much of the theory had been based around tech from Peter’s universe, and they hadn’t written 100% of it down.
Working side by side, a bit of Tim that had been left frayed by Peter’s absence repairs itself, twining back together in their companiable silence.
With a small chime, the simulation completes with a success. The two look at one another, matching expressions of anticipation on their faces.
“Okay, so run me through the facts one last time.” Tim turns his body to face Peter fully, going on to say, “Your mentor, Tony, made this because…”
“The previous palladium cores he was using in his ARC reactor were slowly poisoning him.” Peter explains dutifully. “Apparently, Howard Stark had been working on a theoretical element decades ago that act pretty similarly to Batmanium. It isn’t quite as dense or heavy, but the durability is matched. My universe called it vibranium.”
Tim nods, urging the impromptu lecture onwards.
“I have no idea how he synthesized an element that is only naturally occurring, but that was Tony for you.” Peter shrugs, a fond look on his face. “Using his words, he ‘plasma lasered the core until it looked like a glowstick, and boom, new element’. Technically not new at the time, but it wasn’t widely known outside of Wakanda by the country’s design.”
Internally, Tim adds ‘ask about Wakanda’ to his ever growing list of questions about Peter’s home universe.
“Okay. Then I guess we’re as ready as we ever will be.” Accepting with only the slightest bit of unease, Tim pushes himself to stand and moves into the secure lab, Peter following behind. They cross through reinforced glass and radiation shielding, coming to a stop in front of computer console. “If Tony wasn’t bullshitting you all this time, this should work.”
“This should work.” Peter parrots, agreeing. “Given, he made his particle accelerator from random parts scattered about his Malibu beach house, so we’ve got a leg up on him with a full lab setup.”
Tim snorts. “Only means the shame will be that much worse if we fuck this up.”
“Yeah, well, he’ll get a kick out of it if we do.”
Moving over to where the particle accelerator is priming up, Tim double checks that the beam condenser is angled properly towards the small bit of suspended Batmanium. It had felt strange setting up the little refined chunk, the metal weighing his hand down despite being the size of a dime.
The chamber its held in connects to a circuit of connected tubes, running in an oval around the circumference of the open space. Tinted windows allow a line of sight into the interior, used to ensure that nothing is going haywire.
It’s all connected to Wayne Tech’s most advanced computer, the server hooked into the Cave’s monitoring systems. Should anything go awry, the team is ready to dispatch at the first sign of something wrong, a measure that Bruce insisted on when Peter and Tim had pitched the completion of their joint project.
Though, there wouldn’t be much the team could do if things went boom. They’d cleared the building for a reason, though under the guise of a systems overhaul.
Looking over at younger teen, Tim sees him lost in thought, eyes coasting over the assembled machinery. His mood is hard to gauge, a new development of his time under the Stranger’s control.
Tim knows this must feel monumental, to replicate the work of a mentor. He’d done it before, stepped into Bruce’s shoes when he’d been trusted to lead missions, and it never stopped feeing like a big deal.
Watching on in silence, Tim doesn’t interrupt the moment.
Peter lifts a hand and coasts it atop the metal of the accelerator, the tech a repurposed S.T.A.R. labs model. He takes a deep inhale, holding it for a second before letting the breath escape him.
He turns around, resolution plain to see. “Ready?”
Putting on the last of his protective gear, Tim settles his hands on the controls. “As I’ll ever be.”
Peter joins him in front of the screens and sets the initiation sequence to ‘Go’.
It’s a bit anticlimactic at first, with proper particle accelerator safety protocols demanding that they increase energy input gradually. Over the span of an hour, the particle beam accelerates, carefully monitored all throughout.
Once deemed stable, they ramp up the energy output to the realm of tera electron volts. After tuning the beam, it’s time to adjust the trajectory, and that’s when things really take off.
The buildup of excitement is undeniable, Peter and Tim sharing a look of anticipation and trepidation.
We really doing this?
Guess so.
Letting Peter take the lead, Tim’s eyes track the movement of his hands over the controls. With a quick command, the accelerated particles shift in orientation, and start to slam into the Batmanium at a speed nearing that of light.
The metal starts to glow like it was injected hyper neon, getting brighter at an exponential rate. There’s a high pitched ringing sound, almost melodic in quality, and the lightbulbs above start to pop.
Feeling like a mad scientist, heart beating a frantic thrum, Tim laughs.
He can’t hear if Peter is doing the same, but the excitement in the air is palpable. Neithan can tear their gaze from the brilliance nor the bright beam leading into the blazing core.
Then, an alert pops up on the screen and Tim is slamming his hand on the ‘emergency stop’.
The lab is dark aside from where the Batmanium sits, the glow fading until the metal’s shape is once again visible. A simple triangle of light sits in its holding, the computer’s readings dipping until the energy is stable.
It’s like looking into the sun, a corona flickering just outside the reactor, light blue in colour and nearly bleached white with its luminosity.
Grabbing a custom Geiger counter from the terminal’s surface, Tim moves it around to try to get a reading. Aside for when it’s pointed right at Peter, there is no detectible radiation that’s being emitted, at least not outside the reactor’s containment apparatus.
The lab settles, the only sound now being that of their breaths.
Looking over at Peter, Tim says, “You did it.”
Watery eyes meet his, and a wobbling smile tugs at the teen’s lips. Resting a hand on Peter’s shoulder, Tim shares the moment with him in a moment of awed success.
“The STARK Reactor.” Peter says, never pulling his attention from his creation. “That’s what I’m gonna call it.”
Nodding, Tim asks, “You turning his name into an acronym?”
“We’ll figure that bit out later. Everyone knows scientists fill the acronyms out after the fact so they can have cool names for things.” Peter snorts. “S.H.I.E.L.D. did the same thing. Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division my ass. Tony never passed up an opportunity to make fun of them for it.”
“The man’s gonna be rolling around in his grave if you do that to his invention.”
“Exactly.” Looking smug and misty eyed in equal measure, Peter crosses the distance between him and the reactor. It sets the green in his irises aglow, but within them there is only joy. “He’d love it.”
~ ~ ~
Vicky Vale
Gotham Gazette - June 3rd
“Zip it, Randy, or I swear to god I’ll slash your tires!”
Vicky storms through the halls of the Gazette, her heels thudding on the cheap carpet of the building’s halls. Her destination sits straight ahead, a set of double doors sitting between her and the boss’ office.
The calls of Randy do nothing to stop her, the personal secretary no match for her ire. With a shove, the doors slam open, bouncing off the doorstops with a shudder.
The high back chair behind the desk swivels, and Vicky meets the unimpressed stare of her boss, Paul Miller. He’s in his favourite slate grey suit, a cobalt blue tie leading up to the neck that’s two seconds away from being wrung.
Mouth opening to spew the first lines of her tirade, Vicky lays into him. “Tell me one good reason why my story is being shoved to page eight, Paul! There’s no goddamn way that Gotham Gazette is prioritizing a Superman story over what’s going on in our streets. This isn’t Metropolis, why do we give a shit?”
“Vicky, aside from the fact that we are owned by a Metropolis-based company, you’ve been obsessed with this kid since he first hit the streets.” With an infuriatingly calm voice, Paul speaks with his hands held out placatingly. “It’s losing traction, and we can’t justify plastering it on the front page when it’s not gonna help sales.”
“You and your goddamn sales.” She hisses. “I’m ‘obsessed’ with this story because it’s finally something real. I swear to god, if I have to write one more piece about how Gotham’s elite are branching out into the influencer space, I will burn this place to the ground myself.”
Paul sighs. “The kid hasn’t been seen in months, Vicky. You need to let it go.”
“That doesn’t matter. If you paid attention to this city for one second, you’d get why this is important.” Pulling up her story on her tablet, Vicky turns it to show the graffiti that she’d found tucked in an alleyway.
Blazing from within the shadow of a bat, the silhouette of a spider stands clear. “That was a metahuman working directly with the Bat himself, in Gotham, Paul! Caught on the news for the whole world to see. The kid’s a symbol now, disappearance or no.”
“Your evidence is circumstantial at best-”
“Circumstantial?” Vicky’s voice ticks up in pitch, incredulity getting in on the mix. “Bruce Wayne preaches metahuman rights in Gotham, and not three months later before Batman is seen teaming up with one of them in his city. People are noticing. This isn’t the time to bury our heads in the sand.”
“It’s theorized that the Signal is a metahuman.” The boss offers, steepling his fingers like he’s worn. “Where was this fire when he first hit the streets?”
Resisting the urge to throw something at the man, Vicky grates out, “I was right there in the mix, the first to get a story out on him. It’s the fault of malicious gossip that nobody believes Signal to be a meta.”
“I don’t remember that being the case.”
Slamming her hands on Paul’s desk, Vicky gets in close. “I don’t give a shit what you remember. You get my story off page eight and get it on something a lot closer to the front, or I swear to god I’ll move to the Gotham Globe before you can even think of saying sorry.”
There’s a pause, Paul’s brows drawing close as he weighs the seriousness of her threat.
“Fine.” He acquiesces, but he sticks a finger up to point at Vicky before she can gloat. “But I can’t keep running this forever. The news waits for no man, and neither can we.”
“Keep your inspirational quotes to yourself, Paul. Put me on page eight again, and I’m gone.”
With that, Vicky exits, leveling a triumphant smirk Randy’s way as she breezes past his desk.
Eyes follow her in the bullpen, interest and envy churning as she once again gets her way in the face of Paul’s deplorable personality. She doesn’t let her worry for the mysterious vigilante show on her face, burying it beneath the haughty attitude she’s become known for.
If there’s any hope for Gotham’s metahumans to keep their momentum going, they’re going to need a beacon in the community, one that can’t hide their status from the world. Vicky had hoped that the kid was that paragon, but he’d been gone too long.
Things are losing traction.
Secluding herself back in her personal office, Vicky scans the skyline through her floor-to-ceiling windows, hoping for some glimpse of the missing Spider.
Better make your comeback quick, kid. This city needs you more than you know.
~ ~ ~
Peter Parker
North Pole - June 4th
From within the Batplane, Peter watches the stark expanse of the arctic wasteland pass below, the subzero desert extending as far as the eye can see. It’s beautiful and lonely, the setting sun sapping taking whatever warmth it had supplied with it.
Jason is sitting at the controls beside Bruce, playing copilot. There isn’t much of a need for him to be there, but there’s the low murmur of conversation coming from the front end of the plane, a private talk that Peter is consciously trying to ignore.
They had departed from the cave earlier in the day, the whole Wayne entourage there to bid them farewell. The air had been lighthearted, but the pinch of nerves had been visible on everyone’s faces, sharing a worry over Peter’s upcoming treatment.
Hopefully the last of the long and arduous line.
Superman is waiting for them at his personal base, getting the pod ready. He’d contacted them via video call yesterday, and the smile he’d sent Peter’s way had been nothing but kind.
It had helped to cement Peter’s decision to go through with the treatment. He couldn’t pose a threat to this man or his family, not when he had been such a force for good to the people of Earth.
A low chime from the plane’s computer signals their impending arrival, and Jason calls out, “Hey Queens, come look at this.”
Unbuckling the clasps of his seatbelt, Peter steps over towards the controls and dips his head to look out the window.
Jutting out from the flat landscape is a structure comprised entirely of crystal, gleaming a pristine white as it reaches high above the ground. The warm tones of dusk’s onset darken the shadows that lie between the stalagmites, light dancing in prismatic arcs where it glances off any striations.
It’s unlike anything that Peter had seen, with his only experiences of alien ships including those of the Chitauri and the ring shaped one that he’d flown with Tony to Thanos’ home planet, Titan.
Their brutalist and utilitarian designs have nothing on Superman’s Fortress, likely in both aesthetics and defence capabilities. Thanos’ flying donut had been embarrassingly easy to infiltrate, both from the inside and outside.
“Damn, Superman’s got style.”
Bruce snorts a laugh and starts flipping controls to begin bringing the plane into a controlled descent. Peter sticks himself to the floor of the plane and holds onto the headrests in front of him, arguably more effective safety measures than the seatbelt he’d been strapped into earlier.
Landing with a soft thump, Jason flicks a few switches and the ramp starts to lower at the back of the fuselage.
The design is reminiscent of the Quinjet that Peter had been given a tour of forever ago, and without a wall to block the cockpit off, the frozen air of the arctic starts to quickly seep into the interior of the plane.
Not waiting for any direction, Peter starts in on donning his winter gear, never having been one for the cold. Jason and Bruce follow his lead, tugging on more specialized gear that’s designed around their hero identities.
In a fluffy parka and mittens, Peter feels like he’s been played.
He shoots a glare Jason’s way when his hood is tugged up and over his head, a shit-eating grin on the man’s face.
“You nice and cozy in your booties there, kiddo?”
Peter jabs his fingers where there’s a seam in Jason’s armor, using the slightest bit of his enhanced strength to make sure that the blow is actually felt. He earns himself a grunt and a protective curl around the injured area from Jason, and he celebrates his victory with a smirk and a snicker.
“Boys.” Bruce chastises them, his tone no-nonsense in a way that sounds practiced.
Jason whines, “I think the kid got my kidney.”
“I’m sure Superman will be happy to make sure it hasn’t been ruptured when we get to the Fortress.”
In parent speak: I’m not dealing with the consequences of your bad decisions.
Peter grins to himself and follows happily behind Bruce, just barely holding himself back from sticking his tongue out at Jason. With a grumble of complaint, they’re joined by a freshly bruised Red Hood as they make their approach on the Fortress.
Standing, ready to greet them and clad in red and blue, is Superman.
Having met the man in his human disguise and seeing him in person for the first time since the gala, Peter can understand why he can fool the world so effectively.
He’s admittedly a bit of a nobody, only standing out with the quality of his work. He’d chosen a good profession, able to excuse his disappearances during crises by saying he was wanting to get in on the action.
The Clark Kent that had come to his rescue in the lab stood with curled shoulders and wore suits that made his impressive form look almost deflated. His expression back then was absentminded and confused, only shifting when he noted the palpable tension in the room.
His glasses warped the dimensions of his face via strong lenses, his eyes given the appearance of being small. All together, he paints a meek and forgettable figure, noticeable only because of the way his height causes him to stick up out of a crowd.
Clark Kent as Superman stands with his shoulder back, an air of confidence and invincibility about him. His hair is styled differently, the usual curled locks slicked back save for a single clump of strands that hangs down defiantly.
His super-suit is form fitting, a visual warning to potential threats as his physical prowess is put on open display. He hovers a few inches above the ground in a gravity-defying display, making him seem that much taller.
He gives them a welcoming smile as they come to a stop in front of him, Peter keeping a healthy distance. Despite the danger posed, there isn’t even an ounce of worry on his face, Superman’s posture softening the slightest bit as he settles in their proximity.
“Thank you for having us, Superman.” Bruce starts, ever professional in his Batman persona.
Giving a bright laugh, Superman lands and claps a hand on Bruce’s shoulder, perhaps a bit hard given the grunt that escapes the human’s throat. “Loosen up a bit, Bruce. You’re all welcome to the Fortress whenever you want to come visit.”
“Sweet.” Jason drawls, nodding towards the Kryptonian in that stoic way of his. “Good to see you, Unc.”
“You too, Jason.” There’s a quality to Superman’s voice like he’s holding back something a bit more personable, but he moves on to look at Peter before there’s time to dig into it. “It’s good to see you again, Peter.”
“Yeah, thank you for everything Mr. Kent-, uh, Superman.”
Chuckling around the slip, Superman waves a hand. “Clark is fine, Peter. The Fortress is impenetrable to most surveillance equipment, Bruce’s tech notwithstanding. You can speak freely here.”
“Oh okay, well.” Peter blames the cold for the reddening of his cheeks, his habit of running his mouth getting the better of him as usual. “Thank you for everything, Clark.”
Before anyone can embarrass themselves further, Bruce clears his throat. “Perhaps we can continue this conversation inside?”
“Oh!” Eyes going wide with an edge of guilt, Clark starts to usher them through the Fortress’ massive entrance. “Apologies, I always forget just how cold it is around here. Ma would skin me alive if she knew I was being a bad host.”
“Always going on about that southern hospitality, huh Clark?” Jason snarks, though not unkindly.
“Yeah well, you can take the boy out of Kansas but you can’t take Kansas out of the boy.”
Bruce and Clark get going on asking about each other’s families, inquiring about “Ma and Pa” and “the boys”. There’s something almost funny watching Batman talk about his kid’s latest accomplishments, the Dark Knight rumbling proudly about Damian’s foray into new art mediums.
Intermittently, Clark will interrupt the conversation to give Peter a disjointed tour, pointing out rooms of interest. It’s surprisingly homey in certain spaces, at least for a veritable crystal castle, the harsh lines soothed by cushions, trinkets, and throw blankets.
Otherwise, it lives up to its name, the reflective effect of the walls and stillness making it feel solitary. It has Peter feeling pensive where he trails at the back of the group, still keeping the required distance between him and Clark at the forefront of his thoughts.
After a short walk, they’re led to a room where a mix of human and Kryptonian tech is strewn about. Two pods are set up, though only one has the appearance of having been messed with, wires and retrofit gadgets sticking out of its sleek design.
Peter splits off to take a peek at the pod, curious about what he’s about to stick himself inside. The interior has a fabric lining with a bit of cushioning, small ports tucked against the walls that are likely going to be siphoning the radiation from his body.
A set of footsteps approach, and Peter looks over to see Clark moving past the invisible barrier that he’d been enforcing. Opening his mouth around a worried warning, he’s cut off by a nod and raised hand as the Kryptonian stops a handful of feet away.
Clark settles on one knee, cutting his height down as not to loom over Peter, and somehow the gesture doesn’t feel insulting. He sets a hand gently on Peter’s shoulder. “I need to thank you, Peter, for choosing to do this for not only my sake, but that of my family as well. It takes a lot of courage, especially after all you’ve been through.”
“I-…” The usual embarrassed platitudes sit on the tip of Peter’s tongue, meant to make light of the situation. The sincerity and openness on Clark’s face has him swallowing them down, instead responding with, “It’s the right thing to do.”
There’s an expression that Peter can almost call awe that crosses Superman’s face, and then he’s smiling something wide and proud. “You have the makings of a great hero, son. If you ever choose to don a suit, know you have the house of El at your back.”
Peter’s eyes widen at the unexpected formality, and he watches as Clark straightens to his full height.
As he is wont to due, Jason ruins the moment. “Stop trying to steal my kid, Big Blue. I won’t have you squirreling him away to Metropolis, not on my watch.”
Moving comfortably away, Clark crosses his arms. “I’m sure that you can spare him. There’s enough of you running around Gotham, I bet Peter wouldn’t mind a change of scenery.”
“Clark.” Bruce cuts in from where he stands behind a holo-screen, the lenses of his cowl doing nothing to hide his lack of enthusiasm at the current topic.
Superman puffs his chest for a moment, then deflates. “Fine.”
Peter, a bit flattered at the thought of Superman wanting to mentor him, hides his smile as he goes to poke around in the interim.
Most of the stuff is entirely alien to him, expected given their current locale, and he finds himself getting lost in thought as he wonders about the different applications for the bits and bobs strewn about.
He can feel the steady attention of Jason on his back as he goes around, likely making sure he doesn’t zap himself with some weird piece of Kryptonian tech. The pod starts to make a humming sound as it boots up, Bruce and Clark swapping updates as they watch the readings come in.
When the sound and activity in the room levels out, Jason calls Peter over with a “Alright, Queens, get over here.”
Setting down some crystal-matrix-thing, Peter wanders over to see Jason holding a sleek black suit with the Superman crest emblazoned on its front. He takes it when it’s held out to him, confusedly looking up.
“When Supes uses a pod to juice up, these suits help him absorb the energy faster. This one’s been modified to keep your usual spider radiation in while the Kryptonite gets sucked out.” Jason explains. “It’d take longer to change the design of the suit, so you’re stuck with the ‘S-shield’.”
There’s a hint of derision in Jason’s voice as he points out the symbol, prompting Clark to defend with, “It’s the crest of my house, Jason.”
“Yeah well, the medieval times called and they want their feudal system back. People don’t use ‘house crests’ anymore.”
“I think it’s cool, Clark.”
“Thank you, Peter.”
“I changed my mind, you can take the little kiss-ass.”
Peter sticks his tongue out.
“Peter, if you would step into the changing area to get ready.” Bruce interjects again, though he says after a pause, “Though perhaps I should get a better suit made. We have the time.”
“Bruce, don’t you-”
“It would look much better with a bat on it.”
Leaving the grown men to bicker, Peter moves into an adjacent space to change into the suit.
It’s surprisingly similar to his old Spidersuit, with the fabric tightening around his frame once he’s slipped it on. The material feels buttery and insulated despite its thinness, highly flexible and durable as Peter tests it out.
Moving over to a wall, Peter checks to see if he can stick with the suit covering his fingertips and finds that he’s held fast.
Huh.
There’s a knock at the door and he goes over to open it, finding Jason standing there. He whistles an impressed tone. “Looking sleek there, kid.”
“The material is super cool. Do you guys use this for your suits?”
“Nah. We need more protection than this offers, so Bruce makes most of our stuff out of a few hidden-from-the-military, experimental Kevlar derivatives.” Jason leans on the doorframe, considering. “Supes has offered it for us to use before though. Why do you ask?”
“I’m one of your tech guys now. There’s always room for improvement on your stuff, and I’m sure there’s a way to make this work.” It’s not the whole truth, but now doesn’t feel like the time to pitch any new ideas.
“Sure, sure.” Looking away then back again, Jason is tentative when he asks. “Hey, you sure you’re good to go through with this?”
“Yeah.” Peter answers truthfully. “I trust Bruce and Clark’s work, and if anything goes wrong, you’ll be there to rip ‘em a new one.”
Jason huffs. “True.”
Peter nods, thinking that’s the end of it, but something in Jason’s expression has him asking, “Is there… anything else?”
“No- wait shit, I mean, yes there is.” Hanging his head for a second, Jason takes a second before continuing. “I’ve been meaning to ask for a while, and I promised myself I wouldn’t leave things until it’s too late considering, you know… and you don’t have to feel pressured to say yes-”
“Jason, jeez man.” Holding his hands up in a reflexive calming manner, Peter tries to soothe whatever Jason’s grappling with. “I promise I won’t get mad at whatever you’re about to ask.”
With a huff and a searching gaze, Jason seems to decide to just go for it. “If all this goes well, and nothing comes up, what would you think of me officially adopting you. You know, as a legal guardian.”
Peter blinks.
“I know you’re not looking for a dad or anything, and I’m not trying to be that or replace your aunt, but there’s more protections for you if you were tied to the Wayne name officially.” Jason pulls a hand up to scratch at the back of his neck. “This is probably the worst timing, and guardian doesn’t really mean much when-”
Darting forward, Peter squeezes his arms around Jason’s middle. “Guardian means everything.”
It’s perfect.
It’s all Jason has been doing since he first met Peter, not letting him go into that fight without backup, making sure he had food to eat and a warm place to crash.
Protecting him every step of the way.
“I would really, really like that.” He whispers into Jason’s chest, feeling the man’s arms settle atop his shoulders in a warm hold.
“Alright kiddo. Then that’s settled.”
It feels too quick, too easy considering how hard they'd had to fight for everything since they first met in that corner store. There should be some new danger to stop Peter from having this, some voice in his head telling him he isn't worthy of it.
But Dick's words echo, 'you don't have to do anything to deserve it', and Peter lets himself have this.
They take a minute, breathing suspended in time. Just one room over is an uncertain end, freedom for all Peter’s worries or a whole new saga to unfold.
It doesn’t seem like Jason wants to let go any time soon, the slightly elevated rate of his heartbeat giving away his worries. Peter is of a similar mind, comfortable where he is, but he knows he can’t put this off any longer.
“Come on.” Withdrawing from the hug, Peter’s quirks a corner of his lips up. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
Bruce and Clark stay respectfully quiet upon their re-entry into the room, though the Kryptonian’s eyes look a little watery. One of them inputs a command into the computer, and the front of the pod is opening with a hiss of compressed air.
With one last kiss to the crown of Peter’s hair, Jason nudges him to join Bruce. He meets the eldest Wayne halfway, getting a once-over to make sure that there’s nothing wrong with the suit.
“The pod is going to halt certain metabolic processes to ensure that the treatment takes effect. Thus, your regenerative ability won’t be able to reproduce the Kryptonite radiation as it is being removed.” Bruce starts messing around with the pod, leaving Peter to wait. “This won’t have any long-lasting side effects, mostly just hunger and fatigue once the process is complete.”
“That, and any injury sustained while in the pod will not heal at your usual rate.” Bruce’s mouth thins. “Admittedly, there is an unknown in what your body will do to repair what is missing.”
Jason’s jaw ticks, disquieted by the uncertainty.
“Your biology has adapted too much to the Kryptonite for it to simply be taken out. Odds are that the energy will be substituted with the radioactivity that was introduced via the spider.”
Casting a look over at Clark, Bruce adds. “There is also a chance that the pod will repair your DNA with a nonharmful Kryptonian alternative if your body cannot heal itself on its own.”
Peter sucks in a breath. “I might become a little bit Kryptonian?”
“Oh I’m for sure stealing you if that’s the case.” Clark pipes up from afar.
He gets a withering glare from the assembled bats.
“But the likely result would be something more similar to Bizarro or Kon-El than myself.” He sheepishly continues. “Your body adapted to a radiation aversive to Kryptonians, and would therefore respond better to my inverse or something that’s better integrated into human biology.”
To Peter’s overwhelmed expression, Jason says, “For Bizarro, think of Superman if the world was flipped on its head. Yes equals no, green Kryptonite isn’t harmful.” A pause. “Don’t worry, he’s a friend.”
The glance shared by the other two adults says otherwise for their case.
Jason winks, not helping.
“Regardless.” Bruce forges on. “There are systems in place to account for any problems we might run into. The Fortress itself is monitored by a Kryptonian AI that will adapt to any changes we cannot.”
Peter considers this. On one hand, Karen and Friday. On the other hand, Ultron.
Not sure how to feel about that one.
“You’re in safe hands Peter.” Clark comforts. “I’ll be here the whole time, listening in, and we’ll stop the treatment at the first sign of a problem.”
Breathing in and out, Peter nods. “Okay.”
Nerves only slightly abated, Peter is helped into the pod by Bruce’s steady hands. He settles comfortably against the lining, eyeing the ports that he’d spotted earlier.
With practiced efficiency, Bruce hooks him up to all sorts of monitoring devices, telling Peter what each does as he works. He’d heard the in-depth explanation when the treatment had first been pitched to him, but it still helps to distract his mind from spiralling.
“You won’t be awake to see this, but the pod will remove the radiation via a set of flexible tubing.” Bruce points at the ports. “They will work through your suit, but have to connect to your bloodstream much like an IV. You will have healed by the time you awake, but I figured you would like to be aware of what is going to be happening ahead of time.”
Peter nods again, not trusting his voice.
“You’ll be fine.” Bruce settles a palm against Peter’s cheek, his skin rough with calluses. “You are stronger than you know.”
His hand moves, and a mask is being set over Peter’s mouth and nose.
He knew this part was coming, and yet he can’t help the spike of panic that alights at the feeling of something foreign on his face. The scars on his cheeks itch.
“The pod’s going to be sealed airtight to avoid the radiation from leaking into the room.” Clark explains from afar, face pinched with worry. “You will be supplied oxygen and anesthetic through the mask, nothing else. I promise.”
You can do this, Spiderman. You got this.
Peter gives a thumbs up. “I’m good.”
With one last encouraging pat, Bruce steps back and the pod begins to close.
“I’m with you Peter.” Jason calls out, words said quickly as he tries to get them out before the pod closes. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”
With a thud and a click, Peter is sealed inside. He puts a hand against the transparent glass at the front, looking right at Jason.
His fear evaporates, body losing its tension. His guardian’s here. He’ll make it through this.
The air that Peter breathes in takes on a different note, something synthetic, and then the world drops out from beneath him.
Notes:
As a music fan, if any of y'all have any songs that remind you of this fic or of 'Peter in Gotham', send 'em in a comment below! Also, how do y'all think the radiation extraction is gonna go? >:3
Chapter 42
Notes:
As a preable, the 'Kryptonian Gene Therapy TM' in this chap would be a really cool way to bring a "Venom AU" touch to the story if that at all fit the narrative. In the interest of keeping the plot from getting too messy and crowded, it's not going to be a thing, but it's fun to think about regardless :).
In this chap, we delve a bit into "A.I. weighing decisions around human life based around their coding, and their objectivity/unfeeling nature breeding moral quandaries" (a topic of which I am a fan) through Jor-El A.I. Man weighing in on Peter's procedure. His ultimate decision is in Peter's best interest, but he gets a bit motivated by personal interest, and so be wary of this if you might be upset at the decision being taken out of Peter's hands (though he knew of the possibilities when he agreed to this).
Anyways, enjoy~
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Jor-El
Fortress of Solitude - June 4th
The boy currently residing in the once-solar radiation pod is odd, an anomaly that had piqued Jor-El’s interest when he had been added to the artificial intelligence’s database.
As a construction of Kryptonian technology, Jor-El can admit that his intrigue is a biproduct of his coding. Alongside his designation to foster Kal-El’s growth on Earth was a set of secondary directives, largely centred around collecting information on the alien planet and searching for ways to preserve the Kryptonian way of life.
Searching for allies among the billions of Earthlings became somewhat of a hobby, scanning through the databases that Jor-El could reach into. Many he had deemed as safe would become among Kal-El’s most trusted, the Batman counted among their ranks.
The boy that the hero had brought for cleansing could perhaps prove to be of worth as well.
Named Peter Parker, he is not of this universe, a fact that is detected by the pod’s altered capabilities.
It is not something entirely tangible, but there is a… difference in his constitution that reads as foreign. Perhaps it could be the result of the oddity of his DNA structure, curiously inhuman with the introduction of a genus of arachnid that does not exist in this reality.
It could also be Jor-El’s systems reacting adversely to the Kryptonite radiation clinging to the boy’s body, reading its effect on his genetic code as incorrect.
As it is the element that spelled Krypton’s doom, the A.I. had heartily agreed with Kal-El’s decision to aid Peter Parker in ridding himself of it, his probability calculations declaring it as an inevitable threat that they would do well to eradicate.
Regardless, it is a well proven fact that unique individuals possess the ability to alter the world in significant ways, and the child certainly does not blend in with the others of his species.
With advanced healing capabilities and senses, a heightened immune system and metabolism, nigh-superhuman strength and agility, and a unique array of arachnid adjacent abilities, Peter Parker would do well in protecting the Kryptonian colony on Earth.
He had proven to have admirable qualities as well, impressing Kal-El with his tenacity and will to do good. Though fallible in times of stress, Jor-El’s scans of Peter Parker’s expressions and body language while discussing his motivations only read as truthful.
He is not undergoing the treatment for any reason other than to protect the house of El. That alone makes him worthy of protection.
The man that the A.I.’s coding was constructed around, his namesake and Kal-El’s birth father, would respect the boy regardless of age or station. Though not born of sentience, Jor-El had not taken this lightly, and thus integrates his creator’s assumed perception into his decision.
The boy must survive, and perhaps of greater importance, he must be given the proper tools for his continued survival.
As the Kryptonite radiation is being siphoned from his body, Peter Parker’s regenerative abilities are unable to replace it as it had been conditioned to. His heart beats strong and his health remains at a nominal level, but there are signs showing of the first stages of complications.
The cessation of his body’s metabolic functions has left it vulnerable to the subtle damage that the radiation’s removal is causing. The boy’s adrenal gland has lowered in functionality alongside his kidneys and liver, the beginnings of a fatal chain reaction.
Over time his blood toxicity levels will heighten, and if his organs are to continue failing in a compounding sequence, he will be unable to heal in time to repair the damage to his body.
The Batman’s fears have been confirmed. Without external intervention, Peter Parker will not awaken.
Not without a substitute to give his body an advantage.
Running through the calculations, Jor-El knows that the choice rests between two alternatives.
The first would be to use the boy’s genetic disposition towards arachnid nucleotides, healing the radiation damage done to his DNA by replacing it with what it is used to.
However, this leaves the possibility of Peter Parker facing additional transformations linked to his spider-like abilities. They would likely prove net-positive in the end, but the physical ramifications could lead to complications that had not been accounted for.
In Jor-El’s most concerning calculated probabilities, his skeletal or physiological structure could be altered, bringing the possibility of psychological ramifications by fault of unexpected bodily alteration. By his estimates, the boy had already faced such difficulties following his recent troubles, and would not benefit from further mental strain.
This leaves the introduction of Kryptonian biology into the boy’s genetic sequence.
As the damage is not too severe, Jor-El would not need to employ heavy gene therapy, tucking the proper nucleotides in where they are required, borrowed from like individuals.
Jon-El and Kon-El would do nicely, being of a similar age and sharing a connection to the homo sapiens species.
Running further calculations, there are less suboptimal conclusions that with the first option. With Kryptonians being humanoid, the physical effects are unlikely to cause pain or distress. Adjustment may be required, but such is the understood risk of the procedure.
The possibility of catastrophic failure hovers at around 4%.
There are unknowns, yes, but the benefits far outweigh the potential drawbacks. The future of Krypton would find a host in Peter Parker, a boy of exemplary character and a friend of the house of El. As stated prior, Peter Parker must survive, and thus this is to be the answer.
As the last of the Kryptonite radiation is drawn from the boy’s body, Jor-El sets about healing the damage that had been done.
~ ~ ~
Clark Kent
Fortress of Solitude - June 5th
It’s well into the night, in the early hours of the next day, that the computer system alerts them to the completion of the radiation extraction. The hologram of Jor-El flickers to life amid the holo-screens, standing tall as he looks down on the three restless heroes.
At his visage, there is the usual flicker of homesickness, one felt for a planet that Clark can’t remember. There’s also the warmth that accompanies seeing his father’s face, present despite his awareness that it’s just the A.I.’s fabrication of Jor-El’s likeness.
“Kal-el.” The artificial intelligence greets, his tone fond. He looks to the humans in the room. “Greetings Batman and the Red Hood.”
“Do you have an update on Peter’s condition?” Worried but hopeful, Jason cuts right to the chase.
“With the completion of the Kryptonite extraction, Peter Parker’s body will need time to repair the damage that the radiation caused.” Jor-El informs them clinically. “I have employed life saving measures to ensure his survival, as he is unable to combat the side-effects alone.”
“What?” Bruce growls, his voice loud despite the depth of his tenor. “Why weren’t we informed the second you were made aware of the complications?”
Jor-El’s eyes flick to look at the most recent speaker. “It is my directive to preserve life, and such the decision could not wait. His odds would only suffer from inaction.”
Clark goes to intervene, to try to temper his friend’s anger, but doesn’t get the chance as Jason says tiredly, “Bruce, we told it to do what is necessary. Whatever’s happening, it’s already done.”
“I assure you that Peter Parker remains in stable condition, and shows sign of improvement already.” The A.I. turns to Clark. “At the moment of intervention, the damage was not yet within your ability to detect. Should you direct your gaze to the organs key to the human’s metabolic functions, you should now be able to confirm the truth of my evaluation.”
Following Jor-El’s instructions, Clark can only just see the beginnings of Peter’s internal tissues breaking down and branches of capillaries starting to burst. They’re knitting themselves back together as fast as the damage is being done, Jor-El’s efforts bearing fruit.
He shifts out of his x-ray vision and nods to Bruce and Jason, watching as their body language tightens in stress.
Jor-El continues with Clark’s input. “I have begun the initial stages of gene therapy using samples taken from Jon-El and Kon-El. Peter Parker is taking to it well, and I calculated nigh certain odds that he will make a full recovery.”
Nigh certain.
Jason mutters the same sentiment under his breath, forgetting or uncaring that Clark can easily hear it. Given the young man’s temperament, it’s likely the latter.
“Thank you, Jor-El.” Bruce voices his gratitude, albeit sounding a bit forced. He relaxes a fraction, settling back into the usual level of tension that he carries himself with. “I apologize for my hasty accusations.”
“It is forgiven.”
With that, the hologram of the A.I. disappears, leaving the room slightly darker than it had been with its presence.
“Jason?”
Bruce calls out softly, looking towards his son. At the address, Jason meets his father’s gaze, a silent conversation beginning as they communicate in subtle twitches and unspoken words.
Having spent too little time in the presence of both men concurrently, Clark isn’t fluid in their particular manner of nonverbal correspondence. He watches on in amused perplexity, trying to parse the difference between the various brow furrows that Jason gives.
There’s a measure of thankfulness that he feels as he sits back, not insulted that he’s being left out. It’s likely not malicious, and even if it were, Bruce and Jason had been at odds for so long that it’s nice to see them engaging in their own special language again.
Their time together had been brief, and yet it had not concluded without some measure of influence on the two of them. It wad evidently not all bad as the silent argument ends with an eyeroll, not the unholstering of a firearm.
“I’m fine, old man, really.” Jason assures Bruce, though he looks to Clark as if remembering the Kryptonian’s presence in the room. “If the talking computer says that Peter’s going to be fine, then I trust it’s prognoses. Besides, a little juicing a la Kryptonian is likely to help me keep the kid alive.”
Though Clark would appreciate more respect to his father’s A.I. than ‘talking computer’, he’s touched by Jason’s confidence. “Jor-El wouldn’t take this decision lightly. Peter is a friend, and so he’s being given all the resources that the Fortress can manage.”
“Yes.” Bruce says in that way that indicates a ‘but’ is incoming. “Although, we cannot speak for potential motives that may have fueled the decision, those that might not have been shared.”
Clark frowns. “If you’re implying that-”
“I am implying that I have experience with Kryptonian tech, and it is not shy on prioritizing its interests alongside its given directives.” The human counters, firm in his assertion. “I mean no insult, but we have to remain vigilant.”
Bruce goes back to monitoring Peter’s vitals as if to stress his point, leaving Clark and Jason to glance at one another, nonplussed.
“Bruce, what…”
Moving closer to his father, Jason prods at Bruce, their earlier roles reversed. He puts himself in the older man’s line of sight, a visual nudge.
A sigh from Bruce, then, “That was unfair and harsh. I am simply attempting to mitigate expectations, and prepare for less than stellar outcomes. For Peter’s sake.”
“You weren’t entirely wrong, but we went in knowing that this could be a possibility.” Clark weighs in, choosing his words carefully now that he’s beginning to understand Bruce’s hesitation. “What’s this actually about?”
“What it always is.” Jason answers for Bruce, tone accusatory but not in a way that indicates fault. “Guilt.”
Bruce’s jaw clenches, his eyes looking beyond the screen as he is lost to his thoughts. He blinks, looks to Jason and then to Peter.
“Dario Gigante told me why they had been targeting Peter long ago, not an hour before he died in his hospital room.” There’s a creak of fabric as a fist tightens. “He told me everything, and I was too arrogant to hear it. I believed him to be beaten, that his words were nothing more than an attempt to rattle me.”
Clark hadn’t heard much about Dario Gigante, the name only ringing a bell by virtue of the man’s step-sister, Sophia. From what he’d been told, the man had helped to fund Peter’s bounty, acting as a middle man for the Stranger to connect to Gotham’s street gang scene.
“He said that Gotham’s tax payers were funding the bounty, and he was right. Mary was using public funding initiatives.” The information sounds like it’s being ground out of Bruce, painful as it crawls up his throat. “He said, ‘fear’s a powerful tool’ and all but confessed how they were going to use it to back Peter into a corner. To use it to manipulate him.”
“Then he told me that it was all to ruin me.” Bruce concludes with a clang of his fist against the metal of the computer. “Yet I’m not the one in that pod. Peter is.”
Eyes drawn by the guiding of subject, Clark looks to see where Peter rests, hearing the steady beat of his heart. The teen looks as if he’s resting, convincing enough if he weren’t clad in the S-shield and being fed oxygen through a mask.
“Yeah, well, they did almost get you.” Jason says, irreverent. “Peter tore through the Batmobile like it was nothing, and we couldn’t call on Supes over there because the kid was turned into a Kryptonian bio weapon. We hadn’t had a close call like that since your last self-flagellation phase.”
How is this helping? Clark doesn’t dare to say aloud.
Jason isn’t done.
“I feel guilty cause I failed him, you feel guilty cause you missed some clues. Clark feels guilty because Lex had a hand in all this.” The young man counts his points on his fingers. “Everyone else feels guilty because Peter’s been through hell, and we can’t do anything to fix it.
“All the while, the kid’s feeling the same. He isn’t stupid. He knows everyone’s butthurt about what he went through, and so he’s putting on a brave face.” Jason steps up so Bruce has to move away from the computer, removing the buffer. “All that shit means that he can’t heal, and so neither can we.”
Bruce’s mouth twists, and he can’t seem to look his son in the eye.
Crossing his arms, Jason sighs. “Look. Getting treated like glass and asked, ‘you okay?’ at every turn makes it hurt worse.
“Your guilt? That’s about the last thing that Peter needs, that any of us need.” He motions with a hand, then points to the pod. “He’s going to come back alright, and we’re all going to keep our worrying to ourselves, because that kid deserves as close to normal as he can get.”
Huh.
Clark had taken note of the way that Jason interacted with Peter, and had caught bits of their private conversation earlier. He hadn’t meant to, but by virtue of having super-senses and the two being in relatively close proximity, it had been difficult to ignore.
Their connection was impossible to miss, evident in how Peter looked to Jason for guidance and reassurance. He calmed with Jason’s easy confidence and was put at ease when the young adult was in eyesight.
Hearing Jason speak, Clark sees how Peter had made an impact on him.
After his death and subsequent resurrection, Jason went through life as if he wished to punish it, carving his way through crime with bloody hands and a bitter smile on his face. He’d softened with time, reconnecting with his family, but he had yet to find something worth staying for.
As he speaks of healing, it’s clear that Jason had found that reason, the one that has him striving towards living, not just surviving.
Bruce, equally taken aback as Clark, doesn’t seem to know what to say.
In the pod, Peter remains motionless, his health returning to him piece by piece.
Figuring that he should break the silence, Clark blurts out, “Yeah, what he said.”
Two pairs of eyes turn his way, flat in their stares as they level identical glares at him. He smiles, cheeks dimpling as he tries to curb their annoyance with faux innocence.
Nailed it.
~ ~ ~
Bruce Wayne
Fortress of Solitude – June 5th
Bruce jolts awake with a snort, his neck smarting from where he’d fallen asleep on a chair.
Blinking the last vestiges of slumber from his eyes, he can’t recall exactly when he’d nodded off. Jason had been prodding him to take a nap, reasoning that they needed someone working at peak efficiency and there was no way that he was going to get a wink of rest.
Though he’d resisted, it seems like Bruce had fallen prey to the monotony of waiting, each endless moment blending into the other until he’d just… conked out.
The lack of derisive snort from his adoptive son has a pinch of worry grabbing his attention, and a casted glance about the room reveals that he’s alone.
Clark and Jason have ended up elsewhere in the Fortress, leaving Peter-
Head whipping around, Bruce looks to the pod. It’s empty.
On his feet and running through the Fortress before his next breath has entered his lungs, Bruce narrows his focus to concentrate on his senses. He bullies his heartrate into a slow thrum, pushing down his body’s reactionary adrenaline response to his distress.
There’s nothing in sight that would denote a struggle, no overturned statue or scuffs on the crystal structure. He can’t smell anything turned molten from Clark’s heat vision nor gunpowder from Jason’s firearms.
No blood mars the walls, and Bruce can’t hear any screams or cries for help-
“Peter!”
There.
Darting around a corner, there’s a set of double doors open. Shadows dance along the walls, movement coming from within.
Pulling a batarang into his hand, Bruce halts his momentum and tenses his muscles, preparing to throw. Where is Clark, how could he leave them-
There are the sounds of struggle, a small body grappled, arms pinned beneath-
“You keep your ass planted in that bed or so help me I will turn your own webs against you, I swear to god!”
Hazel eyes, more green than brown, turn to take in Bruce’s presence at the door. They widen. “Jason, it’s Batman!”
“Finally.” Jason grumbles, using Peter’s distraction to greet Bruce with a glare, hands settling on his hips. “Leave the unruly post-op meta kid for me to deal with all by my lonesome, why don’t you.”
The fight floods out of Bruce as he’s given a stern talking-to by Jason, relief filling its void as he sees the two of them safe. He tucks the batarang back into his utility pouch before Peter can see its sharp edge, not wanting to spook him so soon after waking up.
Giving Peter a quick scan for injury, there doesn’t seem to be anything of concern, his greatest indicator being Jason and his lack of alarm. The size of the boy’s pupils are bigger than they should be in this light, but Bruce receives context before he can ask any further questions.
“Jason.” Peter whispers, though its loud enough for the whole room to hear. “That’s Batman.”
“Yeah, I’m aware.” The young man abandons his ire for Bruce to turn back to the kid, who is apparently still metabolizing the last of his anesthesia. “He’s also a massive pain.”
The kid’s mouth drops open, his head rolling on his pillow. He struggles in his blanket cocoon, trying to free his arms. “Shh, he’ll hear you!”
“It’s quite alright, Peter.” Bruce moves further into the room, looking about for his curiously missing Kryptonian ally. “That is not the worst that Jason has called me, not by a long shot.”
“You bet your ass.”
“That’s a bad word.” Peter tattles, his eyes turning to Bruce as if he has some authority to punish Jason for his foul language. He blinks up sluggishly, awaiting the doling out of justice.
“It sure is a bad word.” Bruce agrees with grave countenance, earning himself a sigh from Jason. Moving over to the bed that Peter’s propped atop of, he settles on the mattress and asks, “How are you feeling, Peter?”
The adolescent finally pulls an arm free from where it’s been trapped and he looks at it consideringly, searching for great detail before summarizing with, “Tingly.”
“Tingly?” Glancing towards Jason, Bruce gets a shrug. He looks back at Peter, his earlier concern returning. “Tingly how? Does it feel like a lack of circulation, more pins and needles, or does it feel wrong?”
“Mmm.” Peter hums, his head lolling to and fro as he thinks. “Like I’m sitting on the beach.”
Ah. Reaching out to pat Peter’s arm, Bruce accepts the answer with, “That sounds nice.”
“Jason, can we go to the beach?” Head lifting from the pillows, Peter’s eyes sparkle with excitement. Before his request can be processed, he’s looking over at Bruce again. “Did you know Jason is going to be my guardian? He’s so cool.”
Unable to stop his lip from twitching into a small smile, Bruce looks to his son. “Oh, is that so?”
Jason’s ears tint a faint pink. “You helped me with the paperwork, old man.”
“Ah, but I wasn’t made aware that you were ‘cool’.” Bruce raises a brow. “Has a passion for literature changed in social perception since my youth?”
“Listen here, dickhea-”
“No, he’s the coolest. So’s reading.” Peter pipes up, effectively cutting Jason off as he doubles down. “You’re pretty cool though too, Batman. Where did Superman go?”
Likely awaiting a suitable time to make an entrance, Clark ducks through the doorway with a bundle of clothes tucked under his arm. “You were adamant that we get you something else to wear as to avoid hurting Bruce’s feelings by wearing the S-shield.”
Again, the kid’s mouth opens aghast. “He just spilled your secret identity, Batman.”
“Oh, the horror.”
Snorting out a laugh, Clark sets the clothes down at the foot of the bed. “How you feelin’ now, bud?”
“Still tingly.” Peter chirps. “I’m good though!”
Bruce looks to his friend, hoping for an explanation though he has a couple of theories of his own.
His gaze is met, not an ounce of worry present in Clark’s eyes. “His metabolism is finishing adjusting to the Kryptonian DNA that was added to his genetic code. We’ll have to conduct further testing at a later time, but it seems that he has adapted to some form of the photonucleic effect.”
With a meaningful glance to the ceiling, Clark brings Bruce’s attention to the scant rays of sunlight that filter through a thin crystal surface. “We brought him to this recovery room when he woke up, and he reported the tingling when directed under the sun’s rays. His rate of healing increased slightly thereafter.”
Peter raises his hand like he’s in a classroom. “So I’m not a homalonychus?”
The eyes of the rest of the room’s inhabitant swing to look at the adolescent, confusion mirrored between them. Bruce files through the research he’d done on Peter, searching his memories for some context.
All he can recall is a species of arachnid that hadn’t stood out among the rest, a species that adapted to hiding for prey beneath desert detritus.
Jason recovers first, ruffling Peter’s hair fondly. “Nah kiddo. Unless that homalonychus-thing can photosynthesize, I don’t think you fit the bill.”
“Cool.” Much like a plant reaching for the sun, Peter leans into the contact. “I don’t like the homalonychus.”
Clearing his throat, Bruce directs the topic back to something more pressing. “Clark, have you tested for any residual Kryptonite in Peter yet?”
“I carried him here, and I didn’t even change a shade. No fatigue or diziness.” He reports back. “Pete’s all clear.”
Peter lets out a whoop, his free arm raising in celebration before thumping heavily against the mattress when it falls.
Then he asks, almost shily as he starts to fidget with the blanket, “Can we go home now?”
“Sure thing, bud.” Jason’s eyes look a little bright at the question, his throat clearing before he says, “You just gotta change and nap off the last bit of the anesthesia, and we’ll be good to go.”
“Okay.” Settling down so he’s firmly horizontal, Peter closes his eyes. “I’ll get changed later. Just don’t let Batman see the suit. He’ll get all grumpy again.”
Clark hides a snort behind a cough, which is ignored by Jason as he focuses on the kid. “I gotcha, Peter. Just rest.”
Within the next couple of breaths, Peter is out like a light, aided by Jasons’s fingers carding through his hair. His expression is nothing but fond, a peaceful quality to his self that hadn’t been there in a long time.
Bruce lets himself savour the moment, everything perfect for what feels like the first time in a lifetime.
It’s over. Finally.
Notes:
Shoutout Village_Mystic (my beloved) for catching onto my shiet and guessing that the A.I. would have a bias for the Kryptonian option.
I was thinkin' of splitting the last POV to next chap to draw out the final bit of Peter's physical recovery, but figured y'all have been cliffhangered too many times in this fic for me to do that to u again /lh.
I'm likely not going to delve too deep into exactly how Peter adapted to the Kryptonian DNA as,
A) it's likely something that would develop over time as Peter got used to the changes, using classic comic book logic of characters unlocking abilities and such.
B) you all can have your own fun thinking up how the spider DNA combos with the Kryptonian :) (if u want, have fun and go wild pitching conspiracies in the comments /lh)
But in all likeliness, it's not 50/50 like Jon and Kon's, so no flight or invulnerability, but a smattering of lesser abilities that are unique to Peter given his Fucky DNA Stuff TM.Also, hope y'all enjoyed more of a lighthearted conclusion to this chap. Figure I owe you all a treat after the Horrors you've been through lmao.
Chapter 43
Notes:
Wowie Zowie folks, this chap took a while. It's setting the tone for Peter's final character arc in the fic, so I needed to get it right. There are only a few more threads to tie before we reach the end, so gird your loins, my friends.
Also, be prepared for a dialogue heavy chap lmao
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Cassandra Cain
Wayne Manor – June 18th
It is the first of this year’s summer heat waves when the family is gathered on the manor grounds, clad in light clothing to stave off the sticky warmth. The air smells of Alfred’s carefully maintained garden and heftily applied sunscreen, an expensive brand that doesn’t leave a ghostly cast across its wearer’s skin.
Damian is embroiled in a game of tug-of-war with Titus, a gleeful Stephanie cheering the canine on from where she stands off to the side. Both competitors seem entirely too focused on the game, its name apt given the subtle tactics that are being employed by each side.
Asleep on a lawn chair is Jason, condensation collecting on the pads of his fingers where they hold onto a bottle of beer. Alfred is beside him, setting up a massive umbrella with impressive silence in a bid to protect the younger man from heat stroke.
His expression reads only as exasperated fondness.
Dick is passing a volleyball around with Kate and Barbara, the three of them assembled in a circle. None of them are holding back and the first signs of bruising are blooming on their forearms, their competitiveness keeping any of them from conceding.
Bruce is keeping an eye on the chaos, hovering near the barbeque where he keeps an emergency first aid kit stashed.
This leaves Peter and Duke sitting alongside Cass on the deck, the three of them laughing along to the antics of the vigilantes before them. There is a meditative quality to the moment, each breath coming easier than the one before.
Looking over at their newest member, Cass can see that he has eased into the aftermath of what had occurred over the past eight months.
Peter is lounging on the woven plastic of the patio furniture, shoulders free of the tension that they’d carried before his final treatment in Superman’s fortress. His hands are not shaking, though a tremor can be seen at odd moments when he believes nobody is looking.
The smile he flashes is genuine now, eyes crinkling in a way that will leave deep laughter lines in his elderly years. He does not scan the shadows more than a vigilante should, his obsessive watch fading to a more sedate alertness.
He has also resumed his regular dance and acrobatics classes, creating a space for Cass in his life once more.
She had understood his need to recover on his own terms, that he could not push himself to give time to everyone after having believed himself responsible for their suffering. Cass had done the same before, shrouded herself in isolation until she could face her family again.
That does not mean she didn’t miss him, deeply.
It became clear in absentia what he brought into her life.
With most of her family, she found common ground in their nightly forays into Gotham, forming deep bonds as trusted teammates.
Bruce was the guardian she never had growing up, understanding and warm in ways that were starkly opposed to those of her mother and father. She had been through a lot with Tim, and in return they could understand one another in silence, working in tandem without a word.
Stephanie brought light and laughter, showing Cass that she could be loud without fear of consequence.
Peter met her where she was at, never reacted with purposefully overt patience when she had to search for a word. He saw her proficiencies as a challenge and saw something to achieve, striving to become like her.
Losing him was like losing a piece of herself that she’d only just come to realize was there.
Perhaps that is why she has found herself drawn to him in moments of contentedness, feeling settled when she sees he is happy. She can see in the language of his physicality that he is content, unable to lie as he might with words.
Despite this, she still asks, “A good day?”
“The best.” Peter grins, truth.
Cass nods, beaming back.
The sound of shoes skating over grass has the three of them looking over to see Alfred making an approach. In his hand is held the bottle of sunscreen, the plastic tube warped from being squeezed by too many overzealous hands.
“Master Peter.” The butler greets. “I don’t believe I have seen you applying any UV protection yet today.”
“Oh, uh.” Peter sits up, looking chastised though he lifts his arms in display. “I don’t think I really need it. Not since the uh, radiation treatment.” He finishes with a slight stumble, still getting used to the Wayne’s rules of speaking covertly outside the Batcave.
Eyes squinting at the teen’s skin, Alfred gives them a keen once over. Cass joins him in inspection, prodding at the fair tone to see if her touch chases the red of a sunburn away or not.
The colour remains unchanged.
“Indeed, it appears you have no need of my services.” Alfred sniffs, his offence entirely meant to be taken with a light heart. “Master Duke?”
“I know I technically should, but I’ve got something better.” Duke lifts his hand and gives a visual queue to the use of his abilities, deflecting the sun’s light to protect himself from any skin damage. “Being a meta’s got its perks.”
In response, Peter lifts his hand. Duke gives him an impressively loud high-five.
A small distance away, Jason startles awake at the sound, glowering at them before looking confusedly at the umbrella that had not been there when he fell asleep.
Lip twitching at the antics of the two, Alfred turns to Cass. “I shall entrust this to you then, Miss Cain. I believe refreshments that supply hydration might be prudent.” He gives a meaningful look to the intense game of volleyball and the sweat that’s pouring off of its participant’s bodies.
Cass accepts the sunscreen and sets it on the table, assuming the responsibility of maintaining the team’s protection.
“Hey, uh, speaking of meta stuff.” Duke starts, his voice dipping in volume as he skirts Bruce’s ‘no shop talk outside the Cave’ rule. “You know how you weren’t in tune with our universe when you first got here? How the light around you didn’t, like… like you?”
Cass had read of Duke’s observations on the Batcomputer when Bruce had made Peter’s case a priority, learning of the discordancy he seemed to have with the world.
It hadn’t mean much to her besides informing her of his potential origins from another universe, but it had remained a passive interest of Bruce and Duke’s as the teen became increasingly involved with the family.
Peter frowns, not in discomfort but in confusion for the broach of topic. “Sure, yeah. You mean the aura thing you see around people, right?”
“Yeah.” The older meta’s gaze shifts beyond Peter, searching the air around him as he looks at something only visible to him. “I didn’t wanna bring it up until I was certain, but since you did the whole DNA-radiation treatment thing, you’ve seemed like you’re more… here.”
“How d’you figure?” Peter leans forward, listening more intently. He does not seem upset, nor tense, but intrigued and cautious.
“I mean, you seem like you fit. There isn’t that effect anymore, like everything’s being forced to interact with you.” A hand reaches up as Duke scratches his neck, a small grimace pulling at his mouth. “That sounded bad. Sorry man, I don’t know how to explain it.”
“It’s cool, I get it.” A peacemaker at heart, Peter shoots a smile at Duke before musing on. “I think the photon effect you saw was my body being not entirely adapted to your universe. It’s a part of multiversal theory, what happens when a foreign body is put into the wrong place.”
Cass curls up, settling in for another one of Peter’s impassioned explanations.
“Some people think that a given body can get away without any change or consequence, that the universe in question will adapt to you.” Peter’s fingers drum on the glass table top. “But, introducing new matter doesn’t usually go well, especially if it functions fundamentally differently in the body’s home universe.”
In the distance, Dick squawks as Kate slams him in the nose with the volleyball.
“There’s the chance that the body doesn’t change, but reacts adversely in this new universe.” From the corner of her eye, Cass sees Duke raise a hand. Peter answers without asking, “Think all your atoms spasming, trying to reform into something that doesn’t offend physics.”
With a slightly squeamish look, Duke lowers his hand.
“Then, there’s the idea that the body changes when it enters the new universe.”
The twitch of two brows, hardening of the eyes, a discomforted slant of the mouth. Peter’s cheek twitches and his left pointer finger drums a bit too hard, the glass beneath it getting slightly fogged with the smallest of fractures.
Cass learns through her observations; this is what happened when Peter arrived.
The hints fade one by one, entirely subconscious, Peter likely feeling only the slightest bit upset by whatever he is remembering, the emotions forgotten within the next moment.
A cloud passing over the sun.
“Its molecules get jumbled up and rewritten into what the universe needs from it. It might find a pre-existing body to inhabit, the two selves melding into some approximation of both consciousnesses.” He lifts one hand as he gives the option, lifting the other as he says, “Might just be a newly re-ordered version of the same body.”
Shrugging, Peter sets his hands down. “Regardless, introducing more of the universe into the given body would reduce its displaceability. Keep it grounded, in a way.”
Cass nods in understanding.
Duke hums. “So, with Kryptonians being a thing in our universe and not yours, introducing that into you made you more like us?”
“Could be.” Peter settles back, lacing his fingers together to rest on his stomach. “I don’t know how magic affects the whole equation, and I barely know the basics as is. Stuff like that was only just starting to become relevant when I landed here. We barely even scratched the surface of time travel.”
“You guys used time travel?” Duke’s eyes went wide.
“Once, though I was dea- gone at the time.” Cass easily finishes the slip-up in her head, which Peter guesses her to have done as he glances her way. “It’s how they killed Thanos. Tony figured it out.”
A jug of water thunks onto the table, a tray of glasses set beside it as Alfred returns. “A feat that I hope will remain unreplicated, for all of our sakes.”
One hand settles on Peter’s heart while he holds the other up. “I swear I will not invent a time machine… unless it’s proven to be 100% safe and in the interest of saving the world.”
“Oh, good heavens.”
Cass grins as Peter and Duke snicker to one another. Alfred takes his leave, moving to approach Bruce with a shake of his head, likely about to inform him about the impending threat of adolescent time travel.
The two metas alongside her continue the topic of conversation, though skirting into more general discussion than trying to diagnose Peter’s particular case. Without having much to contribute, she happily listens along, savouring the peace as it lasts.
Reaching for the water, Cass enjoys the sight of the sunlight glancing off the surface of the liquid, a few rainbows cast by the crystal of the pitcher.
Her smile turns inward, the moment cemented in memory. A good day.
~ ~ ~
Bruce Wayne
Wayne Manor – June 25th
With the success of Peter’s STARK Reactor and the extensive safety testing it had undergone since the project’s completion, efforts had begun with altering pre-existing tech to suit the new power source.
The rarity of Batmanium made creating more reactors difficult, thus requiring Peter and Tim to move their work to the Cave. Sourcing more had proven to be a challenge, likely a result of the Stranger and the Court of Owl’s combined efforts to hoard the mineral for themselves.
Peter had assured Bruce that he could refine the designs to require less of the element, but his worries were quickly assuaged with assurances that his work already exceeded expectation, needing no rush on improvement.
They had barely even begun to understand the possible applications of the boundless energy.
Though any serious draw from the reactor would have it requiring some time to renew its energy, the amount of power required for this went far beyond what Bruce thought probable.
When it had first been brough to the Cave, nearly the entire property had been running off the reactor without any sign of its stability waning.
It was Peter’s tales of Tony Stark’s technology that had given a proper scope of its limits. The potency of the man’s weapons required far more than Wayne Manor’s generators could ever dream of producing, an almost frightful thought given how the Iron Man’s genius could have ruined his planet.
Regardless, it is a true shame that Bruce never got to meet the man, if only for the sake of thanking him for looking out for Peter for so long.
After having gained an understanding of the reactor, the upgrades began. Tim had already drafted several blueprints for the manor’s security systems, something which had been at the forefront of all of their minds recently.
While he worked on that, Bruce had approached Peter with another project, perhaps a bit smaller in scale.
The adolescent had seemed unsure initially, agreeing warily and with distrust that was angled at his self. His reservations were understood but unnecessary, a point made clear by Bruce as they beheld the subject of their discussion.
Now, as they stand before the Batmobile, there yet remains inklings of that doubt.
“Bruce, are you really sure about this?” Peter stands, his hands clutched around his elbows. “I mean, look at it.”
Glancing over at the twisted remains of his prized armored vehicle, he takes in the state of the Batmobile once more.
It has already been partially dismantled and is held aloft on a hoist, allowing Bruce to check the undercarriage and frame. The exterior of the body is crumpled and jagged in places, looking a bit like aluminum foil that Alfred had cast away after too many uses.
Cracks mar half the windows, a result of the uncontrolled flip that the vehicle had been sent into. It’s a testament to the severity of the beating it had received given that they’re advanced military grade polycarbonate, built to withstand a considerable amount of force.
The worst of the damage is at the hood where the engine sat, the plating still dented and ripped open where Peter had worked away at it. Though Bruce had tried to mitigate some of its jagged appearance, his lack of super strength made it a bit difficult, and tools can only do so much.
Off to the side is what remains of the engine, looking a bit like a half-molten lump. Parts are strewn around the engine block, cannibalized and ready to be used for the new model.
It’s Bruce’s hope that its reconstructed form will be culmination of his and Peter’s combined efforts, a symbol of partnership and forgiveness of perceived wrongs.
The only challenge that remains is getting the kid to work on the damn thing first.
“Last time you gave me a special ‘in’ on the Batmobile, I used that knowledge to do-” Peter gestures to the whole of the wreckage. “This.”
Settling a hand on the adolescent’s shoulder, Bruce steers them a bit closer. “It isn’t difficult to assume where the engine is on any given vehicle, especially those built for speed. Your previous knowledge of the Batmobile’s design likely only cost me ten seconds, maximum.”
“Well, you’re Batman, dude.” Peter grouses. “You can do a lot with ten seconds.”
Patting at the shoulder beneath his palm, Bruce chuckles. “Not as much as you think.”
Peter grumbles beneath his breath, words that Bruce pretends he doesn’t hear. They come to a stop within reaching distance of the Batmobile and separate, taking in the vehicle.
“In all honesty, it looks worse than it is.” Bruce begins, planting his hands on the hood where the metal won’t cut at his skin. “The damage to the body can be hammered back into place or exchanged for new plates. The replacement parts are already here.” He nods his head to a stack of crates nearby.
“The interior only needs small repairs. Most of it will need to be updated anyway to account for the new engine and altered mechanics.” Looking over at the nearby teen, Bruce sees that he’s dutifully listening, some of his sour attitude ebbing away.
“Your knowledge of the STARK reactor will be invaluable in the Batmobile’s reconstruction. Truthfully, Peter, I cannot do this without you.”
Sighing softly, Peter approaches and skates the tips of his fingers atop the metal of the car. His gaze is fixed upon the open wound that sits gaping in the middle of the Batmobile’s hood, expression easing from tight irritation to something more repentant.
“Sure, I guess.” Peter finally concedes, his hand falling back to his side. “I don’t know much about cars, but I helped out a bit with R&D for the Avengers. Won’t be one-to-one, but some of the stuff will translate.”
“That’s more than what I hoped for.” Bruce’s chest warms with Peter’s agreeance to help fix the Batmobile, anticipating getting to know him better as they collaborate.
When the teen makes no move to begin work, Bruce scans his expression, finding something troubled brewing. Banking on a hunch that it is something only tangentially related to the Batmobile, Bruce asks, “Is there else something on your mind?”
Peter shifts his attention from the car to the cavernous space around them, eyes jumping from the Batcomputer to the STARK reactor to the retired vigilante suits that sit within glass cases. “Can I ask you something?”
Bruce suppresses the urge to respond with ‘you just did’, a habit he had picked up from fatherhood. Instead he responds with a tilt of his head as a go-ahead.
“Do you still think I can be a hero?” The meta turns and moves to sit on one of the nearby crates, one of his heels thumping against its exterior. “You know, after… everything.”
Curious, Bruce pauses before inquiring, “Why do you ask me? Why not Jason?”
“I mean… you’re, like, the hero, dude.” Peter gestures at him, trying to convey his meaning by summarizing Bruce in entirety. “You have your team here in Gotham and contacts all over the world. You helped found the Justice League.”
In idle movement, Peter hits his ankles against each other. “Pretty much everything filters through you for approval, and what doesn’t remains carefully monitored. Everyone knows who you are, man.
“The closest person we had in my universe was Director Fury, but he stopped overseeing Earth’s heroes and dropped off the map when S.H.I.E.L.D. fell apart. There wasn’t anything there to keep me from being a vigilante, no Batman or anything.
“I just put on a suit one day and bam, I was another one of New York’s heroes.” He looks down, watching his feet swing. “Then Tony Stark was in my apartment talking to Aunt May, and next thing I know, I’m in space fighting aliens.”
Bruce recalls his early days and the steep escalation of missions, how he went from fighting street thugs to meeting a Kryptonian within a dizzyingly short amount of time. He stays silent in his understanding, not wanting to interrupt Peter.
“I guess- I don’t know. Jason would tell me that I don’t need someone else to tell me who I am or what I can do, but last time I did that…”
The teen trails off and then looks over at Bruce with eyes that are green-swallowed-brown, seeking a response for his turmoil.
It isn’t the first time that he’s been asked the question, and as usual, there is a response he wants to give and one he knows he should. There is a cost associated with both, so he settles on something in between.
“I don’t believe there is an answer to your question.”
Peter’s shoulders fall and his mouth opens around a protest, but Bruce continues before he can retort.
“-But I can say that I see the qualities of a hero in you.” Mirroring the adolescent’s body language, Bruce leans against the Batmobile. “I wish I could tell you that you can’t be a hero, if only to spare you from the price of putting on a suit.
“I have met and buried too many young heroes. For most, I did not have the time to get to know them, but I do remember their names and their faces, the family members I had to break the news to.” He feels his jaw tighten, emotions rising.
Bruce breathes in and pushes the dread out with his exhale. “The thought of you joining them is unthinkable. You almost did, and that makes me afraid, enough so that I want you to stay here where it’s safe. Where you can be protected.”
His gaze shifts to the retired suits that are on display, and it falls upon that of a boy who he once thought he lost forever.
“I am a selfish man, and as such I can only wish that you will choose to stay as a civilian.” Reaching into his pocket, Bruce fishes out his phone and turns it on, navigating to a photo he had saved. “But as a hero, I can see your potential and the good that you could do for Gotham, for the world.”
He tosses the phone and Peter catches it, turning the device in his hand so he can see the screen. His face drops into shock upon seeing the screenshot of Vicky Vale’s newest article, one which discusses the spider-themed graffiti that had been seen splashed across various city alleyways.
In the piece featured by the article, crawled in black over a red background is written Metum Vinco; I conquer fear.
“So, do I think you are a hero? Undeniably.” Bruce straightens and crosses the distance that sat between him and Peter. “Do I think you can become a hero once more? That is something that only you can decide.”
He watches the myriad of emotions that twine across the adolescent’s face as he stares at the phone, long enough that the screen dims with a lack of interaction. It goes dark, leaving the gloom of the cave to settle across Peter’s visage in deep shadow.
After a few moments, the phone is held out. “Okay.”
Bruce accepts it. “Okay?”
A steadying breath. “Okay.”
“Alright then.” Sliding his phone back into his pocket, Bruce backs towards the Batmobile. “Ready to get to work?”
“Yeah.” Peter hops off the crate and approaches, dauntless. “Let’s do this.”
Notes:
I will always stand by Peter having had some kind of experience with Avengers tech because of the scene in Spiderman: Far From Home and No Way Home where he's using Tony's tech to make more suits. I don't think he actually made any of their stuff, but he probably had some access to R&D as he improved his suits and stuff in Tony's absence.
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