Chapter Text
Although, by this point, he should probably be used to it, he can’t honestly say he’s grown fond of the dull, persistent ache spreading across his back from spending over five hours clinging to the underside of a moving truck. It’s the kind of pain that settles deep, crawling into muscle and bone until it feels like it belongs there. Calling it transportation would already be generous; calling it decent would be a flat-out lie. Five stars? Not even remotely close. It wouldn’t earn two, either, not with every pothole the driver seemed to deliberately seek out, like it was some personal mission to make the road as miserable as possible. Every jolt had gone straight through him, rattling his teeth, forcing him to hold on tighter than he would’ve liked. If tips were a thing in this situation, that driver wouldn’t be getting one. Not that he feels particularly sympathetic, his back certainly doesn’t. Still, it got him where he needed to go without being seen, and that alone is worth something. Half a star, then. He’s feeling generous. He knows.
Gotham looks exactly like the kind of city you’d expect to hold the highest crime rate on the planet. Maybe even in the universe, but he’s never exactly had the chance to visit every world out there, in this one or any other, so that claim might be stretching it. Still, it feels accurate. The place breathes violence. It’s dark in a way that doesn’t just come from the absence of light, but from something heavier, something embedded into the city itself. It’s colder than he likes, the kind of cold that slips past layers and settles under skin, and he’s about eighty-two percent sure that at least five different crimes are happening within earshot at any given moment. Maybe more. Probably more. Not that he was expecting a welcome party or the key to the city, but he had imagined Gotham with at least a little sunlight, something to break the monotony of all this gray. Instead, it looks like midnight even when it shouldn’t. Actually, no, it is night. Apparently, keeping track of time isn’t one of his strengths right now. Then again, something tells him it wouldn’t make much difference whether it was day or night. Just a feeling.
He can’t complain too much about Gotham, though. For all that it’s the biggest dump he’s ever seen in his life, and for all that if he looks away for even a second someone would probably rob him blind, it works. It serves its purpose. He could last here at least a couple of months, maybe more if he’s careful, assuming Amanda Waller, that relentless, unhinged bitch, keeps her distance for a while. It’s not comfort he’s looking for. Just time. And Gotham, with all its rot and chaos, seems willing enough to offer that much.
The Bat is the only real reason he chose Gotham in the first place. Batman might be enough to keep her out, or at least slow her down, force her to hesitate before stepping into territory that isn’t hers. Though, if he’s being honest with himself, that’s more of a convenient excuse than an actual plan. Waller isn’t the kind of person who gets deterred for long. She has too much nerve, too much stubborn, relentless drive. The kind that doesn’t back off just because someone else might push back. There’s a very real possibility that, at this exact moment, she could be stepping out of a helicopter somewhere nearby, boots hitting the pavement like she already owns the ground beneath her feet, scanning the streets with that sharp, unforgiving gaze of hers. She’s terrifying, there’s no better word for it. A force of nature wrapped in human skin. But he’ll give her that she’s got guts. More than most.
He knows this little trick of hiding in Gotham only buys him time, not freedom. Not enough to disappear completely, not enough to erase every trace he’s left behind. Maybe it could have been, if things had gone differently. If he had moved faster. If she had reacted slower. But the second she realized he wasn’t where he was supposed to be, she acted, and she acted fast. Faster than he would’ve liked. His face ended up plastered across every damn corner of the country, turning him into a walking target, a labeled criminal for anyone observant enough to connect the dots. His features aren’t exactly unforgettable, but they’re recognizable enough to be a problem. Enough to make him cautious. Enough to keep him hidden behind a face mask and a hood at all times, even when it’s inconvenient, even when it draws attention in its own way.
It’s not a good disguise. Not even a decent one. There’s nothing clever about it, nothing particularly effective if someone looks too closely. It’s just something thrown together out of necessity, a last-minute solution held together by desperation and lack of better options. The best he could manage while making his way here, moving fast, not allowing himself the luxury of planning something better. It works, barely. And for now, barely is enough.
There’s also the obvious risk that the moment Batman even suspects he’s in his territory, everything will fall apart. Fast. No warnings, no second chances. Just the quiet certainty of being hunted. But that only matters once it happens, and until then, it’s just another possibility, another problem waiting its turn. And Gotham, for all its problems, has one undeniable advantage, its villains. They thrive here, breathe here, carve their existence into the city with violence and chaos. They enjoy it, almost as much as they enjoy killing and torturing people. Which means Batman is never short on distractions. There’s always something pulling his attention elsewhere, something louder, bloodier, more immediate. As long as he keeps a low profile, stays out of sight, avoids making waves, there’s a good chance the Bat will stay busy long enough for him to slip through unnoticed.
And in the meantime, he allows himself to exist in the city as it is. He breathes in the heavy, metallic scent of blood and gunpowder that clings stubbornly to Gotham’s streets, lingering in the air like it belongs there, like it’s part of the foundation everything else was built on. It settles in his lungs, familiar in a way that’s hard to admit, harder to ignore.
Almost like home.
Ah… it almost makes him want to sit down, find a quiet corner, and have a cup of coffee right next to a bomb about to go off, just to see if it would feel any different.
The perks of life, he supposes.
The situation reminds him, unfortunately, of the whole mess with Mysterio. Not because the details line up perfectly, but because of the feeling that crawls under his skin and refuses to leave. Every corner he turns, every wall, every cracked window, every rusted metal surface he happens to glance at, there it is. His face. Printed, pasted, stretched thin and distorted in some places, but still unmistakably his. It’s like the city itself is keeping a record, like Gotham decided to participate in the hunt just for the fun of it. The difference now is almost funny, in a bleak, dry sort of way that doesn’t quite reach amusement. Back then, everyone knew who he was. Not just his face, his name, his life, his routines, the places he used to exist in without thinking twice. They could knock on his door, shout questions through his window, crowd around him like he was some kind of exhibit. They could take everything apart piece by piece just to see what was left underneath. Now? Now no one knows anything. Not really. They don’t know where to look, they don’t know where he is, and most importantly, they can’t reach him. There’s no door to knock on, no window to peer through. No one close enough to be used against him. No one left within arm’s reach, no one he could lose even if they tried to take something from him. So, in a twisted, almost laughable sense, things have improved. That’s one way to frame it, at least.
Of course, the minor detail that now he’s being hunted for something he actually did doesn’t exactly make it better. If anything, it just makes it more lonely. Both situations are terrible, no need to soften it, no need to pretend otherwise. They’re different kinds of disasters, but disasters all the same. Still, there’s not much point in digging through the past when the present is doing such an excellent job of demanding his attention. And right now, the present looks like half his body shoved inside a dumpster, digging through layers of filth in search of anything remotely edible. Or useful. Preferably not dead rats. Or live ones. Or whatever the hell that smell is, something sharp, sour, clinging to the inside of his nose like it has no intention of ever leaving. Used syringes scattered between trash bags don’t exactly improve the experience.
Two dumpsters in, and his impressive collection includes expired snack bars, a pair of broken headphones that might’ve worked in a past life, a microwave that looks like it’s one bad decision away from becoming a fire hazard, and a solid hit to the head courtesy of some very polite gentlemen who apparently considered that particular trash pile their private property. He really should’ve checked for ownership first. Rookie mistake.
Well, he could rob someone. It’s Gotham. It would honestly be more surprising to find someone who hasn’t stolen something at least once. Survival here practically demands it, encourages it, even. It’s less of a crime and more of a lifestyle choice. But he’s barely holding it together as it is, if this can even be called holding it together, and the thought of adding more weight to the list of things he’ll have to live with later makes his stomach twist uncomfortably. It’s not even about morals, not really. He’s long past pretending he operates on anything that clean. It’s more like a line drawn out of sheer exhaustion, a boundary he doesn’t have the energy to cross again. Besides, if he’s being completely honest, the smell of Gotham alone is enough to make him feel like throwing up whatever nonexistent food might still be lingering in his system. So no, stealing is off the table. Starving, apparently, is not. Solid plan. Really efficient. He should write that down somewhere.
After digging through a couple more dumpsters and managing to find a few more sealed, expired, yes, but sealed, food items, he decides that’s as close to luck as he’s getting today. Good enough. He’s not in a position to be picky. With that settled, he shifts his focus to something slightly more important, finding a place to stay that won’t actively try to kill him in his sleep. Wandering through the neighborhood, he starts evaluating buildings with the same detached practicality he’s been applying to everything else. Walls, structure, signs of recent activity, structural integrity, or the lack of it. The one he eventually settles on has three and a half rooms. Half, because one of them is missing two walls entirely, which really ruins the whole concept of privacy. Not that he plans on using it. Changing in the open air isn’t exactly high on his list of appealing activities, so that knocks a few points off immediately. The water situation is… predictable. Dark, murky, probably carrying a list of things he doesn’t want to think about, but it runs. And at this point, running water is practically a luxury. There aren’t too many rats, maybe one or two that he’s spotted so far, which, by Gotham standards, feels like a remarkable achievement. It has space, it’s relatively stable, and it’s located right in the middle of Crime Alley, which means easy access to clubs, underground fights, and anything else that operates just a little outside the boundaries of legality.
Still, the real selling points are simpler. No bodies inside, always a strong positive, and it doesn’t look like it’ll collapse the second he puts his full weight on the floor. Compared to the other options he’s seen, that already places it miles above the competition. Honestly, a five-star hotel doesn’t even come close to this kind of raw, unfiltered luxury. Character, really. This place has character.
He almost feels like thanking the imaginary moving crew as he steps inside, though it’s not like there’s much to move in the first place. Everything he owns fits into a single bag, and even that feels like more than he should have. Once inside, he picks the room that looks the least likely to betray him mid-sleep. The walls are stained in ways he doesn’t want to analyze too closely, the wooden boards are rough, splintered in places, but nothing immediately dangerous. Nothing that screams imminent death, at least. And best of all, there’s a bed. No sheets, no blankets, but it’s a place to lie down, and right now that’s more than enough. More than he expected, honestly. He drops his bag without ceremony and lets himself fall back onto the mattress, muscles loosening just enough to remind him how tired he actually is. His back protests immediately, but it’s a different kind of pain now, static, bearable. Familiar.
After a moment, he reaches into his bag and pulls out the newspapers he managed to grab earlier. Before using them for anything else, insulation, makeshift bedding, something to block out drafts, he figures he might as well check the job listings. Not that he expects much. Actually, scratch that, he expects nothing. There’s no realistic scenario where he finds something legal that doesn’t require showing his face or handing over identification, and those requirements exist for a reason. To keep people like him out. The criminals. The assholes. To filter out the ones who don’t belong. Even the listings that ask for experience. He could have the experience. He probably does. But without proof, without something official to back it up, it might as well not exist at all.
Still, he looks.
Because not looking would mean admitting there’s nothing there for him.
And he’s not quite ready to do that again.
“Even if you weren’t a criminal, no one would want to hire you… why would anyone hire someone like you?”
He exhales slowly, the air leaving his lungs in a controlled, measured way that has nothing to do with calm and everything to do with endurance. His gaze drifts upward, settling on the ceiling, on the cracks, the stains, the uneven texture of a place that’s seen better decades. And then, inevitably, on the eyes. Green. Lifeless. Fixed on him with a kind of judgment that doesn’t blink, doesn’t soften, doesn’t fade. If hatred could be measured, quantified, contained in something as simple as a number, he’s fairly certain whatever device attempted it would burn out on the spot. Overload. System failure. Not built to handle that kind of weight.
“Ah… there you are. Took you a while,” he murmurs, voice quieter now, almost conversational. “You know, I talked to May earlier. I’ve said it before, more times than I can count, but she would’ve loved you. She really would’ve.”
The stare doesn’t waver. If anything, it sharpens, hardens further, as if the mention alone is enough to feed it. The contrast is almost unsettling, the voice that answers him is soft, smooth, almost gentle. Sweet, even. There’s something in it that feels wrong in a way that’s difficult to explain, like warmth coming from something that should only burn.
“If you hadn’t ended her life? If you hadn’t been stupid enough to let her get that close to them? You wouldn’t have met me at all.”
He doesn’t react. Not really. The words land, but they don’t surprise him. They never do. They’re familiar, worn into him over time, repeated often enough that they’ve lost any need to change. Sometimes the phrasing shifts, sometimes the tone dips into something sharper, crueler. Other times it drags his past back into the light, dissects it piece by piece. Occasionally, it talks about the future, about how it doesn’t belong to him, about how it won’t be fair to anyone he’s known or anyone he might meet. It varies, in small, insignificant ways, but the meaning never does. And right now, it doesn’t matter, not enough to engage with it, not enough to let it take over completely. He’s heard it all before. He carries it with him whether he wants to or not, etched into something deeper than memory. So instead, he does what he always does when it gets too loud. He changes the subject.
“Did you know she liked apple pie?” he continues, tone light, almost thoughtful. “She wasn’t great at making them. Not at first. I had to help her most of the time, actually. It kind of became our thing. But that’s how I ended up making it for you too. Same recipe, more or less. It was missing something, though. May had this way of… I don’t know. Making things feel right.”
“You didn’t care about May. You think recreating what she made fixes anything? That it makes you better? It doesn’t. It just makes you pathetic. You should’ve died that day. Done your job for once. Protected her instead of being selfish.”
He keeps going, as if he hasn’t heard it. Or maybe he has, and this is the only way he knows how to answer.
“She also liked taking me to Italian restaurants,” he says, almost absently. “I know you didn’t like pasta. Said it reminded you of worms, which, honestly, rude, that was a little dramatic, but—”
“I don’t know how you live with yourself. She’s gone, and it’s your fault.”
“Maybe if you had actually tried—”
“YOU KNOW IT. YOU CAN TRY TO IGNORE IT ALL YOU WANT, BUT YOU KNOW. IF YOU’D BEEN FASTER—”
“—the pasta there wasn’t even that bad—”
“SHE’S GONE.”
“IT’S YOUR FAULT.”
“SHE DIED BECAUSE OF YOU.”
“I DIED BECAUSE OF YOU.”
“I know… I know,” he says, quieter now, closing his eyes, the words barely holding together. “Just… leave me alone.”
This time, it isn’t as bad as it could be. The thought comes uninvited, but it stays. It’s just one voice. Just one pair of eyes. No MJ, no Tony, no overlapping echoes turning his head into something crowded and inescapable. It could be worse. That doesn’t make it easy. He’s tired, deeply, thoroughly tired, and hearing the same words loop over and over only grinds it in further. He reaches into his bag, fingers brushing against something useless before finding the broken headphones. He slips them on, pressing them over his ears. They don’t work, not really. There’s no music, no sound to drown anything out. But they give him something, something to pretend with. A thin barrier. A suggestion of distance. Gotham is loud, always has been, sirens, distant shouting, the constant hum of something going wrong somewhere, but it’s nothing compared to what’s inside his own head. He presses his hands over the headphones, sealing them in place as if that might help, as if pressure alone could block it out. The voice keeps going, sharper now, louder, circling the same point over and over again. His fault. His fault. His fault. So he waits. He waits, and waits, and waits, holding onto the faint hope that it might fade, that the voice, her voice, might loosen its grip for even a second. It feels like hours. It might be minutes. Time doesn’t matter much here.
It feels like hours before the pressure finally lifts, before those green eyes stop staring, stop pinning him in place like he’s something to be studied, judged, dissected. The voice follows soon after, fading out not all at once, but gradually, like it’s reluctant to let go. Quiet, for now. He exhales, slow and unsteady, and pushes himself up from the bed, dragging a hand over his face as if that might help reset something. It doesn’t, but the motion is automatic at this point. The newspaper is still there, crumpled where he left it, waiting like nothing happened. The plan is simple, sit down, pick up where he stopped, pretend this is normal, and read job listings in the middle of a collapsing building in Gotham while being hunted. Routine. Completely ordinary.
That plan lasts exactly a few seconds.
A sound cuts through the quiet, soft, insistent, too close to ignore. A meow. Then another, slightly louder, like it’s testing whether persistence will actually get it anywhere. He pauses, listening, head tilting just slightly, attention narrowing despite himself. Of course there’s a cat. Of course there is. Gotham wouldn’t be complete without something else trying to survive in the worst possible way, clinging to scraps and bad luck like it’s a long-term plan. At this point, he half expects the city to start handing out instruction manuals: How to Suffer Efficiently, Revised Edition.
He moves toward the doorway of the half-room, because it barely qualifies as anything more, and finds it there without much effort. A cat, thin and worn down in that quiet, stubborn way. Its fur is uneven, patchy in places, marked with scars that don’t ask for sympathy and don’t need to. Some are old, faded into the skin like they’ve always been there. Others are newer, sharper, still standing out against the rest like they haven’t decided whether to heal yet. It meows again, not aggressive, not exactly fearful either, just loud enough to make sure it’s noticed. Like it needs confirmation. Proof that it hasn’t disappeared yet. That it still takes up space in a place that doesn’t leave much room for anything.
He watches it for a second. Just a second. Long enough to register the way it holds itself, the way it doesn’t run, the way it waits.
Then he turns away.
Back to his bag. He rummages through it with the same quiet efficiency he’s been applying to everything else, movements practiced, minimal, like wasting energy is no longer an option. He pulls out a dented plate and one of the bottles of water he’s been rationing, weighing the decision for half a heartbeat before pouring a small amount. Careful. Measured. Generous, but not enough to leave him with nothing later. There’s always a balance now. He walks back and sets the plate down near one of the burned tables, the wood blackened and split, barely holding together like everything else around here. The cat hesitates, watching him in that simple, instinctive way animals do, alert, cautious, ready to bolt if something shifts the wrong way. Then, slowly, it steps forward and starts drinking, each movement deliberate, like it’s still deciding whether this is real or just another mistake waiting to happen.
If he were worse, if he leaned even slightly further into what people already assume about him, that cat wouldn’t still be alive. It wouldn’t have made it this far. Gotham isn’t kind to things like that. It doesn’t reward trust. And yet, despite the scars, despite whatever hands or circumstances put them there, it trusts anyway. Not completely, not blindly, but enough. Enough to step forward. Enough to accept what’s given without questioning what might come after. After everything it’s been through, after every person that probably hurt it, it still chooses to trust whoever offers help at its most vulnerable, letting them use that need against it if they want to.
Stupid cat.
He turns away, already done with it, already putting distance between himself and something that shouldn’t matter. It’s easier that way. He’s halfway to the door when another meow stops him. Closer this time. Not louder, just… expectant. Like it’s figured something out.
He glances down.
The cat again. Waiting.
Of course it is.
It’s looking at him like it’s already made a decision, like he’s safe, like he’s worth following, like this is how things are supposed to work. You show up, you ask, and someone lets you stay. Simple. Predictable. Almost comforting, if it weren’t so completely wrong. If it weren’t built on a misunderstanding that’s going to end badly sooner or later.
He exhales quietly and nudges it aside with his foot, slow and careful, just enough to clear the path without hurting it. It resists for half a second, just enough to show it doesn’t agree, before stepping back, still watching him, still there. Still choosing to stay close. He opens the door and steps inside, making sure the gap never widens enough for it to slip through, closing it with a finality that feels heavier than it should. The sound echoes slightly in the empty space, sharper than expected.
It’s better this way.
For everyone.
No one needs to get close. No one needs to know him. No one should. That kind of curiosity doesn’t end well, not here, not with him. It never does. Peter Parker isn’t someone worth knowing, not unless you’re counting death itself. And death, well, death seems interested. Has been for a while now. Just not enough to take him. Not directly. It lingers instead, patient, almost deliberate, like it prefers to take everything else around him first, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left worth reaching for.
And he’s not about to give it something new to break.