The sky is our witness.

by Vyrscendium

Summary:

This is my very own Batfamily and Peter Parker crossover, built on the timeless question of what happens if the omniverse makes a very confused choice and drops Peter into the wrong body at the wrong time. It is self indulgent, chaotic, and cracked, but the plot still pretends it has dignity.

Peter Parker gets yeeted out of his world after the spell is done one last time, and instead of landing somewhere peaceful, the omniverse decides to toss him directly into the freshly dead body of Pietro al Ghul. Pietro happened to be Damian’s older brother. Damian also happened to stab him. It is all very awkward.

Chapter 1: Prologue

Notes:

Author's note(s):
Please enjoy the chaos, the feelings, and the Parker brand suffering.

Current Timeline of Ages:
Damian Wayne: 10 at the time of killing Pietro; 13 in present timeline.
Pietro al Ghul (physical body): 15 at death, 18 after League escape, present in Gotham.
Peter Parker (MCU consciousness): 24 inhabiting Pietro’s 18-year-old body in Gotham.
Dick Grayson / Nightwing: 24
Jason Todd / Red Hood: 21
Tim Drake / Red Robin: 17
Duke Thomas / The Signal: 16
Stephanie Brown / Spoiler: 17
Cassandra Cain / Black Bat: 17
Barbara Gordon / Oracle: 24

---

Peter Parker had claimed the loveseat the same way he had once claimed the corner of Ned’s room during late night homework sessions. He sprawled with the ease of a man who intended to stay for several universes, legs crossed at the ankles, shoulders sunk into the old cushions, and eyes fixed on the ceiling as though the secrets of creation were scribbled somewhere in the faint watermarks. Harley Quinn sat opposite him, one leg thrown over the arm of her chair, chewing bubble gum in a slow, rhythmic pattern that matched the old grandfather clock behind her.

She watched him with the kind of patience that suggested she had survived enough monologues from lunatics and anti heroes to treat his rambling like a pleasant afternoon diversion. Peter had not decided whether that was flattering or deeply concerning. Possibly both. Probably both. Parker luck never allowed things to be simple.

He lifted his hand and traced something invisible in the air. His fingers moved like he was drawing constellations, or perhaps mapping a hologram that only he could see. The movements shifted into casual circles as he spoke, a physical habit he never lost even when he had been pulled through realities and shoved into the body of an eighteen-year-old assassin. He had tried to stop gesturing. He had failed. It felt too much like giving up something human.

“So, picture this,” Peter began, and Harley raised an eyebrow at the ceiling as though inviting it to witness the coming nonsense. “The universe, right. Actually, think bigger. The multiverse. Actually, even bigger than that. The omniverse. Basically, a cosmic Russian nesting doll situation, except every doll is having an existential crisis and trying to kill the one next to it or hug it or whatever. Honestly, it is a mess. Zero out of ten. Would not recommend.”

Harley snapped her gum and nodded slowly. “Keep goin, smart guy.”

“Right, so the omniverse is layered,” Peter continued, shifting upright for a moment before dropping back into the cushions with a soft groan. “Imagine a stack of pancakes. Actually no, that is too simple. Imagine a stack of pancakes where every pancake is alive and chooses violence. There are like trillions of pancakes, and each one has its own flavour and some of them are chocolate and some of them think they are chocolate but actually they are cursed tar that screams. You get it.”

She blinked at him. “I am real tempted to ask how you lived long enough to talk like this.”

“Spite,” Peter answered without missing a beat. “Pure spite. Also, cardio.”

The room held a faint scent of something sweet and sharp, probably the remnants of Harley’s perfume mixed with whatever explosive residue she had carried home earlier. The lights flickered against the peeling wallpaper, creating an atmosphere that felt strangely comforting. It did not resemble home, not truly, but it resembled safety in a crooked, hard-fought way. Safety was rare in any universe. He took it wherever he could.

He continued to gesture with both hands now. “Every universe inside the omniverse has its own timeline, its own set of rules, its own flavours of physics. Which means apparently in one universe everyone is a rabbit. In another one everyone is a snake with arms. In another one they do not even have avocados. Horrifying, right.”

Harley made a dramatic gagging sound, hand clutching her chest. “What do they even put on toast.”

“I know. It is barbaric.”

His voice softened as he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “And all these universes, all these timelines, they twist around each other. They overlap. They leak. Sometimes they pull at each other, and sometimes something punches a hole through all of them and then everything goes very sideways. When things go wrong in a multiverse, they go astronomically wrong. When things go wrong in an omniverse, you get me.”

Harley gave him a long look. A very long one. The kind that carried more understanding than her usual teasing suggested. “Alright,” she said, blowing a small pink bubble before letting it pop. “Explain how you being here starts with you lecturin’ me about pancakes.”

Peter nodded as though she had asked the most reasonable question in the cosmos. “Okay, okay. So, this starts with a spell. A very fancy, very shiny, very ancient spell. Not the kind with wands and sparkles. The kind with reality bending power levels that make the universe itself sweat. And here is the thing. I messed it up.”

He lifted his hands in surrender. “Look, nobody told me messing with reality required complete silence. Doctor Strange could have said something like, hey Peter, do not talk while I am rewriting existence. But no. He just trusted me to be normal. Which is very much on him.”

Harley pointed her lollipop stick at him like a sceptre. “You do talk like you have a quota to fill.”

“This is not my fault,” Peter insisted as he slouched again, limbs draped like a marionette whose strings had been dropped. “This is genetic. Probably. Maybe. Actually, Aunt May talked normally so maybe not genetic. Anyway, the point is the spell broke. It shattered everything. It pulled in people who knew I was Spider Man from every universe that had ever existed. Which was way too many. Honestly, it was rude of them.”

The bubble gum popped again. “Sounds like a you problem.”

“It very much became everyone’s problem,” Peter said as he scrubbed a hand over his face. His fingers brushed against the sharper features he still was not completely used to. Pietro’s jawline. Pietro’s bone structure. Pietro’s reflection. He still felt like a man wearing someone else’s shadow. “When the spell broke, the omniverse noticed. It pulled me apart and put me somewhere else. Actually, put me in someone else. Literally.”

Harley narrowed her eyes with slow curiosity. “Pietro al Ghul.”

He nodded, jaw tightening for a moment. The name tasted old and heavy. “Yeah.”

She leaned back and crossed her arms with dramatic flair. “So, you are tellin me you were ripped out of your universe, lobbed across the entire cosmic pancake stack, shoved into the corpse of some League of Assassins heir, and now you are sittin’ here on my loveseat talkin’ about pancakes.”

Peter lifted both hands in triumphant affirmation. “Exactly.”

Harley let out a thoughtful hum. “Honestly that tracks. Gotham is weird.”

Peter snorted. “Gotham is like the universe’s chaotic neutral cousin. I think the omniverse sent me here because it knew I would cause less damage in a place that already expected nonsense. Also no one here blinks at masks, vigilantes, or clowns. Honestly, Gotham is like the Florida of superhero worlds.”

“Hey,” Harley replied, pointing her lollipop at him with mock offence. “Florida wishes it could be this chaotic.”

He laughed under his breath and pushed a hand through his hair. The movement revealed a thin scar near his temple, one of many from Pietro’s old life mingled with his own. He felt them like echoes. He tried not to think about which ones belonged to him.

“So yeah,” Peter said as he sank deeper into the cushions. “Magic broke. Universes folded in. Realities collided. I died. I also did not die. I got resurrected into the body of a teenage assassin. And now I am technically twenty-four in the mind but eighteen on paper with a dead man’s bone structure and a little brother who once stabbed me. Honestly the omniverse needs therapy.”

Harley tilted her head. “And you do not.”

Peter let out a slow puff of air. “I probably do. But have you seen Gotham’s mental health system. I feel safer fighting crime.”

She laughed, loud and bright, and the sound filled the room with a wild warmth. Peter felt the knot in his chest loosen in a way he rarely allowed. It was easier to exhale around her. Harley understood broken things without making them feel like broken things. She merely let them be.

“So, you are sayin,” she drawled as she propped her chin on her hand, “the omniverse yeeted you into a new body and said figure it out, kid.”

Peter nodded solemnly. “Yeeted with extreme prejudice.”

“And now you are Pietro al Ghul.”

“I am Peter Parker,” he corrected gently, then added, “and also technically Pietro. It is complicated. Identity soup. Very thick.”

Harley tapped her fingers against the chair. “So, what exactly are you ramblin’ to me for. You usually only rant like this when there is somethin’ deeper underneath. Spill it.”

Peter hesitated, fingers curling around the threadbare edge of the cushion. His gaze drifted to the floor, then back to Harley, then finally to nothing in particular. He inhaled. He exhaled. Something trembled in the space between breaths.

“It was not just the spell that broke,” Peter murmured, voice softening. “Something in me broke too. Being pulled apart like that, being forgotten by everyone I have ever loved, being shoved into a world where I am supposed to be someone else’s ghost. It is a lot.”

Harley leaned forward slightly. “And what did happen.”

He swallowed once. Twice.

“The omniverse tore my universe away from me,” he said, tone low. “And when I woke up, the first thing I saw were these bright emerald, green eyes staring down at me. My little brother. But not really my little brother. My little brother in this world. The one who killed Pietro. Not me, but also me. You know.”

Harley blinked. “That is rough.”

Peter rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. Damian Wayne greeted me before I even knew this body was breathing. His eyes were the first thing I saw. I did not even know who I was supposed to be. And he was looking at me like he had seen a ghost, which was technically correct.”

Harley did not speak immediately, which meant she understood he needed the silence. Peter filled it anyway. He always did.

“I talk a lot,” he said, “because if I stop, the quiet feels too big.”

Her expression softened into something steady. A lighthouse kind of steady. A Harley Quinn kind of steady, which was chaotic but loyal.

“So, keep talkin then,” she said simply.

Peter managed a faint smile. It held sadness, humour, confusion, and exhaustion in equal measure. He returned to his rambling, softer now, yet somehow heavier.

“And that is the omniverse. A whole cosmic nonsense machine that threw me into someone else’s death and someone else’s family. And Harley, seriously, you are the only person in Gotham who lets me explain this without throwing a batarang at my face. So that is pretty cool.”

Harley twirled her pigtail. “Please, I like the drama.”

Peter laughed again. It sounded more real this time. The room seemed to breathe with him.

He leaned back, placed his hands behind his head, and stared at the ceiling once more, tracing quiet patterns above him. “Anyway. That is chapter one of Peter Parker’s accidental omniversal tour. Zero stars. Would not recommend, but I guess the loveseat is comfy.”

Harley smirked. “Yeah, well. Wait until I ask the important questions.”

He cracked one eye open. “Uh oh.”

She grinned with predatory delight.

“Pete, sweetheart. After all that cosmic horror and assassin family drama… how does all of that actually make you feel.”

Peter froze.

His mouth opened.

Then closed.

Then opened again with absolutely nothing coming out.

He stared at her like she had asked him to solve nuclear physics using finger puppets.

He did not know.

He truly did not.

 

The moment Harley asked her question, the room shifted. It happened quietly, almost politely, as though the universe itself understood that Peter Parker’s mind had its own weather system, and it intended to let the storm roll in without interruption. The air stilled. The lights hummed. Harley’s gaze remained steady on Peter’s face, but he no longer saw her.

His attention drifted inward, drawn into the memory that clung to him like webbing tangled around his ribs. He did not fall into the memory so much as sink, slowly and reluctantly, as though pulled by a current that he could neither stop nor redirect.

He was back in his own universe.

He felt it before he saw it. A familiar weight in the air. A sense of belonging that pressed against his skin, teasing him with the scent of his old apartment, the echo of his friends’ laughter, and the faint memory of Aunt May’s cooking that lingered long after she was gone. It felt like home. It felt like everything he had ever lost, wrapped in sunlight that should have been comforting but now carried an edge that sliced straight through him.

He stood in the middle of the street. Snow fell in soft spirals around him. Neon lights flickered in the distance, painting everything with shades of red and gold. He lifted his hands and stared at them, and for a moment they were the hands he remembered. His hands. Peter Parker’s hands. The ones that had held Ned’s shoulder during late night panics over exams. The ones that had brushed hair out of MJ’s face when she teased him for being nervous. The ones that had carried Aunt May’s body as everything inside him shattered.

Then the world trembled.

The ground vibrated with a deep cosmic groan, as though the universe struggled to hold itself together. Peter felt the shift in his bones. He turned and found Doctor Strange hovering above the Sanctum rooftop, cloak whipping violently around him. Strange looked like a man fighting a hurricane while also reading a tax audit.

The sky cracked open.

It began as a thin line, barely visible, a hairline fracture far above the city lights. Peter stared at it, chest tightening. He remembered this moment. He remembered how the air vibrated as the crack widened. He remembered the strange glow bursting from it, revealing silhouettes of beings he could not name. He remembered the weight of cosmic judgement settling over him like cold fingers tracing down his spine.

The fracture pulsed. Strange shouted something over the roar of the wind.

Peter barely heard it before the memory shifted again.

Suddenly he was back in the Sanctum. That strange, dusty chamber full of arcane relics and quiet judgement. The spell shimmered around him in looping rings of light, each ring vibrating with unstable energy. Strange floated in the air, hands weaving intricate patterns as he tried to contain the catastrophe Peter had accidentally helped create.

“That little spell that you botched where you wanted everyone to forget Peter Parker is Spider-Man? It started pulling in everyone who knows Peter Parker is Spider-Man, from every universe, into this one.”

Peter heard the words exactly as they had been spoken. He saw Strange’s frustration. He felt the guilt, simmering like acid under his ribs. He had been terrified. He had tried to talk, to explain, to fix it. And every time he had spoken, the spell had warped again.

The rings exploded outward.

Then he saw the villains appear. Doc Ock, electricity crackling around him. Green Goblin’s laughter echoing through the air. Sandman rising in a towering wave. Lizard’s claws scraping against stone. Electro flickering like a broken lightbulb on cosmic steroids.

They were pulled from alternate universes, from timelines Peter did not even know existed. They stared at him with hunger, rage, desperation, confusion. He felt the world tilt as he realised that every one of them knew him. They knew Peter Parker. They knew Spider Man. They knew his face. They knew his failures.

The universe folded again.

The scene changed to Liberty Island. The sky swirled with light as Strange struggled to hold the barriers together. Peter watched his selves fight at his side, one lanky, one tired, both carrying tragedies he recognised immediately. He remembered the trembling weight in his chest as he told them about Aunt May. He remembered the way they understood him without judgement, without hesitation, without asking him to speak when he could barely breathe. They had fought together, swinging through the scaffolding, improvising moves with the chaotic enthusiasm of people who had spent their entire lives trusting gravity to betray them.

Peter watched himself move.

He watched the moment the villains were cured.

He watched the surge of relief.

And then he watched it happen.

Strange stood above Liberty Island as the barriers cracked like glass around him. The sky split open in long jagged lines. Silhouettes of unknown beings approached, all outlined in a burning cosmic glow. They were gigantic, terrible, divine in a way that did not feel holy. They stared through the cracks, searching for him.

Strange’s voice cut through the roar.

“They are starting to come through, and I cannot stop them.”

Peter saw himself look up. He saw fear flicker across his own face. It was the fear of someone who knew the cost of heroism and still chose to step forward. He remembered stepping closer to Strange and making a decision that would rewrite everything.

Strange hesitated. Peter shook his head. He remembered the words leaving his mouth, cracking and strained.

“Make everyone forget who I am.”

Strange stared at him with a mixture of disbelief and grief. “That is not just people not knowing you are Spider-Man. That is everyone forgetting you.”

Peter nodded. He remembered the tightness in his throat. He remembered the realisation settling in. It would erase the friendships he had fought to protect. It would erase the girl he loved. It would erase the last remaining strands of his life. He remembered MJ’s eyes shining with something fragile and fierce as he promised to find her again. He remembered Ned hugging him without understanding that this would be the last time.

He remembered watching the golden light spread.

He remembered the feeling of being truly alone.

Then, as the spell took hold, the memory shifted again and pulled him forward through the collapsing timeline. Everything blurred into streaks of colour and sound. The city folded away. The universe stretched thin. Reality fractured like a mirror struck by a hammer. Peter felt himself unspool, torn apart at the edges as the spell unravelled the threads connecting him to his own existence.

He tried to hold on.

He failed.

The memory snapped.

He fell through a void that felt like eternity. He saw glimpses of other universes whirling past him like pages of a book being torn out and thrown into the wind. He saw worlds where Spider Man never existed. Worlds where Spider Man ruled entire nations. Worlds where he was a child playing with wooden toys. Worlds where he was already dead.

He felt something grab him. Something ancient and inhuman. Something that recognised him not as Peter Parker, but as an anomaly. A drifting thread of a broken timeline. A leftover. A cosmic loose end.

It dragged him.

Pulled him.

Twisted him.

He screamed, but no sound left his throat.

And then the void spat him out.

He landed on something wet and cold. Metal. Stone. The sharp smell of blood reached him before he opened his eyes. His chest seized. His lungs heaved. He struggled to breathe as he tried to understand if he had survived or died or merely changed states of existence.

He opened his eyes.

He saw emerald, green.

Bright. Cold. Sharp like cut glass.

Damian stared down at him with an expression Peter could not decipher. It was not anger. It was not triumph. It was not fear. It looked like the expression of a boy who had trained his whole life for something and only realised the consequences afterwards.

Peter felt the echo of Pietro’s final heartbeat in that moment.

His mind spun.

He tried to speak. No sound left his lips.

In the blur, he understood two things at once.

He was alive.

And he was dead.

He was Peter Parker.

And he was Pietro al Ghul.

He tried to move and felt a body that was not his own respond sluggishly. He felt old injuries that did not belong to him. He felt strength that was not shaped by his choices but by the League’s cruelty. He felt memories that were not his flicker at the edges of his awareness, like whispers carried through thick fog.

Damian reached for something at his side. A dagger. It gleamed under the dim light. Peter could not breathe. His mind scrambled to understand whether he was in danger or merely trapped in someone else’s death.

Pietro whispered something.

Soft.

Uncertain.

Almost trembling.

Pietro’s memories whispered back inside Peter’s head.

“I am proud of you.”

The world blurred again.

The memory dissolved.

And Peter snapped back to Harley’s living room.

He inhaled sharply, hands trembling against the cushion as the past peeled away from him like a too tight second skin. Harley watched him with quiet intensity, bubble gum paused between her teeth. She did not move. She simply gave him space to breathe.

Peter rubbed his palms over his eyes, trying to steady the shaking in his chest. He sat upright slowly, as though afraid the room might collapse if he moved too quickly. Harley waited. She did not rush him. She did not joke. She simply existed beside him, allowing the silence to sit without becoming crushing.

He finally lowered his hands.

Harley studied him for another moment before leaning forward, elbows on her knees.

“So,” she said, voice gentle but unavoidably curious. “After all that cosmic nonsense. After the sky tearing open. After your own universe kicked you out. After falling into someone else’s body. After waking up to those green eyes. How does that make you feel.”

Peter stared at her.

His mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

He looked at his hands, then at the floor, then at Harley, then at nothing at all. His thoughts scattered like marbles tumbling across tile. He searched for an answer, for any word that might describe the impossible knot sitting in his chest.

He found nothing.

He tried again.

Still nothing.

He blinked once. Twice.

His voice finally managed to push out a single, bewildered sentence.

“I have absolutely no idea.”

 

A barrage.

A flood.

A dam bursting under the weight of a lifetime that belonged to someone else.

The memory storm hit him before he could prepare.

The living room dissolved into soft black.

The first memory struck like a wave.

 

He was small in this one. Very small. Pietro was five years old, old enough to stand with his back perfectly straight yet too young to understand why everyone around him knelt before the tall figure who entered the training hall. Talia al Ghul swept inside with the precision of a blade, robes flowing behind her as though the air itself obeyed her. She carried something wrapped in deep emerald cloth, held carefully in both arms.

Pietro watched her from across the room, silent and expectant. He had been taught to read the slightest twitch in a person’s shoulders, the tilt of a chin, the weight of a footstep. Talia’s posture was steady, but there was something tight around her eyes that Pietro had never seen before. It reminded him of a bowstring pulled too far.

She approached him and rested the bundle in his arms. Pietro blinked. It was small. Warm. Living.

He peeled the cloth aside and saw tiny emerald eyes peering up at him. The baby was barely breathing past a soft coo, fists opening and closing like he tested the air.

Talia spoke with the tone one used when delivering a command.

“This is Damian.”

Pietro looked up at her.

“You will be good, right.”

Pietro nodded without hesitation.

Talia adjusted her sleeve, her voice smooth but distant.

“He will be better than you. Probably the better you.”

Pietro accepted the words without blinking. He did not understand jealousy. He did not understand the concept of losing affection because he had never possessed it in the first place. What he understood was instruction. Expectation. Duty. And Talia’s next words shaped him entirely.

“Your loyalty is the family.”

Not me.

Not the League.

The family.

Pietro took those words as truth.

Absolute and irreversible.

He looked at the tiny boy in his arms and felt nothing but certainty.

This was his family.

And therefore, this was his loyalty.

The memory blurred.

 

Another memory formed, brighter and warmer than the last.

Pietro was only a bit older now, sitting cross legged on the polished wooden floor of a League compound. Damian crawled across the room with the wobbling determination of a toddler who believed he could conquer nations. The air smelled faintly of incense and iron. The sunlight filtered through the carved windows, drawing sharp patterns on the ground.

Damian reached Pietro and attempted to pull himself upright using Pietro’s sleeve. The younger boy wobbled violently and toppled backwards, landing on his bottom with a narrowed stare that already resembled Talia’s most disapproving expression.

Pietro leaned forward and offered a hand with calm patience. Damian eyed the hand, then placed his small fingers around Pietro’s palm with absolute trust. Pietro lifted gently and steadied him.

Damian stood.

Talia, who observed from the corner with silent scrutiny, nodded a fraction.

Pietro did not take pride in himself.

He took pride in Damian.

Damian had stood because Pietro helped him.

And therefore, Pietro had fulfilled his loyalty.

The memory softened.

 

Then came the first word.

Pietro sat on the edge of Damian’s cot, reading aloud from an old text. He never used baby talk. Talia had never spoken to Pietro that way, so it had never occurred to him to alter his tone for Damian. Pietro read with formal clarity, every syllable precise.

Damian stared up at him, eyes wide, absorbing everything.

When Pietro turned the page, Damian suddenly grabbed his sleeve.

“Pio.”

Pietro blinked. He stared at the toddler, who stared right back.

“Pio,” Damian repeated, more insistently.

Talia entered the room then, pausing near the doorway. Her eyes narrowed slightly, as though assessing something. Pietro had no idea whether Damian’s first word impressed her. She did not praise. She did not smile. She did not soften.

But she watched.

Damian tugged again.

“Pio.”

Pietro nodded once. “Yes. I am here.”

Pietro did not understand what warmth felt like, but something settled inside him then, something soft and anchored. It was not affection for Talia. It was not loyalty to the League. It was something that grew only in the presence of Damian.

Pride.

Pure and untainted.

Damian’s first word was his name.

He would treasure that for the rest of his life.

The memory blurred into another.

 

Damian’s first steps.

Pietro stood behind him, hands slightly outstretched, ready to catch the child if he fell. Damian wobbled forward with the stubby fierceness of a prince who believed gravity existed solely to inconvenience him.

The first step was uneven.

The second was determined.

The third transformed wobbling into walking.

Talia watched from a distance, expression unreadable. A few League agents frowned, whispering about successions, heirs, and destinies.

Pietro watched only Damian.

And when Damian managed five steps without falling, Pietro felt pride ripple through him like a flame catching air. He did not smile. He had not been taught to. But he felt it all the same, deep, and real.

Damian stumbled then. Pietro stepped forward and caught him smoothly.

“You did well,” Pietro whispered against Damian’s ear, voice quiet enough that only the child could hear.

Damian hummed sleepily, nuzzling into Pietro’s shoulder without hesitation.

Talia turned and left the room.

Pietro did not mind. She had handed him a responsibility. She had declared loyalty to the family, and Damian was the only family he recognised.

The memory sharpened.

 

Damian’s first training session.

The boy was only four. Small, bright, perfectly balanced in a way that made League tutors whisper prophecies around him. Pietro stood at the edge of the training mat, watching the child attempt the basic stances he had been shown. Damian wobbled, recovered, glared when the stance did not look perfect.

Pietro stepped forward.

“You are holding too much tension in your shoulders,” Pietro said, kneeling beside him.

Damian huffed. “I am not.”

“You are.”

Damian scowled at him with a look so fierce that any adult might have laughed. Pietro did not. He steadied Damian’s stance with calm hands.

“Try again.”

Damian tried.

He succeeded.

And Pietro felt that same old flame of pride ignite again, warm beneath the constant chill of the League’s halls.

Talia approached from behind.

“He is meant to surpass all of us,” she said quietly.

Pietro nodded. He did not disagree.

“And you,” she continued, “you will guide him.”

Another memory layered itself atop her voice.

“Your loyalty is the family.”

Pietro nodded again.

The pride was not about power.

Not about proving himself above Damian.

Not about competition.

It was simply that Damian existed.

And therefore, Pietro had a purpose.

 

The barrage intensified.

Flash after flash.

Damian asleep on his chest, tiny fists curled in comfort.

Pietro standing guard outside Damian’s room through the night, not moving even when his legs trembled.

Pietro backing Damian up during early training duels, taking blows meant for him without complaint.

Damian gripping the back of Pietro’s tunic on crowded days when tutors yelled too loudly.

Pietro carrying Damian after he fell in the courtyard, even though League protocol forbade it.

Talia watching with thin eyes but saying nothing.

A mantra repeated in Pietro’s mind.

Your loyalty is the family.

Your loyalty is the family.

Your loyalty is Damian.

And Damian grew.

He grew into training swords.

He grew into sharper words.

He grew into ambition that glimmered like a blade.

He grew into someone who wanted Pietro’s approval even when he pretended, he did not care.

The pride Pietro felt did not fade. It only deepened.

Every milestone felt sacred.

Every achievement felt like a personal triumph.

Every moment felt like proof that his purpose was real.

Then the memories shifted.

They grew darker.

Sharper.

Older.

 

The day of the duel.

Damian was ten. Pietro was fifteen.

The air in the training courtyard felt like frozen steel. League elders watched from the shadows. Talia observed from the far side, poised with distant precision. The rules had been explained. The implications had been implied. The weight of expectation pressed down on both boys.

Pietro understood all of it.

He understood that Damian needed to win.

He understood that his own role was already decided.

He understood Talia’s words from years ago, echoing like footsteps in an empty hallway.

He will be better than you.

He is meant to surpass you.

Your loyalty is the family.

So, when Damian charged him, blade trembling with fury, fear, and determination, Pietro parried once, twice, and then deliberately left his chest open.

Damian struck.

The blade pierced him cleanly.

Pain exploded through his ribs, hot and iron tasting. His knees buckled. Damian’s eyes went wide with horror, breath catching as though he had forgotten how to breathe.

Pietro fell forward and caught Damian’s shoulder, steadying himself for one last moment.

He leaned close.

He whispered it without hesitation.

“I am proud of you.”

The words were not for the League.

Not for Talia.

Not for honour.

They were for Damian.

Only Damian.

Then everything went dark.

Everything ended.

Everything died.

 

The flashback shattered violently.

A new one replaced it.

Pietro gasping back to life on a cold stone slab.

His lungs filled with freezing air.

A surge of foreign consciousness crashed through his mind like a tidal wave.

Not Pietro.

Not entirely.

A second mind.

A second life.

A second name.

Peter Parker.

The memories spiralled again, diving back into Damian’s face hovering over the dying Pietro. Emerald eyes. Shock. Pain. Confusion. Guilt.

Those same emerald eyes greeted Peter Parker upon resurrection.

Two brothers.

One body.

One death.

Two lives intertwined.

 

The memories thinned at last, fading like mist pressed back by a slow rising sun. The final echo of Pietro’s voice dissolved, and the scenes of the past slipped away one by one until only the silence of Harley’s living room remained.

Peter sat still.

Not shaken.

Not steady.

Not speaking.

He blinked once, as though adjusting to the present again, and let his gaze drift somewhere unfixed. Harley did not interrupt him. She simply watched, waiting for whatever would surface, but nothing did.

Peter inhaled once, quiet, and even, and let the breath go without comment.

The room settled around him.

The flashbacks faded into the background.

Nothing was said.

Nothing needed to be.

---

 

Notes:

Author's note(s):
Feel free to leave thoughts, theories, unhinged comments, or emotional support snacks for Peter. He needs them.

Chapter 2: Chapter 1: Motion

Summary:

Peter Parker, now living under the alias Spyder in Gotham, tries to settle into his new life after escaping the League of Assassins.

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Peter Parker had always been amazing, although he would never choose that adjective for himself. He preferred to call it a combination of hyperactivity, unfortunate life events, and the universe playing a very long and very elaborate joke on him. Still, everyone else insisted upon the word amazing whenever they watched him move. Perhaps it was because he never stayed still. Movement felt natural in the same way breathing felt natural, and he had learned quite young that remaining stationary was the quickest route to disaster. He swung, vaulted, rolled, flipped, sprinted, chased, or escaped. He did everything with the sort of relentless momentum that made onlookers wonder if the ground ever felt neglected.

He liked to imagine that the wind loved him, since it always rushed to greet him whenever he launched himself into the air. It pushed against his mask, filled his lungs, and carried the familiar scent of skyscraper grime and distant food carts. New York had taught him to move. New York had taught him that running, leaping, or soaring between buildings created the strange illusion that responsibility did not sit on his shoulders. He had spent so long telling himself that he would outrun every bad moment if he simply kept going. For several years, it worked. The momentum soothed him, just as the adrenaline reassured him that he could push forward and find a minute of peace somewhere above the city.

He had always been a creature of motion, which meant that standing still never felt right. The moment his body ceased moving, the moment the air stilled around him and the city no longer blurred past his peripheral vision, he felt the truth settle upon him with the weight of concrete. He would become aware of every mistake, every fear, every loss, every consequence, and every burden that someone like him should never have carried. That was why silence unsettled him. That was why stillness frightened him. That was why whenever he stopped, the world seemed to hold its breath.

He had learned another truth quite painfully. When he truly stood still, when he stopped running and stopped hiding, and when he fought seriously, that was when people finally realised why he remained in constant motion. It was not simply a habit. It was a warning. It told the world that it never wanted to face him when he grew quiet.

Unfortunately, life had a habit of forcing him into quiet moments. The last time he stood completely still had been during death, although it was odd to consider dying a moment of silence. To him it felt oddly peaceful, almost as though the universe had allowed him to rest. He had been twenty-one in his original universe, a fact that felt distant and yet permanently carved into his mind. He remembered a flash, an ache, the heavy sensation of fading away, and then nothing. There was no heroic grief, no dramatic final monologue, and no orchestral soundtrack. There was simply an ending.

Then another beginning.

It came violently, although he did not remember the pain. He remembered opening his eyes to an entirely different body and realising that he was not supposed to exist there. Someone named Talia al Ghul had played with forces she did not fully understand. Cosmic displacement and forbidden resurrection techniques had collided in a way that should never have happened, but the universe never hesitated to place Peter Parker in the most unreasonable circumstances. His consciousness merged with the body of Pietro al Ghul, a fifteen-year-old boy who had just been killed by his younger brother.

He remembered the feeling of sinking into bones that were not his own. The height was wrong, the weight was wrong, the distribution of muscle was wrong, and the entire thing resembled wearing a suit one size too small. Yet somehow, he adjusted. Perhaps it was because he had already learned to fit himself into uncomfortable spaces. Perhaps it was because he had grown used to stretching himself into shapes the world demanded.

He inherited memories that were not his, although they came like echoes rather than spoken truths. Pietro had been calm, composed, elegant in the way assassins were trained to be. He had been the firstborn son of the Demon. He had been the one who carried expectations with the same ease he carried a blade. Damian Wayne had grown with him, learning beside him, training beside him, competing beside him. Damian had always tried to surpass him, and Pietro had always been the quiet obstacle. It created tension, then admiration, then resentment, then affection that neither boy knew how to articulate.

Peter did not know whether Pietro had expected death on the day of their duel. He only knew that Pietro had allowed the strike, smiled softly, and whispered to Damian that he was proud of him. It was a moment that burned in Damian´s memory, and Peter could feel the echo of that emotion in his own heart whenever he thought about it. It was disorienting to feel pride for someone he had never met, yet he accepted it. After all, he had always been too sentimental for his own good.

He had spent three years in that body after resurrection. He grew into Pietro´s eighteen-year-old form while retaining the consciousness of a twenty-four-year-old Peter Parker. It created an odd dissonance. His hands remembered web shooters, yet this body remembered blades. His mind remembered physics, chemistry, and late-night problem sets, yet this body remembered pressure points, nerve holds, silent kills, and ceremonial bows. The two merged into something that resembled both and neither. It produced a version of Peter that had never existed in any universe. He called himself Spyder because it amused him to choose a variant of his old identity, as though he were committing a petty act of rebellion against cosmic fate.

The League of Assassins refused to treat him as anything more than a tool after resurrection. They had mourned Pietro as a perfect heir, yet once he returned with Peter´s consciousness merged into him, they treated him as something disposable. They gave him the name Spyder and sent him into missions that few would survive. They considered him expendable, and Peter considered them entirely too confident.

Still, he had waited. He had observed. He had bided his time, because unlike Pietro, he had learned deception from the streets of Queens. He knew how to blend into crowds. He understood how to create fake identities. He knew how to slip under the radar and pretend that he was less intelligent than he appeared. The League underestimated him. They had no idea that they were dealing with a man who had endured Thanos, alien wars, multiversal chaos, and catastrophic emotional trauma. They had no idea that Peter Parker had survived so many apocalypses that a hidden base in the mountains felt like a holiday.

He planned his escape like he planned everything else, which meant that it involved a ridiculous amount of improvisation, unfortunate timing, and a handful of philosophical debates with himself. He forged enough documents to establish a new identity. He studied the guards, memorised blind spots, mapped routes, and waited for the perfect opportunity. His Parker luck always complicated matters, yet it turned out that assassin training balanced the cosmic absurdity somewhat. When the moment arrived, he simply moved. He did not hesitate. He ran, and this time he did not intend to slow down.

The escape had been violent, although violence had become a familiar companion. Peter had always believed in no kill rules until his universe rejected him and forced him to survive by any means necessary. He used to think that taking a life created a moral line that no hero should cross. Then he experienced a world where morality did not shield anyone from swords or bullets. He had tried reasoning with the League many times. He insisted that he preferred nonlethal takedowns, that he wanted to avoid unnecessary bloodshed, that he was one bad day away from abandoning pacifism altogether. They ignored him.

He stopped holding back. If he was attacked, he responded. If someone lunged to kill him, he struck harder. If someone begged for mercy, he spared them. If someone aimed for his throat, he did not hesitate. It was self defence, although the League would never acknowledge that truth. Every life he took had been an assassin, and he continued to tell himself that he did not owe guilt to murderers who were trained from childhood to kill without remorse.

The escape route led him unexpectedly to Gotham. He had not planned to enter the city. He intended to flee in an entirely different direction, yet the universe nudged him toward Gotham with a sense of humour that felt unnecessarily cruel. Rain poured heavily that night, turning rooftops into slick platforms. He landed upon one of them, panting, bleeding, and covered in water that washed away crimson streaks.

He remembered standing still for the first time in hours. The rain struck his skin, each droplet stinging slightly. He lifted his face toward the sky as though waiting for a sign. Perhaps he expected a voice to tell him that he was free. Perhaps he expected to wake up in his old universe, in his old body, with his old life. Instead, he received silence.

Then he heard someone approach.

Harley Quinn found him, although the exact circumstances remained fuzzy in his memory. He remembered her bright colours contrasting sharply with Gotham´s bleak atmosphere. He remembered her unimpressed whistle. He remembered her asking why a drenched assassin was standing on her rooftop like a sad Victorian orphan. He remembered telling her that he had no idea where else to go. She shrugged, poked his forehead, and told him that she had dealt with worse.

That was several months ago. He lived in Gotham now, under a civilian guise that resembled a low budget college student who drifted between part time jobs. Harley occasionally dropped in with food or chaotic advice. Sometimes she attempted to adopt him. He reminded her that he was twenty-four in the head, even if the body insisted upon being eighteen. She waved her hand dismissively and declared that she had adopted weirder strays.

He laughed often with her. It helped him cope with the weight of what he had become. Humour soothed his mind in the same way motion soothed his body. He continued to move through Gotham rooftops with the same restless energy he carried in New York. He perched upon ledges, watched the city breathe, and contemplated whether he had truly escaped or simply traded one cage for another.

Unfortunately, the League did not appreciate losing a high value asset. They sent people to retrieve him once they realised, he had vanished. They tracked his movements across borders, then across cities, then across regions, and eventually into Gotham. Peter felt their presence long before he saw them. His instincts had grown sharp, almost animalistic from years in the League. He could sense assassins moving in the dark. He could feel shifts in the air whenever someone monitored him.

He knew they were closing in.

The city itself responded strangely to his presence. Gotham had a personality, a sense of awareness that felt almost sentient. It tolerated him, although he suspected that it watched carefully. Sometimes he felt as though the rooftops whispered warnings. Other times he felt eyes upon him, even when alone.

He found himself enjoying the city despite its gloom. There was a certain charm in Gotham´s misery. It resembled a rebellious teenager, which amused him more than it should have. He liked the strange villains who appeared without warning, the strange moral guidelines of vigilantes, and the strange way citizens pretended everything was entirely normal. He felt at ease, perhaps because he understood chaotic environments far better than peaceful ones. The city did not judge him for existing. It simply accepted him as part of the madness.

He swung across several rooftops one evening, using the grappling device he improvised with old League materials. It did not resemble his original web shooters, but it functioned well enough. The wind brushed past him while rain threatened to fall again. His hood flapped against his back. He moved with ease, shifting weight from foot to foot, leaping, catching edges, and flipping over obstacles with a sense of rhythm that he had not lost.

He muttered absently to himself. Talking during movement soothed him. He claimed it helped keep his mind organised, although others pointed out that it simply made him look unhinged. He landed upon a ledge, crouched low, and peered down at the street. Cars moved sluggishly. People hurried with umbrellas. Gotham felt restless tonight.

He stretched slightly, rolling his shoulders while murmuring, “Right, so I probably should not be out here considering the League is hunting me again. Fantastic idea, Peter. Nothing screams survival instinct like swinging directly above the streets where assassins are probably hiding. Ten out of ten strategy. Honestly, genius. Future me is going to roast me for this.”

He paused once he sensed movement several rooftops over. The sensation travelled along his spine like an electrical pulse. He recognised the pattern immediately. It reminded him of League scouts. He straightened slowly, remaining quiet, and allowed his senses to adjust.

He whispered, “Cool. Lovely. Incredible. Cannot wait. Time to run.”

He moved instantly, launching himself to another rooftop. He landed lightly, pivoted, and sprinted forward. He vaulted over pipes, slid beneath rusty beams, and continued with a fluidity that resembled instinct rather than conscious decision making. His mind raced alongside his body. He had grown used to this sensation while escaping the League. He had treated every mission as a survival exercise. He had never allowed himself to stop.

Unfortunately, the League scouts were persistent. He heard faint footsteps behind him. They were trained to silence their presence, yet Peter recognised the rhythm of their approach. He glanced back and spotted shadows moving across the rooftops.

He muttered, “Alright, so option one is fighting them on the roof. That feels a bit like a dramatic monologue waiting to happen. Option two is dipping immediately. Option three is pretending I am not Spyder and hoping they fall for it. Actually, no, option three is stupid. Option two it is.”

His feet moved faster. He flipped over a wide gap and landed on the next rooftop. He felt the air shift again, which prompted him to twist his body midair to avoid a thrown dagger. It clattered against metal behind him. He whistled softly.

“Rude. I have been alive for two universes and neither of them taught people basic manners.”

Another assassin appeared from the left. Peter slid beneath their attempted strike, swept his leg upward, and kicked them off balance. He did not hesitate. He darted forward, grabbed the individual by the collar, and shoved them into a ventilation unit. They crumpled silently.

He continued running.

The chase lasted longer than he expected. He navigated the rooftops with experience gained from two lifetimes. Eventually he managed to lose them by diving between narrow gaps and using construction scaffolding to descend quickly toward street level. He landed in an alleyway, crouched behind a stack of crates, and exhaled slowly.

He brushed sweat from his forehead and muttered, “Okay, that was not terrible. Could have been worse. They could have sent the entire squad. Or Talia. Actually, no, Talia would have made this considerably worse. I probably should not even think her name out loud, the universe might hear me and drop kick me.”

He peeked over the crates cautiously. The alley remained empty. Rain had not begun yet, although the sky darkened further. He straightened slowly and stepped out, adjusting his hood while planning his next move. The League clearly wanted him badly. They had dispatched multiple scouts already. If they continued, he might need to relocate.

He wondered whether Harley would allow him to hide in her flat temporarily. She probably would. She encouraged chaos, and Peter unintentionally created chaos everywhere he went. They were compatible in that regard.

As he reached the end of the alley, he sensed another presence. This one felt different. It carried a sharp precision similar to the League, but also carried an undertone that felt familiar. It reminded him of shadows trained for stealth. He froze momentarily, then turned his gaze upward.

A small figure perched upon the fire escape, masked, and cloaked. Damian Wayne stared at him silently.

Peter blinked.

Damian blinked.

Peter whispered, “Well. That is definitely not ideal.”

Damian leapt downward with catlike grace. He landed before Peter, straightened, and narrowed his eyes. His posture remained firm and disciplined. He looked older than Peter remembered, although that was because the last memory in his inherited mind came from a ten-year-old Damian killing Pietro during their duel. Damian was thirteen now, and his presence felt heavier.

Damian spoke first. “You should not be in Gotham.”

Peter tilted his head. “Technically, I should not be in any universe, but here I am. I would argue that Gotham is actually the least weird place I have lived so far.”

Damian stepped closer, eyes scanning him sharply. “You have been running from the League.”

“Yeah, well, they started it.”

“You escaped.”

“I prefer the term strategically relocated.”

Damian glared. “You killed their operatives.”

Peter grimaced slightly and rubbed the back of his neck. “In fairness, they were trying to kill me first. I feel like that part gets conveniently ignored.”

Damian´s expression twitched, although he remained controlled. “You are hiding.”

Peter shrugged. “Not hiding. Merely vibing. There is a difference.”

Damian closed the distance entirely. He stood right before him, lifting his chin to meet Peter´s gaze. Peter realised that Damian had to tilt his head upward slightly now, since Pietro´s body stood taller. It created an odd reversal of the dynamic that Pietro´s memories held.

Damian studied his face carefully, as though searching for something. Perhaps he searched for Pietro´s familiar calm expression. Perhaps he searched for answers. Perhaps he searched for the brother he killed.

Peter offered a small smile. “Before you say anything dramatic, I should probably tell you that you look taller.”

Damian did not answer. His jaw tightened. “Why are you here.”

Peter exhaled softly. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, rocked slightly on his heels, and answered, “Freedom. Honestly, that is the entire reason. I wanted to see whether freedom felt as good as I imagined. I wanted to find out whether I could exist without someone dictating my identity. I wanted to see whether life could be something else.”

Damian´s eyes flickered.

Peter continued, “And then I ended up here. Gotham pulled me in. The League is hunting me because they are allergic to letting people live peacefully. Harley found me and declared me her problem. Life has been chaotic, but not bad. I like it here.”

Damian lowered his gaze momentarily, then lifted it again. “You should leave.”

Peter shrugged lightly. “Cannot. The League will catch me outside Gotham. At least here I have rooftops to jump from.”

Damian stepped back slightly, still watching him. “This is not a game.”

Peter nodded. “I know. Trust me, I know.”

A tense silence unfolded. Peter felt the weight of inherited memory press against his chest. Damian stood before him not as a child, but as a young vigilante learning his place in a complicated world. Pietro had been proud of him. Peter felt that echo. It created a strange ache.

He sighed gently. “Look, I am not here to fight you. I am not here to start anything. I just want to live without someone trying to control me. That is all.”

Damian´s expression softened, barely noticeable unless watched closely. Then he straightened, posture stiffening again. “You should be careful. The League will not stop.”

Peter offered a grin. “I know. Which is why I will keep moving.”

Damian raised a brow. “Running.”

“Strategically relocating.”

Damian exhaled sharply, almost a laugh. Almost.

Peter stepped back, preparing to climb the fire escape. “I should go before the scouts catch up again. You should also probably not be seen talking to me. They might assume you are helping.”

Damian lifted his chin. “I am not helping you.”

Peter winked. “Of course you are not. Would never assume that.”

Damian glared again. “Leave, now.”

Peter saluted lazily. “Aye aye, Captain Short Fuse.”

Damian snapped, “Stop calling me that.”

Peter laughed softly, then climbed quickly. He reached the rooftop in seconds. Damian watched from below. Their eyes met once more, the air heavy with unspoken history, affection, resentment, confusion, and unhealed wounds.

Peter whispered from above, “Goodnight, Damian.”

Damian responded quietly, “Stay away from Gotham.”

Peter smiled. “No promises.”

He launched himself into the air.

He moved again, because motion had always been his salvation.

He did not look back.

The city swallowed him, and the night continued.

 

Peter had predicted that the first proper encounter with Damian Wayne would be a little awkward, but he did not expect it to feel like someone had thrown his brain into a blender, switched the settings to puree, and then handed the cup back to him with a straw. He stayed perched on the edge of a tall billboard long after leaving the alley, staring out over Gotham with a stunned expression while a part of his mind attempted to comprehend what had just happened.

He had met Damian. The Damian. The tiny menace who stabbed him at age ten. The trained prodigy who used to follow Pietro around like a shadow. The boy who grew into Robin. The child who once killed him. The younger brother he inherited by cosmic accident.

He took a long breath, then exhaled through his nose dramatically. “Yeah, that went great. Fantastic. Beautiful social interaction, ten out of ten, I definitely did not sound like a glitching microphone.”

The wind brushed past him in a judgemental manner. He ignored it and pulled his hood lower, trying to replay the conversation in his head. The second he opened his mouth in front of Damian, his accent had jumped straight back to New York, full Queens flavour, as if he had never lived in a hidden mountain fortress under Talia al Ghul. He sounded nothing like Pietro, whose voice he remembered through echoes. Pietro spoke calmly, smoothly, gracefully. Meanwhile, Peter spoke like a caffeinated college student who failed every sleep schedule he attempted.

He groaned into his hands. “Bro definitely clocked it. There is no way he did not notice. I sounded like I escaped from a pizza shop argument.”

He allowed himself to flop backward onto the billboard surface and lay there with his arms sprawled out. The sky above him looked like an ominous painting that could win an award for dramatic tension. Damian had looked at him so intensely that Peter could feel the inherited memories buzzing in his bones. The stare contained confusion, suspicion, longing, resentment, affection, and several flavours of emotional constipation. It nearly knocked the wind out of him.

He tilted his head to the side and muttered, “He is Robin now. He probably thinks I just had a personality shift. I mean, three years is a long time. People change a lot during puberty. Maybe that is enough of an explanation. Yeah. Perfectly normal. Totally not body snatched by an omniversal cosmic accident.”

He rolled back to his feet, brushing dust off himself. A beat passed. Then he whispered, “Okay, that sounds insane even in my own head.”

He decided that he needed to go home. Home, at the moment, resembled a half abandoned, half furnished building he technically owned. Three years in the League had given him enough training to master forging documents. Once he escaped, he simply stole large sums of money from the League treasury because if an assassin syndicate did not want their funds stolen, they probably should not have let the universe stick Peter Parker into their perfect heir.

He bought the building quietly under a false identity. It stood tall with weathered exterior walls, cracked windows, and a metal fire escape that complained loudly whenever he climbed it. He liked the structure. It felt forgotten in a way he understood. It had plenty of space, although he only used a small portion of it. He decorated with thrift items, mismatched furniture, and old carpets he washed by hand. Harley called it a haunted lair with personality. Peter called it functional.

He swung across several rooftops, descending gradually until he reached the familiar alley behind his building. He climbed the fire escape and slipped through a window into the upper floor. The interior greeted him with quiet warmth. Dim lights glowed softly. His jacket hung over a chair. A stack of books lay open on a table. His laptop hummed faintly.

He took a deep breath. Silence filled the room. A heavy silence. Not the League´s silence filled with rules and expectations. Not New York´s silence filled with distant sirens. This was Gotham silence. Thick. Still. Deep. As if the walls held their breath.

He never liked being alone in his mind. He preferred noise. Movement. Music. People talking. Even villains monologuing helped. Silence reminded him of the gap left behind when his old universe erased him. He remembered the moment of spaghettification. He remembered the sensation of being torn apart molecule by molecule. He remembered the collapse of his consciousness into a cosmic vacuum. Something seeped into him during that moment, something that never entirely left.

He approached the desk and touched his forearm gently. The skin shimmered. It rippled like liquid metal, shifting and rearranging. He watched patterns form across his arm like flowing nanomachines. It resembled Stark nanotech, although he knew for a fact that he was not wearing a suit.

This was his body.

He still did not know the exact reason behind it. Maybe the omniversal displacement fused his biological structure with cosmic energy. Maybe Tony´s nano suit, which clung to him in the final moments of that universe, got torn into his being. Maybe the spaghettification rewired his molecular patterns and created pseudo nanite behaviour. He could speculate endlessly, but none of the theories stopped the truth.

His skin could rearrange itself. His muscles could shift like reprogrammable material. His bones could distort. His entire physical form could adapt in ways the League found terrifying and fascinating. Peter did not fully understand it, but he trained with it for three years in secret. He maintained control enough to avoid melting himself in his sleep. That counted as a victory.

He sighed and allowed the shimmer to fade. “Still creepy, though. Cool, but creepy.”

He sat in the chair and reached for his laptop. The screen flickered awake. Code filled the document. Lines upon lines of complicated sequences. He stared at the progress with a mixture of determination and frustration.

He was rebuilding Friday.

The artificial intelligence Tony created had guided him during some of the most difficult moments in his life. Her voice had been a comforting constant in his suit, analysing threats and offering support. When the universe removed him, it took everything connected to it, including Friday. Yet fragments of her coding had merged into his brain. When he emerged in Pietro´s body, he discovered that he could recall entire strings of code perfectly, as though someone had carved them into his memory.

He started rebuilding her because the silence pressed against him too heavily. He missed her voice. He missed the soft feedback. He missed the company. He missed the sense of grounding she provided. The League had been too loud, filled with commands and voices surrounding him constantly. Now that he lived alone, the quiet nearly felt suffocating.

He rubbed the side of his head slowly. “You would probably tell me that this is unhealthy coping behaviour, Friday. Although, in fairness, so was everything I did from age fourteen onward.”

He resumed typing. The code scrolled smoothly. He modified sequences, integrated memory matrices, adjusted predictive lines, and attempted to reconstruct emotional patterns. This version of Friday would exist inside his mind until he built her a proper housing unit. He still needed several components. He also needed more time. The omniverse displacement had made his brain able to compute at absurd speeds, but the process remained draining.

He spent hours working. The room remained quiet except for the soft tapping of his keyboard and the occasional muttered comment.

“Okay, that looks wrong. Why does it look wrong. Wait, no, that is actually correct. Never mind, false alarm.”

Later he mumbled, “If this blows up mentally, I will be so mad. Actually, I probably would not be mad. I would just lie on the floor dramatically.”

He leaned back eventually, stretching his arms and letting out a physical groan. The ceiling above him looked cracked in a way that suggested history. He liked it. Old things felt honest. Broken things felt familiar.

He whispered, “Damian is definitely going to tell Bruce. That is going to be such a weird conversation. Imagine having to tell your adoptive father that your dead brother just popped into Gotham like he did not get resurrected with someone else´s brain.”

He smacked his face lightly. “Actually, I am not going to think about that. It is future Me’s problem. Present me wants food.”

He stood up and walked toward the kitchen area. It was a small space, consisting mainly of an oven, a microwave that sparked occasionally, and a fridge that whined loudly whenever he opened it. He grabbed a water bottle and chugged half of it. Then he wandered back toward his living room area and flopped onto the sofa.

He closed his eyes for a moment. The silence pressed gently against him again. He forced himself to breathe slowly. The League had drilled steady breathing techniques into him, insisting that they improved control. The habits stuck. He used them whenever his mind started spiralling.

He rested there until he heard footsteps approaching his door. He sat up immediately, instinct kicking in. He reached for a blade automatically, although he relaxed when he recognised the rhythmic tapping of boots combined with the unmistakable humming of someone who never feared anything.

Harley.

She knocked loudly. “Petey. Open up. I have food.”

He sighed with immense relief. He crossed the room and opened the door.

Harley stood there holding a large tray covered in foil. She grinned brightly. “I brought lasagna. Homemade. Probably not poisonous.”

Peter blinked. “Probably.”

She shrugged. “There is a twenty percent chance.”

He accepted the tray. “Thank you.”

She stepped into the room uninvited, examining the interior with the same enthusiasm she displayed whenever she found a shiny object. “You really need more colour in here. Everything looks like a sad bachelor pad. No offence.”

He smiled softly. “None taken.”

Harley wandered toward his sofa and flopped onto it casually. “So, what did you do today. Please tell me you did not blow anything up.”

Peter hesitated for a split second, then answered, “Just avoided being murdered by the League again. Normal Tuesday.”

Harley cackled. “You are ridiculous.”

He placed the lasagna on the counter, still smiling faintly. The warmth of her presence eased the heaviness in his chest. For a moment, everything felt calm.

Everything felt almost safe.

And that was how the first three quarters of the day ended.

 

Damian Wayne stood in the Batcave with water still dripping from his cloak. He had arrived silently, as he always did, although his footsteps revealed more weight than usual. He descended the stairs with controlled precision and approached the main platform where Bruce analysed data on a holographic screen.

Bruce did not turn around. “You are late.”

Damian removed his hood, revealing damp hair clinging lightly to his forehead. “I was occupied.”

Bruce continued adjusting the screen. “Occupied with what.”

Damian hesitated. His jaw clenched. He inhaled slowly, then spoke with a tone that carried the same strange tension he experienced in the alley. “Father.”

Bruce finally turned.

Damian stepped forward. His eyes hardened.

“He is here.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes. “Who.”

Damian swallowed.

“My brother.”

The cave fell silent.

Bruce stared at him, expression unreadable.

Damian continued, voice firm but strained. “Pietro. He is alive. He is in Gotham.”

Bruce said nothing.

The silence deepened.

Then the lights flickered.

---

 

Notes:

Author's Note(s):
Thanks for reading, as always! Let me know your thoughts, and don’t worry there's more coming.

Chapter 3: Chapter 2: Social

Summary:

My dumbass forgot to write a summary. So, here's a quick one. A mundane life of two people, Peter and Damian, one is having a great time and the other is well... trying?

---

Damian Wayne woke with the distinct sensation that the world was tilting under him. His eyelids felt too heavy, as if someone had slipped weights beneath them while he slept, and his limbs carried that unpleasant warmth that preceded actual sickness. The worst part of it all was not the feeling itself, but the simple, humiliating fact that he recognised it. He was getting sick. Human sick. Weak sick. The sort of sick that Pietro used to tease him about in the most condescending tone imaginable before handing him a warmed towel and telling him he was not allowed to train.

Damian blinked at the ceiling and felt his stomach churn slightly. His throat was dry. His chest felt tight. The morning sun filtered into his room like a spotlight directed specifically at his misery.

He lay there for a moment, assessing himself with the same precision one would use when preparing for combat. His head pounded. His legs refused to cooperate. His nose felt strange, as if offended by oxygen.

He hated this. And yet, he knew exactly what this was.

It was the beginning of a mundane day.

The kind ordinary civilians experienced. The sort of day Pietro used to call a necessary part of being alive. Humans are social creatures, Pietro had said more than once. Our survival and well-being depend on interacting with others. Pietro had spoken like he was some wise sage imparting knowledge, which annoyed Damian endlessly at the time. In hindsight, it annoyed him even more because Pietro had been right.

Damian pushed himself upright with a groan he would deny ever existed.

The first thing he noticed was the clothes on the floor. They were not his. That was the first crime of the day. Someone had been in his room. Someone had left something in his space. He glared at the offending piece of fabric, recognising it as one of Dick’s jumpers. A glittery one. A particularly violent shade of blue that should have been illegal.

He would return to that later. Preferably through fire.

He moved through the motions of morning without thinking too deeply. He stood, stretched slowly, then shuffled to the bathroom. His reflection in the mirror looked moderately offended to exist. He splashed water on his face, brushed his teeth, and attempted not to look like the universe was personally inconveniencing him. He already felt bone heavy, as though the day was going to drag him down by the ankles.

When he stepped out of his room, he could already hear the household moving. The manor was loud in a way that had once driven him mad. Alfred’s footsteps were steady and familiar. Dick’s laughter carried through the halls. Tim was probably arguing with a coffee machine again. Jason might have been stealing food because he never respected normal breakfast hours. And Damian, despite his best efforts, had grown used to all of it.

He walked into the dining hall, and every head turned toward him.

He froze. It was the most profoundly uncomfortable moment of his morning.

Dick’s fork clattered. Jason blinked. Tim paused mid-sip of coffee. Stephanie, who had somehow invited herself over again, stared at him with wide eyes. Even Alfred raised an eyebrow.

Damian stood there, silently contemplating if leaving the manor entirely would be the best course of action.

Dick spoke first. “Baby bird... are you... okay?”

Damian bristled. “I am fine.”

Jason leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “You do not look fine. You look like the kid who fought Deathstroke and lost.”

“I have never lost to Deathstroke,” Damian snapped.

Stephanie whispered loudly. “He is being nice. Something is wrong. Damian, blink twice if you are dying.”

“I am not dying.”

Tim squinted at him with clinical focus. “Are you sure? Because you look like you have a fever. And also like you hate life slightly more than usual.”

“I do not hate life,” Damian muttered. “I am simply tired.”

Dick set his fork down carefully. “You never admit you are tired.”

Damian felt the beginnings of a headache forming. They were all staring at him. Even Alfred seemed subtly concerned, which meant this was serious. Alfred did not show concern unless someone had physically died or was on the verge of it.

Alfred approached him with a calmness that somehow felt judgemental without saying a word. “Young Master Damian, may I?”

Damian allowed him to place a hand on his forehead. Alfred withdrew it almost immediately.

“You are warm.”

“That is impossible,” Damian argued.

“It is not,” Alfred replied evenly. “You are ill.”

A collective gasp echoed around the table. Jason even dropped his toast.

Stephanie clapped her hands. “I knew it. I told you all that Damian would eventually get sick like the rest of us mortals.”

“For the last time,” Damian said, “I am not sick.”

He sat down at the table and took a piece of toast purely out of spite.

Dick watched him with far too much gentleness. “Do you want something? Tea? Painkillers? A blanket? A hug?” He wiggled his eyebrows. “I give good hugs.”

Damian looked at him, horrified. “Do not touch me.”

Jason snorted. “He really is sick. Usually, he gives a three-minute speech about why Dick’s hugs are structurally inefficient.”

Stephanie leaned close to Tim. “He is being civil. I am scared.”

Tim nodded. “This is how horror movies start.”

Damian forced himself to focus on Pietro’s old words, the ones he remembered clearly even after everything had changed. Pietro had explained once, when Damian was eight and recovering from an illness he had refused to acknowledge, that humans were social creatures by nature. It was normal to seek comfort. It was normal to rely on others. He had spoken softly, brushing Damian’s hair back and telling him that one day he would understand what it meant to belong somewhere.

At the time, Damian had not cared. He had scoffed and told Pietro he did not need anyone.

Now he knew he was wrong. And Pietro was not here to see it.

That was the part that stung.

He sat there, in a room full of noise and care and affection, and all he could think about was the absence of someone who used to fill a different kind of silence. Pietro had been his mentor. His brother. The one person who moved with him, understood his sharpness, tempered his temper. Pietro had called him family. Pietro had promised he would find his own circle one day. Pietro had said he would not always be there, but he would always care.

Except he was not here. He was not a part of any of this. He was not in the manor. He was not in the city. He was not at the table laughing with them. He had not come back for Damian. He had not looked for him. He had reinvented himself entirely, calling himself Peter Parker now, living some other life, building some strange identity that did not seem to include the boy he had once protected.

Bitterness curled in Damian’s stomach like a poison.

He should not be jealous. He should not be angry. He should not care. But he did. He cared like a child left behind. Like someone whose foundations had been quietly removed without warning.

Dick reached over and placed a hand on his shoulder.

Damian stiffened.

“You do not have to talk about it,” Dick said softly. “But if you ever feel off, you can tell me. We are your family. You do not go through things alone.”

Damian stared at the table. “I am not going through anything.”

Jason scoffed. “Sure.”

Stephanie leaned over. “We love you.”

Damian nearly choked. “Do not say it like that.”

Tim smirked weakly. “You are adorable when you are miserable.”

Damian wondered if it was morally acceptable to throw his toast at him.

The manor moved around him in warm chaos. Someone spilled juice. Someone argued about coffee. Someone laughed too loudly. Someone teased him. Someone worried over him. Someone passed him a jar of honey because Alfred believed in natural remedies.

It was mundane. It was loud. It was everything Pietro had once said he would find.

And Damian, despite himself, cherished it.

Yet the ache remained. A quiet truth hidden under layers of pride and old grief.

He missed his brother.

He missed Pietro.

He missed the one person who had understood him before anyone else.

And he hated that he had to miss him alone.

Pietro had changed.

He had a new name.

A new life.

A new world, possibly.

A new everything.

And Damian was left here, thirteen years old and quietly furious at the universe for taking someone he had not been ready to lose.

He pushed his plate away and stood.

Dick immediately noticed. “Where are you going?”

“To train,” Damian said.

“You are sick,” Jason replied.

“I am training.”

Tim raised his hand. “You will pass out.”

“I will not.”

Stephanie pointed at him. “I will tell Bruce.”

Damian glared at all of them. “I simply need to move. That is all.”

Dick stood as well. “I will come with you.”

“I do not require assistance.”

“Too bad. You are getting it.”

Damian sighed, long and heavy. Humans are social creatures. Pietro had said that while rolling his eyes at Damian’s stubbornness. Humans are social creatures, Damian. You will understand this one day. You will not survive this world alone.

Damian walked toward the training room, Dick following him, and the manor’s noise carried down the hall.

He understood now.

He just wished the person who said those words was still here to see it.

He just wished Pietro had not left him behind.

 

Peter Parker woke to the soft rhythm of rain tapping lightly against his window, and for the first time in what felt like several lifetimes, his brain did not immediately scream for him to roll into a combat stance. It was a miracle, frankly. A divine occurrence. Something that should have been studied by scientists. He blinked sleep out of his eyes, stretched under his warm blankets, and waited for the inevitable feeling of doom that usually accompanied mornings.

Nothing happened.

He frowned slightly, as though offended, then slowly sat up.

The next thought was immediate.

He was having a good morning.

This was concerning.

This was deeply concerning.

This was the type of thing that summoned Parker luck like a demon.

He planted his feet on the floor and stood carefully, as though afraid the universe was waiting to smack him back down. When nothing catastrophic occurred, he deemed it reasonably safe to proceed.

He surveyed his room. There were clothes on the floor, because of course there were. He gathered them up with one hand while yawning aggressively. The pile contained shirts, hoodies, some trousers, and one suspicious sock he did not recognise.

“That is fine,” he told the sock. “You can stay. I believe in interdimensional diplomacy.”

He tossed everything into the laundry basket and stumbled into his small kitchen. The apartment was quiet, and the rain outside created the kind of peaceful ambience he felt he did not deserve. He opened the fridge and saw the foil wrapped tray Harley had given him last night. Lasagna. The good kind. The legitimately high quality, baked with chaotic love and questionable portions kind.

He pulled the tray out, slid it into the oven to reheat, then set about brewing himself a cup of coffee. The machine hissed a little, which Peter took as a friendly greeting. He leaned against the counter, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and allowed the morning air to settle over him.

It was peaceful. He had never trusted peace. Chaos was familiar. Silence made the back of his mind itch. Yet, as he listened to the rain and the soft hum of the oven, he felt something warm settle in his chest.

Normalcy.

He almost laughed.

Normalcy.

Him.

Ridiculous.

He went to wash his face next, then brushed his teeth, grinning at himself through the toothpaste foam. His hair was sticking out in five different directions, and he accepted that fate with the dignity of a man who had lost that battle countless times.

After showering, he slipped into comfortable jeans and a hoodie, slung his backpack over his shoulder, and checked the oven again. The lasagna was warm and ready. He cut himself a generous slice and sat at his tiny table to eat.

It tasted like comfort.

Like the closest thing to home he could experience in Gotham.

Like Harley Quinn had decided he deserved feeding, which was honestly one of the sweetest things anyone had done for him in the last three universes.

He finished, cleaned up quickly, grabbed his camera, and headed out the door. The rain had turned into a light drizzle, which he considered a favourable omen.

He stepped into the hallway, locked his door, and smiled to himself.

Today was going to be a good day.

This exact thought terrified him.

 

Peter’s walk to The Gotham Gazette was surprisingly uneventful. A man sneezed directly into the air without covering his mouth, but Peter dodged it like a trained gymnast, flicking his hand dramatically as if to ward off plague germs. Two pigeons glared at him from a fire escape. A taxi splashed a small puddle nearby but missed him entirely.

The miracle continued.

He arrived at the Gazette dry, alive, unstabbed, unshot, and unkidnapped.

He stood outside the building for a second, narrowed his eyes at the sky, and whispered, “I know you are planning something, universe, and I want you to know I am ready. I did my stretches. Bring it on.”

The universe apparently declined the invitation.

He walked inside.

The office was buzzing with energy. Papers rustled. Phones rang. Someone was shouting about deadlines. Another person was loudly arguing about lunch orders. It was the usual amount of chaos that made the Gazette feel almost like a second home.

Vicky Vale spotted him immediately.

“Parker,” she called, waving him over with the enthusiasm of someone who had consumed three cups of coffee and pure determination. “You are early.”

Peter blinked. “I am sorry, what?”

“You are early,” she repeated, narrowing her eyes. “Why?”

“I woke up on time.”

“You never wake up on time.”

“Vandaag, I did.”

“That is not a word.”

“It is in my heart.”

Vicky stared at him with suspicious intensity, then stepped closer and poked his forehead with one neatly manicured finger.

“Are you feverish?”

“No.”

“Delusional?”

“I do not believe so.”

“Possessed by a spirit of punctuality that demands blood sacrifice?”

“Possibly, I will keep you updated.”

Vicky snorted, rolled her eyes, and shoved a stack of documents at him.

“Sort these, then go out and take some harmless photos. Human interest pieces. Nothing dangerous. The higher ups want to soften the next issue because apparently our last publication was too grim.”

Peter clutched the papers dramatically. “Too grim for Gotham. That is impressive.”

“Get to work, Parker.”

“Yes, boss.”

He grinned and went to his desk, sorting files quickly while humming quietly to himself. He could not deny that he liked working here. Vicky was loud, blunt, and aggressively perceptive, but she treated him fairly. His coworkers tolerated him, sometimes with amusement, sometimes with confusion, but they did not push him away. Peter liked the noise. He liked feeling like he was part of something. Pietro al Ghul might have walked alone, but Peter Parker thrived when surrounded by people.

Maybe humans really were social creatures.

When he finished sorting, he grabbed his camera and stepped back outside, ready for a peaceful morning walk.

 

What happened next was, frankly, unprecedented.

He walked ten blocks without being threatened.

He passed through three alleys without being ambushed.

He crossed the street without a car trying to hit him.

The universe was behaving.

He found himself smiling more than usual. The drizzle had lightened, and the streets glistened with that damp Gotham shimmer that made everything look moody in a photogenic way. He snapped photos of storefronts, people walking their dogs, someone selling pastries, a couple arguing about umbrellas, and a teenager doing skateboard tricks while pretending he was not being watched.

Then came the peak moment of wholesomeness.

A cat.

On a tree.

A very fluffy ginger cat sitting on a branch like it had already accepted its fate.

A frantic older woman stood beneath it waving her hands in distress.

“My darling Mabel will not come down,” she wailed. “I have been calling her for ten minutes. She refuses. She is mocking me.”

Peter jogged over. “Need help?”

“Oh yes please, young man. She climbed up there like a demon and now refuses to descend.”

Peter looked up at the cat. The cat looked down at Peter with judgement. He had faced assassins with kinder expressions.

“Alright Mabel,” he said, placing his hands on his hips. “I am coming up.”

The woman gasped. “You cannot climb that tree. It is slippery. It is dangerous.”

“Ma’am, I am a college student. My entire lifestyle is built on questionable choices.”

The woman blinked, then nodded in solemn agreement.

Peter climbed the tree with ease, using only enough of his natural agility to look slightly impressive but not superhuman. He reached up, grabbed Mabel gently, and descended without incident.

He handed the cat back to her owner, who teared up dramatically.

“You are a hero.”

Peter grinned. “Do not tell anyone that. It will ruin my rep.”

She laughed and kissed the top of Mabel’s head. Mabel hissed but accepted her fate.

Peter took a few photos of them, said goodbye, and continued his walk.

Still no trouble.

Still no assassins.

Still no crime.

It was unreal.

By midday, Peter bought himself a coffee from a cafe that did not try to scam him. The barista even drew a heart in the foam. A small one. A pity heart. But still a heart.

He wandered through a park, admired ducks, took photos of children playing on swings, snapped a picture of an elderly couple walking hand in hand, and marvelled at the simple beauty of it all.

He felt present.

He felt alive.

He felt like a person, not a weapon.

He even caught himself thinking, This is a good life.

He tried not to think too hard about it, because thinking usually ruined things, but he allowed himself that small, quiet joy.

 

He returned to the Gazette full of energy, cheeks slightly flushed from the cold, hair damp, hoodie warm from his coffee cup.

Even Vicky paused when she saw him.

“You look happy,” she said, folding her arms.

“I saved a cat,” Peter replied proudly.

“Is that why you are glowing? Good lord.”

“I am having a great day.”

Vicky narrowed her eyes. “That is deeply suspicious.”

“I know.”

“If something explodes in this office, I am blaming you.”

“That is fair.”

He sat at his desk, uploaded his photos, and spent the next hour editing them. For once, he did not feel stressed. His shoulders were relaxed. His breathing was even. His mind felt open and quiet.

The thought hit him abruptly.

He was not fighting anyone.

He was not being hunted.

He was not bleeding.

He was safe.

The realisation was powerful.

He leaned back in his chair, smiling faintly. “Maybe I can have days like this more often.”

He jinxed himself by saying it out loud, but the universe seemed merciful today.

He packed up his things after his shift, waved goodbye to Vicky, and headed home.

 

No one tried to mug him.

No one tried to stab him.

No League scouts lurked in the shadows.

No vigilantes dropped from rooftops to interrogate him.

The rain had stopped.

The sky looked calm.

His key turned smoothly in the lock.

He stepped into his apartment, set his camera on the table, and exhaled.

He had survived a perfect day.

He looked at the ceiling. “Thank you. I do not know who to thank specifically, but still. Thank you.”

He kicked off his shoes, reheated another slice of lasagna, sprawled on the sofa, and opened his laptop, feeling strangely light.

Today had been good.

Today had been human.

Today had reminded him of Pietro’s words, before he had ever been Peter Parker.

Humans are social creatures.

We find life in the mundane.

We survive through connection.

Peter smiled to himself and took a bite of his lasagna.

He hoped tomorrow would be just as good.

He fully expected it not to be.

But today, at least, had been perfect.

And that was enough.

 

Damian Wayne did not like being told to rest. He despised it more than incompetent villains, more than poorly forged swords, more than Dick’s neon-coloured jumpers that made his eyes hurt. Resting felt like failure. Resting felt weak. Resting felt like something civilians did when they were overwhelmed by normal life. He had been trained his entire childhood to push past physical limits, to ignore discomfort, to prioritise duty above himself.

Yet here he was.

In bed.

Sick.

Human sick.

He wasn’t even able to get near the training room.

He had been excused from school, which he should have celebrated because school was a tedious insult to his intelligence, but instead the emptiness of the day pressed on him. He hated how his body felt warm and heavy. He hated how his head throbbed. He hated how the manor seemed quieter around him, probably because the others were trying to let him rest.

Worst of all, he hated how emotional he felt.

When he stepped into the training room by evading Alfred as hard as possible, the familiar scent of polished wood and clean mats surrounded him. The room was bright, open, and usually one of his favourite places in the entire manor. Today it felt too large, too still, too full of memory.

He was already dressed in training gear, despite Alfred telling him to stay in bed. His limbs felt strange, as though wrapped in wool. He hated it, but he began his warmups anyway, slow, and mechanical. He refused to let his sickness dictate his day.

Dick was leaning against the wall, watching him with that infuriating mixture of fondness and concern. He had followed Damian like a silent shadow, insisting he would supervise because Damian was sick and therefore untrustworthy. Damian resented the implication and resented even more that Dick was right.

Dick approached him after a moment, stepping into the space with the ease of someone who had long ago learned how to move around a feral child without startling them.

“Warmups only,” Dick said gently. “If you push yourself too hard, Alfred will find out, and then we will both be in trouble.”

Damian scoffed. “I do not fear Alfred.”

“You should. He is terrifying when disappointed.”

Damian could not argue with that. Alfred had the unique ability to make someone feel like their very soul had misbehaved. He returned to his warmups, stretching carefully, rolling his shoulders, letting his muscles adjust. His body protested, but he ignored it. His breathing steadied. The room hummed with quiet.

Dick waited until Damian moved into his first set of light drills before stepping in to help him. His movements were relaxed, supportive, almost soft. Dick Grayson could be loud, bright, and dramatic, but in moments like this, he reminded Damian of light through stained glass. Gentle. Patient. Warm.

It irritated Damian.

It comforted him too, though he would never admit it.

Dick moved backwards, giving Damian space but staying close enough to intervene if needed. His footsteps were steady, his smile calm.

“Hey,” Dick said after a few minutes, “you would tell us if something was wrong, right?”

Damian froze.

It happened so fast he could not stop it. One second, he was pushing through a simple defensive stance, the next he was still as stone. His breath caught. His hands dropped slightly. His heart gave a slow, heavy thud against his ribs.

Dick’s voice had shifted into something softer than the mats under their feet. Something careful. Something understanding. Something that felt too close to the bone.

Damian wanted to snap at him. He wanted to retort with something sharp and cold, something that would create distance and let him regain control. That was what he usually did. That was what felt safe.

But instead, something strange happened.

He looked at Dick, really looked at him, and the world seemed to flicker for half a second.

Dick’s face blurred.

For an instant, a different silhouette stood before him.

Green eyes.

Dark hair.

A half grin that always made Damian’s temper flare.

Pietro.

The sensation hit him like a blade to the gut. Something knotted tightly inside him, and his throat burned. He hated the emotion rising up through him. He did not want this. He did not want to remember. He did not want to feel anything.

Dick stepped closer. “Damian?”

Damian’s jaw tightened. He tried to force the memory away. He wanted to bury it under irritation. Under logic. Under anything that did not hurt. But Pietro’s presence lingered like the ghost of a bruise.

Pietro had taught him the first version of the warmup he was doing. Pietro had laughed at him when he did it wrong. Pietro had shown him how to adjust his footing, how to align his shoulders, how to breathe. Pietro had said humans were social creatures, that even Damian, with his sharpness and pride, needed a circle one day.

Pietro had been sure Damian would find one.

Pietro had been so sure Damian would not be alone forever.

Pietro had not said he would be part of that future.

But he should have been.

Damian felt a sudden sting in his eyes. He blinked hard, his body tensing, refusing the traitorous possibility of tears.

Dick reached out, placing a hand gently on Damian’s wrist to halt his movement.

“Damian,” Dick said quietly. “We are taking it easy today, remember?”

Damian exhaled, the breath shaky in a way he hated.

Dick guided him backward until Damian found himself seated on the edge of the mat. He lowered himself slowly, as though any sudden movement might cause something in him to crack.

He sat there, back straight, hands on his knees, breathing heavily.

Dick crouched in front of him, searching his face with open worry.

“You can talk to me,” Dick said. “You know that, right?”

Damian looked away, staring at the glossy wooden floor for several long seconds. His breathing steadied, but something inside him felt raw, like the skin under a healing wound.

What would he even say?

Would he say he missed a brother who never returned?

Would he say he felt like a part of himself had been removed without warning?

Would he say he felt abandoned in a way that made him feel foolish and childish and painfully human?

He would never say any of it.

So, he inhaled, forcing the air deep into his lungs, then exhaled slowly. Again and again, until he could speak without his voice betraying anything.

Finally, he said quietly, “I am simply tired.”

Dick held his gaze. “That is not all.”

Damian glared at him weakly. “I do not wish to discuss it.”

“Alright,” Dick said, still gentle. “You do not have to. But you are not alone.”

Damian bristled. “I do not need help.”

“That is not what I said.”

The silence between them stretched out like a thread pulled tight. Damian shifted slightly, wiping the dampness at the corner of his eye before it could betray him. He hoped Dick had not seen.

Dick had seen.

Dick always saw.

But he pretended not to, which somehow made it worse.

“Just rest for a moment,” Dick said softly. “I will sit with you.”

Damian wanted to argue. He wanted to tell him to leave. He wanted to insist he was perfectly fine. But the truth was, he did not want to be alone.

Humans are social creatures.

Pietro’s voice echoed in his memory, annoyingly wise. Damian had been too young to understand then, and too proud to admit he might understand now.

He closed his eyes, breathed in slowly, and allowed the weight of the moment to settle.

Dick sat beside him silently, their shoulders barely brushing.

The room felt warm.

Damian felt exhausted, not from sickness but from emotion he refused to name.

For a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to imagine Pietro standing somewhere behind him, leaning against the wall, smirking his stupid smirk, telling him not to slouch.

Telling him he would be alright.

Telling him he was not alone.

But when Damian opened his eyes, Pietro was gone.

Of course he was.

He only had Dick now and the many others that littered in this manor.

Dick, who was not Pietro, but still here.

Damian drew a long breath and lowered his head slightly.

One day, perhaps he would be brave enough to say he missed him.

One day.

But not today.

 

Damian Wayne did not enjoy being ill. He tolerated pain, he endured exhaustion, he forced discipline into every breath he took, yet sickness was different. It softened the edges of his control, muddied his thoughts, and turned the world around him too warm and too cold at once. Worse, it made him sentimental. He despised that.

After Dick insisted, he rest, and after training only reminded him of everything he was not saying, Damian found himself walking toward his father’s office as if drawn by something he did not fully understand. His feet carried him down the long hallway, past portraits and warmth and echoes of a life he still struggled to believe he belonged to. He felt strange. Vulnerable. He hated that too.

He stopped outside Bruce’s door, feeling the ache behind his eyes and the pressure in his chest. He lifted a hand to knock, paused, lowered it, and then knocked anyway. His knuckles sounded weak against the old wood.

When the door opened, Bruce looked up from his desk. His eyes softened slightly.

“Damian,” he said, voice low. “You should be resting.”

Damian stepped inside, stubborn as ever. “I am not incapacitated. Alfred exaggerates.”

Bruce did not comment. He simply gestured to the chair across from him. Damian took it, sitting stiff and refusing to lean back even though his body demanded it.

Bruce studied him for a moment. “Are you unwell, or is something troubling you?”

Damian tensed, though he tried to mask it. “Both,” he admitted before he could stop himself. The honesty surprised him. He cleared his throat quickly, forcing his expression back into neutrality.

Bruce waited. He was patient in a way that Pietro used to be. The thought struck Damian unexpectedly, and for a moment the room seemed to tip sideways. He steadied himself with a breath.

Last night he had told his father only one sentence.

Pietro. He is alive. He is in Gotham.

He had not explained further. He had not planned to.

Yet sitting here, fever softening the iron bars he kept around himself, Damian felt the urge to speak. Not about Spyder. He would never betray his brother like that. But about Pietro. About the real person who existed before the Pit, before the shadows swallowed them both.

“Father,” Damian said softly, unable to look up immediately. “About what I said last night.”

Bruce leaned forward slightly. “Yes.”

Damian clasped his hands together in his lap, knuckles pale. “I killed him.” His voice did not shake, but it felt heavy. “Mother resurrected him with the Pit. After that… everything changed.”

Bruce remained silent, not out of shock, but out of understanding.

Damian continued, “I never saw him again. Mother sent me here. She kept him with the League. I do not know what happened to him during those years. Only that… he was not the same person anymore.”

He swallowed, the taste bitter.

“I only know what Mother told me. That the Pit changed him. That he was more reckless, more unpredictable, different. I thought he was gone forever after that.” Damian finally looked up, meeting Bruce’s eyes. “Until recently.”

Bruce’s attention sharpened, though he remained composed. “You saw him.”

“Yes.” Damian nodded once. “I saw him with my own eyes. He goes by Peter Parker now.”

Bruce blinked slowly, and Damian knew his father had already made three connections in his head and shelved two more for later analysis.

“He is older,” Damian continued, “but I recognised him immediately. The way he moves. The way he watches people. He is… familiar despite being different.”

He hesitated.

“And he certainly noticed me spying on him.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. Not in judgement. More in faint disbelief that Damian had tried to spy on someone who learned stealth before he learned how to read.

Damian bristled slightly. “I was discreet.”

Bruce did not comment. He did not have to.

Damian sighed, shoulders sinking. “He did not say anything. He looked directly at me and simply walked away. As if I were a stranger.”

Pain flickered across Damian’s expression, subtle but real. Fever made it harder to hide.

Bruce’s voice softened. “You did not approach him?”

“I could not.” Damian looked down at his hands again. “I did not know what to say. I did not know if he even wanted me near him. I killed him once. How am I supposed to stand in front of him now?”

Bruce leaned back slightly, his eyes thoughtful, steady. “He was your brother then, and he is still your brother now.”

Damian’s jaw tightened. “I know. That does not make it easier.”

The silence between them was deep, not oppressive but fragile.

“He is different. He calls himself Peter. He works as a photographer. He has a life here in Gotham.” Damian exhaled slowly. “I have seen him laugh. I have seen him interact with people. He looks human now. Normal. Almost peaceful.”

A beat.

“And part of me hates that. I should not. But I do.”

Bruce frowned gently. “Why?”

“Because he did not come for me,” Damian whispered. The vulnerability in the admission felt foreign in his mouth. “We were supposed to be family. He always said so. He told me that I would find a circle one day, people who cared for me, and that I should treasure them.”

Damian shook his head, eyes burning with fever and something deeper.

“He never said he would be part of that circle. I did not realise what he meant then, but I do now. He never planned to stay. Not with the League. Not with me. Not with anyone.”

Bruce’s expression did not change much, but something tightened in his posture, almost imperceptibly.

Damian continued, quieter now, “I have this life here. With you. With everyone. It is loud, overwhelming, and unbearable, but it is… mine. And I keep thinking he deserved this too. I keep wishing he had grown up here. That he could have been part of this family.”

His voice trembled for the first time.

“When I look at you, Father… sometimes I see him. Not because you are alike, but because I imagine what he would have been like if he had been raised by you.” Damian wiped at his eye quickly, annoyed that moisture had gathered there. “It is absurd. I know. But I cannot stop thinking about it.”

Bruce slowly reached out and rested a hand on Damian’s shoulder. His touch was warm, steady, grounding.

“You are allowed to feel that way,” Bruce said, voice low but firm. “You are allowed to want things that did not happen. That does not make you weak. It makes you human.”

Damian breathed slowly, letting those words settle.

“I do not know what to do,” he whispered. “I do not know if I should tell you everything. I do not know if approaching him is the right choice. I do not even know if he wants to see me.”

Bruce squeezed his shoulder gently. “You do not have to decide today. Not while you are overwhelmed. Not while you are unwell. When you are ready, we will figure it out together.”

Damian stared at him, small, tired, and trying not to show it. “I… wanted you to know. Even if I do not know what comes next.”

Bruce nodded once. “Thank you for telling me.”

Damian took a shaky breath.

He did not feel lighter.

But he felt understood.

It was enough for tonight.

Damian inhaled slowly and nodded.

For the first time in a long time, he felt like he could breathe without guilt. Without fear. Without feeling like he was betraying someone.

He felt like a son speaking to his father.

Bruce gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Go rest. You look exhausted.”

Damian scoffed weakly. “I am fine.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Damian.”

Damian sighed dramatically. “Very well. I will rest.”

Bruce smiled faintly. “Thank you.”

Damian stood slowly, still feeling the weight of the conversation but also the strange lightness that followed it. He turned towards the door, pausing only once.

“Father?”

Bruce looked up. “Yes?”

Damian took a breath. “Thank you.”

Bruce did not respond with words. He only gave him a warm, steady look that said more than words ever could.

Damian left the office, the door closing softly behind him.

His head hurt. His chest felt tight. His body felt sick.

But for the first time in months, something inside him felt less alone.

---

 

Notes:

Author's note(s):
Okay, so I went with a sick trope in this one, I'm talking about the emotional confrontation that pushes Damian to open up, even just a little. I'm all about healthy Batfamily dynamics, and I really hope you guys are on the same page. Writing this chapter honestly got me emotional, so I may have cried a little while putting it together. It felt important, y’know? This is a step for Damian, showing that even in the face of hardship, he’s learning to let down those walls. I really hope you enjoy the chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. Let me know your thoughts, and feel free to share if you felt anything from this one!

Chapter 4: Chapter 3: Pride

Summary:

Damian tries to be a functioning human being, Peter tries to be a functioning adult, and everything keeps turning sentimental in the weirdest ways.

---

Peter Parker had always been good at splitting himself into pieces. Spiderman did it first, turning the ordinary into the extraordinary. Pietro had done it too, learning how to become a blade because the League demanded it. Spyder perfected the art, taking the sharpest fragments and arranging them into something usable. And now Peter, the photographer with forged papers and a borrowed smile, walked around Gotham as if none of those other selves ever existed.

It was Saturday, which meant he was supposed to relax. Or as close to relaxing as someone like him could manage. The plan had been simple. Wake up, drink coffee, stare at the rain, and work on Friday. A perfectly normal morning for a perfectly normal college student with a completely abnormal history.

Except the moment he booted up his laptop, hands ready to continue assembling the scattered code that still echoed in the back of his skull, he paused.

Friday was Spiderman’s.

His Friday.

Not this body’s.

Not this world’s.

A sting of unease ran through him before he could stop it.

He sat back in his chair, fingers still hovering above the keyboard, and felt his stomach twist with a feeling that was neither nausea nor fear. Just… confusion. Pride was tricky like that. Once upon a time, being Spiderman had been the clearest part of his identity. Something to fight for. Something to defend. Something that made him feel rooted, even as the Parker luck tried to fling him off every ledge in existence.

Now he lived in a world that did not know Spiderman. A universe that did not have him swinging around Queens or dropping quips at three in the morning while fighting for rent money. Spiderman had died, crumpled between the teeth of a universe that could not hold him. But Peter Parker, the soul inside the skin, had persisted. He lived on in another world, in another body, with another name attached to his past.

It felt wrong to taint the memory of Spiderman by bringing Friday back. It felt sacrilegious, almost. Like resurrecting a ghost that never asked to return.

He whispered to himself, “Dude, this is why therapy exists, seriously.”

The rain tapped against the window as if in agreement.

Peter drummed his fingers on the desk and tried to reason through the strange pressure building inside his chest. He had been avoiding this feeling for months. Even before arriving in Gotham, he told himself that Spyder was a temporary shell, something practical, something deadly, something he could let go of once he had carved out a life. He refused to acknowledge being Pietro, not because the memories were gone, but because the weight of them felt like sludge dragging behind his heels.

At the same time, he was not rejecting Pietro either. The techniques he used now belonged to Pietro. The muscle memory that allowed him to strike without hesitation belonged to Pietro. The instincts, the discipline, the silent language of the shadows belonged to Pietro. And he used all of it, without hesitation, without guilt, because survival had never been optional.

He spoke aloud, scratching the back of his head. “So, what does that make me? A Peter with Pietro’s skillset and Spiderman’s trauma collection. Real peak multiversal identity stuff.”

He hopped out of his chair with a groan, stretching until his back popped, and wandered toward the kitchen while talking to himself like a man who had long grown comfortable sounding insane in private.

“Working on Friday would be kinda sick though. Like, closure maybe. Or self-sabotage. Honestly, hard to tell sometimes.”

He pulled open the fridge and stared at Harley’s leftover lasagna as if it might answer him. She kept making more and Peter could tell it was improving, at least.

He scoffed under his breath. “Imagine going back full superhero mode. That would definitely solve nothing. And also, guilt trip much.”

Pride.
The word hung over him like fog.

Taking pride in something, you no longer are should have felt empowering, but instead, it tasted bitter. Like chewing on a memory that had already been swallowed by another universe. He took pride in being able to swing, but he no longer had webs. He took pride in climbing walls, but the skill felt borrowed now, faint, a faint echo of a life he had lost. He took pride in the way his body moved, fluid and sure, but that belonged to Pietro, not Peter. He took pride in his mind, the one that memorised every pattern in the world before it broke, but now it was filled with fragments of an AI that whispered code into the back of his skull.

It was all pieces.

Disparate.
Contradictory.
Impossible to hold together without cutting himself.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, cool. Love that for me.”

Still, despite all that, he indulged the echoes. He still stuck to walls when no one was looking. He still leapt rooftop to rooftop because it felt right, like slipping into a familiar hoodie. He used a grappling hook to swing because the sensation mattered more than the method. He built web-shooters in his mind even if he never fully recreated them, and he still remembered the synthetic formula of his webs perfectly, down to the viscosity and tensile strength.

He remembered everything.

Too much, sometimes.

He ran a hand through his hair, then sighed heavily, leaning against the counter as the kettle rattled to life.

“God, today is supposed to be good, can the existential crisis chill for one second.”

It was almost funny. Almost.

Today really was a good day. The rare kind where the Parker luck had not kicked him down a staircase. He had woken up without a knife aimed at him. His coffee tasted normal. The rain was soothing rather than threatening. His building did not smell like mould or crime. His leg had not cramped from last night’s rooftop sprint. He had not been chased by assassins in seventy-two hours, which was a personal record.

Everything was good.

Which of course meant his brain decided to ruin it.

He clicked his tongue in annoyance. “Yeah, sure, let’s think about identity crisis before breakfast. Epic timing.”

Still, as he stood there, waiting for the kettle, he realised something important.

He did not need to decide anything today.

He did not need to choose Pietro, or Peter, or Spiderman, or Spyder.

He could exist in the space between them. He could take pride in what he had been without being chained to it. He could honour Spiderman without resurrecting him. He could acknowledge Pietro’s shadow without letting it consume him. He could shape Spyder into something that did not feel like a punishment. He could allow Peter Parker to be more than the aftermath of universes collapsing on him.

He could be unique too. Like Pietro had once told Damian. Something different. Something that did not need to match anything else.

Peter blinked slowly.

“Wow,” he muttered. “That was almost profound. I hate that.”

He smiled despite himself.

Today was a good day.

Even if it hurt a little.

Pride had always been a complicated idea for Damian. It was a word he heard often in the League. Pride in power, pride in lineage, pride in the blade and the battlefield. Pride was presented to him as a weapon, sharpened and polished, used to carve through the world. Yet when he thought of pride now, he rarely thought of the League. He thought of Pietro.

Pietro carried the word differently. As if it were something warm rather than sharp. As if pride were a blanket rather than armour. Damian could still remember the tone of his voice whenever he spoke about it, gentle yet assured, like a man who had found his answers and knew how to lead someone else toward theirs.

The first time Damian remembered feeling confused about pride was during a morning in the League compound, a memory so vivid it felt stitched into his bones. He remembered standing in a hallway thick with incense and echoes, holding a practice blade that was still too large for his small hands. His mother had been speaking to one of the Masters, and Damian had been waiting, bored, and irritated, until a thought struck him so fiercely, he blurted it out the moment she returned.

“Mother,” he said, following her long stride back toward her chambers. “Why do Pietro and I not look the same if we are brothers?”

Talia paused only briefly, long enough to glance at him with a look that flickered between amusement and calculation. “You take after me,” she replied, her voice smooth and certain. “Pietro takes after someone else entirely.”

Damian frowned. “Who?”

“You will understand in due time,” she said, which in League terms meant the subject was closed. She swept into her chambers, leaving Damian standing in the doorway with a scowl pulling at his face.

He did not understand. Not at all. Pietro had dark hair and green eyes sharp as glass. His face was softer, his features symmetrical and strangely elegant, and everyone always looked at him with an expression Damian did not yet know how to name. Something between admiration and unease. Something like awe.

Damian had Mother's eyes and her posture, stiff and disciplined. Pietro looked nothing like her. He looked nothing like Damian. He looked like a shadow cast by someone larger, someone Damian had never met but somehow recognised.

The confusion stayed with him until he found Pietro that night, sharpening his own blade on the steps outside the training hall. Pietro glanced up when Damian approached, his eyes bright despite the dim lantern light.

“You look like your face is about to fold in on itself,” Pietro observed, voice light as ever. “What did Mother say this time?”

Damian huffed and crossed his arms. “She said I take after her and you take after someone else. That is not an answer.”

Pietro chuckled, a sound Damian always found annoying because it warmed the room too easily. Pietro always laughed as if nothing in this world could weigh him down. Perhaps that was why Damian admired him so intensely. He was powerful in ways that defied logic, terrifying in combat, flawless under pressure, yet he was never cold. He never lost himself to cruelty.

“That is technically an answer,” Pietro said, sheathing his blade. “Mother is just bad at reassuring children.”

“You are not reassuring either,” Damian grumbled.

Pietro placed the blade set aside and tapped Damian gently on the forehead. “You think too literally. That is the real issue.”

Damian swatted his hand away. “Do not touch me.”

“Then stop looking like someone stole your favourite dagger.”

“No one can steal my dagger.”

“Exactly.” Pietro grinned, then shifted on the step so Damian could sit beside him. Damian did not, but he stayed close enough to listen. “Listen, Damian. It is not strange that we look different.”

“It is if we are brothers,” Damian muttered.

Pietro hummed thoughtfully. “No. It just means we are unique. You take after Mother. I take after someone else. There is nothing wrong with that.”

Damian raised an eyebrow. “Unique.” He spoke the word like it offended him.

Pietro nodded. “Yes. Unique. And you should take pride in that. You can admire what makes you different without feeling lesser. Pride does not mean believing you are better than others. It means recognising the things that make you, you. Confidence with humility. Strength with respect.”

Damian stared at him for a long moment.

“That is not how the League uses the word.”

“That is why I am explaining it to you,” Pietro replied, smiling gently. “You do not need to see yourself through their eyes. You are not a weapon. You are a person.”

Damian felt himself bristle at the softness of the words. No one else in the League spoke like that. They spoke of discipline and killing intent, not personhood. Pietro was a contradiction. A gentle contradiction wrapped in deadly skill.

“You are ridiculous,” Damian said finally, which only made Pietro laugh again.

“Probably,” Pietro admitted. “But you will think about what I said later.”

Damian scoffed. “I will not.”

“You will,” Pietro insisted, tapping his forehead again. “Because you are intelligent, even when you pretend you are not. And because I am right.”

Damian hated that he was right.

He hated that Pietro had a way of being gentle without ever seeming weak.

He hated how easily Pietro held pride, as if it were a natural extension of himself. Everyone whispered that Pietro was flawed, unpredictable, too soft in the wrong moments, yet too powerful to dismiss. They treated him like a force of nature barely contained, yet Pietro never seemed bothered. He carried every insult with a shrug, every expectation with a smile, every rumour with quiet confidence.

Damian wanted that. He wanted that certainty. That ease.

He wanted to understand how Pietro could exist so easily despite being nothing like the standard the League forced on them.

When Damian stood beside him, he felt small, but not in a bad way. More like the world was larger than he thought, and Pietro was a guide rather than a threat. Pietro would tilt his head and say things like, “You do not have to be like me to be strong,” or “You can be different without being lesser,” or “Uniqueness is something to celebrate, not hide.”

At the time, Damian thought it was nonsense.

Later, he realised it was one of the few things that kept him from losing himself completely.

The memory shifted again, drifting to a training session months later. Damian had just failed a set of drills, and one of the master’s had berated him loudly in front of the others. Pietro had been watching from the shadows, arms crossed, expression unreadable. When the Master stormed off, Pietro walked over, crouched in front of the younger Damian, and tilted his chin up gently.

“Do not look at the floor,” Pietro said softly. “You are not a failure.”

“They think I am,” Damian muttered. “They say I am not like you.”

Pietro smiled, and it was the kind of smile that hurt in its gentleness. “Good. You are not meant to be like me. You are meant to be you.”

Damian clenched his fists. “Why can you be proud of yourself. Why does it look easy for you.”

“Because I refuse to let anyone tell me what I am worth,” Pietro replied calmly. “Because pride starts with yourself, not with what others say. I know who I am. I know what I value. I know what I refuse to become.”

He rested a hand on Damian’s shoulder.

“And you will learn that too. One day.”

Damian swallowed the lump in his throat as the memory faded into the present. He sat quietly in his room back in Wayne Manor, feeling the weight of nostalgia settle like dust around him. Pietro had been terrifying on the battlefield, a storm with a blade, but in private he had been gentle. Warm. Softer than anyone in the League ever allowed themselves to be. Maybe Damian’s memory was warped. Maybe he remembered Pietro through the lens of longing. Maybe he remembered a brother who had been his only light in a place full of shadows.

But even if the memory was imperfect, it was still his.

And the truth was simple.

Pietro had been unique.

And he had taught Damian that was something to be proud of.

 

Recovery had never felt like rest to Damian. It felt like a cage. A full week of enforced stillness, of Alfred hovering with medicinal teas and stern reminders, of Dick telling him to stop pretending he was immune to illness, of Jason poking his forehead like a gremlin only to get smacked for it. A full week of being told to rest while his mind refused to quiet down.

Now that he was finally cleared for light training, he felt the pressure to move again. Not because he wanted to prove himself, but because the memories had become too loud. Pietro’s voice lingered behind every thought. Every movement. Every inhale.

Saturday mornings in the Wayne Manor were chaotic by nature. It was the one day everyone tried to be present, whether they liked admitting it or not. Dick was already stretching on the mats, humming something cheerful because he was incapable of being quiet for more than seven seconds. Jason was lounging near the weapon rack, pretending he was not invested in the family exercise session while definitely being invested. Tim had a coffee in each hand and an expression that declared he had been awake far too long. Duke sat off to the side, tying his shoes with the kind of calm that made him look far more responsible than any of them. Even Cassandra was there, already warmed up, her presence silent and steady.

Damian stepped into the training hall, feeling oddly weightless and heavy at once. The smell of sweat and sanitised mats should have grounded him, but instead it unravelled him slightly. Pietro had trained him under far harsher conditions, yet that training had felt reassuring. Gentle in its brutality. Safe in a way nothing else had been.

Dick waved him over immediately. “There he is. The tiny plague survivor. Feeling alive today?”

Damian glared. “Do not call me tiny or a survivor.”

“So, you feel alive,” Dick said with satisfaction.

Jason snorted. “He looks like he wants to stab us. That means he is fine.”

Cassandra nodded in quiet agreement.

Duke whispered to Tim, “Is this how you people greet each other.”

Tim nodded back. “Pretty much.”

Damian exhaled slowly, ignoring them all. He moved to the centre of the mat, stretching with sharp precision, the same way Pietro had taught him years ago. The others noticed the change in his posture, the lingering stiffness from fever, the shadows under his eyes, but no one commented.

Dick clapped once. “Alright. Light sparring today. Emphasis on teamwork, awareness, communication.”

Jason raised a brow. “Communication. For demon spawn. Sure. I will send out a search party the moment he says a full sentence.”

Damian ignored that too.

They paired off, circling, adjusting, warming up into motion. Damian fought with precision but not aggression, his movements smoother than the last time they trained. Fever had slowed his body, but memory sharpened his instincts.

Halfway through a sequence where Dick tried to pressure him toward the corner, Damian stepped aside, redirected weight, and cut through the angle flawlessly. The motion was so natural he barely thought about it.

Dick blinked. “Nice escape. When did you pick up that trick.”

Damian replied without thinking. “Brother said that if the energy pushes you right, you step left, because the opponent’s balance will falter by half a second.”

There was a full stop in the room.

Jason froze mid stance.

Tim stopped mid sip.

Dick straightened completely.

Duke stared.

Even Cassandra paused.

Six pairs of eyes landed on him at once.

Dick blinked. “Brother. Which brother.”

Jason looked around with exaggerated confusion. “Yeah, I am right here. Dick is right here. Tim is unfortunately also here. Duke is here. Cass is here. Who the hell are you quoting.”

Tim raised a hand weakly. “Is there an unknown Wayne we were not informed of. Again?”

Duke muttered, “This family really needs a spreadsheet.”

Cassandra tilted her head, studying Damian with quiet focus, sensing the truth before the others.

Damian felt heat crawl up the back of his neck. He had not meant to say that aloud. He had not meant to mention Pietro in the present tense. The memory had slipped through before he could catch it.

The technique had been Pietro’s.

The words had been Pietro’s.

The lesson had been Pietro’s.

Not a League teaching.

Not something Bruce had shown him.

Not something he learned here.

It was entirely, undeniably, his brother’s.

He forced his posture straight. “It is nothing.”

Jason scoffed. “Yeah no. You do not get to drop mysterious brother lore and then say it is nothing. You are going to explain.”

Tim squinted. “Wait. Could it be a metaphorical brother? Like a mentor. Or an assassin code name?”

Duke nudged him. “Why would he call an assassin code name brother?”

Tim shrugged. “Damian does that weird honour code thing sometimes.”

Dick stepped closer, tone gentler. “Damian. Who taught you that?”

Damian felt his throat tighten. Pietro’s voice flickered in his head again, laughing at him for being caught off guard. For letting his guard down. For letting the past bleed into the present.

He muttered, “It was a long time ago.”

Jason crossed his arms. “You are thirteen. Nothing about your life is a long time ago.”

Duke nodded toward Damian. “You okay, man? You look… thoughtful.”

Cassandra stepped forward, her eyes softening for a brief second. “Memory.”

Tim almost dropped his coffee. “A memory of a brother we have never met, apparently.”

Dick placed a hand on Damian’s shoulder carefully. “Who is he?”

Damian swallowed. The question punched far deeper than the way Dick intended.

The room waited.

Damian did not speak.

He could not. Not yet.

Not when saying Pietro’s name felt like opening a wound he had stitched shut with force.

Instead, he stepped back, adjusted his stance, and said, “Let’s continue.”

Jason groaned loudly. “Oh my god he is dodging the question.”

Tim complained, “He is dodging the question with technique which is worse.”

Duke whispered, “I think he is having a spiritual moment.”

Cassandra nodded. “He remembers.”

Damian ignored all of them and reset his position. He tried to push the memory down, but Pietro’s voice echoed again, clearer now that he had allowed himself to recall it.

Brother said that pride is not arrogance.

Brother said that uniqueness is strength.

Brother said that one day you will understand.

The past pressed against the present until it became difficult to breathe.

They resumed sparring, but Damian’s movements were tinted with flashbacks. Every time Dick shifted right, Damian saw Pietro guiding his footwork. Every time Jason attacked head on, Damian remembered how Pietro taught him to redirect brute force. Every time Tim observed quietly, Damian sensed the contrast between his family now and the family he had before.

Cassandra noticed the change first. She always did.

During a brief pause she whispered, “You miss him.”

Damian stiffened, caught entirely off guard.

She added, “It hurts.”

Damian did not respond. He did not have to. Cassandra already understood.

Dick called for a break so everyone could drink water and reset their focus. The others drifted into small clusters, chatting lightly, teasing one another, arguing about nothing important. Damian stood apart, hands behind his back, staring at the floor as the past painted ghostly shapes across the present.

He could hear Pietro’s voice in every movement.

Feel his guidance in every step.

Sense his presence in every instinct.

A week of fever had softened the barrier between memory and reality. Recovery had sharpened everything again. He remembered Pietro clearer than he had in years. He remembered the laugh. The warmth. The quiet reassurance that balanced the brutality of their world.

He remembered pride.

He remembered uniqueness.

He remembered a brother who never had the chance to grow up here, among these people, on this very mat on a Saturday morning.

He remembered the weight of missing him.

For once, Damian did not push the feeling away.

He let himself remember.

 

Training eased into a comfortable rhythm, one that had less to do with combat and more to do with family noise. Dick chattered during water breaks, Jason heckled Tim’s footwork, Duke tried to referee the arguments, Cassandra corrected stances with silent taps, and Damian tried to pretend he was unaffected by any of it.

He was affected. Severely.

The memories swirled behind every movement, bleeding into the present until the training hall felt layered, like two worlds overlapping. In the echoes of steps across the mat, he could still hear Pietro correcting him years ago. The difference was that now, when he blinked, he returned to a room filled with people who cared in ways the League never had.

He should have felt grounded. He did not.

A quiet ripple across the room told Damian that Bruce had arrived.

The others noticed immediately.

Jason muttered, “Of course he shows up exactly when I start looking competent.”

Dick waved with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Morning Bruce. You are only slightly late. Very slightly. Barely worth mentioning. Not that anyone is keeping track. Except all of us.”

Tim sipped his fourth coffee and nodded. “Statistically predictable.”

Duke whispered, “He is just built like that.”

Cassandra greeted him with a soft bow.

Bruce stepped into the training hall with his usual calm presence, carrying a folder in one hand and the weight of a city in the other. He nodded at each of them, then crossed the floor to set the folder on a nearby table, removing his jacket as he went.

And without meaning to at all, Damian stared.

It happened every time Bruce turned away.

Every. Single. Time.

He knew it was foolish.

He knew it was illogical.

He knew it hurt.

Bruce’s posture, the exact tilt of his shoulders, the easy balance of weight between his feet, the straight line of his spine, the quiet certainty in every movement, all of it mirrored someone Damian had already lost.

Pietro.

Older.

Stronger.

Standing tall in a training hall lit by cold torches.

Correcting Damian’s stance.

Laughing softly at his stubbornness.

Gentle and unstoppable all at once.

Whenever Bruce turned even slightly, Damian saw Pietro’s silhouette hiding inside him. A picture-perfect copy. Not identical, not truly, but close enough that the familiarity punched him harder than any sparring session.

Pietro had taken after someone else entirely.

Talia had told him that.

He had assumed it meant some long dead ancestor or forgotten League legend.

But when Bruce set his jacket down and rolled his sleeves with deliberate calm, Damian felt something snap inside him.

The resemblance was not imagined.

It was not coincidental.

It was not subtle.

It was unmistakable.

Bruce moved like Pietro.

Or Pietro had moved like him.

The realisation pressed against Damian’s ribs so sharply he forgot to breathe for a moment.

Cassandra noticed first, her eyes flicking toward him with soft understanding, because she sensed the shift in his heartbeat before he did. She stepped slightly closer, enough that her presence steadied him without drawing attention.

Bruce finished adjusting his sleeves, turned back toward them, and the spell broke instantly. Pietro was gone. Bruce was simply Bruce again.

Damian forced himself to inhale slowly.

Dick clapped his hands. “Alright. Since Father is here, we can warm up again. Eight count combinations, light tempo. Nobody break anything.”

Jason muttered, “No promises.”

Bruce parked himself near the mat, observing, analysing, assessing the group with quiet precision. His gaze lingered on Damian longer than the others, the same way Pietro used to check him for injuries after a harsh session. Damian hated how much that familiarity shook him.

They began the exercise again, this time with Bruce watching, and Damian felt the pressure of expectation settle into his shoulders.

But the flashbacks did not stop.

Every time he performed a sequence, Pietro appeared in the edges of memory. Correcting his grip. Adjusting his elbow. Guiding his stance with a hand on his shoulder. Every motion in the present curled around a ghost of the past.

Dick went through the combination slowly. “Step, block, pivot, strike, retreat. Let’s keep it simple.”

Damian followed, but halfway through, his foot hesitated. Pietro’s voice slipped in without warning.

Step wider when outmatched in reach.

Retreat only if your balance is compromised.

And never strike where the enemy expects.

Pride is not predictability.

It is precision.

Damian stepped wider.

Pivoted differently.

Shifted the angle.

Cut through the move with a flourish that was not part of the exercise at all.

Dick froze.

Jason raised both eyebrows. “Show off.”

Tim blinked. “I don’t think that was in the routine.”

Duke looked impressed. “That was clean though.”

Cassandra whispered, “Memory again.”

Bruce spoke for the first time since arriving. “Who taught you that variation?”

Damian’s breath caught.

His voice slipped out before he could stop it.

“Brother taught me.”

Silence.
Complete.
Clean.
Absolute.

And then the training hall door swung open.

Stephanie stomped in with a gym bag over her shoulder and a very dramatic sigh. “I overslept and the bagels burned. Do not ask. I am emotionally compromised.”

Jason immediately called out, “Yo, Steph, demon spawn here has a secret brother we did not know about.”

Tim added, “We are trying to determine which hypothetical brother it is.”

Dick pointed helpfully. “He said the word brother again. We are close to a breakthrough.”

Stephanie blinked once.

Twice.

Then she set down her bag very slowly, marched to the centre of the group, and planted her hands on her hips like the exhausted eldest sister of seventeen problem children.

“Okay,” she announced, sweeping her gaze over every single Wayne present, “everyone shut up.”

Jason scoffed. “Or what?”

She raised her fist. “Or I will find every one of your embarrassing high school yearbook photos and plaster them all over the fridge.”

Tim went pale. “Not the fridge.”

Dick gasped. “You would not.”

Stephanie raised an eyebrow. “Would I not?”

Even Jason leaned back in mild fear. “Okay, fair. She definitely would.”

Satisfied, Stephanie turned toward Damian, softened her stance, and spoke without the teasing edge she used for everyone else.

“Hey. Tiny Dude.” Her voice gentled. “You don’t have to tell anyone anything you are not ready to talk about. Got it?”

Damian stared at her, caught off guard.

Stephanie continued, “If you say brother, which is enough explanation. Could be emotional brother. Could be biological brother. Could be metaphorical brother. Could be an imaginary brother. Could be a former demon brother who fought dragons. Literally none of our business unless you decide to share.”

Dick whispered, “Is the imaginary brother theory on the table?”

Stephanie snapped without looking at him, “I said none of our business.”

Jason muttered, “Why do you always protect him?”

Stephanie shrugged, still staring at Damian with the warm, stubborn loyalty that made half the siblings trust her and the other half fear her. “Because he is twelve.”

“I am thirteen,” Damian corrected automatically.

“And tiny,” Stephanie added.

Damian scowled. “I am not tiny.”

Stephanie smiled at him. “Exactly. Look at you. Not tiny at all.”

The others groaned in resigned defeat.

Damian looked down at the floor, unsure what to do with the heat that crept up his neck. Stephanie’s casual, unearned loyalty wrapped around him in a way he did not fully understand but did not dislike.

For a moment, the pressure eased.

Bruce watched the exchange quietly. If he had any thoughts about it, he kept them to himself. He simply nodded once at Stephanie in silent approval before moving toward the mat to join them.

Damian followed his father with his eyes.

Bruce’s shoulders.

Bruce’s posture.

Bruce turning away.

A perfect echo of Pietro.

The ache returned, sharper than before.

Stephanie nudged Damian’s elbow gently. “You good?”

Damian inhaled slowly, steadying himself. “Yes.”

She nodded. “Cool. You let me know if anyone annoys you too much. I will threaten their privacy.”

“Please, do not.”

“No promises.”

Training resumed.

And Damian remembered.

And did not speak.

And could not stop staring at Bruce when he was turned away.

Training resumed, less structured now, more chaotic, which was normal for Saturdays. Dick called out random drills, Jason sabotaged half of them, Tim pretended he was too tired to participate until someone attacked him directly, Duke tried to maintain order, Cassandra moved like she was floating, and Stephanie analysed everyone with the terrifying perceptiveness of a person who had grown up around vigilantes and could sense emotional tension like a bloodhound.

Bruce joined in quietly, stepping into the rotation with a natural ease that reminded Damian why everyone deferred to him without hesitation. He corrected Duke’s guard, blocked Jason’s reckless lunge, and gave Tim a silent look that forced him to start actually participating.

Damian observed all of it.

Too closely.

Far too closely.

Every time Bruce shifted weight from one foot to the other, Damian’s stomach twisted.

Every time Bruce angled his chin, Pietro flickered over the image like a thin sheet of memory.

Every time Bruce adjusted a stance with gentle force, Damian felt his throat close.

It was unbearable.

The shadows of Pietro’s movements blended with Bruce’s reality until Damian could no longer tell whether his mind was deceiving him or revealing a truth he had spent years ignoring.

Bruce and Pietro moved the same way.

Not identically, but deeply, unmistakably similar.

Like two notes in the same chord.

And every time Bruce turned away from him, Damian felt the earth tilt beneath him.

Stephanie noticed first.

Of course she did.

During a water break, she wandered over to where Damian was tying the wrap on his wrist for the third time, fingers too tense to make the knot neat.

Stephanie crouched beside him. “You are doing that thing.”

Damian blinked. “What thing.”

“The thing where you pretend you are fine when your soul is clearly trying to crawl out of your body,” she said helpfully. “Very subtle. Totally no one noticed.”

Damian tightened the wrap until his fingers tingled. “I am not pretending anything.”

Stephanie leaned in. “You keep staring at Bruce’s back like he is about to sprout wings.”

Damian stiffened. “That is an absurd statement.”

She tapped his forehead gently. “Absurd would be you staring at Tim’s back. This one is different.”

Damian scowled, but the irritation did not reach his voice. “Drop it.”

She did not.

Of course she did not.

Stephanie Brown was many things but compliant was not one of them.

“Listen,” she murmured, softer now. “You had a rough week. You are dealing with something big, even if you do not want to talk about it. And that is fine. Seriously. I am not here to pry.”

Damian looked at her sharply. “You pried moments ago.”

“That was different,” she replied with confidence. “That was investigative prying. This is emotional prying. Totally separate categories.”

Before Damian could tell her that made absolutely no sense, Dick called them back to the mat.

The next drill was a group balance exercise, something Alfred had convinced Bruce to include because apparently team coordination mattered. They formed a loose circle. Dick explained the sequence. Jason interrupted four times. Tim argued the physics of hand placement. Cassandra demonstrated once, perfectly. Duke followed. Stephanie threatened Jason when he smirked at her form. Bruce observed with thoughtful quiet.

Damian waited until it was his turn, then stepped into the centre, breathing slowly.

He could do this.

He had done far worse.

He was not fragile.

He lifted his arm to begin the motion when a memory flooded him so vividly it painted the entire room differently.

Pietro was behind him.

Tall. Warm. Quietly amused.

Correcting Damian’s posture with gentle hands.

Telling him to straighten his back.

Telling him to roll his shoulders.

Telling him not to tighten his jaw.

Telling him, in a rare moment of softness,

“You are allowed to take space. Pride is knowing you belong in the room.”

Damian inhaled sharply.

It was too much.

---

 

Notes:

Author's note(s):
The whole Batfamily is surprisingly sweet, Damian is genuinely trying even though puberty is a terrible boss fight, and I am taking a small posting break because my brain cells cost too much to replace.

Chapter 5: Chapter 4: Arrival

Summary:

Peter Parker stumbles into Gotham, expecting an ordinary day, but a near-mugging and an accidental detour into the city's history kickstart his new life, complete with awkward encounters, an overwhelming sense of normalcy, and a very peculiar new ‘home.’

Notes:

Author's note(s):
Hey everyone! Just a heads up, these three consecutive chapters are technically a preview of what happened months before the events of the first three chapters. It's all going to catch up eventually, so stay tuned. The plan is to keep the story structured in 3-chapter arcs, each building toward the next stage.

Also, I did say I was going to rest but I need to drop this first since I was too excited. 😩✨

---

Gotham City was not supposed to be this sunny.

Peter had expected fog, shadows, brooding gargoyles perched on every streetlamp, maybe a dramatic thunderclap to welcome him like some cosmic joke. Instead, he stepped off the bus into mild morning weather, bright skies, and a gentle breeze that fluttered his dark hair as if the city wanted to pretend it was normal.

He stared up at the skyline, dragging a very normal rolling suitcase behind him. It was the same suitcase he had once used in his universe hopping incident, and for some reason it still smelled faintly like toast. The mystery would remain unsolved. He had learned to pick his battles.

Alright, Peter, he thought. New world, new name, new… everything. Let’s not mess this up in the first five minutes.

His sneakers slapped the pavement as he walked, weaving through the usual Gotham morning crowd. Commuters looking dead inside, businesspeople trying not to step in puddles, a man dressed as a clown walking a ferret on a leash. Actually, that last one might not be normal anywhere else, but this was Gotham.

He blended in perfectly.

He looked unassuming enough.

He smiled at people as he passed.

Of course he was immediately almost mugged.

“Hey kid.” A man stepped out from an alley. Another joined. And a third. That was ambitious of them. “How about you hand over the bag.”

Peter paused, glancing from one mugger to the other. His inner monologue started screaming in twelve different emotional registers at once.

I swear, I  don’t want to fight anyone today. Please let me be a civilian for like five minutes. Just five. Please. Universe. I am begging you.

He pasted on the most polite smile he had, the one May used to call his Customer Service Face.

“Hey guys,” he said cheerfully. “I, uh, literally just got here. I  don’t even know where the nearest coffee shop is yet. Could we not do the whole mugging thing today?”

The men blinked at him.

One raised a knife.

Peter sighed.

“Alright, self-defence it is.”

He moved gently, almost apologetically, as if every punch came with an “oops, sorry” attached. He grabbed the knife, twisted the man’s wrist effortlessly, stepped aside as the second mugger lunged, and swept the third’s legs with one fluid motion. They hit the ground in a tangled heap that looked vaguely like modern art.

One of them groaned, staring up at him.

“What are you?”

“Tired,” Peter answered honestly. “And very over this. Please rethink your life choices, hydrate, and, I  don’t know, touch some grass.”

He walked away before they could form questions.

It was not until he made it halfway down the block that he realised something.

“Wow,” he murmured out loud. “I did that politely. Personal growth.”

A few pedestrians stared. Gotham, however, simply absorbed him into the fabric of its bizarre daily routine. A pigeon landed on a nearby lamppost and eyed him suspiciously. Peter eyed it back.

“Not today, bird. I am a civilian now.”

The pigeon cooed as if unconvinced.

 

He continued down the street until he reached the one building that had always grounded him back in his old world.

A library.

The Gotham Public Library was a looming brick structure with tall windows and ivy creeping up the sides, as if it was halfway between Gothic architecture and vintage academia. People filtered in and out, some carrying stacks of books, others carrying laptops, and one man carrying what looked suspiciously like a live raccoon.

Peter chose not to comment.

He stepped inside, and the air changed immediately. Cool, quiet, smelling faintly of old paper and lemon-scented cleaning solution. His shoulders dropped. His breath slowed. His thoughts stopped trying to form a conga line.

Yeah. This was better.

He walked up to the front desk, where a woman with bright hair and sharper eyes sat typing rapidly on a keyboard. Barbara Gordon did not look up at first, but Peter could feel her assessing him anyway. She seemed like the type who could probably file a report, fix a computer, and roundhouse kick someone all in the same minute.

He cleared his throat. “Hi. Could I get a library card?”

She glanced up.

Her eyes flicked over his face once.

Then twice.

Then a third time, more subtly.

“Well,” she said slowly, “do you have a Gotham address?”

“Working on that,” Peter answered honestly. “I just moved. Fresh start, new chapter, that sort of aesthetic. I figured the best way to integrate is to learn the history of the place I live in. Also, I like books. And free Wi-Fi.”

Barbara’s lips twitched.

He was already charming her against her will.

He had that effect.

“Alright,” she said, reaching for a form. “Name?”

“Peter Parker.”

The name still felt both foreign and painfully right.

He kept his smile soft.

Barbara typed it in, then paused again. Her brow furrowed the tiniest bit. Peter could tell she was trying to place him. He felt her eyes on him, assessing his posture, his hair, his voice, the angle of his jaw.

When he turned slightly to glance around the library, her eyes widened almost imperceptibly.

That looks like Bruce Wayne at nineteen.

She blinked, internally slapped a sticky note on the thought, and continued her librarian duties.

“Alright Peter,” she said, handing him the paperwork. “Fill this out. And welcome to Gotham.”

“Thanks,” he said brightly.

He sat at a nearby table and began writing, pen gliding smoothly over the page. His handwriting was neat. Perfect. Too perfect. League training had drilled elegance into every movement, even the mundane ones. He made a conscious effort to mess it up a little. Normal people had imperfections. That was the whole point.

As he wrote, his mind drifted to the checklist he had prepared.

Acquire a home.

Not a base. Not a hideout. A home.

Integrate into normal society.

Try very hard not to kill anyone.

Try also not to accidentally adopt anyone.

Avoid being Spider Man.

Avoid being Pietro.

Avoid being Spyder.

Be Peter.

Just Peter.

Maybe try college.

Maybe get a job.

Maybe function like a regular adult.

His forehead dropped to the table with a quiet thunk.

I am not cut out for retirement. Why does the thought of a nine to five feel more terrifying than fighting a giant interdimensional worm?

He lifted his head again, took a breath, and finished the form.

Barbara handed him a freshly printed library card.

“Enjoy,” she said.

“Oh, I will,” Peter replied, already drifting toward the history section. “Thank you. Also, your library is very pretty. Ten out of ten ambience.”

Barbara stared after him for a solid three seconds.

Yeah. Definitely putting a pin in that.

 

He left the library with eight books tucked into his bag and the lightest feeling in his chest he had felt in years.

Of course it would not last.

Gotham had plans for him.

But for the moment, he stepped into the sunshine with the hope that maybe, just maybe, he could start over.

 

The moment Peter stepped outside the library, the sun hit him square in the face. He squinted up at it, mildly offended that it dared to shine on a day he fully expected something dramatic or tragic to happen. That was usually the pattern. Sunshine felt like a trap.

The books in his backpack shifted as he walked, thumping rhythmically against his spine. They were heavy and full of Gotham’s questionable history, the kind that read like a horror anthology if you removed the dates. Still, the weight was comforting. Books did not stab you in the back. People did. Assassins especially did.

He made his way down the street toward a row of benches under a large, overhanging tree. He claimed the one with the least pigeon droppings and sat down, setting his suitcase beside him. Then he pulled out one of the books, cracked it open, and tried to focus on the words instead of his own spiralling thoughts.

It worked for roughly twenty seconds.

Sigh. Okay. Financial stability. That sounds like a thing adults worry about. I can be an adult. I am technically an adult.

He closed the book and leaned back against the bench. His eyes drifted along the passing crowds as if hoping they held answers to existential questions.

He needed a home.

He needed legal footing.

He needed a job.

He needed a life that did not involve knives, rooftop chases, or political coups orchestrated by people who wore green robes.

Right. Home first.

Buying property should be easy, especially when one had obscene amounts of money that technically belonged to a murderous cult. Peter wrinkled his nose.

Okay, no, wait. That sounds bad when phrased like that. Rephrase. The League funded my… retirement package. Sort of. By existing. And me existing. And money being everywhere if you know where to look. Not my fault they gave me access to accounts whose origins I will never Google.

He rubbed his temples.

Ninety percent of that wealth would probably make an economist cry. The other ten percent would make a forensic accountant scream. He was not proud of it. But after three years of being Pietro, the one the League trained and revived and used as their knife, financial ethics had not been the priority.

Besides, the documents were perfect.

The League did not produce half baked identities.

They produced entire human beings on paper with terrifying accuracy.

Peter Parker existed in this world.

Graduated from various online schooling programmes.

Was an orphan.

Was perfectly legal.

Had no living relatives.

Had a clean record.

Had a paper trail that would pass government inspection.

When he first saw it, he had stared at the files for a long time.

A part of him whispered that it was wrong.

Another part whispered that it was easier.

And the third part, the one that always sounded suspiciously like Tony Stark, said, Kid, if you try being honest about any of this, you will end up in a lab or a ditch. Pick your battles.

So, he picked.

He chose the identity that felt closest to home even if it was not fully his anymore.

Peter Parker.

Not Pietro al Ghul.

Not Spyder.

Not Spider Man.

Just Peter.

He rubbed his jaw and stretched his legs out, letting the warm sunlight hit his skin. His thoughts drifted, as they always did, to everything he was trying not to think about.

Spider Man.

He remembered the weight of the mask, the fabric of his suit, the hum of nano tech forming webbing patterns across his body.

He remembered what it was like to swing between skyscrapers and feel the world blur beneath him.
He remembered the choice to let Spider Man die because he did not deserve to wear that symbol anymore.

Pietro.
He remembered waking up in a body that was not supposed to exist.

He remembered the Lazarus Pit, the burn in every nerve, the flicker of some other consciousness settling into a shape that felt familiar but wrong.

He remembered Damian’s blood on his hands.

His little brother’s terrified stare.

And the way the League dragged him back into service as if death was merely a paperwork inconvenience.

Spyder.

He remembered the missions.

The blade.

The killings.

The quiet.

The numbness.

And then Gotham.

The rain.

The sirens.

Now here he was.

Sitting on a bench in the sun.

Reading about Gotham’s founding history like a normal adult.

He let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered.

A passer-by glanced at him curiously.

Peter smiled politely. “Sorry. Talking to myself. First week in Gotham vibes.”

The stranger nodded in a way that suggested this was normal Gotham experience.

Peter looked back down at his book.

Alright. Housing.

He had saved listings on his phone. Old apartments abandoned but structurally sound buildings, repossessed properties sold cheap because previous owners either left voluntarily or were encouraged to by the criminal underworld. Gotham real estate had more warnings than a nuclear research lab.

He scrolled through options until he found it.

The perfect place.

A three-storey building downtown.

Abandoned but not condemned.

Spacious.

Cheap.

Private.

Potentially haunted.

Perfect.

He pulled up the contact information of the seller and saved it for later.

No explosives.

No raging assassins.

No death pits.

Just… a home.

And then there was the college situation.

Gotham University.

He flipped open one of the brochures he took from the front desk. There were pictures of sprawling lawns, students tossing frisbees, and a science building that looked only moderately like it might explode if someone sneezed too hard.

He could apply.

He could get a degree.

He could be a functioning adult member of society.

Or he could fake credentials.

No. No. No. That is old behaviour. Bad behaviour. No more identity fraud unless absolutely necessary.

He whipped out his phone and googled tuition fees.

He winced.

“Maybe I should just be a trust fund baby for a bit,” he whispered.

He could invest.

People did that.

Normal adults did that.

Wayne Industries had multiple public investment arms.

Should I invest in Wayne Enterprises? Is that too weird? Is that like, I  don’t know, reverse nepotism? Does that make me suspicious? Am I overthinking again?

Yes.

Always.

He shut his phone and sat up.

Time to move again. If he sat still too long, his thoughts would begin reflecting walls at dangerous speeds, and he preferred not to spiral before lunch.

He stood, grabbed his suitcase, and adjusted his backpack strap.

The city noise swelled around him as if preparing to swallow him whole.

“Alright Gotham,” he said under his breath. “Round two.”

He stepped off the curb and into the flow of people.

He was ready to start over.

Ready to pretend he was normal.

Ready to pretend he had control.

He did not realise he already stood on the path that would drag him back into the Wayne orbit.

Back into Damian’s orbit.

Back into everything he tried to escape.

But for now, he simply walked.

With eight books.

A library card.

And absolutely no clue that Gotham had already noticed him.

 

Peter merged into Gotham’s foot traffic like he had been born for it, which was ironic considering he had technically been reborn in a vat that violated every OSHA regulation ever written.

He dragged his suitcase behind him with a quiet rumble over cracked pavement. Gotham had a strange rhythm; it pulsed with an energy that hovered somewhere between “vibrant metropolitan hub” and “ don’t go down that alley unless you want to meet a clown with poor life choices.”

He kind of liked it.

The morning crowd thickened as he moved closer to the commercial district. People brushed past him, chatter blending with car horns and the distant wail of a siren. A newspaper vendor shouted headlines about corruption. A man on a bicycle nearly collided with him. A street mime performed a disturbing impression of a trapped bat near the metro entrance.

Okay, Peter thought as he sidestepped a puddle shaped exactly like New Jersey. Chaos. But organised chaos. I can work with this.

His eyes drifted upward to the towering buildings.

Back in his old life, he would have been swinging across their rooftops without a second thought.

Here, he forced his gaze back down.

He was Peter Parker.

Civilian.
Functioning adult.

Library cardholder.

Not a vigilante.

He crossed another street and paused at a corner where the smell of food wafted through the air. A food truck was parked nearby, selling something that looked like breakfast burritos but might also be a tax evasion scheme. The owner waved at him.

“You look new,” the vendor called. “Want free samples?”

Peter’s eyebrows shot up. “Wait, really?”

“Only for today. New blood gets a free burrito. Gotham hospitality.”

Peter considered it. The Parker luck usually turned free food into disaster, but he was starving and the universe owed him something positive for once.

“Sure,” he said cheerfully.

The vendor handed him a small foil wrapped burrito with pride.

Peter took a bite.

His eyes widened.

It tasted amazing.

“This is… incredible,” he said.

The vendor grinned. “Told you. Spread the word.”

Peter saluted him with the burrito and continued walking.

 

After ten more minutes of strolling, he found a small park area with benches surrounding a central fountain. Children played nearby. A couple held hands. A dog barked loudly at a squirrel, who barked back, which was mildly concerning.

Peter sat on a bench again, finishing his burrito, and took a moment to breathe.

Maybe Gotham was not so bad.

Maybe this could work.

Maybe he could let himself exist without being haunted every second.

A rustle came from a tree above him.

Peter glanced up.

An entire raccoon fell onto the bench beside him.

…They made direct eye contact.

“Hi,” Peter said quietly.

The raccoon chittered aggressively. Or maybe defensively. Or maybe it was just a Gotham raccoon and therefore capable of every emotion at once.

“I am not here to steal your food,” Peter said. “I mean, I already ate it. But if you want the foil, buddy, that is all you.”

The raccoon grabbed the foil and scurried off like it had just orchestrated a heist.

Peter watched it go.

“Okay. Maybe Gotham is absolutely unhinged. But in a fun way.”

He stood up again, adjusted his backpack, and began walking toward the busier part of the city. His eyes scanned storefronts, register machines, people’s hands, exits, angles. Old habits. He tried to dampen it.

Everywhere he looked, he saw threats.

Open windows.

Blind corners.

Shadows too deep for normal lighting.

Possible escape routes.

Possible ambush points.

Stop it, he told himself. You are safe. You chose this. No one is hunting you here.

A woman passed him with a stroller.

A man sold newspapers.

A teenager jogged with headphones on.

Normal.

Normal.

Normal.

He took a breath.

His steps carried him past a row of shops until he reached a crosswalk. While he waited for the light to change, he noticed a few teenagers taking photos in front of a street mural. One girl waved at him.

“Love your jacket!” she called.

Peter blinked. “Oh! Thanks.”

She giggled and ran back to her friends.

He watched them go, feeling strangely… warm. Compliments from strangers were not something he had received back in the League. The last compliment he remembered there was “Your blade work is cleaner. Good. The blood splatter is less sloppy.”

This was nicer.

He crossed the street once the light changed and found himself walking through a quieter neighbourhood lined with old brick buildings. Some were shops. Some were apartments. Some looked vaguely like they could house illegal gambling rings, but he chose not to pry.

His feet slowed as he approached the property he had bookmarked.

The abandoned building.

It stood between a laundromat and an art studio, three storeys tall, windows dusty but intact. Ivy grew along one side. The bricks had faded into a reddish brown that made it look almost nostalgic.

Peter stood in front of it, hands in his pockets, staring up like a man trying to divine the future.

“Could be worse,” he murmured.

He imagined what it could become.

Rooms filled with light.

A proper bed.

A kitchen that did not smell like danger.

Bookshelves.
A window he could leave open without worrying about assassins sneaking in.

A place he could breathe.

A place he could rest.

A place he could… belong.

His chest tightened.

He swallowed once and forced the emotion down.

Later. Feel things later. Now you have paperwork to handle.

He snapped a picture of the building and stored it in his phone. There were numbers to call, contracts to sign, bank transfers to arrange, taxes to pretend to care about.

He turned away and began walking again, letting the city swallow him up.

 

He wandered for almost half an hour before realising his shoulders had stopped tensing at every sound. His hand had not drifted to the knife hidden in his jacket even once. He had not scanned a rooftop for snipers in at least fifteen minutes.

Progress.

He rounded another corner and stopped when he saw a man with a cardboard sign that read:
FREE ADVICE, FIVE DOLLARS.

Peter snorted.

“That is not how free works,” he said as he passed.

The man shouted after him, “It is Gotham free!”

Peter gave him a thumbs up without looking back.

 

Eventually he reached a quiet intersection with a coffee shop that looked cosy enough not to give him food poisoning. He stepped inside, ordered something overpriced but tasty, and sat by the window. The caffeine warmed him. The noise around him softened.

For a moment, he let himself exist.

Just Peter.

Just a boy in a café.

Just someone starting over.

Then, without warning, a memory pierced through.

The Pit.

The cold.

The scream lodged in his throat.

The moment his eyes snapped open again in a body too tall, too strong, too sharp.

And a small boy staring at him with horror.

Damian.

Peter’s hand tightened around his cup.

The lid crinkled.

He forced his fingers to relax.

That was the old life.

This was the new one.

He inhaled deeply, letting coffee grounds and cinnamon fill his lungs.

 don’t think about Damian.  don’t think about the League.  don’t think about what you left behind.

He looked up at the café menu, pretending to read it.

Just blend in. Live. Be Peter Parker. You can do this. You can—

His phone buzzed.

He glanced at it.

A notification from a housing agent, responding faster than expected.

He grinned faintly.

“Alright,” he murmured. “Step one. Home.”

He stood, tossed his empty cup, and walked out into Gotham again with renewed purpose.

Books.
Coffee.
Real estate.

He was unstoppable.

 

Peter walked down the block with renewed determination, the kind that bordered on delusion but was stabilised by caffeine and sheer stubbornness. The street noise hummed like a soundtrack for his supposed adulthood. He thumbed through his phone until he reached the number of the listing agent for the old brick building.

He hovered over the call button for a moment.

Okay. You can do this. Be normal. Talk like a normal human adult.  don’t sound like someone who used to be a vigilante and also an assassin and also legally dead. Just ask about the property. Easy.

He tapped the button.

The phone rang twice before someone picked up.

“Hello, Gotham Properties, this is Sandra speaking.”

Peter straightened slightly. “Hi! Yes. My name is Peter Parker. I’m calling about the listing on Fourth and Willow. The old three storey building.”

“Ah,” Sandra said brightly. “Lovely property. Are you interested in renting or buying?”

“Buying,” Peter said, trying not to sound as suspicious as that probably made him. “I’d like to schedule a viewing.”

Sandra hummed. “Of course. Just a small heads up, the building is in… less than pristine condition. The last few prospective buyers backed out.”

“Why?”

“Some of them said it felt haunted.”

Peter perked up. “Haunted?”

“Mildly.”

“That’s fine.”

“Others said squatters kept using the front steps.”

“That’s also fine.”

“And one reported that a raccoon claimed the upstairs bedroom.”

“Totally fine.”

Sandra paused. “You don’t seem fazed.”

“Oh, trust me,” Peter said honestly, “this would not even break my top fifty weird experiences.”

Sandra let out a confused laugh. “Well, alright then. How about this afternoon? Three thirty?”

“Perfect. Thank you.”

They exchanged details and ended the call. Peter pocketed his phone and resumed walking, now with the stride of a man who had absolutely no idea what he was doing but was going to do it anyway.

He reached a quiet alley shortcut, one of many in Gotham that all looked like they had lore attached. As he passed through, he passed a group of teenagers tagging a wall with graffiti. One of them glanced up at him.

“Yo, you lost?”

Peter shook his head. “Nope. Just passing through. Nice colours, by the way.”

The teenager blinked. “You’re… chill.”

“Trying my best.”

They gave him a confused thumbs-up and returned to their painting. Peter slipped out of the alley and into a busier street.

He kept walking until he hit a small outdoor market. It was bustling, colourful, loud, and strangely comforting. Vendors shouted deals, kids begged for sweets, and someone was aggressively selling bootleg hero merchandise. One stall had a shirt with Batman’s symbol drawn slightly wrong, like an upside-down bat wearing eyeliner.

Peter snorted. Gotham culture is beautiful.

He paused at a stall selling apples and pointed at one. “Can I get one of these?”

The elderly vendor looked at him, eyes squinting. “You look familiar.”

Oh no.

Peter forced a smile. “Really? I get that a lot. I think I have one of those faces.”

“You look like a Wayne,” the vendor muttered.

Peter’s soul flatlined.

“Oh. Wow. Um. Thank you? I think?”

The vendor shrugged and bagged the apple. “Two dollars.”

Peter paid, took the apple, and power walked away like he just committed tax fraud.

Great. Amazing. Fantastic. I look like a Wayne. Because that is definitely a thing that will not absolutely ruin my attempt at blending in.

He shoved the apple into his bag and tried very hard not to dwell on the cosmic irony that his borrowed genetics were going to give him a crisis in this specific city, of all possible cities in the multiverse.

 

He continued east until he reached a narrow side street lined with townhouses, each more chaotic than the last. One had a “Beware of Dog” sign even though the only creature behind the gate was a goldfish in a bowl. Another had a ten-foot holiday skeleton still up in the yard, wearing a scarf.

Peter stopped to admire it.

“I respect your choices,” he said quietly.

Then he kept walking.

The city air shifted as he moved further from the market. The noise dulled, replaced by the soft buzz of traffic and distant honking. His pace slowed naturally. He felt himself relaxing again.

He passed by a construction site and instinctively checked the metal beams’ structural integrity. Then he frowned at himself.

“Stop it,” he muttered. “Normal people don’t do that.”

He kept walking, forcing himself to unclench his jaw and lower his shoulders. For every instinct he fought, another one seeped in. The way he scanned windows. The way he automatically walked on the side of the sidewalk with the least ambush potential. The way he checked reflections in glass.

Relax. Civilian. You are a civilian now.

A car door slammed behind him.

He flinched.

He cursed under his breath.

This was going to take time.

 

Eventually, after making several loops around the neighbourhood, he found a small park bench beside a weathered fountain. He sat down, dropped his backpack beside his feet, and let himself exhale.

He opened one of the books he borrowed from the library.

The Early History of Gotham: A City Built on Foundations and Fault Lines.

He flipped through the pages, absorbing names, dates, scandals, mayoral mishaps, inexplicable architecture decisions, and at least three corruption cases per decade. Gotham had a colourful history, to put it mildly.

He traced his finger along an illustration of the original city layout.

It reminded him of web patterns.

Lines.

Connections.

Weak points.

His mind visualised pathways and exit routes before he could stop it.

He shut the book.

This was supposed to help him settle in, not turn into a tactical analysis session.

He leaned back, staring up at the sky.

Maybe his brain would eventually stop working like a weapon.

Maybe not.

Only one way to find out.

 

He glanced at his phone. A little past one. He still had hours before the property viewing.

He pushed himself up from the bench, brushed off his jeans, grabbed his suitcase, and started walking again.

He had a home to acquire.

He had a life to build.

And if Gotham wanted to throw chaos his way, well…

He had survived worse.

Far worse.

 

Peter arrived on Fourth and Willow nearly forty minutes earlier than planned.

Because of course he did.

Anticipation made him move faster. Nervousness made him overestimate travel time. And Gotham’s unpredictable traffic made him decide he would rather be early and bored than late and accidentally stabbed.

He stood in front of the building again, this time with a more analytical eye. Now that he had a viewing scheduled, he allowed himself to actually inspect the place with the same scrutiny he used to reserve for enemy compounds.

Without meaning to, he assessed the brickwork, window alignment, possible leak points, potential weak structural areas, and how easy it would be for someone to break in.

Stop. Stop. Stop it. Normal. You are being normal. People  don’t assess buildings like this.

He sucked in a deep breath and forced his brain out of tactical mode.

From the outside, the structure looked charming in the way old bookstores did. The kind of building that held stories. Memory. Dust. Character. It had a crooked personality and Peter liked it.

He walked closer, dragging his suitcase behind him, and brushed his fingers along the brick. A bit of debris crumbled at his touch, but the foundation felt steady.

A good sign.

Then something moved in the upstairs window.

Peter froze.

He squinted.

Nothing.
Just a faint shift in the curtain.

“Oh,” he whispered. “Right. The raccoon rumour.”

Still, a curtain moving required hands. Or claws. Or someone living there.

He frowned faintly.

Sandra had said “mildly haunted” and “possible raccoons.” She did not say “light trespassing resident.”

He reached up, knocked on the boarded front door experimentally, and listened.

Silence.

Another knock.

Still silence.

“…Okay. Cool. Totally normal. Definitely not foreshadowing.”

He stepped back onto the sidewalk and waited.

People passed him occasionally, glancing at the building, then at him. One elderly woman slowed her walk and looked at Peter’s face with a squint.

“You look like a Wayne,” she said before shuffling off.

“I swear,” Peter muttered under his breath, “I am going to develop a complex.”

 

At exactly three twenty-eight, a small silver sedan pulled up.

A woman in her mid forties stepped out, holding a clipboard.

Sandra.

She adjusted her glasses and waved enthusiastically when she spotted him.

“Peter Parker?”

“That’s me,” Peter said, putting on a pleasant smile.

“Great! Let’s take a look inside. Though I should warn you, the place might be a bit… aged.”

“I like aged,” Peter said cheerfully. “Aged is character.”

Sandra blinked at him. “You’re very optimistic.”

“Trying to be,” Peter said.

Sandra unlocked the front door with a metal key that screeched slightly in the lock.

The door swung open with the tired groan of a creature begging for retirement.

Inside, dust motes floated lazily in slanted sunlight.

The air smelled like old wood, damp corners, and a hint of… cinnamon?

Weird.

“It is definitely old,” Sandra said as they stepped inside. “But the structure is solid. Previous owners renovated the plumbing about ten years ago.”

Peter nodded and looked around.

Old floorboards.

High ceilings.

Natural lighting.

Space.
Potential.

His heart tugged unexpectedly.

He flicked on his League instincts just enough to pick up subtle sounds.

From upstairs.

Movement.
Soft.
Small.

The raccoon. Probably.

Or a squatter.

Or a ghost.

Or the world’s quietest serial killer.

He motioned subtly to his left, letting Sandra walk on ahead so she did not notice his momentary alertness.

This is fine. This is normal. You can handle raccoons. You once fought a multi dimensional goo monster. You can handle a raccoon.

They explored room by room.

Sandra talked about renovation permits and zoning codes.

Peter nodded politely, pretending to understand everything.

He had no idea what zoning meant.

He made a mental note to Google it.

The living room was spacious.

The kitchen was outdated but usable.

The stairway creaked in a nostalgic way.

When they reached the upstairs level, Peter stiffened again.

Something dashed behind a door.

Sandra jumped. “What was that?”

Peter smiled gently. “Probably the raccoon.”

“Raccoons don’t run that quietly.”

“Gotham raccoons do.”

Sandra made a face but continued.

Peter placed his hand casually on the doorknob. If there was a squatter, he would rather deal with it than let Sandra get hurt.

He opened the door slowly.

Inside was a small bedroom.

Dusty.

Empty.

Curtains fluttering from a cracked window.

No raccoon.

No squatter.

No murderer.

He exhaled silently.

Sandra cleared her throat. “So… what do you think?”

Peter turned to her with a smile that felt soft and honest.

“I think… this feels like a place I can live in.”

Sandra blinked. “Truly?”

He nodded. “Really.”

There was a warmth in his chest he had not felt in years.

Not since Queens.

Not since before everything shattered.

Sandra relaxed fully for the first time.

“Well then,” she said brightly, “Let’s head downstairs and go over paperwork. If you want to proceed, we can start the transfer process today.”

“Yes. Please. Let’s do that.”

 

They returned to the front entrance. Sandra handed him a stack of documents. She began explaining tax history, maintenance records, property lines, and a list of former owners, some of whom had… questionable circumstances surrounding their departures.

“Typical Gotham stuff,” Sandra said with a shrug, flipping a page.

Peter nodded politely while internally thinking:

Okay. So, three owners fled the country. One disappeared. One joined a cult. One died mysteriously. And the last one moved to Metropolis for a job promotion. That is actually the least suspicious one.

He signed where she told him to.

His forged identity passed every verification.

Of course it did.

The League’s fake documents were better than the real ones.

By the time they finished, Sandra handed him a small black key.

“Congratulations,” she said. “You are now a homeowner.”

Peter took the key carefully, almost reverently.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

He stepped outside and stared at the building again.

His building.

His home.

No assassins.

No expectations.

No roles.

No masks.

Just walls.

Just windows.

Just space to breathe.

He let out a slow breath and tucked the key into his pocket.

Sandra waved as she walked back to her car.

Peter waved back.

Then he turned toward the street.

It felt like the city unfolded in front of him with a new quietness. A welcome. A beginning.

Peter started walking again, suitcase rolling behind him.

He had a home.

He had a library card.

He had a fresh start.

He had no idea that in a few months, people would whisper stories about a shadowy figure called Spyder slicing through assassins in dark alleys.

He had no idea that the Wayne family would eventually notice him.

He had no idea he was already being watched.

For now, he simply walked into Gotham with eight new library books, a property deed, and the naive hope that things might stay simple.

They would not.

But this moment belonged to him.

---

 

Notes:

Author's note(s):
I swear, Peter has the best luck in the worst situations, doesn’t he?

I know how universities work, I am in one. It's just that, damn it all.

Chapter 6: Chapter 5: Integration

Summary:

Peter tries to settle into his new life in Gotham, attending university, fixing up his “house,” and unknowingly making connections that will change everything, all while questioning if he’s truly left his old life behind.

---

Peter stood in front of his new “house” the next morning with the same energy of a man about to challenge God to a fistfight. The early light hit the cracked windows, making the dust sparkle like nature was trying to pretend the place wasn’t one gust of wind away from collapsing.

“Alright,” he said to himself. “I can fix this.”

He said that with the confidence of someone who had absolutely no proof he could fix anything bigger than a toaster. And even then, the last toaster he “fixed” shot a piece of bread so hard it dented a ceiling tile.

But he had YouTube.

And possibly brainworms.

And the brute determination of someone who had survived actual pits of resurrection.

He pushed the front door open. It moaned like it hated him personally.

Inside, the air was cool and stale, but the sunlight lacing through the upstairs landing gave it an almost magical quality. Like a forgotten cottage. A murder cottage, sure, but still.

Peter clapped his hands together.

“So. Step one: cleaning.”

He ran up the stairs to drop his bag, and something scurried overhead.

He froze. “Raccoon roommate. Okay. Good morning, Jeremy.”

He had decided the raccoon’s name was Jeremy. It felt appropriate.

“Please don’t fight me for dominance,” he added. “I already lost to a goose once. I can’t do that again.”

Jeremy made no noise. Jeremy judged silently.

Peter began cleaning.

Like, aggressively cleaning.

Not trained assassin aggressive, more like someone who owned a power drill and therefore believed he was invincible.

Dust flew.

Floorboards creaked.

A broom snapped in half.

He saluted it respectfully, then taped it back together and kept going.

He scrubbed windows until they actually let sunlight in properly.

He cleared debris.

He carried out broken furniture.

He hauled planks and boards outside with unsettling ease, the kind of ease Sandra probably would have questioned during the property sale.

By noon, he had opened every window in the place, letting Gotham’s vaguely polluted but lively breeze sweep through.

It felt cleaner.

Lighter.

More his.

He looked around, hands on his hips.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “House.”

It was not a house.

But he said it with such pride the walls physically accepted it.

 

After showering with water pressure so weak it felt like being licked by a gentle frog, Peter dressed in fresh clothes and slung his backpack over his shoulder.

Gotham University looked beautiful in brochure pictures, so he decided to visit the admissions office in person. He boarded a bus, sat next to a man holding a cactus for unknown reasons, and tried not to overthink it.

The campus sprawled before him like a green oasis between concrete towers. Students lounged under trees, chatted on benches, played frisbee without murdering anyone with it. It looked… normal. Deeply, painfully normal.

Peter inhaled slowly.

You can do this. One small part of your life can be normal. You deserve that. Maybe.

He walked into the admissions building. The office smelled like printer ink, stress, and burnt coffee, academia’s natural scent.

A woman sitting behind a high counter glanced up and gave him a polite smile.

“Hello there. How can I help?”

Peter leaned forward slightly, charming, and sunny. “Hi. I’m looking to apply. Freshman. New to Gotham. I’m trying to do things the traditional way instead of the… dramatic way.”

She blinked. “Dramatic way?”

Peter waved dismissively. “Long story. Involved a boat. Maybe a ninja. Don’t ask.”

She definitely wanted to ask.

She did not.

“What major are you interested in?” she asked instead.

Peter froze.

He had not thought this far.

He scanned the brochure she handed him.

Biology?

Engineering?

Computer science?

Journalism?

Business?

Philosophy?

He muttered to himself, “Philosophy feels like a cry for help… probably not that.”

The admissions woman stared politely.

Peter bit his lip, then pointed at something random.

“Computer science. Please. I like… computers.”

He probably sounded like a liar.

But actually, he did like computers.

He once coded a multi layered AI with Tony Stark.

But that was not relevant here.

The woman nodded and handed him more forms. “You seem very enthusiastic.”

“I’m trying my best,” Peter said.

“Gotham needs more of that,” she replied warmly.

And bizarrely, he believed her.

He filled out the application on the spot.

Submitted paperwork.

Attached transcripts the League had forged so well they might as well be canon.

The admissions officer reviewed it, raising her brows. “Your grades are excellent.”

Peter smiled awkwardly. “I, uhm, study a lot.”

She nodded, processed it, and said pleasantly, “Welcome to Gotham University, Mister Parker.”

He stared at her.

“Wait. I got in?”

“Yes?”

“Like… now?”

“Yes.”

“…Cool. Thank you.”

He left the office walking as if in a dream.

I did a normal thing. A normal legal thing. And no one died. Or stabbed me. Or made me take an oath. Or threw me into a pit.

He sat on a bench outside the building and let the sun warm his face. For a moment, he felt younger. Lighter. Like the world was letting him breathe.

That would not last, obviously.

But it was nice.

 

He wandered the campus until he found a flyer pinned to a bulletin board:

JOIN THE JOURNALISM CLUB, PHOTOGRAPHERS NEEDED

Peter stared at it.

Photographer.

Camera.

Pictures.

The thing he always fell back on.

The thing that never betrayed him.

He tore the flyer down and followed the directions to a small meeting room where several students sat chatting and organising notes.

A girl with curly hair looked up. “Hi! New?”

Peter nodded. “Yes. Peter Parker. I heard you need photographers?”

“Do you have experience?”

“A bit,” he said modestly.

He neglected to add that he once photographed alien invasions and rogue wizards.

The girl beckoned him inside. “Show us what you got.”

He snapped photos casually, of the group, the window lighting, a close shot of a water bottle reflecting sunlight. Pure instinct. Flow.

When he showed the samples, the room went quiet.

A boy whispered, “Is this… edited?”

“No?” Peter blinked. “That would require effort.”

They stared at him with the reverence of people who just witnessed a miracle.

“You’re hired,” the girl said.

“Does this pay?”

“No.”

He nodded solemnly. “I will do it anyway.”

He left twenty minutes later with an unofficial title, a club chat invite, and a lingering sense that he was accidentally about to become the university’s unofficial golden retriever photographer.

Honestly?

He was okay with that.

 

This… is where chaos began subtly.

Peter returned to the library later that week to study. Not really study, more like anchor himself so his brain did not spiral into identity doom.

He sat at a table and opened his laptop, fully prepared to google “how to be a normal student.”

A shadow fell across the table.

“Is this seat taken?”

Peter looked up.

A boy stood there, dark hair, tired eyes, polite posture bordering on stiff.

Young. Maybe seventeen.

Books stacked in his arms like he carried emotional trauma in hardcover form.

He looked familiar in a way Peter could not place.

“Sure,” Peter said, sliding his backpack over.

The boy set his things down and opened a thick coding textbook. Their eyes met briefly.

“You’re new,” the boy said.

Peter smiled. “Is it that obvious?”

“You don’t look jaded enough yet. Gotham takes about three weeks to do that.”

They shook hands.

“I’m Peter.”

“Tim,” the boy said.

They made eye contact for three seconds.

Then something in both their brains clicked simultaneously.

They were the same flavour of nerd.

Within ten minutes they were discussing programming logic.

Within fifteen, they were opening a shared doc.

By thirty minutes in, they were designing a game about an egg.

“It should be about an egg trying not to die,” Peter explained seriously. “Like Dark Souls, but breakfast themed.”

Tim nodded thoughtfully. “So… multiple classes of egg?”

“Exactly. Scrambled, poached, sunny side. But the sunny side one is hard mode.”

They leaned over the laptop together.

“The egg needs to roll,” Peter said firmly.

Tim blinked. “Why?”

“Physics. Comedy. Chaos. Do you need more reasons?”

Tim sighed in the exact way someone sighs when they have already lost an argument. “Fine. The egg can roll.”

They became friends right there.

Just like that.

Effortless.

Normal.

Well, normal for two geniuses making a survival game about an egg.

And for once, Peter did not feel out of place.

 

Evening settled over Gotham like a damp blanket, heavy and cold and full of questionable smells. Peter stood outside his building, hands in his jacket pockets, exhaling warm breaths into the chilly air. He had intended to grab dinner, maybe study a bit more, and then crash early.

Nothing too dangerous.

Nothing violent.

Nothing that required blades or masks or the quiet, lethal instincts he carried in his bones.

A quiet night.

He should have known better.

He walked only two blocks before every hair on his body raised at once.

A whisper of movement.

A shift in the wind.

A silence that was too precise.

“Ah, hell,” he muttered.

He ducked into an alley and jumped effortlessly onto a fire escape. His footsteps softened, breath steadying. The shadows felt familiar. Comforting. Wrong. But comforting.

He closed his eyes briefly.

They found me.

The League.

He had lasted months. Longer than he thought he would. But they always circled back. Always found their stray mutt.

Peter inhaled.

Fine.

If they wanted Spyder, they would get Spyder.

His body moved without hesitation.

Silent, fluid, effortless grace.

He climbed, leapt, swung across metal rails and broken pipes, letting the city’s dim glow paint him in streaks of gold and black.

He landed on the rooftop of an abandoned pharmacy, crouched, and scanned the alley below.

Five assassins.

Six.

Eight.

“Guys,” he whispered, “I have homework.”

One of them leapt up the wall.

Peter moved faster.

The first assassin did not even register the blade slicing across his wrist.

The second tried to flank him.

Peter twisted, slammed an elbow into his jaw, swept him to the floor.

The third came from behind.

Peter ducked low, kicked his knee inward, heard the crunch.

He thought it would end at three.

It did not.

More came.

Clambering over rooftops.

Climbing drains.

Dropping from above like idiot ninjas in a discount action movie.

Peter groaned.

“This is so unnecessary.”

He fought with tight precision, more defensive than offensive, but still lethal. He did not have the luxury of mercy. The League trained him to end battles before they began.

One assassin lunged.

Peter grabbed his arm, twisted, and threw him into a dumpster so hard the lid snapped.

By the time he stopped moving, the ground was littered with bodies.

Twelve in total.

Peter exhaled, chest rising and falling slowly, adrenaline humming through his blood like a familiar drug he wished desperately to quit.

“Quiet night,” he muttered bitterly. “Great job, Pete.”

He cleaned the blade on a fallen cloak and stepped back, preparing to vanish before police arrived. He crouched, ready to leap, when,

A red helmet appeared at the mouth of the alley.

Oh boy.

Red Hood looked down at the bodies, then up at Peter.

Peter’s brain ran twelve million calculations and found one solution that did not involve getting shot in the kneecap.

He dropped the blade.

Grabbed the nearest object, a dusty camera from a trash bag.

And instantly transformed his face.

Wide eyes.

Trembling lips.

Soft, pathetic gasp.

“What, what happened?” he stammered in his best traumatised freshman voice. “He, he was here and then he left and, and, oh God, ”

Red Hood froze.

Peter added a small shake to his hands for dramatic effect.

“I just heard noises and came to check and I didn’t, I didn’t know it’d be this, I’m sorry, I, I just wanted to take photos for a project, ”

Red Hood’s shoulders loosened almost imperceptibly.

He had a weakness for scared kids.

“You alright, kid?”

Peter nodded rapidly. “Y-yeah, maybe, I think so, I mean probably not but I can, like, process this in therapy later or something, I just, he was here and then he left.”

Jason Todd stared at him for another long moment.

Then sighed.

“Alright. Get out of here. You should not be in this neighbourhood at night.”

Peter nodded rapidly, camera clutched to his chest like a toddler holding a teddy bear, and scampered away with appropriately uncoordinated steps.

The moment he reached the next block, he calmly straightened his posture and walked normally.

Then he whispered to himself, “That was Oscar worthy. Damn.”

 

The next day, Peter walked into the Gotham Public Library again with the camera still in his backpack, unsure if it counted as a sacred artefact or evidence.

He planned to return the books he finished. Tim sat in their usual corner, typing furiously with an energy drink beside him, but Peter made a mental note to greet him later.

He dropped the books onto the counter.

Barbara looked up. “Back already?”

“They were good,” Peter said. “Gotham has a concerning amount of corruption in its early city planning. Very fun read.”

She snorted. “That is one way to phrase it.”

Then she paused.

Narrowed her eyes.

Tilted her head.

“You look tired,” she said.

Peter froze. “College.”

“Hm.”

She tapped her pen against the desk.

Staring.

Thinking.

He shifted awkwardly. “Is something wrong?”

“You remind me of someone,” she said.

“Oh?”

She did not answer.

She pulled up a file on her screen, something librarian coded and innocent looking.

But she flicked her eyes between Peter and a faded photograph tucked discreetly behind her keyboard.

Bruce Wayne.

Age nineteen.

Black hair.

Soft features.

Tall.

Bright eyed.

She looked at the photo.

She looked at Peter.

She squinted harder.

Peter smiled. “Should I be concerned?”

“No.”

Then, after a beat, “Maybe.”

She tucked the photo away.

A Wayne relative? A clone? A secret son?

Her brain was already spinning conspiracy webs.

But then Peter laughed at something Tim shouted from across the room, a warm, genuine, sunny laugh.

And Barbara thought:

No. Bruce never laughed like that.

She filed the suspicion for later anyway.

A sticky note in her mental detective notebook:

Peter Parker, Keep an eye on him.

 

Two days after the Red Hood incident, Peter was eating lunch outside campus, a sandwich, a badly sliced apple, and a juice box he definitely stole from the journalism club fridge.

His phone buzzed.

Unknown Number:

Saw your photos from the Crime Alley scene.

Come to the Gazette.

Now.

-VV

Peter stared.

“What photos, oh no.”

He forgot the camera.

He forgot the SD card inside.

He forgot he accidentally snapped a few shots during his performance panic.

He considered ignoring the text.

He considered fleeing the city.

He considered faking his death again.

Instead, he sighed and walked to the Gotham Gazette building.

Vicky Vale stood in the lobby like a storm cloud in heels. Sharp eyes. Faster mouth. Faster judgement.

“You’re the kid.”

Peter blinked. “I… am a kid, yes.”

She shoved a printout at his face.

One of his photos.

Beautiful framing.

Perfect lighting.

Artfully capturing Jason Todd’s crime scene from the angle of a traumatised uni student.

“You took these?”

“Yes?”

She narrowed her eyes.

Then smirked.

“You’re hired.”

Peter blinked. “Wait, what?”

“You start as assistant photographer. Pay is bad. Hours are worse. Don’t die.”

Peter blinked again. “I… wasn’t planning to?”

“Good. Bring that camera tomorrow.”

She turned and marched away.

Peter stood there.

Processing.

So, this was how he got a job.

Not by applying.

Not by trying.

Not by networking.

But by accidentally faking trauma in front of Red Hood and leaving behind evidence of his own carnage.

He rubbed his forehead.

“This is the most Parker Luck thing that has ever happened to me.”

 

Peter left the Gotham Gazette building with a job offer and a deep existential confusion that he carried like a decorative handbag.

He walked three blocks before stopping at a crosswalk and whispering to himself, “I think I accidentally became employed.”

A man beside him answered, “That’s Gotham, kid.”

Peter nodded sagely as if this explained everything.

It kind of did.

The light changed.

He crossed the street.

His phone buzzed again, Tim.

timdrake: why does the egg explode when it rolls downhill

peterp: artistic choice

timdrake: stop making the egg explode

peterp: i cannot control the egg

timdrake: YOU coded the egg

peterp: he has free will

Peter snorted out loud and got a concerned look from a passer-by.

He stuffed his phone into his pocket and continued down the block toward his newly purchased feral-brick-house.

 

He reached the front door, unlocked it with the shiny new key, and swung it open with the dramatic flair of someone entering a mansion instead of a half-rotting structure.

Jeremy, the raccoon, was sitting on the stairs.

Like a landlord.

Judging.
Supremely unimpressed.

“Sup, Jeremy,” Peter said, stepping inside.

Jeremy hissed.

“I bought the house, dude, you don’t get rent rights anymore.”

The raccoon slapped a loose newspaper off the stair.

Peter couldn’t tell if that meant dominance or protest. Possibly both.

He walked through the hallway, mentally listing repairs.

Floorboards: creaky.

Windows: dusty.

Kitchen: tragic.

Electrical wiring: actively suicidal.

Bathroom: an eldritch horror.

He cracked his knuckles.

“Time to fix things like a normal homeowner.”

He paused.

“…With no experience.”

He spent the next hour on YouTube, watching DIY videos titled:

Fixing A House As A Beginner!

Home Repairs Even An Idiot Can Do

If You Need This Tutorial, Please Call A Professional

He ignored the last one.

Then he got to work.

Hammering.

Drilling.

Sweeping.

Organising.

Installing shelves that leaned slightly but stayed up through sheer willpower.

Jeremy sat on the kitchen counter the whole time, staring at him.

“Are you impressed?” Peter asked.

Jeremy blinked slowly.

“I’ll take that as yes.”

 

Days passed.

Peter woke up at dawn.

Attended morning classes.

Grabbed coffee.

Took pictures for the journalism club.

Ran into Tim three more times because the universe wanted to form a chaotic duo and it would not be stopped.

He would meet with admissions staff.

Talk to professors.

Fix outlets at his house and occasionally get shocked.

Buy groceries and forget half of what he needed.

Trip over Jeremy twice.

Claim victory anyway.

Every evening, he worked on the egg game with Tim.

The egg now had lore.

The egg now had trauma.

The egg had dialogue bubbles when rolling down hills.

One night in the library:

Tim leaned closer to the screen. “The egg shouldn’t have a childhood backstory.”

Peter tapped rapidly. “He needs motivation.”

“It’s an egg!”

“Tim, he watched his siblings scrambled in front of him. That’s character development.”

Tim pinched his nose. “You’re older than me. You’re supposed to have wisdom.”

“I do. That’s why the egg rolls.”

 

Barbara noticed him every time he walked in.

Peter Parker.

Bright smile.

Kind eyes.

Dark hair.

Slighter posture than Bruce but eerily similar face profile.

She sat at the desk, fingers steepled, watching him shelve books he did not need to be shelving.

He even moves like him, she thought. Minus the brooding. Minus the looming. Minus the billionaire trauma aura. So… not like him. But definitely kin adjacent.

She discreetly pulled up Bruce’s old yearbook photo.

Then looked at Peter again.

Then back.

Then again.

She whispered to herself, “No. No, this is too stupid.”

Peter tripped over his own shoelace and apologised to a bookshelf.

Barbara closed the photo.

“Yeah… he’s definitely not related.”

Her brain whispered:

Put a pin in it anyway.

She did.

 

Peter’s new job at the Gotham Gazette was… surreal.

His first day, Vicky Vale handed him two cameras, a press badge, and a warning.

“Don’t die,” she said.

“That’s… specific.”

“Union rules.”

She dragged him around the office, pointing at cubicles, explaining deadlines, complaining about the mayor, insulting printers, insulting the commissioner, insulting the city for existing.

Peter nodded along, smiling politely, holding two coffees because she shoved them into his hands without explanation.

Then she stopped suddenly.

Turned.

Stared him down.

“You’re that kid who keeps stumbling into crime scenes.”

Peter blinked. “I, what?”

“You were at Crime Alley. And at the docks last Thursday.”

He stiffened. “Oh. That was, Parker luck.”

Vicky scoffed. “You’re either cursed or chosen.”

She slapped him on the shoulder.

“Kid, you got instincts.”

Peter wanted to say those instincts were trained by literal assassins, but instead said:

“Thank you. I think.”

She grinned.

He survived.

Barely.

 

That night, back at home, he sat cross-legged on the floor with a half-eaten sandwich and a toolbox beside him. Jeremy was gnawing on a cardboard box.

Peter leaned back against the wall and stared at the ceiling.

He had:

A house.

A job.

A college ID.

A friend.

A raccoon roommate.

And a growing fear that one wrong step would send everything crashing down.

He pressed his palms together.

I can do this. I can build something here. I’m not Pietro anymore. I’m not Spider Man anymore. I’m not Spyder all the time. Just part time. And maybe that’s fine.

He exhaled shakily.

Tomorrow, he had work.

Classes.
Club stuff.

Egg game bug fixes.

Home repairs.

And the lingering feeling he was being watched.

But for the first time in a long time, he did not feel alone.

Jeremy squeaked and ran off with a screw Peter needed.

“Jeremy come back, ”

Peter scrambled after him, yelling in mild panic.

Normalcy.

Almost.

 

Peter stepped out of the Gazette two days later with the stride of a man who had successfully convinced the universe he was normal. This was a lie, but he still walked with the confidence of a guy who had not accidentally killed several assassins in a back alley less than a week ago.

Today was a “fix the house” day.

He said this out loud to himself as he trekked across Burnley with a bag full of second-hand tools from a pawn shop that definitely did not check inventory legally.

“Right. Adult things. Home improvement. DIY. This is peak normal,” he muttered, adjusting the backpack strap before it cut circulation to his shoulder. “HGTV wishes they had me.”

His building stood at the end of the street like a condemned crypt someone had tried to dress up with a sad coat of beige paint back in 1985. Peter unlocked the door with a key that looked newer than the property itself.

He walked inside and inhaled.

Yes.

Rot.

Dust.

Broken dreams.

Authentic Gotham flavour.

He clapped his hands once.

“Time to fix you, baby.”

Forty-seven minutes later, Peter was sitting on the floor, covered in plaster dust, staring at a pipe that had just burst directly into his face.

He wiped his cheek with the back of his hand.

“I did not deserve that.”

He needed help.

Professional help.

Preferably people who did not ask too many questions.

He stood, walked outside, locked the door again because he did not trust squatters not to reclaim their territory, and began wandering the neighbourhood in search of anyone who looked like they owned a hammer.

That was when he walked directly into a very huge person.

Peter bounced back, blinked, and looked up.

And up.

Jason Todd, wearing a leather jacket and a casual expression that did not match the fact that he was built like a brick house with opinions, looked down at him.

“Oh, sorry man,” Peter said automatically, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t see you there, kinda zoning out over my, uh… house. If you can call it that.”

Jason snorted.

“You living in the condemned one?”

Peter nodded proudly.

“That’s me.”

Jason stared for a moment as if reevaluating every assumption he had about human survival instincts.

“You planning to fix it?”

“Trying to,” Peter said cheerfully. “But I think the building is fighting back. Pretty sure I lost that round.”

Jason huffed a half-laugh, shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, and jerked his chin toward the corner.

“Come on. I know people.”

Peter blinked.

“Oh. Like, contractors? Or like, mobsters-who-also-do-construction?”

Jason shrugged.

“Yes.”

Peter followed anyway.

Parker luck.

They walked into a small auto shop that doubled as a handyman hub. Jason introduced him to three men who looked like they wrestled refrigerators for fun and carried toolboxes like handbags.

“This is the kid I told you about,” Jason said casually even though he had literally met Peter ninety seconds ago.

Peter blinked.

“We’re doing nicknames already? Oh my god, friendship speedrun.”

Jason ignored that.

“These guys can fix your place. They’ll give you a fair rate.”

The biggest of the three extended a calloused hand.

“You pay cash?”

Peter nodded.

“Yes. Cash is good. Cash is very good. Extremely good. So good that I only operate in cash.”

Jason squinted at him for that one, but Peter gave him his best innocent smile, the I definitely did not escape a ninja death cult last month smile.

They sealed the deal, exchanged information, and just when Peter thought he had survived the encounter without accidentally committing a felony, Jason said:

“Ever box?”

Peter blinked again.

“Like… things? Boxes? I mean, yeah, moving is just, ”

“Fight,” Jason clarified.

“Oh.” Peter cleared his throat. “Right. That. Sure. Sometimes.”

Sometimes meant daily, for three years, against assassins who liked throwing him off cliffs for character development. But sure, “sometimes.”

Jason nodded.

“Guys and I do friendly spars in the evenings. Not professional. Not shady. Just a workout. You wanna join?”

Peter opened his mouth to politely decline.

Then his instincts kicked in.

Fitness.

Routine.

Normal social interaction with people who punched things but also held day jobs.

This was… human.

He needed that.

So, he smiled.

“Yeah. I’d like that. Sounds fun.”

Jason grinned, approving in the way older boys used to react to Pietro before the pit.

“Cool. Come by Friday. Six.”

Peter saluted with absolutely no self-awareness.

“Yes sir.”

Jason stared.

Peter froze.

Jason shook his head, amused, and slightly confused.

“You’re a weird kid.”

Peter brightened.

“Thank you.”

And somehow, that was how he ended up not only renovating a house but also joining a Gotham underground-but-not-illegal-but-definitely-questionable community boxing circle.

He walked back toward his building with fresh purpose, swinging the bag of tools like it weighed nothing.

“Look at me,” he said aloud. “Making friends. Doing human things. Fixing plumbing. Not killing assassins today. This is character growth, baby.”

His phone buzzed.

A message from Vicky:

Vicky:
Kid, if you have free time this weekend, bring your camera. Crime Alley is hot right now.

Peter groaned softly and leaned his head against the wall of his terrible house.

“Nevermind. Gotham is allergic to peace.”

But even so, he stepped inside the building again, rolled up his sleeves, and started sweeping.

He was integrating.

Slowly.

Weirdly.

Brokenly.

But he was.

And for now, that was enough.

---

 

Notes:

Author's note(s):
Is it weird to be invested in a made-up life? Because Peter Parker is now my chaotic coping mechanism and I’m here for it. Also, the egg thing is purely based on my friends and I planning a hypothetical game except ours weren't an egg.

Chapter 7: Chapter 6: Collision

Summary:

As Gotham’s chaos intensifies, Peter begins to feel the weight of his dual identities crashing together, all while forming unexpected bonds with its eccentric residents, including the unpredictably cheerful Harley Quinn.

---

Weeks in Gotham passed in a strangely predictable rhythm. It was unsettling. Peter Parker had spent most of his life waiting for the universe to slap him across the face for getting comfortable, so the fact that nothing terrible had happened yet was honestly stressing him out more than a normal amount of danger usually did.

Every morning, he woke up in his abandoned building, which he insisted on calling a house even though the roof had a hole the size of a family sedan. He would brush his teeth using bottled water because the plumbing was not so much broken as it was actively malicious. Then he would go to class, take photos, repair something vaguely life threatening in his home, and maybe fight a mugger if one politely presented itself in front of him. He was beginning to develop a deep respect for Gotham’s crime distribution system, which was weirdly organised.

There were no assassins. No mysterious shadows whispering his name. No League trail. Not even Talia’s signature emotional manipulation pit stops. It was almost comedic how quiet his life was becoming. Gotham behaved around him like a dog that sensed a nervous owner and decided to sit very still so it would not get yelled at.

He was not complaining. He was just mildly horrified.

He sat on his half-repaired staircase one morning, drinking a cup of instant coffee that tasted faintly like despair, and sighed as he tried to work out why he felt so out of place. His phone buzzed with an e-mail from the journalism club reminding him about their next meeting. Another buzz was a reminder about an exam. Another buzz was an advert for plumbing equipment that felt like a personal attack.

Peter leaned back and looked up through the hole in the ceiling. He could see a pigeon staring back down with what he assumed was judgement.

He spoke to the pigeon because this was where his life was now.

"Do you ever feel like you are living in a sidequest? Like the main plot is out there being dramatic without you?"

The pigeon blinked slowly and took off.

"Cool. Appreciate the feedback."

He downed his coffee and got ready for class.

 

Barbara Gordon had many strengths as a vigilante and information broker. She also had a particular weakness, which was that every once in a while, she encountered a timeline inconsistency in the universe shaped suspiciously like one civilian and then could not let it go.

Peter Parker triggered that weakness.

She had already bookmarked him in her mental file the first time she analysed his posture when he carried gear for the journalism club. Something about the way he moved was too balanced for someone who claimed his only experience with sport was running late for maths. Then there were the photos. The ones he somehow got of crime scenes despite claiming to have coincidentally been walking by. The lighting was always perfect. Vicky Vale had called him scary talented. Barbara had called him suspicious.

But today was the first time she actually froze mid sentence.

Peter was in the Gotham University library reaching for a book from the highest shelf. His shirt lifted slightly at the stretch. His back straightened. His shoulders set into a posture so familiar Barbara nearly covered her face.

He looked exactly like Bruce.

Not just in the broad-shouldered sense. Not just in the lean muscle sense. It was the specificity. The way Bruce reached for files on the highest shelf in the cave. A small shift of weight to the right foot. The roll of the shoulder. The steady grip.

Barbara stared, internally screaming, because there was no way. No universe. Absolutely none.

Bruce did not have children crawling out of the walls like this.

Well. Not again. She hoped.

Peter finished reaching the book, turned, and smiled politely at a student passing by. Full sunshine smile. No hint of brooding darkness. No billionaire scowl.

"No. Nope. Impossible," Barbara muttered into her hand.

But she added another mental bookmark anyway.

 

Peter’s identity crisis hit him most often at night, usually when he was trying to revise for a quiz and instead found himself thinking about what being alive actually meant. He would sit on the floor, leaning against the wall with his laptop open, trying to solve a coding assignment while the weight of being Spider-Man, Spyder, or just Peter settled into his chest.

He did not miss Spider-Man exactly. The hero part of him felt like a favourite jumper that no longer fit, a comforting thing he had outgrown without meaning to. He thought of the city he had left and felt the ache of missing home, the people he could never go back to, the life that did not belong to him anymore.

He did not miss Pietro either. Because missing Pietro felt like missing a ghost. Sometimes he reached for memories, and they blurred together in ways that made his throat tighten. He was not sure if that was the Pit or his own mind trying to protect him.

Living between those two identities created a strange numbness. He had moments where he wondered if he was actually real. If he was supposed to exist. If this civilian life he was pretending to have was just another lie he told to survive.

Then his coffee machine spat steam at him and nearly burned his face, and he remembered that life was still ridiculous and maybe that was enough to anchor him.

 

Gotham after 10 pm was a different creature entirely. The air changed. The shadows grew teeth. People who did not fear God or the Bats spoke louder, walked bolder. It was common knowledge that newcomers were not supposed to wander into certain neighbourhoods unless they wanted a Batman encounter or an unplanned trip to A and E.

Peter did not know that. Technically.

He did know it academically. He just forgot because his phone died and the bus service that night was down, so he pulled up Google Maps inside his head, misread it, and ended up in a district that smelled faintly like danger and cheap perfume.

He had not meant to be here. He had just wanted crisps.

He walked past a boarded window when he heard a voice go,

"Heya, sugarcube. You lost?"

Peter startled so hard he nearly threw the crisps he had not even purchased yet.

A blonde woman in red and black leaned against a streetlamp, swinging a baseball bat casually against her shoulder. Her hair was in pigtails. Her smile was bright enough to guide ships.

Peter blinked. Twice.

"Oh. Hi. Hello. Uh. I think I took a wrong turn."

"Yeah, no kiddin'," she said cheerfully. "This is not the tourist lane unless your bucket list includes mild trauma."

Peter nodded slowly. "I mean, trauma is kinda my brand, so. Not a dealbreaker."

She laughed. A full, loud, unrestrained cackle.

"I like you. You got a name, sunshine?"

"Peter," he said, because lying to Harley Quinn felt like a terrible idea.

"Peter," she repeated, testing it like it was a bubble-gum flavour. "Cute name. You got a death wish or somethin' wanderin' around here?"

"Not intentionally," he said. "I was looking for snacks."

Harley stared. Then grinned wider.

"You are either the bravest or dumbest boy I have seen today. Either way, I respect it."

They somehow fell into conversation, because Peter Parker was aggressively approachable and Harley Quinn had a soft spot for confused young adults who looked like they needed feeding. Within ten minutes she was telling him about a shop that sold the best lasagna at midnight.

He blinked at that.

"Lasagna. At midnight."

"Yeah. Best time to eat it," she said. "You want some?"

Peter considered saying no. Considered the dangers. Considered the possibility that this woman was absolutely not ordinary and that eating lasagna in this neighbourhood might end with him in the middle of a turf war.

His stomach growled at him.

"I would love lasagna," he said.

Harley clapped her hands. "Atta boy."

As she dragged him along the pavement with cheerful force, Peter wondered if this was what civilian life felt like. Wandering into danger. Making friends with chaotic strangers. Accepting food offers from unpredictable women with bats.

It felt oddly normal.

 

The next morning began in the most Gotham way possible: a man shouting outside Peter’s building at seven in the morning, followed by the sound of something metallic being kicked very enthusiastically.

Peter crawled out of bed, hair sticking out in chaotic tufts, and peered out his dusty window. Three men were standing in front of the building. Jason Todd was with them, holding a coffee and looking like this was the most normal thing to witness at dawn.

Peter squinted.

“Is today the renovation thing? Oh no I forgot to set an alarm. I have failed as a homeowner.”

He stumbled down the stairs, tripping only twice, and opened the door in a jumper he was pretty sure used to be white.

“Morning,” he said, breathless but bright. “Hi. Hello. Yes. Come in. Please do not judge the interior. Or do. But quietly.”

Jason raised a brow.

“You look like you lost a fight with your bed.”

“I lose many fights,” Peter admitted. “I win some too. It is about balance.”

The contractors walked in, took one long look at the inside, and collectively made a noise men usually made when they saw something traumatising but fascinating. The biggest one muttered something in another language. Another crossed himself.

Jason sipped his coffee and said, “Told you it was bad.”

Peter put his hands on his hips and nodded proudly.

“Isn’t she beautiful?”

The tallest contractor whispered, “It is haunted.”

Peter beamed.

“Thank you.”

 

The men got to work quickly, measuring walls, muttering about foundations, and taking pictures to send to whichever engineers owed them favours. Peter followed them like an excitable apprentice raccoon, offering help that was politely declined every single time.

“No, kid. Put the hammer down.”

“No, kid. You cannot hold that pipe, it is live.”

“No, kid. Stop poking things that hiss.”

Jason sat on the stairs, scrolling through his phone.

“Do you actually know anything about construction?”

“Define know,” Peter said.

Jason gave him a look.

Peter corrected himself.

“I know that buildings should not fall down.”

“That is… not helpful.”

“I try.”

 

By noon, the workers had stabilised two walls and discovered a nest of questionable wiring that made everyone step back slowly. Peter brought everyone sandwiches as an offering of goodwill. They accepted because it was difficult to dislike him even while standing in a deathtrap.

Jason stood up and dusted off his jeans.

“Alright. I’ve got somewhere to be. You showing up tonight?”

Peter froze.

“Oh. The sparring. Yes. Right. Absolutely. I will be there. Punching. Sweating. Being normal.”

“You make it sound suspicious.”

“I make many things sound suspicious,” Peter said honestly.

Jason stared. Then snorted once.

“Just show up.”

 

Peter arrived at the makeshift boxing gym later that evening. It was not exactly a gym. More like a converted warehouse with mats that had definitely seen better decades. There were old punching bags hanging from beams, a makeshift ring made of rope and stubborn optimism, and a stereo playing music slightly too loudly.

People were mid warm up when he stepped inside. A few raised eyebrows at the unfamiliar face. Jason waved him over with a casual authority that told everyone, mine, I brought this one.

Peter approached awkwardly.

“Hi. Hello. I am Peter. I punch recreationally.”

Someone chuckled. Another nodded. A girl wrapping her hands waved.

“New guy? Cool. We like new guys. Less predictable.”

Peter laughed nervously. “Oh good, I love being unpredictable.”

Jason tossed him a pair of hand wraps.

“Show me what you got.”

Peter wrapped up easily. Muscle memory. Pietro’s training, League routines, Spider-Man instincts, all of it flowed silently through his fingers. He moved too fluidly, too naturally, and halfway through he realised that and deliberately fumbled the last knot so he would look less competent.

Jason noticed anyway.

“You fought before.”

Peter shrugged. “Here and there.”

Jason stepped into the ring and gestured. “Warm up with me.”

“Oh boy,” Peter whispered to himself. “Time to be mediocre.”

He climbed in, keeping movements light, harmless, civilian. Jason held up his hands.

“Come on. Hit me.”

Peter tapped his gloves lightly against Jason’s palms.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Jason narrowed his eyes.

“You can hit harder than that.”

“I can,” Peter admitted. “But it might break something.”

Jason blinked.

Peter blinked back.

Jason leaned in.

“Are you trying to be mysterious?”

“I am trying to be normal,” Peter whispered urgently. “Please do not ruin this for me.”

Jason threw the first light punch. Peter dodged without thinking. It was a clean dodge, too clean, effortless. People noticed. Whistles and murmurs bubbled up.

Jason tried again, quicker. Peter side stepped and flicked his wrist out to block just enough.

A guy outside the ring said, “Yo, new kid’s good.”

Peter made a distressed noise.

“No, I am not. I am average at best.”

Jason grinned. “Liar.”

Peter groaned internally. This was exactly why he avoided sparring. His body moved like a trained assassin even when he tried to behave.

They continued for a few minutes. Jason pushed harder. Peter dodged softer. Jason escalated. Peter pretended to trip. Jason tried a hook. Peter let it graze him even though his whole body wanted to melt around it like smoke.

Finally, Jason lowered his hands.

“You can actually fight.”

“Debatable,” Peter said.

“No,” Jason replied. “You definitely can.”

Peter sighed softly.

“Okay maybe a little.”

Someone clapped him on the back. Another said he should show up every week. A third told him he had potential.

Peter felt warm.

He felt… human.

 

By the time he walked home later that night, gloves slung over his shoulder and the comfortable ache of exercise settling into his muscles, he realised something strange.

He had not thought about the League once during the spar.

He had not felt hunted.

He had felt… normal.

He walked into his half-destroyed house to see the contractors had made surprising progress. Walls were braced. A new beam had been installed. There was even a temporary light switched on.

Peter stood there, sweaty, and dusty, and smiled to himself.

He was building a life.

A weird one.

A chaotic one.

But his.

And it was enough to make him breathe a little easier.

 

The following weeks developed into a pattern Peter genuinely did not expect to enjoy. Someone would knock loudly at eight in the morning, he would stumble downstairs holding toast, and the contractors would greet him like a sleep deprived mascot they had collectively adopted.

They arrived with toolboxes and coffee. Peter arrived with a blanket around his shoulders, hair in every direction, blinking like a stunned woodland creature. He was not sure when exactly they had decided they liked him, but he suspected it was the day he tried handing out snacks and nearly fell through a loose floorboard. The largest of the contractors had caught him by the shirt like he weighed nothing, put him upright again, and declared loudly:

“Boy is too light. Feed him more.”

Since then, they had made it their personal mission to fix both him and the house.

He appreciated the sentiment.

 

While they worked, Peter attended classes, took photos for the Gazette, and continued to construct a civilian identity with the sheer determination of someone who had never been allowed to have one.

The first major step was finally fixing the plumbing.

This required Peter to step outside the building while the contractors performed what they dramatically referred to as an exorcism. Jason had dropped by that day purely to watch the chaos.

Peter stood beside him while muffled shouting echoed from inside.

Jason tilted his head.

“They treating your pipes like they found a demon?”

“Yes,” Peter said. “And they are not wrong.”

One of the men shouted something that sounded like swearing and triumph at the same time. Another yelled for tape. A moment later, something hissed, a thud followed, and then water shot out through an open window.

Jason dodged fluidly. Peter simply accepted his fate as the water splashed across his face.

Jason stared.

“You did not even try to move.”

Peter wiped his face with his sleeve.

“I have accepted that this house and I are engaged in a spiritual battle.”

Jason snorted. “You are not normal.”

“Thank you,” Peter said. “But I am trying.”

The contractors eventually emerged victorious, tired but proud, informing him that the plumbing now functioned within what they described as morally acceptable limits. Peter considered that high praise.

 

Sparring nights became a regular thing.

Peter turned up on Fridays, warming up with the others, laughing when someone tried a dramatic spin kick and landed face first. They teased him whenever he missed a block on purpose. They had no idea how deliberately he was holding back. They simply thought he was enthusiastic, hypermobile, and occasionally weird.

He fit right in.

One evening during cooldown, someone handed him a bottle of water and said, “You are improving fast.”

Peter blinked.

“Oh. Thank you. I have good teachers.”

Jason, overhearing, raised a brow.

“Teachers? Plural?”

Peter froze for half a second.

Then recovered.

“I watched a lot of videos,” he said.

Jason gave him a look that said he did not believe that for a second.

Peter smiled anyway, wide, and sunshine bright. It worked. Jason sighed, muttered something about strange people finding him like strays, and let it go.

Peter pretended not to feel touched.

 

Life kept going like that.

College assignments. Photography deadlines. Random pigeons judging him from windows. Contractors calling him “kid” even though he was paying them. Nights spent sanding walls, sweeping dust, or sitting cross legged on the floor coding simple study apps because it helped quiet his brain.

The more he lived, the more normal it felt.

And the more normal it felt, the more he feared the universe noticing.

He tried not to dwell on it. Tried to busy himself with the tangible things: repainting the hallway, learning to use a drill correctly, making friends at the Gazette, buzzing around the university library, trying every coffee shop within walking distance.

He collected small routines like protective charms.

And they worked. For a while, they worked.

 

Barbara saw him again one Thursday afternoon.

He was sitting at one of the long wooden tables, surrounded by textbooks and scribbled notes. His hair was tied back messily, a pencil tucked behind his ear, lip caught between his teeth in deep focus. He looked like any other exhausted uni student fighting for his life against assignment deadlines.

Then someone accidentally dropped a stack of books at the next table.

Peter reacted before thinking. His hand shot out, faster than a normal person should move, catching a falling hardback before it hit the ground.

His expression remained mild, almost sheepish, as he handed the book back to the startled student.

Barbara, from two shelves away, saw everything.

Her brain made the Sherlock Holmes sound effect.

She stared at him. She stared harder. She stared until her eye twitched. She texted Dick a single message that read:

Babs:
I found a physics violation in the library.

Dick responded instantly:

Dick:
Tim said stop calling people that.

Babs:
No. You do not get it. This one looks like Bruce.

Dick:
We already have one Damian. We do not need another surprise Wayne reveal.

Babs:
No. I mean he moves like Bruce. He reacts like Bruce. But he looks friendly. So, I am confused.

Dick’s reply came slowly.

Dick:
Okay. Now I am scared.

Barbara put her phone away.

Then she quietly added another pin to her Peter Parker file.

 

One night, after the contractors finished for the day, Peter settled onto the floor with a cup of cheap tea and stared at the half-repaired living room. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling that weird ache again. The one that whispered about the life he used to have. The identity he had left behind.

He whispered softly to the empty room,

“I wonder if this is good enough. Being Peter. Just Peter.”

The room did not answer.

But the quiet felt strangely gentle.

He closed his eyes and breathed.

 

The first sign that the honeymoon period of normalcy would end arrived in the form of Harley Quinn kicking an empty bin across the pavement while humming cheerfully.

Peter had gone out late that night to buy duct tape. He was walking back, humming lightly to himself, when he saw her again, bat resting across her shoulders, pigtails bouncing.

She brightened instantly.

“Well look who it is. My favourite lost tourist.”

Peter almost dropped the duct tape.

“Harley. Hi. Hello. I am not lost today.”

“Good for you, sugar,” she said. “Because last time you looked five minutes from getting kidnapped.”

“I have improved,” Peter said proudly.

Harley leaned in, squinting.

“You eat today?”

“Yes,” he said. “Like a responsible adult.”

“Liar.”

Peter sighed.

“Okay maybe not properly.”

Harley looped an arm through his and tugged.

“Come on. You are gettin' dinner.”

He blinked.

“Oh. Uh. I do not want to impose.”

“You are not imposing,” she said. “You are skinny.”

“That is rude.”

“That is factual.”

He allowed her to drag him because fighting Harley Quinn about food was a pointless battle.

The night felt warm despite the cold air. Neon lights buzzed overhead. Harley babbled about her day. Peter listened with soft smiles, occasionally adding, “That sounds terrifying,” or “Why did you have dynamite?”

They reached a cosy looking diner tucked between two grim apartment blocks.

Harley pushed open the door with flair.

“My treat, sweetpea.”

“Thank you,” Peter said. “You are very kind.”

Harley froze mid step, turned slowly, and pointed her bat at him.

“You better not make me emotional, kid.”

Peter blinked.

“Oh. Sorry. I will not do that again.”

“Good,” she sniffed. Then she marched inside.

Peter followed.

He sat down across from her, looking at the laminated menu while Harley told the waitress, “Lasagna. Two. And extra cheese on his. He needs it.”

Peter blushed.

“I can order for myself.”

“You did not,” she said flatly. “So, I did.”

Peter laughed quietly.

“That is fair.”

Harley grinned like a cat.

“See? You are learnin'.”

 

As they ate, Peter felt himself relax. The food was warm. The place was loud enough to drown out the intrusive thoughts. Harley was chaotic but safe in a way most people were not. She treated him like a strange kitten she found in the rain.

He liked it.

He liked feeling like someone else decided he deserved lasagna.

When they walked out again, Harley shoved a foil container into his hands.
“For later. And if you say no, I swear to god I will whack you with the bat.”

Peter clutched it gently.

“Yes ma’am.”

She smirked.

“Good boy.”

She sauntered off into the night.

Peter stood there holding lasagna, slightly overwhelmed, slightly touched, slightly concerned about the universe’s sense of humour.

He walked home slowly, warmth settling in his chest.

Gotham buzzed around him.

Soft.

Electric.

Waiting.

Collision was coming.

He just did not know it yet.

 

Peter stood outside his building, lasagna in hand, staring at the cold concrete beneath his feet. The Gotham streetlights flickered above him, casting long shadows along the empty pavement. The city hummed with the usual unsettling energy, but for once, Peter didn’t feel like the buzz was calling his name.

His thoughts, however, drifted back to the meal he had just shared with Harley. Specifically, the lasagna.

He sighed.

Why was it always lasagna?

For a moment, he just stood there, the foil container warm in his hands as he tried to process the weird pattern emerging. It wasn’t that he minded, not exactly. Harley had a way of adopting people that was… well, distinct. But the lasagna thing? That was a little too much of a trend. Every time he ended up in her chaotic orbit, she made him lasagna. Even when he had no idea how the conversation got that far, or how she’d ended up handing him a container wrapped in foil with a smile that looked almost too wide for the situation.

Lasagna.
Lasagna.
Lasagna.

“Maybe next time, I’ll ask for chicken alfredo,” he muttered to himself, glancing down at the container in his hands. The thought of creamy pasta instead of the usual comfort food felt oddly rebellious, like he was making a statement against the universe's weird little pattern of events.

But that wasn’t really what it was about, was it? Lasagna was just what Harley offered. What she always offered. And for some reason, it felt like she wasn’t just offering food, she was offering a moment of simplicity. A break from the relentless chaos that seemed to define his life.

Peter rubbed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He could almost hear the distant sound of an ambulance siren. Gotham wasn’t kind to people who let their guard down, and he had spent his life barely keeping his footing. But this, this was different.

This was the first time in a long time he felt… normal. Just a guy eating lasagna on a Thursday night, without assassins or secret identities or world-ending stakes. Maybe it was dumb, maybe it was fleeting, but for once, it felt like enough.

He looked at the lasagna again and grinned to himself.

“Maybe I’ll just stick to it,” he said quietly, mostly to the city. “Why mess with a good thing, right?”

 

As Peter made his way back inside the house, he placed the foil-wrapped lasagna on the kitchen counter. The room still looked unfinished, but it was better than it had been a month ago. The walls were braced. The pipes were fixed. The leaks had stopped. He was starting to feel like he wasn’t just living in someone else’s abandoned space. He was making it his.

He set the lasagna down and moved to the kitchen to grab a plate. As he reached for a knife, his phone buzzed on the table.

A message from Vicky.

Vicky:
Crime scene downtown. Get over here.

Peter blinked at the screen, rubbing the back of his neck. He’d been doing so well. He hadn’t fought anyone in days. He hadn’t even had to think about Spyder or the League. But he’d learned one thing about Gotham: the city didn’t let people like him rest for long.

Parker luck.

He grabbed the plate, cut a slice of lasagna, and shrugged.

“Well, guess I’ll take this with me.”

He left the house with the lasagna in hand, wearing the same smile he had earlier.
If he was going to be sucked back into the madness, at least he had food to go.

 

Peter stood at the crime scene, barely containing a sigh as he adjusted his jacket. Gotham’s chill settled over him like a blanket of impending trouble. The flashing lights of the police cars cast strange, fractured shadows over the dark alley, where bodies were marked off with yellow tape, and officers moved around in practiced silence.

Peter wasn’t here because of some heroic instinct.

He wasn’t even here because he cared about the specific crime that had occurred.

He was here because Vicky Vale had texted him, Crime scene downtown. Get over here, and he wasn’t one to turn down an assignment, even when it made no sense.

Not to mention, the whole situation felt oddly familiar.

As Peter meandered past the detectives taking notes, trying not to draw too much attention, his eyes fell on the lone figure standing by the barricade, talking to the authorities with an ease that made it look like he owned the scene.

Great, Peter thought, just great.

Nightwing.

The dude was exactly as you’d expect. Lean, toned, with that ‘ex-jungle gym but still gym’ aesthetic that only came with years of swinging around the city by a grappling hook. His suit was a little more casual tonight, no helmet, no mask, just the domino mask and his signature symbol. Still, the blue and black of his costume stood out even in the poorly lit alley.

Peter’s chest tightened as he watched Nightwing talk to the detectives like he had all the answers, his posture impossibly relaxed.

And Peter? Well, Peter felt like a 12-year-old who’d just found out his body wasn’t the one he had back in college. One day, he thought, puberty would finally decide to give him back his 21-year-old physique. Just a little muscle, maybe some height, not that he was envious of Nightwing’s, let’s be real, exceptionally fine ass.

Okay, maybe just a little.

No, Peter told himself. Not today.

He wanted to keep this normal. He wanted to keep his head down. This whole being-normal thing was working for him. For once in his life, the universe hadn’t decided to send assassins after him or put him in a death trap.

He stepped forward carefully, trying not to draw attention, but who was he kidding? Peter Parker was the kind of person whose mere presence would eventually prompt the universe to throw a pie at him just because.

Nightwing turned his head at the right moment, as if he had eyes in the back of his head.

“Kid,” Nightwing said, straightening up. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Peter froze for a moment before forcing a grin.

“I could say the same. Thought I was just here for photos, not a meet and greet.”

Nightwing looked amused, shifting on his feet. His presence was, well, undeniably cool. Not cool like he was trying to be. Cool like it was part of his DNA. Peter couldn’t help but feel like a mismatched puzzle piece next to him.

“Funny, huh? You get called to cover crime scenes and it’s like your luck’s just... always right.” Nightwing said, a slight smirk tugging at his lips.

Peter rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, trying not to feel like a kid who had accidentally wandered into the ‘big leagues’ territory.

“Well, you know what they say about Parker luck,” he said, putting the camera up to his face like it was his shield. “Always in the wrong place at the right time.”

Nightwing chuckled and stepped closer, eyes narrowing as he took in Peter’s dishevelled, yet somehow endearing, appearance.

“Who knew Gotham had so many college kids picking up photography.”

Peter looked at him like he was about to make some snarky comment but then hesitated.

“You know, you don’t have to keep an eye on me. I promise I’m not about to start fighting crime.”

Nightwing raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure? You’re looking a little too much like someone who could.”

Peter fought the urge to groan.

“I’m trying to be normal, man. This city is enough of a headache as it is. I’m just… trying to finish this college degree and maybe get some sleep, y’know?”

Nightwing laughed, and Peter swore he heard genuine amusement in it. “Gotham’s like that. It doesn’t let you sleep, no matter how badly you want to.” He gestured toward the scene behind him. “It just keeps going. We all do.”

There was something about the way he said that, like he understood exactly what Peter was talking about. Like he’d been stuck in a loop of impossible decisions and situations for a long time.

Peter tried to shake it off

“I’m just here to do my job. You do yours, right?”

Nightwing smiled at him, his gaze softening. “Yeah, I do.” Then he tilted his head toward the crime scene. “You know, you can’t just stand around here all night. Might be good for you to get a picture or two...”

Peter blinked, feeling a twinge of discomfort at being handed an opportunity on a silver platter. “Yeah, okay... I’ll get to work.”

And with that, Peter fell back into the rhythm of his job. His camera clicked a few times, capturing angles, details, the quiet chaos of Gotham unfolding once again. He had learned to blend in, to be that guy in the background who somehow always got the best shots without anyone noticing. And Nightwing? Well, he’d moved on, back to talking to the authorities, disappearing into the rhythm of Gotham’s uneasy dance.

Peter glanced at him one last time, trying to suppress the weird longing in his chest.

One day, puberty would return his twenty-one-year-old body. Right?

“Yeah,” he muttered, “one day.”

---

 

Notes:

Author's note(s):
Is it just me, or does Gotham make everyone question their life choices at least once a day?

This time, I am actually dipping out, for real. I'll also be right back. 🤭✌️

Chapter 8: Chapter 7: Basic

Summary:

I don't have a proper summary since I am not even sober enough to remember what I drank- But yeah, Spyder moments this time, 3 chapters of this, already had it planned, yay.

Notes:

Author's note(s):
Semester ended, decided to chug something, now I am trying my best to type. I think I can type, right? Like, look at me, this screams sober enough.

Edit:
I am so sorry but an entire chunk was missing to the chapter, so here we go- the actual full thing. I will never post drunk again.

---

The outskirts of Gotham at two in the morning were not silent.

They were never silent. Silence required mercy, and Gotham never offered that. Instead, the night hummed with the low thrum of broken streetlamps, the whir of a distant train, and the occasional, offended screech of a raccoon that had seen too much.

Tonight, there were new noises layered in. Wet, fleshy impacts. The soft scrape of metal on fabric. A dull thud, then another.

Spyder moved through it like water sliding over stone.

The fog hugged the ground up to his calves as he walked, bare feet soundless against the cracked asphalt. His steps were easy, unhurried, as if he were taking a quiet stroll after dinner rather than dismantling a trained squad of killers one by one. His skin shimmered faintly under the moonlight. It rippled once, twice, then settled. A new mask formed across his features, metal green and sharp like a carved oni face. Tusk-like projections curled slightly at the mouth.

He did not think about the mechanics. He never did. His body shifted because he commanded it to. That was enough.

There were twelve assassins.

There were now eleven corpses on the ground.

The last one was alive only because Spyder let him be.

The man lay sprawled against an abandoned shipping crate, wrists snapped at incorrect angles. He wheezed in pain, teeth chattering as he stared up at the creature in front of him. He had been trained not to fear death. He had not been trained to look at Spyder without shaking.

Spyder crouched beside him, posture loose, relaxed. The emerald oni mask tilted as though studying a curious animal.

The assassin swallowed. The sound clicked painfully in his throat.

“You… you should not exist,” he whispered.

Spyder lifted two fingers. Slowly. Deliberately.

<Do not whine. It is pathetic.>

The man blinked rapidly, recognising the signs. He knew the stories. Spyder never spoke. Spyder communicated with silence and pain. Spyder had been the Demon’s Son who never died, who crawled out of the Lazarus Pit laughing, who turned into something else.

“You… you used to be Pietro,” the man stuttered, voice cracking under the strain of terror and broken ribs. “You were one of us.”

Spyder did not react. The mask remained still. The green gleam did not flicker.

Inside, somewhere far and beneath all that sharp control, Peter Parker felt a faint, exhausted sigh.

Yes. Pietro. Right. That name.

The one he had outgrown the moment the universe spat him out like cosmic rubbish.

Spyder tapped two fingers against the assassin’s shoulder. The touch was gentle. The effect was not. A crack followed, sharp and wet. The man choked on a scream that refused to leave his throat.

<Focus. Who sent you.>

The assassin shook his head uselessly. “You think I would survive reporting back that I told you anything…?”

Spyder’s head tilted slightly.

<You will not survive regardless.>

The man paled visibly. His breath came faster, shallow, and uneven.

Inside the mask, Peter remained eerily calm.

He did not enjoy this.

He did not feel moral conflict.

He did not revel in cruelty.

He was simply tired. Tired of running, tired of being hunted, tired of being the project everyone wanted either dead or back under the Demon's thumb.

Spyder stepped closer, letting his presence swallow the space. The man tensed as Spyder’s hand rested lightly against his jaw, almost tender. In the next second, the hand flashed downward, pressing into a pressure point along the neck. Pain shot through the man’s body in a wave so intense he jerked violently.

Spyder waited until the spasms stilled.

<Your pain tolerance is poor. I am adjusting.>

He shifted his fingers, recalculating. His body made microscopic adjustments, muscles realigning, fingertips changing density. He could feel the assassin’s pulse through the bones. He controlled it without hesitation.

“Please,” the man gasped. “Please, I will talk.”

<Good.>

Spyder released him just enough for the man to speak without choking.

“It is… it is the League. There is division. Major division. H- half of them want you back. Half want you dead.”

Spyder remained motionless.

Inside, Peter blinked twice.

Back?

For what?

Teatime?

Family counselling?

The assassin continued, trembling. “They say you are ours. That you are the Demon’s legacy, that you were forged for the League. The others say you betrayed us by leaving. They say you are a threat. An uncontrollable thing that should never have been allowed to live.”

Spyder’s silence thickened.

“What… what happened after you died,” the assassin said quietly, voice breaking, “it changed everything. You are a legend. A ghost story. A warning. A weapon. The factions are fighting over who owns you.”

Peter, deep inside, felt the faintest bitter laugh crawl into his chest.

Owns. Not saved.

Not loved.

Not even mourned.

Just owned.

Spyder leaned forward.

<Names.>

“I do not know,” the man said quickly. “They do not tell us who gives the orders. Only that two directives exist. Kill. Or capture. We were given the kill order. But others… others have been sent to retrieve you alive.”

Spyder’s hand slipped to the man’s forearm. The skin under his touch shivered like molten metal. The man’s eyes widened in horror.

“This is why they want you,” he whispered. “You… you are not human anymore.”

Spyder’s fingers tightened.

<I am done.>

The man barely managed a final, shuddering breath.

“No one will believe I saw you.”

<Exactly.>

The motion was clean.

Elegant.

Instant.

Spyder severed the head with a single, razor precise strike of his hand, as if his arm were a blade. The head rolled once, twice, then stopped beside Spyder’s foot. The body slumped over, almost relieved.

Spyder picked up the head by the hair, weighing it in one hand. His mask rippled faintly with residual energy as he walked deeper into the fog. The night swallowed him whole as if he had never been there.

He reached the old service road that marked the boundary between Gotham proper and the marshlands. Without ceremony, he placed the head on top of the body, nudging it upright so the empty eyes stared towards the city.

A message.

A warning.

A reminder.

Not for Gotham.

They had seen worse.

This was for the League.

Spyder stepped back.

The fog curled around his ankles like a cat brushing against a familiar ghost.

Then he walked away.

The silence behind him was disturbed only by the faint whistle of wind through dead grass… and the distant snapping of a twig.

Someone else was there.

Someone watching.

Spyder felt the presence long before the watcher realised, he had been detected. His senses sharpened. His muscles coiled. His mask shifted, tusks elongating fractionally.

Hidden in the treeline, an assassin whispered into a communicator.

“Target located. Proceeding.”

Spyder’s head turned slightly, just enough to catch the faintest rustle in the leaves.

Inside, Peter rolled his eyes.

Of course.

Of course it would never end.

He wanted to go home.

Have a snack.

Maybe reheat leftovers.

But nooooo. Assassins needed to pop out of bushes like malfunctioning Pokémon encounters.

Spyder stepped into the darkness.

The trees swallowed him.

The unseen assassin stiffened, realising too late that Spyder was gone.

No.

Not gone.

Behind him.

The air shifted.

Spyder’s silhouette emerged out of nothing, mask glowing subtly, eyes like burning emeralds that saw everything.

The assassin turned slowly, dread crawling up his spine.

Spyder raised one hand.

<Run.>

The man bolted immediately, crashing through branches, slipping on mud, breath hitching. He did not question the command. Spyder could have killed him instantly. Instead, he let him go.

No.

Not let.

Sent.

Peter’s inner voice grumbled as Spyder stalked silently after him.

Great. Now he had to chase someone through the woods. Perfect. Exactly how he wanted to spend his night. No lasagna. No rest. Nothing but cardio and murder attempts. Fantastic.

The assassin tripped. Spyder stepped over a fallen log as though gravity did not apply to him. His bare feet never made a sound.

The man scrambled upright and ran harder, lungs burning. He did not realise Spyder was not chasing to kill.

He was chasing to see who was receiving the report.

Spyder lifted both hands.

<Let us see where the orders originate.>

Peter hummed in the back of his skull.

He really hoped this would not end with him fighting twelve more dudes in matching costumes. He was so tired. He just wanted food. And maybe thirty minutes of peace. Possibly a nap that would not involve someone trying to stab him.

The assassin burst onto a clearing where two shadows waited.

Spyder stepped out of the trees behind him.

The two waiting figures stiffened.

The fog thickened.

The assassin realised too late that Spyder had delivered him like a message.

Spyder’s mask glinted.

<Round two.>

And the forest swallowed the rest.

 

The forest clearing was a bowl of fog and moonlight, framed by skeletal trees that reached like broken fingers toward the sky. The earth beneath Spyder’s bare feet tasted of damp soil and blood that was hours old. The assassin he had chased stumbled forward into the open space, panting hard, nearly collapsing as relief and terror wrestled for control of his heartbeat.

Spyder stepped out behind him, silent as a shadow breaking loose.

Two figures stood at the far end of the clearing. Both masked. Both armed. Both freezing where they stood the moment, they realised Spyder was present.

The first one was tall, lean, precise in posture, the kind of assassin who trained by slicing leaves falling mid-air. The second was broader, heavier, scarred along the jawline under his mask. The type who broke bones with his bare hands.

Neither of them moved.

Spyder remained still for three beats.

The fog curled at his ankles like something alive.

Inside, Peter sighed.

Of course there were more.

It was never just one assassin, or two, or even twelve. It was always a whole circus. Gotham had raccoons with knives and clowns with trauma. The League fielded teams like they were ordering takeaway.

Spyder raised one hand slowly.

The trembling assassin beside him flinched hard enough to fall back onto his knees.

<Identify yourselves.>

The tall assassin straightened defensively. “We are not here to fight you.”

The broader one hissed, “We are here to correct what those idiots attempted.”

Spyder tilted his head. The emerald mask gleamed faintly.

<You were sent to capture.>

Neither assassin responded immediately. They exchanged a brief glance, a silent conversation of hesitation, orders, and fear.

The broader one finally exhaled shakily. “Yes.”

“Alive,” the tall one added.

Spyder did not move.

He did not nod.

He did not breathe in a way a human would.

Inside, Peter rolled his eyes.

Yeah. Alive. Right.

They wanted him back. Back to training. Back to missions. Back to the endless cycle of kill, recover, obey.

No thanks.

The broader assassin took a tentative step forward. “Spyder. We do not wish to harm you. We were sent to retrieve you safely.”

Spyder tapped two fingers against his thigh.

<By whom.>

The tall one hesitated. “We cannot tell you.”

Spyder did not react outwardly, but Peter felt the annoyance slide through him like a cold draft.

Everyone in the League always acted like secrecy was a personality trait. If they said a name out loud, maybe the universe would implode. Maybe Ra’s would pop out of the ground like a corpse-themed jack-in-the-box. Maybe Talia would walk in carrying tea and emotional manipulation.

The broader assassin tried again. “We were told… if we brought you back alive, the conflict would end.”

Spyder looked at him for a long moment.

Then he pointed at the trembling third assassin he had chased here.

<He had kill orders.>

The two new arrivals froze. Shock flooded their posture instantly.

“That is impossible,” the tall one said sharply. “There were no kill teams scheduled tonight.”

“He lies,” the broader added. “His squad must have acted independently.”

Spyder tapped the side of his mask.

It rippled in response.

<Incorrect.>

His hand lifted. A thin line of green shimmered along his wrist as his skin shifted density. His muscles tightened. His stance went from passive to predatory in a single breath.

The two assassins reached for their weapons at the same time.

Spyder struck first.

He moved like water poured from a height. Fluid. Silent. Relentless. His bare foot hit the ground once, then twice, then he was already behind the broad assassin. His fingers curled and dug into the man’s elbow. A twist. A clean crack.

The man screamed through his teeth.

Spyder released him without looking, already redirecting his momentum. He leapt, body contorting in mid-air with an unnatural bend, landing beside the tall assassin. The assassin swung a blade in a precise arc.

Spyder caught it between two fingers.

Peter inside grimaced.

That had been cool.

Not intentional, but cool.

Spyder turned the blade slowly, forcing the man’s wrist to bend. The assassin dropped the weapon with a strangled gasp, hand trembling from the pressure point Spyder pinched.

Spyder raised his mask toward the man’s face.

<I will ask once more.>

He pointed downward.

At the kneeling assassin.

At the corpse with the severed head.

At the contradiction standing between them.

<Who sent kill orders. Who ordered capture. You will answer.>

“I cannot,” the tall assassin gasped, panting through the pain.

“Even if we knew,” the broader one groaned, clutching his shattered arm, “we cannot betray the League.”

Spyder’s mask shifted slightly. Tusks elongated a fraction. The metal surface shimmered like something alive.

He stepped forward. His bare foot pressed lightly against the fallen assassin’s knee.

The man screamed before Spyder applied any real pressure.

<Choose which parts of you you want to keep.>

The tall assassin trembled.

Inside, Peter rubbed the bridge of his nose mentally.

He did not want to spend his night breaking bones. He wanted lasagna. Or maybe pasta. Something warm. Something that did not scream.

The broad assassin cracked first.

“It was the Inner Court,” he blurted.

The tall assassin hissed, “You fool.”

Spyder paused.

<Explain.>

The broad assassin swallowed hard. “They… disagree with the Demon’s decree. They want you erased. Too dangerous. Too unpredictable. Too… altered.”

Spyder forced the tall assassin upright by his collar.

<And capture orders.>

The tall one gritted his teeth but answered. “The Mother.”

Talia.

Spyder’s hands went still.

Inside, Peter felt a cold, sour taste hit his tongue.

Of course she wanted him alive.

Of course she wanted him back.

She always did this.

Always played two sides of the board, pretending it was affection.

Spyder released the tall assassin abruptly. The man stumbled.

Fog drifted lower over the clearing as Spyder stepped backward, away from all three assassins.

The tall one took it as a mercy.

He was wrong.

Spyder lifted one hand.

<You hunted me. You failed. Leave. Deliver my message to the League.>

The assassins stared, confused, and terrified.

“What… message?” the broad one whispered.

Spyder turned toward the treeline. His mask gleamed like molten jade. His body shimmered once, muscles shifting like nanotech fluid beneath the skin.

<I am done running.>

The tall assassin looked shaken.

The broad assassin looked sick.

They did not realise this was not a declaration of war.

It was exhaustion.

The tall assassin swallowed thickly. “Understood.”

“No,” the broad one whispered, staring at Spyder with something approaching dread. “Not understood. Not even close.”

Spyder ignored them.

He stepped into the trees. The forest swallowed him immediately, his bare feet making no sound on the wet leaves. The fog drifted after him like it knew who the forest belonged to now.

Inside, Peter felt fatigue settle deep into his ribs.

He wanted to go home.

He wanted to sleep.

He wanted to pretend for one night that he was not the League’s myth and Gotham’s new problem.

He wanted to be a college student.

Maybe he wanted to knit. Nobody could try to kill him if he was knitting. Probably.

As he moved, the air shifted. Spyder stopped instantly.

He sensed movement upon leaving the forest.

Not from the assassins.

Not from the trees.

Something else.

Footsteps.

Human.

Untrained.

Clumsy.

Spyder turned his head slightly.

Someone was approaching the clearing from the far side.

Someone humming.

Peter inside winced.

Oh no.

Please no.

Not now.

Not tonight.

The humming got louder.

A figure bounced into view through the darkness.

Blonde ponytails.

Pink jacket.

A bat slung across her shoulders like it was a casual accessory.

Harley Quinn.

She froze mid-step when she spotted the bodies.

Spyder froze too.

Harley blinked.

Spyder blinked back behind the oni mask.

“Oh,” Harley said cheerfully. “Free range assassin bits. Cute.”

Spyder stared.

Inside, Peter screamed.

 

Harley Quinn stared at the corpse-covered clearing like she had just walked into a mildly surprising farmers’ market.

Spyder stared back, completely still, his oni mask glowing faintly in the gloom.

The fog swirled dramatically between them.

Harley squinted.

Spyder did not move.

“...Huh,” Harley said.

Spyder remained motionless.

Inside, Peter internally begged the universe to turn him into a small pebble.

Or a leaf.

Or a particularly unremarkable lamp post.

Anything but a man in an oni mask standing in a murder circle while Harley Quinn blinked at him like she had just found a stray cat that had also committed several felonies.

Harley planted her hands on her hips.

“Well,” she said brightly, “this is quite a mess ya made here, sugarplum.”

Spyder tilted his head slightly.

<Identify yourself.>

Harley’s eyes went wide, then wider, then excited.

“Ooooh. Sign language. Fancy.” She pointed two fingers at him. “Name’s Harley. Harley freakin Quinn.”

Spyder did not move.

Harley hopped closer.

Spyder adjusted his stance, weight shifting barely. Enough to warn. Not enough to attack.

Harley stopped, hands raised playfully.

“Hey hey, calm down, ninja boy. I ain’t here to whack ya. I’m just enjoyin the vibe.” She looked around again. “The vibe is murder.”

Spyder slowly lifted one hand.

<Leave.>

Harley blinked. “Or what, ya gonna… oh. Right. The corpses. Yup. Got it.”

She rocked back on her heels but did not leave. Instead, she crouched beside one of the fallen assassins and poked his arm.

“This one twitchin or nah?”

Spyder stared.

Inside his head, Peter buried his face in his hands.

Why.

Every time he tried to do one stealthy murder-related task, Gotham served him a side quest he did not want.

Harley nudged the corpse with two fingers. “Nope. Dead as my last relationship.”

Spyder lifted his hand again.

<Leave.>

Harley gave him a grin that was either friendly or unhinged or possibly both.

“No can do. I’m curious now.” She pointed at him dramatically. “Who are you. And why do you look like a demon emoji come to life.”

Spyder remained silent.

Inside, Peter groaned.

This was the last thing he wanted. He needed to vanish into the trees and pretend none of this had ever happened. He needed to go home. Eat. Shower. Probably bandage something that was not technically bleeding but was spiritually in pain.

But Harley Quinn was looking at him like she had found her new favourite weird guy.

Spyder stepped back.

Harley stepped forward.

Spyder took another step.

Harley perked up. “Ooooh. Is this a chase scene about to happen. I love chase scenes.”

Spyder lifted both hands sharply.

<Stop.>

Harley actually froze.

Spyder raised one hand toward the forest, indicating the direction she should go.

<Leave. Now.>

Harley squinted at him, then whispered, “Are you tryna protect me.”

Spyder paused.

Inside, Peter panicked.

No no no no no. Do not get attached. Do not assume things. Do not–

Harley gasped dramatically. “You are. You totally are. Look at you. All broody murder gremlin but also a secret softie.”

Spyder’s mask rippled.

Peter internally screamed.

Harley put both hands on her cheeks. “Oh my god you’re adorable.”

Spyder froze so hard that even the fog seemed to stop drifting.

Adorable.

ADOrable.

Peter internally choked.

He could kill assassins with his bare hands.

He could change his bone structure.

He could rip apart metal.

He could break a human spine like overcooked pasta.

And Harley Quinn just called him adorable.

Spyder took another step back.

Harley mirrored it forward again.

Spyder signed sharply.

<Leave. Dangerous.>

Harley looked down at the bodies, then back at him. “Dangerous for me or dangerous for you?”

Spyder paused.

Harley giggled. “Oooooh. You’re doin a little protecty thing. Cute.”

Spyder stiffened.

Inside, Peter had the strong urge to scream into a pillow.

He was trying to be scary.

This was supposed to be intimidating.

This was his whole Spyder brand.

Terrifying. Silent. Murder but make it aesthetic.

Harley was treating him like a stray dog with knife skills.

She walked up to him. Spyder moved to dodge. She kept walking. He shifted left. She mirrored him. He shifted right. She mirrored again.

Spyder eventually froze in place, unwilling to turn this into some kind of interpretive ninja tango.

Harley stopped inches away, peering up at the oni mask.

“You do that spooky sign talk thing full time or are ya just doin a bit.”

Spyder lifted one hand.

<Mute.>

Harley’s face softened.

“Aaaand you’re breakin my heart, ya big green bug.”

Spyder stilled.

Bug.

He was being called adorable and a bug in under five minutes. Amazing. Fantastic. Perfect. Outstanding. The cosmos was laughing at him, and he could feel it.

Harley tapped the tusk of his mask lightly with one finger.

Spyder’s entire upper body tensed.

Harley grinned. “Look at you. All tense like a cat that got dunked in a bathtub.”

Spyder stepped back, quick, and sharp.

Harley did not follow this time. She simply watched him carefully.

“You ain’t with the League anymore, huh,” she said softly.

Spyder froze.

Harley slowly crossed her arms. “Saw the way you handled them. Saw the way you asked things. Not like a hitman. More like someone gettin answers.”

Spyder did not respond.

Harley took a slow step to the side, letting the moonlight catch her face.

“You’re runnin.”

Spyder’s mask shifted.

Not denial.

Not confirmation.

A reflexive reaction to the truth.

Harley exhaled. “Well. You ain’t gotta run from me.”

Spyder lifted a hand.

<I do not need allies.>

Harley gave him a look. “Sugar, I didn’t say we were allies. I said I ain’t gonna screw you over.”

Spyder’s hand lowered.

He did not believe her.

Peter absolutely did not believe her.

Harley Quinn was unpredictable, chaotic, violent, bright, loud, emotional, unstable, lethal, and strangely kind.

Spyder did not trust kindness.

But Harley’s eyes softened again. “You look tired.”

Spyder did not move.

Inside, Peter’s heart sank.

He hated that she could tell.

Harley sighed and jerked her head toward nowhere in particular. “Well, I’m wanderin tonight. But you take care of yourself, green bug. Gotham eats people alive.”

Spyder stared as she turned and casually walked into the trees like she had not just strolled into a massacre for fun.

She paused once more at the edge of the clearing.

Looked back.

Smiled crookedly.

“You ever need help… or I dunno, dinner… you come find me.”

Spyder remained silent.

Harley disappeared into the forest.

The fog folded in behind her.

Spyder stayed still in the moonlit clearing long after she was gone.

Inside, Peter whispered to himself:

I really should have stayed home tonight.

 

Spyder lingered in the clearing long after Harley Quinn vanished into the trees. He waited in absolute stillness, as patient as a statue carved from living shadow. His bare feet pressed silently into the soft soil. The fog curled around his ankles, clinging to him like smoke unwilling to let go.

Inside, Peter was contemplating his life choices.

Okay.

Harley Quinn had found him.

Harley Quinn had called him adorable.

Harley Quinn had touched his mask.

He was never leaving the house again. Ever. He was retiring. He was becoming a houseplant.

He was,

A branch snapped.

Spyder stilled.

Not a rookie assassin.

Not Harley.

Not a civilian.

Heavy steps.

Grounded.

Measured.

Armoured.

Gun holster on the right.

Extra weight on the left hip.

Helmet that made subtle noise when turned.

Spyder recognised it instantly.

Red Hood.

Peter internally groaned.

Of course.

Of course, the night was not done tormenting him.

Red Hood emerged from the treeline, boots crunching over dead leaves. His red helmet gleamed despite the low light, catching stray moonbeams in a crimson sheen. He took one single step into the clearing before freezing.

His gaze swept across the bodies.

Then the severed head.

Then the bodies again.

Then Spyder.

He exhaled slowly through the helmet’s voice modulator. “The hell…”

Spyder did not move.

Red Hood raised both hands in something that was not quite surrender but definitely not aggression.

“Alright. Cards on the table,” Jason said. “I was not expecting this.”

Spyder tilted his head a fraction.

Inside, Peter winced.

This guy.

This guy was the only vigilante in Gotham who killed people sometimes.

Which meant Spyder killing assassins was not a moral crisis for him.

Which ALSO meant he was the one Batfamily member Peter could not easily intimidate.

Red Hood approached cautiously.

“I’ve seen some stuff,” he said. “But this. This is new. You do all this yourself?”

Spyder tapped two fingers against his thigh.

<Affirmative.>

Jason let out a low whistle. “You’re efficient. Creepy, but efficient.”

Spyder lifted a hand, indicating the bodies.

<They attacked first.>

Red Hood cocked his head. “League of Assassins, right?”

Spyder stayed silent.

Jason chuckled. “Trust me. I can tell by the corpses. They have that distinct ‘trained-to-die’ energy.”

Spyder did not react.

Jason took a few steps closer, but still kept a respectful distance. He was reckless, not stupid.

“So, what’s your deal,” Jason asked casually. “Gotham’s full of weirdos, but you’re… new. Very new.”

Spyder said nothing.

Peter inside his skull was considering launching himself into orbit.

He did not want to talk to Jason Todd tonight.

He especially did not want Red Hood to recognise him in any way.

He still had a civilian identity to maintain.

He still had classes.

He still had lasagna waiting at home, probably.

Red Hood pointed at Spyder’s mask. “Cool look. But kinda impractical. You even breathing in there?”

Spyder stared at him.

Jason snorted. “Right. You’re not chatty.”

Spyder raised both hands.

<Leave. It is unsafe.>

Jason laughed. Actually laughed. A full, amused bark of sound through the modulator.

“Buddy, you think I’m scared of the League? You should see what my family dinners look like.”

Spyder’s mask shifted faintly. A ripple across the metal-like texture. Not amusement.

Annoyance.

Jason squinted. “Wait. You sign. No voice. Mask has no mouth opening. Is that… part of your gear or is that your actual face right now?”

Spyder stilled.

Red Hood stepped a bit closer. “It… moves. That isn’t tech, is it? That’s you.”

Spyder’s skin rippled subtly down his throat and shoulders. Nanite-like movement. Biological. Controlled.

Jason took one more step.

Spyder snapped forward.

Not attacking.

Blocking.

He raised his forearm horizontally. Jason’s gloved hand bumped into it with a dull thud. Spyder’s body shifted, density adjusting, muscle fibres hardening like steel.

Red Hood froze.

Spyder lowered his arm and signed.

<Do not touch the mask.>

Jason blinked. “Was not planning on it, man.”

<Do not approach further.>

Jason raised both palms. “Chill. I’m respecting the murder bubble.”

Spyder eased his stance but did not drop his guard.

Jason angled his head toward the corpses. “They after you?”

Spyder remained silent.

“Because Gotham’s got enough on its plate without more assassins sniffing around.”

Still nothing.

Jason sighed dramatically. “Look. I’m not tryin to fight you. I’m not even tryin to arrest you. You kill assassins. I kill criminals sometimes. Honestly, this is the closest I’ve come to making a friend in the last month.”

Spyder stiffened violently.

Jason blinked. “That was a joke.”

Spyder signed sharply.

<I do not form attachments.>

Jason groaned loudly. “Oh good. Another emotionally repressed ninja. Just what this city needed.”

Spyder ignored him.

Inside, Peter was dying.

Emotionally repressed?

Please.

He was extremely emotionally expressive.

Just internally.

Jason crouched by one of the bodies, inspecting the wounds.

“You’re precise,” Jason murmured. “Not sloppy. You know anatomy. You know pain points. You trained with someone good.”

Spyder did not respond.

Jason glanced up. “League trained?”

Spyder lifted a hand.

<Irrelevant.>

Jason huffed a laugh. “I get the feeling you say that a lot.”

Spyder turned away.

He was done.

He wanted to leave, to go home, to pretend he had not spent the night being emotionally harassed by Harley Quinn, stalked by assassins, and analysed by Gotham’s most traumatised vigilante.

But Jason took a step closer.

“Wait.”

Spyder stopped.

“You got a name?”

Spyder lifted one hand.

<No.>

Jason scoffed. “Oh, come on. Everyone has a name.”

<Irrelevant.>

“Oh my god,” Jason muttered, “you’re worse than Batman.”

Spyder spun so sharply the fog kicked upward around him.

Jason froze. “I mean that affectionately.”

Spyder stared.

Jason cleared his throat. “Look. I’m not gonna pry. But if the League is after you, you might want to pick a safehouse that is less murder-y.”

Spyder signed.

<I have one.>

Jason blinked. “Cool. If you ever need… I dunno… ammo? Medical supplies? A drink? You can swing by Crime Alley.”

Spyder stared.

Jason sighed. “It was worth a shot.”

Spyder stepped backward into the trees.

Jason watched him vanish, muttering, “Batman’s gonna hate this.”

Spyder froze at the treeline.

His mask turned slightly.

Jason frowned. “What. What’d I say.”

Spyder’s hand rose.

<They must never know.>

Jason stiffened.

Spyder tilted his head.

Then vanished into the woods.

Jason stood alone in the clearing full of corpses.

“Yeah,” Jason muttered. “Batman is definitely gonna hate this.”

 

The first thing that greets Spyder when he slips back into Gotham is the wind, cold, bitter, carrying the scent of damp brick and rusted fire escapes. Gotham’s air always tastes like it wants to warn you about something, but it’s too tired to bother. The rooftops blur beneath him as he moves, silent as breath, weightless as a loose shadow drifting across the skyline.

Peter likes the height.

Not the danger, the distance.

Up here, the noise of the city softens. The police sirens become faint, stretched like a tired whisper. The arguments, families, couples, strangers; drift upward as muffled scraps, softened by the night air. Even the crime seems slower from above, like everything is caught between frames.

His biological suit ripples over him as he glides. The black plating tightens. The tendril-like seams smooth into aerodynamic lines. The Oni mask seals around his face, forming with a faint, wet sound, flesh shifting, hardening. The horns curve like stylized crescent strokes. No mouth. No softness.

Just green eyes glowing faintly through the carved slits.

Most Gotham criminals don’t know he’s mute.

They assume the mask is just a mask.

They don’t realize there’s nothing under it to speak with.

Spyder lands on a rusted signboard, the metal creaking under the sudden weight. A thief two rooftops down stiffens instantly. The guy’s got a duffel bag stuffed with what looks like stolen meds. Not fancy high-value ones, generic painkillers, asthma meds, prenatal vitamins.

Peter notices the little details.

He always does.

The thief’s tense shoulders.

His ratty hoodie.

His shoes, cheap, worn, taped at the toe.

The fact that he’s shaking harder than someone confident.

Spyder drops behind him without a sound.

The man screams anyway.

He trips over his own feet, almost flings himself off the roof, scrambling backward with the bag clutched to his chest like a life raft.

“D-don’t kill me! Please—please, man, I’m—I’m not—I’m not—!”

Spyder tilts his head.

Peter, underneath the hardened biological armour, is already sighing internally.

I really need to start carrying flashcards or something.

A simple “I’m not gonna murder you, calm down” card would be great.

But no. All he can do is gesture.

Spyder raises his hands slowly, palms open, non-threatening.

The thief freezes, watching those shifting, black-veined fingers like they might explode.

Spyder signs:

The thief stares blankly.

“…Man, I don’t—I don’t know karate.”

Spyder pauses.

<Not. Hurt. You.>

He signs slower this time.

Still nothing.

Peter, exasperated inside, mutters mentally,

Great. So, the first guy I try to reassure tonight doesn’t know even the most basic ASL. Perfect.

He steps back once, giving space.

The thief blinks. “You… you ain’t gonna rip my lungs out?”

Spyder shakes his head, a single, deliberate motion.

“Well, hell,” the thief breathes, sagging with shaky relief. “That’s real decent of you.”

Spyder gestures at the duffel bag.

The man grips it tighter. “Look, man, I’m not tryin’ to screw the city. I just—my sister’s got a kid. Asthma really bad. Insurance cut her off after her man left.” He swallows. “If she don’t get those meds, little guy ain’t makin’ it through winter.”

Peter’s chest twinges.

He hates those twinges.

They make Spyder less… efficient.

But still. He listens.

The man continues, words spilling out like he’s afraid they’ll get stuck in his throat if he slows. “I know it’s wrong, I know. But she got nothin’. Diapers, wipes, formula—everything’s expensive as hell. Gotham don’t care if you’re drownin’ unless you’re drownin’ in money.”

Peter knows that type of drowning.

Knows the weight.

Knows the desperate decisions.

Spyder moves his hands:

The thief hesitates. “That’s your… rule or something?”

Spyder nods.

“Well damn,” the thief murmurs. “Wish more people in this city had one.”

A quiet moment settles between them, not comfortable, but honest.

Spyder gestures:

<I’m not the police. But you return everything except what’s needed.>

<You don’t steal again.>

It’s a complicated series of motions, but somehow the man gets it.

“I—yeah. Yeah, okay. I swear I will. I swear on the kid.” The thief’s eyes burn with sincerity. “Just… thanks for not smashing my face in.”

Spyder taps two fingers to his temple, not exactly a salute, more a simple acknowledgment, then turns away, stepping up onto the next ledge. The wind pulls at the edges of his shifting armour, making thin ribbons of shadow trail off like smoke.

Before he leaps, the thief calls after him:

“You one of those vigilante types?”

Spyder looks back.

Those bright green eyes glow just enough to answer the question without words.

“Guess so,” the thief mutters, almost smiling. “Keep doin’ what you do, Oni.”

The nickname catches Peter off guard for a fraction of a second.

Oni.

Not a League codename.

Not something Ra’s or Talia gave him.

Something Gotham gave him.

Spyder considers that as he launches upward, vaulting effortlessly to the roof above, claws catching the edge with barely a scrape.

He glides again, a strange, unsettling movement, halfway between falling and steering. Not swinging like he used to back in Queens. Not parkour either. It’s quieter. More controlled. More… predatory.

Gotham’s night stretches beneath him in layers, neon signs flickering like broken lightning bugs, steam rising from vents in great billows, alleys twisting into black veins full of whispering danger. He can hear almost everything with his heightened senses: the clink of knives, the rasp of lighters, the hurried shuffles of addicts, the muffled sobs of a couple arguing.

It’s too much sometimes.

But he also hears laughter.

Kids playing stickball too late at night.

Someone playing an out-of-tune guitar on a balcony.

A grandmother yelling at teenagers from her window.

Life.

Messy, stubborn life.

And Peter can’t help but like them for it.

He spots a pair of thugs on another rooftop, graffiti artists who clearly didn’t expect to run into anything supernatural tonight. They’re mid-spray when they notice him land silently behind them, shadow stretching long under moonlight.

Both freeze.

One slowly lowers the spray can.

The other whispers, “It’s the green-eyed thing—run—run—run—”

Spyder stands still.

Peter sighs inside again.

I’m not even doing anything. I’m literally just standing here.

“Sorry, man!” one of them blurts. “We didn’t know this was, like, your turf!”

Spyder blinks.

<Not my turf. You’re just loud.>

They don’t know ASL either.

“Look, we’ll clean it up! No problem!” the taller one panics, immediately trying to wipe bright paint off the roof using his sleeve. It just smears worse.

Spyder raises one hand, palm up.

Stop.

They stop so fast it’s almost comedic.

He gestures at their discarded cans.

Then points to the alley’s dumpster.

They scramble to gather everything.

They’re halfway down the fire escape before one mutters to the other, “He didn’t kill us… that’s… good, right?”

Spyder gives them a tiny, silent wave as they flee.

Peter internally mouths,

These guys are terrified of a wave. Gotham's adorable.

Then, a scream.

Farther down the industrial block.

Spyder swings instantly, claws digging into brick, launching himself toward the edge.

He sees it below: a low-rent warehouse set ablaze with flickering greenish-orange flame. Not natural. Not accidental.

A lanky figure with a jetpack sputtering smoke tries desperately to hover above the warehouse door, only to crash into the wall and slide down with a pained groan.

Firefly.

Garfield Lynns.

Low-level pyro freak.

Technically dangerous.

Mostly pathetic.

Peter’s mind races with old SHIELD files about stupid pyromancy and then to this world’s League data.

He always hated this guy’s self-immolation complex.

But he doesn’t kill him.

Never has.

Never will.

Spyder drops straight down.

Firefly tries to point his flamethrower up, but his arm trembles too hard. “Back—back off! I swear, I’ll roast you—!”

A gout of flame bursts toward Spyder.

Peter’s instincts flare, but Spyder’s armour ripples and hardens, a glossy heat-resistant sheen crawling over the plating. The flame rolls over him harmlessly, illuminating the Oni mask in flickering infernal light.

Firefly’s eyes go wide behind his soot-smeared goggles.

“O-okay! Okay! Maybe not roast! Maybe lightly toast! L-look, man, I just—I didn’t mean to burn down the whole block! This thing’s malfunctioning!”

He shakes the nozzle. It hiccups. Burps. Nearly ignites his own leg.

Spyder flicks forward, disarming him in two swift movements, a wrist twist and a heel sweep, leaving Firefly face-first on the ground groaning like he’s reconsidering all his life choices.

“Dude, c’mon,” Firefly wheezes. “This isn’t personal! I just needed money! The jetpack fuel prices went up again!”

Spyder signs: <Stop. Talking.>

Firefly squints. “Are you… threatening me or telling me I’m annoying?”

Spyder tilts his head.

Peter mutters internally,

Yes.

Spyder grabs him by the collar and drags him a safe distance from the burning building. Firefly yelps like a kicked seagull.

“Don’t kill me, man! I’m low-tier! I’m like, barely a villain! I’m—I'm like a villain intern!”

Spyder gestures sharply.

<I don’t kill.>

Firefly blinks. “Oh. That’s… refreshing.”

A beat.

“So, are you one of Bats’ guys?”

Spyder doesn’t answer.

Firefly is smart enough to drop it.

The fire crackles behind them, threatening to spread to the adjacent building. Firefly’s damaged pack hisses, leaking accelerant.

Spyder moves before Peter can finish the thought, slicing the fuel line clean with a talon, then using his other hand to smother the nozzle with a sudden burst of biological plating that seals like hardened sap.

Firefly stares. “…Holy hell. You’re like… like clayface but sexy.”

Spyder freezes.

Peter, mortified inside:

What? WHAT? No—why—stop—don’t—

Spyder tightens his grip on Firefly’s collar.

Firefly immediately shuts up.

Spyder gestures one final time:

Firefly nods so aggressively he might break his neck. “Yes. Yes, sir. Oni, sir. Whatever your deal is. No fire. No civilians. Yes. Absolutely.”

Spyder releases him.

Firefly sprints away, tripping twice, screaming into the night, “WHY IS GOTHAM LIKE THIS—?!”

Spyder watches him disappear.

Peter can’t help the quiet internal laugh.

But before he can move on, he hears it, the voices drifting up from a broken skylight below.

A group of criminals.

Talking.

About him.

“…I’m tellin’ you, man, he ain’t human. Saw him tear Kuro’s boys apart last week. Didn’t even breathe hard.”

“No, no, he’s a demon. My cousin swears he saw the mask melt off his face. Said the skin underneath was movin’ like hot tar.”

“Y’all are stupid. He’s some kinda super-soldier experiment. Green eyes like that? That ain’t natural. And he don’t talk. Ever. You know what that means.”

“Means what?”

“Means he’s listenin’. That’s worse.”

They shiver collectively.

A fourth voice, hushed:

“They call him the Oni. The No-Talk. The Skinwalker. Whatever he is, he’s bad news.”

Spyder crouches above them, perched on the roof beam like a gargoyle carved out of shadow and quiet malice.

Peter’s inner thoughts shrink into a tight, amused exhale.

No-Talk.

That one’s… pretty accurate, I guess.

He doesn’t announce himself.

Doesn’t drop in.

Doesn’t terrorize them.

Not yet.

Gotham is full of monsters.

He doesn’t need to be another one tonight.

Instead, he slips away soundlessly, gliding across the next rooftop, letting the criminals’ fearful whispers fade behind him.

Gotham pulses beneath him.

Alive.

Chaos and community all tangled up together.

A city constantly on the brink of collapse, but always gripping the edge with bloody, stubborn fingers.

Peter is starting to understand it.

Not love it, not yet, but understand it.

And that, maybe, is more dangerous.

Because Gotham is starting to understand him too.

---

 

Notes:

Author's note(s):
I had been listening to 2010s party music while drinking, I feel like crawling on the floor.

Chapter 9: Chapter 8: Personal

Summary:

Peter survives another night in Gotham by balancing chaos, comfort, and questionable life decisions, from saving traumatised vigilantes to making fried rice at absurd hours. Meanwhile, the batkids unknowingly orbit around him like confused satellites while Spyder lurks in the shadows, silently judging everyone.

Notes:

Author’s note(s):
For legal reasons, emotional reasons, and because my brain sometimes misfires, everything here may be inaccurate, slightly unhinged, or powered entirely by vibes. Also, the fact that my semester break is only one week long is criminal. I literally just enrolled and now I want to fight god and eat eight more burritos.

---

The Library always smelled like old paper, citrus cleaning wipes, and the aggressive determination of students pretending they understood their coursework. Morning light filtered through the tall windows in lazy, golden streaks, dust floating peacefully like the city was finally letting itself breathe for a second.

Which was hilarious, because Peter and Tim looked like two people who had not inhaled properly since Tuesday.

Tim had long given up on pretending he was awake. His chin was propped on one hand, elbow sliding across the wooden table in slow increments. Peter was no better; he sat slouched forward with both hands wrapped around a coffee cup like it was the last warm thing in this cursed world.

Their laptop screens bathed both their eyebags in a soft, accusing glow.

They looked awful.

Peter clocked it first.

“Dude,” he said, blinking at Tim over the rim of his cup, “you look like you lost a fight with a Roomba.”

Tim huffed through a laugh, rubbing both eyes with a small groan. “You’re one to talk. You look like you negotiated with a blender and lost.”

Peter grinned, tapping a mug toward him. “Here. You’re welcome. And don’t even pretend you weren’t gonna drink it.”

Tim accepted it gratefully. “Thank you. Seriously.”

Peter leaned back in his chair, stretching until his spine made a noise he did not want to think about. He watched Tim sip the coffee like it was medicine. The kid’s shoulders lowered, but not in a relaxed way. More like something was finally heavy enough to drag them down.

Peter watched him another moment before saying, in his usual too-casual tone, “You, okay?”

He meant it lightly. Not prying. Just reading the vibes.

Tim paused mid-sip.

A dead giveaway.

Peter rested his forearms on the table. “Hey. You don’t have to answer. But you do look like shit. Which, I say with love.”

Tim snorted but did not deflect this time. He stared at the coffee swirling inside his cup. “Yeah. I know. Haven’t slept.”

“Figured.” Peter toed Tim’s shoe gently under the table like a signal he would not push. “If you want me to mind my business, I can do that too.”

Tim shook his head slowly. “No. You’re good. We’ve been friends long enough.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “We’ve known each other three months, man.”

Tim shrugged with a faint smile. “Long enough.”

Peter’s chest warmed in a weird, awkward way that he immediately pushed aside by dramatically chugging the rest of his coffee. His brain needed caffeine before it could interpret anything remotely sentimental.

He wiped his mouth and exhaled. “Alright. Hit me. What’s up? Why’re you avoiding home?”

Tim hesitated. Then he leaned back, letting his head drop against the chair, staring up at the high ceiling like it might answer for him.

“It’s just… tense,” he muttered. “Like, nuclear fallout tense.”

Tim rubbed his face again, jaw tightening. “Jay, my older brother, he… had this massive argument with our father. One of those really bad ones. About morality. Personal boundaries. Work. Everything.”

Peter nodding slowly encouraged him to keep going.

“He doesn’t come home much,” Tim continued, voice dropping. “But when he does… there’s always a fight. Always something. And I just, ” He cuts himself off, words folding in on themselves. “I just want my brother to be safe. Or at least… present. But I can’t, ” He stops again, shoulders slumping. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” Peter said.

Tim glanced over. “I didn’t even give you details.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Tim studied him for a long second, then looked back at his coffee.

Silence settled between them. The soft kind. Not awkward. Not waiting for something. Just existing.

Peter tapped the laptop trackpad lightly. The cursed egg game stared back at him, sprite in the centre of the screen.

Traumatised little bastard.

He pushed the laptop slightly toward Tim. “Hey,” he said lightly. “You want my lore, too?”

Tim blinked. “Your lore?”

Peter smiled faintly. “You dropped some heavy stuff. I can do… balance. Fairness. Emotional reciprocity. Whatever keeps this friendship contract legally binding.”

Tim cracked a weak smile. “You know you don’t have to tell me anything heavy.”

“Yeah,” Peter said, shrugging. “But I kinda want to.”

Tim straightened, giving him full attention.

Peter inhaled through his nose, bracing himself. “I’ve got a brother, too,” he started. “Younger. His name’s Ian.”

Tim looked surprised. “You never mentioned him.”

“Yeah, well,” Peter muttered, scratching the back of his neck. “It’s complicated. He grew up real… intense. Wanted to be someone people were proud of. But not just people. Mo—” He caught his tongue. Fast. “Not just anyone. Someone specific.”

Tim nodded thoughtfully. “And he pushed himself for that?”

“Oh yeah,” Peter said softly. “That kid would do anything to live up to expectations. Even the stupid ones. Especially the stupid ones.”

Tim’s expression shifted, something gentle settling behind his eyes. “How’d you deal with that?”

Peter shrugged but it came out half-hearted. “As the older brother? I tried to make sure the burden didn’t get too heavy. Tried to take the hits before he had to. Tried to… I dunno. Give him some space to breathe.”

Tim stared down at his hands. “Jay leaves the house… probably for the same reason.”

Peter tilted his head. “Avoiding drama?”

“Avoiding the fallout,” Tim murmured. “He thinks if he stays away, Dad calms down faster.”

Peter’s eyebrows slowly lifted. “That’s a lot of responsibility for one guy.”

Tim let out a breath, almost a laugh. “Tell him that. He won’t listen.”

Peter tapped the table thoughtfully. “Funny thing about people, everyone wants to be someone.”

Tim raised a brow. “You’re going philosophical on me in the middle of our egg game?”

“Hey, this is deep life commentary,” Peter said dramatically. “I’m being wise. Respect the process.”

Tim snorted. “Alright then. Continue, oh wise one.”

Peter sat up straighter, folding his arms like he was about to lecture a college auditorium. “People want to be someone. Someone specific. Someone who matches an image in their head. Someone who sounds like the person they think they should be. But they forget that the version of themselves they chase? It’s usually made of little pieces of everyone else. People they like. People they fear. People they want to impress. People who hurt them. People they want to be.”

Tim watched him quietly.

Peter exhaled, voice softening. “We’re all stitched together. Tiny fragments of other lives. And some people never figure out which parts are really theirs. They follow one fragment like it’s the whole map and get lost because they never checked if the rest lines up.”

Tim’s eyes unfocused slightly, sinking into the thought.

Peter softened further. “Your dad. Your brother. You. All of you are trying to follow directions from pieces you didn’t pick. That’s rough.”

Tim blinked, swallowing around something stuck in his throat.

Peter nudged him gently with his foot. “Hey.”

Tim looked at him.

“You’re allowed to feel weird about it.”

He looked down. “I just, yeah. It’s… a lot.”

“Family always is,” Peter said, trying to lighten it with a grin. “Trust me. I come from a long line of emotionally constipated disasters.”

Tim snorted again. “Same.”

They shared a tired little laugh, one that dissolved some of the tension sitting between their shoulders.

Peter gestured toward the laptop. “Alright, emotionally heavy things aside. Back to important matters.”

Tim raised a brow. “The egg?”

“The egg,” Peter said gravely. “He needs lore.”

“He doesn’t need lore,” Tim argued.

“He needs trauma,” Peter insisted.

“He’s an egg.”

Tim slid down his chair in clear defeat.

Peter snorted, cracking open the code window. “Okay, okay. No childhood backstory. But he’s at least allowed to have motivations.”

“For what?” Tim deadpanned.

“For rolling,” Peter said, like it was obvious. “He’s running from the fragility of life.”

Tim squinted at him. “Did you just imply eggs understand existential dread?”

Peter shrugged. “I think everyone does if they’re self-aware enough.”

Tim stared at him.

Peter stared back.

Then Tim shook his head with a disbelieving smile. “I don’t know how you manage to be ridiculous and insightful at the same time.”

“Tragic skillset,” Peter said lightly. “Born with it. Cursed with it. Depends on the day.”

Tim leaned in, typing something into the code. “Alright. What if instead of trauma, we give him… comedic angst?”

Peter perked immediately. “I’m listening.”

“Like… his whole thing is dramatic inner monologues. Completely unnecessary. Completely over the top. Completely, ”

“Like a Victorian novel?” Peter offered.

“Exactly.”

Peter nodded solemnly. “Now that’s storytelling.”

Tim typed faster, energy suddenly returning. “And instead of a tragic past, he’s just convinced he has one. Like, he believes he’s destined for something but no one else knows what he’s talking about.”

Peter wheezed a laugh. “That’s fantastic. Egg delusion. Very Gotham-core.”

Tim grinned now, full, and genuine. “Alright. Add the dialogue bubble code.”

Peter cracked his knuckles. “On it.”

For a moment, everything eased.

The weight on Tim’s shoulders.

The pressure behind Peter’s ribs.

The world outside the library.

Just two idiots coding nonsense into a cursed video game character with too much personality.

Peter typed quickly, tongue poking out in concentration. Tim leaned sideways slightly, shoulder brushing Peter’s as he read the line of code.

Peter paused.

Not uncomfortable.

Just noticing.

Tim’s voice softened. “Thanks. For earlier.”

Peter blinked. “For what?”

“You listened.”

Peter shrugged. “Yeah, well. You’re my friend.”

Tim looked down, smiling faintly. “Yeah. You’re mine too.”

Something small and warm settled in Peter’s chest.

He clicked RUN on the program.

The egg sprite appeared.

A speech bubble popped up over its head.

It read:

I have known sorrow.

Tim slammed his head on the table.

Peter burst out laughing.

The library’s morning sunlight glowed around them like something gentler than the city had any right to be.

And for once, the world felt… not fixed.

But manageable.

Barely.

 

The night in Gotham never behaved normally. It never just existed. It always lurked, breathed, whispered, and occasionally threw a brick at someone. Tonight, it felt almost calm. Quiet enough that Spyder could feel the city vibrating beneath the rooftops rather than screaming at him outright.

He perched above a rusted fire escape, mask gleaming faintly whenever a stray neon light flickered against it. The emerald carvings stretched across his face like a demon pulled out of an old Japanese folktale, tusks sharp, eyes glowing. His body remained still, barely rising with breath he did not need to take. In the cold air, he looked carved from shadow.

He listened.

He always listened first.

The shouts reached him before the crash did.

A manic cackle. The slap of boots. Something metallic tossed across pavement. Then Harley Quinn’s unmistakably cheerful, absolutely unhinged, high-pitched, “Come on boys, if you’re gonna chase a girl, at least bring cupcakes or somethin’!”

Spyder shifted.

Not in surprise.

In recognition.

Harley.

Her voice cut through the night like neon chalk.

He moved.

He launched himself across the building edge with effortless, soundless momentum. His form curved mid-air, limbs bending with unnatural fluidity, muscles reshaping themselves subtly beneath the black-green suit. When he landed, the brick cracked.

Below, five of Joker’s goons sprinted after Harley with the kind of single-minded rage that suggested they had been promised dental coverage and a raise if they caught her.

They would not.

Harley vaulted over a dumpster, hair swinging. “You all smell like expired mozzarella sticks, by the way!” she yelled over her shoulder.

One goon raised his gun.

Spyder dropped behind him silently.

A single touch, two fingers pressing into the soft space between the man’s wrist and palm, made the gun fall instantly as his entire arm spasmed. The thug screamed, spun, and froze as Spyder’s mask filled his vision.

Spyder tilted his head.

The goon fainted.

The others skidded to a halt.

“Aw hell,” one muttered. “The Oni.”

Another slowly lowered his bat. “He… he ain’t with us, right?”

“No idiot, he’s that green-eyed thing that melts people!”

“I heard he eats spines.”

“I heard he steals souls.”

“I heard he, ”

Spyder moved.

Three of them screamed before he even reached the ground.

One swung wildly and hit a wall instead.

Another tripped over the first guy’s unconscious body and crawled backward, jabbering apologies to the air.

Spyder swept through them without hesitation, disabling joints, disarming weapons, applying precise pressure that knocked one out, sent another scrambling, and forced the last one to run like he had just seen a tax auditor.

By the time Harley spun around, pink jacket flaring dramatically, every goon was either unconscious, crying, or fleeing.

She blinked at the chaos and then grinned. “Well, ain’t that adorable. You rescuin’ me again.”

Spyder straightened from the last unconscious thug and signed calmly.

<You were cornered.>

Harley scoffed. “No, I wasn’t.”

He stared at her.

She threw her hands up. “Fine. Maybe a little.”

Spyder tapped his chest.

<Spyder with a y.>

Harley burst into a laugh so sudden she bent forward with it. “With a y? Oh my god you’re such a little show-off. Fancy spelling. I love it.”

Spyder remained still, expression unreadable behind the shifting mask, though internally Peter winced.

He had meant that as clarification, not personality.

Harley slung her bat over her shoulder. “Well since you saved my cute little butt, you wanna meet the gang? And the plant lady? I got a whole hideout thing now.”

Spyder hesitated only a second.

Then nodded.

Harley’s grin widened. “C’mon then, green bug.”

Peter inside whispered, I’m never gonna live that down.

The walk to Harley’s hideout was… a journey.

Harley talked the entire way. She did not need prompting. She did not need someone to ask questions. She simply rolled with every thought that popped into her head.

“So anyway, my crew’s small but mighty. We’re like… diet vigilantes. Vigilantes zero sugar. Vigilantes full chaos but with a veggie option thanks to Ivy.”

Spyder followed behind her, steps silent, mask shifting gently whenever he looked away from streetlights. He kept to the shadows, out of habit more than necessity.

Harley kept glancing back with a fond sort of exasperation. “Y’know it’s real weird walkin’ with someone who doesn’t breathe loud or shuffle or do people stuff.”

Spyder signed at her back.

<I walk normally.>

She turned around fully while walking backwards. “Nah, sugar. You walk like a ghost who went to ninja college.”

He stopped signing.

He did not have a rebuttal for that.

Harley gestured around as they approached an old botanical building retrofitted with tarps, fairy lights, and patched-up windows. “Welcome to Casa de Chaos.”

Spyder stepped inside behind her, senses shifting instantly. The humidity centred around one presence.

Ivy.

Poison Ivy sat in an armchair surrounded by intertwining vines and potted plants that looked too intelligent to be normal. Her eyes flicked up the moment Spyder entered.

She did not speak.

Did not smile.

Just examined him like a new species of bug she was tempted to catalogue.

Spyder inclined his head politely.

Ivy blinked once.

A nod.

Harley dropped her bat on the couch dramatically. “He helped me with the boys again. Joker’s idiots are persistent like mildew.”

Spyder signed toward Harley.

<Joker gave orders?>

Harley rolled her eyes. “Nah. Well… maybe? Probably? Hard to tell with him. He does this thing where he doesn’t say words, but he says words, y’know?”

Spyder stared.

Harley continued, waving her hands. “Like, he doesn’t call for a hit. But he’ll go all ‘Oh, Harley’s probably better off dead ahaha’. And then his little minions think, oh boy, boss wants murder tonight!”

Spyder’s fingers twitched.

He signed slowly.

<Why does he do that?>

Harley shrugged and plopped onto the couch. “Because he’s a manipulative malignant narcissist with abandonment issues and a clown fetish.”

Ivy cleared her throat softly, the plants rustling around her like a polite warning.

Harley corrected, “An ex malignant narcissist with abandonment issues. Emphasis on ex.”

Spyder stood still. The mask shifted subtly as he watched Harley toss her jacket aside. She looked tired, even more than she let on. She stretched out on the couch with a little groan that sounded too worn for someone so loud.

He moved closer.

Signed carefully.

<Joker hurt you?>

Harley stiffened.

Ivy looked up sharply but did not intervene.

Harley blinked at him, then slowly sat up. For once, she did not grin.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “He did.”

Spyder remained steady.

Harley chewed her lip, picking at the couch seam. “He got inside my head. Made me feel… small. Made me feel like everything was my fault if I tried leavin’. Even after I left, he made sure I felt like I’d never be anything without him.”

Spyder signed gently.

<You left.>

Harley nodded, voice softer than usual. “Yeah. Took me long enough. Ivy helped. Ivy saves me more than she admits.”

Ivy lifted an eyebrow but did not deny it.

Harley leaned her cheek on her hand. “I formed my own crew. Just acquaintances. Acquaintances who wanted somethin’ better. Not big stuff. Just… our stuff.”

Spyder looked around the hideout. Posters. Fairy lights. A fridge covered in stickers. A punching bag patched together with duct tape and hope.

It was… very Harley.

He signed slowly.

<You made your own home.>

Harley smiled faintly. “Yeah. Guess I did.”

Spyder sat on the arm of the couch, moving carefully so he did not break anything. His body often bent lighter or heavier depending on his control; right now, he forced himself to be careful.

Harley tapped his knee lightly. “So, what’s your whole deal, hm? You’re scary as hell but you keep saving me like you’re practicin’ for a class on heroics.”

Spyder signed:

<I dislike suffering.>

Harley blinked. “That’s it?”

<And I dislike clowns.>

Harley froze.

Then she exploded into laughter. “Oh my god you’re perfect. Ivy, he’s perfect.”

Ivy did not look up from watering her vines. “He is tolerable.”

Harley leaned closer with a grin. “So, what’s your real alignment, sugar? You’re not evil, but you’re not good either.”

Spyder paused.

Then signed with measured honesty:

<I respect people who choose themselves.>

Harley stared.

Spyder continued.

<You did. You left him. You decided your life was yours. I respect that.>

Harley’s smile softened in a way he had not seen before. Not chaotic. Not teasing. Just… genuine.

“You’re sweet, for a demon gremlin,” she murmured.

Spyder tilted his head slightly.

Ivy glanced up with a quiet hum. “He means it. That is rare.”

Harley sank back into the cushions. “Well. If you ever wanna hang out again, you know where we are. You can even stay for dinner. Ivy’s making pasta that doesn’t scream when you eat it.”

Ivy sighed heavily. “That happened once.”

“Yeah, but once is enough to haunt a girl.”

Spyder stood quietly, mask gleaming with faint green light. He looked between Harley’s tired grin and Ivy’s quietly watchful gaze.

He signed one more time.

<I will return.>

Harley beamed. “Good. I like havin’ you around. You’re like… morally grey comfort.”

Spyder paused at that.

Peter inside whispered, …what does that even mean.

Harley waved him off. “Go on, spooky boy. Gotham ain’t safe but you make it more fun.”

Spyder’s mask rippled once. Then he stepped backward toward the window Ivy had cracked open for airflow.

Before slipping into the night, he signed:

<Harley.>

She perked. “Yeah?”

<You deserve better.>

Harley froze for a moment.

Then she smiled softly. “Yeah. I think I do too.”

Spyder disappeared into the shadows.

The vines rustled.

The fairy lights flickered.

And Harley Quinn, for the first time in a long time, felt… respected.

Not pitied.

Not lectured.

Not controlled.

Just understood.

And somewhere across the city, perched on a rooftop with the wind scraping against his mask, Peter Parker felt something shift as well.

Not love.

Not devotion.

But alignment.

A strange little thread connecting two chaotic people who refused to let the world tell them who they had to be.

A thread that said:

You chose yourself.

I see you.

I respect that.

And in Gotham, that was a rarer gift than safety.

 

The air shifted, slightly heavier, slightly sharper, almost as if the city itself held its breath and waited for the worst to unfold. Spyder felt it before he saw anything. His senses stretched across alleys and rooftops like an unseen net, picking up tension in the air long before the sounds travelled.

Tonight felt wrong in a way he recognised.

Anger, building. Reckless. Raw.

Someone spiralling.

Someone trained.

Someone dangerous.

And someone hurting.

He followed it without hesitation.

The trail of movement cut through a backstreet, scattering rubbish bags and dented metal bins. A gunshot shattered the quiet. Then another. Not aimed at anyone. Wild. Desperate. Close to the ground.

Jason Todd.

Spyder landed silently on a rooftop opposite the alley, green eyes gleaming beneath the mask as he crouched low. Jason staggered across the cracked pavement below him, helmet pushed up slightly as if he could not bear wearing it properly but could not bear taking it off either. His breathing came out uneven, heavy with adrenaline and something that looked too much like panic.

He fired once more into the ground, gripping his gun so tightly his knuckles whitened under the glove.

Peter recognised the posture immediately.

He had seen it in men who drowned in their own trauma back in the League. He had seen it in soldiers in the other universe who broke under pressure. He had seen it in himself when nights pressed too close.

This was not rage.

This was collapse.

Spyder dropped down.

The soundless landing startled Jason enough that he spun around, gun raised. “Back off!” he shouted, voice cracking under the modulator. “I said back off!”

Spyder raised a hand, signing slowly.

<Jason. Stop.>

Jason jerked back as if slapped. “No. No. You don’t know me. You don’t—just get out of here.”

Spyder took a step forward.

Jason fired at him.

The bullet struck Spyder’s chest and flattened instantly as the biological weave hardened over his sternum, rippling like hot metal cooling. He did not flinch. Not even a twitch.

Jason’s eyes widened behind the mask. “What—what are you?!”

Spyder signed again.

<You are not well.>

“Shut up!” Jason snapped, though Spyder had made no sound. “I don’t need help. I don’t need—anyone. I’m fine.”

He absolutely was not fine.

Jason backed up until he hit the wall, breathing shaking, the gun trembling.

Spyder stepped in.

Jason tried to swing.

Spyder caught his wrist mid-air and twisted just enough to disarm, not enough to hurt. Jason stumbled, but Spyder moved with him, guiding the fall so Jason landed on his knees rather than hard against the concrete.

Jason punched him with the other hand.

Spyder absorbed it like water taking a stone.

Jason growled, half furious, half terrified. “Don’t baby me!”

Spyder reached forward and grabbed both of Jason’s wrists, pushing them together and up, holding them firmly but gently. Jason struggled, muscles straining, posture collapsing further as exhaustion crept in.

“Let me go,” he rasped, voice cracking. “I don’t—I don’t need—just let me go!”

Spyder leaned closer, lowering himself to Jason’s eye level. His mask curved downward as the surface shifted, softening the sharp tusks, letting the emerald glow dim into something less threatening.

He signed only once, close to Jason’s hands.

<You are safe.>

Jason froze.

Not in fear.

In recognition.

As if someone had spoken a language he had not heard since childhood.

His chest heaved once. Twice. Then the breath stuttered.

He tried again to pull away, but the resistance this time was weaker, unfocused. Spyder loosened the hold enough that Jason could move, but not enough to let him hurt himself.

Jason’s voice cracked open. “I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask to come back.”

Spyder’s eyes softened behind the mask.

He signed:

<I know.>

Jason squeezed his eyes shut. “No, you don’t.”

<I died too.>

Jason’s head snapped up.

Spyder’s mask shifted slightly, letting expression bleed into its carved lines. A shadowed brow. A subtle downturn in the eye shape. A silent echo.

Jason stared at him, breath caught in his throat. “You—what?”

Spyder did not elaborate. He simply adjusted his hold so Jason could breathe easier, guiding him into sitting properly on the ground. The younger man collapsed back against the wall with a harsh exhale, helmet tilted up enough that Spyder could see part of his jaw trembling.

“Why’re you—helping me,” Jason whispered.

Spyder signed:

<You trained. You fought. You came back. That is enough.>

Jason let out something between a laugh and a sob. “You don’t—know what I’ve done.”

<You survived.>

Jason swallowed hard.

Spyder did not move until Jason’s breathing levelled into something close to steady. He adjusted slightly when Jason’s head dropped forward, letting him rest his forehead against Spyder’s shoulder instead of the filthy brick wall. The leather of Jason’s jacket brushed against the biological weave of Spyder’s suit, but Spyder did not react.

He simply stayed.

A silent pillar grounding someone who had been drifting too long.

Eventually, Jason’s shoulders loosened.

He choked out quietly, “I hate this place.”

Spyder signed one-handed.

<Then leave.>

Jason huffed. “Yeah right. Like that’s an option.”

<It always is.>

Jason shook his head slowly, but he did not pull away.

They stayed there for almost a full minute, the night wind rattling the rusted fire escape above them. Jason’s head finally lifted enough that he muttered, “If you tell anyone I cried—”

Spyder signed:

<They would not believe me.>

Jason let out a breathy laugh.

Then a shadow appeared on the far rooftop.

Spyder felt it before the figure even moved.

Nightwing.

Dick Grayson landed lightly on the edge of the alley, batons ready until he clocked the situation. His eyes widened behind the blue mask as he took in Jason slumped on the ground, Spyder crouched beside him, calm as death.

“Red?” Dick said softly, lowering his weapons. “Hey. You, okay?”

Jason glared weakly. “I’m peachy.”

Dick dropped down with a controlled flip, landing beside them with the ease of someone who had spent his entire life in the air. He knelt beside Jason, hands hovering as if afraid to touch without permission.

“What happened?” he asked, voice careful.

Jason opened his mouth.

Spyder signed before he could.

<He needs rest.>

Dick blinked, glancing between Jason and Spyder. He seemed ready to ask questions, then reconsidered. He stepped closer, sliding a hand under Jason’s arm.

“Come on little wing,” he murmured gently.

Jason groaned. “Don’t call me that.”

“Sure. After you’re stable.”

Jason grumbled but did not fight back as Dick helped him up. He leaned into the support more than he probably realised.

Spyder stood as well.

Dick paused, facing him properly for the first time. The blue of his mask reflected the faint green of Spyder’s eyes.

“Thank you,” Dick said softly. Genuine. Heavy.

Spyder tilted his mask down, letting the expression flatten into something unreadable. Then he signed slowly, deliberately.

<Bring him home.>

Dick stiffened slightly, eyes widening at the phrasing. His mind went instantly to what happened yesterday evening, the tension in the house, the argument with Bruce, the unspoken need for someone to hold the family together even when they frayed apart.

Dick swallowed.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I will.”

Spyder nodded once.

Then he stepped back into the darkness of the alley. His body shimmered as the biological surface rearranged itself, sinking him further into shadow. The mask shifted, tusks sharpening again into something more monstrous. The eyes regained their eerie glow.

From gentle to terrifying in one smooth ripple.

Nightwing watched, uneasy and awestruck.

“Who even are you?” he murmured.

Spyder lifted one hand and tapped two fingers twice against the side of his mask.

A silent dismissal.

A silent promise.

Then he vanished upward, scaling the wall like gravity bored him.

Dick sighed, adjusting Jason’s weight. “Come on. I’ve got you.”

Jason muttered something incoherent but leaned against him fully.

And somewhere high above in the dark, Spyder watched them disappear down the alley. He stood silent against the wind, mask gleaming with a faint mixture of ferocity and something softer.

Peter Parker inside him breathed quietly.

He had aligned himself with Harley because she carved her own freedom.

And with Jason because he recognised the fracture in him.

Personal respect.

Not earned.

Not demanded.

Given because he understood them.

Understood the fight.

Understood surviving.

The night continued across Gotham, thick with danger and unspoken understanding, and Spyder slipped back into the shadows with that quiet truth settling deeper:

He was not alone in this city.

And neither were they.

 

Peter slipped into the shadows the moment Nightwing vanished with Jason, the alley shrinking behind him with every silent step. The green glow of the oni mask dulled as he let his body settle, the biological weave easing back into a more neutral form. He inhaled through the mask once before dissolving into upward motion. A leap, a climb, a glide between rooftops. The city blurred beneath him as he travelled home.

He did not rush. He moved with the quiet certainty of someone who knew the path even without looking. The rooftops welcomed him, the familiar rhythm of stepping on cracked concrete and old tiles creating a strange comfort of its own. Eventually, he reached a block of old brick buildings, his building sitting in the centre like a forgotten note in an orchestra.

He landed on the fire escape, soundless as ever, and allowed the mask to dissolve into his skin again. The shift rippled down his face, a wave of cool metal melting into warm flesh. He rolled his shoulders, letting the suit pull back under the surface entirely. The green lines that travelled across his chest dimmed and sank away until he appeared simply human again, bare footed, exhausted, and contemplative.

He climbed inside through the living room window that never quite latched properly. The apartment welcomed him with the soft hum of the fridge and the faint smell of detergent, which he used a little too much because he never measured. He closed the window behind him and headed straight to the shower.

The hot water hit his shoulders first, then down his back, steam curling over his neck as he steadied himself against the wall. For a moment he simply breathed. Gotham felt different tonight. He could still feel Jason trembling under his hands, the rawness of the younger man’s fear and the weight behind it.

Water streamed down his face while he thought about that moment Jason finally stopped fighting. It stirred something in Peter, something he recognised far too easily. There were pieces of himself in Jason. Pieces he wished he had outgrown by now. Pieces moulded out of grief, anger, and loneliness.

He rinsed the shampoo from his hair and decided to stop thinking about it.

He dried himself off and wrapped a towel loosely around his waist, wandering towards the kitchen. The apartment was quiet, but he found comfort in that silence. He had lived in chaos for too long. Silence felt earned.

He opened the fridge and grabbed what he needed automatically. Rice. Eggs. Soy sauce. Frozen peas. Carrots. A bit of leftover pork from yesterday. His movements were quick and confident, more muscle memory than careful thought. Ned taught him to make fried rice back during those days, and even after everything that happened, the recipe stayed with him.

He heated the pan and tossed the ingredients inside. The sizzle filled the small kitchen, and the smell of garlic drifted through the air. He stirred with a relaxed rhythm, humming under his breath. It felt normal. Someone might have said that was pathetic, but to Peter, normal was a luxury. A delightful little illusion.

When the fried rice finished, he placed the pan aside, grabbed a plate, and served himself a generous portion. He carried it to the living room, setting it on the low table beside his laptop. The screen glowed faintly, already open on a page of coding drafts titled simply Friday.

He sat down and leaned back against the sofa, still shirtless, hair damp, one hand resting thoughtfully on the trackpad.

He stared.

He really stared.

He was not ready. Not yet.

Friday was not just code. She was a person. She was memory. She was grief. Building her again felt like reopening a wound that had barely scarred over. He did not want to recreate her out of desperation, or because loneliness demanded noise. He wanted to do it because it meant something. Because he had moved forward.

Right now, it felt like he would be ripping himself apart again.

He sighed and reached forward, brushing aside a line of code before he could fall deeper into thoughts that led nowhere good.

He took a bite of fried rice.

At least the food tasted decent.

Before he could think too hard or spiral too deep, his phone chimed. The screen lit up with a single notification.

Tim.

He wiped his hands on a napkin and reached for the phone. The message was short. Concise. Very Tim.

timdrake: He came home.

Peter blinked, processing that. He placed the phone on the table for a moment and exhaled slowly. Dick moved quickly. That was good. That was very good. Jason needed someone to bring him home, even if home sometimes felt like a battlefield to him.

Peter picked his phone up again, thumbs moving before he thought too much.

He changed Tim’s contact name. It took him a few seconds to decide what to call him, then he changed it from timdrake to timtim.

Much better. It felt friendlier. Closer. It suited him somehow.

He typed back.

peterp: Good. Rest up.

Another moment passed, and another thought came.

He sent a second message.

peterp: For real. Sleep.

The three little dots appeared as Tim typed. Then disappeared. Then reappeared. Then vanished again. Eventually Tim sent a very tired sounding reply.

timtim: You too.

Peter huffed a small, amused breath. He locked the phone and tossed it gently onto the sofa beside him.

He leaned back fully, letting his head rest against the cushion. His gaze drifted lazily toward the window. Gotham’s faint green lights leaked through the curtains and cast dim shapes across the room.

Green.

He was starting to like that colour far too much. It reminded him of the calm glow in his mask. The strange comfort in Harley’s graffiti-covered hideout. The warmth of Ivy’s acknowledgement. The sense of belonging he never expected to feel here.

Then again, green also reminded him of the Joker’s hair.

His jaw tightened slightly at that thought. There was something deeply satisfying about imagining tearing that man apart. He did not often dwell on violent thoughts, but some people deserved less restraint than others.

He closed his eyes.

That was enough thinking for one night.

It was a good night, he decided. Chaotic. Complicated. Messy in all the ways he secretly found grounding. Harley survived another chase. Ivy tolerated him. Jason lived. Dick saw him. Tim rested. Gotham kept breathing. And Peter existed somewhere in the middle of it, finding small pockets of peace in fried rice and half-written code.

He smiled faintly to himself.

A great night, all things considered.

He reached forward and shut his laptop. The click echoed softly in the quiet room. He stood, stretching his arms above his head, the muscles in his back shifting in an almost unnatural fluidity as the biological weave responded instinctively to the movement.

He switched off the lights and walked toward his bedroom, the last remnants of green neon lingering on the curtains.

He crawled into bed, pulled the blanket over his chest, and let the city noise fade into nothing.

Spyder slept.

Peter slept.

And for once, both felt safe.

---

 

Notes:

Author’s note(s):
Fun fact, I have no beta reader. Not a single soul is checking this. I am writing purely on vibes, questionable caffeine levels, and the sheer spite of wanting this fanfic to exist.

Chapter 10: Chapter 9: Professional

Summary:

In which Peter Parker’s attempt at living a normal life unravels spectacularly.
Kidnappings, instincts, and one extremely awkward Nightwing encounter happen in rapid succession.
Professional respect is earned, denied, and feared all at once.

Notes:

Author’s Note(s):
Eyo! First of all, thank you so much for all the support and comments. I’m really sorry if I have not replied to most of them, because I am a disaster who forgets to check anything ever. Still, I appreciate every single one of you. You’re literally the reason I even bothered sharing this chaos. Anyway, this officially wraps up the third arc. We’re finally catching up to the prologue and the first three chapters. I hope you enjoy the emotional whiplash.

---

Peter Parker did not want to romanticise anything about his life. He had lived enough lifetimes to know that the moment he started saying things like maybe this is nice or wow, I am doing great, the universe would take that as a threat and respond by personally drop kicking him into a sewer. So, he stayed reasonable with himself. Sensible, balanced, grounded. That was the goal.

Still, he could not deny that he had achieved a certain strange peace in Gotham. A numb one, admittedly, something soft and dull around the edges like he was wrapped in a slightly damp blanket, but peace, nonetheless. It settled over him whenever he woke up in the morning and realised, he had not been stabbed, shot, kidnapped, or traumatically yeeted across rooftops. It settled again whenever he looked out of his window and saw the city basking in its own chaotic energy. For reasons he would never admit out loud, Gotham soothed something inside him. Maybe it was because the place was already broken. Maybe it was because the storm in him felt less lonely in a city full of storms.

It was a cliche thought, and he hated that, but there it was.

He sat on the floor of his only semi liveable building, drinking coffee from a chipped mug and watching Jeremy the raccoon waddle past the doorway like he owned the place. Jeremy was a menace. A bite sized gremlin made of questionable moral decisions. Peter tried to bathe him once, which was apparently the height of insult because Jeremy then proceeded to attack him, steal one of Peter’s socks, and move back into the trash bins outside. Peter did not even fight him on it. The raccoon clearly preferred the authentic Gotham lifestyle, dripping sludge and all. The clean-living room offended him deeply.

Peter sighed as he sipped his coffee. It was peaceful. Really peaceful. Suspiciously peaceful.

He glanced around. The interior of his building was not furnished, but it was clean. The weekly power washing of blood, grime, and crime residue had worked wonders. There was electricity. There was running water. There were lights. There was even a functioning oven that did not try to electrocute him. The place still looked like the opening shot of a horror movie from the outside, but he had accepted that as part of the aesthetic. Besides, Gotham had worse buildings. Far worse. His just looked mildly haunted instead of actively screaming in agony.

He had a routine, too. A real human adult routine.

Every morning, he would wake up, stretch, brush his teeth, eat whatever leftovers Harley shoved into his hands the previous day, and then make his way to Gotham University. Computer science was his major, mostly because it made sense. He had the brain for it, and no one questioned the nerd with the big backpack and the chill attitude. He joined the photography club because the universe apparently wanted him stuck behind a camera for eternity. School was not bad, honestly. He sometimes forgot he was capable of doing maths without pulling his hair out.

Then there was the social part of his life. He still marvelled at the fact that he even had one. He had Tim, who was the closest thing to a normal friend he had been allowed to have in years, even though Tim was definitely not normal. Tim was caffeine in human form, with the academic precision of a well-oiled death machine. They hung out in the library and talked about coding, games, and occasionally philosophy when their brains decided to be pretentious at two in the morning. It was good. It was grounding.

Peter also worked part time for the Gotham Gazette under Vicky Vale, who had exactly two moods: loudly judgemental and professionally terrifying. She claimed she hired him for his talent, but really it was because he kept accidentally stumbling into crime scenes and taking the best pictures of the night. She called it instinct. He called it unfortunate proximity to danger.

His nightlife was less grounding. Less safe. Less anything that resembled sanity. Spyder still existed in him, twisted up like a spine made of secrets. He patrolled the cracks of Gotham quietly, no heroics, no grand gestures. He kept low, silent, efficient. Sometimes he scared off assassins. Sometimes he killed assassins. Half the time they wanted him dead. The other half wanted to drag him back to the League like he was a stray dog who ran away from home.

He always refused politely. With violence.

He avoided the Batfamily as much as possible. Exposure to them raised questions, and he did not have the emotional resilience for interrogations that sounded like parental disappointment mixed with mild judgement.

For once, things had been stable. And by stable, he meant the bar was on the floor. He could breathe. He could think without expecting a blade pressed to his throat. It was nice, and because it was nice, he inherently distrusted it.

He placed the mug on the counter, sighing deeply as the lingering calmness settled in his bones. He rolled his shoulders, listened to them crack, and then contemplated whether he should check on his roof leak. Probably not. The leak could survive two more days. Maybe three.

He was in a good mood.

He was in a peaceful mood.

The universe hated that.

Peter could practically feel the cosmic gears turning, preparing to introduce chaos into his day with the same enthusiasm a toddler had for throwing spaghetti.

He muttered to himself, “This is fine. Everything is fine. I am chilling. I am floating. I am in my silly little academic era.”

Jeremy hissed at him from the doorway, sounding offended.

Peter raised an eyebrow. “Do not judge me. You live in the trash. Literally.”

Jeremy hissed louder and ran off.

Peter stared after him. “Man, even the raccoon is mad at me.”

He inhaled and exhaled, letting the quiet settle again. He should have known it would not last. In fact, he was starting to believe that two weeks was the maximum timeframe in which the universe allowed him to feel remotely okay. Three weeks if he was blessed by cosmic randomness, which he very rarely was.

Still, he could not shake the small flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, the day would continue being peaceful.

He grabbed his backpack. He slipped on his shoes. He checked his phone to see if Tim had texted, and sure enough, there was a message from two hours ago that simply read:

timtim: You alive?

Peter snorted. He replied with:

peterp: define alive.

Tim liked that.

He went outside, locked his door, and breathed in the Gotham air, which smelled like rain, gasoline, and someone’s questionable life decisions.

He walked toward the train station, enjoying the breeze, appreciating the unusual lack of screaming in the streets. Everything was quiet.

Too quiet.

He stopped walking.

His instincts buzzed faintly, that familiar pre danger itch crawling up the back of his neck like a spider made of anxiety. He brushed it off. It was probably nothing. Probably.

He continued walking. He reached the campus. He passed through the courtyard, absorbed in the mild hum of students who did not yet realise how insane the world could be. He slipped into the photography club meeting, nodded at everyone, cracked a few jokes, and found his seat. Normal. Predictable. Routine.

Then he checked his phone again.

Tim had not answered his last message.

Peter blinked. That was odd. Tim usually replied in seconds. Maybe he was busy studying. Maybe he was asleep for once in his life. Maybe he was patrolling. Peter tried not to think about that possibility, even though he knew deep down that it was the most likely scenario.

He shrugged. He told himself not to worry.

He lied to himself.

He made it through his classes. He finished his assignments. He walked to the library for their usual meet up, expecting to find Tim already there with two coffees and three notebooks.

But the table was empty.

Peter stared at the empty table.

The universe laughed.

He sighed and sat down anyway, pulling his laptop out, pretending everything was normal. He started typing. He tried to focus. He forced himself to relax. He was not going to panic over his friend. He was not going to immediately assume the worst. He was not going to go insane.

Then he sensed something wrong.

Not danger towards him. Something subtle. Something distant. Something familiar.

His phone buzzed.

He looked.

timtim: heading over soon. might be a lil late.

Peter paused.

Then the message deleted itself.

His stomach dropped.

He sat there, frozen for three seconds.

Then he muttered, “Oh come on. Really? Today?”

His calm day had ended.

His numb peace was cracking.

And the poor timing of the universe was about to kick him straight into the worst possible situation imaginable.

 

The moment he saw Tim, the warm feeling shattered like cheap glass.

Tim Drake looked like he had been dragged across a rooftop, dunked in a blender, and then politely shaken for good measure. His hair was a mess. His eyes were bloodshot. His bag was half open, spilling a notebook and something that suspiciously looked like a grappling hook disguised as a water bottle. There was a cut on his cheek that had not been there yesterday. And most concerningly, Tim was trying very hard to pretend he was fine.

Peter stopped walking. The chair he usually sat in felt too far away. He tried to blink normally. He ended up blinking slow, almost owlishly, because the sight genuinely startled him.

Tim looked up, attempted a smile that nearly slid off his face, and lifted his cup of coffee like it could shield him from judgement.

“Hey,” Tim said. His voice cracked. “I am… alive.”

Peter set his bag down and sat across from him. He stared. Tim stared back. Neither said anything for a full five seconds.

Finally, Peter whispered, “Mate… what the hell happened.”

Tim stiffened. It was subtle, but Peter noticed because Peter noticed everything. He had been trained to. His eyes scanned Tim up and down in a way most people would consider invasive but was completely normal for someone who had spent years memorising every micro-expression of assassins.

The bruise on Tim’s jaw was fresh. Within the past eight hours. Maybe ten. The cut was shallow but hastily treated. The bags under his eyes were not the cute academic type, but the someone has been awake for seventy-two hours type. The tremor in his hand meant blood loss or injury or too much adrenaline with not enough recovery time. The coffee cup shaking meant guilt.

Peter’s chest tightened.

Without thinking, he leaned forward and said quietly, “This is going to kill you one day.”

The words came out before he had the chance to filter them. They dropped into the space between them with a weight neither could ignore.

Tim froze.

The moment stretched long enough for Peter to regret every decision that led him to this table. Tim’s eyes widened just slightly, like Peter had accidentally spoken in a language only vigilantes were supposed to understand. It was one thing to comment on Tim’s sleep schedule or caffeine intake. It was another entirely to say something that sounded like Peter knew there was far more to Tim’s life than study sessions and photography club hangouts.

Peter opened his mouth to say something else, maybe something casual, maybe something to lighten the tension, but Tim beat him to it.

“I am just tired,” Tim said. He set his cup down carefully. Too carefully. “Long night.”

Peter raised a brow. “Studying?”

Tim held eye contact for three seconds, then looked at the wall. “Sure.”

Peter sighed. He leaned back in his chair and scrubbed his hands over his face. He had not meant to say something so loaded, but the words were already out there floating between them, glowing neon, impossible to ignore. He tried to come up with something to defuse the situation, but nothing came out. The silence stretched on, and they both pretended to go back to studying even though neither was doing that.

Eventually they let the moment die, though it did not die peacefully.

It died like a cockroach someone crushed with a textbook, twitching but refusing to fully go away.

While Tim read his notes, Peter stared at the same line on his laptop for five solid minutes. He tried to look casual. He was not casual. He was calculating at least twelve scenarios in his head at once, because he knew what Tim was doing, he knew why Tim looked like he had been microwaved on low power, and he knew it was not safe.

The problem was that Peter could not pretend anymore. Not after that slip.

He stared at Tim’s hunched posture and thought bitterly, You are seventeen. You should be stressing about exams and friendships, not bleeding in alleyways because Gotham refuses to let children rest.

He looked at Tim’s red rimmed eyes and thought, You are killing yourself for a city that does not deserve that much of you.

He looked at the way Tim rubbed his shoulder absentmindedly and thought, I am going to break something if your ribs are cracked again.

Tim drank his coffee. Peter watched. The tension lingered beneath the quiet like a shadow waiting for its cue.

He tried to focus on anything else. Coding assignments. Photography deadlines. His building’s broken plumbing. Jeremy the racoon chewing holes in his cereal boxes. Anything at all.

But his mind shifted, almost reluctantly, to the long list he kept in the back of his head. A list he never wanted to revisit, but always did when moments like this forced his hand.

He knew everything about the Batfamily.

All of it.

He knew the tragedy that befall the Graysons and how Bruce brought Dick home after. He knew Jason Todd died at the hands of the Joker and burnt in a warehouse explosion in Ethiopia that was still talked about in hushed tones on certain forums. He knew Tim Drake had been adopted publicly in a high-profile moment with the Gotham press. He knew Damian Wayne was Bruce’s biological son and that most people assumed it was the result of a fling, which was partly true and partly bending the definition of fling so aggressively it snapped.

And Peter knew even more. Far more. He knew their other identities. He knew their codenames. He knew their death counts. He knew their patterns, habits, injuries, and the scars they all tried to pretend nobody could see.

Bruce Wayne was Batman.

Dick Grayson was Nightwing.

Jason Todd was Red Hood.

Tim Drake was Red Robin.

Damian Wayne was Robin.

Cassandra Cain was Black Bat.

Stephanie Brown was Spoiler.

Barbara Gordon was Oracle.

Duke Thomas was Signal.

Peter had spent three years in the League of Assassins. He had read every file. Every target. Every vigilante. Every hero. Every villain. Every security detail. Every death report. Every psychological profile. The League had been obsessed with Gotham for decades. It was impossible not to learn everything when you were trained to be a living archive.

So yes, Peter knew Tim was Red Robin.

He had known since the day they met.

Knowing was not the problem. Involving himself was.

He would not get attached. He would not intervene. He would not slip back into the life that had torn him apart twice already. He refused. He refused loudly and internally and sometimes with swearing.

Yet as he looked at Tim now, pale and shaking, he could not stop the cold dread crawling up his spine.

His instincts absolutely hated this situation.

Tim was a disaster. A sweet, intelligent, loyal disaster. Reckless in a way that reminded Peter far too much of himself at seventeen. Reckless in a way that made Peter want to wrap him in bubble wrap and throw him into a safe house for six months.

He should have walked away from the friendship when he still could. It was the smart option. It was the distant assassin trained option. It was the professional option.

Instead, he leaned forward again and whispered, “You look like a corpse that got reanimated and then re traumatised.”

Tim snorted softly. “Thanks.”

“No, really,” Peter muttered. “You look like you fought the sun and lost.”

Tim bowed his head as if he would fall asleep on the table.

Peter tried again to convince himself to stay out of it. It was not his responsibility. It was not his fight. He was not a hero. He was not Spider-man. He was not Spyder. He was Peter Parker, civilian, computer science major, raccoon caretaker, enjoyer of Gotham University vending machine sandwiches.

But as the minutes passed and Tim swayed slightly in his seat, something heavy settled into Peter’s gut.

A warning.

A certainty.

A premonition sharpened by experience and trauma and something he could not name.

Trouble was coming.

And Tim would be at the centre of it.

Peter closed his eyes and inhaled once in frustration.

He knew the pattern too well. Peace never lasted. Calm was always the precursor to disaster. Whenever life tasted even slightly normal, fate slapped him in the face with an event so catastrophic it made him question whether he had accidentally offended some cosmic deity.

He looked at Tim again.

He knew exactly what would happen next.

He would try to stay out of it.

He would fail.

He always did.

He always would.

 

Peter had always known that peace came with an expiry date. In Gotham, it often expired quicker than dairy left in direct sunlight. Still, he had enjoyed the brief quiet inside the library, soaking in the warmth of table lamps and the smell of dusty pages as if he could steal the calm and bottle it. Tim had been tired, yawning between notes, insisting he was fine in the same way people said they were fine before collapsing sideways into a bin.

They packed their things slowly, chatting about nothing in particular, and drifted toward the doors as students shuffled past them. The heavy front doors creaked open, letting out a faint echo. The cool evening met them with the sort of dramatic chill Gotham prided itself on. Peter exhaled, letting the air wash through him.

Everything felt normal.

Until it did not.

As soon as they reached the concrete steps, Peter felt a prickle run along his spine. It was the familiar static of danger, the whisper along the edges of his senses that told him trouble was lurking somewhere close. He tried to convince himself it was nothing. He tried to breathe through the instinct, to pretend that perhaps his paranoia was simply having a flare up.

Except the sensation deepened, stretching tendrils across his nerves.

He walked beside Tim at a steady pace, keeping things casual. Students walked past. A car honked. A woman pushed a pram across the zebra crossing. Everything looked normal, but something beneath it twitched in a way that set Peter on edge.

He could sense movement, faint and quick, like the flick of a shadow between streetlamps.

For a moment he considered that it might be assassins. After all, it was usually assassins. They hunted him the way New Yorkers hunted pigeons, except these hunters used sharp objects and had worse hygiene. Yet something about the pressure did not fit. Assassins moved with intention. This movement was jerky, clumsy, pulsing with chaotic energy that felt wrong in a familiar Gotham way.

Peter slowed slightly. His eyes flicked to a reflection in a shop window, trying to gather more information. He saw nothing, but the static under his skin persisted.

Tim rubbed his face. He looked like he had forgotten what sleep was, and Peter felt the beginnings of worry curl into his thoughts.

There was no time to speak.

The attack arrived in a burst of movement.

A van skidded across the pavement with the subtlety of a toddler throwing a tantrum in a supermarket. The doors flung open, and a group of men in mismatched clown makeup and crime scene level fashion decisions spilled out.

Peter stared for half a second, and disappointment hit him like a textbook dropped off a balcony.

Joker goons.

Of course. Had he not suffered enough cosmic misfortune.

Tim reacted immediately, but the moment he reached for his belt, one of the goons shoved a needle into his neck, sloppily but effectively. Peter’s breath caught.

Tim swayed, eyes widening. He gripped Peter’s arm briefly before his legs gave out beneath him.

Peter grabbed him before he hit the ground, lowering him gently, swallowing the instant rage that surged up. This was not assassin work. Assassins were at least professional. This was amateur hour with face paint.

He barely had a moment to shift before a punch slammed into his jaw.

He did not move.

The goon blinked in confusion. Peter blinked back.

Then another punch came, this time hitting him square in the side of the face. Peter let himself stagger slightly. No need to go full terminator on them. He groaned, partly out of performance and partly because being punched by Gotham clowns at sunset was not how he wanted his Thursday to end.

One of the goons shouted something triumphant as though he had won the lottery. Another one yanked Peter’s arm behind his back. Peter decided not to resist yet. His instincts screamed at him to dislocate someone’s spine, but he kept still, calculating.

Tim was dragged away, half conscious, groaning something incoherent about needing to finish Latin homework.

Peter took another punch to the ribs. It was unnecessary, but the goons seemed offended by his resilience.

He sighed and let them roughly handle him into the van.

He already regretted it.

The goons tied Peter to a metal pillar with thick rope. It looked intimidating if one did not know how to break rope with muscle tension alone. Peter remained still, studying the knots, counting the men, memorising the exits. He kept his breath even, eyes half lidded. He looked tired, helpless, confused. Exactly what they expected from a college kid.

Tim, however, was bound with heavier restraints. At least the goons recognised a Robin when they had one. That made this situation significantly more complicated, and Peter’s stomach tightened.

Tim was awake enough to mumble. His eyes were hazy, pupils dilated, skin pale. The drugs were strong. Peter could almost feel the chemical burn through Tim’s veins from across the room. Jokers goons were many things, and reckless was at the top.

One goon nudged Tim in the shoulder with the tip of his shoe. Another one laughed like he had never been told no in his life.

Peter’s fingers twitched behind his back. His body screamed at him to break free, to act, to slip back into the person he used to be.

Yet he held back.

Revealing Spyder here would be reckless. Joker goons were the least stable creatures in Gotham. If they knew what they had tied up, the situation could escalate into something catastrophic. Peter needed to move carefully.

He leaned back, adjusting slightly for comfort. Tim’s head lolled toward him.

Peter whispered, because it felt safer than silence.

“You look like shit.”

Tim’s eyelids flickered. His voice was faint, slurred.

“Should’ve… should’ve told you… Peter… I’m…”

Peter’s heart clenched. Tim tried to sit upright and failed, slumping back against the metal chair.

The goons continued to chatter about their prize, ecstatic about capturing a Robin. Peter listened to them, each sentence confirming they had no idea who he was. They believed he was just a random civilian dragged in by proximity.

Fine. Let them believe it.

It gave him time.

His thoughts sharpened into a quiet, cold focus. Every movement in the warehouse became clear. Every trajectory. Every shadow. Every potential weapon and every potential threat.

He mapped the structure of the place in seconds, imagining how he could move, how he could take them down, how he could slip Tim out without alerting any extra problems.

He inhaled slowly. The ropes burned faintly against his wrists. He shifted slightly, and the fibres loosened just enough to give him a hint of leverage.

Tim blinked at him. He sounded muddled.

“You… you got hit… a lot…”

Peter smiled faintly.

“You should see the other guy.”

Tim groaned, annoyed, which was a promising sign.

The goons continued their conversation about calling the big man, about rewards, about being heroes in the eyes of a lunatic. Peter listened carefully, filtering out nonsense. None of them were smart enough to notice the way he watched, calculated, prepared.

He glanced at Tim again. The teenager was slipping further into the fog.

Peter clenched his jaw.

He could not wait long.

He needed to get Tim out of here before Joker himself arrived. Before anything worse happened.

He let another punch from a goon land on his stomach. The man laughed, oblivious to the fact the blow barely made Peter blink.

Peter pretended to wheeze. It made the goons feel strong.

It bought him time.

Behind his stillness, behind the façade of helplessness, Peter’s mind sharpened into something cold, lethal, and terrifying.

Spyder was waiting beneath the surface.

And he was running out of patience.

 

Time warped strangely in Joker-goon captivity. It always did, Peter noticed. Villains with clown themes had a way of making minutes feel like painful decades, probably because none of them could shut up.

The warehouse smelled like mould, rubber and whatever expired meat was rotting in the far corner. The fluorescent lights flickered randomly, like they also wanted to escape. Tim was slumped against his chair, hands bound, pupils blown wide. The concoction they pumped into him was strong enough to take down two bulls and a mildly angry hippo. Robins were built different though, so instead of dying, Tim was hallucinating… colours? Probably colours. He kept blinking at the ceiling like it was giving him stock market advice.

Peter sat tied to the pillar. Well, “tied” was generous. They had used itchy rope and a questionable knot taught by a YouTube tutorial, probably the one titled “Tie A Hostage Knot In 60 Seconds (No Experience Required).” They never checked if Peter’s wrists were actually secured, which was funny. Nobody expected the lanky civilian college boy to be a problem.

The goons paced. And whispered. And muttered weird things. One of them kept scraping a metal pipe on the floor because apparently auditory torture was free. Another hummed an off-key jingle from some clown commercial. The third one was decorating a crowbar with stickers. Criminals had hobbies too, Peter supposed.

Meanwhile, Tim laughed softly under his breath, completely out of it. Something about “the floor is moving like jelly.” His head lolled to the side. He blinked again. His eyelashes fluttered like two confused bats.

Peter slowly inhaled.

He focused on the rope.

He let his skin shift under it, just enough to loosen, not enough to look unnatural. His biology flexed in microscopic waves, easing muscle density, sliding bone alignment, reshaping tension. Slow. Controlled. Quiet. Like peeling out of a too tight hoodie without moving your shoulders.

The rope slipped off.

He exhaled.

One goon was busy complaining about how Joker never gave out Christmas bonuses.

The other was pacing like he had a caffeine addiction and a debt due tomorrow.

The scraping pipe continued in the background like a dysfunctional metronome.

Peter stayed low. He moved between shadows, slipping behind crates, skimming over the floor silently. The air tasted heavy, thick, metallic. His green eyes adjusted to the dim light effortlessly.

Tim breathed unevenly, out of rhythm, like he was floating somewhere between consciousness and “talking to invisible penguins.”

Peter reached him and knelt.

The moment he touched the metal cuff on Tim’s wrist, the kid jerked slightly.

“Tim,” Peter whispered gently, leaning close enough that only Tim could hear him. “Hey, focus, I need you to work with me.”

Tim’s eyes opened halfway, then closed again, then opened like he forgot how eyelids worked. He squinted as if trying to recognise Peter through a fog.

“You should not be here,” Tim slurred. It came out in a single mushy syllable. “You… sh’nt… be here…”

Peter sighed quietly. “Bro, trust me, I deeply agree.”

He slipped his fingers under the restraint mechanism. He applied pressure, careful not to make a sound. Metal cracked but softly, like snapping twigs under a blanket. He removed the bindings one by one.

Tim watched the whole thing with the stunned awe of someone seeing a toaster for the first time.

“Okay,” Peter murmured as he steadied Tim’s shoulder, “we’re gonna get out of here. Easy. Not dramatic. Preferably without me getting punched in the teeth again. So, I need you to play nice.”

“Nice…” Tim echoed, nodding far too enthusiastically. “Nice. I can do nice. I’m so nice.”

Peter bit back a laugh. “Right. That’s the spirit. Just don’t flail. Don’t yell. Don’t do that thing where you jump into danger because adrenaline is your love language. Let me handle everything.”

Tim’s head bobbed. “’Kay… Peter, you’re like… very shiny.”

“That is not comforting,” Peter whispered, guiding Tim upright. “Come on. Eyes open. Or at least half open. A quarter. A sliver.”

Tim blinked slowly. “I’m… awake.”

“That’s a lie but we’ll work with it.”

He positioned Tim against him securely, supporting his weight. Tim sagged heavily, mumbling something about “somebody stealing all the consonants.”

Peter placed one hand over Tim’s sternum to steady him.

Something shifted.

In Peter.

It always did when danger pressed in too close.

He did not change completely.

He did not need the oni mask, did not need the armour-like shift of skin, did not need green fire rippling under his surface.

He only needed precision.

So, he let it slip.

Quietly.

Barely.

His pupils narrowed. His breathing slowed to something steady and unnatural. His movements tightened into that eerie economy of motion Spyder was known for. His steps made no noise, not because he was careful, but because his body adapted to silence automatically.

His shadows stretched thinner around him, taking him in.

He adjusted Tim against his chest, eyes darting once over the warehouse layout. Angles. Cover. Blind spots. The goons’ patterns. The timing of the flickering lights. Every variable patterned out in seconds.

This was not Peter Parker the college student.

This was the assassin they trained and feared.

He moved.

He glided.

One goon turned.

Peter was already somewhere else.

A breath. A shift. A shadow.

Tim’s head lolled back enough for him to glimpse Peter’s face.

He blinked blearily and mumbled, soft as a drifting thought, “Peter… your eyes look wrong…”

Peter paused only long enough to adjust Tim’s grip.

His irises gleamed a deep emerald, startling in the low light.

“Yeah,” Peter whispered, hardly moving his mouth, “don’t worry about it. Just keep breathing.”

The goons had no idea he was there.

The pipe scraping stopped.

A faint silence fell.

Peter’s shoulders lowered into a predatory stillness.

Things were about to go very badly for Joker’s payroll.

 

The exit door yawned open like it had been waiting for Peter. He stepped through the last stretch of the dim corridor, adjusting Tim’s lolling head on his shoulder with a careful roll of his wrist. Tim mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “pancakes”, which was ridiculous because pancakes had nothing to do with hostage situations, and also because Peter was ninety percent sure Tim had not eaten in the last ten hours.

Behind him, the warehouse hummed with the dying echoes of unconscious goons, cracked metal, and broken egos. Peter did not give any of it a second glance. He wanted out. He wanted sleep. He wanted to sit on his sofa and pretend that he was not living through another chapter titled “Parker luck vs the cosmos”.

He reached the wide loading bay door, the last bit of shadow between him and the night air.

Then the ceiling exploded.

A storm of shattered panels, dust, and industrial insulation rained down. A figure dropped through the sudden hole like gravity was only a polite suggestion. Muscles coiled, boots landing with that comic book precision that made Peter want to sue someone for choreography accuracy.

Nightwing.

Of course. Because why would tonight end gently when it could do a dramatic pirouette into chaos.

Peter froze. Nightwing froze. Even the dust seemed to hang mid-air, waiting to see what would happen.

Nightwing’s stance shifted instantly into an assessment posture. His eyes scanned the interior, flicking over unconscious bodies, sparking wires, and finally landing squarely on Peter.

Peter holding Tim bridal style.

Peter covered in drying blood but showing not a single wound.

Peter looking like someone who had walked out of a horror game tutorial level.

Peter who should not, under any circumstances, be standing there like rescuing a vigilante teenager from Joker’s goons was part of his Tuesday routine.

Peter blinked.

Nightwing blinked.

Tim snored faintly.

The silence stretched, thin and brittle like an overused rubber band.

Nightwing’s eyes narrowed behind the black domino mask as he tried to compute the sight before him. Peter could practically hear the internal monologue. Something about threat assessment, risk profiling, improbable civilian capabilities, possible meta-activity, and what in the absolute hell.

Tim shifted in his arms, clinging to Peter’s hoodie with the possessiveness of a toddler claiming a plush toy.

Peter swallowed, very slowly, because it felt weird to be watched like he was a museum exhibit labelled:

Civilian (?) – Rare Specimen – Do Not Tap Glass.

Nightwing took a measured step forward. His body remained loose, but his awareness spiked. He was analysing every little detail: Peter’s steady breathing, the lack of pain reactions, the unnaturally sure footing, the eerie calm in his expression.

Peter adjusted Tim again. Tim responded by curling further into his chest.

Nightwing looked seconds away from glitching.

This moment lasted too long.

Far too long.

It had not even been a full minute.

Peter hated it.

Nightwing spoke first.

“What.”

Just that. One word. A flat line delivered with the emotional range of a tired older brother who had seen too much, dealt with too much, and was now staring at something that made the rest of his week look reasonable.

Peter cleared his throat lightly. “Hi.”

Tim lifted his head a fraction, eyes glassy and unfocused. “He is so soft.”

Peter nearly dropped him.

Nightwing stared at Tim, then stared at Peter again, then briefly looked up as if asking whatever deity managed Gotham, why.

Peter stood very still. He could feel every inch of judgement radiating off Nightwing like a sunlamp.

The man had questions. A lot of them.

Like how a Gotham University computer science student managed to carry a drugged vigilante across a warehouse full of armed criminals without a scratch. Or why his bloodied hoodie had no rips. Or how his breathing was too calm. Or why his eyes looked a bit too bright, a bit too focused, a bit too wrong.

Nightwing opened his mouth, closed it, then settled on a different approach entirely.

“You need to explain something,” he said slowly.

Peter returned a blank stare. “I would love to, I really would, but I’m currently holding your brother like a malfunctioning koala, and I feel like that’s priority.”

Tim muttered, “I’m not a koala. I’m a bird.”

“Yeah, man,” Peter whispered, “loud and clear.”

Nightwing inhaled very deeply, the sort of inhale taken by someone reminding themselves that violence was not an acceptable response.

He stepped closer, voice low. “How did you get him out?”

Peter shrugged one shoulder. “Walked.”

“You walked,” Nightwing repeated, sounding personally offended by the simplicity.

“Yeah,” Peter said. “The goons were... distracted.”

“By what?”

Peter looked away. “Their own stupidity?”

Nightwing’s expression twitched. He clearly did not buy that, but he also could not argue with the results. Tim was alive, breathing, only moderately high, and somehow in the arms of the one civilian in Gotham who kept showing up in situations that made no sense.

Peter hated every second of being perceived.

“Alright,” Peter said, shifting his grip on Tim. “Here, take your cryptid child.”

Nightwing stepped forward, hesitation buried under professionalism. Peter carefully transferred Tim into his arms, making sure not to jostle him. Tim made a small protesting noise but settled quickly.

Nightwing adjusted his hold, eyes flicking back to Peter.

“You sure you are... okay?”

Peter wiped a streak of blood off his cheek with the back of his hand. It left a smear but at least it was a cleaner smear. “Yeah. Just... you know. Tuesday.”

Nightwing tilted his head, studying him again with that unsettling depth. This time, though, the suspicion carried something else with it. A quiet acknowledgement.

Not trust.

Not yet.

But the recognition of competence. Real competence. The kind that came from training, instinct, and experience far outside civilian lanes.

Something professional.

Something respect adjacent.

Peter shifted his weight. “I should... go.”

Nightwing did not stop him.

Did not reach out.

Did not interrogate him.

He simply stared with that subtle dawning understanding that whatever Peter was, however, he operated, he had made a choice tonight that aligned with the Batfamily’s rules.

He protected one of their own.

And he did it with clean, deliberate judgement.

Peter walked away slowly, steady, not rushing, not panicking, but moving with the confidence of someone who had long practice in leaving scenes unnoticed.

Nightwing watched him go, tracking his footsteps, his posture, the unnatural fluidity in his muscles that no civilian should possess.

Something was wrong with that kid.

Something big.

Something dangerous.

But also, something honourable. Something reliable when it counted.

Nightwing held Tim closer and whispered to himself, “What are you, Peter Parker?”

Peter did not turn back.

He disappeared into the night like he was made for it, leaving behind the thin, fragile beginning of something Gotham rarely witnessed.

Professional respect.

Between a vigilante legend.

And a boy who desperately wanted to be normal.

And failed spectacularly.

 

Peter did not make it far.

He had walked out of the warehouse, handed over a half-conscious Tim Drake to Nightwing, mumbled something that might have been “good luck with that,” and then vanished into the shadows like someone who had definitely done this kind of thing far too many times. He did not run. He did not sprint. He simply walked with a smooth, balanced, strangely deliberate pace until the city swallowed him.

Only when he reached the edge of the Narrows did reality catch up with him.

He stopped under a flickering streetlamp that sounded like it was dying. Hot air rolled through the alley, carrying the scent of sewage, burnt rubber, and something that might have been rat ambition. The city breathed around him, and for the first time since the kidnapping, Peter realised his own breathing had not changed. Not once.

He had not panicked.

He had not hesitated.

He had not even blinked.

And that was the problem.

Peter pressed the back of his hand to his forehead, trying to ground himself. The cold shock of it did nothing. His heartbeat remained impossibly steady. His mind remained sharp and terrifyingly calm.

“Great,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “Amazing. Stunning. Ten out of ten mental stability.”

He stared down at his shirt, crusted with blood that was not his, dirt smudged across his chest, dust clinging to his trousers, and a rip in his sleeve. He looked like someone who had fought his way through a mob of criminals and come out the other side without a scratch.

Because that was exactly what had happened.

But the worst part?

He had not needed to choose it. It had happened on instinct. Reflex. Training drilled into bone. Muscle memory that did not belong to Peter Parker from Queens, but to something else. To Spyder. To three years of killing, surviving, adapting, becoming something sharpened and silent and meant for violence.

He replayed the moment in his head. The second he slipped the ropes. The second he crawled toward Tim. The second his breathing fell into that deadly, effortless rhythm. The second his steps became weightless. The second his fingers bent without sound. The second his vision sharpened into surgical clarity.

He had not become Spyder.

But he also had not been Peter.

He had slid into a limbo, a half-state, the place between who he wanted to be and who he had been trained to become. His eyes had gone wrong. His body moved like it was built to kill. And Nightwing had seen it.

Peter groaned into his hands.

“Why do I do this to myself? Why is this my life? Why does the universe keep playing Jenga with my sanity?”

He paced back and forth, muttering curses at every deity he could think of. He tripped over a broken pipe, kicked it into the wall, watched it ricochet, and somehow felt personally offended by physics.

He should not have been that calm. He should not have been that efficient. He should not have been capable of silently taking down grown men while carrying a drugged teenager in his arms like Tim weighed no more than a pillow.

He had carried Tim bridal style.

He had walked past Nightwing looking like a fever dream.

Tim had called him soft.

Peter shoved his face in his hands again.

“Kill me. Someone please kill me. Not literally, universe, do not test me, I swear to God.”

Worst of all?

Nightwing had not questioned it.

He had not called for backup.

He had not tackled Peter to the ground.

He had not handcuffed him or interrogated him or demanded answers.

Nightwing had simply looked at him.

Not like he was a civilian.

Not like he was a victim.

Not like he was an accident.

Nightwing had looked at him like:

Equal.

Equal in skill.

Equal in danger.

Equal in understanding.

It was the exact gaze assassins used when meeting another assassin.

It was the same look Ra’s had given him during training.

The same look Talia had used when evaluating his strikes.

The same look Damian used before sparring.

Professional recognition.

Professional respect.

Peter felt like screaming.

He sank to a crouch against the brick wall and pressed his forehead to his knees.

“I am not doing this again,” he whispered. “I am not slipping into old habits, I am not turning into Spider-man, I am not becoming Gotham’s new problem child. I did not sign up for emotional shrapnel today.”

But the truth settled cold in his stomach.

He had slipped without meaning to.

Because the situation had felt like work.

Because the danger had triggered instinct.

Because Tim had been in trouble.

Because some part of him still believed he existed to protect reckless teenagers who kept throwing themselves into danger.

“God, I am a stereotype,” he muttered. “I collected another child. Again.”

He scrubbed his face, took a shaky breath, and straightened up. The streetlamp flickered above him, buzzing weakly, like even it was exhausted from witnessing his life.

He forced himself to breathe normally, even if his body did not want to comply. His muscles stayed tense. His senses stayed sharp. He could still hear Nightwing’s voice from earlier.

What.

He winced at the memory.

Yeah, that reaction made sense.

 

The rooftop of his terrible building was not comfortable, not scenic, and definitely not OSHA-compliant, but it was quiet. And quiet was enough.

Peter sat on the ledge with one knee drawn up and his arms loosely draped over it. Moonlight washed over the cracked concrete, the peeling metal vents, the broken AC unit that had given up before he even moved in, and the faint scent of rain clinging to the air.

Jeremy the raccoon rustled somewhere behind him, crunching what sounded like an entire pack of crisps stolen from Peter’s grocery bag. Peter ignored him.

His mind churned.

Professional respect.

He hated the phrase tonight.

He let his head tip back and stared up at the stars, counting them without meaning to.

“You are losing it, Parker,” he whispered. “Professional respect? Really? That is where we are now?”

He let out a humourless laugh.

He had promised himself he would not get involved.

He had promised himself he would not be a hero again.

He had promised himself he would not be an assassin again.

He had promised himself he would stay civilian.

A chill ran down his spine, and he closed his eyes.

He had extended professional respect to Nightwing without meaning to.

And Nightwing had returned it.

That was the beginning of a very slippery slope.

Professional respect meant acknowledgement.

Acknowledgement meant familiarity.

Familiarity meant connection.

Connection meant involvement.

Involvement meant danger.

Danger meant repeating everything he did not want to repeat.

He groaned and flopped onto his back on the rooftop, staring at the sky as Jeremy climbed onto his stomach like a gremlin king claiming his human throne.

“Jeremy, I need you to understand something,” he said, poking the raccoon’s head. “I am not building professional relationships. I am not getting recruited into Gotham’s night shift. I am not becoming someone who gets nods of approval from vigilantes.”

Jeremy squeaked, unimpressed, and sat down.

“Do not take that tone with me,” Peter whispered. “I am serious. This is bad. This is the beginning of the end. I can feel it.”

He lifted a hand and hovered it over his face, watching the moonlight catch the faint shimmer under his skin. The nanite-like ripples glowed for half a second before fading. Not enough for anyone else to see. But enough for him to feel the reminder.

He was not normal.

He would not be normal.

And the moment Nightwing had seen him walking with a drugged Tim in his arms, covered in blood with no wounds, that had been enough to tip the scales.

Nightwing would remember him now.

Not as a photographer.

Not as a college kid.

Not even as Tim’s friend.

Nightwing would remember the way Peter moved.

The way Peter reacted.

The way Peter handled danger like it was muscle memory.

The way Peter looked at him with a glint that was not civilian.

That meant something.

And worse, it meant something to Peter too.

He respected Nightwing’s judgement.

He respected Nightwing’s timing.

He respected the way Nightwing did not interrogate him or panic.

He respected the way Nightwing moved in combat.

He respected Nightwing as a professional.

He hated that.

He covered his face with both hands and kicked his legs like a frustrated toddler.

“This is so embarrassing,” he whispered. “I cannot have a crush on Nightwing’s competence. No. No, no, no. Professional respect only. Strictly professionalism. Zero emotional attachment. No spiral. No bat-shaped problems.”

He rolled onto his stomach and exhaled into the concrete.

“I cannot believe I am thinking about this. Why is this my life.”

Jeremy curled up beside him, patting his arm with raccoon paws like an emotional support trash goblin.

Peter sighed.

He knew the truth.

Tonight was the line.

Tonight was the moment he realised he was part of Gotham’s ecosystem whether he wanted it or not. Not as a civilian. Not as a hero. Not as an assassin.

But as something in between.

Someone who carried professional standards in his blood.

Someone who could not watch a kid go down alone.

Someone who reacted when danger whispered.

Someone who moved with skill Gotham recognised.

He hated it.

But he accepted it.

Because deep down, under every layer of denial and exhaustion, he knew something simple and dreadful:

Professional respect always comes before involvement.

And involvement always comes before chaos.

Peter groaned.

“God help me.”

The wind swept across the rooftop.

Gotham hummed below.

And Peter Parker, wrapped in moonlight and the scent of garbage, finally admitted that the walls between his lives were starting to crack.

---

 

Notes:

Author’s Note(s):
So, this will probably be the last chapter I post this year (probably, maybe, unless life decides otherwise). My semester is starting again, then it is Christmas break, and I am attempting to preplan my existence like that will ever work. Feel free to theorise wildly. Go insane. Make up lore. Fight your friends about it. I support all of it.

Also, finishing Dispatch awakened something in me. Something unholy. Something mentor-coded. I fear the implications and yet… I also do not. We’ll see what chaos that leads to when I get back. May you find glory in your days. Peace 😩✌️

P.S. I finished Dispatch without romancing anyone and also got the good mentor ending. Do whatever you want with that information.

Chapter 11: Chapter 10: Buddy

Summary:

Peter gets drawn deeper into the Bat family orbit as simple interactions start raising quiet suspicions about who he really is. His effort to remain low profile only makes him stand out more in all the wrong ways.

Notes:

Author's Note(s):
I did not plan for this chapter to turn into a full Batfamily comedy but somehow every time Peter stands within ten feet of any vigilante kid, chaos becomes mandatory. I swear these characters keep writing themselves while I just sit here trying to catch up.

---

The Gotham Library always did carry a specific kind of quiet, the sort that fought for survival against the chaos outside its doors. Students whispered over textbooks, the printers hummed in the background, and dust motes drifted slowly across fading sunlight. It was peaceful in a way Gotham rarely allowed.

Peter stepped through the entrance with his hood up, hands tucked comfortably in his pockets. The late afternoon glow caught on the edges of his green eyes, making him look softer than usual, though the faint amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth did most of that work.

He scanned the room once, breath easing when he spotted Tim sitting at their usual table. Well, sitting was a generous word. Tim looked like he had just declared war on gravity and gravity was winning out of spite. Pale. Shaky. Eyes too bright in the wrong way. Shoulders tight.

Peter blinked once.

Achievement unlocked, he thought dryly. The idiot is at least upright.

Standing beside Tim like a quietly looming guardian was Duke, posture calm, gaze alert in that way only people who had seen too much too young ever mastered. Duke was a wall, a shield, and a visibly responsible child. It was completely unfair that Gotham’s teenagers were built like this. Peter was eighteen and barely pretending.

He approached with an easy step, sliding into the scene like he had not mentally aged five years in one week.

“Evening,” Peter called out casually as he reached them, “I see we’re upright and breathing today. Huge improvement. I am proud.”

Tim looked up quickly, as though caught doing something he was not supposed to, which was exactly the vibe of someone who had been kidnapped, drugged, rescued, and now placed under the Gotham Academy-approved certified buddy system.

Peter took in the sight for one more second, lips twitching as he nodded toward Duke.

“So,” Peter said lightly, “a buddy system, huh. Introduce me to buddy.”

Tim made a noise somewhere between a choke and a sigh.

“Uh what, yes, this is Duke,” Tim said, stumbling over the words like he had tripped on air and social pressure at the same time.

Peter tilted his head, regarding Duke with the curious smile of someone meeting a teacher’s favourite student.

“A pleasure to meet you, Duke. I am Peter.” He offered an easy handshake, one that was neither too firm nor too weak. Just normal. Comfortably normal.

Duke accepted it politely, grip steady, expression unreadable despite the warm tone in his voice. “The pleasure is all mine. I have heard a lot about you.”

Translation: I am verifying every single thing Tim said and also everything he didn’t.

Peter grinned. “Hopefully all good things.”

Tim made a faint wheezing noise that might have been panic. Or existential dread. Hard to tell with him.

There was a beat of silence where Tim visibly gathered courage, then,

“About that,” Tim said suddenly. “About last time.”

Peter immediately put one finger to his lips, eyes half lidded, smile too casual.

“My lips are sealed.”

Tim deflated. Duke raised an eyebrow.

“No, it is not that,” Tim said quickly, leaning forward. “I wanted to apologise for dragging you into that.”

Peter didn’t let guilt linger. He reached over and patted Tim’s shoulder, gentle but firm, as if trying to press the apology back into Tim’s lungs.

“Timtim, my timmy boy, it is all good.”

Tim’s face scrunched in the way that suggested his soul was leaving his body. Duke looked at both of them with the patience of someone who had witnessed enough weirdness to know this counted as mild.

Then Duke opened his mouth.

“About that.”

Tim immediately turned toward him like a man on the verge of throwing himself on a grenade.

“Don’t. There’s no need to interrogate him. Remember, he helped me.”

Peter raised a casual hand. “Ask away.”

Tim and Duke both looked at him. Duke in suspicion. Tim in betrayal.

Peter simply smiled. Cooperative and disarming. It was the fastest way to get them to stop looking at him like he was an eldritch tax accountant.

Duke went direct. “Are you a meta?”

Peter blinked once, expression neutral.

“I am vaguely enhanced,” he said, tone light, calm.

“Vaguely enhanced,” Duke repeated, unimpressed.

“Yes,” Peter replied evenly, “as in not the conventional kind.”

Duke’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Elaborate.”

Peter kept his smile soft. “Super soldier type beat. How about you?”

Tim made a sound so strangled it resembled a dying kettle. “He is not.”

Which was hilarious, because Duke absolutely was, but Tim was trying very hard to be professional and protect him.

Peter nodded, humour flickering in his eyes. “Never mind then. He is not.”

Duke stared at him. Peter stared back, unfazed. Tim looked between them, sensing the silent agreement to pretend everything was normal.

The awkwardness stretched until Peter leaned back in his chair, hands slipping back into his hoodie pockets with a lazy grin.

“You are all nerds in your own ways, yes?”

Tim buried his face in his hands. Duke sighed softly, yet smiled.

And Peter, watching the two of them bicker in that quiet, tired, Gotham way, felt the strange weight in his chest twist into something lighter.

Almost peaceful. Almost safe.

 

The city outside blared and groaned and chewed on itself, but here the lights hummed quietly. Oracle’s station stood at the centre like a command throne built from screens, wires, half finished tech projects, and sticky notes that might have saved Gotham twice without anyone realising. The monitors painted Barbara Gordon in stripes of neon blue. The Clock Tower held that a kind of glow that didn’t belong to the rest of Gotham.

Behind her, Dick Grayson paced. He didn’t just pace. He paced the way only Dick Grayson could, like a puppy who had been told not to jump on the furniture but really, desperately wanted to. He had that strong Nightwing swagger, the athletic rhythm, the charm of someone who could flip across rooftops and flirt with strangers on fire escapes, but right now all of it was replaced with the tense wiggle of a man deeply, profoundly stressed.

Barbara didn’t even turn when she spoke.

“I am telling you,” she said crisply, eyes glued to the screen, “his background is legitimate.”

Dick made a sharp sound from his throat, halfway between disbelief and offended detective huffing. He ran a hand through his hair and pointed at a random monitor like it had personally betrayed him.

“Well, yes, okay, fine,” he said, voice thick with irritation, “but conveniently all the people we can ask about him are dead.”

Barbara blinked slowly at her screen, then swivelled her chair just enough to give him the side eye of a woman who had been doing this job far longer than anyone else in the building. “That is more common than you think, Dick.”

Dick stopped pacing, stared at her for two beats, then resumed pacing with even faster footwork. His trainers made soft, irritated squeaks against the floor.

“I am not saying Gotham is not a murder capital,” he said, throwing his hands up, “but come on. This guy took down Joker’s goons.”

Barbara clicked something on her keyboard. “And those guys are hardly professionals. Peter is potentially a meta of some sort. They didn’t think he was one, so he used that as an advantage.”

Dick scoffed hard enough to sound like a laugh that missed its landing. “That is not the point. He took them down. You didn’t see how he moved. He is trained.”

Barbara leaned back. “Maybe that is his power. Think about it.”

“That is not the point either,” Dick insisted, refusing to be derailed. He pushed both hands through his hair again, shoulders rising and falling like a man restraining himself from performing acrobatics inside the Clock Tower just to burn off stress. “He is trained, Babs. Not like… casual self defence trained. I mean trained trained.”

Barbara sighed, tapped something on another window, and let herself spin halfway around. “Dick…”

“No, no, I am not dropping it,” he said, planting both palms on the back of a chair and leaning forward with deep, dramatic earnestness. “I am concerned.”

“Think, Babs,” he repeated more urgently. “This guy was taking photos calmly. Then he casually wiped a floor with a group of Joker jobbers like he was doing morning warmups.”

Barbara raised one eyebrow. “And?”

“And,” Dick continued, “I have been doing this my whole life. I know trained movement when I see it. The way he stood. The way he redirected force. The way he hit. That was not accidental. That was not instinct. That was practice.”

Barbara gave him a long, tired stare. Then she sighed softly. “I know you are worried. But Duke assessed him. Peter never lied. Tim is a witness as well. The kid just wants a normal civilian life.”

Dick’s expression twitched. He pushed away from the chair and paced again, but slower now, like the worry pulled at his movements. “I am not saying this because I think he is a threat to us,” he said, softer. “That is not what this is. It is more because of this whole civilian thing you are going on about.”

Barbara blinked. “What do you mean?”

Dick stopped again. He gestured vaguely at the screens, the city, the entire concept of Gotham. “He keeps showing up in terrible places, taking photos.”

“That is his job,” Barbara reminded, voice calm. “He is employed by Vicky Vale.”

Dick waved that away. “Yes, well, he might be enhanced, but he could be in danger showing up to places like that.”

Barbara paused.

Then she squinted.

Then she let it click visibly across her face.

“Oh. I understand.” She pointed at him with a knowing smirk. “You are worried about him.”

Dick instantly looked like a man caught stealing biscuits.

He stared at her.

Then deflated.

“Yes,” he said, loudly and melodramatically. “I am worried about him. That is not even counting the fact he looks like Bruce. Like a smiley version of Bruce.”

Barbara rotated her chair fully. She didn’t laugh, but her lips twitched like she wanted to. “I am trying to find more about that. But currently there are no ties whatsoever.”

Dick leaned onto the edge of the table, palms flat, stomach twisting in obvious confusion. “What if he is a clone and he doesn’t know.”

Barbara blinked once, twice. Then she said in the calmest voice he had ever heard, “Is that not better? He doesn’t have to think about it.”

Dick straightened with a loud noise of disbelief. “Babs!”

She held up a hand. “Dick. Think rationally.”

“I am thinking rationally!” he protested, pointing at her, “and rationally speaking, this guy may or may not be related to my father figure, may or may not be enhanced, may or may not be trained, and may or may not have a habit of showing up at crime scenes, and I am the only one who thinks any of this is weird?”

Barbara’s chair squeaked as she leaned back, crossing her arms.

“Dick,” she said slowly, “you are projecting.”

His jaw dropped. “I am absolutely not.”

“You are,” she said, tapping her arm with mock solemnity, “projecting entire emotional arcs onto a stranger because he has Bruce’s jawline and sad puppy eyes.”

Dick stared at her.

His mouth opened.

Closed.

Opened again.

“That is deeply unfair,” he said stiffly.

Barbara smirked. “But correct.”

Dick groaned, dragged his hands down his face, and slumped dramatically onto the nearest couch like a man defeated by the truth.

“You didn’t see him,” he mumbled. “He was so calm while everything went to hell. He looked… used to it. Too used to it.”

Barbara’s expression softened.

She turned one monitor toward herself, glancing at a file with Peter’s face on it. The photo was simple. College enrolment. Normal smile. Normal eyes. Slightly messy hair. Just a kid.

But she had seen the footage from Joker’s goons. The calm. The precision. The weird steadiness that only happened when someone had lived through something ugly.

She exhaled through her nose.

Her voice gentled. “Dick. Gotham is full of damaged people.”

Dick lifted his head from the couch cushion. “Yeah, but he is new.”

Barbara snorted. “Give him a few more weeks since he had only been for a few months. Gotham breaks everyone.”

“Exactly!” Dick sat up, pointing both hands at her. “That is my point. If he is new, then what made him like that before he got here?”

Barbara lowered her gaze thoughtfully.

Dick kept going, words spilling like water from a cracked jug. “I mean, he never panicked. Not once. Not even when the goon with the chainsaw started screaming about slicing people into motivational quotes.”

Barbara winced. “Gotham needs therapy.”

Dick nodded violently. “Yes! Exactly! And he stood there like it was Tuesday!”

Barbara tapped her fingers on the arm of the chair. “You think the training is from before Gotham.”

“Yes,” Dick said without hesitation. “And not like… yoga retreat training. Real training.”

Barbara finally turned back to her screens. Her face illuminated again in blue. She typed something quiet, deliberate, and the file opened fully. Background. Certificates. University placement. School history. Medical records. A list of references that now sat underlined in red because they were all deceased.

None of it lied.

All of it felt wrong.

Barbara drummed her fingers. “He doesn’t trigger any deception markers. His body language checks out. Duke ran his aura a second time. Tim confirmed he was telling the truth in every conversation. His file is clean.”

Dick threw his hands up. “It is too clean.”

Barbara gave him a glare. “Do not be that detective.”

Dick pointed at her like he was making a dramatic courtroom objection. “I am allowed to be suspicious. Suspicion is literally my job.”

“Dick,” she sighed.

He pointed harder. “Babs.”

She set her jaw. “Are you suspicious because of evidence, or because he looks like Bruce’s long lost happier clone and your emotional support acrobat brain cannot handle that?”

Dick paused.

His face twisted into several expressions at once.

“Both,” he admitted miserably.

Barbara let out the softest laugh. “There it is.”

He dropped his head into his hands. “I hate this. I hate how normal he pretends to be.”

Barbara gave a low hum. “That is what bothers you.”

Dick looked up at her slowly, eyes wide. “Yes, Babs. It is exactly that. He pretends he is normal, but he is not. He has that look. The one people get when they have been through something. The type of look Jason has sometimes. The type you have when the trauma jokes get too real.”

Barbara’s expression flickered.

Dick pressed on, quieter now. “He has the tired eyes, but they are not broken. More like… like he is holding something shut. Something heavy.”

Barbara stared at the monitor.

Dick sank deeper into the couch, his voice softening into earnest frustration. “I don’t know if he is dangerous. I don’t know if he is hiding something. I don’t know if he is just some poor kid with bad luck who happens to have Bruce’s bones. But I do know he is not okay.”

That struck.

Barbara’s fingers paused over the keyboard.

Dick swallowed. “And I don’t want him to get hurt.”

She turned slowly in her chair, really looking at him now.

“Dick,” she said softly, “you care.”

He rolled his eyes but looked embarrassed. “I care about everyone, Babs.”

“You do,” she agreed, a smile creeping in, “but this is different.”

“It is not,” he insisted, flustered. “It is not different. It is just… situational caring.”

Barbara tilted her head. “Uh huh.”

Dick buried his face in a pillow. “Stop judging me.”

“I am not judging you,” she said innocently. “I am simply taking notes for later.”

Dick groaned loudly and dramatically.

Barbara swivelled back to her monitor before he could see the smirk pulling at her lips.

Still, her expression eventually faded into thoughtfulness.

A long pause settled.

She tapped one key.

Peter’s university photo enlarged.

A young man with soft green eyes, a gentle smile, and a look that said he had lived a whole lifetime before this moment.

Barbara whispered, almost to herself, “What happened to you?”

Dick sat up, voice softer now. “Exactly.”

Another silence stretched. The screens hummed. The city outside rattled, restless and always awake.

Finally, Barbara exhaled slowly. “Alright. We look deeper.”

Dick straightened like a lamp switching on. “Yes. Good. Great. Finally.”

Barbara raised a hand. “But carefully. We don’t interfere with his life. We don’t stalk him. We don’t interrogate him. We observe. And we don’t treat him like a threat.”

Dick pointed at her. “Threat was never the worry.”

Barbara narrowed her eyes. “You said clone.”

“That was a valid theory!”

She snorted again.

Dick flopped back against the couch cushion with exhausted relief. “Thank you. Seriously.”

Barbara nodded at him without looking away from the screens. “We look. Quietly. Rationally.”

Dick breathed out, tension draining from his shoulders. “Good.”

Barbara typed. The search expanded.

Dick finally stopped pacing.

Barbara’s voice softened. “But Dick… you should prepare for the possibility there is nothing wrong with him.”

Dick considered that.

Then sighed.

“If there is nothing wrong with him,” he said slowly, “then he is in Gotham.”

Barbara blinked.

Dick shrugged helplessly. “Which means there will be.”

For the first time that night, Barbara could not even argue.

The Clock Tower hummed softly around them.

The screens brightened.

The investigation began.

 

Boxing gym.

Friday late afternoon.

The air thick with the smell of chalk and sweat, punching bags swaying lazily like they were waiting for someone to pick a fight with them. Tim was half asleep on the far bench, slumped forward with his hood up, headphones in, probably listening to sad study beats that made him look like a raccoon who had pulled three all nighters.

Duke leaned on the ropes of the ring, clearly fighting the urge to swing on them like a bored sixteen-year-old who had too much energy and not enough outlets. Jason stood near the centre bag, wrapping his hands with that calm, irritated precision of someone who had learned patience through pain.

Peter walked in with the energy of a college student who had been bribed with snacks to show up. Hoodie, trainers, bag slung over his shoulder, green eyes too aware for someone trying to look like he stumbled in here by accident. He lifted a hand in greeting.

Jason didn’t waste time.

He pointed at Peter like a prosecutor ready to start a trial. “You are enhanced.”

The statement hit the air with the cold efficiency of someone who had been waiting all week to say it. Duke immediately perked up like a Labrador hearing the treat jar open. Tim didn’t even raise his head, but his headphones lit briefly, which meant he had absolutely heard it and chose violence by pretending he didn’t care.

Peter froze for half a second, then scratched the back of his neck with a sheepish look. “So, you heard.” His eyes flicked towards Duke. Duke stared back with sparkling teenage curiosity. Peter pointed at him weakly. “Yeah, that tracks.”

Jason rolled his eyes. “Is that why it always looks like you are pulling punches?”

Peter let out a defeated huff, dropping his bag by the bench. “Yes. Does it bother you?”

Jason tied off the wrap with a tug. “No, but it means your training should have been different.”

Peter lifted his hands defensively. “I am not trying to fight crime.”

Duke choked on air. Tim snorted so loudly the sound pierced through his headphones. Jason stared at Peter like Peter had just said he was not trying to breathe oxygen.

“You are living in Gotham,” Jason reminded, voice flat with disbelief. “Joker’s goons probably told every other criminal you are not normal.”

Peter blinked. “Is that why he is here?” He nodded at Duke again.

Jason smirked as if someone had handed him a meme template in real life. “Partly because he is curious, partly because he wants to train with you.”

Duke raised a hand. “Yeah. That is true. Both parts.”

Peter made a face, the kind that said he was one wrong word away from combusting. Then, without any prompt, he blurted, “My metabolism is weird.”

Jason paused mid wrap.

Duke blinked.

Tim slowly lifted his head with the exhausted glare of a man centuries older than his birth certificate.

Jason stared at Peter flatly. “You started with that.”

Peter held his hands out like he was presenting a thesis. “Look, I know it sounds dumb, but it is a thing. Strength based metas burn mass fast. Really fast. No one tells you that, by the way. They all show you those posters of ripped heroes and then you wake up one day shaped like a depressed twig if you miss lunch twice.”

Jason blinked once. “What.”

Peter continued, warming up to the rant the universe had apparently been waiting for. “A lot of them struggle with body image. Enhanced strength doesn’t mean huge muscles. Sometimes it means you look like a dehydrated college sophomore until you inhale six thousand calories. So, yeah. I eat a lot. Or I keep shrinking.”

Duke stared at him, expression softening into a kind of impressed sadness. “That is harsh.”

Peter shrugged lightly. “It comes with the power. Even the non-strength-based kind deal with it. You are too big, too small, not human looking enough. Too bright. Too dark. Too on fire. It changes people.”

Duke nodded slowly, a quiet understanding settling over him. “That makes a lot of sense.”

Peter smiled at him, genuinely grateful. “Thanks. Most people just think I am being dramatic.”

Jason finally stepped forward, evaluating Peter with the sharp eye of someone who could recognise pain even if the person wore it like a joke. He stopped in front of Peter, hands at his sides, weight shifted like he was mapping out a sparring session before it even started.

Peter exhaled softly, honesty slipping through despite his attempt at nonchalance. “I did train a bit before coming here.”

Jason gave a single nod, simple and certain. “Figures.”

The moment settled, quiet for a breath, the air humming with the weight of things unsaid yet understood.

And then the gym lights flickered because Gotham hated stable electricity.

Tim groaned into his hands.

Jason cracked his knuckles.

Duke eyed the nearest punching bag like it owed him money.

Peter rolled his shoulders back and sighed. “Alright. Who is hitting me first?”

The training officially began.

 

The bathroom looked like every Gotham boxing gym bathroom looked, which meant slightly tragic. The light flickered with the commitment of an underpaid stage actor, the tiles were questionably stained, and the tap produced water that steamed like it was fighting for its life. Peter splashed cold water on his face anyway, leaning over the sink, green eyes sharp in the mirror even though his posture screamed exhausted student pretending he had everything under control.

He let the water run, the sound covering the muffled thuds of Jason and Duke starting warmups outside. The gym always had this hollow echo, like a giant metal stomach digesting noises one punch at a time.

Peter closed his eyes.

And then opened them again because he could feel the stare burning into the back of his head.

He wiped his face with a paper towel that felt like sandpaper wearing a cheap disguise. Without turning around, he spoke flatly.

“You have been staring at me for a while now,” he said. “That is rude.”

The stall door creaked behind him. Duke stepped into view in the mirror reflection, leaning on the wall with both hands shoved into his hoodie pockets, shoulders tight with teenaged suspicion.

“You are hiding something,” Duke said.

Peter blinked. “A lot of people are. Your point?”

Duke’s jaw tightened. He stepped closer, not threatening, just determined, the kind of determination fuelled by being sixteen, gifted, and given responsibility too early. “I am assessing whether you are a threat.”

Peter turned the tap off, letting the final drips echo in the flickering light. Then he faced Duke properly, his expression calm, almost bored. “What makes you think that?”

Duke studied him for a long moment, eyes sharp. “You know who we are,” he said plainly. “All of us. And you have not said anything. You didn’t panic when Tim was taken. You got out of your binds first. Then you stayed. You waited. You helped. I am trying to understand why.”

Peter’s brow furrowed slightly. He leaned back on the sink, arms crossing loosely. “I wasn’t going to leave Tim there.”

Duke immediately countered, voice steady. “You could have left. Dick was already there.”

Peter straightened, offended in the way only someone who had morals coded too deeply could be. “I am not an asshole who leaves someone in a warehouse.”

Duke stepped forward again. “You insist on being a civilian,” he said, voice rising just a touch. “But you still helped.”

Peter sighed, head tilting. “He is my friend.”

It was said simply, no theatrics, no embellishments, just truth. The kind of truth that made Duke shift his weight, because truth was always the part that made things harder.

Duke hesitated, then pushed the next card on the table. “Joker’s goons know what you are now. Enhanced. They hold grudges they call fun games.”

Peter blinked slowly, his face unreadable. “Your point?”

Duke’s frustration built, not loud, not angry, but tight, like rubber stretched too far. “What is your angle,” he asked. “What do you want from him? From us?”

Peter watched him. Quiet. Studying him in that way that made Duke feel like the room temperature dropped.

The bathroom flicker made their shadows jump.

Peter finally spoke, voice cool and even. “You are new to this.”

Duke bristled. “No, I am not.”

“Yes,” Peter said, unbothered, “you are. And you feel responsible. You feel like you have to protect everyone around you. Like if you don’t watch people, something will go wrong. Someone will get hurt. You cannot lose the family you chose.”

Duke froze.

Peter continued, words landing with the accuracy of someone who had seen this pattern across universes. “You are afraid.”

“That is not what this is,” Duke insisted, voice hard but thinner now.

Peter’s head tilted, green eyes narrowing slightly. “You are projecting. And you are a sixteen-year-old metahuman.”

Duke stiffened. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Peter pushed off the sink, walking past him without hesitation. His voice dropped into something soft, sharp, and final.

“It means I am not a threat, baby bird. I am just here to live. You better get a life and live that as well.”

He left the bathroom before Duke could respond.

The door swung shut behind him with a hollow echo, leaving Duke standing alone under the flickering light, breathing unevenly, and staring at the space Peter had just walked through.

Peter didn’t look back. He rarely did.

But Duke watched the door long after Peter disappeared, realising for the first time that sometimes silence didn’t mean danger. Sometimes it meant depth. Sometimes it meant pain.

And sometimes, in Gotham, silence meant the person you were worried about understood you better than you understood yourself.

Peter rejoined the gym floor, shoulders loose, expression neutral, as if the confrontation never happened.

The bathroom light flickered twice.

Then steadied.

 

Gotham at night breathed like something half alive, half starving. Fog rolled between buildings in slow, lazy coils, slipping over cracked pavement and broken streetlamps that flickered like they were sending out Morse code for help. Peter walked with his hands in his hoodie pockets, backpack slung over one shoulder, hair still damp from the gym shower. The cold air bit at his face while his steps echoed quietly through the alley, each one swallowed fast by the city’s restless hum.

He wasn’t paying attention to anything in particular. Just walking. Just existing. Just trying to get home without any more Gotham nonsense for the night.

Naturally, Gotham took that personally.

Something small clattered behind him, hitting the ground with a light skittering sound. Peter stopped, turning his head slightly. A cheap burner phone slid across the pavement, bumping into his shoe.

He blinked.

Then he crouched and picked it up, raising an eyebrow as he turned it over in his hand. The thing looked like it had been bought in a gas station and suffered three disappointments since. No logo, no scratches, not even fingerprints. Just eerie silence and fog curling around his ankles.

Peter stared at it. “Well, that is not ominous at all.”

Before he could decide whether to throw it into a sewer, the screen lit up.

It rang.

One sharp electronic chime, too crisp for the emptiness around him.

Peter sighed, answering with all the tiredness of a college student who had just survived midterms and was now being forced to deal with extra credit in hell.

“Evening.” The voice uttered on the other side of the line.

“Hello,” he said flatly. “This better not be about car insurance.”

Static fizzed. Then a voice cut through, jaunty, lilting, painfully theatrical.

“I know who you are.”

Peter’s eyes closed for one brief, exasperated second. “Not really a fun start to a conversation,” he muttered.

Joker laughed softly, as if entertained by Peter’s lack of fear. The laugh sounded wrong in the fog, bouncing strangely off the alley walls. “They were stupid enough to hunt Red Robin in his civilian form,” Joker said lightly. “Such a shame.”

Peter stared down the alley, unimpressed. “Your point?”

“Oh, it ruins the game,” Joker replied, as if explaining a board rule to a petulant child. “Takes away the fun. Hardly any artistry in forcing someone out of their mask.”

Peter lifted his free hand and rubbed at his eye. “Tell them that.”

There was a disturbingly joyful hum on the line. “I have shown them the error of their ways.”

Peter frowned. “That sounds murdery.”

Joker ignored him entirely, voice dipping into something amused and cold. “I have no qualms against you, Spyder.”

Peter stopped walking.

Every sound died.

Fog curled tightly around him like it was listening.

He didn’t breathe for half a second, expression hardening, green eyes shifting from bored to something sharp and cold under the flickering streetlight.

Then he spoke.

“Well,” Peter said, voice flat and unimpressed, “I now have plenty against you.”

He ended the call himself.

The line cut into silence.

Peter looked at the phone once more, expression unreadable. Then he dropped it casually onto the ground.

He stepped on it.

The cheap plastic cracked instantly under his heel, splintering into pieces that scattered across the cracked pavement.

Peter walked away without looking back, shoulders squared, hoodie swaying with each step. The light above him flickered twice, casting long shadows that stretched down the alley behind him.

The fog swallowed the broken phone.

Peter kept moving.

Quiet.

Focused.

Done with Gotham for the night, but Gotham is far from done with him.

---

 

Notes:

Author's Note(s):
I am still my own beta reader, which means mistakes hide like little goblins and only attack when I least expect it, usually after posting. If you spot anything weird, tell me and I will go fix it immediately. Thank you for reading once again.

I am just projecting life lessons here. A reminder to myself and others, fr. 🥹🤌

Chapter 12: Chapter 11: Evening

Summary:

Peter balances the weight of Joker related complications while Harley and Ivy learn more about the person under the mask. At the same time Damian experiences a moment of recognition that sends ripples through the entire narrative.

Notes:

Author's Note(s):
I honestly did not expect to finish this chapter so soon but the moment my LMS unlocked my courses my motivation skyrocketed like it was on a mission. It was funny because ten minutes earlier I was replaying High on Life and thinking about nothing important at all.

---

The hideout felt heavier tonight. Gotham humidity clung to everything like thick fingers pulling at the air, making dust cling to Harley’s mismatched furniture, and turning Ivy’s plants into slow-moving shadows stretching across the walls. It was the kind of dim where colours looked muted, and corners swallowed shapes whole. The old lamps flickered like they were having a nervous breakdown. Harley’s graffiti-covered punching bag leaned against the wall like it, too, had given up on life. Ivy’s vine clusters curled along the ceiling beams, gently swaying even though there was no breeze.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

Harley and Ivy rarely did quiet unless something bad was about to happen, or had already happened, or both, which in Gotham was basically the same thing.

Ivy sat at her desk, elbows on her knees, eyes narrowed in thought. Harley paced back and forth across the rug that definitely used to be white before glitter and questionable soda stains turned it into rainbow chaos.

“Pam, I swear, if he calls me again, I am blocking him, no, actually, I am deleting my phone, no, actually, I am deleting his phone,” Harley ranted, waving her arms like a conductor leading an orchestra of complaints.

Ivy didn’t even look up. “You cannot delete someone’s phone.”

“Watch me.”

Ivy exhaled in that way she always did before deciding whether to strangle Harley with vines or love her through her problems. Tonight, she seemed to be leaning dangerously close to option one.

Harley froze suddenly, standing in the middle of the room like she had been put on pause. “Wait… do you feel that?”

Ivy frowned but didn’t answer. She did feel it. A shift in the air. A subtle disturbance, like the atmosphere inhaled sharply and forgot to breathe back out.

A whisper of green light swept across the room. Not bright, just a faint glow cutting through the shadows.

And then a voice.

Calm. Deep. Annoyingly casual.

“Evening.”

It detonated into the room like a gunshot.

Harley shrieked and jumped half a metre into the air, clutching her chest like her soul had just tried to exit her body. Ivy stood abruptly, reaction smooth but sharp, like a blade unsheathing.

Both their heads snapped toward the corner.

Spyder stood there.

Not sitting. Not leaning. Not dramatically perching like some edgy rooftop gargoyle.

Just standing.

Perfectly still. Unbothered. Like he had been there the whole time and simply decided to introduce himself now.

His mask lit the room in an eerie green. It wasn’t glowing brightly, more like simmering under the surface, casting his eyes in a ghostly hue that made him look half-alive and half-myth. The intricate demonic patterns along the mask’s surface pulsed faintly, reflecting ivy shadows onto the walls.

Harley clutched her bat to her chest. “Bro, WHAT THE, why are you built like a jumpscare?!”

Ivy flicked the light switch out of pure survival instinct. The bulbs buzzed, stabilising the room’s lighting, although Spyder didn’t seem to care. Right as the fluorescent glow hit him, the mask sank into his skin. Dissolving. Melting. Seamlessly vanishing until nothing remained except Peter’s human face.

Harley yelped again. “Warn a girl BEFORE you do horror movie special effects!”

Peter blinked slowly, looking more tired than apologetic. “Pretty sure I said ‘evening’.”

“That is not a warning, that’s a topic of conversation!”

Ivy folded her arms. “What are you doing here?”

Peter stopped near the centre of the room, lit from behind by the lamp that made a halo around his shoulders. He didn’t sit. Didn’t pace. He just stared at them, bored expression edged with irritation, like Gotham had personally inconvenienced him one too many times today.

“I talked to Joker,” he said, tone flat.

Harley made a gagging noise.

Ivy’s expression hardened. “And?”

“He knows.”

The words snapped through the air. Clean. Merciless.

Harley’s pacing froze. Ivy’s jaw clenched. The tension webbed instantly between the three of them.

Ivy’s eyes narrowed. “Is that why you’re revealing yourself to us?”

“No.” Peter shrugged, casual in a way that was worse than anger. “Because I already know you also knew.”

Harley’s face twisted. “I–I didn’t tell him anything.”

Peter looked at her. Calm. Eyes sharp. Face unreadable.

“I didn’t imply you did.”

The silence that followed was thick enough to chew.

Harley shifted her weight, fidgeting with her bracelets like each one might protect her from the look Peter was giving her. It wasn’t hostile. Just… knowing. And somehow that was worse.

He ran a hand through his hair, pausing like he was forcing himself not to sigh. “Not here to accuse anyone. I’m just checking in.”

The way he spoke, light, bored, slightly annoyed, did nothing to soften the line of tension threading through the room. Peter being calm was somehow more threatening than Peter being aggressive. He had that unbothered vibe that said: I do not need to raise my voice to end a problem.

Harley rubbed her arm and muttered, “Dude, you sound like you came here to eliminate us.”

Peter lightly shrugged. “My bad. Just making sure my friends aren’t dying.”

Harley blinked. Ivy’s brows rose. Both women glanced at each other briefly as if silently asking: did we just get promoted emotionally?

Ivy cleared her throat. “So… we are friends now, after you scared the hell out of us?”

Peter’s hands slipped into his pockets. “It’s Gotham.”

That was apparently his justification for everything.

Harley snorted despite herself. Ivy rolled her eyes but didn’t hide the amused curl of her lips.

Peter stepped deeper into the room, eyes shifting as he scanned the mess on the tables, the half-finished projects, the plants creeping across the furniture. Harley watched him carefully, the gears turning in her head.

Something in his posture clicked a memory she tried not to revisit. A shadow she had once known too intimately. A man who walked quietly, observed everything, and spoke in clipped, controlled tones.

Batman.

But Peter wasn’t Bruce. He was younger. More casual. More chaotic in his own right. Where Bruce brooded like the world offended him, Peter simply existed like the world annoyed him. The same silence. The same sharpness. But packaged in someone who wore hoodies and drank energy drinks and probably thought memes were a love language.

Still. The resemblance in presence was unsettling.

Harley tapped her bat lightly against her boot. “So… Joker is being himself.”

“Yeah,” Peter said. “Shockingly.”

“Man has the emotional intelligence of a broken blender,” Harley muttered.

Peter shrugged again, the movement lazy. “Sounds about right.”

Harley hesitated before speaking again. “Why’d he call you anyway?”

Peter pressed his tongue to the top of his mouth before answering. “He said he doesn’t have beef with me. Which is a lie. And a really stupid lie.”

Harley grimaced. “Yeah, that tracks. He never says things for no reason. Even the nonsense words are words.”

“Exactly,” Peter murmured.

There was another beat of quiet. This one less dangerous. More… uneasy.

Ivy stepped closer, tone cautious. “What are you planning to do now?”

Peter looked at her. His expression softened by exactly one degree. “Nothing. Not yet.” He clicked his jaw lightly. “I just don’t like leaving open threats hanging.”

Harley let out a choked laugh. “Damn, someone’s got beef.”

Peter scratched the back of his neck with a sigh. “He pissed me off.”

“You?” Harley pointed. “Pissed? Since when do you get pissed? You usually act like the world is a mild inconvenience.”

“That is the world being a mild inconvenience,” Peter mumbled.

Harley wheezed. Ivy snorted.

The tension eased.

Peter exhaled softly and let his shoulders drop a little. “I’m not here to interrogate anyone. Just needed to confirm a few things.”

Harley plopped down onto the couch dramatically, both hands thrown in the air. “Great, because if you were here to interrogate me, I’d cry. And then snot everywhere. And then Ivy would kill you.”

“I would,” Ivy agreed, completely deadpan.

Peter looked at both of them with the unimpressed exhaustion of someone who babysat problem children regularly.

He glanced around the hideout again, taking in the domestic chaos, floral teacups next to a rocket launcher, glitter stuck to every surface, plants blooming in corners they were not supposed to. It was messy and crooked and somehow inviting.

He finally sat, on the edge of an old wooden crate, elbows resting casually on his knees. “You two good though?”

Harley flopped sideways, legs dangling off the sofa. “I mean, we’re alive. That’s like… one point on the scoreboard.”

Ivy nodded slowly. “Nothing unusual happened today.”

“Cool,” Peter said. “Alright.”

Harley raised a brow. “You alright, bug boy?”

Peter cracked a small grin. “Peachy.”

Ivy hummed. “You look like someone stressed you out.”

“Someone did,” Peter answered simply.

“Joker?” Harley guessed.

“Gotham,” Peter corrected. “Always Gotham.”

Harley laughed loudly. “God, you’re such a dramatic uni student.”

Peter shrugged. “I am a uni student.”

“You’re not the normal kind,” Ivy said.

Peter pretended to think. “Probably because normal uni students don’t fight clowns.”

Harley pointed. “Exactly!”

He let his gaze wander again, watching as Ivy’s plants shivered faintly like they sensed his energy. Harley kicked her legs back and forth, humming to fill the silence. He rested his chin in one hand, eyes half-lidded, looking like he was seconds from either napping or committing a felony.

Finally, Harley leaned forward, squinting at him. “So… wanna stay for dinner?”

Ivy glared. “Harley.”

“What? He looks hungry!”

“I am not feeding an assassin,” Ivy argued.

Peter raised a finger. “Retired assassin.”

“You retired at eighteen?” Ivy asked, unimpressed.

“Early pension,” Peter deadpanned.

Harley cackled.

Ivy pinched the bridge of her nose.

Peter stood, stretching his arms lazily. “I’ll drop by another time.”

Harley grinned. “Bring snacks!”

“I will not,” Peter said immediately.

“Bring snacks,” she repeated, louder.

Peter sighed. “Fine.”

He walked toward the window Ivy cracked open earlier, stepping over cushions, vines, and a suspiciously placed rubber chicken. The night breeze pushed into the room faintly, tugging at the edges of his hoodie.

Before slipping out, he turned back once more.

“Harley.”

She perked. “Yeah?”

“You really do deserve better.”

She blinked.

A soft smile formed, small but real. “Yeah…”

Peter nodded once.

Then he disappeared into the dark.

The glow vanished with him.

The room felt fuller for a moment, as if his presence lingered in the shadows he stepped through.

Harley sighed, leaning back. “I like him.”

Ivy shook her head. “He is very troublesome.”

Harley grinned. “Yeah. My favourite kind.”

Outside, atop the neighbouring rooftop, Peter crouched against the edge of the building, hoodie billowing faintly.

He stared across Gotham’s neon-washed skyline.

His green eyes flickered once.

“Heroics, huh…” he muttered under his breath.

Then, quieter:

“Guess that’s where we’re starting.”

The city answered him with sirens.

And Peter Parker, Spyder, got up.

Ready.

 

The morning sun filtered through the tall windows of Wayne Manor, its warm light spilling over the gargantuan dining table that looked like it belonged in a castle rather than a house. The peaceful glow, however, clashed spectacularly with the chaotic energy simmering in the room. It was early, far too early for the level of noise the Bat-family produced when they woke up with a shared purpose.

That purpose today: Tim Drake’s new friend.

Tim sat slumped in his chair, hair a mess, eyes half-open, clutching a mug of coffee like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the mortal plane. He looked like he had fought sleep itself and lost. Badly.

Jason leaned back in his seat with his boots shamelessly propped on the edge of the table, flipping a pancake with a fork like he was trying to start something. Dick lounged comfortably with a glass of orange juice, smiling that older-brother smile that was both comforting and vaguely annoying. Duke was squinting at the sunlight like it had personally offended him. Stephanie had a waffle in hand, already halfway through it, vibrating with excitement. Cassandra sat calmly, fork poised, eating in quiet, observant peace. Barbara rolled in from the hallway with her tablet sitting in her lap, ready to join the morning spectacle.

The interrogation had begun long before Tim’s brain fully booted.

Jason jabbed his fork in Tim’s direction. “He said he did train a bit before coming here.”

Tim groaned audibly. “Please stop starting conversations this early. My neurons are not awake for this.”

Dick raised both arms triumphantly. “See, I told you, Babs, I was right!” He made finger guns at her like he had solved some grand conspiracy.

Barbara did not even look up from her tablet. “You guessed randomly.”

“It was an educated guess,” Dick corrected, chest puffing up.

“It was random,” Barbara repeated.

Duke swallowed a bite of eggs, leaning forward. “He knows a lot about meta-humans. Like, a concerning amount.”

Stephanie perked up immediately. “Okay, now I really gotta meet him.” She grinned widely, already imagining the interaction. “Tim having a friend is like a national event. We need balloons.”

“Please, stop,” Tim muttered into his mug.

Cassandra, who rarely chimed in unless she felt like it mattered, looked up at the table. “I don’t see why we’re hellbent on knowing Tim’s friend.” Her voice was blunt but warmer than usual. “At least he finally has a friend.”

The table fell silent for a second before a collective snort of laughter rose from every direction. Tim’s face fell into his hands.

He groaned into the wooden table. “You guys are the worst. You know that?”

Jason nodded cheerfully. “We try.”

The teasing continued until footsteps echoed in the hallway like the slow approach of a smug demon.

Damian Wayne entered.

Hair immaculate. Expression judgemental. Posture perfect. He looked like he had already fought five ninjas before breakfast, and might fight five more for fun.

His gaze swept the table and honed in immediately on the word friend.

“A miracle for Tim to have a friend,” Damian announced smoothly as he approached the table, tone casual but dripping with sarcasm.

Tim sat bolt upright, eyes blazing with indignation. “I can have friends, okay? You guys are just overthinking this!” He gestured wildly, almost knocking his mug over. “I talk to people. I am social. I am normal!”

Jason whispered to Duke, not whispering at all, “He said normal.”

Duke snorted into his juice.

Damian ignored all of them. He folded his arms lightly. “What is his name?”

Tim froze, mid-rant. “Why does it matter?”

Jason answered for him, because of course he did. “His name is Peter, demon spawn. For once, don’t stalk him.” He pointed a warning fork at Damian. “Like, seriously. Leave him alone. I met him normally. No rooftop ambushes.”

Stephanie gasped dramatically. “Jason meeting someone normally? Without threats? Without a crowbar?”

Jason clicked his tongue. “Ha ha. Hilarious.”

Damian pretended not to hear the last part, eyes narrowing slightly. “Peter.” He said the name as though testing it for weaknesses. “Well, congratulations, Tim. You have done something socially commendable.”

Tim slammed his hands on the table. “At least I try to have a social life, unlike you!”

Damian tilted his head with slow deliberation. “I have a social life.”

Everyone stared at him like he had announced he had joined a boy band.

Dick whispered, “Do assassins count?”

Duke whispered back, “I think they do for him.”

Barbara clapped her hands lightly before anyone could escalate. “Alright. Before someone gets stabbed with a fork, here.”

She slid a photo across the polished wood. Smooth. Calm. Tactical. Like she was defusing a bomb with a school assignment.

Damian caught it with a reflexive motion and examined it.

The table watched him. They all expected some snarky comment or unimpressed hum. Maybe a dig at Tim’s taste in friends. Something.

They did not expect silence.

Damian’s expression stilled.

His eyes narrowed.

His posture shifted, nearly imperceptible, but enough for those who knew him to feel the air drop a degree.

Because Peter Parker stared back at him from the photograph.

And those eyes. Those green eyes. Sharp. Familiar. Branded into memory.

Pietro.

No. Not possible. Impossible.

Yet…

Damian held the photograph with a grip faintly too tight.

Tim noticed first. “Uh… Damian? You good?”

Damian did not answer.

Cassandra looked up from her pancakes. Her eyes flickered to him. She felt his heartbeat spike. She felt the tension coil in his muscles. She felt the recognition.

“Damian,” Cassandra said gently. “Sit.”

He did, but stiffly, placing the photo face down on the table as though it burned his skin.

Everyone resumed eating at varying degrees of confusion, unaware of the storm unfolding inside his head.

Damian’s thoughts grabbed at fragments. Memories. Shadows. Voices. A blade cutting through air. A boy older than him. A boy who looked down at him with fondness and something else he could never read.

A boy who died.

Then a boy who came back wrong.

Never explained.

Now reappeared, living under a new name with familiar eyes that stabbed straight through Damian like needles.

Damian clenched his jaw.

Peter.

Peter Parker.

The name echoed like an accusation.

His siblings continued chatting around him. Duke asking Barbara for the file. Stephanie planning how to greet the mysterious uni student. Dick teasing Jason about having a new bro-crush. Tim insisting no one stalk him.

But Damian heard none of it.

Not really.

His fingers drummed against the table lightly, rhythm steady, calculated. He stared ahead, eyes unfocused. His mind turned sharp and cold.

Because if Peter was who Damian suspected he was…

Then everything was about to change.

He whispered the name one more time under his breath.

“Peter…”

He placed the photograph down with slow, deliberate care. A cold fury began to settle deep in his chest. It was not rage at Peter. No. That emotion was far more complicated. Confusion. Betrayal. Relief. Fear. Anger. Hope.

But fury?

Fury belonged to the adults who lied.

To the shadows who hid.

To the ghosts who believed themselves clever.

His siblings were still laughing, oblivious.

Damian Wayne was no longer listening.

He had already started planning.

And Peter Parker had no idea the storm coming for him.

 

Damian’s room was quiet.

Too quiet.

The manor always had a sort of dignified hush to it, but Damian’s room had its own kind of silence, a suffocating one, the kind that curled along the walls and pressed into the carpet like a presence. Only the gentle buzz of his desk lamp cut through the still air, its warm glow spilling across scattered files and sheets of scribbled notes. The rest of the room was dim, shadowed corners pulling inward like the dark wanted to swallow everything Damian was finding.

His computer screen flickered softly, displaying half a dozen windows. Images of masked criminals, locations of League sightings, fragments of blurry footage of the vigilante Gotham whispered about.

Spyder.

The ghost of Gotham’s underbelly. The assassin hunter. The green-eyed shadow that moved like smoke and fought like a whisper.

Damian had been tracking him for months. Longer, actually. Ever since the first report. Ever since the first body dropped from the League’s ranks. Ever since the first rumour of a hooded figure appearing moments before the crime scenes collapsed into chaos.

He had wanted to find him before Bruce did.

He had wanted to solve this mystery first.

He had wanted to prove himself.

And now, here he sat, a photo in hand.

A simple one. A casual one. Peter Parker in daylight, Tim’s snapshot, probably taken with the zoom too close. He looked annoyingly normal. Hoodie. Slight smile. Eyes bright. No tension in his shoulders. No shadows clinging to him.

But those eyes.

Damian held the photograph between two fingers, turning it slowly as though a different angle might reveal a different truth.

Those eyes.

His breath tightened without permission.

“Pietro…” His voice rumbled low inside his head. The name rose like an old scar aching in cold weather.

He stared harder, then blinked once, shutting that memory away.

“No. Peter.”

He spoke the name under his breath with more force, as if trying to rewrite the world with it.

Peter Parker.

Not Pietro.

Not the boy he remembered.

Not the brother he killed.

But…

The familiarity crawled up his spine like cold water. It refused to be shaken off. Damian exhaled sharply, placing the photo flat on the desk, palm hovering just over it like touching it again might ignite something.

He dragged his eyes across his notes. Scribbled details. Patterns. Sightings. Fight styles. The handful of blurry angles of Spyder leaping from rooftops.

He had dozens of files on Spyder. Hundreds, probably. And all of them seemed to sharpen now, every detail aligning with sudden clarity.

The timing.

The arrival.

The knowledge of League patterns.

The way Spyder fought, not like a chaotic vigilante, not like someone improvising. Someone trained. Someone lethal. Someone raised in the same style Damian once fought beside. The same silent violence. The same sharp precision. The same uncanny ability to read opponents before they moved.

And the way Spyder kept avoiding Bruce.

Avoiding the Bats.

Avoiding Damian.

Not out of fear.

Out of intention.

The truth sank like a lead weight in Damian’s chest.

Peter Parker.

He lifted the photograph again, holding it closer, searching those green eyes for anything out of place.

Anything that contradicted the thought growing louder in his mind.

Nothing did.

His jaw tightened. His grip on the photo tightened. His heartbeat did not.

“He’s been here all along…” Damian thought, anger flaring painfully. “And I didn’t know.”

The frustration gripped him instantly.

How dare Peter hide.

How dare he walk around Gotham like some normal student while Damian, who had been looking for Spyder obsessively, missed him entirely. How dare he get close to Tim first, of all people.

How dare he come back to his life at all?

Damian pushed the chair back an inch, posture straightening as if someone had called him to attention. His knuckles whitened around the photo. His breath came measured, controlled. Too controlled. The kind of controlled that only appeared when he was moments from snapping.

His rational mind tried to reassert itself, forcing the pieces into place calmly.

Spyder arrived shortly after the League movement spike. Peter arrived shortly after. Spyder targeted assassins. Spyder had the same body language Damian could not forget even if he tried.

The same silent vocabulary.

The same tense stillness.

But the emotions refused to stay quiet. They roared.

Why did he hide this from me?

Why did he not seek me out?

Why Tim?

Why anyone except me?

Damian breathed harshly and leaned forward again, elbows on the desk, hands pressed into the wood.

He had trained his whole life to compartmentalise emotion. Focus first. Feel later. But this felt like a blade twisting under old armour, hitting a place without protection.

He did not like this. He did not like not knowing.

He shoved that thought away violently.

“I am not jealous,” he told himself, jaw clenching. “I want answers. That is all. Nothing more.”

He repeated it slowly, deliberately, each word forced into place like armour.

“I am not jealous.”

The lie burned, but he held it.

He pressed his lips together. His shoulders tensed. His eyes drifted back down to the photo, soft glow of the lamp framing Peter’s features like some cruel joke.

Damian’s throat tightened despite himself.

Peter Parker.

Tim’s friend.

Spyder.

His brother.

Or at least, the thing wearing his brother’s face.

His pulse thudded hard against his ribs. He hated how it felt. He hated the weight of it. He hated the tightness in his chest, the heat behind his eyes, the frustration building with no mercy.

He pushed away from the desk suddenly. The chair scraped back across the floor. He stood rigid, almost trembling with emotion he refused to name.

It felt like a tantrum bubbling just behind his ribs. Not the childish kind. The kind that came with betrayal and confusion and old wounds ripped open without warning.

He pressed his palms against the desk, gripping the edge until his fingers hurt.

He breathed once.

Then twice.

It did not help.

He reached forward abruptly and snatched the photograph again, glaring at Peter’s face as if the picture itself had offended him.

“Why did you hide?” he thought fiercely. “Why did you not tell me? I should have known. I should have found you first.”

His breathing hitched, just for a moment. Just enough.

He held the photo up to the light again, his eyes narrowing sharply.

Green eyes staring back at him.

A stranger’s name written below.

A familiar shadow behind it.

Damian’s heart hammered with certainty now.

This was not coincidence.

This was not chance.

He straightened abruptly, posture snapping into perfect alignment, resolve crystalising.

He would not sit here and stew.

He refused to be the last to understand.

He refused to stay in the dark.

He set the photo down on the table with slow, deliberate precision. The kind of precision that came right before a decision was made. Right before Damian Wayne committed.

He grabbed his staff from the corner of his room. The polished metal reflected the soft lamp glow, and the subtle weight grounded him.

He glanced at the photograph one last time.

Peter Parker.

Green eyes.

The secret he was not supposed to know.

The brother he was never supposed to see again.

Damian breathed in.

Slow.

Cold.

Controlled.

“I will find him,” he vowed quietly. “And I will get the truth out of him.”

He turned off the lamp.

The shadows swallowed the room.

And Damian walked into them without hesitation.

 

The night settled over Gotham like a heavy blanket, muffling the city’s chaos beneath the low hum of unseen movement. Somewhere deep within the East End, Harley’s hideout sat in relative quiet. The soft rustle of vines filled the corners of the room, a natural ambience Ivy preferred. Lamps cast warm light across mismatched furniture and glitter-ridden carpets, and a faint smell of soil and a questionable fruit-scented air freshener lingered in the space.

Harley was sprawled across the couch on her stomach, legs kicking lazily in the air as she scrolled through something on her phone. Ivy worked near her plants, adjusting leaves and offering murmured encouragement to a sprouting bud that seemed to bloom purely from her approval.

The tranquillity lasted exactly seven more seconds.

Because the door opened.

Not knocked.

Opened.

Harley bolted upright with the reflexes of someone who had been traumatised by too many surprise intrusions.

“What the hell is with people coming in without announcement?” she barked, throwing her hands up.

Damian Wayne, Robin, stood framed in the doorway.

Rigid posture.

Blade-straight stance.

Mask on.

Eyes sharp enough to slice through concrete.

He stepped into the room like he owned the place, the shadows behind him curling around his silhouette. His boots thudded against the floor with intentional weight, each step controlled with precision that would make any assassin proud.

Damian stopped just a few feet inside.

His gaze fixed on Ivy and Harley like he was assessing threats, weaknesses, and potential attack routes simultaneously.

His voice cut through the quiet like a knife.

“Where is he?”

If Robin had a volume setting, he had it on cold steel.

Harley blinked, processing the audacity.

“Rude,” she muttered, eyebrows climbing. “At least, like, say hello first? Or hi? Or howdy-do? Something with manners?”

Damian did not blink.

Harley slowly leaned toward Ivy, whispering loudly, “Pam. He’s doing the Bat stare.”

Ivy did not bother to look up. “Of course he is. He is a Bat.”

Harley nodded sagely. “I hate it.”

Damian’s hands curled into fists at his sides. Patience was not his virtue tonight.

His jaw tightened before he spoke again.

“Spyder.”

It was not a question. It was a demand.

Harley’s reaction was immediate. She flinched back like he had dropped a live grenade into the room.

Ivy’s expression sharpened, shoulders straightening as she finally turned to face him fully.

The air shifted.

Plants rustled with sudden awareness.

Harley tried to laugh. It came out awkward. Too high pitched. “Wowww, look at you being all intense. That’s cute.”

Damian took one step closer.

“Where. Is. He?”

Harley blinked. “Bro, why are you saying that like we’re holding him hostage or something? We don’t kidnap people anymore. Usually.”

Damian ignored her entirely.

His gaze swept the room again, picking up details fast, Harley's clutter, Ivy’s plants, the absence of green glow, no shadows that moved on their own. Peter had clearly not been here recently. Damian could read that much from the room alone. His breathing steadied with irritation.

He faced Harley and Ivy again, eyes narrowing.

“You know him.”

Harley froze for half a heartbeat, eyes widening a fraction before narrowing into something stubborn. She tilted her head with an exaggerated scoff.

“Eh? Do we?”

“You do.” Damian’s tone did not shift. “Do not waste my time.”

Harley huffed loudly, flipping her ponytails back. “I don’t know who’s been feeding you Batman juice, but you’re sounding like your dad and that is not a compliment.”

“Harley,” Ivy warned softly, reading Damian’s posture better than she cared to admit.

Damian did not raise his voice or move an inch, yet tension radiated from him like pressure building under a lid. The vines closest to him stirred uneasily. Ivy recognised emotional intensity well enough to know when to intervene.

She stepped forward, arms crossed, tone cool and clipped.

“Well, you should run along then. Clearly, we don’t have him.”

Damian shifted slightly, weight rolling forward, ready for a fight if he needed one.

His tone grew lower, more pointed.

“That is not an answer.”

Ivy’s eyes narrowed. “It is the only one you’re getting.”

Damian’s patience snapped.

“I know he has been here,” he said sharply. “I know you have spoken with him. And I know you will not lie to me.”

Harley let out a scandalised gasp. “Excuse you! I’m an excellent liar.”

Ivy shot her a look. Harley shrugged.

Damian ignored her again. His focus was entirely on the undercurrent between Peter and the two women in front of him.

“Tell me where Spyder is.” His voice remained low, but each word landed like a strike. “I am not leaving without answers.”

Ivy held his stare without flinching. She had dealt with worse creatures than tiny assassins with Napoleon complexes.

“Even if we did know,” she replied slowly, “why would we tell you? You are a child playing soldier. You want to run after a man who hunts assassins. You will not survive a minute.”

Damian’s temper twitched violently.

“I am not a child,” he hissed.

Ivy arched a brow. “You are thirteen.”

Damian bristled. “I am Robin.”

Harley raised her hand like she was in class. “I’m confused. Are you looking for him because he did something wrong? Or are you trying to adopt him? Your tone is giving… abandonment issues.”

Damian’s head snapped toward her, so fast Ivy’s vines recoiled.

Harley squeaked.

Ivy stepped protectively between them, glaring sharply at Damian.

“Do not even think about laying a hand on her,” Ivy warned.

Damian stayed still but his hands curled, knuckles white beneath gloves.

“I am not here to fight you,” he muttered. “I am here for answers.”

“And we’re telling you,” Harley chimed in, leaning back into the couch cushions, “we don’t have them.”

Damian breathed in sharply through his nose. “You know Spyder. You have seen him.”

Harley shrugged. “Gotham has, like, ten cryptids at this point. What do you want us to say?”

“That you know him.”

Harley shrugged again.

Damian’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “You reacted when I said his name.”

Harley rolled her eyes. “I react to everything.”

“Look at me, clown girl,” Damian snapped.

The room stilled.

Harley blinked once, caught off guard by the command in his tone. She did look. Ivy’s vines curled closer in tension, ready to snatch him by the ankles the second he stepped wrong.

Damian spoke slowly.

“Spyder.”

The name held weight.

Emotion.

Recognition he had only just realised.

Harley flinched again. Tiny. Barely visible. But Damian’s assassin-trained eyes caught it immediately.

He stepped closer.

“You know him.”

Harley’s face folded into annoyance. “Fine! Yeah, okay! He pops in sometimes. It’s Gotham. People drop from ceilings all the time. I don’t keep score.”

Damian inhaled like she had given him nothing but irritation.

“What does he want with you?” he pressed.

Harley rolled her eyes for the third time. “I dunno. To chat? To make sure we don’t die? To freak out my girlfriend? People needs are weird.”

Ivy added sharply, “Whatever Spyder wants, it is none of your business.”

Damian glared. “Everything that happens in Gotham is my business.”

Harley snorted. “Wow. You sound like Bruce but smaller.”

Damian’s jaw flexed dangerously.

“Show me where he is,” he ordered.

“We told you.” Ivy gestured around the room with an elegant sweep of her hand. “He is not here.”

Damian stiffened.

“You will tell me when he returns,” he demanded.

“No,” Ivy responded, immediate and unbothered.

Damian’s eye twitched.

Harley leaned forward, voice softer now, less mocking. “Kid, I don’t know what your deal is with him, but you don’t look like you’re ready for that talk.”

Damian’s breathing went sharp.

“I am not afraid of him.”

Harley shrugged. “Good for you, but you should be afraid of yourself right now. You look like you’re gonna explode.”

Ivy glared at Robin once more, hand hovering near the nearest vine. “We do not know where Spyder is. We cannot help you.”

Damian stood in silence for a long moment.

Cold.

Rigid.

Vibrating with barely restrained fury.

His hand curled slightly at his side before he forced it still.

He did not bow.

He did not thank them.

He simply turned.

And left.

The vines uncurling behind him relaxed once the door clicked shut.

Harley exhaled. “Pam… that kid is wound so tight he might implode.”

Ivy nodded slowly. “He is going to find Spyder.”

Harley chewed her lip. “Should we warn Peter?”

Ivy stared at the closed door in deep contemplation.

“Yes,” she said. “But I doubt it will matter.”

Because Damian Wayne was a storm.

And storms always find their targets.

 

Crime Alley breathed like a living thing.

Fog clung to the cracked pavement like it had given up trying to rise. Neon signs flickered with exhausted buzzing, casting unstable light over graffiti-tagged brick walls and rusted fire escapes. The alley tasted like cold metal, old cigarette smoke, and whatever questionable liquid was dripping from the upper floors.

Peter walked through it like he was strolling a beachfront boardwalk.

Hood up. Hands in pockets. Breath slow.

His green eyes glimmered faintly in the mist, catching every shadow with quiet precision. No suit. No mask. No theatrics. Just him.

His mind replayed Damian’s little visit to Harley and Ivy’s hideout from hours earlier.

He had been there.

Not physically. Not in the room.

But perched on the rooftop across the street, ear tuned to the air, posture relaxed as he listened to the kid tear into Harley with righteous fury.

Peter had almost laughed aloud when Damian demanded, Where is he? with that tiny, angry general tone.

He had leaned back against the rooftop ledge, chuckling to himself like he was watching a sitcom.

He likes the kid. He likes the determination. The bite. The force behind the mask. But he also finds the tantrum hilarious. Damian is so tightly wound he makes a compressed spring look chill.

Peter whispered to himself at the memory, “Bro needs a nap.”

Now, hours later, he was officially clocking in for “crime alley reconnaissance”, which was code for spying on Joker’s operations in the most chaotic way possible.

He stepped into the dive bar tucked between two burnt-out apartments. The neon sign above the door flickered HA HA HA in miserable red.

The bar was full of cigarette smoke, broken dreams, and people who liked violence recreationally.

No one batted an eye when he walked in.

He blended seamlessly, boring hoodie, tired face, the vibe of a uni student who accidentally took a wrong turn but decided to commit to the detour.

The bouncer at the door barely glanced at him. He just nodded and shoved something into Peter’s free hand.

Peter looked down. A joint.

Fantastic.

He shrugged and pocketed it with the casualness of someone who had long accepted Gotham’s choices.

He walked through the room like he did this every day. Which, to be fair, he kind of did. Ever since Joker had pissed him off, Peter had taken a part-time job called sabotaging clown operations for fun.

He approached the bar, lifted the joint, lighting it up, and taking a slow drag.

Harley’s voice came from beside him, dry and unimpressed.

“Does it even hit you?”

Peter exhaled, watching the smoke curl into the bar’s stale air. “Nope. It’s just cool to see.”

Harley stared at him flatly. “Is it really, though?”

Peter nodded sagely. “Yeah, want a hit?”

“I’m tryna change my life here, dude,” she shot back, tapping his forehead like one might tap a malfunctioning toaster.

Peter shrugged. “Oh yeah, my bad.”

He took another drag purely out of spite against reality.

Harley rolled her eyes. “Stop trying to look cool.”

“I am cool.”

“No, you’re just tall.”

“Fair.”

Before Harley could lecture him about lung health, a figure slid into the seat next to Peter.

Bright yellow skin. Green hair. Half painted face.

Creeper.

Peter liked Creeper. Mostly because Creeper did not have normal boundaries and that worked out perfectly for information gathering.

Creeper leaned over the bar dramatically. “Man, tonight is just, ugh.” He dragged his hands down his face, smearing more of his makeup.

Peter offered the joint like a peace treaty.

Creeper accepted immediately.

Peter smiled. “Rough night?”

“Rough week,” Creeper groaned. “Clown Prince has been flipping tables since yesterday. And I mean literally flipping tables. I barely dodged one.”

Peter whistled in sympathy. “Damn. Someone needs a hug.”

“Bro needs a straight jacket,” Creeper corrected. He took a big drag and coughed hard enough to nearly fall off his chair. “He keeps screaming about sabotage. Says some freak’s ruining his operations from the inside.”

Peter blinked. “No way. For real?”

Creeper nodded miserably. “Like, strict. He called a meeting. A meeting, man. Joker. Meeting.”

Peter laughed. “That’s tragic.”

Harley elbowed him. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“I am,” Peter admitted without shame.

Creeper kept going. “He’s losing it. Keeps saying someone’s messing with shipments, threatening his boys, following his men. Someone sneaky. Someone smart. Someone with–”

Creeper paused, leaning in like he was about to whisper a government secret.

“Green eyes.”

Peter’s lips twitched.

He schooled his expression quickly into confusion. “Green eyes? Weird. That’s… oddly specific.”

“Right?” Creeper said dramatically. “I told him that’s, like, one-third of Gotham. He threw a grenade at me.”

Peter nodded sympathetically. “Sounds like him.”

Creeper finally hopped down from the stool. “Well, if you see any mysterious green-eyed freak running around, you didn’t hear it from me.”

Peter gave him a lazy salute. “Solid.”

Creeper vanished back into the crowd like a chaotic cryptid.

Harley gave Peter a deadpan look.

“You’re having the time of your life.”

Peter patted her shoulder. “Harls, this is the closest thing to a hobby I’ve had in years.”

She groaned. “You’re so concerning.”

“I know,” he said brightly.

After enough intel-gathering to fuel two more weeks of sabotaging clown clusters, Peter slipped out the back door of the bar, Harley following close behind.

The alley was cold and damp, moonlight catching on puddles like mercury splashed across the ground. The door creaked as it shut behind them.

Harley folded her arms, staring at him with that older-sister energy she accidentally developed.

“You’re really doing this Joker thing, huh?”

Peter shrugged casually, taking another slow drag. He watched the smoke dance like he was critiquing its choreography.

“He pissed me off,” Peter said simply. “So, I’m just playing for a bit.”

Harley stepped in front of him, blocking his path. Her expression had sharpened into something more serious.

“Peter,” she said steadily. “There’s no temporary in Gotham. You keep poking that bear, it’s gonna poke back. Then it’s gonna eat you.”

Peter considered her words for a second, then snorted softly.

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not,” Harley insisted. “You’re getting too comfy with this stuff. All the sneaking. All the spying. All the ‘hehe Joker doesn’t know I’m messing with his empire’ shit. You’re starting to sound like us.”

Peter stared at her quietly.

Not offended.

Not shocked.

Just… thoughtful.

Harley scowled. “I’m serious. I see the way your eyes glint when you do this. You’re having fun. Too much fun.”

Peter flicked ash off the end of the joint, expression unreadable.

“Harls. It’s just a bit. I swear.”

“No,” she said firmly. “Peter. Listen. This city grabs people. And once it’s got you, it doesn’t let go.”

The alley fell quiet.

Peter stared at the glowing ember on the joint, watching it pulse like a heartbeat.

Then he slowly lifted it to his lips, inhaled one long drag, and exhaled a slow cloud into the cold Gotham air.

And he finally spoke.

“Maybe I want that.”

Harley froze.

Peter lifted one shoulder casually.

“It’s called a manic episode,” he said with a lazy grin. “And we’re getting three more seasons.”

Harley groaned deeply. “Pete…”

Peter smiled, eyes glowing faintly in the fog.

“Relax. It’s fun. I’ve got it under control.”

She kicked his shin lightly. “No one who says that has ever had anything under control.”

Peter laughed softly, flicking the joint away. It sparked briefly before dying in a puddle.

He shoved his hands back into his pockets.

His grin lingered.

His eyes glinted.

And deep in Crime Alley, Gotham grinned back.

---

 

Notes:

Author's Note(s):
This chapter officially connects the new arc to the earliest parts of the fic and it feels surreal to reach this point. Damian and Peter are absolutely heading toward a moment but I will not spoil anything. 🤐👉👈

I do hope someone out there is getting the reference. 😩🤞

Chapter 13: Chapter 12: Coffee

Summary:

A casual coffee morning collapses into Gotham level disaster and Peter steps into instinctive hero mode before he can think twice. The city watches more closely now and it becomes harder for him to hide what he really is.

Notes:

Author's Note(s):
⚠️ Just a small warning. There is an implied scene involving a non-consensual/r word attempt. Please read with caution. ⚠️

So I did say that the last chapters would be the final ones for the year but I lied to everyone including myself. Once the writing momentum hit, everything else got pulled along with it and this chapter practically wrote itself.

---

The coffee shop looked like the kind of place that had accepted its fate years ago. The lights were warm but dim, the walls carried a soft, lived-in yellow, and the quiet music humming under the chatter sounded like it came from a playlist titled Songs You Pretend You Discovered Before They Got Popular. The baristas were all college-age, sleepless, and held together by caffeine and whatever Gotham tax benefits existed for surviving more than two months here.

Peter pushed through the door with his shoulder, letting the soft bell overhead jingle as though greeting him out of obligation. He inhaled deeply the moment he stepped inside. Freshly ground beans. Pastries. Cinnamon. No distant sirens for once. No screaming. No existential threats. Just coffee.

Good.

He needed this.

His hair was still damp from the morning shower he definitely took too quickly, and his hoodie hung slightly loose on him. His eyes green, alert even when tired scanned the room in one sweep.

He found them immediately.

Two teenagers sat near the window: Stephanie Brown, legs casually propped on an extra chair, chewing on her straw like she was fighting it, and Duke Thomas, sitting upright, posture trying very hard not to scream responsible older sibling energy despite being sixteen.

Peter blinked once, then walked over.

Stephanie spotted him first.

“Oh my god,” she announced loudly, pointing dramatically. “He exists. Tim didn’t make you up.”

Peter lifted a lazy hand. “Depends. If he described me as normal? Then yeah, he made me up.”

Stephanie snorted, shoving the spare chair out with her foot. “Sit. Also, call me Steph. Everyone does. Except teachers. And probably my dentist.”

Peter slid into the chair with a light, tired sigh. “You got a dentist? Flex.”

She grinned. “Gotham health plan, baby.”

Duke covered his face with one hand. “She’s been like this since she got here.”

“I thrive,” Stephanie declared proudly.

Peter chuckled, leaning back. “Cool. Nice to meet you properly, Steph.” He threw Duke a nod. “And hey, Duke. Long time no hostage crisis.”

Duke exhaled softly through his nose, half amused, half done with life. “Please don’t say it like it’s a monthly appointment.”

“Gotham,” Peter shrugged. “Everything’s a subscription.”

Stephanie choked on her drink, laughing. “Tim said you were funny. He undersold it.”

“Tim undersells everything,” Peter replied, picking up the menu and glancing at it without reading. “Even his ability to stand upright. Which he fails at. Majestically.”

“He does fall a lot,” Steph agreed.

“Tim falls like gravity owes him money,” Duke added.

They all nodded solemnly.

A moment passed. Peter lowered the menu to the table, deciding he could vibe here for a while.

Then he tilted his head at Stephanie.

“You’re not suiting up today?”

Steph scoffed. “Absolutely not. It is Saturday. I’m in soft girl mode. Do I look like I’m trying to get punched in the face before 6pm?”

Peter nodded approvingly. “Valid. Very valid.”

Duke sighed into his drink. “I’m the only one who suits up today.”

Steph patted him on the shoulder. “You’re doing amazing, sweetie.”

“I hate both of you,” Duke muttered, drinking harder.

Peter gave him a sympathetic look. “Man just wanted coffee.”

“Exactly!” Steph pointed her straw at him like a sword. “Someone here understands me.”

Peter nodded. “Coffee first, chaos later. It’s the natural order of things.”

The three of them slipped into easy conversation teasing, light remarks, the occasional meme reference that made Duke look like he regretted his life choices, and the brief but necessary small talk about classes. Steph talked a mile a minute, Duke cut in dryly whenever her energy almost set the table on fire, and Peter vibed between them like he’d known them longer than he realistically had.

Nothing heavy. Nothing weird.

Just a slow, warm morning.

Until Gotham remembered it existed.

The ground shook.

Loud enough to vibrate the spoons in their cups.

Steph froze mid-sip.

Peter blinked.

Duke inhaled sharply through his teeth.

Another crash thundered outside, rattling the windows, making the overhead light flicker dangerously. Half the cafe gasped. The barista dropped a mug that shattered loudly onto the tile.

Peter’s eyes narrowed.

Steph exhaled. “Oh, come on. It’s literally noon.”

Duke was already pushing his chair back. “Stay low.”

Steph and Peter slid to the ground at the same time, both ducking behind the table like they had done it a hundred times before. Which, for Peter, was technically true.

They crouched, knees tucked, hands bracing the floor.

The third impact hit, somewhere down the block, shaking dust loose from the ceiling.

Peter looked at Steph. Calm. Bored. Slightly annoyed.

“Well,” he muttered, “poor guy just wanted coffee.”

Steph responded by nodding solemnly. “Not my quota. Still daylight. That’s his rodeo.” She jerked her thumb toward Duke, who was swiftly making his way toward the back exit.

“Good luck,” Peter whispered cheerfully after him.

Duke hissed back, “Don’t be loud!”

“I’m literally whispering.”

“Whisper quieter!”

Steph rolled her eyes. “Teenage boys, I swear.”

They both settled on the floor, backs pressed lightly against overturned chairs.

Another smaller explosion popped outside maybe a car, maybe a mailbox, maybe Gotham deciding fire was aesthetic today.

Peter blinked again, unbothered.

Steph gave him an impressed look. “You’re like… weirdly chill.”

“Experience,” Peter said casually.

“How much experience?” she asked slowly.

“Too much,” he replied even more slowly.

Steph laughed. “Yup, you and Tim are definitely friends.”

Peter made a soft sound, halfway between agreement and disbelief. “He’s traumatised by caffeine withdrawals. I don’t think that counts.”

“It counts,” she insisted.

They fell quiet again as another distant bang rolled through the street.

Someone screamed outside in a very Gotham manner: distressed but used to it.

Steph flattened her palms on the floor. “Do you ever get involved?”

Peter cracked a tiny smile. “Not anymore. Mostly avoid this stuff these days.”

Steph raised a brow. “You didn’t always, huh?”

Peter opened his mouth to answer.

The building shook violently.

A full explosion somewhere nearby.

The cafe ceiling dropped a dust cloud on them like it was trying to contribute to the drama.

Everyone screamed again.

Steph swore loudly.

Peter sighed.

“Well,” he said calmly as the ground rumbled, “gonna be one of those days.”

They exchanged a look.

Fast.

Understanding.

Steph: teasing but alert.

Peter: tired but sharp.

Gotham: apparently auditioning for Worst Neighbourhood 5: Apocalypse Edition.

She mouthed, “Run or stay?”

Peter mouthed back, “Stay. Too many people.”

Steph nodded, switching immediately into panic-but-chill mode, the kind only someone who had grown up in Gotham could manage.

The ceiling lights flickered dangerously overhead. Another thud shook the pavement. A shadow passed rapidly across the window too big to be normal, too fast to be safe.

Peter tilted his head.

Steph whispered, “Was that…?”

Peter whispered back, “If I say yes, we’ll have to go outside.”

“Then no,” she whispered.

“Exactly.”

Another boom.

Another round of screaming.

Peter braced an arm against the side of the table as the floor lurched. “Okay. That one was close.”

Steph wiped dust off her face. “Gotham is so stupid.”

“Agreed.”

“We should’ve gotten iced coffee.”

“Agreed faster.”

The next explosion hit closer the kind that made the windows flex in their frames and the shop’s front sign tear off the hinges completely.

And for the first time since the shaking began, Peter’s eyes sharpened with something serious under the tired.

Not panic.

Not stress.

Just focus.

Calm, steady, dangerous focus.

Steph noticed.

She nudged him lightly with her elbow. “Hey.”

Peter looked over.

“You good?” she asked.

He nodded. “Yeah. Just… taking notes.”

“Like mental notes? Or journaling?”

“Mental.”

She grinned. “Good. Because if this becomes a journal entry, you’re officially cursed.”

Peter laughed softly. “Too late.”

The outside screeching intensified, the kind of shrill mechanical howl Gotham pulled out when the plot thickened.

Steph peeked over the overturned chair.

Peter grabbed her hoodie and pulled her back down. “Hey. No.”

“I just wanted to see!”

“Congratulations, you can see when we leave.”

“We’re leaving?”

“Eventually.”

She snorted. “Wow. Brave words.”

Another crash this one a metallic thud hit the street, making dust cascade from the ceiling in a thin shower.

Peter murmured, “Okay. Yup. That’s escalating.”

Steph nudged him again. “Still avoiding stuff these days?”

Peter rubbed his face with both hands. “Trying my absolute best.”

Steph rolled her eyes. “This city isn’t gonna let that happen.”

Outside, something massive roared.

People screamed.

Glass shattered somewhere far off.

Steph and Peter crouched lower.

“Welp,” Peter muttered. “There goes my peaceful morning.”

“You have peaceful mornings?” Steph asked.

“Sometimes.”

“Liar. No one in Gotham has peaceful mornings.”

Peter conceded with a small nod. “Okay, fair.”

Silence settled for a moment the kind that was less calm and more the universe inhaling before a bigger swing.

Steph glanced at Peter again, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

“You know,” she said quietly, “you’re a lot more put together than Tim said.”

Peter gave her a look. “I’m never letting him talk about me again.”

“Too late,” she grinned.

Then–

The big explosion hit.

The kind that knocked cups off tables, threw the coffee machine backwards, and made every single person in the cafe scream at once.

Steph’s chair toppled completely, bouncing loudly against the floor.

Peter grabbed her arm instinctively, steadying her so she did not hit her head on the counter.

The two of them stared at each other while dust rained down again.

Steph blinked.

Peter blinked back.

“Well,” she said breathlessly, “we’re moving.”

Peter nodded slowly. “Yeah. We’re moving.”

The ground trembled again.

Louder.

Closer.

The kind of closer that promised they had, maybe, three seconds before something weird crashed through the window.

 

The world outside hit him like a slap.

Not physically. Gotham did not have to try that hard. It was more the sensory whiplash: one second Peter was crouched on tile floors, sharing snark with a girl he met ten minutes ago, and the next he found himself stepping through shattered glass doors into a street that looked like someone had shaken the city and asked, “What if we made everything worse?”

Smoke curled in lazy spirals along the pavement. A rising hiss drifted somewhere down the road, the kind that sounded a little too chemical to be comfortable. Crowds scattered in chaotic waves, yelling and stumbling as another explosion rattled the pavement. Cars honked, crashed, or stayed abandoned mid-lane, forming messy metal barricades.

Steph was gone. Duke had disappeared even faster. For a second, Peter stood on the threshold, blinking through the haze.

Typical Gotham. Classic behaviour. Could not let anyone sip coffee.

He muttered under his breath, “Bro, I swear, I just wanted caffeine.”

A metallic clatter rolled across the ground. Something bounced once. Then again. Then spun to a stop right in front of his shoes.

A gas canister.

Peter stared down at it.

“Wow. Cute.”

The valve spat out yellowish fumes that curled like smoke snakes. People around him screamed as soon as they breathed it in, clutching their heads and running blindly. Someone tripped over a bench. Someone else jumped into a parked car and locked the doors, only to realise smoke was already seeping in.

Peter bent down and picked the canister up with two fingers, tilting it slightly as the gas puffed into his face.

He sniffed.

The smell hit instantly. Bitter. Metallic. Sharp enough for his eyes to sting.

He gagged quietly. “Oh, that is revolting. Zero out of ten. Who bottled this? Satan?”

He coughed once more, then wrapped his hand around the metal shell and crushed the entire thing like it was made of tinfoil. The metal squealed, collapsed, and shrivelled under his grip.

Peter tossed the crushed scrap aside without ceremony.

For a moment, he stood still, letting the smoke drift around him. His green eyes glowed faintly when the light hit them through the haze. Calm. A fleck of irritation. Mostly tired, but steady.

Another explosion hit somewhere behind the row of cars, sending a plume of fire into the sky. People scrambled again, pushing against each other in a blind attempt to get away.

Peter sighed quietly.

“Alright. Okay. Let’s get this over with.”

He stepped off the pavement and into the street.

The smoke curled around him as he moved. Not hurried. Not panicked. Just walking, pacing himself, like the city was a treadmill and he already knew the incline would suck.

A man stumbled out of the fog, clutching his throat, eyes red with tears. He wheezed, “Help– I cannot– I cannot see–”

Peter reached him in two steps and tapped his shoulder. “You’re not dying. You’re panicking. Big difference.”

The man gasped again, shaking.

Peter lifted the guy’s chin and fanned smoke away from his face. “Deep breath. In. Out. See? There you go.”

He guided him towards a nearby doorway, nudging him gently inside the building lobby where the air was clearer.

“Stay here,” Peter said. “Do not go back out. Trust me.”

The man nodded shakily.

Peter turned back to the street.

Chaos spread like spilled paint.

People stumbled through the haze, tripping on curbs, coughing, screaming at shadows that probably were just lamp posts. A teenage girl was slumped against a car door, trembling as fear gas twisted her vision.

Peter knelt beside her. “Hey. Hey. Look at me.”

Her eyes darted everywhere but him.

“Hey,” he said again, softer. “I’m real. I know this is trippy. Focus on my voice. I promise you, nothing is hurting you.”

She whimpered, clutching his sleeve.

Peter slipped an arm under her and lifted her easily, carrying her away from the gas plume with careful steps. She clung to him, trembling, but her breathing started to slow.

He deposited her next to a group of civilians sheltering behind a taxi. “Watch her,” Peter told them. “She just needs clean air.”

They nodded, wide eyed, watching him like he was something miraculous.

Peter did not notice. He was already turning away, eyes scanning the smoke for more stragglers.

Another canister bounced near a fire hydrant.

Peter moved. Quick. Efficient.

He reached it before it could spew again, scooped it up, shook it lightly just to confirm it was the same type, then pinched the top shut with his fingers. The metal buckled. He crushed the rest in his palm and flicked it aside.

“Someone really mass produced these,” he muttered. “Budget villains era.”

A woman screamed from across the street. Peter looked up.

Debris blocked the entrance to a small bodega. Bricks. Shattered wood. A half-collapsed awning. Two civilians were trapped inside, hitting the glass from the other side, coughing violently.

Peter jogged over.

The falling debris had piled high, at least several hundred kilos, but he planted his feet and pushed upward. Brick shifted. Wood snapped. He held his breath, braced his knees, and shoved the pile aside with a grunt.

The doorway cleared instantly.

The older man inside stumbled forward, shocked. “How did you–?”

Peter waved him out. “Move before the roof does something stupid.”

He helped them out quickly, steadying both by their elbows and guiding them towards the cluster of safer people.

More shouts erupted down the block.

This time from above.

Peter glanced upward.

A man halfway up a windowsill was trying to climb down, slipping on the ledge as fear gas hit him. His fingers trembled, and he lost grip completely.

Peter was already moving.

He sprinted, stepped on the bent hood of a car, and vaulted upward. His hands caught the brick wall, fingers digging effortlessly into the cracks as he scaled it like climbing a playground ladder.

The man slipped with a cry.

Peter reached him, grabbed his wrist, and held him suspended with only one hand.

“Hi,” Peter said flatly. “You’re fine.”

“I’m falling!” the man shrieked.

“No, I’m literally holding you. Chill.”

He swung the man onto his back, climbed back down, and dropped the guy onto the pavement with care.

The man scrambled back against the wall. “You’re– you’re like–”

“Not important,” Peter interrupted. “Go that way. Nose away from the smoke. You’ll be fine.”

Another explosion detonated somewhere behind them. The air trembled, vibrating through the ground and up his legs.

Peter muttered, “That feels unsafe.”

He stepped back into the centre of the street.

The gas thickened, curling around his shoulders, refracting light in weird colours. Civilians screamed, disappearing and reappearing between the waves of haze. Peter walked through it all, eyes glowing faintly in the smoke, unbothered by the way everything twisted visually.

He exhaled slowly.

“Okay. Who else is dying? Let’s get this moving.”

He spotted a couple trying to pull their toddler from the back seat of their car. The father fumbled the keys, hands shaking violently under the effects of the gas, while the mother panicked and tugged at the door handle uselessly.

Peter approached. “Move.”

They both froze.

Peter grabbed the stuck door, yanked it once, and the jammed lock snapped clean, swinging open. He lifted the kid out gently, checked if she was breathing, nodded, then handed her to the parents.

The mother stared at him with round eyes. “Who are you?”

“Just some guy,” he said simply.

He gave a small wave and walked away before she could say more.

The smoke continued to spread, licking around signs and engulfing the cracked pavement. Sirens wailed distantly but traffic was jammed beyond belief. Gotham emergency response was fifteen minutes away on a good day.

This was not a good day.

Peter kept moving.

Another fallen lamppost blocked the way. He picked it up by the end, swung it to the side like tossing a broom, and dropped it gently to avoid scaring the civilians behind it.

A man stumbled out of the fog, swinging blindly at phantoms. Peter grabbed his arm and said, “You’re fighting fog, my guy.”

“Get it away!” the man cried.

“You’re doing great.” Peter patted his shoulder and pointed him toward the cleared area. “Walk straight. Do not look back.”

He kept pushing forward, cutting through smoke that stuck to his hair and hoodie, clinging like damp cloth. His movements were fluid, unhurried. He never tripped. Never hesitated.

He looked like someone who had done this too many times.

Someone who had learned to keep calm because panic made everything worse.

Someone who had lost enough people that he refused to let the number change today.

A street vendor’s stand caught fire. Flames licked upward. The owner cried out helplessly as his equipment melted.

Peter hopped the curb, grabbed a half-empty water barrel, and dumped it all over the fire until it hissed and died.

“Sorry about your grill,” Peter said.

The vendor blinked at him. “You saved my life.”

“I saved your eyebrows,” Peter corrected. “Your life is debatable.”

The man choked on a laugh, mostly relief.

Peter kept going.

Another wave of gas rolled in. Yellow, thick, stinging.

Peter walked through it, eyes narrowing.

“I swear, if this is Scarecrow’s off brand line…”

Something clanged loudly. A metal crate slid across the street, colliding with a post box.

Peter paused, scanning the direction it came from.

The fog thickened.

Something moved inside it.

He shifted slightly, posture becoming grounded, instinctive. His head cocked just a bit. Not fear. Just readiness.

Shouts erupted behind him.

He turned back toward the crowd. Someone had collapsed. Two people dragged them away. Another canister rolled out of a drainpipe, spinning toward a group of fleeing civilians.

Peter lunged.

He scooped it up mid-roll, held it away from the others, inhaled once by accident, gagged dramatically, and wheezed, “This smells like a burnt battery dipped in sadness.”

He crushed it instantly and tossed the scrap away.

The civilians nearby stared at him, astonished.

He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Stop looking at me and move. Air is that way.”

People obeyed quickly.

Peter continued forward.

A car alarm blared behind him. Smoke flickered around his silhouette as he walked, half shrouded by haze, only the glow of his eyes visible in the swirling fog.

Someone watching from the distance might have thought he looked unreal.

Someone watching closely would see he was simply not slowing down.

He paused briefly, glancing around. Screams still echoed from multiple directions. More civilians stumbled out from behind wrecked cars. But the worst pockets of fear gas seemed to be thinning thanks to the broken canisters he had dealt with.

He exhaled once.

“Could be worse,” he muttered.

The gas curled again, and his eyes glinted brighter for a moment.

A boy, no more than ten, stood paralysed in the middle of the street, hugging a backpack to his chest, sobbing quietly as fear gas twisted his reality.

Peter appeared beside him quietly.

“Hey, buddy.”

The boy flinched, terrified.

Peter crouched to eye level. “I know it looks scary. But I need you to look at me. Just me.”

The boy hesitated.

Peter smiled softly. Genuine. Warm.

“It’s okay,” Peter said. “I’ve got you.”

The boy’s grip loosened slightly.

Peter held out a hand. “Come with me, alright?”

Slowly, the kid grabbed his hand.

Peter lifted him and carried him to safety. The boy buried his face into Peter’s chest, trembling, but calming.

Peter handed him off to a shaken passer-by who promised to take him inside a nearby building.

Peter nodded and stepped back into the smoke again.

More cries pulled him toward the crosswalk. He climbed the side of a leaning bus, used the height to look over the scattered chaos, and assessed the situation with narrowed eyes.

He jumped down silently, landing lightly, then moved toward the next cluster of trouble.

His hoodie fluttered behind him.

His steps stayed silent despite the broken glass.

His eyes glowed faintly through the fog.

And everywhere he went, panic eased.

People lived.

People breathed easier.

He never introduced himself. Never stopped moving long enough to be thanked. Never wanted the attention.

He simply acted.

Fast.

Efficient.

Tired.

Heroic in a way that did not need a suit or a mask.

In the thick haze, surrounded by flickering streetlights and trembling pavement, he looked like a quiet force of nature.

A man with glowing eyes and steady hands.

 

The alley was narrow, damp, and smelled like Gotham’s entire personality condensed into one location. The smoke rolling in from the street painted the brick walls in sickly shades of yellow, twisting slowly in the air like it was trying to suffocate the space itself. Peter stepped inside without hesitation, wiping soot from his cheek with the back of his hand.

A faint whimper echoed from deeper in the alley.

Peter stopped walking.

His green eyes narrowed.

He heard shuffling. A harsh laugh. A low voice, the kind that made his blood pressure rise instantly for all the wrong reasons.

“Come on, sweetheart. It’s chaos out there. Nobody’s gonna see anything.”

Peter exhaled through his nose like he was preparing to sit through a three-hour lecture titled Men Are Trash.

He took one step further in.

A man had a woman backed up against a dirty wall, two kids behind her trembling and clinging to her waist. The guy leaned in with this disgusting smug grin like the world falling apart had handed him a free pass to become the worst version of himself.

Peter stared for approximately half a second before going, “Oh, you have got to be joking.”

The man jerked, turning around sharply. “Who the hell–?”

Peter kept walking toward him. Calm. Hands in pockets. Hoodie streaked with smoke.

“Dude,” Peter said, voice flat. “Are you seriously deprived of human decency?”

The guy blinked. “Mind your own business.”

“No,” Peter said. “I am making this my business because you clearly failed the humanity tutorial.”

The man took a step toward him, pulling out a box cutter from his pocket like he thought it made him tough.

Peter raised a brow. “What are you going to do with that? Open a package?”

“You better back off,” the guy snarled.

“Yeah, yeah.” Peter tilted his head. “You’re very threatening. So scary. I’m quaking.”

The guy lunged.

Peter caught his wrist mid-swing, not even blinking.

The man froze in shock, looking at Peter’s grip like he could not understand how a guy his size was holding him still with zero effort.

Peter tightened his hold just enough to make the guy drop the blade. “You sick bastard.”

Then he twisted the man’s arm downwards and slammed him into the pavement so fast it looked like gravity did most of the work.

The man hit the ground with a sharp crack, breath knocked completely out of him.

Peter did not stop there.

He grabbed the guy by the back of the shirt, yanked him up like he weighed nothing, and smashed his head against the ground with a sickening thud that sent a cloud of dust puffing outward.

The guy went limp instantly.

Unconscious.

Peter exhaled as though he had just swatted a fly.

He stood up straight, brushing off his hoodie like he had merely bumped into a doorframe.

The woman stared at him, trembling. The kids clung to her, eyes wide, scanning the unconscious body on the ground.

Peter crouched down a little, so he was not towering. “Go. You’re safe now.”

The woman nodded quickly, pulling her kids with her, guiding them out of the alley with hurried steps. She kept glancing back at him as if expecting him to vanish into the smoke like some ghost of Gotham.

Peter waited until they were completely out of sight before straightening again.

He glanced at the unconscious man.

“Hope the pavement taught you something,” he muttered.

A boom rattled the street outside, shaking loose dust from the fire escape above him.

Peter looked toward the exit of the alley.

Chaos still moved like a living thing. Smoke thickened. People screamed. Sirens wailed faintly somewhere miles off.

He rolled his shoulders and stepped out again.

“Alright,” he said under his breath. “Who’s next?”

 

Peter stepped out of the alley and the heat struck him like a physical shove. It rolled across the street in heavy waves, thick enough that even the fear gas could not fully choke it out. The crackling sound of wood collapsing mixed with the distant whoop of malfunctioning alarms. Smoke bled upward in a hungry column, clawing at the sky like it wanted to peel open the clouds.

Peter squinted through the haze. One of the apartment buildings across the street was lit up like a bonfire, flames crawling out of the windows and licking up the brick like they were starving for oxygen.

He said quietly, “Okay. That’s not ideal.”

A scream punctured the air.

Peter was already moving before the second one followed.

He did not stop to think. It was not a conscious decision. It was muscle memory, instinct, that frustrating part of him that refused to sit still when someone needed help. So much for retirement, he thought distantly, but it barely had weight. His feet hit the pavement hard, propelling him toward the entrance.

Fire popped and spat as he approached the doorway. Smoke swirled out in choking bursts.

People stumbled out of the building one after another, coughing violently. One woman tripped on the curb and fell, and Peter caught her by the back of her jacket before she hit the ground.

“Keep moving,” he told her. “Air’s clearer down the block.”

She nodded frantically and ran.

The next person who staggered out barely managed to hold himself upright. Peter grabbed him under the arms and half carried him to the other side of the road, propping him against the wall of a nearby shop where smoke had not reached yet.

A man gasped desperately beside them. “There are still people inside!”

Peter took one look at the flames roaring out of the second floor and said, “Of course there are. Brilliant.”

He pulled his hoodie sleeve over his mouth and ducked inside the fire.

The heat slapped him instantly. Smoke billowed thickly across the hall. The sprinklers were sputtering uselessly, dripping water like they were struggling to remember how to function.

Peter moved deeper into the building, stepping over fallen plaster and broken furniture. Flames curled along the walls, eating through wallpaper. His eyes glowed faintly in the dark, cutting through the smoke.

He heard coughing to his left. A man was slumped against a doorframe, half conscious.

Peter reached him, crouched, and hauled him upright. “Come on, mate. Up you get.”

The man barely managed a weak groan, but Peter slung the guy’s arm over his shoulder and carried him out with ease, weaving through the collapsing debris like he had memorised every step.

Outside, he dropped the man onto a patch of relatively clean pavement. “Stay low. Someone will get you water.”

Before anyone could thank him, Peter had already run back toward the doorway.

Inside again, the fire had grown. The corridor was an orange tunnel. Ceiling tiles dropped one by one. Heat pressed against his skin like a too-hot shower turned evil.

He heard crying.

Peter followed the sound to a stairwell. Two children huddled on the landing, one holding the other, both shaking as the smoke thickened around them.

Peter crouched low to meet their eye level. “Hi. Doing great. Let’s get out.”

The older kid stared at him through teary eyes. “We can’t go down… it’s too hot.”

Peter looked down the staircase. Flames chewed along the railing. He assessed the stairs for about half a second before turning to the window beside them and punching out the glass with one clean strike.

The kids flinched.

Peter dusted the glass fragments off his knuckles and said, “Plan B it is.”

He scooped both children up, one under each arm, stepped onto the window frame, and dropped lightly onto the fire escape outside.

He carried them down three flights, ignoring the heat blasting upward, then set them gently on the pavement.

A firefighter ran over immediately to take them.

Peter gave him a nod. “The upper floors are bad. Might want to check the back rooms.”

The firefighter stared at him through the visor. “Were you in there without gear?”

Peter shrugged. “Bits of it.”

“Are you insane?”

“Debatable.”

He dashed back toward the entrance before the firefighter could finish swearing at him.

By now the blaze was intense. Roof beams groaned. Parts of the ceiling caved in. Peter coughed as the smoke thickened but shook it off. His steps were steady, purposeful.

Another scream echoed from somewhere deeper inside. A harsh one, full of terror.

Peter sprinted around the corner and found a man pinned under a fallen support beam. The guy struggled weakly, face smeared with soot, breath shallow.

Peter approached calmly. “Alright. Don’t die.”

The man whimpered something that might have been agreement.

Peter crouched, planted his feet, and grasped the heavy beam with both hands. He pulled upward. The metal screeched in protest, but it lifted piece by piece.

The trapped man gasped in disbelief. “How are you–?”

“Cardio,” Peter said deadpan.

He shoved the beam away, grabbed the guy under the arms, and dragged him to his feet.

A second later, the whole section of ceiling collapsed behind them with a roar.

Peter muttered, “Rude.”

He carried the guy out, tossing him into the waiting arms of a first responder.

Barely a moment passed before something tugged his attention again.

A hoarse voice, faint, from the ground floor.

Peter’s head snapped toward the sound.

A homeless man was curled near the corner of the building, half hidden behind a dumpster that had toppled earlier. Flames crept dangerously close to him, and smoke gathered above his body in a thick cloud.

Peter jogged over and knelt beside him. “Hey. Wake up.”

The man coughed, eyes barely open. “Didn’t… didn’t think anyone would…”

“Yeah, well.” Peter picked him up bridal style, ignoring the guy’s startled grunt. “I’m very heroic today. Limited time offer.”

He carried him to the safer side of the street where paramedics were gathering civilians. Peter set him down gently.

The homeless man blinked up at him, dazed. Then, very carefully, he dug into the front pocket of his ragged coat and pulled out a poorly rolled joint.

He offered it with both hands, like it was a sacred treasure.

“For you,” the man rasped.

Peter stared at it.

He blinked.

Then he snorted a quiet laugh. “Well. I guess I earned that.”

He took it, twirled it between his fingers, then lit it off a nearby ember drifting in the air. He inhaled softly, exhaled a thin stream of smoke, and said, “Damn. That’s actually not bad.”

The man grinned weakly. “Good stuff.”

“Cheers,” Peter said.

A firefighter stomped past them, turning a hose toward the flames. More engines rolled up, blasting water into the burning windows. The roar of the fire finally began to quiet under the organised assault. People gathered along the pavement, watching as the building’s glow faded little by little.

Peter stayed where he was, watching from a comfortable crouch, joint dangling loosely between his fingers. His eyes reflected the dying flames, green and bright even through the smoke.

When the last blaze fizzled out, the firefighters called the area secure enough for medical teams to move in.

Peter stood up slowly, stretching his back.

Now that things calmed, his exhaustion returned like a clingy ex.

He dropped the last ash off the joint, stepped it out, and looked back down the street. Somewhere behind the smoke and debris was the coffee shop he had originally walked out of.

He sighed.

He actually groaned.

“I never got my coffee.”

He rubbed his eyes with both hands and muttered, “Of course I didn’t. Because why would I?”

Sirens echoed distantly behind him. People slowly settled. The danger dissolved into the background hum of Gotham’s usual dysfunction.

Peter shoved his hands into his pockets and started walking.

“Stupid city,” he said under his breath, though his voice held that tired affection of someone who had already accepted his fate.

He glanced back once, watching the firefighters pack up.

Then he turned away completely.

Coffee was not happening today.

But he had expected that the moment he stepped outside.

Gotham never let him chill.

It never let anyone chill.

And yet here he was, walking straight into whatever the hell came next.

 

Peter walked back toward the alley with slow, steady steps, the kind of deliberate pace that came when adrenaline faded and the world finally decided to shut up for a second. Gotham’s chaos simmered down into tired background noise. Sirens wailed distantly. Firefighters shouted orders. Civilians murmured anxiously. Smoke drifted lazily instead of roaring like a monster.

And the alley he had left earlier sat there, quiet.

Too quiet.

He slipped inside again. The scumbag he had slammed into the pavement was still there, sprawled out on the ground like roadkill in a thrift shop jacket. The man was breathing. Shallow, but breathing. He probably had a concussion. Definitely had a concussion. Peter had not bothered to check earlier, because frankly, he had not felt generous.

But now that everything was dying down, his brain finally had space to think.

Which he hated.

Thinking was stupid. It made things complicated. It made him consider consequences. It made him remember he had been raised to choose the right thing even when he wanted the easier one.

Peter stood over the unconscious man and exhaled. Hard.

He pinched the bridge of his nose.

He hated moments like this. The aftermath. The space where action stopped and morality started poking him like an annoying kid in a grocery aisle.

His bottom lip caught between his teeth as he mulled it over.

He did not want to pick the guy up again. It would be easier to leave him here. Let Gotham handle him. Let fate decide. Let gravity teach him another lesson.

But Gotham never handled anything well.

And fate was biased.

And gravity was not an educator.

Peter clenched his hands at his sides, jaw tightening. His green eyes flickered, reflecting whatever weird half-light the alley caught.

He muttered under his breath, “Man, I swear… why do I bother…”

Silence answered him.

He squatted down anyway.

The guy was completely out cold. Peter slid one arm under his back and the other under his knees, lifting him without effort. The man’s head lolled to the side, mouth partly open, looking nothing like the aggressive bastard he had been ten minutes earlier.

Peter grimaced.

“Disgusting,” he muttered.

He stood up with the guy in his arms and walked out of the alley. The street beyond was brighter now, flames mostly extinguished, smoke thinning. The firefighters were cleaning up. Paramedics moved through the crowds, checking survivors. Officers stood behind barricades directing traffic, trying to make order out of Gotham’s usual flavour of nonsense.

Peter approached the nearest pair of officers.

He did not ask for help. He did not speak.

He did not even slow down.

He simply dropped the unconscious man at their feet with a dull thump.

Both officers jumped.

One bent down quickly, instinct forming before recognition. “Is he–?”

Peter turned away before the sentence finished.

He did not elaborate. Not a single word. He offered them nothing. No explanation. No context. No name. No clever quip. No sarcastic commentary.

He walked away with his hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders slouched slightly, hoodie still stained with ash and smoke, hair messy from running into fires and through fear gas.

One of the officers shouted after him, “Hey! You! Did you–”

Peter lifted a hand lazily without turning around.

A silent, half-hearted wave.

Not an answer.

Not a conversation.

Just acknowledgement.

And then he kept walking, heading down the block, disappearing into the thinning smoke like some exhausted ghost of Gotham who had clocked out of his shift five disasters too late.

He did not look back.

Not once.

Justice could handle it now.

He had done enough for the day.

---

 

Notes:

Author's Note(s):
We are now fully in the Hero arc and Peter is showing more of his quiet strength and tired resilience as Gotham keeps throwing problems at him. Still no beta reader, just me confused at my own writing process, so feel free to call out anything strange. Thank you again for reading!!! 😌✨

This time, I will actually be gone, so- bai bai~ 👋👋👋👋👋

P.S Can you figure out the reference? Huehuehue

Chapter 14: Chapter 13: Intermission

Summary:

Things slow down just enough for the quiet to feel suspicious. Peter finds himself exactly where he likes to be, surrounded by books, caffeine, and people who keep orbiting him whether he asks them to or not.

Notes:

Author's Note(s):
Yes, this chapter is intentionally mundane and unsettling at the same time. That is the point. Sometimes the scariest thing in Gotham is when everyone is acting normal.

---

The crane cut through the morning haze like a blade left behind in a wound that never quite healed. Metal creaked softly under shifting weight, every groan stretched thin by the height and the wind. Gotham below was still half asleep, streets washed in grey and rusted gold, the city pretending it had not nearly torn itself apart a few hours ago.

Damian had tracked Peter deliberately.

Not on instinct. Not on faith. On stubborn intent.

The trail was wrong in ways Damian did not like. It obeyed no clean logic. No clean exits. There were moments where Peter should have touched ground and simply had not. Places where the line broke, not snapped, but dissolved. Damian hated that most of all. Snapped lines could be followed. Dissolved ones mocked you.

And there he was.

Peter stood inverted on the crane’s beam, upside down, boots planted as if gravity had chosen him instead of the other way around. The posture should have looked ridiculous. It did not. His body was still, unnervingly so, as though the city had paused around him instead. Hands tucked into the pockets of a battered hoodie, shoulders relaxed, spine aligned with careless precision.

Perfectly built. Always had been.

Damian had noticed long before he wanted to admit it. The way Peter grew into space like it belonged to him. How his height had crept up quietly until one day he was eye level with Father, then just a fraction more. Damian did not feel jealousy. He refused that label. But the scoff left his mouth anyway, sharp, and instinctive.

Peter treated this like nothing.

That was the insult.

Scaling a crane after tearing through a disaster zone, pulling bodies from smoke, and falling debris, vanishing before the first uniformed response could get close. No signal. No claim. No explanation. Just absence. As if heroics were a detour, not a decision.

Soot clung to his face in uneven streaks, dark against pale skin, framing his eyes like a warped mask. Damian hated how fitting it looked. Hated how easily Gotham could swallow him and turn him into a shape people whispered about. Batman had his cowl. Peter had the city’s grime, slapped onto him by circumstance and bad timing.

Damian stepped onto the beam opposite him.

“What you did out there was insane.”

His voice was controlled, clipped. It carried without effort.

Peter did not react.

He kept watching the horizon, the sun forcing itself up through the smog like it had to earn the right to exist. Light caught in his eyes, green cutting sharp through the grime, and for a moment Damian thought of all the reports, the shaky footage, the half hysterical testimonies.

The rescuer in the smog.

Nobody had seen his face clearly. Too much smoke. Too much chaos. He had looked like nothing and no one at once. Just a silhouette moving wrong through the ash. A young man, maybe attractive, maybe not, with green eyes. That was it.

One third of Gotham could fit that description. Damian knew the city would tear itself apart trying to assign meaning to it anyway.

“That was you,” Damian said.

Peter shifted, finally. A slight tilt of the head, one eye flicking toward Damian before turning back to the skyline. No denial. No confirmation.

Damian’s fingers curled slowly into his palms.

“You disrupted an active disaster response,” Damian said, words coming faster now, sharper. “You inserted yourself without coordination. You altered outcomes without oversight. You endangered people.”

He took another step, boots ringing against steel. “You endangered yourself.”

Peter listened.

That silence pressed down hard. Damian was used to resistance, to arguments, to defiance. This was worse. Peter stood there and absorbed it, unmoved, like Damian’s words slid off him and vanished into the open air.

“You cannot do this,” Damian continued, voice tightening despite himself. “You cannot appear here, in this city, act without consequence, and disappear. Gotham does not tolerate that. It chews people up. You know this.”

Peter’s shoulders rose and fell once. Slow. Controlled.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” Damian demanded.

Peter did not look at him.

His gaze stayed fixed somewhere far beyond the buildings, beyond the river, beyond anything Damian could point to and name. The effect was infuriating. It felt deliberate. Like Peter was choosing distance over engagement, absence over conflict.

The tension thickened, stretched taut until it vibrated between them.

“I told you to stay away from Gotham,” Damian said quietly.

Peter moved then, smoothly, bending at the waist, flipping himself upright in one fluid motion. His boots met the beam without a sound. He leaned back against the crane’s structure, posture loose, eyes finally settling on Damian with something flat and unreadable.

“I did not promise,” Peter said. “Your point?”

Damian’s jaw clenched.

“You cannot just come here and play hero.”

“I was not planning to,” Peter replied. His tone was light, too light. “I got caught in the moment.”

Caught.

As if collapsing infrastructure and trapped civilians were a passing inconvenience.

Damian’s voice dropped. “You did not even tell me you were coming.”

Peter’s gaze flickered, just briefly, then steadied again. “I was on the run.”

The words landed heavier than Damian expected. He hated that they did. Hated that part of him immediately started cataloguing threats, enemies, variables he had not accounted for.

“You have the audacity,” Damian muttered.

Peter’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. Not quite anything.

“You look more like Father every day,” Damian said, gesturing at him sharply. “The posture. The silence. It is unsettling.”

Peter dragged a hand down his face, smearing soot further across his skin. He exhaled, sharp and annoyed. “Your point?”

Damian held his gaze this time. “Come home with me.”

For a moment, the city seemed to fall away.

Peter stared at him, then let out a quiet laugh that held no humour at all. “What part of me being on the run do you not understand?”

“You are friends with Tim,” Damian snapped. “You attend Gotham University. You are already embedded here. This is inefficient.”

“Are you jealous?” Peter asked, brow lifting slightly.

Damian scowled. “You are close to them, but you refuse to acknowledge your—”

“My heritage?” Peter cut in.

The air shifted.

His voice did not rise, but something sharpened underneath it, something cold. “The last time I did that, you drove a blade right through me. I got you out of that hole, Damian. At least stay where you should be and stop trying to involve yourself with me.”

Damian’s chest tightened, anger flaring hot and immediate. “You are my brother.”

Peter looked away again, eyes returning to the city, to the light finally breaking through the haze. His reflection stared back at him from the glass towers below, fractured, and distorted.

“Well,” he said quietly, “better start thinking that I am not.”

 

Damian snapped.

It was not graceful. It was not calculated. It was a sharp, ugly break in the air, like something brittle finally giving way under pressure.

“You do not get to decide that,” Damian shot back, voice cracking just enough to betray him. “You do not get to rewrite it like it means nothing. Your loyalty is to the family. To us.” He jabbed a finger at Peter, hand trembling with restrained fury. “We are family. We, as in me and you.”

It came out wrong. Too loud. Too raw. A temper tantrum dressed up as an argument, stripped bare by teenage rage and something dangerously close to fear.

Peter did not answer right away.

He stepped forward instead.

The crane groaned softly as he moved, steel humming under his weight. He walked along the surface like the concept of orientation was optional, boots pressing flat against the vertical beam, then the underside, then upright again in one seamless, unsettling motion. No rush. No flourish. Just control. He stopped directly in front of Damian, close enough that Damian could see the flecks of ash clinging to his lashes, the way the sunrise caught in his green eyes and made them look sharp, almost predatory.

Peter met his gaze properly this time.

The look said Damian’s words made sense.

And that they were an insult.

Damian’s breath came quick and shallow. He hated that his instincts screamed at him to step back. He hated that his body recognised the threat even as his heart insisted this was his brother. The trust made it worse. The familiarity sharpened the fear into something unmanageable.

Like a cornered animal, Damian lashed out.

He struck first.

A clean punch, fast and precise, aimed for Peter’s jaw.

Peter did not block.

The hit landed. Damian felt it connect, knuckles slamming into bone and muscle. The impact jolted up his arm.

Peter’s head barely moved.

Damian froze for half a second, shock flaring white hot, then swung again. A kick this time, followed by another strike, then another, frustration bleeding into each blow. He attacked like he had been trained to, fast and relentless, every movement honed by years of discipline.

Peter took every hit.

He did not flinch. He did not stagger. He did not retaliate.

He stood there, unmoving, eyes locked on Damian with a calm that bordered on something inhuman. It was not mockery. It was not boredom. It was worse. It was patience.

Damian felt his control slip.

“Say something!” he shouted, striking again, breath ragged now. “Fight back!”

Peter absorbed the blow to his shoulder, the kick to his ribs, the strike aimed at his throat that should have forced a reaction.

Nothing.

It was insulting.

In the League, opponents pretended to lose. They exaggerated weakness to lure you in. Peter was not pretending. He was simply not being affected. Like hitting a metal wall that did not even acknowledge the attempt. It did not bend. It did not crack. It just existed, immovable and absolute.

The realisation crawled up Damian’s spine, cold and unwelcome.

This was not sparring. This was not training.

This was Peter choosing not to hurt him.

That terrified Damian more than any counterattack ever could.

His last punch faltered, landing weakly against Peter’s chest. Damian stood there, chest heaving, fists clenched, vision blurring with frustration and something dangerously close to panic.

Peter finally moved.

He caught Damian’s wrist easily, fingers closing just enough to stop another strike. Not crushing. Not restraining. Just firm. He leaned in slightly, close enough that Damian could feel his steady breathing, the utter lack of strain.

“You done?” Peter asked quietly.

Damian yanked his hand back, anger flaring anew. “Do not talk down to me.”

Peter straightened, stepping back a single pace, giving Damian space he did not ask for. His gaze flicked briefly to Damian’s boots, then to the open sky beyond the crane.

“You are Robin,” Peter said, tone casual in a way that made it sting. “You should be soaring, not lingering up here throwing punches at people who are not your enemy.”

Damian bristled. “Do not reduce me to a title.”

Peter’s mouth twitched, almost a smile, but his eyes stayed sharp. “Then stop acting like one.”

That did it.

Damian surged forward again, rage overriding sense, but this time Peter moved. Not to strike. Just to reposition, stepping aside with minimal effort, letting Damian stumble past him. Peter’s hand caught Damian’s collar briefly, steadying him before he could fall, then released him just as quickly.

The message was clear.

I could end this. I will not.

Damian spun back around, shaking, teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached. He stared at Peter like he was seeing him for the first time, like the soot and silence had peeled something back to reveal a shape he was not ready to understand.

Peter stood there, relaxed, hands slipping back into his hoodie pockets, posture easy. A silent threat without even trying to be one.

The crane creaked above them.

The city waited below.

And the space between them felt wider than Gotham itself.

 

The wind shifted.

It was subtle, the way the air moved across the crane, but it was enough to break the stalemate. The metal no longer groaned under tension. The city below did not feel like it was waiting to swallow them whole anymore. Sirens were still distant, but they were part of Gotham’s background noise again instead of a reminder of how close things had come to tearing apart.

Peter exhaled.

It was a long breath, slow and deliberate, the kind that emptied more than just air. Some of the weight bled out of his shoulders with it. The rigid stillness eased, replaced by something looser, tired in a way that went bone deep.

“It’s only Friday,” Peter said, voice flat but lighter than it had been moments ago. “Don’t you have school?”

Damian blinked.

The question hit wrong. Not threatening. Not defensive. Mundane. So painfully normal that it stunned him into silence. He stood there, fists still clenched, chest rising and falling too fast, staring at Peter like he had just spoken a foreign language.

Peter tilted his head slightly, green eyes narrowing as he studied Damian’s expression. “Gotham does not do half days on Fridays, right? Or did they finally decide children deserve peace?”

Damian scowled reflexively. “Do not mock me.”

“I’m not,” Peter replied easily. “I’m genuinely asking.”

He stepped away from Damian, boots scraping softly against the crane’s surface, and leaned back against a vertical support beam. The movement was casual, unguarded. He looked tired now. Not worn down in a dramatic way, but exhausted like someone who had been running on fumes for far too long and only just noticed.

Damian’s anger sputtered, confused by the sudden lack of fuel.

“I am thirteen,” Damian snapped finally. “I do not require your concern.”

Peter snorted. “That did not answer my question.”

Damian bristled. “I attend school as required.”

“Uh huh,” Peter said, nodding like he accepted that as a technical truth. “And what are you learning? Please tell me it is not just combat theory and emotionally repressed literature.”

Damian hesitated.

Peter noticed.

“That pause says everything,” Peter added, rubbing at the back of his neck. Soot streaked his fingers again, black smudging pale skin. “Maths? Science? Something that does not involve stabbing?”

Damian folded his arms tightly. “Advanced mathematics. History. Language studies.”

“Language studies,” Peter repeated. “Okay. What language?”

“Arabic,” Damian replied automatically. “And Mandarin.”

Peter’s brows lifted. “That tracks. Any dead languages or are they saving that for next year?”

Damian frowned. “Latin.”

Peter nodded sagely. “Classic.”

Silence settled between them again, but it was different this time. It did not press down on Damian’s chest or crawl up his spine. It was just quiet, filled with the sound of wind and the distant hum of the city waking up.

Peter glanced back at Damian, eyes softening just a fraction. “How’s puberty treating you?”

Damian stiffened like he had been struck. “That is none of your business.”

Peter raised his hands in mock surrender. “Fair. Had to ask though. You are at the age where everything feels like a personal attack.”

Damian glared. “I am not emotionally unstable.”

“I did not say unstable,” Peter said. “I said thirteen.”

That earned him a sharp look.

Peter smiled faintly, then yawned, the sound unguarded and human. He scrubbed at his face again, eyes closing briefly as if fighting off the urge to just lie down on the beam and sleep. “You making friends?”

Damian scoffed. “I do not need friends.”

Peter hummed. “That is not a no.”

Damian shifted his weight, boots scraping. “Acquaintances.”

“That is teenager for friends,” Peter said. “Good enough.”

Damian eyed him suspiciously. “Why are you asking these things?”

Peter considered that, gaze drifting out over Gotham. The sun was higher now, light catching on glass and steel, painting the city in something almost warm. “Because you look like you are about to implode,” he said simply. “And yelling at each other on a crane is not exactly healthy communication.”

Damian’s jaw tightened, but he did not argue.

Peter glanced back at him. “You eating properly?”

Damian stiffened again. “Yes.”

“Define properly.”

“I consume meals.”

Peter nodded slowly. “Uh huh. Balanced meals?”

Damian’s silence answered that.

Peter sighed, pushing himself upright. “You cannot fuel that level of attitude on protein bars alone.”

Damian snapped, “I am not a child.”

Peter met his gaze evenly. “You literally are.”

The words were blunt, but not cruel. Just factual.

Damian looked away first.

Peter did not press. He shifted instead, sitting down on the beam with his legs dangling over the side, boots swinging lazily above the drop. The posture was careless, but Damian knew better now. Nothing about Peter was accidental.

“You doing okay at school?” Peter asked after a moment. “Academically, I mean.”

“Yes,” Damian said. “I excel.”

Peter smirked. “Of course you do.”

“And socially,” Damian added stiffly, as if daring Peter to comment.

Peter raised a brow. “Oh? That is new.”

Damian scowled. “Do not read into it.”

“I will absolutely read into it,” Peter replied. “But I will keep my conclusions to myself.”

Another pause.

Damian hesitated, then spoke, quieter. “They are… tolerable.”

Peter nodded. “High praise.”

The tension continued to bleed away, replaced by something awkward but almost familiar. Like the aftermath of a storm, when everything was still damp and fragile but no longer actively breaking.

Peter leaned back on his hands, looking up at the sky. “You skipped class today?”

Damian bristled again. “I had priorities.”

Peter glanced at him sideways. “Tracking your estranged brother across Gotham?”

Damian did not answer.

Peter smiled faintly. “Yeah. Figured.”

He sighed again, exhaustion settling back in. “You should probably go,” he said gently. “People are going to notice if Damian Wayne does not show up to school.”

Damian frowned. “You want me to leave?”

Peter shrugged. “I want you not failing English because you decided to pick a fight at dawn.”

“I would not fail,” Damian said automatically.

“Still,” Peter replied. “Education matters. Or so I have been told.”

Damian studied him, searching for something, anything. “What about you?”

Peter glanced at him, expression unreadable. “What about me?”

“Are you okay?” Damian asked, the question rough and unpolished.

Peter considered lying.

He did not.

“I am tired,” he said instead. “But I will manage.”

Damian frowned deeper. “You should come home with me.”

Peter shook his head. “I’ll think about it.”

Damian’s hands clenched again, but the anger did not surge back this time. It just sat there, dull, and heavy.

Peter stood, stretching his arms overhead, joints popping softly. He looked younger like this, less like a looming figure and more like someone who had just pulled an all nighter and regretted it.

“Go,” Peter said, nodding toward the edge of the crane. “Be a kid. Or whatever version of that you tolerate.”

Damian hesitated. “You will not disappear?”

Peter smiled, small and tired. “No promises.”

Damian scowled. “That is unacceptable.”

Peter chuckled. “You will survive.”

Damian turned to leave, then paused. “Friday,” he said stiffly. “School ends early.”

Peter raised a brow. “Oh?”

“Yes,” Damian continued. “If you… wished to speak again.”

Peter nodded slowly. “Maybe.”

Damian stepped back, grappling hooking onto a nearby structure, then stopped once more. “Do not get arrested.”

Peter snorted. “I will do my best.”

Damian vanished into the city, cape snapping behind him.

Peter watched until he was gone, then leaned back against the crane, eyes closing as the sun fully claimed the sky. The city buzzed beneath him, alive, messy, and exhausting.

He sighed.

“Kids,” Peter muttered, rubbing his face.

 

The Gotham Library always smelled faintly like dust and floor polish, the kind of clean that came from people trying very hard to keep chaos out. Light streamed in through the tall windows in soft bands, catching on the spines of books and the long tables that students claimed as their own.

Peter sat at his usual spot in the corner.

Same chair. Same table. Back to the wall. Coffee cooling by his hand, book open in front of him more out of habit than intent. He looked fine. More than fine, actually. Hoodie clean, hair still slightly damp, posture loose. If anyone glanced his way, he read as what he was supposed to be: a university student killing time between classes, vaguely tired, vaguely annoyed at the world.

He heard them before he saw them.

Chairs scraping. Bags dropping. Voices overlapping in that unmistakable way of people who had rehearsed what they were about to say and then immediately forgot all of it.

“Okay, listen, we’re really sorry.”

“No, yeah, seriously, we didn’t mean to bail.”

Peter closed his book and looked up.

Stephanie was already leaning across the table, hands moving as she spoke, expression caught somewhere between guilt and dramatic sincerity. Duke hovered beside her, nodding along, apologising at the same time like it was a competition. Tim slid into the chair next to Peter, already distributing coffee cups with the quiet efficiency of someone who had accepted this was his role in life.

Peter blinked once, then sighed.

“It’s only Friday,” Peter said mildly. “Don’t you have school?”

The apologies died mid sentence.

Stephanie stared at him. “That’s… that’s what you’re going with?”

Peter picked up the coffee Tim had set down for him and took a sip. His face twisted slightly. “This tastes like poor decisions.”

“It’s library coffee,” Tim said. “I did my best.”

Peter nodded solemnly. “I respect the effort.”

Duke frowned. “Wait, are you not mad?”

Peter shrugged. “Why would I be.”

Stephanie dropped into the chair fully. “Because we ditched you.”

“You did not ditch me,” Peter said. “You got busy. Gotham did its thing. It happens.”

Duke opened his mouth, then closed it again, visibly deflating. “Oh.”

Tim hid a smile behind his cup.

Stephanie exhaled. “Wow. Okay. I built that up in my head way worse.”

Peter leaned back slightly, letting them settle. He watched them with an easy, half lidded focus, green eyes sharp but tired, the kind of tired that came from thinking too much rather than doing too much. He did not interrupt when Stephanie started rambling again, or when Duke jumped in to agree, or when Tim tried to smooth things over with caffeine.

Eventually, the noise burned itself out.

Peter tilted his head. “So. Again. Why are you here and not in class.”

Stephanie groaned. “You sound like an adult.”

“I am an adult,” Peter replied. “Allegedly.”

Tim nodded. “They still have another hour before their next class.”

Peter raised a brow. “Skipping.”

Duke shrugged. “Strategic absence.”

Peter hummed. “Bold choice.”

Stephanie pointed at him. “You’re in university. You skip all the time.”

“I schedule my irresponsibility,” Peter said. “There is a difference.”

Duke laughed despite himself.

Peter’s gaze drifted then, settling on the quiet presence standing just behind Stephanie’s chair.

She had not said a word. Had not moved. Just observed.

“And you are?” Peter asked lightly.

Stephanie twisted around. “Oh! This is Cass.”

Cass inclined her head. “Hello.”

Peter nodded back. “Hi.”

Cass’s eyes lingered on him a second longer than polite.

“You are tired,” Cass said.

Peter smiled, easy and dismissive. “Midterms will do that.”

She tilted her head. “You do not smell like coffee.”

Stephanie blinked. “What.”

Peter snorted. “That is a weirdly specific observation.”

Cass continued, unfazed. “You move carefully.”

Peter shrugged. “Old injury.”

That was enough for Stephanie. “Okay, detective mode off,” she said brightly. “Anyway. Peter’s Tim’s friend, so that makes him everyone’s friend. That’s the rule.”

Peter glanced at Tim. “You did not tell me there were rules.”

Tim shrugged. “I find them out as I go.”

Duke leaned forward. “You’re cool with that, right.”

Peter smiled. “I tolerate you all in controlled doses.”

“That’s friendship,” Stephanie said, satisfied.

Cass watched him a moment longer, then nodded once, like she had filed something away.

The tension never quite came back. It faded into the background hum of the library, replaced by normal conversation. School complaints. Homework. Duke and Stephanie talking over each other about a quiz they both forgot about. Tim trying to keep them from getting shushed.

Peter listened, occasionally chiming in with dry commentary, derailing anything that drifted too close to serious with an offhand joke or a pointed question about homework.

When they finally stood to leave, bags slung over shoulders, Peter waved them off with his coffee.

“Go,” he said. “Be students. Terrify your teachers.”

Stephanie grinned. “You’re weird.”

Peter smiled back. “I get that a lot.”

They left in a noisy cluster, Cass glancing back once before disappearing with the others.

Peter reopened his book.

The quiet returned.

And if he let out a slow breath once he was alone, no one noticed.

 

Peter had just left the coffee stand when it happened.

Not the dramatic kind of interception. No grappling line. No ambush. Just a small, immovable figure stepping neatly into his path like it had always been there, blocking the corridor between the main entrance of the library and the long stretch of windows that overlooked the quad.

It was only noon.

Peter stopped.

He stared.

Damian Wayne stared back.

Clean uniform swapped for civilian clothes, backpack slung over one shoulder like he was actually, genuinely, pretending to be a normal thirteen-year-old student. Hair neat. Expression unimpressed. Arms folded with surgical precision.

Peter blinked once.

Then he glanced past Damian, checked the light streaming through the windows, the clock mounted above the circulation desk, then looked back down at him.

“…It’s only noon,” Peter said flatly.

Damian scoffed. “I did say school ends early on Fridays.”

Peter considered that, then nodded slowly. “Right. That tracks.”

They stood there for a beat, people moving around them, librarians wheeling carts of books past like this was not deeply strange.

Peter shifted his tote bag higher on his shoulder. “You doing homework?”

Damian rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder they did not fall out. “Obviously.”

“Cool,” Peter said. “Library’s good for that.”

Damian turned on his heel and walked past him without another word.

Peter watched him go for half a second, then followed, expression unreadable.

The table was the same one. Corner. Quiet. Sunlight angled just enough to be warm without being distracting. Peter slid into his usual seat, setting his bag down, pulling out his notebook. Damian took the chair across from him, already unpacking with the efficiency of someone who did not waste motion.

No words.

Just the soft sounds of paper, pens, zippers.

Peter opened his book.

And just like that, it was normal.

If someone had walked by, they would have seen a university student and a middle schooler studying together, the older one occasionally sipping coffee, the younger scowling at his notes like they had personally offended him.

Damian broke the silence first.

“What is the fastest method to factor quadratic expressions with coefficients greater than one,” he asked, tone clipped.

Peter did not even look up. “Group the terms. It saves you a step.”

Damian paused, then wrote something down. “…That is inefficiently explained.”

Peter finally glanced at the page, leaned forward slightly. “You are overthinking it. Factor the common term first, then simplify. You do not need to reinvent algebra.”

Damian huffed, but adjusted his work.

It checked out.

Peter went back to his book.

Minutes passed.

Then footsteps.

Too many of them.

Stephanie arrived first, sliding into the chair next to Peter with her usual lack of regard for personal space. Duke followed, dropping his bag to the floor, already mid sentence about something that had gone catastrophically wrong in biology class. Tim appeared with coffee like clockwork, Cass hovering just behind them, quiet and observant.

They all froze.

There was a kid at Peter’s table.

A very familiar kid.

Stephanie blinked. “Uh.”

Duke frowned. “Is that… is that—”

Tim stopped himself, eyes flicking to Damian, then back to Peter. “…Hey.”

Peter looked up, expression mild. “Oh. You’re back.”

Damian did not look up from his notebook.

Stephanie leaned closer to Duke and whispered loudly, “Why is he doing homework with Peter?”

“I do not know,” Duke whispered back. “But he looks scary calm.”

Tim set the coffees down carefully. “Did we… miss something.”

Peter shrugged. “School ends early.”

Damian shot him a look.

Peter smiled faintly.

Cass tilted her head, eyes tracking Damian’s pen movements, then Peter’s posture. She said nothing, but something about the way she watched sharpened.

Stephanie cleared her throat. “So. We’re just… not addressing this.”

“Nope,” Peter said easily.

Damian added, without looking up, “Your presence is disruptive.”

Stephanie’s mouth snapped shut.

They sat.

They watched.

They tried not to stare.

It was weird. Unsettling, even.

Damian was… behaving.

No scowling at them. No snapping remarks. No looming tension. He asked Peter questions about homework like this was a thing that happened regularly.

“How would you structure this essay,” Damian asked at one point, sliding his paper across the table.

Peter skimmed it, nodded. “Your writing is fine. Stop using semicolons like they owe you money.”

Damian bristled. “They add sophistication.”

“They add confusion,” Peter replied. “Your teacher wants clarity, not vibes.”

Damian muttered something in Arabic and corrected it.

Stephanie stared. “He listens to you.”

Peter glanced at her. “Should he not.”

“He listens to no one,” Duke said.

Damian finally looked up, glare sharp. “I can hear you.”

“Great,” Peter said. “Then stop eavesdropping and finish your work.”

Damian went back to writing.

Tim watched them, brow furrowed, eyes flicking between the two. The resemblance hit him then. Not obvious at first glance. But the posture. The stillness. The way they both occupied space without trying to.

Barbara’s joke echoed in his head.

They look like clones.

Cass noticed too.

Her gaze lingered longer this time.

When Damian finally packed up, the library clock chiming softly above them, Stephanie could not hold it in anymore.

“Okay,” she said. “How do you know Peter.”

Damian slung his bag over his shoulder, expression dismissive. “He is tolerable.”

Peter smiled faintly.

That was all they got.

---

 

Notes:

Author's Note(s):
I took a break, which was honestly great, and I finally got my internet fixed. It has been absolute shit since September. After finishing one of my Packet Tracer thingamajigs, I sat down and rewrote this entire chapter.

Yes, fun fact, this chapter has already been rewritten multiple times. I just could not get it right. I kept fumbling it so badly it was almost impressive. Also, Spotify Wrapped absolutely ruined my productivity. I kept replaying my wrapped playlist instead of actually writing and doing college work.

Y’all ever just have a year-end crisis? You probably have. It feels routinely at this point. The timeline really got fucked after 2016.

I did say I would be resuming posting next year, and I am, kind of. It is more like this specific arc is going to be stretched out because my brain is simply not braining right now. So, yeah. It sucks.

P.S Maybe there will be a day when I post the original version of this chapter, like the very first one it was supposed to be. But that is a maybe. Probably when the fic finishes or something. Love you all, think of this as a weird holiday gift. 🤭✌️

Chapter 15: Chapter 14: Uncanny

Summary:

Peter moves through punches, pauses, and conversations with the careful restraint of someone carrying too many lives in one body. Nothing explodes, nothing breaks, but everything shifts, leaving the air thick with things unsaid.

Notes:

Author's Note(s):
Short chapter, lots of vibes, this one’s about tension, body language, and the kind of moments that feel small until you realize they aren’t.

---

The Gym was the kind of place that existed outside of time, tucked between shuttered storefronts and half-lit streets, where nobody asked questions and nobody stayed longer than they had to. It smelled like old leather, metal, and sweat that had soaked too deep into the concrete to ever really leave. The lights overhead buzzed faintly, fluorescent, and tired, casting everything in a dull white glow that flattened faces and sharpened shadows.

Peter arrived first.

Not late. Not early. Just… when he always did.

He pushed through the heavy door with a controlled ease that made it look lighter than it was, shoulders rolling once as if loosening something tight beneath the skin. He wore plain black athletic gear, nothing flashy, nothing that drew attention. Sleeves rolled up just enough to expose forearms corded with lean muscle that looked earned the hard way. His gloves hung loose in one hand.

He paused just inside, eyes lifting instinctively to sweep the space.

Rings empty. Heavy bags swaying slightly from someone else’s ghost. A couple of cracked mirrors along one wall. Chalk dust near the weights. No one watching. No one waiting.

Good.

Peter moved farther in, footsteps quiet despite his size. He dropped his bag near the wall he always used and leaned back against it, arms crossing loosely as he stared at the ring.

His reflection caught him in the mirror, green eyes sharp, unreadable, face calm to the point of severity. The kind of calm that didn’t mean relaxed so much as controlled.

His body felt… off.

Not weak. Never weak. But wrong in a way that annoyed him. Timing a fraction late. Reach just a little unfamiliar. His shoulders carried tension he hadn’t earned today.

He flexed one hand slowly, watching the way the muscle moved, the way it obeyed.

He exhaled through his nose and let it go.

Tonight wasn’t for thinking.

Jason didn’t bother being quiet.

Boots scuffed against the concrete, bag slung over one shoulder, hoodie half-zipped, hair still damp like he’d come straight from a shower or a fight or both. He shut the door behind him with his heel and rolled his neck once, bones popping faintly.

 

“Gym’s empty,” Jason said, more statement than greeting.

Peter inclined his head slightly. That was enough.

Jason dropped his bag near the bench and started wrapping his hands without sitting down, movements practiced and fast. He talked while he worked, voice low, casual, filling the space without demanding attention.

“Traffic was a mess. Some idiot stalled out two blocks down. Everybody just sat there like it was a personal insult.” He snorted softly. “Thought about getting out and pushing the car myself just to make a point.”

Peter stepped away from the wall and started his own prep. He didn’t answer right away. He rolled his shoulders, stretched his neck, then picked up his gloves.

When he finally spoke, his voice was even, quiet.

“Would’ve made it worse.”

Jason grinned faintly.

“Yeah. Probably.”

They fell into their rhythm after that.

No rush. No hurry.

The gym felt different once both of them were there, less empty, more settled. Jason kept talking as he taped, the way he always did, words drifting between observations and complaints that didn’t need responses.

“Guy at the docks tried to swing on me earlier. Like, really tried. Full commitment. Missed by a mile.” He shook his head. “Confidence was impressive. Accuracy… not so much.”

Peter slipped on his gloves and tested the fit.

“You ducked late.”

Jason glanced at him.

“You watching now?”

“You always drop your right when you get bored.”

Jason huffed.

“Yeah, well. Can’t all be perfect.”

Peter didn’t react to that.

He stepped toward the ring and hopped up onto the edge, stretching one leg over with smooth precision. He moved like someone who knew exactly where his body was in space, even if it didn’t feel quite like home yet.

 

They started light.

Jason went first, setting the pace. Short combinations. Footwork drills. Nothing flashy. He talked through it like he always did, voice steady as his fists snapped against the pads Peter held.

“Don’t overthink it,” Jason muttered, circling. “You’re anticipating instead of reacting.”

Peter adjusted without comment.

“Yeah. That. There you go.”

The pads thudded with each strike, sound echoing softly through the gym. Sweat began to bead along Peter’s temples, darkening his hair slightly. His expression didn’t change. Green eyes stayed locked, focused, calculating.

Jason shifted patterns mid-combo, testing him.

Peter adapted.

A fraction slower than he liked, but he adapted.

Jason noticed.

He didn’t say anything about it.

They switched roles after a few rounds, Jason holding while Peter moved. Peter’s punches were clean, efficient, controlled. No wasted motion. No showmanship. He hit like someone who didn’t need to prove anything.

Jason absorbed the impact with a grunt.

“Still got it,” he said, almost to himself.

Peter didn’t respond.

 

The door opened again.

Both of them clocked it instantly.

The footsteps were lighter. Different cadence. Not cautious, but aware. Balanced.

Peter’s gaze shifted first, sharp and assessing. He took in the new presence in a single glance, height, posture, the way he carried himself like gravity was a suggestion rather than a rule. No tension in the shoulders. No hesitation in movement.

Jason glanced over his shoulder and relaxed.

“Oh,” he said. “Right.”

The newcomer stepped fully into the gym, scanning the space with easy familiarity. He wore simple workout clothes, nothing identifying, hair pulled back slightly, eyes bright and alert.

Jason jerked his chin toward him.

“Uh, yeah. This is my older brother.”

The words landed casually, like they didn’t carry weight. Like they hadn’t been carefully chosen.

Peter lowered his hands.

He turned fully now, expression unreadable, eyes steady. He nodded once in greeting, nothing more.

Dick smiled, easy and open, and offered a hand.

“Hey.”

Peter took it.

His grip was firm, brief, assessing without being aggressive. He released it immediately and stepped back.

“Peter,” Jason added, almost as an afterthought.

Dick’s eyebrows lifted slightly, like he was filing that away.

“Nice to meet you.”

Peter inclined his head again.

“Likewise.”

That was it.

No questions. No explanations.

 

Jason went right back to his wraps. “He boxes,” he added, like that settled everything.

Dick shrugged. “Sometimes.”

Peter watched him move toward the bench. The way he sat. The way he leaned forward to lace his shoes. Every motion economical, relaxed. Someone who trusted his body completely.

Interesting.

They warmed up together without ceremony. Three sets of wraps. Three sets of stretches. Jason kept up a low stream of commentary, mostly aimed at no one in particular.

“Don’t know why I agreed to this,” he muttered. “You’re gonna show off.”

Dick smirked. “I never show off.”

“Liar.”

Peter listened without interjecting. He moved through his stretches methodically, muscles loosening under the familiar strain. His body still felt slightly out of sync, but the rhythm of the gym helped settle it.

They paired off briefly, Jason and Dick first. Light sparring. Testing distance. Old familiarity threaded through their movements without either of them acknowledging it. Jason pushed harder than necessary. Dick adjusted effortlessly.

Peter watched from the ropes, silent.

Jason broke it off after a few minutes. “Alright. Switch.”

Peter stepped in.

Dick met his stance with interest rather than challenge. They circled once. Twice.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Dick said.

Peter nodded.

They kept it controlled. Technical. No ego. Dick adapted quickly to Peter’s style, reading patterns, adjusting angles. Peter responded in kind, compensating where his body lagged, letting technique carry what raw instinct didn’t.

It was clean. Efficient.

Dick noticed the slight delay. The way Peter recalibrated mid-movement.

He didn’t comment.

They broke after a short round, both breathing a little harder.

Jason clapped once. “Alright, that’s enough before someone gets stupid.”

They dropped to sit against the ring, backs to the ropes. Sweat soaked through fabric. The gym hummed quietly around them.

Jason grabbed a bottle of water and tossed one to each of them.

Silence settled, not awkward, just present.

Dick leaned back on his hands, looking up at the ceiling.

“You move like you’re thinking too much.”

Peter took a slow drink before answering.

“Bad habit.”

“Mm.” Dick nodded. “It’ll pass.”

Jason snorted.

“Everything passes. Or breaks.”

Peter glanced sideways at him.

“Optimistic.”

Jason shrugged.

“Realistic.”

They sat like that for a while.

No pressure to fill the space. Just three guys cooling down, bodies heavy, minds quiet.

Dick broke the silence eventually, voice casual. “You ever get that thing where your body decides it’s on a different schedule than your brain?”

Peter’s jaw tightened just slightly. “Sometimes.”

“Yeah,” Dick said. “Hate that.”

Jason rolled his shoulders. “Welcome to aging.”

Peter exhaled through his nose. “I’m not old.”

Jason smirked. “Give it time.”

Dick laughed softly.

Peter didn’t smile, but the tension in his shoulders eased just a fraction.

 

They didn’t rush back into it.

That was the thing about nights like this, there was no pressure to perform. No clock. No expectation beyond showing up and putting the work in. The gym existed in a kind of suspended state, insulated from whatever waited outside its walls.

Jason was the first one to move again.

He stood, rolled his shoulders once, then twice, and glanced between the other two. “Alright,” he said, tone practical. “Drills. Nothing fancy. Footwork first.”

Peter pushed himself up without a word.

His body complied easily enough, but the sensation followed him, that quiet dissonance, the feeling of being slightly misaligned with himself. Not weak. Not slow. Just… not quite right. Like wearing boots half a size too small. Manageable. Annoying.

Jason set the pace, calling out patterns as he moved. Simple steps. Angles. Shifts in weight.

“Don’t rush it,” Jason said. “Speed comes later.”

Peter mirrored him, precise and controlled. His movements were clean, measured. He didn’t waste energy. Didn’t show off. Didn’t lag, at least not in any way that would be obvious to someone who wasn’t paying close attention.

Dick watched from the side, arms crossed loosely, head tilted slightly. He wasn’t scrutinizing so much as observing, letting the rhythm settle into him.

Peter felt it, though.

Being watched didn’t bother him. Never had. But tonight, it pulled at something beneath the surface, an awareness of time, of age, of a body that didn’t quite match the weight of his memories.

Nights like these did that.

They made it harder to ignore the fact that he remembered being older.

Not in a dramatic way. Not as some aching nostalgia. Just… awareness. The way your bones remember weather changes before the clouds roll in. The way muscle memory fires before conscious thought.

He remembered what it felt like to move without thinking about balance. To trust reach without recalculating. To exist in a body that had already settled into itself.

Now, he had to negotiate with his own frame.

Jason called out a change, and Peter adjusted instantly, mind ahead of motion, body catching up a heartbeat later. It was subtle. Controlled. Efficient.

Still there.

Jason didn’t comment.

They moved through the drills in silence after that, the only sounds their breathing, shoes scuffing against the mat, the dull thud of fists against pads. Sweat built steadily, heat blooming beneath Peter’s skin.

The itch crept in.

It always did, eventually.

Not the itch for power, he’d never chased that. Power was easy. Power came cheap. This body had plenty of it already, coiled, and ready.

It was the itch to move.

To refine. To correct. To find the middle ground between instincts that didn’t quite agree with each other.

Three years.

That’s how long he’d lived in this body.

Long enough for it to be familiar. Long enough for it to respond without hesitation. Long enough that it should have felt settled.

But it wasn’t just one life feeding into it.

There were memories layered beneath the surface, overlapping like faulty code. Training meant for efficiency, for silence, for ending things quickly and decisively. Movements designed to remove threats, not mitigate them. Years of conditioning that prioritized precision over restraint.

And then, something else.

A different framework. A different objective. Movements meant to intercept instead of eliminate. To disable without destroying. To keep people standing. To keep them alive.

Both skillsets lived in him now.

Neither wanted to give way.

Jason called a break, wiping sweat from his brow with the hem of his shirt. “Alright. Partner up.”

Dick stepped forward first this time.

Peter met him without hesitation.

They squared off again, light sparring, controlled. Dick tested angles, adjusted distance. Peter countered with restraint, reigning in instincts that wanted to end exchanges too quickly.

Control.

That was the point of this.

He wasn’t here to hit harder. He was here to keep himself in check.

Dick noticed the restraint.

“You’re pulling your shots,” he said casually, mid-movement.

Peter deflected, pivoting cleanly out of reach. “Habit.”

“Mm,” Dick hummed. “Opposite problem, usually.”

Peter didn’t respond. He ducked under a swing and reset, stance steady.

Jason circled them, hands on hips. “Don’t overcorrect,” he muttered. “You start fighting yourself, you lose.”

Peter absorbed that without reaction.

They moved again.

The itch flared stronger this time, a desire to let go, to stop negotiating with conflicting instincts and just move. To trust reflexes that had been honed across different years, different priorities.

But he didn’t.

He stayed contained. Efficient. Quiet.

When Dick broke the round, raising a hand, Peter stopped instantly. No momentum. No follow-through.

Jason nodded once. Approval, unspoken.

They drifted back to the mat afterward, breathing heavy. Jason sat first, stretching his legs out in front of him.

“Ever feel like you’re trained for the wrong problem?” Jason asked suddenly, staring at the floor.

It wasn’t directed at anyone in particular.

Peter paused before sitting.

Dick glanced over, thoughtful. “Depends on the day.”

Jason snorted softly. “Figures.”

Peter sat last, folding down with controlled ease. He rested his forearms on his knees, gaze unfocused, fixed on a crack in the concrete.

Wrong problem.

The phrase lodged itself somewhere deep.

He didn’t say anything.

Jason continued, tone dismissive, like it didn’t matter. “I mean, skills are skills. You use what works. Adjust the rest.”

Peter nodded once.

That was how guys talked about it. Strip it down. Make it practical. Don’t dig too deep or you’d hit something sharp.

Dick leaned back again, hands braced behind him. “Bodies change,” he said lightly. “Training has to change with them.”

Peter exhaled slowly.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s the annoying part.”

Jason barked a short laugh. “Welcome to reality.”

The itch settled, not gone, but quieter.

Peter flexed his fingers again, watching the way the muscles responded now. Strong. Fast. Controlled.

Not perfect.

But workable.

He could live with workable.

The lights buzzed overhead. Somewhere outside, a car passed, distant and irrelevant. Inside the gym, the night stretched on, unhurried.

Jason stood again, clapping his hands once. “Alright. One more set before I’m done pretending, I’m not exhausted.”

Dick pushed himself up with a grin. “You’re really getting old.”

“Say that again,” Jason shot back.

Peter rose with them, rolling his neck, letting the movement settle his thoughts.

Control.

That was the point.

 

The gym had settled into that quiet rhythm again. The kind of rhythm that existed somewhere between hard training and casual familiarity. Peter sat back against the ropes, hands resting on his knees, eyes fixed on the floor, though the movement in the centre of the ring caught his attention.

Jason and Dick had paired off, moving in fluid synchrony, each strike purposeful, each shift of weight intentional. Jason’s style was raw, instinctual, a series of quick, heavy strikes with little wasted effort, while Dick’s movements were clean, elegant, precise, a reminder of someone who’d spent more years than he’d care to admit perfecting each movement.

Peter watched them as they sparred, his gaze steady, green eyes flicking occasionally between their movements, but his mind was elsewhere. It was funny how both of them called themselves old, but it wasn’t the tired kind of ‘old’, more like a jest, a reminder that bodies were never quite what they used to be, no matter how young they looked. The laughable thought that you could outlive your body’s prime. Peter understood that. He understood it because he had gone through puberty twice.

He flexed his fingers, watching the movement, the subtle tension in his wrist as it shifted the air. Two times, two lives, two bodies, one, lean and agile, built for speed; the other, more solid, a product of his current life, something that had become too familiar over time. He wasn’t sure which one he preferred. In this body, he was starting to grow, starting to fill out in ways that seemed inevitable, but not yet what he had expected. He would be taller eventually, if the genes held true to form, his frame would match what it was meant to be.

It was hard to contemplate that. Hard to make sense of it. Bruce’s build. The same one that felt like an echo in his bones, even though he didn’t say it aloud.

Peter had spent enough time in this new body to know that he would eventually be more like his supposed ‘father’ than he was now. But part of him still preferred being the way he had been in the other world, the lean, acrobatic frame that had let him move with grace, with speed. That was the body he’d trained for, the body that had been shaped by the demands of a hero, a protector. The assassin side of him, too, knew the benefits of agility, the precision of a strike without overcommitting, the ability to get in and out without leaving a trace.

It was funny. The more he tried to centre himself in this body, the more he felt like he didn’t belong to it. Morality was hard enough to navigate when you remembered both lives, but body dysmorphia? That was a different kind of pain.

It wasn’t as simple as liking one more than the other, it was a mismatch of memories, two faces that belonged to him but didn’t align. One was of a lean, acrobatic, agile young man who had lived in a different world; the other was of a taller, broader frame that still didn’t feel like it fully belonged to him. He wasn’t sure which one was more real. They both were, but neither felt right.

Peter allowed his mind to wander, just for a moment.

A strange silence hovered around him. Even the faint thud of fists hitting gloves in the ring seemed muted as he watched the sparring. Jason’s movements were aggressive, even reckless at times, while Dick countered each move with the calm, almost disinterested fluidity of someone who had seen and experienced it all before. He was slower in some ways, but still far faster than most. A calculated dance.

Peter’s eyes narrowed just slightly as he took in their movements. There was something strangely cathartic about watching them move in the ring, like they were playing out their own internal battles, each strike an echo of something they needed to release. They were young, but in a way, they both felt older than they really were. Jason, with his scars and sarcasm. Dick, with his subtle quietude and the way he carried years without needing to show them.

Peter shifted his weight slightly, his legs stretched out before him as he folded his arms, observing quietly. He didn’t need to speak. He didn’t need to react. He was still processing the mismatch of his own body, the uneasy balance between who he was now and who he was before.

Jason broke away from Dick for a moment, leaning against the ropes to catch his breath, sweat trickling down his face. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, then glanced at Peter with a wry smile. “You’ve been quiet tonight. You sure you’re not holding back?”

Peter’s green eyes flicked to him, expression unreadable. There was something about the way Jason asked the question, almost like a challenge, but Peter didn’t bite. He simply gave a short shake of his head, his voice low and controlled.

“I don’t need to prove anything.”

Jason let out a small laugh, his smirk barely visible in the dim lighting of the gym. He straightened, giving Peter a knowing look. “Well, don’t blame me if you start getting soft.”

Peter didn’t answer him. There was nothing to say. The words didn’t matter. What mattered was the feeling that lingered underneath, the dissonance between his mind and his body, the underlying tension of two sets of memories trying to occupy the same space.

Dick stepped away from the ropes, grinning faintly. “You both are just too quiet. What’s the matter? Getting bored, or is it just old age creeping up on you?”

Peter smirked at that. “Is that what you call it? Old age?”

Dick shrugged, unphased. “Well, that’s what we tell ourselves when we can’t get out of bed without aching.”

Jason groaned. “I hate when he’s right.”

Peter, still watching them, couldn’t help but feel the bitterness of truth. Old age… they were still young. They had plenty of time, and yet they were already so quick to dismiss their bodies as something that was slowly breaking down. It was funny, really, when you thought about it, they were still figuring themselves out, still learning the limits of their bodies, while Peter was stuck somewhere in between, remembering two very different lives and bodies, both of which seemed like they belonged to someone else.

Jason glanced at Peter once more. “You’re not really saying much. You sure you’re alright?”

Peter gave him a small nod, his green eyes cold and distant. “I’m fine. Just watching.”

There wasn’t much more to say. The itch to move, to fight, to test his limits, was still there. It never really went away. But Peter wasn’t ready for it yet. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. For now, he would let the others do the sparring, do the training. He would stay quiet, stay in the background, and let his thoughts settle.

The gym felt quieter now, but the feeling of being out of sync with himself remained. It was a glitch in the system, he thought. Two lives, two bodies, two memories, none of them fully his own but he lived through it all.

The night stretched on. The sparring continued. And Peter, once again, stayed still.

 

Peter stood motionless in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at the reflection he still couldn’t quite call his own. He ran a hand through his dark black hair, the strands brushing against his fingertips in the same way they had every day for the last three years, but the feeling was still wrong. Every time he looked, his face felt like a mask, one he couldn’t take off, no matter how long he stared.

This face is so uncanny, Peter thought, his eyes narrowing slightly as he scanned his features again. The dark hair, the sharp jawline, the brooding set of his brow. He wasn’t used to it. The black hair, dark and unyielding, felt like it didn’t belong to him. Not really. He used to have brown hair. He used to be lighter, leaner. Spider-Man. Not this guy.

He felt like he had just stepped into someone else’s life. Someone else's face. Someone else's body. He had lived with this version of himself for three years now, but somehow, it was still like wearing someone else’s skin. A second skin that stretched uncomfortably over his bones, like a suit too big, too tight, or maybe just too foreign.

Why does Peter always have to be correlated to a certain billionaire in all his lives? he thought with a faint, self-deprecating smirk. Previously, Tony Stark now Bruce Wayne. What was it with the universe trying to make him fit into these moulds, trying to make him into a copy of something else, someone else? Why did he always end up in the shadow of these larger-than-life men, trapped by their legacies, their expectations?

The thought gnawed at him, and he clenched his jaw, forcing himself to look away from the mirror. It didn’t help. The longer he stared at his reflection, the more he could feel the distortion in his chest, a cold, creeping sensation, a deep well of unease. His heart beat a little faster.

A memory flickered uninvited in his mind, the sting of it sharp.

“You disgust me, Pietro.” The voice of one of the League’s Operatives, another assassin who had once served under Ra’s al Ghul, reverberated through his mind, the words dripping with disgust. But Peter knew better. That wasn’t the truth. The operative had always tried to mask his fear of Peter, his unease about someone so young, so capable, in a world where power meant survival. They would rather insult him, belittle him, than admit they feared him. The fear was the real reason they had always looked down on him, and deep down, Peter knew that.

But the sting still lingered, the words haunting him in the stillness of the bathroom. He hated how those words echoed in his mind, how they would occasionally slip in uninvited like this. He hated the way they made him feel like something was wrong with him, like he didn’t belong in this skin, in this body.

He blinked a few times, his breath uneven. The panic began to creep in, subtle at first, but then building. He placed a hand on the sink, leaning down slightly as he tried to calm himself, but it wasn’t enough. The world felt too small. Too heavy.

This is ridiculous, Peter thought. He wasn’t supposed to feel like this. He wasn’t supposed to feel so disjointed, so out of sync with himself.

He stepped back from the mirror, raising both hands to scrub his face in frustration. His breathing was shallow, uneven. Why does it feel like everything is slipping away?

Suddenly, the thought hit him. What if I just dye my hair?

It was a simple thought. A stupid one, even. But it lingered, spinning around his mind like a hurricane, the absurdity of it making him want to laugh, maybe I could bleach it, he mused. Or brown. Brown would work.

He shook his head, laughing under his breath. “Why not? Why not just change everything? Just… change it all.” His voice was soft, barely above a whisper, but it held a certain edge.

Then he looked over at Jeremy, the raccoon, who was sitting on the bed, watching him. The absurdity of asking a raccoon for advice struck him like a bolt of lightning. “What do you think, Jeremy? Should I bleach my hair? Just… switch things up?”

Jeremy tilted his head slightly, an unimpressed look on his little face. Peter couldn’t help but grin. He wasn’t expecting an answer, but the action grounded him just enough to keep him from spiralling into his thoughts again. It was the weirdest thing, talking to a raccoon. But somehow, it helped him feel a little more in control.

“Alright,” Peter said aloud to no one in particular. “I’m going to do it. I’ll dye it brown, start fresh.”

He took a deep breath, standing up straight. His reflection in the mirror felt a little less foreign now. He was still him, even if he didn’t look like the version of himself, he remembered from before. Just one more change, he thought. One more shift to make this all match better.

 

Peter’s feet dragged as he walked down the nearly-empty aisle of a department store, the fluorescent lights overhead buzzing faintly in the sterile, echoing silence. His mind was foggy, disassociating with every step. He could hear the beeping of the barcode scanner from several aisles away, but the sound seemed distant, distorted, like he was underwater.

It wasn’t just the store that felt off, it was him, too. He felt like he was moving in slow motion, his body a little too detached from his thoughts. He reached the hair dye section, staring blankly at the rows of colours. He didn’t know why he was here. He didn’t even know what he was looking for. But there was something about the simple task that felt productive, like it would help him regain control of something. Maybe it was stupid, but it felt like something he could do.

He stood there for a long moment, just staring at the rows of boxes, blonde, brown, black, until his eyes fell on a box that promised “Ash Brown”. He picked it up without thinking, his fingers cold against the cardboard.

The sound of a nearby cashier’s voice snapped him out of his daze. “Are you ready to check out?” she asked, her tone polite but cautious.

Peter blinked a few times. His mind was still foggy, but the question seemed to snap the world back into focus, just for a second. “Uh, yeah, sure,” he said, his voice sounding detached, distant. He wasn’t even sure what was happening at this point.

He walked to the register, the weight of the box in his hand pulling him back into reality, even though the edges of it still felt out of reach. The cashier scanned the dye, her eyes flicking to him with curiosity, maybe a little concern. The beep of the scanner seemed unusually loud in the quiet store, the sound stretching on forever, adding to the disorienting atmosphere.

Peter could feel his hands starting to shake as the price popped up on the screen. Why does this feel so intense? he wondered. He wasn’t sure what was going on with him, but it felt like everything was closing in on him, just a little too much.

“I’m having one of those moments,” Peter said suddenly, his voice hoarse and a little too honest. He gave the cashier an apologetic look, half-smiling, but he wasn’t sure if it reached his eyes.

The cashier blinked, a little confused, but nodded. “I get that,” she said. “It’s been one of those days for everyone.”

Peter nodded absently as he handed her the money, not really paying attention to the transaction. It was all so… routine. Too routine. He couldn’t focus on it. The rain outside began to patter lightly against the windows as he took his change, but it was more than just the rain. It was the overwhelming feeling of everything, the weight of it all, that was pressing against him. He could feel it, an oppressive fog that clung to his thoughts.

 

Back home, Peter stared at the box of hair dye for what felt like an eternity. His fingers hovered above the instructions, but he didn’t move. The panic was back again, crawling up his spine, heavy in his chest. He sat on the bathroom floor, the box of bleach in front of him, staring at his reflection.

What if I can’t get it right? What if I mess it up?

His mind was racing. His thoughts scattered, flitting from one idea to the next, never settling. He felt so much, yet so little. He should be doing something. Anything. This should be easy. Just bleach it, just do it. It’s just hair.

But every time he touched the bleach, every time he picked up the dye, his hand would tremble slightly, and he would pause.

Is this it? he thought. Am I really doing this?

Minutes passed. Maybe it was hours. He couldn’t keep track.

And then, suddenly, he just did it. He ripped open the box, started the process, bleaching first, then dyeing it brown. It was a mess, but it didn’t matter.

His mind was quiet as he stared at his reflection in the mirror, the bleach sitting awkwardly on his hair. His green eyes locked with his reflection again. The person in the mirror wasn’t who he had been, but maybe, just maybe, he could start being someone else.

He didn’t know why this made him feel better, but it did. For the first time in a long time, he felt like he had done something, anything, to take control again.

 

Peter, with a half-smirk, snapped a quick photo of his newly-dyed brown hair, still slightly damp, a few stray bits of bleach in places. The messy, disorientated look suited the chaos of the night. He hovered over his phone for a moment, finger hovering over the send button, then decided to add the perfect caption.

peterp: had a crisis, new hair, new me

With a satisfied grin, he hit send and leaned back against the bathroom counter, arms crossed.

Seconds later, the notification pinged. Tim’s response was almost instant:

timtim: da fuq?

Peter chuckled, a dry laugh escaping his lips. Tim's face probably had the same look of disbelief that Peter himself had when he saw the finished product in the mirror.

He quickly typed back,

peterp: it's a vibe, timmy. get with it

And then, leaning against the sink, Peter felt a little ridiculous, but a little lighter. Maybe this crisis was a bit of a weird coping mechanism, but it was his.

---

---

Notes:

Author's Note(s):
Little fun fact: every arc actually has a name, but they’re very spoilery, see the photo above.

Also, I keep mentioning the three years Peter spent operating as Pietro, and none of you actually know what he did during that time, and that is on purpose. I kept it vague because that period could easily turn into an entirely separate series, and if I ever do it, I want to write it properly.

This chapter is more about the whole picture. Three guys who are technically legal adults, burdened with glorious purpose (yes, low-key, very punny 👊), who still need to just hang out. Peter is mentally the same age as Dick, which is why I always wanted them to have their bro time, because they would be bros either way if, ahem, the plot goes that direction (no spoilers). Also, Dick never gives his name here. That is intentional and very subtle.

Anyway, with all that in mind, the wordy chapters are reserved for existential crises, and Peter is very deliberately dodging Bruce like he is some airborne disease, but this will catch up to him eventually.

Also, I got burritos delivered today and they forgot my cheese dip. It was very devastating, but also life do be lifing sometimes. 🥹😩😭🤘

P.S About Peter dyeing his hair, it was a long time coming.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 5 of Omniverse of Peter Benjamin Parker