Chapter Text
Hyperventilating.
In… out… in… out…
Air scraped painfully against Peter’s throat as he struggled to breathe. Each inhale was a sharp whistle, his chest heaving as though his lungs were trying to claw their way free from his ribs. The cold Gotham night pressed in around him, heavy and suffocating, the damp air clinging to his skin like a second layer of fear.
“Help…” he wheezed, the word barely audible as it escaped his lips.
No one answered.
He lay crumpled in one of Gotham’s countless abandoned alleyways, the city’s shadows swallowing him whole. Flickering streetlights cast erratic halos of sickly yellow, illuminating rusted fire escapes and overflowing dumpsters. The scent of rain, oil, and decay filled his senses.
Peter Parker had grown up with legends—heroes whispered about in awe, figures children admired from afar. They were his family. His bedtime stories hadn’t been fairy tales but real accounts of courage and sacrifice. And yet, despite being surrounded by greatness, he had always felt just a little outside of it, as though he were watching from the sidelines.
Tonight, he had tried to change that.
And now he was paying the price.
A dark red stain spread across his side, warm and sticky beneath his trembling fingers. This wasn’t his asthma, not this time. This was far worse. The wound pulsed with each heartbeat, sending waves of pain through his body.
Dad is going to kill me.
Actually, no. Damian would probably get there first. The mere thought of his brother uncle discovering what he’d done made Peter wince. Damian would never let him forget such recklessness. His dad, on the other hand, would simply never let him out of his sight again...ever. Thirty-five sounded about right.
Clutching his side, Peter forced himself to think through the haze of pain and blood loss.
Mission: Get Home.
1.Sneak into the manor.
2.Avoid Alfred (he knows all).
3.Make it to his bathroom for medical supplies.
It sounded simple in theory. In practice, it was an odyssey with way to little room for error. Wayne Manor had more security than the Pentagon, and his family possessed an uncanny ability to notice anything even slightly out of place. It was almost as if vigilance was their profession.
Which, of course, it was.
Peter couldn’t help but think back to how excited he’d been when his dad suggested spending the summer in Gotham instead of Blüdhaven. The idea of being surrounded by family had thrilled him. He’d imagined long days with Damian and Titus racing across the manor grounds, late-night tech discussions with Tim, shopping trips with Steph, dance lessons with Cass, and Jason’s reluctant but genuine gestures of affection—like lending Peter his leather jacket and pretending it meant nothing.
And his dad. Everything always felt brighter when they were all together.
Now, though, Peter wished they were nothing more than the “rich nepo babies” the media believed them to be. Life would be so much simpler.
With great effort, Peter pushed himself upright. The world tilted dangerously, but he managed to steady himself against the brick wall. Every movement sent fresh agony through his side, yet he forced his legs to cooperate. He needed to move before he lost consciousness.
Stumbling out of the alley, he made his way toward the nearest subway station. Gotham was a city that never truly slept; there would always be a train running, always a way home.
As he walked, a faint prickle crept along the back of his neck, subtle but insistent. His new senses, still unfamiliar and unsettling, warned him of danger nearby. He passed two separate muggings, the victims’ cries echoing through the night. His instincts screamed at him to intervene, to help, to do something.
But in his current state, he would only make matters worse. At best, he’d be a liability. At worst, he’d become another victim. “Next time,” he murmured weakly, though he wasn’t sure whether he was making a promise or a plea. Somehow, Peter managed to board the subway without drawing attention. Gotham’s residents had seen far stranger sights than a pale, injured twelve-year-old at two in the morning. He sank into a seat, leaning his head against the cool glass of the window as the train rattled to life.
His thoughts drifted, hazy and disjointed.
Going to Alchemax alone hadn’t been his brightest idea. But after the spider bite during his summer tech camp field trip, a bite that had left him feverish and delirious for days, his father and the family thought it was a quick acting illness. He'd needed answers. Something inside him had changed. He could feel it in every fiber of his being: the heightened senses, the unnatural agility, the strange strength humming beneath his skin.
He needed to know what was happening to him.
...
Was he still completely human?
The memory of the encounter that followed sent a shiver down his spine. The prowler, clad in purple armor and moving with terrifying precision, had clearly been sent to eliminate any loose ends. Peter had barely escaped with his life.
The train eventually screeched to a halt, and Peter forced himself to disembark. His body moved on instinct, guiding him through familiar streets until the imposing silhouette of Wayne Manor came into view on the outskirts of Bristol.
Relief washed over him. Home.
Circling the perimeter, Peter located a weak point in the invisible laser security grid, one he’d discovered months earlier through careful observation and a bit of harmless hacking. Pulling out his phone, he activated a program he’d written himself, temporarily disabling a narrow section of the barrier. Timing his movements carefully, he slipped through before the system could register the interference.
Once inside the back gardens, Peter allowed himself a moment to breathe. The manicured hedges and towering trees offered a sense of safety he hadn’t realized he’d been craving.
He had almost died tonight. The realization hit him with crushing force. He could have left behind his brother, his aunts and uncles, his grandfather and great-grandfather… and his dad. Dick Grayson’s world revolved around his son, shaped and reshaped from the moment he first held Peter in his arms.
Tears welled in Peter’s eyes as he hunched inward, overwhelmed by the weight of what might have been. But he couldn’t afford to linger. Summoning the last of his strength, he scaled the exterior wall with surprising ease, another unsettling reminder of his new abilities, and slipped through his bedroom window.
He landed softly on the floor, stifling a groan of pain. Exhaustion threatened to pull him under, but he forced himself to remain conscious long enough to treat the wound. Retrieving medical supplies from his bathroom, he cleaned and wrapped the injury as best he could, fashioning a makeshift bandage.
It would have to be enough.
Finally, Peter collapsed onto his bed, pulling the covers over himself. Sleep claimed him almost instantly, dragging him into darkness before he could worry about explanations or consequences.
Dick
Dick Grayson suppressed a yawn as he finished the last of his casework. The clock read well past midnight, but exhaustion did little to dull the quiet satisfaction he felt at a job completed. After a final sip of now-lukewarm coffee, he made his way up the grand staircase toward his childhood bedroom.
Before turning in, however, he followed his nightly ritual.
Checking on Peter. Nothing grounded Dick more than the simple act of ensuring his son was safe. It was a habit born from love, protectiveness, and perhaps a lingering fear of how easily happiness could be taken away.
He paused outside Peter’s door, gently pushing it open just enough to peer inside. Moonlight streamed through the window, casting a soft glow across the room. Peter lay tangled in his blankets, curls spilling across the pillow in a familiar, endearing mess.
Dick smiled, warmth spreading through his chest. Safe. Right where he should be. Unaware of the bloodstained bandages hidden beneath the covers or the danger his son had faced only hours before, Dick quietly closed the door and retreated to his own room, comforted by the illusion of peace...for now.