Dark Matter

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/30153540.

Rating: Not Rated

Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of
Violence
Category: Gen
Fandom: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies),
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Relationship: Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Avengers Team, Clark Kent
& Peter Parker, Diana (Wonder Woman) & Peter Parker, Peter Parker
& Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Peter Parker, Gotham City & Peter
Parker, Tim Drake & Peter Parker, Batman & Spiderman
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Language: English
Series: Part 1 of Dark Matter Multiverse
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Stats: Published: 2021-03-20 Updated: 2023-06-08 Words: 213,134 Chapters:
43/?

Dark Matter
by mysterycyclone

Summary

The last thing Peter sees is Tony's horrified, heartbroken expression leaning over him. The
guilt in his eyes is almost worse than the burning pain that's taking Peter apart piece by
piece. The world starts to go dark.

There's a flash of gold and green. For one moment, he finds himself standing amongst the
Guardians and others. And then darkness again. It feels like blinking; an extended period of
nothingness that ends as abruptly as it begins. One moment there’s nothing, the next there’s
light.

“Easy,” a woman says. Her words are gentle, and carry a slight accent that he can’t place.
"I'm called Wonder Woman. What's your name?"
 Chapter 1

Peter crouches on the edge of a dusty ruin, watching Quill and Tony discuss (well, ‘discuss’) plans
for taking on Thanos. It seems to be going well, but they’re just out of reach of his super hearing to
really tell. At the very least, no one looks like they’re going to start throwing punches again.

A shadow falls across him, and he looks up. “Oh. Hey, Dr. Strange.”

“Mr. Parker,” Strange says with a gentle nod, coming up to stand beside him. He’s been withdrawn
and resigned since he looked into the future. Quiet, almost humbled. It’s a drastic change from the
aloof sarcasm from when they first met.

“Are you okay?” Peter asks, looking up at him and tilting his head. “You seem a little not okay
after that time thing.”

“I’m as well as can be expected. I've been preparing some spells ahead of the battle. That's always
somewhat draining,” Strange says, distracted. He pauses, then looks at Peter. “Can I ask a favor of
you?”

“Um, yeah, of course,” Peter says, standing up from his crouch. There's a weight to the sorcerer's
gaze that he's never seen before. “What do you need?”

“Hold out your hand, please.”

Peter does so, curious as to what the sorcerer could possibly need from him.

Strange pulls out a piece of paper thick enough to qualify as parchment and places it in Peter’s
hand. It’s folded in half and sealed with an honest to god wax seal. Peter’s thrown by it’s sudden
appearance until he realizes that this is probably one of the simpler tricks the sorcerer has up his
literal sleeve. He takes a moment to admire it; the paper is almost clothlike, and the wax seal glows
with a subtle power that presses against his hand, even through the suit.

And then it disappears in a green flash. Peter stares at his hand in disbelief.

“Um?”

Strange, for his part, doesn’t seem surprised or even upset. “Excellent. Thank you, Mr. Parker.”

“You’re welcome?” Peter says, looking at his hand. “I’m not going to sneeze out a letter in three
weeks or something, am I?”

“Something like that,” Strange says, far too casually for Peter's liking. “Are you prepared for this?”

“The fight? Yeah! I mean, as well as I can be, I guess.” Truth be told, he’s a little freaked out. Titan
had once been like Earth and now it’s nothing but dust and ruin. If they don’t stop Thanos here,
there won’t be a home to go back to. He’s glad Tony’s here; without him, they wouldn’t stand a
chance. “I’m ready, Dr. Strange. Promise.”

Strange nods, watching him thoughtfully. He holds Peter’s eyes for a moment, hesitates, and then
says, “A bit of advice?”

“Sure,” Peter says. This is the longest conversation he’s had with Dr. Strange. The man had all but
ignored Tony and Peter on the ship during their flight towards Titan. This sudden interest and
oddly friendly conversation is, well, strange.

“No great thing can be done without sacrifice,” Dr. Strange says.

And then he walks off.

Peter stares after him, thoroughly confused.

***

Thanos arrives and he's much bigger and much more terrifying than Peter expected. They subdue
him in seconds, but it's a near thing.

Peter puts his hands over the jewels slotted into place on Thanos’ gauntlet and finds his grip just
near the biggest one set below the four others. The orange-gold one. It fairly thrums with power,
like Tony’s arc reactor, pushing out unseen waves of heat that run along the length of his arm. He
starts to pull.

Something cracks beneath his hand.

There's a weight in his hand that disappears the second it lands there. Something bright, something
gold, he thinks, but he can't think of why it would be gold. It isn't in his hand when he looks, so
whatever it is, he must've dropped it. Thanos must have invested in some pretty cheap metal for
this gauntlet.

"Kid, focus!" Tony grits out.

"Right! Sorry--"

Peter resumes pulling at the gauntlet. He doesn't notice that half of the Soul Stone is missing.

Quill drops from the sky and approaches Thanos.

Everything goes wrong after that.

***

Thanos disappears through the portal. And almost immediately things feel wrong.

“Something is happening,” Mantis says.

He doesn’t know what happens after that. He hears Drax ask for his friend. He hears Quill mutter a
quiet ‘aw, man.’ He knows they’re dead. He can’t hear their heartbeats anymore. And then--

Then it happens to him. His spider senses are absolutely screaming at him. The fear is all
encompassing. The pain is more than that. Every nerve ending is on fire.

"I-I don't feel so good," Peter mumbles, staggering towards Tony. He trips and catches himself
against the man, can feel him wince. "I don't know what’s--I don’t--"

Something is trying to tear him apart. But he can fight it. Barely. It takes almost all of his
concentration, all of his willpower, but he fights it back. For a bit.

All it does is make the pain last longer.

At the edges of his consciousness, he can hear other, distant voices. It sounds like they’re coming
from a tunnel far away from him. He babbles at Tony, begging for help or comfort or something;
things the man is thoroughly incapable of providing for him.

“Why is it taking so long for him?” Quill’s voice asks.

“Nick, was it like this for me?” another asks.

“No, it happened instantly,” Nick, whoever that is, answers.

“I don’t wanna go--” Peter pleads, half hugging, half clinging to Tony as they’re both dragged to
the ground. Tony, by his wound and Peter’s unexpected weight; Peter, by his rapidly disintegrating
legs and feet.

Tony still finds the strength lay him out relatively gently. His voice is calm and reassuring, in
contrast to the despair and panic just behind his eyes. “You’re alright. You’re okay.”

“Jesus,” a voice quietly says. It’s one he heard before. The Falcon.

"I've got you," Tony says, gripping Peter’s shoulder. He looks away briefly, his eyes meeting with
the blue alien woman who rammed a ship into Thanos. When he sees the vaguely shocked and
defeated expression on her face, he turns back to Peter. “I’ve got you. You’re alright--”

He isn’t. He’s slowing it down, yes, but that’s a losing battle. Even if Tony could stop it--

Well. His legs are gone. The pain is crawling up his stomach, up his spine, and it’s starting to gain
speed. He reaches up to grab Tony’s shoulder, and his crumbles inside the suit. The suit collapses
around him, giving off the illusion that he’s deflating. Ash seeps out of the edges of it like water.

“You’re okay,” Tony repeats. He’s trying to make it easier for Peter.

And all Peter can hear is ‘if anything happened to you, I’d feel like that was on me’ in the back of
his mind.

“What the hell? Did you guys just hear that?” Quill asks.

“It’s a memory,” someone else says in a quiet, withdrawn and decidedly Sokovian accent.

The pain has reached his chest now. His lungs. He can’t fight it anymore. He looks up at Tony,
and whispers, “I’m sorry.”

The last thing Peter sees is Tony's horrified, heartbroken expression leaning over him. The guilt in
his eyes is almost worse than the burning pain that's taking Peter apart piece by piece. The world
starts to go dark.

There's a flash of gold and green. For one moment, he finds himself standing amongst the
Guardians and others; Falcon, the Winter Soldier, Scarlet Witch, Black Panther and Princess Shuri,
others he doesn’t recognize--they all stare at him, some confused, others concerned. And then
there’s Dr. Strange. The look he gives Peter is pure pity, and more than a little guilt.

And then darkness again. It feels like blinking; an extended period of nothingness that ends as
abruptly as it begins. One moment there’s nothing, the next there’s light.

A dingy, yellow light that covers brick walls, cement floors, and an obscene machine that he’s
been attached to. Reality crashes upon him with all the subtlety of an asteroid strike. Sights,
sounds, smells--his senses come alive all at once, overwhelming him. The first thing he feels is an
agonizing, white hot pain, as if every cell in his body is being torn asunder piece by microscopic
piece and put together again.

The first thing he hears is his own screams of pain. He can't stop them; frankly, he's barely aware
of them. He's trapped inside something. A tube? Smaller. A glass coffin maybe; he isn't sure. He
knows he's trapped, he knows he's alone, and suddenly he's back at the warehouse again. He starts
to fumble inside the glass tube, hits it once, twice, and shatters it from the inside with a heavy,
desperate flail of his hand. Glass falls to the dingy floor beneath him, and he can hear things now.
People are nearby, speaking to one another.

“Is that a kid?” a voice asks, deep and tinged with worry. Whoever it is, they’re close.

Peter ignores them completely; he hauls himself out of the machine--some sort of strange pod
thing--and takes stock of himself. He’s not in his suit. Why isn’t he in his suit? He braces himself
against the machine and tries to calm his breathing. God, his head hurts. His face is covered in dirt,
grime, and dried blood and his clothes are covered in the same. It looks like he just crawled out of
his own grave. Honestly, it feels like it, too. His body shakes and trembles with phantom pain from
whatever Thanos did.

The room he’s in is in full chaos as he hauls himself up. There’s cries, shouts, gunfire, and sounds
of fighting. It starts to die down, and he realizes he should probably not stand in the middle of a
gunfight where one side is clearly losing. He shudders, staggering forward, and trips over his own
feet--

He’s caught by a strong pair of hands and gently lowered into a sitting position on the ground. His
spidey sense isn’t going off, which is a good thing. He’s weak as a kitten right now. He won’t be
able to defend himself.

“Easy,” a woman says. Her words are gentle, and carry a slight accent that he can’t place.

He looks up at her, blinking at her owlishly. She’s wearing armor from toe to neck, all of if in a
style that vaguely reminds him of Thor’s Asgardian armor, but also clearly follows a different
aesthetic. Something closer to Greek myth, he thinks. She’s easily just as strong as Thor, too. She
handles his weight as if he weighs no more than a feather.

She watches him carefully, sharp blue eyes looking him over from a beautiful face framed by black
hair. Her eyes soften just a bit.

“Easy,” she repeats, pressing a hand on his shoulder when he tries to stand. “Don’t try to move too
much.”

Peter nods dumbly, slumping back against the wall. The room spins on a tilted axis, and his ears
ring.

“Hold this for me,” the woman says, handing Peter a golden rope. Peter takes it on autopilot and
looks it over. It feels heavier than a regular rope, and there’s a strange tingling sensation along his
arms when he grabs it. She relaxes slightly when he takes the rope without question.

“What’s your name?” she asks.

“Peter Parker.”

"I'm called Wonder Woman," the woman says. She motions towards a man standing in a blue
super suit with a red “S” stenciled across an almost ludicrously muscled chest. "This is my friend,
Superman. Is it okay if we ask you a few questions about what happened here?"
Who? "Um, sure. I'm kind of confused right now, though."

"That's fine. It won't take long." She stops, considers him, and her expression softens again. "We'll
get you somewhere safe after we're done here. I promise."

Peter believes her. And hopes she isn’t evil.

The man in the suit with the red S across his chest asks, “Were you the one inside the machine?”

“Yeah,” Peter answers, almost without realizing it. “Yeah. It hurt.”

An odd look is exchanged between the two of them before the woman speaks again. She motions
towards the unconscious men on the ground.

“He’s not what I was expecting,” Superman says quietly in the background, half to himself.

“Do you know any of these people?” Wonder Woman asks.

Peter stares at the unconscious bodies strewn across the floor. They look odd; half human at best,
with batlike features. “No, not at all. I have no idea where I am. I don’t think I’m supposed to be
here. I don't even know where here is, and Tony's going to be worried--”

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Wonder Woman asks.

“Dying,” Peter says immediately. The memory rises up, and his eyes glaze over. He can almost
taste the dust in his mouth, in his throat-- “Tony was trying to help, but I was...I was already dying.
And I didn’t want to, because he always said if anything happened to me, he'd blame himself but I-
-I--and there was this dust and-and he looked so scared but he was trying to keep from showing it
because he knows I freak out when he does--”

“That’s enough, Peter,” she says, gently gripping his shoulder.

Superman frowns, looking at the machinery around the room. “I think they actually pulled it off.
They brought someone back from the dead.”

“But why him?” Wonder Woman asks. “He’s clearly not associated with them.”

“To test it, most likely,” Superman replies. “They weren’t going to try it on their cult leader right
away. Most of them didn’t think it would work.”

"That’s not what they said last time we broke into one of their hideouts. They found their leader's
body. They had it ready. And now the machine is destroyed, and they used it on a kid? It doesn't
make sense," Wonder Woman insists. "We need to bring Batman into this."

"I tried to call him, but he didn’t answer. Something's happening in Gotham--" Superman starts.

“There they are!” a voice cries out.

The sounds of boots pounding the ground soon follows, and dozens of men charge into the room,
some armed with rifles, others with decidedly more esoteric weapons.

Wonder Woman snaps into action, turning to face the new threat head on. She shifts her stance,
placing herself firmly between Peter and the flood of bad guys.

A man in shifting dark armor, brimming with dark energy, grins at Wonder Woman, squaring up to
face her. Purple lightning crawls down his arms and hands, gathering in his palms.
“Hello,” he hisses. “I’d like a rematch.”

“Peter, stay down,” Wonder Woman orders, pulling the shield off her back.

“Yeah, uh. You got it.” He should get up and help. He can’t. He’s close to blacking out.

Wonder Woman leaps into battle, trading blows with the man. She has the upper hand, constantly
beating him back and away from Peter and the weird machine he’s leaning against. The two move
so quickly that Peter loses track of them completely. Superman is handling his own foes, and the
only thing slowing him down are the sheer number of bad guys.

Yeah, he needs to get up and help. He centers himself, braces himself, and stands up. Doing the
one thing Wonder Woman told him not to do.

And he does it just as the man in dark armor lets loose a blast of eldritch energy at Wonder
Woman. The spell misses her completely. It does, however, hit Peter full force in the chest. It’s a
bit like taking a Hulk sized kick straight to the stomach, and he flies backwards. A second errant
spell, this one aimed at Superman, clips against one of the eldritch machines behind Peter,
knocking a lever into place. A black and purple portal tears itself open in behind Peter, and he flies
through it.

The world shifts around him. The portal collapses. He flies into a dirty brick wall, bounces off of it,
and lands hard on his hands and knees. Since he’s barely recovered from dying(?), it hurts worse
than it should, and it takes him a minute or two to gather his wits. It takes him five more to stand
up and brush himself off. His clothes are covered in ash and dust.

He stumbles out of the alley into the fading evening light and braces himself against a street sign
near one of the only functioning street lights. Park Row. He doesn't recognize the street. He looks
up and down the block and realizes he doesn’t recognize that either. The skyline is all wrong for
New York; no Stark Tower, no Empire State building, or anything he can recognize from here. So
he definitely isn’t back home, which is a shame. And also very typical for his luck.

He sees a man across the street, standing outside a garage door, smoking a cigarette. The man
looks exhausted and irritated; probably a cab driver. Peter’s never met a happy cab driver in his
life.

“Hey!” Peter calls out. His accent comes out thicker than intended; normally he has a good handle
on it, but his head is still throbbing. “Where am I?”

“Gotham, New Jersey, you goddamn idiot!” the man calls back. He huffs, tosses his still lit
cigarette on the ground in front of himself and mutters, just loud enough to be heard, “Fucking
New York tourists.”

Why the hell is he in New Jersey, Peter wonders, casually flipping the man off and walking away.
Is this one of Dr. Strange’s tricks? It must be. He must have done something, cast some sort of
spell, that interrupted Peter’s death and sent him here.

And here appears to be Earth, but not the one he’s familiar with. An alternate Earth, then. Is that
what happened to everyone who got dusted? A part of him hopes so, because right now, standing
alone in the bad side of town in Gotham City, he’s completely out of his depth.

A newspaper machine, half broken, catches his eye. Gotham Times is stenciled along the sides of
the machine itself. The paper inside shows the headline Mayor Approves Controversial Truancy
Law. Beneath that, another: Teens Beware: Truancy Will Take You To Juvie. A few other articles
pepper the front of it; a stark rise in crime, something about a Wayne Juvenile Defense fund being
formed in response to the new, and finally, a weather report. The sun isn’t due to shine in Gotham
for the next two weeks, apparently.

Great.

Here's where things get odd: the date in the corner is two and a half months after the fight on Titan.
It's late summer edging into fall right now. Dr. Strange didn’t just send him into an alternate
timeline. He sent him through time, as well. Which would make sense; he is a time wizard. Or,
rather, he was a time wizard. Peter has the distinct feeling that Dr. Strange didn’t survive Titan.

He doesn’t want to think about Titan right now.

Peter sighs, fidgeting in place. His headache has not lessened at all. It’s only getting worse. He
ducks inside the nearest building--a half burned restaurant, judging by the rusted signs bolted to the
concrete walls--and stops to take stock of himself and his situation.

“Right. Okay. No food. No money. No phone. Absolutely no clue where I am. The only new part
of that is having no idea where I am. I can handle being homeless. I’ve done that before,” Peter
mutters to himself, pacing around the fire station office.

And he had been homeless before. For a brief time with May, when they’d been evicted from their
apartment after Ben’s death. The ambulance and funeral bills had devastated their finances and the
landlord was less than sympathetic to their situation.

“What would Iron Man do? What would Tony do?” The immediate response to that triggers a
visceral memory. He pauses, frowns, and reconsiders.

“Okay, what wouldn’t Tony do, then.” That brings him even less options. He groans in frustration,
rubbing his eyes. “Captain America’s PSAs never covered this.” And then, in near perfect mimicry
of Steve Rogers’ voice, “So, you’ve died and come back to life in an alternate universe where no
one knows who you are and all of the superheroes have really obvious names."

Okay, focus. He’s getting away from himself. He covers his face with his hands, blocking out the
evening light coming in from the window and takes a deep breath before letting it out slowly.

“What would Rhodey do?” he asks. And then, as if the man is standing right beside him, he can
hear: It’s common sense time with Uncle Rhodey: If you’re lost somewhere without help, get the
basics first. Shelter, water, and food, in that order. The rest can wait.

Right. Shelter first. He can’t just wander around in what is obviously the bad side of town at night,
in the rain, and expect to get out of it unscathed. He needs to find some place to hunker down until
someone can find him.

Peter takes a deep breath, and steps back out into the Gotham night.
 Chapter 2
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Okay. Find a place, hunker down, wait for someone to find him. He can’t be the only person to
make it here from his universe, right? The Guardians might be somewhere nearby. Maybe Dr.
Strange, too. He just has to find a place and standby until someone finds him. And they will find
him.

Because the thought of being the only one to survive Titan, the only one to end up here, is too
much for Peter to bear.

The rain starts to pick up when he leaves the burned out store, plastering his hair to his head and
washing the ash and blood off of himself. There’s an added bonus to the rain: it helps dim his
enhanced senses. He can still smell the city itself--the exhaust fumes, the oil embedded in the
broken asphalt, the moldering garbage--but the rain mutes those scents. And it smothers sound, as
well. Which is a bonus; the streets are as busy as any city, and the wind and water mutes the sound
of heartbeats, conversations, and other ambient noise in the city.

He really wishes his earbuds had made the transfer between universes. And his phone. And his
suit, for that matter. He can still feel his wallet in his pocket, but that’s almost useless. Nothing
electronic made the jump between universes, just the clothes Peter was wearing beneath his suit.
Maybe that was a limit to Dr. Strange’s spell? But why? Human bodies are a trillion times more
difficult than electronics. One would think he could manage it.

“One would be wrong,” a dry voice says somewhere on the street behind him. It sounds a lot like
Dr. Strange.

Okay. Focus. The sun is setting behind the rain clouds, and he doesn’t want to be caught outside
after dark. He is definitely in the bad part of town; the roads are cracked and pock marked with
potholes, the streetlights either don’t work or barely work at all, and the police look just as
hardened and rough as the obvious criminals slinking along the alleyway entrances. More than a
few eye him warily or speculatively as he passes by, and his spider senses twinge at each one.

In fact, most of this street seems to be dive bars, pawn shops, shady warehouses, and abandoned
buildings. The few office buildings dotting the street somehow seem even more malicious than the
bars; more than half of those are abandoned outright, with smashed in windows and boarded up
entrances. His spider senses set off at a low hum, an anxiety inducing buzz that runs down the back
of his neck. He can’t pinpoint where it’s coming from. There’s just an overall sense of danger-bad-
careful running on loop in the back of his mind.

It spikes, suddenly, and footsteps come pounding up the alley towards his side. Peter’s barely
begun to turn when something heavy and metallic snaps across his shoulders and the back of his
neck, sending him face first into the ground for the second time in an hour. His head bounces off of
the cracked sidewalk, sending stars across his vision.

“Jeez, you didn’t have to hit him that hard,” a voice says, amused. “It’s not like a skinny twerp like
this is any threat.”

“Shut up and grab his wallet, idiot,” another snarls.

Someone rifles through his pockets and grabs his wallet from his pocket. “All right, let’s see--”

“Hold it right there!” a third voice yells out.

“Fuck, the cops,” one of the men hisses. He drops Peter’s wallet and sprints down an alley, his
friend close behind. They disappear into the shadows and rain in seconds.

Peter lets out a quiet sigh of relief, reaching out to grab his wallet as the cop steps into view. “Hey,
thanks--”

The cop snaps his baton across the back of Peter's hand, knocking the wallet back out of his hand.
There’s a slight crack and an explosion of pain that numbs his hand and shoots up his arm. Peter
curses and curls up around his hand, fighting back a wave of nausea.

“Didn’t save you out of the goodness of my heart, kid,” the cop says dryly. He snatches up Peter’s
wallet, peeks inside, and sighs loudly before flinging it into a puddle.

"No cash, no cards, just a transit pass and a driver's license. I should've left you to the wolves," he
says, kicking the wallet at Peter. "Run home. There's a curfew in a few hours. I’ll beat you twice as
hard as those guys if I have to deal with your shit after it starts."

With that, he turns around and leaves, disappearing into the shadowed street as smoothly as the
men who mugged Peter. Peter lays on the ground for a moment, contemplating his life, and then
sighs.

“So to recap my life so far: I died, got thrown into an alternate universe, zapped by an evil wizard,
mugged, and now I’ve got a broken hand from a crooked cop,” Peter mutters darkly. He flexes his
hand, winces, and then grabs his wallet with his good hand and shoves it into his pocket. "I'm so
throwing rocks at Dr. Strange's house when this is all over. I’m going to make a huge scene of it,
too.”

God, will he ever. Right now, he mostly feels like huddling into a corner and crying.

"Hey, kid! Over here." A man in a line cook's outfit flags him down further down the street. He’s
standing outside of one of the few decent looking buildings on the block.

Peter stares at him warily, then mentally shrugs and heads over to him. What’s the worst that can
happen? It’s not like he can die again, right?

“New on the streets?” the guy asks, motioning for Peter to follow him inside the building. It’s a
restaurant; the outside is as weathered as the rest of the block, but the inside is clean and furnished
well. The man leads him into a kitchen.

“Yeah, you could say that, I guess,” Peter mumbles, cradling his hand. It's definitely broken, but
the bones are fusing back together already. It'll heal, but it's one discomfort piled on top of another.

The kitchen is brightly lit and smells like fresh bread and cooked clove and sumac. A young
woman is cleaning a workstation when the two of them walk in, and only spares Peter and the man
a brief look before continuing her work. The man points to a small alcove where an old formica
table sits. Overturned crates serve as chairs. Peter drops down on one and winces when he jostles
his hand.

“I could tell,” the man says, tired. He’s young, maybe twenty two at the most, but sounds much
older. He hands Peter a towel to dry himself off with and grabs a first aid kit off the wall. He starts
to clean and bandage Peter’s hand. “Officer Brady’s a massive prick. Most of the cops in the
Bowery are crooked. You got off light.”

“Great,” Peter mutters.

“Avoid the homeless shelters, too,” the man continues, tying off the splint he’s put on Peter’s hand
and wrist. “The city closed down all of the decent ones and bussed most of the homeless
population out of the city. The ones that are left are not safe.”

“Oh. Good to know.” He hadn’t even considered that.

The man eyes him carefully, frowning. “When was the last time you ate?”

He shrugs, opting for honesty. “Uh, Tuesday?”

The man's frown deepens, and he turns towards the woman finishing up her work and says
something to her in Arabic; Peter knows a few basic phrases, but he can't track what the man says.
The woman stops, frowns, then sets her cleaning cloth aside to wash her hands and turn on the
oven.

"Oh, she doesn't--you don't need to cook anything--"

"It won't take any time. And yes, we do. You are a guest in our home, and you haven’t eaten in
three days." He offers his hand to Peter. "I'm Omar.”

Peter takes his hand. “Peter.”

“I’m Sophia,” the woman says, appearing at his side. She sets down a bowl in front of him. “Eat.
Omar, you get to clean.”

“That’s fair,” Omar answers. He watches Peter eat for a moment. “You can’t be older than fifteen.”

He’s sixteen, actually, but his baby face hides it. Much to his annoyance. “Sixteen.”

“You’re young enough that a year makes a big difference to you,” Omar retorts. “Do you have a
place to stay?”

No. “Yes.”

His lie must not be very convincing. Omar’s frown grows deeper.

“I have a place. Promise. My, uh, uncle’s coming to town soon. I’m leaving town in a few days,”
Peter says, desperately hoping that’s true. If Happy showed up right now, he would hug the man.
Same for Rhodey. Honestly, even Vision would get a giant bearhug. “I just got lost in the bad part
of town.”

“You’re in Crime Alley, Peter. The worst part of the most dangerous area of the city. Not even
Batman comes here anymore,” Omar says. “You really got lost.”

“Yeah, well. It’s a new place, you know?” Peter says, picking up the bowl in front of himself. It
looks delicious.

Omar considers him for another moment, then stands up. “Enjoy your meal, Peter. Meet me at the
door when you’re ready to leave, but stay as long as you need.”

He leaves the kitchen alcove. Peter practically inhales his meal, suddenly aware of how hungry he
is. In all fairness, he’s had a pretty busy day. He’s halfway through his meal when Sophia sets
another bowl down on the table.

“We’re closing for the night,” she says by way of explanation. “And you look like you could use
the food. Eat up.”

Peter does, infinitely thankful for the kindness from these two strangers. The first people to show
him any since he was blasted sideways into the city. Which isn’t saying much, really, since he’s
been here less than a day.

Omar hands him a faded red backpack. Peter takes it, opening it and taking a peek inside. He stares
at it for a moment then looks up at Omar. “I can’t--”

“You can,” Omar says. “There’s clothes, a sleeping bag, gloves, a coat, and several pairs of socks.
Toiletries, too. And food.” He sighs. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay here? The city’s curfew
is about to start and... Well, we don’t have much, but Sophia and I can stretch things for a week or
two.”

The last thing Peter wants to do is be a burden.

“No, I won’t be in Gotham for very long. Thank you, Omar,” Peter says, zipping the backpack up
and shrugging it on. “Seriously, you have no idea.”

"I used to volunteer at the Wayne Foundation homeless shelter down the block. They closed it a
few weeks back, so I'm sort of doing it freelance these days. If you need anything, please come
find us,” he says. “Even if it’s just to get a meal. Promise me you will.”

“I promise,” Peter replies, oddly touched. He walks towards the back exit with Omar.

“Good luck, Peter,” Omar says.

Peter gives Omar a friendly wave, before stepping back out into the street.

He makes a point to avoid alleys after that. And keeps a wary eye out for any figures lurking in the
dark. He won’t be caught unaware again.

***

He regrets leaving the restaurant behind almost immediately. The rain, which had lessened some
while he was in the restaurant, comes back full force. He again finds himself wandering Gotham’s
dingy streets in the rain, with night falling soon. It’s the ‘nicer part’ of Crime Alley, at least--not
that that means much, really--with less people around. It’s all but abandoned, in fact. He can’t hear
any nearby heartbeats. At least, nothing larger than rats.

He’s in an old business district. Something that could have been the heart of a booming commercial
district, judging by the half finished skyscrapers, abandoned office buildings, and empty cafes that
dot the street. There’s a single convenience store lit up like a beacon at the far corner, and that’s it.
Which suits Peter just fine, though it’s a bit eerie. He can hole up here for a night.

He finds, of all things, an abandoned fire station in the heart of the block. It’s ancient by today’s
standards; the architecture clearly harkens back to an earlier 20th century design. Two storeys tall,
with a single garage that’s been boarded up along with most of the windows and the entrance. Only
a single window on the second floor is intact, with a window air conditioning unit settled in it.

Peter glances back and forth, listening closely to make sure no one’s nearby, then begins to climb
up the wall to the window. It’s tricky; between his hand and the rain, he’s forced to move slower
than he’d like. Still, he’s at the window in seconds. He braces himself on the bricks near the
window and roughly shoves it upwards before hauling himself inside and out of the rain.

The inside is damp, dark, and dusty, but it’s warm. And it’ll keep him off the street. He swipes rain
from his eyes, pushing back his hair, and slowly explores the building. The room he’s in must have
been the dorm for the firefighters stationed here; he can see where the bunks had been bolted to the
hardwood floor. A door nearby leads into a large bathroom, and another, hanging off of its hinges,
leads to the stairs to the floor below. Peter shuts the door leading to the stairs before entering the
bathroom.

Okay, shelter acquired. Now for step two of Rhodey’s survival tips: water. The rain isn’t going to
last forever, and Peter has the distinct feeling that drinking rainwater in Gotham is the equivalent to
licking sewage pipes; the air smells of smog and pollution even in the rain. Peter shrugs off his
backpack and sets it on the dusty tiled floor before approaching one of the shower stalls. This
probably won’t work, but what the hell. He turns on one of the showers and is surprised to find
clear, clean and freezing cold water shoots from the spout. It pegs him right in the face and he
sputters, blindly flailing into the stall and turning it off.

He huffs, pushing his newly damp hair away from his face. "Okay, water. Yay."

Step two complete, apparently.

He grabs the driest part of his shirt and wipes his face, shuffling over to the mirror mounted on the
wall. He glances up, catches sight of himself in the mirror and freezes. He pushes back a few
strands of hair, leaning in to get a closer look. The hair just above his right temple is bone white, in
direct contrast with the rest of his hair. It’s a perfect streak, too. Peter touches it, then sighs and
leans back. His hair didn’t look like that before Thanos dusted him. All things being equal, if that’s
the only thing that’s different about him after coming back to life, he got off light.

He doesn’t think it’s the only thing that’s different, however.

He considers that for a few moments, then shakes his head and grabs his backpack, moving back
into the dorm room. He’s tired. It’s late. And he needs sleep. He drops the backpack on the floor,
flops down on the ground beside it, and drops his head on the backpack. It makes for a poor
pillow, but it’s better than nothing.

Despite the chill and the rain, he falls asleep almost immediately.

***

He dreams of a city made of gold and metal, with technology far outside of his own reckoning. The
streets are empty, and there’s a strange sense of grief that seems to hover around the empty
buildings. Peter’s standing in a grand plaza, surrounded by gleaming buildings that stand silent in
the sunlight.

“You’ve ruined everything,” a man says behind him.

He turns around and finds himself the subject of scrutiny from Loki Odinson. The man watches
him coldly, annoyance and disgust clear on his features.

Peter stares at him, confused. “What?”

“I had a plan, you see. Not the most clever plan I’ve come up with, but one that would work given
the circumstances. And you ruined it.”
“Uh. How did I do that?”

“I found a place a long time ago that allows me to hide away my soul until I can conjure a new
body,” Loki explains, using the tone one would use around a particularly slow child. “I found it on
Vormir, and I’ve used it to keep myself essentially deathless and immortal since long before your
people began bathing on a daily basis. And you broke it.”

Peter, beyond helpless, frowns at him. “I literally have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“My plan was simple. I was going to hide away in the Soul Stone, then erupt out of it just as
Thanos used the gauntlet. A well placed knife would have done the trick. I would’ve reclaimed the
gauntlet as my own and used it to bring back Asgard for my brother.” He glowers at Peter. “And
yet, that didn’t happen. My pocket dimension has been overrun by the souls of those Thanos killed.
Not all of them, mind. Just the ones who failed to stop Thanos. Just the Avengers.”

Peter can’t think of a worse idea than giving Loki the Infinity Gauntlet. “How is this my fault? I got
dusted!”

Loki stares at him for a long moment and then laughs. “You really don’t know what you’ve done,
do you? Oh, this will be interesting.” He shakes his head. “You’ll find out soon enough, I suppose.
Run along. I need to speak with your sorcerer.”

He snaps his fingers.

Peter startles awake on the floor, unnerved by his dreams. The images and words fade away within
seconds of waking, the way all dreams do, and he’s left puzzled and ill at ease. He rubs his eyes,
sitting up with a wince. He tests his hand, gently flexing it. It stings and burns, but the pain
disappears quickly; his broken hand has upgraded itself to a mild sprain. He leaves it in the splint
Omar made just to be safe.

The rain has stopped, but the sky is cloudy and dim. He might as well get up.

He finally opens the backpack and sorts out his supplies. He has a sleeping bag (which he
should’ve used last night), a flashlight (not necessary), a dozen breakfast meal bars, three t-shirts
that look half a size too large, socks, two pairs of sweatpants, a toothbrush, toothpaste, and more
meal replacement bars along with a jar of peanut butter. And a note from Omar and Sophie, asking
him to come back if he needs anything.

Peter folds the note back up and keeps it in his wallet. It’s nice to know that there are good people
in the worst places. And it’s a good idea to keep those reminders nearby. Karen told him as much
at one point.

He grabs a breakfast bar (strawberry and cream flavored), and scarfs it down before standing up.
He spends that first day exploring the firehouse completely. He finds a kitchen in complete
shambles on the ground floor, a set of old tools in the garage, and a half broken radio sitting on a
desk in an office. He grabs the tools and radio and takes them upstairs. There are other things on
the first floor--old tires, hoses, lockers--that he might yet find use for, but right now he’d feel safer
if the first floor is blocked off completely.

By the end of the day (which isn’t as long as he’d expect; he must have slept half the day away),
he’s ready to settle in and wait. And hope that someone finds him.

***

Days pass. His food disappears bit by bit.

 ***

He can only stay in one place for so long. He leaves the firehouse on the fourth night to get a better
look at the city. The easiest way to do that is by staying high and out of sight, moving during the
evening dusk.

His hand is fully healed by now and he reaches the top of the building quickly and easily. It’s late--
he doesn’t know how late--and the city is lit up beneath him. He’s not standing on the tallest
building in the district; it’s only about twenty floors tall. It should give him a bird’s eye view of
things.

He strolls along the edge of the building, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, leaning over
the edge to look over the city. A lot of it is in disrepair; more than he expected. And there's a lot
more blight than he expected. He can see and hear over two dozen red and blue lights and sirens
tracing the city streets, each moving in a different direction. A distant spotlight shines against the
clouds with the image of a bat set in the middle. It reminds Peter of the ‘spider signal’ Tony built
into his suit.

Peter can hear the distant crack of gunfire nearby. It seems to come from every direction, varying
in distance and intensity, but it’s also near constant. The whole city must sound like a warzone. No
wonder Batman--whoever that is--hasn't been through this part of town recently. Even if he had a
full crew on hand, they'd have to work nonstop just to keep things from falling apart in the rest of
the city. The man clearly has his hands full.

There’s a low rumble, and then a larger pop, as a building erupts into flames across a distant river,
near what looks to be a port. More sirens begin, and Peter can see helicopters fly towards the fire.
He focuses on that area of town. Something inside of him is pulling at him in that direction. Not his
spider senses. Something else. It feels golden? Or orange. He’s not sure. The longer he looks, the
more he leans over the ledge, trying to pinpoint where it’s coming from--

"Hey, I'd appreciate it if you took a few steps back from that ledge," a voice says behind him, calm
and gentle.

Peter startles, jumping in place, and whirls around to find himself face to face with a masked man
in a black suit with blue, stylized wings spread across the chest. There’s a small earpiece tucked
away in his ear. Peter can just barely make out the sound of radio traffic coming from it.

"How did--where did you come from?" Peter asks.

"The next building over," the man says, carefully walking over to Peter. He stands just within
arm's reach and offers his hand. "I'm Nightwing."

"Uh, Peter," Peter says, automatically reaching out to grip Nightwing's hand. He yelps when the
man pulls him away from the edge and spins them around so that Nightwing stands on the ledge
and Peter stands more towards the center of the roof. "Dude, what the---"

"There. Better." He lets go of Peter's hand. "You alright? Actually, I guess that's not the best
question. If you were all right, you wouldn't be up here at two in the morning."

Peter frowns at him, utterly confused. And then it clicks. "Oh! You thought I was---no, I-I just
came up here to think. That's all."

Nightwing frowns at him. “Lots of people come up to buildings to think. Do you want to talk for a
little bit?”
 “Nightwing,” the radio says. “We need you. Now.”

Nightwing frowns, but gives no indication that he heard his own radio. His focus remains on Peter
completely.

“You have way more important things to do,” Peter says. He doesn’t want to keep Nightwing away
from whatever he should be doing. “I’m fine. Honest. I really did just come up here to think. Also I
kind of think abandoned buildings are cool, you know? Just...doing some urban exploring. You
know.”

“Nightwing,” the radio says again.

Nightwing sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. He glances at the raging fire at the docks, then
turns back to Peter. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah, man. I’m fine. Go do your superhero thing. I can find my own way down,” Peter says,
jerking a thumb over his shoulder to the door leading inside the building. He has no intention of
actually going inside, but he doesn’t want Nightwing to think he’s going to launch himself off the
top of the building either.

“Okay,” Nightwing says hesitantly. His radio kicks in again, this time in a burst of traffic full of
shouting, gunfire, and cursing. “Just be careful, Peter.”

“Sure,” Peter says.

Nightwing gives him one last lingering look, then leaps silently off of the side of the building.
Peter can just barely see a dark shape swing between the silent office buildings that surround them.
He waits for another five minutes before crawling down the side of the building and walking back
towards the firehouse.

That night, before he falls asleep, he wonders if he should have taken the time to talk to Nightwing.

Chapter End Notes

I started this fic with the intention of including all of the Batfam.

As someone who fell off of Batman lore in the 90s and came back recently, hoo boy.
Just imagine me looking vaguely feral while trying to fit in the entirety of the Batfam
with the dusted Avengers.
 Chapter 3

Three days pass, and Peter takes a moment to fully consider his situation. If someone’s coming for
him, then they’re taking their sweet time with it. He’s almost out of food, and he’s rapidly running
out of clean clothes. Also he’s bored out of his mind.

And lonely. He misses May. And Ned. And MJ. All three of them have become a near constant
presence in his life, and now he’s gone several days without seeing any of them. Peter feels
incomplete without them. Especially May and Ned. He feels naked without a phone in Gotham, but
he doesn't miss it much. It's not like he can shoot a message to Ned across whatever divides
parallel realities or send MJ a picture of a cafe she hasn't gone to yet.

It’s weird to go to bed and wake up without chatting with May, texting her some silly gif or joke, or
eating dinner with her. His days feel incomplete without her, and it’s starting to drag at him. Sure,
he misses Ned and MJ, and Tony. But he misses her most of all. He wishes she were here to help.
Even if it’s just for a little while. He’d been in such a rush the day of the field trip that he forgot to
give her his usual hug on the way out. He regrets that; the guilt of it--of something that small--
weighs on his mind more than it should.

It doesn’t help that he’s tired, cold, and almost constantly hungry. It doesn’t help that no one’s
come to find him. And it really doesn’t help that his hand still aches painfully in the morning, stiff
and tense in a way that hints at an ongoing problem that will haunt him for awhile yet.

All in all, he's in a pretty low mood. The loneliness is the worst part of it. And that's what
ultimately drives him up to the rooftops most nights. It helps him think, and it gets him out of the
firehouse. Sometimes it helps keep the nightmares at bay. Not always, but sometimes.

He sits at the edge of the rooftop, building a mental map of the city; he quickly pinpoints where the
sirens are in the city, where they start, end, and what neighborhoods they avoid entirely. The worst
neighborhoods never see the police, and he makes a mental note to scope those places out when he
gets the chance. He also waits to see if that tug he felt a few days ago starts up again. It hasn't yet,
and he's not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing.

His senses twinge for a moment--a brief flash he otherwise wouldn’t notice in the constant drone of
the city--and he hears someone swing through the air behind him and land on the rooftop.

“Hey, Peter,” Nightwing says behind him, strolling up to the roof’s edge. He drops down beside
Peter, holding a paper sack. He pulls out a couple of hamburgers and offers the larger one to Peter.
“Hungry?”

“Dude, yes, you have no idea,” Peter replies, perking up and taking the offered burger. It’s huge
and takes both hands for Peter to hold. It’s worth more than its weight in gold, too. Peter’s food
stocks are starting to become worryingly thin. “Where’d you get this?”

“Burger joint around the corner,” Nightwing answers, grabbing his own burger. It’s much smaller.
“I don’t go there very often. It’s a guilty pleasure, and I’m using you as an excuse.”

“Sweet,” Peter says, taking a bite out of his burger.

They sit in companionable silence, eating their respective burgers. The city is relatively peaceful
for once. It’s a pleasant change from the past week. Gotham almost seems nice.

Peter makes short work of his burger, sighs, and leans back from the roof ledge. “Where’d you
learn to swing like that? You’re really smooth.”

Nightwing grins. “The circus.”

Peter stares at him. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

"Okay, show me a trick, then."

Nightwing thinks, shrugs, and then stands up. He balances himself on the edge of the roof with his
hand, bumps himself up on the tips of his fingers, and then finally balances on just two fingers. He
holds the pose for a minute before jumping back onto his feet. There isn’t one wasted ounce of
energy; it’s smooth and agile. Peter's a little jealous of how easily he moves.

Which just brings out his competitive streak. “Huh. I could do that.”

“Yeah? Show me," Nightwing says. He pauses for a moment. "Away from the roof edge."

Peter rolls his eyes but stands up and wanders over to the center of the roof. Peter leans down,
braces his fist against the rooftop, then pushes himself up on two fingers while pushing his legs off
of the roof. He holds the pose for about ten seconds, subtly adjusting his balance. And then he
overcorrects, flails his legs, overcorrects again, and falls flat on his back.

Nightwing pops into view, grinning down at him.

“Okay, so, you may have caught me on a bad day,” Peter says after a moment of silence.

Nightwing laughs, offering Peter a hand up. “That was pretty impressive.”

“Come on.”

“No, really!” Nightwing says earnestly. “You just need to work on your core a little more. Where’d
you learn to do that anyway?”

Peter almost says ‘from being Spider-Man’ but stops at the last second, racks his brain and says,
“From, uh, ballet, actually.”

“Huh. I should look into that one day,” Nightwing says. In the distance, the bat signal lights up,
and he focuses on it. “Duty calls. Guess break time is over."

"I thought that signal was for Batman," Peter says.

Nightwing pauses. "Usually, yes. But Bats is a little under the weather. The crew is handling things
for now."

“Oh,” Peter says, thoughtful.

Wonder Woman and Superman had mentioned Batman, hadn’t they? He should ask Nightwing
about that. He starts to speak when Nightwing’s radio sounds off. Peter can hear static and muffled
words.

“Right. I’m on it,” Nightwing says to his radio. He strolls towards the edge of the roof. "I better go
handle that. Later, Peter!”

“Later, Nightwing! Thanks for the burger!”

Nightwing gives him an easy salute, leaping off of the side of the building and into the night
below.

Peter waits for a few minutes and then crawls down the side of the building. He feels a little less
lonely now, at least.

He sleeps well that night.

***

Two days after the visit from Nightwing, Peter takes stock himself and his situation.

First of all, parallel dimensions exist. Multiple universes exist. Holy shit. The scientific
ramifications are absolutely limitless, especially for physics. If he wasn't currently trapped here,
he'd be shrieking at the very idea of researching the concept with Ned. Tony Stark wouldn't be
capable of keeping him out of the lab at the Compound; he'd be stuck with a feral, terminally nerdy
child literally bouncing off of his walls for months on end, moving from one experiment to the
next.

That's something for later. It's starting to look like he's the only person from his universe to end up
here, and he can't stay here forever. He has to get home. The problem with that is rather obvious.
Magic brought him here, not science as he understands it. As cool as that is, it puts him at a severe
disadvantage.

But maybe he could figure it out? Not magic, but the science fueling it. Everything functions under
a set of laws, even magic. He gets up, and starts to pace the firehouse dorm floor. The movement
helps him organize his thoughts.

Magic is just science people don't understand, isn't it? Show a medieval serf a videochat on your
phone and they would consider it magic. Also you'd be called a witch and burned at the stake, but
that's neither here nor there.

He needs more information. He needs access to scientific research.

Well, he's getting ahead of himself. He needs food. Clothes. A way to gather the information he
needs. He can’t just saunter around town looking for it, either. Not with that weird truancy law. His
baby face is still in full effect; he’s sixteen and looks it. The cops will be on him in seconds if he
starts wandering the streets during school time, and he’d really rather avoid Gotham’s juvenile
halls if he can help it. God only knows how horrible those places are.

School or juvie. School gives him regular meals, a shower that isn’t made of ice, and a place to
gather information.

Well, time for him to get back to school, then.

Which means he needs to enroll himself.

Which means he needs a computer.

He thinks for a moment, then practically slaps himself in the forehead.

The library. Duh.

***
It takes him most of the morning to find a library. The Bowery has none, which isn't a surprise, so
he takes to hopping the subway and heads for Old Gotham. The trip is a long one, and he spends
most of it bored out of his mind. A few times he sees flashes of people he recognizes out of the
corner of his eye as he makes his way towards the library. He sees Sam Wilson walking beside
him. He sees Bucky Barnes squinting suspiciously at a rough looking group of guys near an alley.
He sees Dr. Strange's cloak flutter past. They disappear every time he turns to get a closer look.

He must be losing his mind. He's dreaming up people from his own universe. And two out of the
three don't even like him! God, that's some luckless loser nonsense.

"You're not that bad, kid," Sam says.

Whatever. Peter ignores them, moving down the street. The sky is overcast, the air damp and chill,
and the people of Old Gotham are only slightly less surly than the people in the Bowery. The
buildings, however, are absolutely beautiful; every building on this street is built with old carved
stone, complete with gargoyles in some areas, and old trees line narrow streets. It’s a nice break
from the blight and despair in the Bowery.

He finds the library soon enough (and can, in fact, see it from almost two blocks away; it’s huge),
and jogs up the stairs to the massive front doors. He’s about to walk inside when he sees a red
haired woman in a wheelchair out of the corner of his eye. She presses the automatic door button,
waits for a few moments, then presses it again.

“God, you have got to be kidding me,” she mutters.

Peter walks away from the door he was about to use and heads over to her. He opens the door for
her, propping it open so she can go inside ahead of him.

"Hey, thanks," the woman says, wheeling herself through easily. She’s strong; Peter can see toned
muscles moving smoothly beneath her shirt.

"Anytime," Peter replies, holding the door open for her. "I guess the button's broken."

"Wouldn't surprise me. The mayor's a notorious cheapskate." She smiles at him, offering her hand.
"I'm Barbara."

Peter takes her hand. "Peter."

For a moment, there's a flash of recognition in her eyes. It passes quickly, and her smile becomes a
touch more friendly. "What brings you to the library today?"

"Uh, getting a card and enrolling for school. You know. Before I commit a felony by existing
outside of it.”

Barbara smirks, leading him over to the main desk. "It'll take a few days to get your card--again,
the mayor's a cheapskate--but I can sign you in as my guest and help you get signed up. You can
use my login on the computers."

“Oh, that’d be awesome,” Peter says, walking beside her. She moves behind the desk and grabs a
few forms for him to fill out, and he takes to his task eagerly. If nothing else, he can at least borrow
a few books to pass the time at the firehouse.

“Here,” Barbara says, handing him her card. “Just plug it into one of the computers. It’ll unlock it
for you.”
Peter takes it, a little surprised by how helpful she’s being, but he’s not going to look too hard into
it. “Thanks, I won’t take long.”

Barbara hums in agreement, looking over the form he filled out. He leaves her to her task and
heads to the nearest bank of computers. He drops into a seat, plugs the card in, and all but sighs in
relief when the internet browser pops up. He would never describe himself as a screen addict, but
he’d also be lying if he said he didn’t miss the internet at all since leaving Earth. His Earth, at least.

Time to start some research. He starts looking for articles about recent alien appearances (if the
Guardians popped into existence, they’d definitely warrant a news story or three) or sightings of a
strange man wearing a living cloak. He finds neither, which doesn’t surprise him, but it is
disappointing.

So back to his original plan, then. Finding a school to go to.

He could try to enroll in a public school, but there's a very good chance he won't find the chemicals
he needs for his web fluid there. Public schools tend to have much more stringent budgets for
chemical compounds than Midtown, at least back in his universe, and his refined recipe requires a
few of the less common ones. Looking at Gotham, there doesn't seem to be a heavy focus on the
sciences in any capacity in the public sector.

But there is a private school in town. Gotham Prep, where the city's best, brightest, and richest
children go. Peter can't afford the tuition, but there are full ride scholarships. A few even come
with stipends, but they require a bank account belonging to a parent. Peter sorely lacks both.

Well, he lacks both right now. Ned’s taught him a few tricks. Hacking into a banking system to
create an account probably breaks several federal laws all at once, but whatever. The bank has
laughably terrible security anyway. He’s inside their system within minutes--from a library
computer, no less--and quietly appalled by how easy it is to create a fake account under Tony
Stark’s name. He doesn’t want May’s name associated with this; it feels wrong to involve her in
the seven felonies he’s currently committing and the two more that will soon follow. Tony
probably wouldn’t mind.

He registers for an academic scholarship to Gotham Prep, one of the mid tier ones that offers one
hundred dollars a week as well as tuition. It requires an entrance exam, but that’s not much of a
hurdle. He can take the entrance exam easily enough, and it might even help calm his guilty
conscience somewhat. The registration takes no time at all.

He can hear Tony's voice in the back of his mind while he gets to work.

"If you ever have to steal, do it to a rich man. The old money kind like me. New money is obsessed
with wealth and counts every dime they have. They'll notice. Old money is so used to playing fast
and loose with their budgets that they'll never realize it’s a few thousand shorter than it should be.
And if they find out about it, there's even odds they'll just be amused. Rich people crave new
experiences, trust me."

At the time, Peter had been deeply offended by the very idea of stealing something that doesn’t
belong to him. Uncle Ben would never do that. That goes triple for Aunt May.

But he’s homeless, penniless, and close to helpless. He’ll make it up to Bruce somehow. Or at least
leave a very apologetic letter somewhere for him to find. Given that Bruce Wayne is basically an
airheaded version of Tony Stark, he may not even notice the money was stolen in the first place.
Which would be ideal, since he's using Barbara's login to commit a few felonies right now.
Getting a PO box at a post office is easy enough. His first objective is completed within minutes,
and it’s almost offensive how easy it is. He sets up a bank account under Tony’s name, using the
PO box as an address, arranges for bank cards, and then does the most dangerous part: he hacks
into Bruce Wayne’s bank account.

He doesn’t take much; only five hundred dollars. Enough to get him new clothes at a thrift shop,
his new uniform (maybe a cocky move, but he's never met an entrance exam he can't pass), food,
and a public transit pass. Plus a few extra things. Bruce probably won’t even notice it's gone,
honestly.

At least, he hopes so.

He makes sure to clean up after himself, masking his digital trail with tricks Ned taught him during
their last hackathon. A genius cyber sleuth will notice the intrusion eventually, but the trail will be
cold by then. They won't find him. And besides, how many genius hackers can Gotham possibly
have?

Hopefully none.

He’d feel a lot better about this if Bruce Wayne turned out to be some massive asshole that kicks
orphans through windows or something. He checks Twitter (which apparently exists, albeit with
the old interface from the mid 2000s), half out of curiosity, half as a way to assuage his own guilt.

And finds utter nonsense.

Wonderful day out at Memorial Park! one tweet says, with quite possibly the most tilted picture of
an old oak in existence.

A bird stole my phone! is the follow up to that.

Peter scrolls on.

And Alfred said I couldn’t cook. An image is attached to this one. The noodles look burned beyond
all recognition. Peter is pretty sure Alfred isn't paid enough to deal with this shit.

You know, it’s been too long since I’ve had a nice party with Wayne’s Girls! Throwing one this
weekend. Invitations are being sent out today. ;)

Gross.

Dozens of tweets, all of them empty of meaning, most of them dull beyond comprehension. At first
glance, Bruce Wayne is Tony Stark without a brain; nothing but parties, women, and selfies with
celebrities. His company is under the control of a board, and he only occasionally stops in to check
on it. He really hasn't done anything with his life outside of the odd philanthropy fund. Which,
well, isn’t nothing, but it could be a lot more.

Maybe Peter’s being overly judgemental and unfair in order to justify stealing from him.

Someone really should take away Bruce's twitter privileges however. The man waxes poetic over a
houseplant at least once a week, ending each one with #Metropolis for some reason.

"Catching up on celebrity gossip?" Barbara asks behind him. She peers over his shoulder. "Oh,
Bruce Wayne. He's a favorite of mine."

"Why did he describe the sun shining on his houseplant for four tweets?" Peter asks. “Actually,
how does he have thousands of likes for those tweets? How is he anybody’s favorite?”

"Bruce Wayne is an enigma in most things, but this? He’s doing it to tease a friend in Metropolis.
And he’s something of an institution in Gotham," she replies, grinning as if laughing at some
private joke. "He grows on you."

"So does fungus." What the fuck is a Metropolis. That's a place? They might as well have named it
City. This universe is weird.

Barbara's grin grows wider. "You might change your tune someday, Peter."

"Doubtful," Peter says, logging out. He stands up and stretches; if he hurries, he can reach the post
office closest to the firehouse and pick up his key for the PO box. And then go to bed early; the
entrance exam is tomorrow. "Thanks for letting me mooch off of you, Barbara."

"Anytime, Peter. Don't forget to come back for your card in a few days, okay?"

"I will! Thank you again!" Peter says with a casual wave.

He strolls towards the library exit, unaware of the puzzled, curious expression that crosses
Barbara’s face when she logs into her own computer.

***

He sleeps terribly that night, his dreams flitting from one scene to another. He dreams of Titan, of
waking up inside glass tubes, of death and failure. He dreams of a Stark Industries missile landing
inside his living room when he’s very small. He dreams of a bomb exploding while his father(?)
makes a speech. He dreams of a friend falling to his death, just out of reach. He hears people
murmuring near him, around him, but he can’t make out their words. They sound alarmed.

“He can see our memories,” Dr. Strange says. It feels as though Peter flies past him at great speed.

More sights, sounds, words, and places flash by him. None of them are pleasant.

At the end of it, he lies face down in a pool of shallow water, in a place made of dingy, orange
light.

Peter startles awake sometime before dawn, breathing hard, and covered in sweat. He runs a
shaking hand down his face, getting his bearings. It’s early; he can hear distant gunshots (miles
away), the buzz of the streetlights outside, and the all persistent drone of traffic. Nothing else. No
voices.

He sighs, pushes himself up on his good hand, and goes to shower. The nightmares fade, but the
vague unease they caused linger.

***

Showered, dressed, and mostly fed, Peter makes his way to the nearest subway station. And there’s
where he runs into his first problem: how the hell is he going to get to the rich part of town?

Gotham's subway system is a Lovecraftian nightmare knot of lines, transfers, and dead ends that
don’t seem to follow any logical pattern whatsoever. The route to the library from the Bowery is
straightforward. The route to the rich part of town is very much not, and the map is laughably
unhelpful. And, for a bonus, half the lines are currently down for maintenance or renovations. He
has no idea where to go, and no one nearby seems eager to help. The lady standing at the ticket
booth looks ready to murder anyone who speaks to her and the nearby transit cops are people he
avoids on principle. So he does the best thing he can think of.

He stands in front of the subway map and stares at it in blatant confusion. And, just like in New
York, it works. An older man in a suit, wearing a tan overcoat, stops beside him. Everything about
the man screams cop: from the flat haircut to the graying mustache and the way he carries himself.
Not a beat cop, either. Someone higher up in the ranks.

"You lost, son?" he asks.

"Uh, yeah," Peter says, wary of the man. His first experience with Gotham law enforcement hadn't
been a good one. "I've gotta get to Gotham Prep for an entrance exam but...uh."

He gestures towards the map helplessly and the man chuckles.

"The subway's a nightmare right now. Normally I'd say to take the W line, but it's under repair.
Your best bet is the J line, then grabbing a transfer over to the L." He stops and checks his watch.
"You know what, I'm headed that way anyway. Come on, I’ll show you."

He turns and walks towards the nearest train. Peter looks at him, then back at the map, and shrugs.
He might as well take his chances with this old guy. Peter follows him onto the train and grabs a
handhold beside him.

"I’m James Gordon," the man says.

“Peter,” Peter says. “Are the subways usually this, uh...”

“Trashed?” Gordon finishes. “No, not usually. There was a gas attack at the main transit hub.
That’s why everything’s been out of service for so long. It takes a long time to decontaminate these
things.”

“A gas attack?”

“Yeah, the Scarecrow finally made an appearance,” Gordon says, as if that should mean something
to Peter. “Whatever his new formula is, it’s potent and he’s got a lot of it.”

“Oh,” Peter says. “I guess that’s what Nightwing was dealing with a few days back?”

“Nightwing’s been dealing with a lot. So has Red Robin, Signal, Black Bat, and Spoiler. They’ve
all been working to the bone these days.”

Peter stares at him. “Exactly how many superheroes live in this city?”

“Too many and not enough,” Gordon says. The train pulls to a stop, Gordon checks his watch
again. It’s an old analog watch, and one that’s seen years of use. “Come on. Your next train leaves
in five minutes.”

They hurry off of the train, and Gordon guides him over to another terminal. “This one will take
you straight there. It’s the next stop.”

“Right,” Peter says, looking around and committing the place to memory. He’s homeless, but he’d
like to stay inside that firehouse if possible.

"Good luck on your exam, Peter."

"Thanks, Mr. Gordon,” Peter says, jogging towards the benches. He can feel Gordon watching him
for a few seconds before moving on.

Well, at least there’s one nice cop in Gotham, Peter thinks.

***

The train ride passes in a blur. The walk from the subway to Gotham Prep passes by in a similar
manner. The buildings here are modern, gorgeous, and speak to a level of wealth he’ll never see in
his life. He tries to walk like he belongs here, and isn’t sure he pulls it off.

Peter’s a bit out of place at the testing hall, but most of the kids here aren’t dressed any better than
he is (thank god), so he doesn’t automatically stick out like a sore thumb. Most of the kids separate
off into their own cliques and ignore him completely which suits him just fine. He ends up
wandering into the testing hall early and sitting down. He’s been on his feet plenty enough for the
past few days.

Soon enough, the tests are passed out along with a simple calculator, two pencils, and several
sheets of scrap paper. Peter falls back into ‘school’ mode almost immediately, and finishes his test
early. The only part that gives him trouble is History and Literature, which doesn’t surprise him.
Those weren’t exactly his best subjects at Midtown, either.

An alarm goes off and one of the test proctors silences it. “All right, people! Pencils down, chairs
back. Leave your tests where they are. We’ll pick them up. You’ll get a letter about the scholarship
in a few days. Please, leave in an orderly fashion. Thank you.”

Murmurs and mumbling follow the announcement. Peter is quick to take his leave.

***

Two days later, a letter appears in the PO box address to himself and Tony. He pulls it out and
opens it.

Inside is a brief letter:

Dear Mr. Parker,

I am pleased to award you the Thomas and Martha Wayne Scholarship Fund, which includes full
tuition to Gotham Prep and an academic stipend of one hundred dollars a week. Your classes will
begin on September 8, and you will be required to meet with a guidance counselor at least one
week before to select your classes.

Congratulations!

-Bruce Wayne

The letter seems pretty boilerplate, but it’s a massive relief to Peter. He won’t starve for awhile yet,
apparently.

It’s strange, though. Peter’s seen form letters before on Tony’s desk, and all of them have Tony’s
signature printed at the bottom. This letter looks like it was signed by Bruce Wayne himself.

Odd.
 Chapter 4
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Most of the five hundred dollars he stole from Bruce Wayne goes towards his uniforms, and he’s
lucky to get five shirts, two pairs of pants, and a single blazer with Gotham Prep’s logo stitched
across the breast pocket out of it. The fabric isn’t even that good, which annoys him more than it
should. Rich people will pay top dollar for bottom barrel quality, apparently. He and Aunt May
could make better quality uniforms with a sewing machine and a weekend.

He uses the remainder of his cash at a secondhand shop to pick up more clothes and a few
threadbare blankets then visits a generic big box store to pick up a roll of tarp and the cheapest
camp stove he can find, plus camping utensils. The sturdy kind that somehow manage to be three
separate things at once.

Room temperature peanut butter is starting to get stale and depressing as a meal. He portions out a
fraction of what’s left (a whopping $20) to buy a small pot and dry beans and rice. That essentially
wipes out his bank account until the stipend deposit on Friday.

He makes his squatter’s hovel more palatable after that: the tarp is tacked into place in the corner
near the bathroom, creating a small 'room' beneath it. His sleeping bag and blankets are tucked
inside it, with his backpack serving as a pillow. The beans and rice are kept inside the backpack to
keep them out of reach of the mice that live in the walls of the firehouse.

It takes him two days to get his living space in order. It's comfortable enough. The tarp traps in
heat he would otherwise lose, the bag of rice inside his backpack makes a decent enough pillow,
and the extra blankets help soften the otherwise rock hard floor. Not bad.

And then the second worst part of absolute poverty hits him: the absolute boredom and loneliness.

***

As before, the boredom drives him to the rooftops. If he’s going to be lonely, he can be lonely
above the smog of the city where the air doesn't taste like exhaust and sewer gas.

And as before, Nightwing visits him.

“Hey, Pete!” Nightwing says, dropping down on the rooftop. He wanders over and leans against a
rusted HVAC system. “Nice night, huh?”

“Nice enough,” Peter says, standing up from the ledge and walking over towards him. Nightwing
always tenses when Peter wanders too near to it. “How’s your patrol going?”

Nightwing loses just a bit of tension to his shoulders as Peter walks away from the ledge. “It’s been
quiet tonight. I'm bored out of my mind."

"Yeah, me too," Peter says.

They sit in silence for a few minutes before Nightwing turns to him.

"Hey, wanna learn some parkour?" he asks.

Peter grins.

They start simple. Peter's balance is impeccable when he's not balancing himself on one hand. He
takes to Nightwing's lessons like a fish to water, mastering the simpler concepts easily. By the end
of it, he can jump and run over and along obstacles without losing speed. A pretty handy skill to
learn for someone lacking their web shooters. Peter’s speed almost always comes from his webs.
Learning how to keep up that momentum when he’s running is a good idea.

By the end of it, he's exhausted. He hasn't had a workout like this since Titan, and it shows.

Peter flops back against the HVAC system. “Hey, what’s the weirdest thing you’ve fought as a
superhero?”

“Weirdest?” Nightwing squints into the air above Peter’s head, frowning in thought. “If we’re
limiting it to the past, uh, year? Probably the Killicorn.”

Peter looks at him, tilting his head.

“A mutant gorilla unicorn with pink fur,” Nightwing explains, sitting down beside him. "Trust me,
it was an interesting fight."

“I’m almost jealous. I just fight muggers and bike thieves,” Peter says, amused.

“You’d be better off running away and leaving that to me,” Nightwing says. He’s quiet for a
moment, then tilts his head at Peter. “What brings you up here today? You seemed a little down.”

“I guess I’m a little homesick,” Peter admits. "Not that it matters. I can't go home."

Nightwing watches him, and Peter can all but hear the man weighing his words. “You can’t go
home?”

“I’m not sure there’s even a home for me to go home to,” Peter amends. “Outside of Gotham, that
is.”

At least, not in this universe.

Peter shakes his head. “Not that it matters. I’m here. I’ll be here for awhile. I just miss New York.”

Nightwing is silent for a few seconds. “What do you miss most about home?”

“Right now?” Peter asks, thinking. His immediate answer ‘getting a hug from May and sleeping in
my own bed’ is a touch too honest. He’s afraid if he admits that, he’ll break down in tears, and
that’s the last thing he wants to do in front of Nightwing. “Delmar’s sandwiches.”

“Yeah?”

“Delmar ran this little bodega in my neighborhood. Best sandwiches in Queens. I’d get a number
five after school, all smushed down flat, and eat it while wandering around the city,” Peter says.
God, he misses those sandwiches. “It was just the right balance between meat, peppers, and oil.
Barely any oil and vinegar, but a ton of peppers and meat.”

Nightwing tilts his head, amused. “Maybe I’ll look him up the next time I’m in New York.”

“You should,” Peter says. He stands up and stretches. “I better go. I’m wiped.”

“Good night, Peter.”

“Later, Nightwing.”

***

The stipend deposits into his account that Friday and unfortunately it doesn't go as far as he'd
hoped. It's enough for food for his higher metabolism, trips to a laundromat, and a few toiletries,
but only barely. It becomes very clear that his budget margins will be razor thin for his stay in
Gotham.

He skips a meal or a two to pick up some electronics. The best part about starving is that you can
get used to it. That also happens to be the worst part, but whatever. He'll live. Rice and beans for
every meal is starting to get boring anyway.

He gets lucky and finds an electronics shop near the firehouse. He picks up a small solar panel, a
soldering iron, wires, a charging cable, a battery pack and a rechargeable LED lamp. It's enough to
give some light, but the battery is cheap and not efficient in the least. Even when he tightens his
belt, skips a few meals, and shells out for a supposedly top of the line battery, he's sorely
disappointed. It lasts four hours, and sometimes not even then.

It's better than nothing, though. And the light brightens his mood and makes the place look less
dreary.

Another week passes him by. He uses his stipend for an airtight bucket to keep his food inside. The
bucket doubles as a stool, which he uses at the desk in the dilapidated office. Bored and terribly
lonely, he takes apart the broken radio and begins to fix it.

It's vintage, with smooth wood and chrome along the outside. The receiver inside is busted beyond
repair, but that's an easy fix with his leftover electronics.

It's actually soothing working on a project like this. It reminds him of the Compound, and Tony's
lab, and the memory forms in his mind.

"Got a project for you, Underoos."

"Am I doomed to have that nickname forever?"

"Yes. Project time: build me a radio."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously. I want to see how your brain works before I give you access to all the highly advanced
lab tools."

“Okay, okay. I’m going old school with it.”

“You’re going old school on a project in a futurist’s workshop?”

“Yes.”

“This is because I called you Underoos, isn’t it.”

“Also yes.”

The memory is a familiar one. It's the first step Tony took to really become Peter's mentor, and the
first time they found true common ground between them. Tony had been nervous and unsure, but
encouraging. When he realized Peter had some talent in engineering--that his webshooters weren’t
just some lucky fluke--he fully came into his element. The nervousness disappeared, and the tips
and tricks of the trade came out in full force.

They spent hours on that radio. Not because it was a difficult task, but because they would both be
sidetracked by conversation and the different tricks they used in their own separate processes. Peter
had given him that radio at the end of the day, and Tony had kept it on his desk in the lab. It’s
probably still there, gathering dust.

Peter sinks into the memory with ease. It seems clearer than usual. Sharper. And he's pretty sure
Dr. Strange, Sam Wilson, Bucky Barnes, and other various people weren't there at the time. They
crowd the edges of the memory, some watching curiously, others facing away as if to give him
privacy. It’s hard to focus on them, so he doesn’t bother trying.

He finishes with the radio by sunset, snapping out of his work groove, and leans back to look over
the result. What had been a scratched, broken mess is now an art deco style radio with the word
Stark across the front of it. He turns it on, and the Stark lights up, flickering in time with the static.
He fiddles with the dial and finds an oldies station that seems to switch between genres at will; one
moment it’s 80s pop, the next it’s 90s rock, and at one point it switches straight to 40s big band
music.

It's not his mp3 player, but it is nice to hear some music again, even if he only hears one song for
every five ads that play over the air. He leaves it on that channel and listens to it while he gets
ready for school tomorrow. He needs to get up early if he wants to catch the train on time.

***

In Midtown, Peter is known as a loser; a dork among dorks. His clothes are unfashionable at best,
his movements awkward (first by nature and then because he overthinks trying to look normal),
and he carries a reputation for being a flake. Still, he can blend into a crowd among his fellow
students and no one gives him a second look or thought.

In Gotham Prep, he sticks out like a sore thumb. Sure, there's a uniform, but that just means flashes
of wealth shift to the quality of fabric for the uniform, then jewelry, then--the most obvious show
of wealth--shoes.

His shoes, scuffed and a dirt tinged grey, are out of place among the polished leather shoes and
flashy brand new sneakers others are wearing. That's to say nothing of his obvious hand-me-down
uniform jacket, too big pants, and loose shirt. He looks downright shabby compared to everyone
else. Even the teachers look down their nose at him, and a fair few of the professors don't look
much better than him. For them, it's acceptable eccentricity or rebellion. For him, it's poverty. And
there’s nothing more offensive to the rich and well to do than poverty.

And that doesn’t even touch his accent or the fact that he has absolutely nothing in common with
any of the students here. He’s the weird poor kid with a low class accent wandering around halls
full of people discussing what they should name their third yacht. People have literally turned their
nose up at him as he moves past them.

“Do not show weakness to them, child.”

Another one of those strange thoughts-as-a-voice. This time, it sounds like Loki Odinson.

“Stand up straight, little spider.” This one is younger, female, Wakandan. Princess Shuri. “You're
smarter than all of them. You belong here.”
Yeah, except he quite literally doesn't. Still, he loses his self conscious slouch, straightening up
into a confident stride he's seen Tony use before, and walks towards his locker. It opens easily, and
he stashes his backpack inside just as the first bell sounds off.

Right. He can do this.

***

School is school. By turns boring, exhausting, and interesting. The only real difference in Gotham
Prep is that he doesn’t have Ned nearby.

His first wake up call happens in history class.

“All right, who can tell me the year the Justice League was formed?” the teacher asks. He’s a stern
looking man, bald on top, with thick grey eyebrows and a near perpetual glare on his face. “Mr.
Parker?”

Peter snaps out of his post lunch daze, suddenly aware of every other student staring at him
expectantly. “I---sorry, what?”

“The Justice League, Mr. Parker. When did it form.”

Oh god. The Justice League doesn’t sound so different from the Avengers, really, and it is a
parallel universe, so maybe-- “Uh. 2012?”

There’s a brief pause, and then the teacher sighs. Snickers erupt around the room. “No. Who has
the answer? Mr. Bright?”

“Mr. Parker, I want an essay on the Justice League on my desk by Friday. Three pages minimum.
Single spaced.”

Great.

***

The cafeteria is less cafeteria and more like a fancy buffet. It smells heavenly. He covers his tray
in food; roast beef, rolls, steamed vegetables, mashed potatoes, and anything he can get his hands
on. It earns him more than a few funny looks, but he’s too hungry to care. Frankly, he’s already a
loser in the eyes of most of the people here. He might as well be a well fed loser.

He doesn’t bother trying to sit with any groups, opting for a table in the back corner away from
everyone else. It firmly marks him in the friendless loser strata of the school population, but
whatever. He wouldn’t even know how to begin a conversation with most of the people in this
school anyway.

And it’s easier to sneak dinner rolls into his jacket pockets when no one’s looking at him.

***

Homeroom is right after lunch. He opts for a pass to the computer lab and starts looking up the
Justice League.

He should’ve investigated this further. There’s no Avengers, no Battle of New York, no Sokovia
Accords. People aren’t enhanced, they’re metahumans (which is objectively cooler in Peter’s
opinion), and there isn’t quite as much tension among the population over them. Which is probably
why there’s no Sokovia Accords. Superman’s had such a lasting, positive impression that the
government has taken a hands off approach for the moment.

Interesting. He should probably figure out a way to call that guy someday. If only to let him know
that Peter’s not dead.

For the first time in his life, Peter becomes just as interested in history as he usually is for
chemistry or physics. He prints off as many articles as he can find and even manages to sketch out
an outline for his paper. He’ll write out his report by hand and type it out during homeroom during
the week.

The rest of his day is, fortunately, boring and peaceful. His only real trial is staying awake after
having a full meal during lunch.

***

He crawls into his firehouse with a massive sigh of relief and shucks off his blazer as soon as he’s
inside. He grabs one of the bread rolls he smuggled home from lunch and starts to gnaw on it while
getting ready to start on his report. The train ride is a long one, and the sun sets early in Gotham, so
he’s left with his tiny lamp sooner rather than later. He's only halfway done with his paper when
the LED lamp he put together blinks out and plunges him into darkness, too.

"Seriously, what is with the tech here?" he mutters as the lamp flickers. "It's a battery pack. It
should last twelve hours. Even the cheapest knock off uses some of Tony's design--"

He stops short, a sudden realization hitting him.

There's no Tony Stark in this universe, and aliens haven't invaded and left their tech behind for
someone to tinker with and reverse engineer. Of course their power tech isn't what he's used to. He
sighs and rubs his forehead. All of the tech here is probably two decades or more behind.

"Right. No Tony, no cheap and reliable energy sources," he says. He stares at his unfinished report,
then looks outside.

The streetlight outside is still on. One of those big sodium bulb lights that he's only seen in the
oldest parts of New York. The light it gives off is a strange green tinged white, washing out
everything beneath it and somehow making the street seem more sinister and lonely than if it were
full dark.

But it's working. And he needs to finish his report.

He grabs his things, shrugs on his coat, and steps into the street. The wind hits him, hard and cold,
and he ducks against it as he moves across the street. He sits beneath the lamp and starts on his
homework again.

The wind picks up, and the air becomes downright frigid after the sun fully sets. His hand is
trembling and pale by the time he finishes, and his teeth are chattering. But he finished. And he's
honestly tired enough that he might sleep tonight. Bonus.

A thought enters the back of his mind, and sounds a lot like the Winter Soldier to him.

“Go back inside,” he says. “It's too cold out here for you, kid.”

He's officially cold enough to hallucinate.

Well, the guy’s right. It is too cold out here for him. He shuffles back inside the fire station and
tucks himself under the blankets, coat, shoes and all. The tarp has done its work; the wind doesn't
quite reach his sleeping area, though a brief gust stirs the edges of it now and then.

When the shivering ends, he falls into a restless doze. A few minutes later, red energy in the shape
of a hand materializes above him, presses against his forehead, and he enters true sleep for the first
time since he woke up in that horrible machine.

***

His sleep is horrific. He manages (because what other choice does he have), but it's rough. The
cement floor is freezing, the wind cuts right through his uniform blazer, and he spends most of the
night shivering.

And when he sleeps, he dreams of death and failure and dust.

Tony's impaled, crushed, turned to ash the way Peter did--every form of death his mind can dream
of. Sometimes Thanos stabs Peter. Sometimes the Guardians, sometimes Aunt May or Ned or--

At one point, he sees Star Lord crushed by rocks from the moon Thanos threw at Tony. Peter stares
at his body, and is horrified when Star Lord snaps awake and glares at him.

"This isn't how it happened! You saved us!"

Peter freezes, stuck in a whirlwind of confusion and guilt. More voices shout around him, though
he can only see Star Lord.

Star Lord's voice, distant and upset, cuts in. "Do something to help him, man! Figure it out!"

"Spaceman's right," Falcon says. "He can't keep going like this."

"Fine," Dr. Strange says.

Peter’s nightmare freezes, then washes away in a wave of green light. Peter’s left in the dark. He
whimpers, half asleep, tossing and turning, fingers bunching the thick fabric of his blanket--

Wait. Blanket?

He opens his eyes and looks down. The blanket is thick. Heavy, red and warm--and not a blanket at
all. It's a cloak.

He knows this cloak. It's Dr. Strange's friend.

When he looks up, he finds he isn't in the firehouse. He's in a library. Bookshelves line the walls,
stretching up to the ceiling, every inch of them weighed down by thick, leather bound tomes.

"Mr. Parker. Welcome," a voice says, deep and rich and familiar.

"Dr. Strange?" Peter asks, sitting up and rubbing his forehead. The cloak follows his movements,
keeping him warm, and he's forever grateful for that. "Where---is this real?"

"In a sense. This is a dream, and like a dream, it will fade when you wake up," Strange replies.
"The others and I thought you deserved a decent night's sleep. We won't be able to do it every
night, but we can intervene every now and then."

"The others?"
"Myself, the Guardians, a certain number of the Avengers, King T'challa, Princess Shuri, Director
Fury, Maria Hill, and--"

"Why do you bother wasting your breath? This is already a waste of your power, sorcerer. The
child will not remember a moment of this when he wakes," another voice says, sneering and bored.

A man steps out from the shadows, dressed in green robes. He has one of the larger leather bound
tomes in his hands.

Peter stares at Loki. Strange only sighs.

"And Loki Odinson, Prince of Asgard."

"Charmed, though we've already met," Loki says, distracted by whatever book he has open in front
of him. "Your history on the Anshega is laughably incorrect, sorcerer."

"Why are you here again?" Dr. Strange asks.

"Because I want to be here, and while your powers are admittedly impressive, your skill leaves a
lot to be desired. Go on," he says, waving a dismissive hand. "Speak to the spider. I won't
interrupt."

The exasperated look on Strange's face mimics Tony's annoyed expression so well that Peter is
briefly thrown.

"As I was saying, Peter," Strange says. "You're safe here. You'll wake in the morning, refreshed
and comfortable. We're all going to take turns with this."

"But I won't remember?"

"Not completely. You can hear us and react to us on some subconscious level, but you won’t
remember it. Not until you begin to learn how to use the stone."

“Is that something I should learn?” Peter asks.

“Perhaps,” Dr. Strange says slowly. “There would be consequences. I wouldn’t recommend it at
the present time.”

“Well, you’re the wizard. You’d know.”

“Sorcerer,” Strange corrects. “At any rate, you’re safe. You’re warm. You will wake rested. Until
then, your dreams will seem much more lucid than normal.”

“So, I’m asleep in real life, but awake here.” Peter thinks, looking around the library. It feels as real
as anything, but there's a subtle sheen to it around the far corners. "What should I do until
morning?"

"Whatever you like. You’ll just be trapped inside a pocket realm of our own making for the
duration."

Peter looks at the nearest bookshelf. "Do you have a copy of The Lord of the Rings?"

Strange chuckles, and the book appears in Peter's hands. Loki looks up from his own book,
frowning curiously. "Enjoy, Mr. Parker."

***
He finishes his report early, and turns it in ahead of time. The permanent frown on the history
teacher’s expression softens by a microscopic amount after that. Peter becomes less of a target for
hard questions, too. Which is nice.

The rest of his classes pass by as usual. He’s taking a range of normal classes this semester:
physical science, chemistry, literature, modern history, and gym. His chemistry class only meets
twice a week during block periods, but he manages to start the process for creating his web fluid,
which is nice.

He has yet to make a single friend. Or to be acknowledged by anyone but his teachers. That isn’t
surprising. His only real friend in Gotham is a guy in tights that leaps off of buildings for fun, who
would also probably take him to jail if he knew Peter was a thief.

School does lend a sort of stability to his life that he needs, so he can’t complain too much.

***

The stipend deposits at the end of the week. Peter could go get a decent dinner somewhere, or
more electronics to toy with, but riding the train and walking several blocks from the subway to the
school has worn him out. It’s also after dark, and muggers always become braver when the sun
sets. The last thing he needs is to lose a meal to a group of assholes hiding inside one of the many
dark alleys that pepper the Bowery.

Instead of dinner, he opts for the rooftops. And he’s not surprised when Nightwing makes another
appearance.

Nightwing swings up to the rooftop and drops down beside him. He offers Peter a sandwich
wrapped in parchment paper, pressed flat. “It’s probably not Delmar quality, but...”

Peter could hug the guy. “I’m not complaining. Where’d you get this?”

“I made it,” Nightwing says easily, pulling out his own sandwich. "The sky's clear enough that we
might see stars tonight. Oracle says there's a meteor shower that's supposed to start soon.”

“You think we’ll be able to see them in the city?”

“Definitely. This is supposed to be a big one. My brother’s been nerding out about it for weeks,”
Nightwing says, taking a bit out of his sandwich. “He’s had his telescope set out for hours.”

“Your brother?”

“Red Robin,” Nightwing says. “You probably haven’t seen him yet. You might.”

“I’m sensing a bird theme here.”

“It’s a good theme,” Sam says, distantly.

Nightwing grins. “Birds are cool.”

Peter shakes his head, turning to his sandwich. It isn’t Delmar quality, but it’s damn close. And it’s
one of the nicest things anyone has done for him since coming to Gotham. He takes his time eating
it.

They sit together on the rooftop, watching the meteor shower flash above the city.

For the moment, Peter knows peace.

Chapter End Notes

In the original draft, Peter didn't meet Nightwing until chapter seven. But that made a
few of the later chapters less interesting.
 Chapter 5
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Another week passes without comment. Peter finds himself in a minor crisis when school lets out
for the weekend. He loses access to the biggest meal of his day, which is starting to become an
issue. He’s already losing weight; his metabolism is still churning away at a high speed, even
though he’s learned to ignore the hunger. He can’t afford to buy the amount of food it would take
to keep himself fed. There simply isn’t enough money left for it after using the laundromat and dry
cleaners (of course the stupid uniform needs dry cleaning, ugh). He does have some savings, if one
could consider the spare change left over from each week so far--a whopping $1.97--to be savings.

He tried dumpster diving, but that didn’t get him much. The first dumpster he found was so foul he
was gagging from three feet away. And he kept hearing voices around himself when he got close to
it, distracting him, though he didn’t see anyone. Still, the entire experience was enough to put him
off the idea for now. He felt oddly judged by the whole experience.

Fortunately, he has an idea.

Peter leaves the firehouse Saturday afternoon and finds his way back into the heart of Crime Alley,
back at the restaurant where he met Omar and Sophia. The walk there is as hair-raising as it was
when he first stumbled through it, but he manages to look just miserable and poor enough to avoid
the attention of the gangs loitering on the street. None of them even give him a second look. Thank
god.

He slips into the alley leading towards the restaurant and knocks on the door. It swings open
almost immediately; Omar stands with a baseball bat in one hand and a butcher’s knife in the other,
clearly ready for a fight. He freezes when he sees Peter standing at the door, and a very brief, very
awkward silence passes between them.

“I, uh, I’m staying in town for awhile longer, and I was wondering if you needed a dishwasher on
the weekend?” Peter asks after a moment. “Even if it’s just for a meal or two instead of money--”

Omar sets the bat down, and waves Peter inside. “Actually, yeah, we could use some help on
weekends. The dinner rush is always brutal. Are tips okay?”

“Well, yeah, sure--” Peter starts.

“When can you start?”

“Now,” Peter says.

Omar tosses an apron his way. “Let’s get you set up then.”

Peter’s worked before; oddjobs, mostly. Manning a dishwasher at a busy restaurant is new to him,
but he picks up the particulars of it quickly. It’s hard, miserable work in a room thick with steam
and humidity. By the end of the day, he’s exhausted, but fifty five dollars richer. Not exactly a
great exchange rate for six hours of backbreaking work, but it’s money he sorely needs.

Omar meets him at the door, just as exhausted as Peter. He presses a carryout bag into Peter’s hand.
“Here. You did great today, Peter. Can you make it tomorrow?”
Peter almost says no until he smells the food. It’s freshly made, and the scent of it is enough to
make his stomach growl. “Yeah. Absolutely.”

“Good. See you tomorrow, Peter,” Omar says, smiling.

Peter makes it home, showers, and sits down hard near his bed. He looks at the carryout bag, half
asleep already, and wonders if he should bother with food at all. He’s clean, he’s tired, and he’s not
even that hungry anymore, really. The food will keep until tomorrow.

He’s just about to fall asleep slouched against the wall when something nudges his shoulder. Hard.

“Nuh uh, kid,” Sam says. “You need the food. Eat.”

Peter lets out a frustrated whine, but stirs awake. He did just put him six hours of hard labor for this
meal. He might as well enjoy it. And he hasn’t had anything to eat since breakfast (cold beans and
rice, ugh).

He demolishes his meal after that first bite, setting aside the empty cartons to throw away later. He
crawls into his bed and flops across it bonelessly; full and exhausted. He’s asleep in minutes.

***

The next day is identical to the last; he spends hours working the dish pit, gets a meal and another
fifty dollars for his trouble, and walks home exhausted. His wrist is starting to give him trouble
again; it aches and throbs in time with his heartbeat. He might have to buy a splint for it at some
point.

He takes his meal to the roof this time. If he goes into the firehouse, he’ll just fall asleep. And he
doesn’t want to keep startling awake in the middle of his meal like last night. Honestly, it felt like
someone was shaking him awake every five seconds.

“We were,” Mantis says. “It was kind of fun!”

Peter plops down on the edge of the roof and starts in on his meal. It’s an apple curry, vegetarian,
and oddly spicy. It’s quickly becoming his favorite dish at the restaurant. He has to eat it carefully
with his good hand.

He doesn’t react when he hears someone land on the roof behind him. He turns to face Nightwing,
grinning.

“Hey, Nightwing--” He pauses. “Oh, you’re not Nightwing.”

The man standing in the middle of the roof, hands resting on his knees, is wearing a bright yellow
suit that stands out against the Gotham night’s hazy orange glow. There’s a bat symbol across his
chest that seems to draw in light. It takes Peter a moment to recognize him from the descriptions
he’s heard from school and the subway. This is the Signal. And he looks like he’s gone ten rounds
against a gorilla.

“Uh, hey, man, are you okay?” Peter asks.

“What? Yeah. Just, you know, a little winded--” Signal says, turning to face him. He freezes for a
moment, looking around Peter in frank confusion.

“Can he see us?” Sam asks.

“I think he can,” Dr. Strange answers slowly.

“His eyes are following us,” Bucky says.

Peter tilts his head, clueless. “Are you sure you're okay?”

Signal pauses for a moment, then shakes his head, muttering under his breath. “I’m not doing the
Ghostbusters thing tonight, I refuse.” He straightens up and looks at Peter. “Yeah, man, I’m fine.
Pulling a double shift tonight, and I’m feeling it.”

Peter decides to politely ignore the ‘Ghostbusters’ comment. Technically, a normal human being
wouldn’t be able to hear it anyway. “Oh. You want some food? You look like you could use a
break.”

Signal pauses for a moment, obviously debating it, then shrugs and walks over to sit beside him.
He perks up when he catches the scent of the food Peter hands him. “Is this from Omar and
Sophie’s place?”

“Yeah, I work there now,” Peter says.

“Nice," Signal says, dropping down on the ledge beside Peter. "I guess I could take a lunch
break.”

They eat in silence for a few moments. Signal demolishes his food in minutes, always looking at
Peter from the corner of his eye.

“So, why is Gotham’s daytime superhero working the night shift?”

Signal sighs. “Because shit’s hit the fan in a bad way. Something’s happening in Metropolis, and
some new crew has moved into town. They’re hitting all of us at once. It’s almost coordinated. B-
man’s losing sleep over it. Oh, and Catwoman is back in town.”

Peter tilts his head, thinking. “Oh.”

“Plus, no one’s heard from Wonder Woman in weeks,” Signal adds. “That’s got everyone on edge.
The League is losing it.”

“What?” Peter asks, straightening up. “Why? Where is she?”

An explosion sets off in the city. A big one, judging by the fireball that lights up the sky. Signal is
on his feet in a heartbeat. “Shit. That was Arkham. Listen, I gotta go. And you--”

He turns to face Peter, freezes for a moment, then shakes his head. “Stay inside, all right? The
city’s dangerous.”

He leaps off of the ledge and swings away into the night. It’s easier to trace his path. Peter watches
him, disturbed, and then crawls down and heads back into the firehouse.

He doesn’t fall asleep for a very long time that night.

***

Days pass by and grow colder, so Peter upgrades his transit pass for bus use and starts to catch the
bus outside the subway. The stop he needs is only a mile away from the school. The problem is
that he has to sprint from the subway to the bus stop in order to catch it in time. Gotham's public
transit is laughably inefficient. He’s starting to miss New York’s subway more and more by the
day.

The driver is a big man, soft around the middle, with a dour expression almost permanently fixed
on his face. Peter goes out of his way to leave the man alone. The only thing he says to the man is
a quiet thank you on his way off the bus. It pays off. The man keeps the bus at his stop for an extra
thirty seconds after a week or two, and Peter’s able to make the last leg of his trip in a warmer
environment.

One day, when the autumn rain starts to come down hard, the bus driver stops him before he
leaves.

"It's raining like hell out there, kid. You got an umbrella?" he asks. He pauses, takes another look at
Peter. “Or a coat?”

"What? Oh, no, sir." Peter looks outside. "It's just a little rain. I'll be fine."

"Bullshit. You'll catch your death of cold out there," the man replies gruffly. He reaches over to
some compartment in his cubicle and pulls out a brand new umbrella and a scarf. "Here. Take this."

Peter, startled, takes it. It's the first thing he's been given since the man and woman at the
restaurant fed him. He's taken off guard. "Thank you. I'll, uh, bring it back tomorrow. Promise."

The bus driver watches him, frowning. "Just keep it, kid. Hurry up and get to class. The storm's
gettin' worse and that thing won't save you from the hail."

***

He makes it inside, and he’s only half soaked. The school, sporting marble floors and polished
wood halls, is chilly enough to keep him awake. That keeps him from catching a lecture or a snarky
comment from his teachers, but his clothes never quite dry out. They’re damp throughout the day.
They cheap out on the heat even in rich kid schools, apparently.

He suffers through it, and he manages just fine. But by lunch, something feels off. It isn’t his
spider sense. It isn’t anything he can put a name to, not yet. He puzzles over it as the last class of
the day comes to a close and the bell sounds off.

He doesn't realize what's wrong, why he feels so off, until he realizes he can see fully out of his left
eye. He tests his eyesight, closing one, then the other while focusing on his thumb. There's an
empty spot on his thumb when he looks at it with his left eye. Not darkness. Just a strange sort of
staticy nothing. He sighs. An ocular migraine. Just what he needs.

This could be bad. He doesn’t have a support network in Gotham. He can’t text a 911 over to May.
He can’t beg Karen to call Happy or Tony. He’s on his own. And he’s going to be fully blind and
in excruciating pain within an hour, if he’s lucky. If he isn’t, it’ll hit him when he’s halfway home.

"You need to get somewhere dark and quiet immediately," Shuri says.

"Do you get these often?" Dr. Strange asks.

"Kid looks like he’s going to keel over," Bucky mutters.

Their words echo across his subconscious, and he winces, reflexively thinking at...someone. Them.
Whoever that is. It's hard to focus. It’s hard to see.

Please be quiet, it hurts, he thinks.

They fall silent and still. Peter relaxes a tiny bit. He can still hear the electricity running through
the walls and the thumping of a dozen heartbeats up and down the hall. He does his best to wind
around them on his way to the exit.

He bumps into someone near the lockers, roughly shoving them into their locker as he stumbles
past them.

"Hey, what the fuck!" a voice yells. The sound is almost enough to drop Peter to his knees. "What
the fuck is your problem, new kid?"

"Shut up," Peter grits out.

"What?" They sound absolutely furious now. A warning flash of his spider senses kicks in and he
deftly shifts away from them as they reach out to grab him. “Hey--”

“Not now,” Peter says shortly. He hates being rude, but god, he can’t handle hearing their voice
right now. He shoves past them and heads towards the main doors at a trot.

He doesn’t hear anyone behind him. Which is good. The last thing he needs is to catch a beating
from some rich kid because he bumped into them. He’ll find them later and apologize. Right now,
he heads straight for the bus stop. Normally he would walk to the subway station, but today that’s
out of the question.

***

The train is absolute torture. The blind spot in his left eye is gradually growing, and there’s a streak
across his right eye now. He feels clammy and shaky. He’s sick enough that people on the subway
become visibly concerned. He must look absolutely horrible if random Gothamites break through
their infamous standoffishness to reach out to a stranger.

“You look like hell,” a man says beside him. He's tall, broad shouldered, and there's a streak of
premature grey in his hair. Combined with the leather jacket and red hood, he looks intimidating as
hell. There’s an air of restrained violence and brooding fury to the man. Normally Peter would
avoid a bruiser like this, but the only open seat was next to the guy. If the guy knocks him
unconscious, it’d be worth the concussion.

Peter, already reeling from the sound of the subway's brakes screeching beneath his feet, sways.
"Migraine. Sorry. I won’t puke on you, promise."

The man is still for a moment, then pulls something out of his pocket. "Gimme your hand."

"What?"

"Just do it," the man retorts, annoyed.

Peter hesitates, but puts his hand out towards the man. He presses a pair of earplugs into Peter's
palm.

"Put those in," the man says. "And hold still."

Peter stares at the earplugs dumbly, then quickly puts them in. They don't block all sound, but they
block enough of it that Peter relaxes.

The man gently slides a pair of sunglasses over Peter's eyes. They're too big for him, but they work.
Peter lets out a quiet sigh of relief when the train’s harsh lights are dimmed.
"Thanks," Peter says. The subway screeches to a halt, the hydraulics letting out a hiss of air. With
the earplugs in, it’s almost bearable.

"Yeah, whatever," the man mutters, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket as he heads for
the exit. "Just get home."

Peter plans to do exactly that. The subway is much more bearable with the earplugs and
sunglasses.

Even with the earplugs and sunglasses, the sights, sounds, and smells of the city are almost too
much. He crawls into the firehouse, leaves his backpack in the middle of the room, and crawls into
his bed. He buries himself in blankets in an effort to block out the ambient noise of the city,
whimpering when a truck blasts its horn on the street just outside the firehouse.

"Enough," a woman says, her voice thick with a Sokovian accent. She sounds close. Like she's
right beside him.

Peter opens his eyes to try and find her. He sees a hand, glowing red, hovering above him. It
reaches down and taps his forehead.

The pain washes away immediately, replaced by a bone deep exhaustion. Peter slumps in relief,
closing his eyes.

When he opens them again, he’s in the Avengers Compound. The lights are dim, the windows are
dark, and the only sound he can hear comes from the kitchen. Peter sits up from the couch,
disoriented, and then lays back down when the room starts to tilt. He looks around, and realizes
that he’s not alone.

“Rest,” Wanda Maximoff says to him. She looks worn down, grief stricken. There’s an air of
sadness that hovers around her, thick enough to make his own heart clench. A casual wave of her
hand lifts the blankets up and over him. “I made a safe place for both of us.”

“Oh,” he says, caught in a post-migraine brain fog. He snuggles down into the blankets and couch.
“Thank you.”

Wanda doesn’t answer. She focuses on the kitchen, and specifically, the man inside the kitchen.
It’s Vision, fussing over a meal and humming to himself. Peter remembers this; he had spent the
night at the Compound, helping Vision perfect his cooking skills.

Wanda watches the memory with rapt attention.

Peter sleeps.

***

For a time, his life hits a shaky sort of equilibrium. He goes to school, does homework, snoops
around the rougher part of town, picks up the odd shift at the restaurant for Omar and Sophia, and
does his best to blend in. He still has a nagging feeling that he's not the only person to pop into this
universe from his own; whenever he thinks about it, his spider senses kick up ever so slightly.

And through it all, he ponders a way to get home. His mind ticks away at it in the back of his
mind, steady and constant, picking at theories, ideas, and experiments to test.

He keeps all of the promising ideas in a notebook, which isn't ideal, but it's all he has. If he was
back home, he'd break into Tony's lab, spool up FRIDAY's lab settings and start flinging models
around.

In Gotham, he doesn't even have a cell phone. He barely has a calculator.

One more roadblock among many. He can save up enough to buy electronics, but finding a place to
build things will be difficult.

Well, that’s a problem for another time.

His savings grow. And he starts to make a few purchases with the cash. Better tools, cloth and
leather, a sewing kit. Capsules. A first aid kit. Goggles.

It’s slow going, but he knew it would be from the start. He has time.

***

His day is going well until his physical science class. The last class of his day.

“Mr. Parker, meet me after class, please,” the teacher says, his tone flat, unimpressed, and
bordering on belligerent.

Great, Peter thinks. Did he forget to turn in an assignment? “Uh, got it, sir.”

The teacher huffs, turns around, and begins his lecture. Peter frowns, baffled. He keeps his head
down. He doesn’t bother anyone. What did he do wrong?

“Uh, got it, sir,” a sneering voice says behind him, followed by a paper ball bouncing off of his
head.

Peter rolls his eyes and ignores it.

"Kids are the worst," Bucky mutters at the edge of his mind.

Peter focuses on the class, wondering what he could have possibly done to earn the professor’s ire.
When the last bell sounds, the rest of the students get up and leave. A few of the larger boys--the
ones sitting behind him--sneer at him on their way back.

What the hell is their problem, Peter wonders. He stays in his seat, waiting to be called to the front
by the teacher. That doesn’t happen until the principal, a short man with a serious face and
impeccable suit, strolls into the room.

“Mr. Parker. Up here,” the professor says.

Peter stands up, grabs his backpack, and walks up to the front desk, taking a seat near the teacher’s
desk. “Is something wrong?”

“I wanted to discuss your test score, Mr. Parker. Did you know that you are the only student to get
a perfect score on this test? That hasn’t happened since I began teaching at this academy ten years
ago.”

Peter allows himself to relax. Okay. He can stammer through this just fine. “Oh. I thought I was in
trouble--”

“You are,” the teacher says flatly, looking up at him. “A perfect score on this test is only possible
if you’re a certifiable genius, which you are not. I don’t tolerate cheating. The principal is here to
discuss ending your scholarship.”
“I---what?”

“You heard me. How did you do it? Cell phone? Did you break into my office to memorize the
answers? Hm?”

Peter stares at him in disbelief, utterly dumbstruck.

An older voice-thought, as dry and as unimpressed as the teacher--he’s heard the other voices call
this one Nick--says, “Did this man just accuse Stark's kid of cheating?”

“I think he did,” Shuri replies, just as unimpressed.

The principal clears his throat, drawing Peter’s eyes towards him. “Answer his questions please,
Mr. Parker.”

“I didn’t cheat,” Peter says flatly.

The teacher scoffs. “Please. You? Getting a perfect score? Stop wasting my time. As I said, no one
has gotten a perfect score in my class.”

“That says more about your failure to teach than anything else,” Peter snaps, his temper coming
loose for the first time since he came to Gotham. Between the lack of sleep, the constant hunger,
and the backbreaking work from his job on the weekend, it’s a surprise he’s managed to keep it as
long as he has. “I don’t cheat.”

“No? Guess we’ll do this the hard way, then,” the teacher sneers. He pulls out a test from his desk
and sets it down in front of Peter. “If you can get a perfect score on this test, I’ll be inclined to
believe you, and I’ll withdraw my complaint. I’m sure a genius like yourself can handle this.”

Peter looks at the test. It’s far more difficult than the one he supposedly ‘cheated’ on; this is senior
AP level physics that he hadn’t touched at Midtown. The questions are far more complex than
what they’ve been studying, using concepts he hasn’t been taught in any school.

It’s a good thing he learned physics from Tony Stark.

“Fine. Give me a pen.”

“You’ll want a pencil for this--”

“No. Give me a pen. I don’t make mistakes, unlike you,” Peter says, letting his temper get the best
of him.

The teacher scowls, but hands him a pen. “Roll up your sleeves. I want to make sure you don’t
have anything stashed inside them. You have an hour starting from the moment you put your name
on the test.”

Peter rolls up his sleeves and takes the pen. He starts the test and focuses on each problem,
working methodically through each one using the tips and tricks Tony taught him during his
internship days. He finishes it and sets the pen down.

There is not one scratched out answer on the paper.

“They didn’t even bother to make the test difficult,” Shuri sniffs.

“Thirty minutes? That’s awfully quick,” the teacher drawls, taking the test. “Let’s see how badly
you failed.”
They sit in silence while the teacher grades the test. His self assured smirk slowly drops away as he
goes down the paper. After fifteen minutes, he looks up at Peter, blinking in astonishment.

Peter stares back at him, defiant.

“Well?” the principal asks. “How did he do?”

“He, uh. He aced it. There isn’t one mistake,” the teacher says numbly. “I...but--”

“Well, then I see no reason why his scholarship should end,” the principal says easily. He looks at
Peter. “Thank you for staying late to clear this up for us, Mr. Parker. You’re dismissed.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Peter says, rolling his sleeves down and snatching up his backpack. He shrugs it
on and stalks down the hall out of the school.

He’s missed his bus; he’ll have to walk across town to get back to the fire station now.

Above him, the clouds rumble, and rain starts to fall. He growls in frustration, rubbing his eyes,
and stalks down the street.

***

Unseen by Peter, the dusted walk with him.

"I don't get it," Star Lord says, frowning back at the school. "Why'd they do that? He’s not a bad
kid. He does school stuff."

"Because he is different from them, and that is something they cannot bear," Loki answers. "The
mentors will leave him be for now, but his peers will not. He's proven himself worthy to their
instructors. They will take it as a threat."

"Sounds like you've lived that life," Shuri says.

"It isn't unfamiliar to me. The child should prepare himself.”

“It’s a little strange to hear you worry about the kid,” Nick Fury says.

Loki shoots a venomous look his way. “My wellbeing is unfortunately tied to this idiot child. His
continued survival is to my benefit.”

“He can handle himself,” Bucky says idly, walking alongside Peter. He does that often, along with
Shuri and Sam. "Kid’s a lot like Steve."

“Let’s hope that’s true,” Nick Fury says. “From what I’ve seen, Gotham could use a bit of red and
blue.”

***

It’s late by the time he gets back to the firehouse. The sun has already gone down, and the air is
growing colder by the minute. He’ll have to move fast if he intends to finish his homework before
freezing. He grabs a couple of protein bars to snack on, and then casually leaps out of the second
floor window to the alley below. He walks towards his usual spot and then freezes halfway.

Someone is lying in the street near the streetlight he uses for homework. A teenager, wearing a red
and black outfit. It takes a moment for Peter to recognize the costume, but when he does, his
stomach drops. Red Robin, bleeding and groaning in pain, tries to stand, slips, and falls again.
Peter can hear distant, angry voices growing closer. He drops his backpack at the base of the
streetlight, grabs Red Robin, and lifts him up. The hero winces, hissing in pain, and tries to move
away from him, clearly half conscious.

“Easy,” Peter hisses back. “I need to hide you. You can trust me.”

Red Robin freezes for a moment, then nods before letting his head go slack. He’s coming in and
out of consciousness, and that has Peter worried. He Red Robin into a fireman’s carry across his
shoulders. He jogs over to a nearby fire escape, climbing up the side of the rattling, metal stairs as
quickly as he can. He sets him down on one of the landings overlooking the street, and briefly
checks the fallen hero. Red Robin hisses when he prods his side, gripping his wrist, and glaring
warily. His eyes are still hazy, but they’re starting to focus on him more.

"Okay, it's bad, but not life threatening. I think you cracked a rib,” Peter says. “That sucks, but
you'll be okay as long as you tape them up. And, you know, avoid leaping off of buildings for
awhile. Trust me on that one.”

Red Robin says nothing, but he does squint at Peter, tilting his head curiously.

The angry voices around the corner grow louder, drawing nearer. Peter looks over his shoulder.
"Just, stay here. I'll make sure they don't find you. Okay? Stay awake. I think you might have a
concussion, too."

He starts down the fire escape before Red Robin can respond, jumping down the last two flights
before making his way back to the streetlight and opening his backpack. He starts to pull out his
homework, and pretends to focus on it when a crowd of furious men in cheap suits storm up to him.

Four pairs of feet edge into his periphery, but Peter can sense at least five others nearby. Some are
going up and down alleys, but most are focused on him. None of them are heading towards Red
Robin. Good.

"Hey, kid," a man growls. "What the fuck are you doing? It's the middle of the goddamn night."

"Homework," Peter says, bored and resigned. "What are you doing?"

"What the fuck are you doing homework in the street for?"

"Because my home doesn't have electricity."

That sets off a round of murmurs, a few scoffs, and someone chuckling low and calling him an
orphan. Which is true, but also rude and kind of baffling as far as insults go. Even Flash’s ‘Penis
Parker’ jibes are better, and that’s truly saying something.

"You seen anyone around here?"

"Just you,” Peter says, half paying attention. Someone looms over him and blocks out the light he’s
using to read through his textbook. “Hey, move, you're in my light."

"There's blood next to you."

"There's blood all over the street," Peter retorts. "So what?"

There's a brief silence and then Peter is grabbed and hauled to his feet. His books and homework
are kicked out of his hands and the man to his right slugs him right across his jaw. Before he can
recover, the man to his left drives his fist into Peter's left eye hard enough for stars to appear.
Peter's left standing between them, reeling. If the men weren't holding him up, he'd be on the
ground.

"I don't like being lied to. That’s blood’s fresh," the man growls. He pulls a knife out of his pocket
and points it at Peter threateningly. "If you're covering for that freak..."

"Dude, I'm literally just trying to do my homework," Peter mumbles. He can sense Red Robin
behind him, watching from the fire escape above. He hopes the guy is smart enough to stay
hidden. He’s hungry, and while he can probably handle this group of thugs, he’ll be down for
awhile trying to recover. "I don't pay attention to the street. People think you're trying to get into
their business. It just causes trouble."

The man holding the knife considers Peter's words for a long moment. Finally, he scoffs, putting
the knife away and motioning towards the two men holding Peter up. They drop him.

Peter lands on his hands and knees with a grunt. He starts to stand, but a swift kick to his ribs sends
him sprawling across the sidewalk. The men laugh, and one kicks his text book into a puddle as
they leave, walking down the street and murmuring about where to search next. Peter waits until
they turn the corner before standing up and rescuing his book.

It's utterly soaked. Ruined. He sighs. "Great. That's a fine I'm not looking forward to."

"You all right?" a quiet, slightly breathless voice asks from behind him.

Peter starts, turning around and finding himself face to face with the Red Robin. "What? Yeah.
How'd you sneak up on me like that?"

"I move quietly," Red Robin says. He frowns. "Thank you. For saving me."

"No problem. You gonna be alright? Cracked ribs suck."

"It's nothing I haven't dealt with before," he answers. "What about you?"

"I've taken way harder punches back home. That was nothing," Peter says, half amused.

He doesn't realize how bad that sounds until Red Robin's frown deepens, turning a touch sad.
"Yeah, that doesn't make me feel any better." He looks Peter over, then looks at his notebook.
"Gotham Prep, huh?"

"I got lucky with a Wayne scholarship. It's, uh, my one chance, you know?"

Red Robin tilts his head, nodding slowly. "Yeah. I know." He pauses, as if debating something,
then shakes his head. "I better go. Stay safe, all right? Find a better place to do homework. The city
library is open later than you think. You should study there."

That hadn't occurred to Peter. He blinks, nodding. "Yeah. Okay."

Red Robin gives him another lingering, curious look before ducking into a nearby alley and
disappearing into the darkness.

Well, that was exciting. Peter reaches up and touches his eye, then winces. Hopefully that heals
overnight. The last thing he needs is to show up at school with a black eye.

Speaking of school, he still needs to do his homework. Sighing, Peter grabs his ruined book and his
notebook. It won’t take long.
 ***

After the test debacle, the professors and teachers shift their tone, just a tad. They stop throwing
'gotcha' questions at Peter, content with the knowledge that he's capable of keeping up
academically, if nothing else.

The same cannot be said for his social life.

"Please take your seats-- Edison Bright, is there a problem?"

"Yeah, I'm not sitting next to the charity case anymore. He's bringing down the mood. Looks like
he 'fell down some stairs' last night, and I'm sick of seeing his face."

That brings the chatter in the classroom to a halt. The professor sighs. "Sit down, Edison."

Peter, caught completely off guard, stares at the guy. It takes him a moment to recognize the voice.
This is the kid he ran into that day his migraine kicked in. That explains a few things.

"No way. My father doesn't pay my tuition for me to sit next to his kind. Half of the reason I’m
here is to network. What am I going to get out of networking with him?"

Wow, what a dick, Peter thinks. His sentiment is shared with a few others in the classroom, judging
by their expressions, but no one comes to his defense. Most just aim sour looks at Edison and then
carefully avoid Peter’s eyes. They may not like him, but they’re not going to turn on one of their
own in Peter's defense.

Typical.

There’s a lengthy pause as the professor visibly weighs between standing up to Edison’s bullying
and not angering the son of a wealthy donor and alumni. Finally, he sighs.

"Will someone please trade seats with Mr. Bright?"

A boy in the front row raises his hand. "I will."

"Thank you, Tim," the professor says, audibly relieved. He speaks above the sound of Tim and
Edison trading desks and pointedly makes no comment when Edison roughly kicks Peter’s desk on
his way by. "If you'll all please turn to page twenty-five--"

“Dick,” Bucky mutters.

The lecture drones on, no different than any other English class he's had. Peter is half paying
attention, half doodling, unaware of the sharp scrutiny of Tim beside him.

Chapter End Notes

god, can you imagine Wayne Manor after that week

Duke, to Nightwing: Hey, Roof Kid is haunted.

Nightwing: What.
 Chapter 6
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

His class is normal, boring, and borderline insufferable after that. When the bell sounds off, he’s
one of the first out of the door for his next class. Chemistry, thank god. The class is still below his
ability, but it’s comforting to be in a subject he understands. And lunch is right after. Another
bonus. He needs to eat more after taking that beating last night.

Tim walks into the lab two minutes after Peter sets his books down. He’s moving stiffly, taking
care to not bend or turn, and he sits with obvious relief. He looks pale and exhausted, and he’s
desperately clinging to a large cup of coffee. Something he probably shouldn’t have in the lab, to
be honest.

He catches Peter’s eye and waves him over to his lab station in the back of the room. "You might
as well sit with me here, too. Your lab partner isn't much better than Edison, and I usually do my
work alone."

Peter hesitates for a moment, idly wondering if this is some elaborate set up to embarrass him, then
shrugs, and moves his seat over to Tim. The guy seems decent enough; he’s withdrawn, pale, and
constantly drinking coffee, and that’s all Peter knows about him. Peter doesn’t remember hearing
him snicker or mock him when he walked past him in the hall, and that puts him far above the
standard in this school.

"As long as you're sure I won't ruin any 'networking opportunities' for you," Peter says, dropping
his book and notebooks on the lab table.

Tim rolls his eyes. "Hardly." His voice carries a very distinctive old money accent, the kind where
even a compliment can sound like cutting damnation, but he seems to be about as down to earth as
anyone Peter would meet on the streets. It’s a welcome change from the norm in this place. He
offers his hand to Peter. "I'm Tim."

Peter shakes his hand, relieved to find a normal human being at last. Which is pretty ironic given
his own status. "Peter."

"You're a Wayne scholarship kid too, aren't you?"

"Is it that obvious?" That may not be a good thing; if there's some sort of social network for people
who have this scholarship, they might notice he earned it through illegitimate means. He never
considered that, and he should have. He certainly wasn’t alone when he took the test for the
scholarship.

"Yeah, but in a good way," Tim replies, grinning. "Normally they keep us away from each other,
but I guess you slipped through the cracks. Lucky me."

“Yeah, lucky you,” Peter says, not quite as eagerly.

“Hey, we’re all pretty cool,” Tim says. “It’s nice to meet the newest member of the club, you
know? You’ve seemed busy so we all gave you space.”

“What, have you guys been following me?”

“Kinda hard not to when we have the same classes,” Tim says wryly. “You haven’t noticed, but
I’m in most of your classes, and Duke and Steph share a couple of your afternoon classes.”

Well, he’s right. Peter hasn’t noticed. He frowns, thinking back over the previous three weeks. He
has a hazy memory around that history class where he got the Justice League’s formation wrong.
Most of the class had snickered at him or given him looks of pity and disbelief. But three students
had just looked at him. Tim had been one, another had been a blonde girl.

At that moment, the professor walks in and starts the lesson. There's not much room for idle talk
after that.

Tim, as it turns out, is one of the few people Peter's met that can match him at all things science
related. It's refreshing, and a welcome relief from carrying his wealthier and lazier classmates'
grades. It is, however, more difficult to get away with making his web fluid. He’s got enough to
last him a month or two at the moment since he isn’t patrolling every night, but still. Like food, he
could always use more.

But the company more than makes up for it. Tim's apparent friendship earns Peter less scrutiny
from the professor in that class. And it even seems genuine. Peter can count on one hand how often
that's happened in his life.

By the end of the period, the two are fast friends.

When the bell sounds off, Tim stands up. He's moving very carefully as he does so. It’s oddly
familiar.

"His ribs are broken or bruised," Bucky points out.

Peter notices it after that; Tim is moving the same way he did back home after catching the
Scorpion’s tail across his back during their last fight. He frowns; there aren’t a lot of good reasons
for someone his age to have bruised ribs. And it’s not like child abuse is purely a poor kid
phenomenon.

"What's your next class?" Tim asks, grabbing his coffee. He shakes the thermos and makes a face
when he realizes how little he has left.

"Uh, literature."

Tim thinks. "That's not far from my class. Come on, I'll walk with you."

"Sure."

***

His next class goes by in a blur. Peter's baffled and shocked by how easily he gained a friend. Like
Ned, Tim simply sat down beside him and talked to him with no reservation whatsoever. Peter's
equal parts envious and grateful for that. And wary of screwing it up. That would just be his luck,
really. He finally meets a decent person at this school and he chases them off by being himself.

“You’re not giving yourself enough credit,” Shuri says. “You’ll be fine.”

Well, maybe that’s true. He’s still wary of it. Parker luck dictates that every good thing that
happens to him will soon be followed by something much worse. It all balances out eventually.

Or maybe he’s just weirdly paranoid about his own fortune.

The bell rings and pulls him out of his thoughts.

“Okay, everyone, don’t forget! We’re starting a new book on Friday! Make sure you pick up a
copy of Stranger In A Strange Land by next Monday at the latest!” the cheery teacher calls out.

Peter can smell the alcohol on the man’s breath from the back of the class, and idly wonders if
that’s just a requirement for English and Literature teachers in every universe as he puts away his
books and makes a note to visit a second hand bookstore at some point before going to work
tomorrow.

***

His stomach growls as he moves through the line in the cafeteria. He piles his tray high with as
much food as he can carry on it. He doesn’t care how it looks; ever since he started working, his
appetite has shot up, and rice and beans can only do so much. The lunch lady takes one look at his
tray and general physique and then adds a cookie to the pile. He could hug her.

He turns away from her and starts towards his usual spot, eager to eat as much as he can and
smuggle what’s left over for the ride home on the subway. If he’s lucky, he might even manage a
nap on the subway. It's warmer than the firehouse these days.

“Peter! Over here!” a voice calls out, startling him out of his thoughts.

Peter turns to his right and sees Tim sitting at one of the more secluded tables in the cafeteria. He’s
not alone; someone else is sitting across from him. A tall, dark skinned boy with sharp brown eyes
that look Peter over curiously. Peter fidgets nervously and briefly considers pretending he didn't
see him. Tim would be polite enough to leave him alone--

"Come on, kid, don't do that to yourself," Sam says gently.

“Come sit with us,” Tim says, waving him over.

Peter hesitates for a moment, then mentally shrugs and walks over to sit next to Tim. His plate is
piled higher than anyone else’s at the table, and he hopes no one comments on it. He’s never felt
more out of place in his life. He wishes Ned was here. Ned’s always been better at meeting new
people than Peter.

“Duke, this is Peter,” Tim says, clapping a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Peter, this is my brother,
Duke Thomas.”

"Hey, Peter, welcome to the Wayne Club," Duke says. He has an easy grin and friendly eyes, and
he shakes Peter's hand warmly. There’s a subtle, natural charm in the way he carries himself that
draws Peter in almost immediately. He feels stronger near Duke, more confident.

Or maybe he’s just that lonely. Who knows. It’s not like he’s drowning in friends in this universe.
“Wayne Club, huh? Is there a secret handshake?”

Duke’s grin grows wider. “Something like that. You’re still a level one Wayne kid right now, so
you don’t get the secret handshake yet.”

Peter rolls his eyes, but grins. “I think I can live without that.”

Tim stirs an unnervingly large cup of coffee in front of himself. Peter’s fairly certain you aren’t
supposed to drink coffee past noon, and he’s definitely certain it shouldn’t be from a cup that’s
nearly as tall as Tim’s forearm is long.
“Duke’s just glad he’s not the newest kid in the club,” Tim says.

“Absolutely. Being the new kid sucks,” Duke says, grabbing his sandwich. His eyes dart around
the cafeteria behind Peter, as if he’s looking at people nearby. Or a crowd of them. Peter finds that
strange; the only thing behind him is a wall. “Where are you from?”

“Queens.” Technically, at least. “Gotham’s been kind of a culture shock.”

“I bet,” Tim says. He takes a deep drink of his coffee before continuing. “How did you end up in
Gotham anyway?”

“It’s a long story. I kind of ended up here by accident. I’m waiting to hear back from home.”
Which is true enough, though he’s starting to think that’s not very likely to happen for awhile yet.
Not until he figures out who or what else made it into this universe from his own. Everytime he
thinks of home, his senses twinge.

Tim tilts his head, considering this. Duke looks past Peter for a moment, then focuses on him
again. “Well, you can hang out with us until that happens. The more the merrier.”

“I think I’d like that,” Peter says. He’s starting to relax around them, grazing on his food as they
talk. Somehow, the meal seems more filling today.

Tim glances around the cafeteria, frowning. “Hey, where’s Steph?”

“Something came up with her dad,” Duke says, sending Tim a significant look.

“I--oh, right. I guess we’ll catch her later,” Time says. He goes quiet and thoughtful for a moment,
then focuses on Peter. "Hey, I wanted to ask you how you figured out that calculation for the lab
today."

Peter perks up. He's always down to talk science.

Peter likes Duke. He likes Tim. And he's surprised when both of them adopt him into their
friendship as smoothly as they do. The topics they talk about are pretty generic--classes, school,
which teacher is the nicest (the drunken literature teacher), which is the worst (the physics teacher),
and which one they would choose to have on their team during a zombie outbreak scenario (the
angry bald history teacher is Peter’s vote).

When the bell rings, Peter’s finished his meal completely, and he leaves the cafeteria with two new
friends.

***

The rest of his day goes by in a blur. As it turns out, he does have Duke and Tim in one of his last
two classes of the day. History is a lot more tolerable with friends nearby. In his final class, he’s
alone again, but that might be for the best. He doesn’t exactly want Tim or Duke to see him head
for the subway in the afternoon rush. The less they know of his living situation, the better, frankly.

He steps off the subway early, heading for the library.

***

Red Robin had told him that the library is open late, but it looks almost abandoned. The building is
huge, foreboding, and built in a gothic style as is fitting for a public facility inside Gotham. The
overcast sky and chill autumn wind pushing leaves along the street only enhance the feeling of
brooding isolation that covers the building. The lights are on, sure, but he doesn’t really see anyone
going in or out, which is a stark contrast from his trips to the library back home in Queens. The
local library seemed busiest on Friday evenings. The opposite seems to be true in Gotham. Peter
hesitates outside of the polished wood doors, shifting back and forth on his feet.

The door pops open, and Barbara sits at the other side. She gives him a friendly grin and waves
him inside. “Hey, stranger. Here to pick up your card? I’ve been holding onto it for a few weeks
now. I was about to track you down and hand it to you.”

Peter completely forgot about that card. “Oh, uh, yeah. Actually, I was hoping to get some
homework done here? A, uh, a friend said you guys were open late but--”

Well, it doesn’t look like the library is actually open. In fact, the whole block looks dead. Aside
from the occasional passing car or pedestrian, the streets are quiet. It’s a little unnerving, really.
And it isn’t much better when Peter steps inside the library. The building is empty; he can only
hear his heartbeat and Barbara’s. They’re alone in the library.

“We’re open for a little while yet,” Barbara says. “Feel free to pick a table. I’m going to be in my
office finishing up a few things before I start up my second job. Give a yell if you need anything.”

“Thanks, Barbara,” Peter says. After a moment’s hesitation, he heads for the nearest table and sits
down after dropping his backpack on the table.

He starts in on his homework. If nothing else, he’ll be warm and dry while finishing it up. He
settles into the flow of it, churning out homework for the next week in the safety and warmth of the
library while he still has the chance. He might as well; there’s no guarantee the library will be open
this late next week, and he’d like to have a weekend free of it. Getting everything done early will
give him...more free time to feel hungry at night, or something. He hasn’t quite figured that out yet.
It’s not like he’s got patrol competing for his time right now.

Barbara shuts the door to her office, but not all the way. It’s open just a crack. Peter can hear her
settle into her desk, hear her laptop turn on, and put headphones over her ears. Beyond that, the
tinny frequency of her radio, and static.

“Okay, guys, I’m here. What’d I miss?”

There’s a long pause.

“So, not a pit, but a Lazarus machine?” Barbara says. She’s pitching her voice low, and it’s clearly
something Peter shouldn’t overhear, but well. Super hearing. “How many? Is it still working?”

She’s quiet for a moment, then sighs.

“Well, that’s a relief, I guess,” Barbara says. “Except now we have a potentially insane zombie
running around--No, Jason, I don’t mean you. Focus. Where is this machine?”

Another pause.

"Right, I'll keep an eye out," Barbara says. “I have a gut feeling that this ties into the kryptonite
being smuggled into the city---”

What the hell kind of second job does Barbara have? Peter sets his pencil down, tilting his head
and listening in. He shouldn’t. It’s not his business. But he’s curious.

“It’s either meant to keep Superman out--which isn’t likely, you know Batman’s ‘no metas in
Gotham’ rule--or it’s a power source. Which is equally bad.”

Peter freezes. No metas in Gotham? What? He knows mutant powers are rare in this world, but he
didn’t realize Batman actively chased them out of town. That’s disturbing. Add another point
towards his 'avoid Batman' instinct. The man's reputation is already intimidating as hell, and
Peter’s got two things working against him: he’s a thief and a mutant. He’s not eager to earn
himself a beating from one of this universe’s superheroes. And he’s even less eager to end up in
prison.

“Who on earth would need that much kryptonite anyway?” Barbara asks thoughtfully. “Better
question would be to figure out where it came from. It wasn’t Lexcorp. Steph double checked.”

Peter taps his pen against his notebook, then gradually goes back to work.

***

A few hours later, he’s finished his assignments for the weekend, and he’s ready to leave. Barbara
paused her second job long enough to see him out into the misty Gotham night. He hesitates
outside of the library doors, and turns to face Barbara, tilting his head.

“The library isn’t actually open this late, is it?” he asks.

“What do you mean?”

“You mentioned the library had funding issues. That usually means they close things early,” Peter
says slowly. “No one else is inside the library. I would’ve noticed. It was just me and you. How
did you know to stay late tonight?”

Barbara quirks a brow, and when she smiles, it feels a lot more genuine than the customer service
smile she had before. “Let’s just say a little bird asked a favor of me.”

Huh. That makes sense. Peter had friends up and down Queens when he was doing patrols as
Spiderman. It makes sense that Red Robin has the same kind of network. Maybe she’s his ‘guy in
the chair’? That’d explain the extensive knowledge of Gotham’s ongoing crime crisis. Maybe he
should come by the library again tomorrow to make sure she makes it home safely. He feels a
sudden urge to ask her if he could come back inside and ask her for help. But if she is working with
Red Robin, then she’s working with Batman by extension. And that’s the last person he wants to
cross paths with at the moment. In fact, he should avoid this whole Bat clan if he can.

A part of him realizes that includes Nightwing, too. That thought is oddly painful.

“Oh. Cool,” Peter says after a moment.

“I’ll keep the lights on for you next week,” Barbara says. “But it’s late, and you should go get
some rest.”

Yeah, that’s true. He’s downright exhausted after today’s events. “Thanks, Barbara. Good night!”

“Good night, Peter! Get some dinner!”

Right, dinner. It’s late enough that he’ll just have to snack on what’s available. Whatever, he barely
feels the hunger anymore.

When he has that thought, a very annoyed sigh comes from his right, and it sounds suspiciously
like Dr. Strange.
 Peter ignores it, walking towards the subway. Night has fallen, the wind is much colder, and it cuts
right through his school blazer. He adds ‘find a warmer coat’ to his already depressingly long
shopping list.

He never once looks up, which means he doesn’t see Red Robin and Signal shadow him along the
rooftops.

Chapter End Notes

We're now officially out of the set up portion of the story! The action picks up in
earnest beginning in the next chapter.
 Chapter 7
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

He hears them on the rooftops, keeping pace with him. He can’t see them--he’ll give them credit
enough for that--and they are moving as quietly as one can when leaping across rooftops, but he
can hear them. They follow him to the bus stop, hiding in the shadows while he sits alone beneath
a flickering street light. He’s surprised when they don’t show themselves; if they were going to
attack him, the bus stop is the perfect spot for it. His night vision is ruined by the light, and they
have an advantage in height and numbers. And training, he adds after a moment. Peter is clever.
He’s quick. He’s agile. But he functions more on instinct than trained skill when it comes to
situations like this, and his instincts are always to go high and swing away as quickly as possible.
That’s not an option at the moment.

They don’t attack or even drop down from the rooftops. Instead, they stick to the shadows, their
breath nearly silent in the autumn wind. He whistles lowly, some song he remembers from an old
Captain America cartoon he used to watch with his Uncle Ben, and plots out his next move. He
doesn’t want to head to the firehouse with people hot on his trail, but he can’t spend all night
wandering the alleyways of Gotham city either. That’s a good way to get yourself shot. He needs to
hide or lose his stalkers quick.

He needs help.

That thought, that word seems to trigger something. His vision goes fuzzy, and he falls into a weird
trance, aware of what’s happening, but at a distance. Something gold and orange flashes at the edge
of his vision, across the street. A man in a trenchcoat with a dark patch across his eye briefly steps
out of the shadows. He pins Peter with a stare, then curtly motions for him to follow.

Peter frowns at him, confused, but something inside him tells him to do just that. So he does. He
checks the street for oncoming traffic, then crosses it at a brisk jog. The man slips into the
shadows, but Peter can just see the faint golden outline of his form in the darkness. He follows him
down two or three different alleys, across another four more streets, and then down into a subway
station, always with one or two buildings between himself and his followers. By the time he
reaches the station, they're three blocks behind and struggling to catch up.

The station is abandoned; it smells mildewy and still, and Peter can’t hear anyone nearby. He can
hear heartbeats in the dark; small ones, running quicker than a human's steady thump-thump. Rats.
The man with the eyepatch leads him silently through abandoned and damp tunnels until they
reach an active station. It takes Peter a moment to recognize it, but he lets out a breath he didn't
know he was holding when he does. He uses this station to go to school every day. It's only eight
blocks from the fire house. Once he recognizes where he is, the man disappears, and his trance
ends, snapping him back to reality, feeling strangely exhausted and weak. He pauses for a moment
to consider what just happened, and decides he’s far too tired to deal with it.

He steps onto the next train and heads home.

***

“He caught onto us at the bus stop,” Tim says. “I’m not sure how, but he did. God, he’s quick.”

“He must have eyes on the back of his skull. He figured us out within minutes of us finding him. I
saw one of his ghosts started leading him away from us,” Duke replies, rubbing the back of his
neck.

“So he has ghost powers?” Tim asks.

“Something like that. He’s definitely meta. I guess it's a good thing his ghosts are the friendly
variety."

Tim hums, thinking and idly rubbing his side. His ribs are bruised, and they’re healing slowly,
much to his frustration. It’s not enough to put him off patrol. Not yet. “That could explain why he’s
on the streets and so far from home.”

“He wouldn’t be the first meta to get kicked out of home for being different,” Duke agrees. He
clicks on his com. “Oracle, we lost him near Crime Alley, on 57th and Vine. Do you know any
place around here he might have gone to?”

“All of my maps of the Alley are years out of date. The place is practically a no man’s land these
days,” Oracle says unhappily. “It’s possible he ducked into one of the tunnels or abandoned
subway stations in that part of town, which means he’s invisible. Sorry, guys.”

“Damn, imagine walking through this kind of place just to get to school everyday,” Duke says,
making a face at the half rotted buildings, distant gunshots, and rusted, abandoned cars resting on
cinder blocks along the street. The Narrows has a pretty rough reputation itself, but he'd sooner
walk down the most dangerous alley in the Narrows blindfolded and drunk than walk a Crime
Alley street sober.

There’s an air of malice and despair in Crime Alley that makes him edgy and nervous, and he can
see why most of the others steer well clear of the place. The only exception is Jason, and even his
patrols through the neighborhoods in the Alley are brief and violent affairs. Most of the
skyscrapers inside the district are dark, towering hulks that overlook decades out of date
apartments and tenements with crumbling facades. The people are usually Blackgate fugitives,
crooked cops, or victims of both. The latter always makes Duke uneasy to think about.

“I found him in a much worse neighborhood when we first met. He took a beating for me and
saved my life,” Tim says. He shakes his head, and lets out a tired sigh. “We need to get him to the
manor.”

“At the very least, we need to get him more food, or clothes. He’s obviously homeless,” Duke says,
dropping down on the roof ledge with a sigh. "No wonder Nightwing's been so worried about the
guy."

"He found him on a roof in the Alley, standing on the ledge. Nightwing's still worried about him,"
Tim says. "He's afraid Peter will hurt himself."

"I didn't get that feeling from him," Duke says, a little disturbed at the thought. "He's worn down
and exhausted, but he's not self destructive. Just tired."

"I'm tempted to agree, but people can surprise you. I think we need to keep a closer eye on him,"
Tim says.

Duke hums his agreement. He's quiet for a moment and then asks, “Why don’t we go into Crime
Alley anymore anyway?”

“We’re too busy. Between the Scarecrow’s attacks, the weird stuff going on at the docks, and the
recent crime wave in general....We’re spread too thin,” Tim replies, sitting down beside his
brother. “I mean, we’ve always had trouble keeping the peace in Crime Alley, but we literally can’t
spare anyone for it. And Batman doesn’t want anyone going in there alone. He’s pretty paranoid
about it.”

“Oh. Yeah, I guess he would be,” Duke says, idly kicking a heel against the rough brick of the
wall. “He already lost one family to the Alley. It makes sense that he doesn’t want to lose more.”

“The Alley wouldn’t survive it if he did,” Tim says, rubbing his side again. “God, I barely
survived the lecture I got after the other night. I haven’t seen him that upset in years. Jason and
Dick teamed up on me for it, too.”

“Even Damian seemed upset,” Duke adds. Tim scoffs in disbelief, and Duke decides to change the
topic. “So, the Alley is off limits for all of us until B-man has a chance to organize a clean up.”

“And with the Joker, Bane, and Clayface out on the streets again, we’re busier than ever, so that
isn’t likely to happen for awhile yet,” Oracle says. “Crime Alley is still the same level of terrible
it’s always been, maybe a little worse. We just can’t devote a whole operation on it when we’ve got
so much going on. Speaking of which, guys, break time’s over: Batman needs you back at the
Narrows.”

“Duty calls,” Tim says, standing up slowly. “Let’s go.”

***

Peter climbs in through the window of the fire house and drops his backpack. He walks over to his
bed and collapses across it, yanking one of the threadbare blankets over himself just as he falls
asleep.

Peter snaps awake, sitting at a circular table that seems to be set inside a plane. Clouds pass by the
large windows that stretch across the front of the plane. People in slick, black uniforms with the
SHIELD logo stitched across the left breast work at dozens of stations that look vaguely out of date
by today’s standards, and there’s a quiet murmur of conversation: clipped, steady, professional.

The man with the eye patch walks through a pair of sliding glass doors alongside a woman in one
of the sleek uniforms. They stop at the conference table Peter’s sitting at, and he suddenly feels
very young and very out of place.

The man with the eye patch regards him silently for a moment. “You don’t recognize me, do you.”

“Uh, no,” Peter says slowly. “Sorry. Should I?”

“Probably not. I’m Nick Fury. This is Agent Maria Hill. We run SHIELD,” Fury says.

Ah. That’s why they’re so intimidating. Peter doesn’t know much about SHIELD--most people
don’t, actually--minus seeing a few headlines about Captain America dismantling it because it had
been infiltrated by HYDRA. Or something to that effect; he doesn’t remember much about that
incident. He was too young to pay attention to it, frankly. He has a feeling that saying so would not
endear him to the two people in front of him.

"Where are we?" Peter asks

"The helicarrier. The first one," Fury says. "Where it all began. The Avengers formed here shortly
before the Battle of New York. I figured you’d appreciate the setting, since we’re about to have a
‘come to Jesus’ meeting ourselves.”
“Uh. We are?”

"We are," Fury confirms. "Didn't Stark bother teaching you how to be stealthy? How to shake off
someone tracking you in a city?"

Peter pauses. "Sir, don't take this the wrong way, but when has Tony ever been stealthy in his
life?"

Fury snorts. "Point taken. In that case, Agent Hill and I will start the process of filling in the gaps
of your knowledge. With a bit of help."

“Help?” Peter asks.

“King T’challa and Bucky Barnes offered to help drive a few of the lessons home. Eat a big meal
tomorrow after work, Mr. Parker, we’re going to be busy for the next few nights.”

Peter’s Saturday goes by in a flash; after waking up from truly exhausting dreams, he splurges on a
big breakfast at a 24 hour diner a few blocks away from his home and spends the few hours before
his shift wandering around thrift stores and second hand shops for anything he could use. He
doesn’t find much, but he does find the book he needs for school, as well as a dog-eared copy of
Watership Down. He hasn’t read this since he was a kid; it had been one of Uncle Ben’s favorites,
and he remembers enjoying it. If nothing else, it’s something to read on the subway.

He ends up going to work a few minutes early, ahead of another rain storm rolling into the city
from the ocean, slipping inside the restaurant just before a rumble of thunder rolls across the sky
and the first heavy drops of rain fall from the sky. Peter gets to work; time passes quickly, and he
barely notices it. It isn’t until Sophia lets out a frustrated growl and stomps back into the kitchen
that he looks up from the dishes.

She stops in the kitchen, standing out of Omar’s way while he chops vegetables and pinches the
bridge of her nose before letting out a deep sigh and heading for the dishpit.

"Peter, can you wait tables?" she asks

"Sure? I've never done it before--" Peter stammers out.

"That's fine, trust me," she replies. "If I have to deal with one more customer today, I will lose it."

“Are they really difficult or...”

“No, actually, everyone’s been nice, even the drunk guys, it’s just that if I keep using the customer
voice, I might go insane. It happens in the service industry,” she says, grabbing a clean apron and
tossing it his way. “Here. Just cover for me for the last hour of your shift, okay? Keep all the tips,
even. I just need a mental break.”

He catches the apron and quickly shrugs it on, grabbing a pen and notepad from a sealed bin on the
counter. “Yeah, uh, sure.”

“You’re a lifesaver, Peter,” Sophia says.

Peter shrugs and steps into the restaurant proper. It’s a small place, with a max occupancy of thirty,
and those thirty people had better be very good friends if they all intended to eat at once in the
restaurant. Fortunately, there’s only a few people here right now. An elderly couple flirting with
one another while murmuring to each other and giggling in Farsi. A man in a brown coat hunched
over his food and swaying in place in the telltale way all drunks do. And a young Asian teenager in
the corner, her back to the wall, watching the restaurant. She sits utterly still, and there’s a vague
air of threat around her, though Peter can’t quite pinpoint why he thinks that.

And then it hits him.

She reminds him of the Black Widow. Natasha, on the one occasion they met, was just as still, just
as disciplined, as this girl. Gotham must be worse off than he realizes if this girl is any indication
of the sorts of teens that come out of the Bowery and Crime Alley.

He makes a note to be more polite than usual towards her and instead cleans tables, sweeps the
floor, and buses the few tables Sophia left behind after hitting her limit with customers. It’s nicer to
work up front, where the air isn’t constantly humid. He grabs a clean rag and starts to clean a few
of the tables. He settles into the rhythm of work, getting the ticket and payment for the old couple
and cleaning their table. It’s the same kind of boring, just in a different setting.

Thirty minutes into his new role, the man in the browncoat starts to stare at him. Peter ignores him
until he pushes out his chair and block’s Peter’s path back into the kitchen, stopping him cold. The
drunk man squints at him, tense and suspicious. The stench of stale whiskey rolls off of him in
waves, strong enough to make Peter’s eyes water. Peter's already made the decision to call a cab for
the guy when the man snaps his hand out and grabs Peter's arm, gripping it tightly.

"You. You don't belong here," the drunk man slurs. His voice is thick with whiskey and a British
accent. Not the standard BBC accent; the more down to earth, gravelly one. Peter had met a man
from Liverpool once, and this guy’s accent matches it completely.

"I work here," Peter replies, even and patient. He’s had plenty of experience talking down erratic
drunk men before while on patrol. He sees the teenager in the back corner--Sophia said her name
was Cass--go tense as they focus on Peter and the man, and Peter makes an effort to reign in his
frustration. He doesn't want to make a scene. “So yes, I do.”

The man's squint turns into a frown as he looks past and around Peter, as if he's seeing people who
aren't there.

What the hell kind of whiskey did this idiot drink, Peter wonders.

"Those souls don't belong to you," the man says, his confusion turning his tone belligerent. "How'd
you get 'em?"

"Two for one sale at the thrift store," Peter remarks dryly, pulling his arm free with a smooth twist.
He grips the man’s coat, hauls him up from his chair and firmly guides him to the door. "You're
drunk, pal, and you’re causing a scene. Go sit outside while I call you a cab."

“Wait, hang on a minute--” the man mutters.

“Ah. Constantine. I wondered if he would show,” Strange says.

“Who is he?” Sam asks.

“A sorcerer. Of a sort,” Strange replies. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go talk to him.”

“Will he help us?” Wanda asks.

“Not yet,” Strange replies.

Peter suddenly shivers, and he feels a strange emptiness inside of himself that hadn’t been there
before. He pauses at the door, frowning, then shakes his head and shuts the door just as the man in
the brown coat shouts at something. Probably just the wind.

“There’s always gotta be one weirdo,” he huffs to himself.

He catches sight of the remaining customer--the stone faced teenage girl, and straightens up,
clearing his throat. He's intimidated by her more than he usually is around beautiful girls. There's a
weight to her gaze and a confidence in the way she moves that makes him feel awkward. Which
adds to the Black Widow impression. Peter had felt like a bumbling idiot the few times he and
Natasha had been in the same room together.

“Sorry about that," he says. "I'll bring your receipt."

She tilts her head, then nods. Her eyes follow him as he walks towards the register behind the
counter. It takes him a moment to puzzle out how to use the old machine--it functions on some kind
of truly ancient OS that would send Ned into hysterics over how unsecure it is--so he doesn’t notice
the teenager get up until the door is already swinging shut behind her.

He stares after her, holding her ticket in hand, and lets out a frustrated sigh. He walks over to her
table, mentally cursing. A dine and dash. Just what he needs on his first shift in the front of house--

There are four twenties tucked away beneath a plate of unfinished food. That’s five times as much
as a full course meal at the restaurant and more money than he’s held in his hand since he started
working here. He hesitates for a moment, then takes the cash and goes to clear the ticket.

He has enough now that he might even swing an extra meal at the diner tomorrow. That thought
puts a bit more spring to his step when he starts to close down the restaurant.

***

School is school, and most of it bleeds together. The single bright spot are his friends. Tim and
Duke wait for him near the entrance most days, nursing cups of coffee. One day, during a
particularly blustery autumn rain, a girl with blonde hair jogs up alongside him and pops open an
umbrella above them both. Her sudden appearance startles him out of his thoughts, causing him to
jump.

She laughs. “Sorry, sorry. I should have said something. I sneak by default these days.”

Her laugh is infectious, and he grins in response, a little taken in by her already. “It’s, uh, it’s fine. I
just didn’t expect you to pop up like that.”

She smiles at him, warm and mischievous. “You'll get used to it. I’m Stephanie. We’ve got a few
classes together.”

Peter frowns at her, and then brightens. “Oh. You’re in the Wayne club too?”

She grins again, firmly taking him by the arm and guiding him over to Duke and Tim. “The one
and only. Come on, let's brighten their lives up with our presence.”

Stephanie Brown is a force to be reckoned with, Peter discovers. He’s never met someone so sure
of themselves before, and it’s a bit awe inspiring. She teases him, Tim, and Duke with equal
measure, seeming to have adopted Peter within minutes of meeting him. He has one more friend to
keep close. And he could always use more of those.

***
BATCHAT

Tim (02:43am): do the ghosts watch him in the bathroom

Tim (02:52am): duke, this is important. Are they in the bathroom with us when we’re at school

Steph (02:57am): actually, I wanna know this, too

Duke (03:01am): no, they don’t go into the bathroom

Duke (03:02am): if u wake me up for this nonsense again I will commit violence

***

Class becomes something he looks forward to. The few classes he has alone aren’t nearly as
draining when he knows that Steph, Duke, or Tim will be in the next one. Like work, the days
blend together, his friendship grows closer with the three of them, and nothing stands out. At least,
not until two weeks after he joins the Wayne club. Things change during gym class one day.

“Boxing,” the coach says at the start of class, grinning. “Find some training partners, glove up, get
your helmets on and get ready to be partnered up for a spar. We might not get through everyone
today, fair warning.”

Is this what rich kids do at their fancy prep schools? Peter can’t even remember the last time Coach
Wilson managed to get people to run races against one another at Midtown. There’s no way in hell
he’d be able to convince anyone to actually box each other. Even the jocks at Midtown are
sufficiently nerdy enough to want to avoid recreational brain damage.

“Is this, like, legal?” Peter mutters to Duke.

Duke shrugs, clearly just as baffled. “Dude, I have no idea.”

“Boxing is a gentlemanly sport,” Tim remarks. He pauses, drains half of his coffee in one gulp, and
then continues. “Supposedly.”

"Is it?" Duke asks incredulously.

“Well, anything is a gentlemanly sport if it’s done by people with sufficient net worth, I guess,”
Tim remarks dryly. Duke scoffs at that.

Peter rolls his eyes, stretching his arms. They’ve gotten thinner, but the muscle is still there. He’s
not opposed to the idea of a boxing session, but he’d rather train on his own. He could use the
practice.

“Reilly! You and Freeman are first!” the coach calls out, marking something off his clipboard.

The two students fistbump each other, then hop into the ring. It looks more like two friends rough
housing than an actual boxing match. They keep aggressively complimenting each other with each
hit. Every other hit is met with an enthusiastic nice one, bro! and dude, you’re really good at this!
MJ would probably make a snarky comment about himbos right about now if she was here. The
thought of it makes Peter smile.

“Parker, Bright, you’re next!” the coach yells out after shooing off Reilly and Freeman.

And then his smile disappears.

What. Peter stares at the coach. Edison Bright outweighs him by thirty pounds at least. That
doesn’t even take into account that the guy is four inches taller and with corresponding reach.
Yeah, it’s not really an issue for Peter--he could quite literally fling the guy through a wall--but
what the shit, coach.

“Uh, what? We’re not in the same weight class--”

“Just go easy on each other,” the coach says, distracted. “This is just practice.”

Bright focuses on Peter and grins. He is most certainly not going to go easy on Peter. Peter sighs.
God, he does not need this right now.

“Peter, trade partners with me,” Duke says quietly. “You can spar with Tim and I’ll handle Ed. It’ll
be a more even match that way.”

“Yeah, I can’t box my way out of a paper bag,” Tim says, shrugging. He’s also clearly lying
through his teeth; Tim has some kind of training, judging by how easily and confidently he moves.
Despite matching him in size, Peter has no doubt that Tim could handle a lunk like Edison Bright
with one hand tied behind his back. Probably with both hands tied behind his back. Even with his
ribs taped. “I can show you a few moves.”

“I already know how to box,” Peter says, distracted. He weighs his options. He could switch off
with Duke and let him fight in Peter’s stead; it’d be an even match, Peter would escape with mild
jeering and a ruined reputation (which is nonexistent to begin with so whatever), and he could
move on with his life.

But judging by the way Edison Bright sneers at him when the coach isn’t looking, he’ll make sure
to fight Peter no matter what. In the ring or outside of it. And there’s no guarantee he’ll take no for
an answer a second time.

So, option one: let Duke fight Edison. Peter’s reputation is ruined and he becomes an even larger
target for bullying than he already is, since his cowardice will justify everyone’s low opinion of
him.

Or option two: step into the ring, take a few hits to the face, tap out, and maintain the status quo.

Yeah, it isn’t much of a choice. High school sucks. He sighs, grabs a mouthguard, a helmet, and a
pair of gloves.

“Peter, you can’t be serious,” Tim hisses. “He’s twice your size! And you’re--no offense--you’re a
twig.”

“Well aware of that, thanks,” Peter replies dryly. “Help me with the gloves, all right?”

“Peter,” Duke says.

“He’s not going to drop this, guys,” Peter cuts in. “He’s going to hound me until he gets his stupid
fight, no matter what. It’s best if he gets it over with in front of a teacher who’s legally obligated to
keep him from killing me.”

“He’s not going to hold back. And the coach is his dad’s cousin. He won’t stop Edison,” Duke
warns.

“I know how to take a punch. Harder punches than anything he can throw my way.” Thanos threw
a moon at him, for example. Unless Edison Bright suddenly gains that type of strength, he’s not in
any real danger.

“We’re talking about a severe concussion at the very least. Missing teeth at worst.”

“Not a stranger to those either,” Peter replies. He’s discovered that his teeth do grow back after a
particularly disastrous swing back when he was new to being Spider-Man. It just takes forever and
itches like hell. Missing teeth and concussions are nothing to him these days. He ignores the
deepening frown on Duke’s face and lets Tim lace up his gloves for him. “Just help me put my
nose back in place if he dislocates it.”

Tim and Duke are silent by the time he finishes. Peter doesn’t catch the pained, worried, and
frankly disturbed, expressions on their faces as he pushes the ropes up and ducks into the ring.
Edison is already in the ring, shirt off, clenching his fists to show off his muscles which were,
admittedly, pretty impressive for a sixteen year old. Given that Peter survived a hand to hand fight
with Captain America, the Winter Soldier, and the Falcon within five minutes of each other, he’s
not all that impressed. Granted, none of those three were trying to actually hurt him--the Winter
Soldier especially after Peter caught his fist--but they almost certainly hit harder than Edison
Bright of Gotham Prep.

Peter ignores Edison, loosening up for the fight. Honestly, this might be good practice. He hasn’t
fought since Titan. And boxing is sort of fun, in a way. He learned the basics from Tony, Happy,
and Rhodey one day at the Compound. Rhodey had taken point on that lesson, wearing a set of
armor meant to match Peter's enhanced strength. He can practically see and hear Rhodey in his
mind, bouncing back and forth on the toes of his suit beside him.

“Boxing 101, kid: if the other guy is bigger, you gotta be quicker.”

Right, well. Edison is certainly bigger. Peter doesn’t think he’s trained, but he could be. The first
knock out punch he sees, he’ll take and call it even. Edison gets his win, Peter loses, and he can
focus on more important things. Like lunch.

“All right, boys, touch gloves,” the coach says.

Peter raises his gloves and touches them against Edison’s. The other boy sneers and pushes his
gloves against Peter’s, shoving him back a step. Peter catches his balance and barely resists the
urge to roll his eyes. In the corner of his eye, he sees Duke and Tim pull themselves up onto the
ring, gripping the ropes and watching Peter and Edison very closely. Given the way they’re
standing and how tightly Duke is gripping the ropes, he half expects them to jump into the ring
themselves.

The bell sounds off, and the two boys circle one another on the mat. Peter isn’t eager to catch a
punch with his face; he moves just out of Edison’s reach more often than not. He could dodge
every last one, but that would look suspicious as all hell. He just wants to make sure Edison earns
his TKO. So far, he hasn’t bothered throwing a decent punch. Edison’s form is sloppy and arrogant
at best.

“Looks like you’ve managed to find yourself some friends, weirdo,” Edison mutters, just quiet
enough that only Peter can hear him. He jabs high, quick and sure, and Peter’s instincts to duck
kick in before he remembers he’s trying to lose this fight.

Peter frowns at him, putting a bit more distance between them. Edison’s words throw Peter off for
a couple of reasons: the first is that his voice is so full of sneering anger it surprises Peter, and the
second is that Edison isn’t wearing a mouth guard. He’s so sure he’ll win this, so sure he’ll beat
Peter into a pulp, that he’s not wearing the required protection. That’s not good. Even a normal
punch from Peter might seriously hurt the guy.

Edison closes the gap, throwing a couple of jabs at Peter. They’re so obvious that Peter refuses to
be hit by them. He might be trying to lose, but he does have standards for the kinds of beatings
he’s willing to take. Come on.

“How long before their little club drops you?” Edison mutters. “I looked at your records. You don’t
have parents, or a family, just some guy named Tony Stark who hasn’t bothered to show up for
parent-teacher conferences. Hell, does anyone care about you or are you just that fucking
worthless?”

He throws three more jabs in quick succession at Peter. They’re a little cleaner now, but Peter
dodges them all the same. His temper is rising, he realizes, and that hasn’t happened in years. He
puts more space between themselves, frustrated. Why is this getting to him? He’s heard worse
before.

The bell rings, signaling the end of the first round. Peter backs away again, wary of turning his
back on his opponent. The guy seems like he’d take a cheap shot. Edison smirks at him.

“I saw you had an aunt on your paperwork. Looks like she died. Probably just to get away from a
worthless fuck like you,” he says turning to suanter over to his corner.

And that one little comment is what pushes Peter over the edge. He clenches his fists inside the
gloves, can hear and feel the leather creak. His entire posture turns stiff and angry, and Edison
grins at him, glad to strike a metaphorical blow against Peter. Tim catches the look on Peter’s face
and grips his shoulder.

“He’s just trying to rile you up so he can get an easy hit in,” Tim says. “Don’t let him get to you.”

“I know,” Peter says. And it’s working.

“Peter--” Tim starts.

The bell rings. Peter moves away from Tim and meets Edison in the middle of the ring. He doesn’t
offer to bump gloves this time. He just starts to move. Peter pulls his punches. He’s not trying to
break any ribs.

But he also doesn’t give Edison a chance to do anything but block and dodge. He moves, just as
Rhodey taught him, and can still hear Rhodey matching his movements with small encouragement
and comments in the back of his mind. Peter chases Edison around the mat, forcing the larger boy
on the defensive. Three minutes pass, and by the end of it, he barely has the energy to put his
gloves up to block Peter’s punches. Thirty seconds after that, Edison is swaying on his feet, beaten
without landing or taking a single punch. He still tries, weakly bouncing a punch right off of
Peter’s shoulder.

Peter rolls his eyes, steps back and taps the rope with his glove. "I quit. He wins."

The coach stares at him. "What?"

"I'm throwing in the towel. He wins," Peter repeats, walking over so Tim can help him with his
gloves. "Good fight, or whatever. I'm done."

"Uh, match set goes to Bright," the coach says, giving Peter a disbelieving look.

"Nicely done, Peter," Tim says quietly.

 “He won’t mess with you after that,” Duke adds.

Other voices, ones at the edge of his awareness seem to echo that sentiment.

"Should've popped him in the jaw at least once," Bucky says.

"Yeah, definitely," Quill mutters. “Fucking twerp.”

"That would have given him more reason to antagonize Peter," T'challa says. "Peter handled it
perfectly."

That gets murmurs of agreement from Sam, Wanda, and the others. T'challa speaks rarely, but
when he does, the others listen. Even Fury and Loki. Peter half listens to them, rubbing the back of
his neck. He doesn’t feel altogether happy about how things played out. He let his temper flare,
and he never lets that happen. Not around people he could hurt so easily. He’s never been that
furious with Flash, and Flash has been a dick to him for years. Granted, Flash isn’t always a jerk,
and they even have their friendly moments, but...

The coach walks over to Peter, grinning.

“You know, we could use you on the boxing team,” the coach starts.

“No,” Peter replies, pushing past him and heading for the showers. His wrist hurts, and he’s
suddenly very tired.

Chapter End Notes

Hey! Sorry about that, some of you may have seen a different version of this chapter
go up. It was the wrong one. Whoops.

I blame lack of sleep for that. My bad guys.

 Chapter 8
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

The fight sours his mood for the rest of the day, poking at the back of his mind. And he doesn’t
hide it very well. Tim, Duke, and Stephanie all seem to notice his change in mood immediately. To
be fair, he’s not exactly subtle. Instead of inhaling his food, he’s simply picked at it for most of
lunch.

“Peter, you’re barely eating,” Tim says. “What gives?”

Peter pokes at his meal, eyes unfocused. It isn’t until Steph nudges him with her elbow that he
snaps out of it. “Huh? Oh, uh. Just thinking, I guess.”

“You’re upset about gym class?” Duke guesses.

Peter sighs, then nods. “He actually made me lose my temper. That hasn’t happened before.”

Sure, Flash is a massive jerk towards him, but it’s nothing close to the kind of bullying Edison is
apparently intent on committing. In fact, Peter’s fairly certain Flash would get in Edison’s face for
half of the shit he’s pulled so far. The thing is, Peter normally wouldn’t let it bother him. He’s
heard worse comments before, dealt with worse, and shrugged it off easily. So why is Edison
bothering him so much now?

It’s the fact that he lost control of his temper, however brief. He let his anger get to him, and that
hasn’t happened before. If he’s this trigger happy, should he even try to go back to being Spider-
Man? What happens the next time someone says something to him and he snaps? Crooks and thugs
aren’t exactly gentle with their words, and if he can’t handle relatively harmless jeers from some
spoiled rich kid, he has no business doing any crime fighting. Spider-Man doesn’t kill, but he just
might if Peter’s temper is that fragile. Maybe he shouldn’t be Spider-Man; maybe he should just
focus on figuring out a way to get home instead. Leave Gotham to itself and use the suit to travel
across the city at night.

“That would be ideal,” Loki says dryly.

“He’s been trying to pick a fight with you for weeks,” Duke points out. “He was bound to hit a sore
spot and piss you off eventually, Pete. You handled it perfectly.”

“Yeah, if that’s you ‘losing your temper’ then I don’t want to see you go into a berserk rage,” Tim
adds jokingly, stirring his coffee as Duke takes a massive bite of his burger. This is Tim’s fourth
coffee of the day, Peter notes, and he’s a little concerned by that.

Peter frowns. That’s the last thing he wants, too. If he ever truly lost his temper, became furious
beyond all control, he could level the city within hours and nobody would be capable of stopping
him. He’s strong enough for that. Powerful enough. And that knowledge terrifies him on some
level; you have to be careful and responsible with the kind of strength he has. Otherwise you’re just
a monster.

“It wouldn’t be good,” Peter says, feeling oddly sick at the thought. Acting selfishly with his
powers had caused his Uncle Ben’s death.

“Stop worrying about something that won’t happen. You're not a monster, Peter,” Sam says.
Duke looks up from his meal and glances around, frowning in confusion. Tim stays focused on
Peter. “Peter, you got annoyed with a guy who’s been a massive asshole to you for weeks, and
instead of pummeling him into a fine paste, you just scared the hell out of him. You stood up for
yourself and no one got hurt. That’s the best possible outcome.”

“As a bonus, he’s been mildly tolerable ever since you knocked sense into him,” Steph adds. “He
won the match and lost against you in a fight, and that seems to be causing some kind of short
circuit in his brain.”

“Doesn’t take much,” Duke mutters.

The bell rings, and Peter sighs, standing up. He grabs a bread roll and takes a bite of it.

***

Class drags on. He idly rubs his hand and drifts for most of it. He may not have actually landed a
hit on Edison, but he did strike the boy’s gloves a few times. Even that’s enough to cause his hand
discomfort. Dammit, the bones are healed, why is it giving him so much trouble?

“You haven’t had a chance to heal fully yet,” Shuri says.

That’s a disturbing thought. Sure, he’s been stressed, and he’s not sleeping well, and he’s not
eating well--

“Oh, is that all,” Bucky mutters.

But his healing factor should still work. Why isn’t it working?

“You died. I’m no doctor, but I’m pretty damn sure that even Cap himself would need a month or
two to get right from that,” Fury says.

Huh. That makes sense. Peter isn’t sure what kind of healing factor Cap has. He does know Tony
compared their eating habits and informed him he eats nearly as much or more than Cap does when
he visited the Compound. He's definitely not getting that kind food in Gotham.

Class ends with the teacher mentioning something about a school spirit day next week. Peter isn’t
paying attention. Someone drops something on his desk as the final bell rings, startling him out of
his thoughts. He looks down at the desk and sees a bag of chips, then looks up and finds himself
face to face with Duke who grins and shrugs.

“I figured you’d be starving by now. You headed home? I could use some company on the
subway.”

“Subway? I thought you, Tim, and Steph all rode together,” Peter says, shrugging on his backpack
and grabbing the bag of chips. He tears open the packet and grabs a chip. It’s empty calories, but at
this point any calories would do him some good.

“Yeah, usually Steph drops me off at my job after school, but I’m going to visit my cousin and
some friends over in the Narrows with Tim tonight,” Duke says, hooking a thumb in his pocket.
“It’s quicker to take a subway over to that part of Gotham. The bridges are a nightmare for traffic.”

“Uh, yeah. I don’t mind the company,” Peter says. This almost feels rehearsed. “Let’s go.”

Duke grins. “Come on, there’s a diner we can stop at, too. I know you’re starving.”
“Is it that obvious?” Peter asks, walking with him out into the hall. People move out of Duke’s
way, and more than a few of them throw grins his way. Peter’s a little jealous of that; Duke is
indisputably a cool kid at school, which makes his friendship with Peter all the stranger.

“Only because I know how much you usually eat,” Duke replies, waving at Tim when they reach
the front entrance. “Come on, you’re overdue for a trip to Batburger.”

Peter makes a face. “That can’t possibly be a real place.”

Duke grins.

***

Batburger is, in fact, a very real place. It’s a theme restaurant, and that theme is Batman, his
friends, and his villains. Peter gawks at the uniforms, the cheesy names, and the cheap decorations
and briefly wonders if something similar exists back home. But the food isn’t actually all that bad.
He’s definitely had worse burgers, and the fries are cooked to perfection. He can’t complain about
that. For a moment, his sour mood is pushed back.

Tim drops a kid’s meal box in front of Peter just as he finishes off his third cheeseburger. “Time
for the family tradition. Here. You get a free action figure. It’s a mystery set this time.”

Peter, amused, grabs the box. “Gee, thanks. I wonder who I’ll get at Batburger.”

“You might be surprised,” Tim says, stirring a fresh cup of coffee.

“How many of those have you had today?” Peter asks, pulling out the toy packet. It’s pretty big for
a knock off happy meal toy.

Tim lifts up his cup, pauses, squints, and takes a mental count. “Six.”

“That is beyond unhealthy,” Peter says.

Tim shrugs and downs half of his cup in one go.

Duke rolls his eyes. “One day he’s going to try and cut back on his caffeine intake and collapse
from the withdrawal.”

“Hasn’t happened yet,” Tim remarks. “And it won’t happen. If you try to serve me decaf again, I’ll
dump a bottle of Dick’s old itching powder in your sock drawer.”

“His what?” Duke asks.

“He used to prank Alfred as a kid,” Tim explains. “I found his old stash inside his closet. Itching
powder, whoopie cushions, hand buzzers, the works.”

“Why were you in his closet?”

“Because I’m nosy,” Tim says patiently. “And he owes me twenty bucks.”

“Tim, we’re rich.”

“It’s the principle of the thing, Duke.”

Peter hides a grin, popping open the toy package and pulling out a tiny, borderline cheap model of
Nightwing. The toy wears a cheesy grin and holds a kali stick in each hand. Peter’s never seen
Nightwing with weapons before, but that doesn’t mean they’re not somewhere in his suit;
Nightwing’s a pretty big guy. Otherwise, the suit seems true to life.

“Hey, congrats, you got the coolest one,” Tim says.

“Signal’s cooler,” Duke says.

Tim rolls his eyes at that, but only smirks in response, casting a glance through the window. Peter
examines the little Nightwing toy, amused by it, and then tucks it away inside his blazer. He used
to carry around a similar figure when he was a kid. A little Iron Man toy he had picked up at the
Stark Expo, shortly before Iron Man saved his life. He’d considered it a good luck charm at the
time. Maybe Nightwing will serve the same purpose in Gotham. His mood is a little lighter, at
least. But that could just as easily come from the food. He ends up eating three meals’ worth of
food: burgers, fries, two milkshakes, and a small apple pie.

Duke and Tim seem content to chat with each other while he eats enough food to sustain himself
for the next week. They also pay for it without thinking; Peter feels a bit guilty about that, but he’s
too hungry to care. He’ll pay them back after he gets his next check. He’s polishing off the apple
pie--not the best he’s ever had, and definitely not something that measures up to Aunt May’s--
when he notices a sleek red sports car pull in front of the restaurant. Tim and Duke go still, staring
daggers at it, and it takes Peter a moment to figure out why.

Edison Bright sits in his sports car, staring daggers into the restaurant. Judging by the way his eyes
roam across the front of it, he can’t actually see inside. At least, not past the foggy mist that seems
to just hover close to the ground of Gotham City this time of year. Duke stares daggers at Edison,
and starts to get up. Tim reaches up and grips his shoulder.

“Don’t,” Tim says. “He’s looking for an excuse.”

“I’m happy to give him one,” Duke mutters, but sits back down. His eyes never leave Edison.

“He’d just run from you,” Tim adds. “Like he’s doing now.”

And Edison is moving. He eases his shiny sports car back onto the street and then revs the engine
a few times, loud enough to rattle the windows of the burger place, before tearing off down the
street with a squeal of wet slick tires. And then it clicks for Peter. Duke and Tim didn’t just happen
to need the subway today. Steph could have easily driven them over to the Narrows despite the
traffic; they walked with Peter specifically to buy him dinner and protect him from Edison Bright.

Peter boggles at that. This is something Ned would do for him, without a second thought, and he
wishes suddenly that Tim and Duke could meet him.

“Hey, Peter, why don’t you come home with us?” Tim says, breaking Peter out of his thoughts.

“You can swing by the Narrows with us first and meet some friends of mine, and then stay over
with us,” Duke adds.

Peter shakes his head. He’d love to sleep in an actual bed, but he needs to finish his spider suit.
Without the suit, he can’t start working out how to get home: he needs the suit to be able to track
down the person that keeps pinging his spider senses. “Sorry, guys. Not tonight.”

Tim seems disappointed by that. “Next time, then.”

“Yeah, definitely,” Peter says, standing up and gathering his trash. It’s pretty sizable; he really did
a number on the menu here. “Thanks for the meal, guys. I’ll pay you back sometime, promise. See
you at school tomorrow!”

Tim and Duke wave after him. Peter can’t help but notice the pinched, worried look they share
when he turns his back to them and leaves the restaurant.

***

BATCHAT

Duke (11:10pm): he was holding back during that fight

Duke (11:11pm): he’s much faster than I thought

Duke (11:11pm): not Flash fast, but really quick

Tim (11:13pm): another power?

Duke (11:15pm): maybe. I saw this hazy sort of person fighting with him, too. Not a ghost. It was
like a memory? like an echo. Peter was mimicking all of his moves.

Tim (11:16pm): interesting

Dick (11:20pm): Guys, I need a favor and I really need you to not comment on it.

Dick (11:21pm): Can someone please bring me pants

Dick (11:22pm): There was an...incident during patrol tonight.

Dick (11:22pm): Do NOT tell Bruce about this

Tim Drake screenshot this.

Dick (11:23pm): Come on, man

***

Peter sleeps well that night, but his sour mood still lingers. He’s starting to wonder if it’s more than
the fight that’s bothering him. He tries not to think about it and keeps his head down in school,
moving from class to class with as little input as possible. The day passes by in a gray blur for most
of it, but he snaps out of it briefly when he gets lunch and walks over to Tim and Duke’s table.
They’re hunched over a piece of paper, bickering with one another. Neither of them looks up when
Peter sits down beside them and starts to eat his lunch.

“No, that’s--that’s way too much,” Tim protests. “There’s no way he’d be able to bend as much as
he needs without breaking something--”

“He needs some armor,” Duke insists.

Peter leans over to peer over Tim’s shoulder, curious as to what they’re arguing about. His eyes
scan the page, first in confusion, and then in shock. They’re designing armor. This is for a suit.
Peter blinks, squinting at the hastily written computation in the corner. It’s clearly written by
someone who isn't used to wiring up power inside a suit. Or, at least, as much power. They're close,
but it's such a mess...

“Yeah, but that means he needs wires and circuits and--”

"This is wrong," he says suddenly, interrupting Duke and Tim. He taps one of the circuit diagrams.
"The resistance is too much for a portable battery to function efficiently. Are you designing a super
suit?"

Duke and Tim go quiet, giving him curious and shocked looks. Clearly they didn’t expect to be
caught in the middle of this.

"That's a good guess. We're working on a new one for Nightwing," Duke says. “His suit got
shredded last night on patrol, and his fan club is helping him build a new one.”

“They’re lying,” Bucky says.

They are. He doesn’t know why they’re lying to him, but they are. Peter quirks a brow at Duke
before grabbing Tim’s pen and pulling the paper over to himself. He rewrites the calculations and
draws a completely different circuit plan throughout the whole suit; he's using a circuit model
Tony taught him months ago, and an older design at that. Tim and Duke crowd around him,
watching him work. When Peter starts to speak, he can hear hints of Tony in his own voice.

"You have too much of everything in this equation. Start over and use this first. Keep the concept
simple. You can add redundancies later. In fact, you’ll need them in case one fails during patrol,
and they usually will," Peter says.

His sketch is basically an older version of the suit Tony first built for him. No Karen, no web
shooters, and none of the fancy bells and whistles Tony usually puts into a suit. Peter only needs
the basics for himself, and Nightwing clearly doesn’t need them. So he keeps it minimal; health
monitoring, a HUD for the mask, a specific weave for the joints of the suit to handle constant use
and stress.

"Use this,” Peter continues, adding a small calculation to the edge of the page before marking off
specific points on the suit. “Nightwing’s an acrobat, so this will give him room to move and bend
all weird without breaking anything electronic. Armor’s a little tricky, but you might be able to find
a stronger fabric weave to at least help deflect knives."

“You did that pretty quick,” Tim says, impressed.

“I like designing things. Who doesn’t design a super suit when they’re a kid?” Peter says. “I just
have more practical experience after a few engineering classes, that’s all.”

Granted, that practical experience comes from building his suits in Tony’s lab, and those
engineering classes were run by Rhodey and Tony, who are both genius engineers. But it’s
technically the truth.

“That’s true,” Duke says, grinning. “I used to draw Batman’s suit all the time when I was a kid.
Every kid in Gotham did.”

“So did I,” Tim adds after a moment’s thought. He’s still giving Peter a curious look, but continues.
“I think I gave him functional bat wings in one design.”

“That’d be cool,” Duke says thoughtfully. “His cape’s way too iconic, though.”

Peter finishes off the sketch and leans back to look at his handiwork. It's passable. Good enough
for five minutes of effort, at least. He caps the pen, puts it back on the table, and immediately digs
into his lunch. Maybe Spider-Man won’t come to Gotham, but he can still help in other ways.
Nightwing’s suit, for example. Assuming he pays attention to this fan club of his and accepts suit
designs, anyway. Tony never did.
He doesn’t notice Tim snap a pic of the schematic before tucking it into his backpack. And he
misses the significant look Tim and Duke share with one another. That grey fog from before is
easing back into his mood.

***

BATCHAT

Dick (01:12pm): Hey, this looks great. Did you guys design this during your lunch?

Tim (01:13pm): Peter did all of it. I knew the guy was smart, but he might be a certified genius.
He took one look and had a whole system sketched out within a minute.

Tim (01:13pm): We need to test a few things out, but the suit looks more than viable.

Dick (01:14pm): Wow. Wait. Aren’t you still in school? Pay attention to class!

Tim (01:15pm): don’t be a nerd, Grayson

***

The weight of it all starts to catch up to Peter later that week when he finds himself shivering
inside the fire house. He crawls in through the window, tosses his backpack across the room to the
tarp hiding his bed from view, and gently thumps his head against the wall. He stays like that for a
long moment. God, what he wouldn’t give to be able to make a phone call back home. He doesn’t
know what’s happening there, if anything is happening, or how to get home. He can just imagine
the reaction he’d get from Happy (god, Peter hopes Happy is okay) if he called.

“Hi, Happy,” he mutters against the filthy wall. “I’d really appreciate it if you could pick me up
and take me to my aunt. Or Ned’s house. Or MJ’s. Or Rhodey. Or Tony. Or Vision. Frankly, I
wouldn’t mind if you dropped me into whatever super secret hideout the Black Widow is hiding in.
She’s terrifying, but I’m like ninety-nine percent sure she wouldn’t kill me. At least, not until she
got to know me.”

There is, of course, no answer, and he feels rather silly muttering at a dirty wall. He sighs, leaning
back and rubbing his eyes. That weird grey feeling is still lingering around him, muffling his
emotions and smothering him at the same time. The constant grind of school, starvation,
homework, and work is getting to him. It must be. There’s no other reason--

His eyes focus on the day planner the school gave him at the start of the year, and the reason for
his sour mood is readily explained: the anniversary of Ben’s death is this weekend. He must have
subconsciously picked up on it sometime after the fight with Edison. That was just the tipping
point. And this year he doesn’t have May to lean on. Or Ned.

He sighs, skipping the work on his spider suit for the night in favor of curling up in bed. It’s a little
too cold to do anything else, and he’s still feeling conflicted by the whole Spider-Man thing. And
he has work tomorrow.

***

Peter wakes up to a steady, freezing rain on Saturday. The temperature has turned unseasonably
cold, plunging the temperatures down to near freezing. He eats a half frozen protein bar for
breakfast, takes the quickest shower of his life, and then heads for the nearest cafe to grab a hot
chocolate to nurse for the few hours before his shift starts. He slips into the restaurant with a quiet
greeting, pulls on his apron and gets to work. There’s an odd tension to the air, and Omar keeps
glancing at the clock and the back door. Peter ignores it. He’s got too much on his mind.

He’s so caught up in his own thoughts that he’s functioning on instinct and habit alone while he
works. That’s not an issue when he’s handling dishes in the back of the restaurant by himself. It
becomes an issue when a man with a black skull mask pushes open the door to the alley beside
Peter and walks into the restaurant, gun handle glinting beneath his suit jacket.

Instinct takes over, and Peter’s moving before he fully realizes what’s happening. One moment, the
man with the gun lurches into view, the next Peter is standing over him, flinging the gun away and
kicking him hard across the face, snapping the mask in half. The man crumples to the ground in a
wordless heap, just like every other thug Peter’s taken on before. The guy really didn’t stand a
chance.

“Good reaction time,” Fury says idly.

Omar rushes into the back. When he sees Peter standing over the unconscious man’s form, his eyes
go wide.

“Oh, no,” Omar says weakly. “Peter, what did you do?”

Peter frowns at him. “He had a gun! He was going to rob--”

Something heavy and metallic slams against the base of Peter’s skull, just beneath his ear. It’s hard
enough to send him sprawling to the ground with stars in his eyes. He rolls over, disoriented, and
finds himself staring up at a crowd of other men wearing pressed suits and black skull masks. All
of them are armed, some with clubs, others with guns, and approximately none of them look too
pleased with Peter. That’s fine, he’s taken on guys like this before--

Omar puts himself between Peter and the masked men, hands raised. “Wait! Wait, stop! He didn’t
know! He’s new! Please, don’t hurt him.”

“New employee, huh,” the biggest one says. He points a meaty finger at Peter. “You know the
rule, Omar. If anyone--anyone--hurts one of the False Facers, the price is taken out in blood. We
run the protection racket here, and that includes protecting ourselves.”

“No, no, please. He’s just some kid, he thought we were being robbed--” Omar stammers.

“Omar--” Peter starts, standing up. He sways a bit, but catches his balance quick. He can feel the
bruise forming, and the burning itch from his healing factor kicking in.

Omar whirls on him and hisses, “Shut up, I’m trying to save your life.”

Peter stutters into silence, reaching up to rub the back of his head. He finds a knot there and winces.
Omar looks like he’s about to faint from panic; Peter keeps silent.

The man in the black mask--the False Facer--chuckles. “Tell you what, we’ll make it even another
way. Get rid of the kid and take the beating yourself.”

“What--” Peter starts.

“Done,” Omar says, gripping Peter and roughly shoving him past the gangsters towards the alley.
Peter starts to fight him, Omar pushes him harder. “Peter, you’re fired. I’m sorry, but--”

“Omar, I need this job--”

“They’ll kill you,” Omar retorts. He won’t look Peter in the eye. “Listen, if it’s safe, I’ll try to leave
some food out, but you can’t work here, okay?”

With a final shove, he pushes Peter out into the alley and slams the door. Peter stares at it in blank
shock when the lock slides home. And then the beating begins. He can’t just kick in the door and
start cracking heads together. Not without causing a bigger scene than he already has and blowing
his cover wide open.

The rain picks up, falling hard and fast enough to drown out almost everything else. Peter eyes the
roof of the restaurant, considers jumping on top of it--

“If you do that, Omar and Sophia are the ones who’ll pay for it,” Bucky says quietly.

And that’s an excellent point. Sure, Peter could barge in, expose himself as a freaky brawler
capable of taking down an entire squad of mafia men. But that will just put a target on Omar and
Sophia’s backs. Not to mention his own. Peter knows enough about Gotham to know that various
mobs and gangs run the show in Crime Alley, and anyone bucking that trend disappears. The nail
that stands out gets hammered down and all that.

Growling in frustration, he kicks a trashcan over and stalks back towards home.

***

It rains that night. Hard and constant and miserable. The leaks in the roof of the warehouse
guarantee the floor is damp and chill. He shivers, half awake, and partially damp. Peter ends up
sleeping curled up in a ball under the tarp to avoid the leaking roof.

At some point, he falls into a true sleep. When he wakes, he’s laying in warm grass, warm and at
ease. He sits up, frowns in confusion, and then stumbles up onto his feet, looking around.

"Ah, I was hoping you would join me next," a man says behind him. His voice is accented, warm
and regal.

Peter turns to face him. T'Challa, King of Wakanda, stands beneath an ancient tree. The branches
above his head glint with curious golden eyes, and living shadows move among them. The ground
is covered in thick, green prairie grass tall enough to tickle Peter's palms. And above them there’s
an endless sea of stars set against an aurora of purple and blue.

"What is this place?" Peter asks, walking up to him.

"The Ancestral home. What comes after," T'Challa replies, strolling over to stand in front of Peter.
"A Wakandan king never truly dies. His wisdom lives on, to inspire and lead from afar, if need be,
so he goes here to share that wisdom with the next king or queen. I visited this place when I first
became king and it became a part of myself. I find myself wandering through it while I sleep.
When I need time away from the others in the Stone, I go here. Sometimes with Shuri, though she
has her own private area as well.”

“Oh,” Peter responds dumbly. He looks around the majestic field again and feels sorely out of
place. This is not a place meant for someone like him, and he's very aware of that fact.

“Be proud of yourself, Peter,” T’Challa continues. “This is a land of Kings and Queens, welcoming
you as a guest."

Peter freezes, his brain finally catching up to the fact that he’s standing near royalty, and, after a
brief panic, starts to bow. T'Challa gently presses his hand against Peter's shoulder, stopping him
cold.

"There's no need for that," he says gently. "I may be a king, but we are equals here, brothers in
arms. We are both Avengers."

"Oh. Y-yeah, I guess so," Peter replies, unsure. He’s definitely not equal to T'Challa. There’s a
reserved nobility in the way the man carries himself that Peter knows he’ll never be able to match.
Arguing the point seems rude, however, so he keeps his mouth shut. He stops, looking around.

The savannah is warm, and dry. The wind sweeps across the prairie grass, and distant birds call to
one another in the moonlit night. Distant blue-black clouds scuttle across the sky, never dimming
the aura or the stars glittering above. In the distance, a city glimmers beneath the watchful gaze of
a massive stone panther, at peace with the landscape around it. There's such a feeling of
contentment and peace that Peter knows, somewhere deep inside, he'll hunt for this feeling for the
rest of his life.

T'Challa regards him silently for a moment, then seems to come to a conclusion. "Walk with me,
Peter. I would like to show you my home.”

With that, he turns and walks through the grass towards the city. Peter follows him, his head on a
swivel, looking at all of the sights and sounds of the Wakandan homeland. They walk in silence,
moving past deceptively humble border villages on their way to the city. Eventually, T’Challa
motions for Peter to walk alongside him, and Peter hurries to move to his right, walking beside
him.

“You doubt yourself,” T’Challa says after a few minutes.

“Always,” Peter says.

T'Challa tilts his head. “Well. You are honest with yourself. In some respects, at least.”

“What do you mean?”

“You are often your harshest critic. And your doubt is a double edged sword.”

“I can’t risk getting an ego. Not with this kind of power,” Peter retorts.

T’Challa says nothing, tilting his head in acknowledgement.

Panthers follow them, stalking among the trees, the buildings, the prairie. Peter never feels
threatened by them, but he does keep note. After awhile, the more silent and stealthy panthers
realize he can see them. It becomes a game; they sneak in as close as they can before Peter notices,
then they duck away. He catches them more often than not, but a few of the sleeker, thinner
panthers come close enough to tap him with their paw before darting away.

T'Challa notices, too. He chuckles.

Peter looks up at him. “Oh, uh, I'm paying attention, honest---”

“The Dora Milaje test their recruits by stalking them in this way. It is training and a game all in
one. Okoye did the same to me when we were children, many times.” He nods to the small group
of panthers stalking them in the grass. If not for his heightened senses, Peter wouldn’t know they
were there at all. “It seems you’ve earned their approval as well as their interest.”

"Oh, good. I'd prefer that,” Peter says.

"Oh?"

"Yeah, I’d like to stay on the good side of immortal panther warriors who can eat me."

That earns him an amused look from the King. "You learn quickly. One of my favorite games
growing up was to tease Okoye endlessly. She was very efficient about showing me where the line
was drawn."

“She beat up the King of Wakanda?” Peter asks, tilting his head.

“She beat up her very foolish friend who happened to be of royal blood,” T'Challa corrects, still
with that amused smirk. He stops at the steps of what is unmistakably a grand palace. It’s style is
nothing like the European castles and stately manors Peter’s seen, but he can recognize a place of
government when he sees one. "And it was well earned. Okoye is wise with her violence. And that
is something you lack.”

Peter looks up at T’Challa, frowning. “Wisdom?”

“In regards to your strength, yes. That isn’t surprising. You are young in your abilities,” T’Challa
says, clasping his hands behind his back. “You don’t think that you can aid the people of Gotham.”

“Yeah,” Peter admits, rubbing the back of his head. “Gotham is different from New York. People
need help, sure, but I’m not sure if I can help, you know? There’s a dozen people doing what I do
here, and they’ve been doing it longer than I have. Wouldn’t it be better if I left it to them?”

“How many of them have you seen in your neighborhood?” T'Challa asks.

Peter stops cold. He hasn’t seen them in his neighborhood. Nightwing swings through, but it’s
almost always while on the way to the latest disaster in another part of the city. Red Robin is
probably still out of commission, and he was clearly in over his head the last time he came through.
Signal sticks to the Narrows, mostly, and has never ventured far into Crime Alley minus that time
he said he was covering for Nightwing. Spoiler and Batgirl patrol together, and they seem to focus
on the docks near Old Gotham. No one knows where Batman is; his patrols vary widely, and lately
he’s been all over the place.

No one is focusing on little guy stuff. No one’s returning stolen purses or lost bikes. No one is
doing anything to stop the almost daily muggings. No one is standing up to groups like the False
Facers. No one is helping Omar or Sophia or any of the other decent people that try to get by. Sure,
the Bat crew swings through the Bowery and Crime Alley, and he’s met them on the rooftops, but
that’s just it. He’s met them on the rooftops. You can't stop a street level crime from twenty storeys
up.

T'Challa raises an eyebrow, waiting for Peter’s answer.

“I guess there’s room for Spider-Man here. At least until I figure out how to get home. And it
would make things easier, too. I can’t really investigate the city if it’s constantly on fire, and people
might be able to help me when they aren’t constantly trying to survive,” Peter says thoughtfully.
“May always says that if you help someone, you help everyone, at least in a roundabout kind of
way.”

“Your aunt is a wise woman,” T'Challa says.

“She’s the best. I owe her everything,” Peter says.

T'Challa smiles. “Perhaps she could meet my mother one day, when this is all over. I think you
 would both enjoy Wakanda.”

Peter pauses, taking a moment to mentally fanboy over the fact that the Black Panther just invited
him over to visit. “I have to warn you, I might be completely obnoxious if that happens.”

“I grew up with Shuri. I am well used to obnoxious behavior.”

Peter grins a little. T’Challa returns it.

“We walk similar paths,” T'Challa says. “It is not an easy one, and it will be full of pain.”

“I know.”

"It is hard for a good man to live such a life. But I think that it will be worth it. For now, you
should rest." He offers Peter his hand and clasps forearms with him. "Until we meet again, Spider-
Man."

“Thank you, T'Challa.”

Peter wakes up slowly, gradually. He’s completely at ease in his makeshift bed, and he wakes
feeling refreshed for the first time since he came to Gotham. His dreams, when he thinks of them,
leave behind only a sense of a firm resolve and relief.

***

He spends the next day hard at work and finishes his suit just as the sun begins to set. It's not the
Iron Spider, but it's got enough sensors and electronics to get him by. He just needs the web fluid
indicator, compass, and the map of Gotham. Those are easily enough done, even with his limited
supplies and coding skill. The most tedious part is hand sewing everything, and that doesn't bother
him much when he has the radio or a book on hand. That goes double when he’s not busy with
work.

And then he finishes it. It isn't his best work, but it's worlds above the sweatpants and hoodie he
used in Queens a lifetime ago. It’s blue and red, with a gray webbing pattern across the whole of it,
and the fat red spider across the back from the first suit Tony built for him.

It takes him no time at all to put the suit on. The moment the mask hits home, he all but sighs in
relief. He can’t believe he almost gave this up. A quick jump out of the nearest window and a
carefully placed web sling later, and he's resting on top of the building, balanced on a rusted
HVAC system in the steady rain of the Gotham night. On the anniversary of his uncle’s death,
Spider-Man returns.

"All right, Gotham. Let's see what you've got for me."

Chapter End Notes

Time for Spidey to meet the local Rogue's Gallery, aw yeah.

 Chapter 9
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

He spends most of that first patrol getting back into the swing (ha) of things. He circles the
perimeter of Crime Alley, swinging from one darkened skyscraper to the next, dodging between
buildings at speed to check his reaction time, and then builds up as much speed as he can to test his
webbing. It's not as refined as the stuff he could make in Tony's lab, but it's more than serviceable.

But it wouldn't be a patrol without at least some crime fighting. During his last swing through the
district, Peter catches sight of two men hovering near the back entrance to one of the darkened
warehouses in the industrial zone. They’re hunched low; one big guy with a heavy crowbar gripped
in his meaty hands, and one thin, twitchy guy who keeps glancing back at the box truck parked
beside them.

Peter drops down on top of the box truck lightly before skittering over to the edge, peering down at
the men below. It takes effort to keep himself still; he’s hyped up from the swinging, from being
himself again, and it’s hard to keep from leaping straight into action. But he has to make sure that
these guys are bad guys. He stays crouched low, pressed flat against the top of the truck in a way
that’s impossible for a normal human.

“Goddamn, that is creepy,” Sam mutters.

“Don’t distract him,” Bucky says.

"You're paranoid, Frank," the moose looking guy says. He's struggling with the crowbar, and
quickly losing patience. Peter marks him as an amateur burglar; he’s too clumsy, too impatient to
be a pro.

"The hell I am," Frank retorts. "The bats swing through all the time. I swear I saw one earlier. You
know what the Bat does to people like us? He'll beat you into a coma if you piss him off. I once
saw him grab one of Joker's guys and dangle him over the side of a building. Gave me
nightmares."

"Oh, are we sharing our nightmares?" Peter asks from the shadows above them. "I have so many to
share--"

Both men startle; Frank actually lets out a terrified yell and Moose curses a blue streak, yanking the
crowbar free of the door frame to swing at Peter. The swing is sloppy and slow. Peter pins the
man's arm--crowbar and all--to the door with a shot of web fluid and quickly follows it up with two
more globs that pin his free arm and both of his feet. Frank starts to sprint for the alley. A single
shot of his web gums up the man's legs and sends him face down into the asphalt of the alley with
a muffled oomph.

Too easy. Peter pokes around Moose's pockets, ignoring the man's repeated curses, and pulls out
his phone. He taps it and tsks when the screen unlocks automatically.

"No lock screen?" Peter asks, casually leaning against the wall beside Moose. "Man, you really are
new at this. Why are you trying to get into this place anyway?"

Moose glowers at him. "Because people keep moving real big pieces of equipment in and out.
Expensive stuff. Stuff that can be pieced out and sold easy. One good sale and we’re set for a
week."

"There are lots of warehouses like that around here," Peter points out.

Moose rolls his eyes. "This is the only one not used by the False Facers. I ain't lookin' to get
killed."

"Huh. Good to know," Peter says, tapping out 911 on the phone. "Hello? Yeah, hi, I need the police
at warehouse thirteen at 59th and Park Row. Okay, cool, bye." Peter ends the call and shrugs at the
two criminals. "It's gonna take them forty five minutes to get here. So, uh, get comfy."

"Fuck off, kid," Moose mutters.

"Language, mister," Peter chides before tucking Moose's phone back into his coat and flinging
himself back up to the rooftops. It’s late, and he has school tomorrow. He’d better call it a night.

***

BATCHAT

Barbara (9:56pm): Duke, Tim, time to call it.

Duke (09:58pm): on our way

Tim (10:00pm): we can do at least another hour

Duke (10:01pm): no, we cannot. not with your busted ribs. Barbara, hit us with the wrap up talk
while I manhandle Tim back home, thanks.

Tim (10:01pm): wow rude

Barbara (10:01pm): Cass and Steph have finished cleaning up the docks. Damian and Bruce are
on recon duty. Jason and Dick broke up a trafficking syndicate in Blüdhaven earlier tonight and
didn’t kill each other, so they get a gold star for that. And you and Duke managed to get the
Riddler back into Arkham.

Barbara (10:02pm): Also, someone called 911 from Crime Alley tonight for the first time in six
months.

Barbara (10:03pm): The police found two men bound up in massive webs. The men said a giant
spider caught them while they were trying to break into a warehouse.

Duke (10:04pm): what.

Barbara (10:05pm): Any takers on tracking down a giant spider in Crime Alley tomorrow?

Duke (10:05pm): absolutely fucking not

***

Peter wakes up sore the next morning, but rejuvenated. He actually feels somewhat back to normal,
as if he’s been nudged firmly back onto his foundation after teetering off of it after Titan. He has
the oddest feeling that he should thank someone for that, but can’t quite figure out who or why.

“You are welcome,” T’Challa says.

Well, whatever. He gets up and heads into the shower. If he rushes his homework during
homeroom today, he’ll have time to fit in another patrol tonight after school. He stretches, rolling
his shoulders a little to loosen them up, and staggers into the shower. The freezing water doesn’t do
much for his sore back and arms, but it does plenty to wake him up. He grabs his backpack, a stale
protein bar, and his jacket, and leaves for school.

The classes pass by in a grey blur; he’s aware of doing the work, of listening to lectures, but he
focuses mostly on his homework. Nothing really pierces his focus. Except for Tim. And not in a
pleasant way, unfortunately.

It happens during home room. Peter, Tim, and Duke have their desks facing each other--technically
against the rules, but the teacher doesn’t seem to care--and share desk space. Duke is kicked back
in his chair, foot pressed against the desk, tilting it back on its back two legs as he reads through a
textbook. Tim is hunched over his desk, violently erasing a paper in front of him, muttering darkly
about his chemistry assignment. He ducks down and blows on his page, spreading tiny, twisted
pieces of eraser rubber across the desk and onto Peter’s hand.

Peter’s senses go wild. It looks like ash. And the way it falls--drifting into view and blowing in just
the right way--suddenly, Peter’s not sitting in school, he’s back at Titan. Or in the machine. His
skin tingles, growing hot, and his clothes feel like they’re constricting him, tightening around his
neck and choking him, like the ash and dust on Titan--

“Hey,” Tim says. He sounds distant and alarmed. “Peter?”

“This is bad,” Quill says.

“Parker, focus,” Fury says slowly. “Remember where you are.”

“Yeah, that’s not helping,” Sam adds.

Peter stands up, snatches his backpack up, and flees the room. He’s not thinking clearly. He’s not
thinking at all. He just knows he has to get out of there, to get away. In his mind, he’s fleeing
Titan, Thanos, and the disintegration he’s sure will soon happen again.

He isn’t sure how, but he makes it back to the fire station. Peter can’t remember if he ran here or
took the subway. Regardless, the result is the same. He drops his half open backpack and skitters
up to the furthest corner of the room, pressing his back against it, and hugs his knees to his chest.
From there, he just has to ride out the panic attack.

***

BATCHAT

Duke (02:05pm): he didn’t show up to any of his classes, and he missed lunch.

Tim (02:36pm): that’s not good

Tim (02:37pm): we have to cover for him. That stupid law is still in effect. The school has to
report AWOL students to the cops.

Duke (02:35pm): think we can get Bruce to do it?

Tim (02:37pm): i’ll forge an email and tweak the school’s records, it’ll be fine
Tim (02:38pm): we’ll give his books back to him tomorrow and try to get him home

Tim (02:39pm): hey, Dick, check on him for us, all right?

Dick (02:40pm): Consider it done.

***

He snaps out of his panic gradually. Eventually, it drains away from him completely, leaving him
feeling jittery and embarrassed. He’ll have to come up with some kind of excuse tomorrow when
he goes to school. Or not. Maybe he can just pretend it didn’t happen and brush it off completely.
He drops from the ceiling, rubbing the back of his head, and grabs his suit. He needs to work off
the excess energy.

He starts his patrol again, and quickly earns a minor reputation, even after only a few days. The
cops aren't his biggest fans (shocker), but the people take to him well enough. Gotham isn't
Queens, but it does have a lot of Queens problems. Especially the Queens he grew up in after the
Battle of New York. There were hardly any police around after half the force was killed in the
Battle, and crime became a massive issue. The same issue lives on in Crime Alley, minus the alien
invasion. Fortunately, this is his specialty.

So he spends the evening stopping petty thieves, guiding lost children back to their parents, and
walking lone travelers through the sketchier areas at night. Little guy stuff. Tony would be proud.
And little guy stuff adds up; the streets become a little safer around the same time he starts to get a
wider view of what’s happening in the city. Usually, things aren’t this bad. Batman and his crew
handle these kinds of issues in Gotham, but they’ve been busy. Stretched thin. Add Red Robin’s
broken ribs, and the breakout at Arkham Asylum to the mix, and things start to look shaky in
general.

As an added bonus, the more he spends his time as Spider-Man, the less time he’ll have to deal
with Peter Parker’s issues. Which are many and numerous, at this point. Better to bury himself in
work than deal with that, frankly. He can do a lot more good helping people instead of dwelling on
whatever happened to him on Titan.

“He really is Stark’s kid,” Fury remarks dryly.

“That’s not a timebomb waiting to go off or anything,” Hill replies, caught somewhere between
resignation and frustration.

Peter is just about to call it for the night when the bus depot at the edge of the district suddenly
goes up in flames. Literally. It starts as a brief flare, and erupts into a full conflagration by the time
he makes it to the depot. He drops to the ground beside a group of coughing, teary eyed workers.

“Is everyone okay?” Peter asks.

“Yeah! Yeah, we’re fine,” a woman says. Her voice is rough from smoke, and she coughs around
her words, clutching a coworker’s shoulder to keep herself standing. “But Lou’s still inside, and the
fire department’s too far away to help. They closed the only station in the district last year.”

“Where’s Lou?” Peter asks, scanning the outside of the depot. The fire is spreading, growing
hotter. If it hits one of the fuel tanks, it’ll blow sky high.

“Near the break room. The, uh,” the woman struggles for a moment. “The northeast side.”
“On it. You guys stay here, I’ll be right back,” Peter says before launching himself back into the
air and swinging along the outside of the building.

“You don’t have an oxygen tank on this suit,” Shuri says.

“If you’re doing this, kid, be quick,” Bucky adds.

Right. He’ll have to try and upgrade this suit at some point, but for now, he’s has to focus on
getting the guy out. Gotham’s infamous nightly rain will work to his advantage for a little while,
maybe enough to get everyone out safe. One of the big windows near the roof of the brick building
is propped open. Peter launches himself inside, rolls when he lands on the concrete floor of the
depot, and stays crouched. He can crawl on all fours as quickly as he jogs, and he uses that speed to
his advantage, staying low to avoid the smoke. Hopefully Lou doesn’t freak out and throw a chair
at him or something if he sees this.

He can hear the man’s thundering heartbeat and coughs up ahead and to his right. Peter finds Lou
laying on the ground, holding a handkerchief to his face, leg pinned by a collapsed wall. He startles
when Peter appears next to him.

“I can’t move,” he says. “Leg’s stuck.”

“Is it broken?” Peter asks.

“No, just stuck. You gotta help me--”

“I’ve got this,” Peter assures him. He stands up and grips the heavy beam that, miraculously, didn’t
crush the man’s leg. He sticks his hands fully to the beam and braces his feet on the floor. “Get
ready to move on three, okay?”

The guy gives him a disbelieving look, but nods. “Sure, but you won’t be able to move that unless
you’re Superman.”

“I’m cooler than Superman,” Peter says. “One, two, three--”

It takes more effort than it should, but Peter lifts up the beam and the debris piled on top of it
smoothly, holding it well above Lou. The man gapes at him for a moment, then quickly drags
himself away from Peter, pushing himself to his feet. Peter lets the beam drop as soon as he’s clear.

“Man,” Lou says wonderingly. “You weren’t kiddin’.”

“We’ve gotta get out of here,” Peter says, shaking his arms out.

“I’ve got it, follow me.”

They crouch low and move through the burning building. They’re within ten feet of the exit when
something cracks above them and Peter’s senses go off. A piece of the roof caves in, and a heavy
metal pipe falls from the ceiling. Peter shoves Lou out of the way in time, but catches the pipe with
his face. It lands hard, with a solid thump loud enough to make Lou turn and give him a worried
look.

“You okay, kid?” the driver calls out, his voice muffled by the handkerchief in front of his mouth
and nose.

Peter hisses, cupping his face for a moment, then shakes it off. “I’m fine! I’m fine, come on--the
exit is straight ahead. Stay low and go straight, okay?”
“Only if you’re right behind me,” the driver says between coughs.

“I am! Trust me, I’ve taken harder knocks than that!”

Lou hesitates, then shakes his head and then leads them out into the frigid night air. Lou’s
coworkers swarm him, hugging him, giving him water, and generally fussing over the big guy.
Peter makes sure the bus driver is taken care of, and then slips away into the rooftop shadows,
heading back into the heart of Crime Alley.

The rain washes off the ash and the smell of smoke. At least, it mutes it enough that it isn’t very
obvious. He drops into the alley with his backpack, landing on unsteady feet. He hasn’t used his
super strength in weeks, and he feels wrung out and exhausted. He can feel the bruise forming
across his eye and cheek, and rubs at it idly while he pulls on an old hoodie and loose fitting jeans
over his suit. Normally he’d change, but like hell is he going to chance that in Crime Alley.

“Thank god,” Bucky says.

And besides, it’s cold as hell. The suit is great, but it’s not exactly insulated for heat, and the misty
Gotham nights are always chilly. He shoves his mask under his books in his backpack and slips out
of the alley on silent feet. The street is silent and still in the early morning hours, and Peter can
only hear the distant roar of traffic and, beyond that, trains. It’s the background noise of a busy
city, and he puts it out of his mind. His exhaustion grows with every footstep, and he yawns. It’s
Sunday, and terribly late, but he might be able to get a few hours of sleep before school--

“Hey, Peter,” a voice calls from above.

Peter jumps, his exhaustion chased away by a rush of adrenaline, whirling to face the source of the
voice. He sighs and relaxes. “Oh. Hey, Nightwing.”

Nightwing grins at him from the roof and hops down to the street beside him. His suit is brand
new, and it looks just like the one Peter designed with Tim and Duke last week. Peter tilts his head,
giving the suit a critical eye. It doesn’t seem to be missing anything from his design that he can tell,
which is a good thing. He’s a little pleased with himself, really. And amused that the Avengers
insignia Peter doodled onto the shoulder of Nightwing’s suit apparently made the cut. Nightwing
would make a pretty good Avenger.

“Like the new suit? My brother said a fan of mine designed it for me,” Nightwing says, strolling
alongside Peter.

“I think they did a pretty decent job,” Peter says with a slight grin. “There’s room for
improvement, though.”

“Is there?” Nightwing asks.

“There’s always room for improvement. You don’t just finish a suit, you know,” Peter says,
mimicking one of Tony’s grandiose hand waves as he passes under a streetlight. “They’re pieces of
art. You know. Branding.”

Nightwing laughs, then freezes, reaching out to grip Peter’s arm. He frowns, tugging Peter back
under the streetlight. Peter goes with him willingly, confused by the sudden change in the man’s
demeanor.

“Uh, you okay, Nightwing?” Peter asks.

“Who hit you?”

“What?”

“Peter, your eye is practically swollen shut, and there’s a bruise down your cheek,” Nightwing says
slowly. “This is fresh. Trust me, I know bruises. What happened?”

Peter goes quiet for a long moment, desperately wracking his too tired brain for an explanation.
Finally, he says, “I fell.”

God does that answer not help his case. Nightwing’s frown grows deeper, and a bit heartbroken.

“Remind me to teach you how to lie,” Fury says.

“Come with me. Let’s go talk somewhere, all right?” He’s using that tone. That tone Peter’s hated
ever since he first heard a social worker use it to tell him his parents were dead. Peter stiffens.
“Look, this place isn’t safe--”

“And whose fault is that?” Peter asks. He regrets it the moment he says it; Nightwing’s face falls,
the concern shifting to guilt. Peter sighs and shoulders past him towards the street. “I’ll see you
around, Nightwing.”

Nightwing doesn’t follow.

***

The bus driver watches him closely when he climbs onto the bus in the morning. He probably
looks like flaming garbage. He definitely feels like it. The bruise across his eye and cheek is an
ugly, purple and blue thing that stands out against his skin. Even the people on the subway kept
giving him second looks.

“Morning,” the driver says. His eyes focus on the bruise on Peter’s face for a moment.

“Oh, uh, good morning,” Peter says, fumbling with his transit pass. God, he’s tired. And hungry.
And a little cold. He really should have eaten something before going out on patrol last night. Or
after. Or when he woke up this morning.

The driver pauses, stares at him, and then clears his throat and reaches up to grab something from
the dashboard.

“He recognizes your voice,” Shuri says. “You need to add a voice modulator to your suit.”

That's a good idea. Peter adds that to his mental to-do list. It’s at the number two spot, right under
‘convince Tim and Duke that he’s not insane and just kind of had a moment yesterday.’ God, he’s
not looking forward to that talk.

"Here," the bus driver says. He presses something into Peter's hands.

Peter looks down at his hand to see what the bus driver gave him. It's a cheese and egg bagel
sandwich wrapped in parchment paper. It's warm and smells heavenly. Peter's stomach growls
loudly at the scent of it. His food intake has dropped a bit since losing his job.

"This is for me?" Peter asks.

"I accidentally grabbed two sandwiches today. Figured you'd take it. When I was your age, I was
eating my parents outta house and home." He stops, then offers one meaty hand to Peter. "Call me
Lou."
Peter takes his hand, suddenly recognizing the man from the night before. "Peter."

"Nice to meet ya, Peter. Now, sit down and chow down before it gets cold. Let’s get you to
school."

Peter drops down in his usual seat, wedging himself over to make room for a sleepy eyed
businessman carrying a Daily Planet newspaper under one arm, and opens the breakfast sandwich.
The man settles in on the seat behind Peter, muttering about cheap business practices. Peter chows
down on his breakfast sandwich and settles in for the ride to school. The food helps; he can feel a
tingly itch along the edges of the bruise on his face, indicating his healing factor is kicking in.
Peter begins to doze, lulled by a full stomach and the steady pre-dawn rain that taps against the bus
window.

“Oh, goddammit,” Lou mutters darkly. “Not the manbats again.”

“The what,” the businessman sitting behind Peter asks.

The what, Peter thinks.

“The what?” the voices at the edge of his consciousness ask.

And then a man sized bat slams against the fucking windshield of the bus. Lou curses and grabs an
umbrella from under his seat. He rolls down his window and smacks at the manbat. It doesn’t seem
to do much more than annoy the monster. The thing is huge; six feet tall and bristling with muscle.
It snarls, clutching the front of the bus, its beady eyes focusing on Peter through the windshield.
Peter stares at it blankly, completely blindsided. What the hell is going on?

“Come on! I’m on a schedule!” Lou growls.

A motorcycle revs somewhere to the left of the bus, screeches to a stop, and suddenly the bat
creature is kicked off of the bus by Signal. He faces off against the creature in the street, trading
blows with it. He almost has it subdued when two more monsters dive down from the sky and leap
on him. Signal knocks one aside with a perfectly timed kick, but dodges his attack.

Signal goes high. The creature goes low, moving quicker than Signal can adjust his attack. It grips
his arm and twists it. Peter can hear the moment Signal’s arm breaks beneath the pressure. Signal
drops to the ground, clutching his broken arm with a vicious curse. The monster grips Signal’s
helmet and starts to slam the hero’s face into the pavement, over and over.

Peter’s out of the bus the instant he sees Signal’s arm break, swinging his heavy backpack in a low
arc. His backpack lands hard against the monster’s nose, sending it flying back with a startled, ear
piercing screech that goes beyond normal human hearing. Peter winces, his ears ringing, but stands
above the fallen Signal, holding his backpack like a flail. Three well placed swings sends the
closest two monsters sailing away from them.

“Hey, I’m Sam,” Sam says. He’s not speaking to Peter, but to someone else. “Easy, you’re all right.
Just stay down and let Peter handle it.”

Peter hears the bus driver curse darkly behind him and scramble out of the bus with his umbrella,
whacking the bat creature nearest to him with it hard enough to bend his umbrella in half.

“Kid, are you out of your mind--” Lou starts.

“Protect Signal!” Peter says, swinging his backpack at one of the other creatures. He needs to start
carrying his web shooters with him. This would already be over if he had them on hand. “Just stay
behind me.”

Three gunshots ring out, and all three of the bat monsters fall to the ground. Peter is suddenly face
to face with a tall man wearing a red helmet, a leather jacket, and a suit with a red bat signal
stitched across the front. He stares at Peter for a moment, then roughly pushes past him over to
Signal, kneeling down in front of him.

“Hey,” the man in the red helmet says. His voice is staticy, as if he’s speaking through a voice
changer. He probably is. “Signal. Focus. You with me? Tell me you didn’t pass out with a
concussion.”

“I--yeah. Yeah, I am,” Signal says woozily. “Sam kept me awake.”

“Who the fuck--whatever, nevermind,” Red Hood says. He kneels down and helps stabilize
Signal’s arm before gently lifting him up on his feet. “Come on, let’s get you fixed up.”

Signal grunts in response, swaying on his feet and leaning hard against the larger man. Red Hood
stops to look at Peter and Lou for a moment, his gaze focusing on Peter in particular.

“Thanks,” he says. “That was stupid as hell, but thanks.”

With that, the two heroes leave. Lou and Peter look at each other for a moment and then Lou
checks his watch and sighs. “Well, you’re definitely late for school, kid. Come on, I’ll write you a
note.”

***

“Good of you to join us, Mr. Parker--good lord. What happened to your face?” the teacher asks,
stammering out of her snarky remark the moment she sees the bruise on his face.

Peter stops near the door, shrugs, and says, “Uh, a bunch of bat mutants attacked my bus this
morning?”

Instead of the incredulous eye roll or smart remark Peter had been expecting, the teacher only
sighs. “Great. Those are back. Nice to know. Take your seat.”

“Is this a regular thing here? She took that way too well,” Quill says.

Peter doesn’t take his chances. He drops down into his desk next to Tim and sighs. Tim frowns at
him, his expression caught somewhere between intense curiosity and concern. Finally, he reaches
over and scribbles a small note onto Peter’s notebook in quick, elegant and decisive handwriting
that looks downright professional compared to Peter’s chicken scratch.

Are you okay? You left in a hurry yesterday.

Peter, touched by his friend’s concern, writes out a simple: I’m ok. Just had a bad day.

Tim hesitates, as if debating writing out more, but ultimately decides against it when the teacher
moves on with the lesson. She pulls up a Youtube video and puts it on the projector. This is a
process that somehow takes up fifteen minutes of class time. Tim pulls out his phone midway
through and Peter is vaguely jealous of that. He misses sending trashfire memes at Ned and MJ late
at night.

***
BATCHAT

Tim (10:01am): he lied about the bruises at school.

Tim (10:02am): he says it happened when the bus was wrecked by the manbat

Dick (10:03am): I saw it clear as day at two in the morning.

Tim (10:04am): he won’t tell me what happened.

Tim (10:05am): school records list an aunt and a guardian of some sort

Tim (10:05am): can someone start a search on Tony Stark?

Barbara (10:07am): Bruce asked after him already. I’ll let you know if I find anything.

Dick (10:08am): I’d like to pay this Tony guy a visit.

Duke (10:10am): so would I.

***

The day is half over when Peter realizes Duke is nowhere to be found. He sits down at his usual
spot next to Tim, frowning at Duke'd empty seat. /p>

Peter turns to Tim and jerks his head towards the empty seat across the table. “Hey, where is he?”

Tim rubs the back of his head. “He got into a car accident this morning. He’s home with a pretty
bad case of whiplash and a mild concussion.”

“Oh,” Peter says, dumbfounded. “Is he okay?”

“He’s in rough shape, but he’ll be fine. The family’s taking care of him right now,” Tim says,
shrugging. “I’ll take care of him tonight so my brother and sister can, uh, get to their jobs.”

“Huh. Makes sense.”

“You wanna come with?” Tim asks. “You’re overdue for a visit, and Duke would love to see you.”

Peter hesitates, then shakes his head. He can’t stop his patrols that easily. Not when Gotham is
down a hero. “No, sorry. I’ve got some stuff I need to do tonight.”

“Kind of odd how Signal goes out of commission at the same time as Duke, isn’t it,” Fury says.

Peter doesn’t think so. Traffic in Gotham is crazy; car wrecks happen all the time. And between the
rain slick streets, Duke’s usual driving habits, and the fact that no one in Gotham knows how to
drive like a normal person, it’s probably inevitable that a car wreck happens every now and then.

Peter hears a sigh to his left and has the distinct feeling that someone behind him is pinching the
bridge of their nose.

“Oh,” Tim says, frowning. “If you change your mind...”

“I’ll let you know. Promise,” Peter says.

The rest of the day is fairly normal. A few people stare at the bruise on his face, but most ignore
him as usual. Peter makes it through the day and ducks out of the school the moment the final bell
rings, antsy to get back to the fire house. He spends an hour there, designing and building an
upgrade for his suit: a voice modulator.

He adjusts it until it deepens his voice to a strangely mechanic baritone. It’s just deep enough to
mask his true voice. He adds it to the suit and starts his patrol.

***

BATCHAT

Duke (04:08pm): so two things.

Jason (04:09pm): Fair warning, Duke is high as balls right now.

Duke (04:10pm): first: I know what bus Peter uses

Duke (04:11pm): and Jason keeps drawing dicks on my cast.

Duke (04:12pm): that’s not the other thing, just a complaint.

Tim (04:14pm): we’re well aware of Jason’s shortfalls.

Jason (04:16pm): bite me

Tim (04:17pm): no one says that anymore

Duke (04:18pm): the second thing I learned is that one of Peter’s ghosts might be a superhero.

Duke (04:19pm): one of them got close enough for me to see. he said his name was Sam, that
Peter would protect me, and that I needed to stay awake until help got there

Duke (04:20pm): nice guy

***

Peter’s patrol is fairly standard: a stopped mugging here, a thwarted burglar there, a few other
things to spice things up. Again, little guy stuff. He still hasn’t seen any of the men with the black
masks, but he intends to find them at some point. He’s halfway through his patrol when his senses
twinge.

He has a shadow. One larger and heavier than his own. And one that melts into the darkness as if
born there. Peter's spider sense kicks in as he swings through an isolated alley deep in Crime Alley.
He lands on the rooftop of an abandoned movie theatre overlooking the alley, dropping into his
normal crouch. The alley is dingy, long abandoned, though there are small murals and graffiti
spray painted on the walls: the most prominent is faded, half covered by dirt with the paint chipped
away. He can barely read the words Rest in Peace Thomas and Martha painted across it.

He hears his stalker hesitate for a brief moment before landing quietly in the shadows above Peter.
Normally this is a good position; high ground is important in a fight. Peter would usually aim for
that himself, but he just wants to get this conversation over with, and he has the feeling this
particular shadow would seek out an advantage against Peter no matter what.

"You might as well say something and make this less weird," Peter says.
 There's a prolonged pause. The only thing Peter can hear is the distant sound of traffic and the rain.
Finally, a voice comes from the shadows above Peter.

“I’d like to know what you’re doing in my city,” Batman says. There’s an idle threat to his words
that Peter doesn’t care for at all. "What are you doing in Crime Alley?"

“Cleaning up a mess you left behind,” Peter snaps back, standing up from his normal crouch to
face the shadows. He can’t see the man, but he can hear his heartbeat and turns to face the
direction it’s coming from. Judging by the slight rise in its tempo, that bothers him. Good. He can
be just as creepy as Batman if he needs to be. “You wanna know why things are so terrible here?
Because the people here know you won’t come and help. Even if every cop in the city came into
this neighborhood and stood guard six feet apart, they still wouldn’t keep things calm here.”

“The rot’s too deep," Batman says after a moment. "There's too much suffering here for one person
to handle."

“Yeah, and how do you think these people feel knowing that Batman considers them a lost cause?
There’s still good people here who deserve your help. You're not giving it to them, so I will. One
person can do a hell of a lot more than nobody.”

Nothing follows that, and Peter's annoyance grows.

“If you’re going to stop me, you’re welcome to try,” Peter says. “If not, then stay out of my way.
I’ve got work to do.”

Peter leaps off of the abandoned Monarch theatre and swings through the alley. He doesn’t hear
anyone follow him.

Chapter End Notes

I might have to start doing spinoffs for some parts of this. This thing is much bigger
than originally intended.

Hilariously, the original version of this fic was a one shot where Peter just popped into
agonizing existence in the middle of a Justice League meeting.
 Chapter 10
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

He dreams of a glass tube. He dreams of drowning in a toxic green liquid, choking on it, feeling it
seep into his skin. It feels like being drowned in acid. Scorching, smothering heat that fills his
lungs, his nose, his eyes. The pain is unbearable, worse than the Dusting. It scalds him from the
inside out, and the pain of it is enough to threaten his very mind--

Someone shushes him, soothing him, pulling him out of the nightmare. The dream shifts to red,
then to darkness, and then to something else entirely. Peter wakes up in his apartment, sprawled
across his couch. He looks around himself in blatant confusion for a moment.

It’s his apartment back in Queens. The cramped two bedroom apartment with too thin walls,
nestled near a street constantly busy with truck traffic. It feels like home, right down to the smell of
chicken curry May has simmering on the stove and the distant thrum of traffic outside.

"Hey, think fast!" a familiar voice calls out to him.

May Parker tosses a towel at Peter's face from the kitchenette in their apartment. He reaches up and
snatches it out of the air, his senses still on high alert from his nightmare. He stares at May,
clutching the dish towel in his hand, and has to fight a sudden wave of tears.

"Hey, good catch," she says, grinning at him in that vaguely dorky way he's fully inherited from
her.

"May?" Peter asks, his voice shaking.

May's demeanor changes immediately. "Peter? Honey, what's wrong?"

Peter stares at her for a moment, before scrambling up from the couch and stumbling over to her.
He practically falls against her, clinging to her and burying his face against her shoulder. She pulls
him into a protective hug, shushing him gently, and holds him close.

Peter can hear someone whisper nearby.

“His nightmares are getting worse,” Sam says.

“We can’t hold them off forever,” Strange replies. “Wanda can help switch them over to pleasant
memories. That’s the best we can do until he stops ignoring what’s happened to him.”

“That’s not happening anytime soon,” Fury says.

May starts to hum. Peter tunes out the others and focuses on her instead.

***

Peter wakes up feeling as though he hasn’t slept at all. His whole body tingles and aches, and it
takes true effort to stagger out of his bed towards the shower this morning. Patrol hadn’t been that
rough; what is his deal?

“The machine,” Strange says. “There are more side effects than a few strands of grey hair, Peter.”
Peter doesn’t want to think about that. He ignores it, and steps into the frigid shower room instead.
Frost covers the outside of the fire station’s windows. Peter isn’t sure of what he’ll do when it
becomes too cold to shower in the morning. He showers, bundles up in his school uniform (now a
bit looser than before; losing that kitchen job really tore into his calorie intake), and heads to
school.

Lou hands him a sandwich as he gets onto the bus. "Rough night?"

"Rougher than usual," Peter says, dropping into his seat. Lou’s been ‘accidentally’ grabbing two
sandwiches for Peter on a daily basis.

“Huh,” Lou says. He drums his fingertips against the steering wheel for a moment, then catches
Peter’s eye. “If you get hungry at your, uh, second job, stop by the depot. We’ll get you some
decent dinner.”

Peter stops, considers that, and then shyly nods. “Yeah. Thanks, Lou.”

***

"Hey Peter, Duke, Steph, and I are heading to the movies on Friday. You in? My treat," Tim asks,
dropping into his desk seat beside Peter.

"Duke would like to see you," Steph adds. "He's pretty bored at home right now."

"Sorry, I can't," Peter replies. He doesn't spare Tim a glance; he's focused on finishing as much of
his homework that he can. The last thing he needs is to fall behind and have some concerned
teacher try to call Tony about his failing grades. That’d be disastrous.

"Another time, then," Tim says. He doesn't hide the disappointment in his voice very well. Nor
does he hide the worried frown he aims at Steph.

Peter stays focused on his school work.

***

Peter’s patrols are pretty normal. Muggings, robberies, fights, lost kids. That kind of thing.
Between each of those, he takes a moment to do two things: he starts looking for False Facer
hideouts and he starts tracking down the other person from his universe that he can sense. The
latter is much harder than he thought it would be. Some nights, he can sense them--whoever they
are--right around the corner. His whole body lights up, his senses going utterly mad, sharp enough
to startle him and throw off his web slinging. But when he stops to find the source, it’s gone.

He spends an entire night swinging through Crime Alley, and then further into the wider city,
chasing the strange sense of other that appears when he thinks of home. He never gets close
enough to pinpoint it; it disappears too quickly. One of Gotham’s frequent thunderstorms is at a
fever pitch for most of it, hindering his progress.

After spending most of the night on a wild goose chase through the city, Peter drops down on a
stone gargoyle overlooking the East End district across the river from the Bowery and Crime
Alley. The rain comes down in sheets, and he’s thoroughly soaked. He can barely see the lights
and cars on the street below.

He had it. He was so close to catching it and then it disappeared. Literally. It’s as if the thing
setting off his senses is teleporting across the city. That should be impossible. That kind of tech
just doesn’t exist in this universe. He’s not even sure it exists in his universe, really.
Thunder rolls across the sky, and another onslaught of rain hits him. He sighs, makes a note to
waterproof his suit at some point in the future, and is just about to head back to Crime Alley when
he sees something climb out of the window of a Wayne Tech office building. They’re wearing a
catsuit--a literal catsuit, actually, complete with stubby little ears--and they have something tucked
under their arm. They close the window behind themselves, carefully aim a grappling hook
towards a nearby building, and then swing away from the office building.

An honest to god cat burglar. Peter’s both amused and very, very curious. He swings after them,
keeping low. He just wants to follow them for now. And he does, for a little while; lightning
flashes between them, and the cat burglar glances over her shoulder directly at him. He can see her
eyes widen behind her mask, and then she’s off. She drops onto a rooftop and begins to sprint
across it. Peter’s quick to follow, but another flash of lightning blinds him and he loses track of
them. He sprints across the roof, and stops in the middle.

The cat person is out of sight. Peter stands alone on the rooftops. He stops to listen, closing his
eyes to try and focus his hearing on any nearby heartbeats or breathing. He hears nothing. The
wind and the rain, normally a boon against overstimulation, dampen his sense of smell and his
hearing. Whoever they were, whatever they stole, they’re long gone now.

Peter sighs, leaping off the side of the building and swinging for home. What a waste of a night.

***

The next night, the bat signal changes from the image of a bat to that of a spider. The same spider
Peter’s got stitched into his suit, in fact. He eyes it for awhile, then swings over to the source. It
takes him awhile; the source turns out to be Gotham PD’s headquarters tucked away near the
library. Peter swings around the building twice before flinging himself up onto the roof ledge and
dropping into his regular crouch. James Gordon, the man who helped him figure out his subway
route for school, stands near the spotlight.

“Uh. Hi. You called me?” Peter asks.

Gordon turns to face him, squinting at him for a moment, before he nods. “I’ve got an assignment
for you, if you’re up for it. You handle things in Crime Alley, right?”

“Yeah. Little guy stuff, mostly. You know.”

“Then this fits the bill,” Gordon says. He walks over to Peter and hands him a camera. “If you’re
cleaning up Crime Alley, you’ll need to start with the cops. I’ve gotten reports that they’re dirty as
sin, taking bribes from any gang that pays and turning a blind eye to a litany of crimes. I know
they’re crooked, they know I know, but they’ve got the whole place scared stiff. No one will lodge
complaints against them. Hell, no one will even risk calling me about it either.”

Peter takes the camera, looking it over. It’s a nice one, with a very expensive lens. He pulls the
strap over his shoulder. “So you need me to spy on them?”

“More or less. Catch them in the act. Take a few photographs and, if it’s safe, disable them and call
dispatch and ask for me. If not, just keep the camera and come back when you’ve finished the film
roll. I need hard evidence that they're crooked before I can do anything to them.”

“Got it,” Peter says, a little thrown by the fact that the police are asking him for help. That’s a new
and interesting spin on things. The cops in Queens, for example, were at best moderately tolerant
of his bullshit. The feeling was pretty much mutual. “I don’t have a phone, though.”
“Then just bring the camera back here. And be careful,” Gordon continues. “If it gets too hot,
leave. Don’t get hurt over this.”

“Yessir,” Peter says with a jaunty salute before flinging himself off the building. “One order of
crooked cops coming right up!”

***

Gordon turns to the shadows behind himself after Spider-Man leaves. “You sure about this?”

Batman steps out of the shadows, just enough for his outline to be seen. He blends in well. “I am.”

“You’ll make sure he doesn’t get hurt, right?”

“He’s more than capable of handling himself. I’ve been keeping watch when I’ve got the time.”

“He reminds me of your first Robin, you know. I like him,” Gordon says, fishing a cigarette out of
his pocket. He’ll catch hell from Barbara if she finds out about this, but he can deal with that later.
Between Batman, Red Robin, and Signal’s injuries, things are heating up in Gotham. Add in the
Joker running free, and well. That’s a recipe for disaster. “You really need to figure out where this
one came from.”

“I’m working on it,” Batman says.

“And maybe give the kid a sandwich,” Gordon adds. He pauses, turns around and sighs when he
sees the empty rooftop where Batman once stood. “Do me a favor and don’t teach him that habit of
yours while you’re at it.”

There is, of course, no answer.

***

Peter takes to his task quickly. The cops aren’t difficult to find in Crime Alley. In fact, they’re
usually at designated spots so far from any actual crime that it would be comical if it wasn’t so
infuriating. None of them notice him above them, and they definitely don’t notice him taking
pictures of every drug deal, every payoff, and every other crooked thing they’ve been doing.

If he wasn’t so low on web fluid, he’d string each one up on a streetlight for Gordon to collect
later. That’s not practical at the moment, so he sticks to the plan: take pictures, note down what’s
happening and where, and then swings back to Gotham PD with a full camera a few hours later.

To his surprise, Jim Gordon is still there, smoking a cigarette and pacing. He looks up when Peter
appears and stops his pacing, tilting his head curiously.

“I can’t tell if it’s a good thing or a bad thing that you’re already finished,” he says, stamping out
his cigarette. There are three other similarly smashed cigarette butts on the ground beside his
polished shoes.

“Good thing. I definitely earned a gold star for stalking today,” Peter replies, handing him the
camera.

Gordon snorts, taking the camera. He clicks through the first few pictures, squinting at the tiny
screen. Then he nods and holds the camera close against his side. “This is just what I needed.
You’ve got a talent for this, kid. Good work. I can replace the crooked cops with good ones with
this evidence.”
Peter gives Gordon another salute, then tilts his head. “Anytime. But hey, speaking of Crime Alley,
you know the groups that move around in that district, right?”

“More than I’d like,” Gordon replies dryly.

“Cool. Can you tell me where the False Facers hide out?”

Gordon stares at him for a long moment, nods, and pulls a notebook out of his breast pocket. He
flips it open and takes out a pen, writing out a list of addresses with dates and times. He tears the
page free and hands it to Peter.

“They’re on the move more often than not, but they always stick to these three warehouses. Check
there first.”

“Awesome. Thanks, Mr. Gordon!” Peter says, scanning the paper and committing it to memory
before tucking it away into one of his pockets. He shoots out a web at a nearby building, pulling
himself away and calling back, “Give a call if you need anything else!”

“Stay safe, Spider-Man,” Gordon replies quietly. He sounds tired.

***

It’s getting late, but it isn’t quite late enough for Peter to turn in yet. He swings for the first address
on the page Gordon gave him. An old retail store tucked away inside the worst of the urban blight
in Crime Alley, its windows boarded up against the outside world. Peter lands on top of some
nameless ten storey building nearby and peers below.

Men in black skull masks move inside and out of the abandoned shop, packing up a van and
chatting with one another. Peter tilts his head, leaning forward to try and hear what they’re saying--

“Hey,” a voice says behind him. “This is my stake out. Get lost.”

“I was here first, so no,” Peter replies. If he squints, he can just make out what they’re carrying.
Crates, barrels, and something else. A machine? Machine parts, at least. “Find your own stake
out.”

Peter gets a very annoyed sigh in response to that. The Red Hood walks up beside him and leans
against a pipe. His outfit is different today; instead of the red pill shaped helmet, he’s wearing an
actual red hoodie with the hood pulled up. The sleeves have been ripped off, and the hoodie hangs
open, revealing a suit beneath. A red bat symbol covers his chest, the color matching the mask
across his eyes and the face mask beneath it.

“I thought you only handled ‘little guy stuff’,” he says, placing obnoxious air quotes around the
phrase. “What are you doing chasing the False Facers?”

“Cleaning house, ideally,” Peter says. “These guys need to go.”

“Yeah, well, that’s our job for tonight. Get lost.”

“Make me,” Peter replies. He squints at the men below.

Red Hood stops, then rolls his eyes. “Not worth the effort. And Batman would probably bitch at
me if I swung on you.”

That gets Peter’s attention. He looks up from the gang below and faces Red Hood, tilting his head.
“Batman? He’s in Crime Alley?”

“Yeah, you really knocked him on his ass the other night,” Red Hood says. He jerks his chin over
towards the shadows near the van the False Facers are stacking crates inside of. “See him?”

Peter doesn’t see him right away. It takes a few minutes, but eventually he can make out the form
hidden within the dark. It’s impressive. And incredibly eerie.

“Does he have a stealth suit?” Peter wonders aloud. “T--Iron Man made one of those before. He
couldn’t keep the camouflage working when moving at speed, though.”

“Who the hell is Iron Man?” Red Hood asks.

“No one you know, apparently,” Peter replies, half amused, half resigned. “He’s a hero. We’ve
worked together. Um, we trained a bit, too.”

Actually, the training was secondary. After Peter’s internship became official--complete with a
series of goofy and not-so-goofy pictures--he spent most of his time helping Tony design the next
iteration of his suit. Not the Iron Spider, just an upgrade to his Stark Suit. He has some very fond
memories of that time.

“So, I guess it's kind of like you and Batman,” Peter adds after a moment. Red Hood scoffs. Hard.
“I mean, you are kind of wearing his suit, dude.”

“It’s complicated. I’m here to help him. Maybe.”

“I can’t tell if you want to make sure he’s safe or if you want to throw him off a building,” Peter
says after a moment.

“Depends on the day. Sometimes the minute.”

“Bad blood, huh?”

“It’s complicated,” Red Hood says bitterly. “And I’ve been reminded of a few bad memories
lately, so the resentment is a bit closer to the surface than normal.”

“Oh,” Peter says. He pauses for a moment. “Wanna talk about it?”

“What?”

“I mean, these guys are kinda dumb and they’re not going anywhere, and we’re both staking them
out... You seem like you could use a chat, that’s all.”

“Does that seriously work on people for you?”

“Honestly, you’d be really surprised,” Peter replies. “People figure they’re less crazy than the
weirdo in the superhero suit running around at night, so they’re kinda open about stuff.”

Red Hood scoffs, turning away from him and going silent. Peter shrugs and goes quiet beside him;
some people just don’t like to talk. And maybe that’s for the best. Red Hood seems like an angry
man, bitter and obviously nursing some long ago injury. Peter’s met people like that before. He
typically avoids them.

“You’ve met him before,” Bucky says.

“You mentioned this Iron Man guy,” Hood says suddenly. “Is he your father?”
 Peter blinks, unsure of how he could have gotten that impression. “Um, no, actually. My parents
died when I was young. Really young. He just--”

“Took you in.”

Peter’s shocked by the weary bitterness in the man’s tone. “Yeah. Kinda.”

“You guys are close?”

“I mean---well, yeah. Of course.” Well, about as close as someone can reasonably get to Tony
Stark.

“When was the last time he hugged you?”

Peter can’t exactly answer ‘When I died, but only sort of by accident because I fell on him’ without
making this conversation even more awkward than it already is. “Oh, we’re, uh--we’re not there
yet.” A brief pause. “Okay, that sounds worse than it is. He’s not really good with emotions. I’m
not sure he experiences them the same way everyone else does.”

Red Hood scoffs. “Yeah, doesn’t that sound familiar. Word of advice, kid? You’ll never be there.
Don’t break your heart waiting on it.”

“He cares. Honestly, I think he sometimes cares too much and it overwhelms him. We’ll get there.
Eventually.”

“Yeah? How long have you known him?”

“Um, we first met when I was nine. He saved my life--” Even through his mask, the look Red
Hood gives him is so pitying that Peter stutters to a stop.

“Good luck with that. In my experience, they just replace you once you’re gone,” Red Hood
mutters. He pushes himself off of the pipe and rolls his shoulders. “Listen, unless you want more
attention from Batman, you’d better get lost. He’s in a touchy mood these days since some friends
of his wenting missing. Find a different hideout to clear.”

With that, Red Hood jumps down from the roof and onto the van below. The False Facers cry out
and scatter. Batman moves from the shadows, catching or restraining the gangsters easily. Red
Hood handles the rest. He’s not pulling punches. Peter watches long enough to make sure they
have things well in hand, then swings away.

The Red Hood has given him a few things to think about.

Chapter End Notes

Peter gets his official first team up in the next chapter!

 Chapter 11

Gordon’s wrath on the crooked police is swift and efficient; all of the dirty cops patrolling Crime
Alley are gone by the end of the week and replaced with a special task force handpicked by
Gordon himself. There’s a night and day difference; Crime Alley becomes safer overnight. Peter
still stops the occasional mugging and burglary, but he’s no longer stopping four every hour. Just
one or two a night. Which is a breath of fresh air. It gives Peter time to visit the bus depot (and
grab a free meal or two) and to handle the small stuff.

Such as this evening. The sky is clear for once, the air is relatively warm, and the sun is just
beginning to set when a little girl calls up to him from a street below.

“Mr. Spider!” she cries, waving at him as hard as she possibly can.

Peter changes course immediately, dropping down on the sidewalk beside the girl. “Hey, what’s
up? Is everything okay?”

“I need help! Mr. Fluffles is stuck in the tree!” the little girl cries, pointing up at a nearby tree. Her
finger is pointed squarely at the fattest, angriest cat Peter has ever seen in his life. “It’s been hours!
Can you help him?”

Mr. Fluffles glowers at him menacingly from the highest branch in the tree, tail flicking back and
forth in irritation. This cat is huge. Peter’s never seen one this big before. Judging by the way its
hackles rise when it looks at Peter, it definitely isn’t his biggest fan.

“Er--” Peter starts. The little girl looks up at him, earnest and hopeful, and he sighs. “Uh, yeah, of
course. Stay here, okay?”

“This is the best thing I’ve seen all week,” Falcon says.

“T’Challa, commune with your cousin,” Princess Shuri adds.

Peter approaches the tree, slow and easy, making cooing noises at the cat. The cat is absolutely not
impressed and hisses at him. Peter climbs up and gently plucks Mr. Fluffles off the branch. It's all
claws and teeth, writhing in Peter’s grip. Peter holds it out at arms' length, leaning back to avoid
the furious cat's swipes.

"Uh, here's Mr. Fluffles, but he's a little angry so maybe--" Peter starts.

"Fluffle!" the girl cries in relief.

The cat's reaction is immediate. The fury disappears and it begins to purr. It wiggles free of Peter's
grip and leaps into the girl's arms, perfectly docile. The little girl hugs her giant evil cat and squeals
in joy.

"Are you kidding me?"

"Thank you, Mr. Spider!" the girl says, beaming up at him. Mr. Fluffle eyes him smugly from the
girl's arms.

"You're welcome. Please keep him inside," Peter says before yanking himself back into the air
with a carefully placed web. He huffs, muttering, "The Avengers never get bullied by cats. Why is
my life like this."
For some reason, he can imagine the Avengers laughing at this heartily. He’s just glad none of
them are around to see it.

***

Peter runs out of web fluid halfway through his patrol and has to call it an early night. Which is
probably for the best; without the clouds hovering over Gotham, the night drops to freezing
temperatures that his suit just isn’t capable of handling. He dearly misses the heater that Tony
insisted on putting inside all of Peter’s suits. And the sensory adjustments. Peter’s been flirting with
the ragged edge of a migraine lately, either through stress, lack of food, or lack of sleep.
Whichever it is, he’s overdue for one.

But that’s a Future Peter problem. Tonight, his problem is that he’s using up way too much web
fluid. Webs are great, but they have their limits, and he can’t use the entirety of his web fluid stock
every night. That’s just not practical.

Fortunately, he has an idea. And just enough light left to build it.

Some magnets, a few dodgy electronics, and many crackling snaps later, and his vision comes to
fruition. He holds a device in his hands no larger than a hockey puck that bears his red spider
emblem. It vibrates against his hand and there’s a low thrumming coming from it. He tosses it from
hand to hand, then slings it out across the floor to the other side of the room. It skids across the
floor, the LEDs blinking faster, and then a blue force field shoots out of the center, covering a five
foot area. The force field pushes the items inside it up to the roof, as if gently plucking them off of
the ground and holding them. After thirty seconds, it collapses.

He grins, picks up the puck and tosses it up in the air. “And Tony said my force field idea wouldn’t
work. I’m so throwing this at him the next time I see him.”

He admires his work for a moment, then sets the puck aside and goes to brush his teeth and get
ready for bed. He taps the Stark radio and, after a few bursts of static, it begins to play Sloop John
B. Peter heads for the bathroom to brush his teeth. At least toothpaste and toothbrushes are
absurdly cheap.

“That’s very impressive,” Shuri says.

“You built a similar device when you were ten, Shuri,” T’Challa says.

“With vibranium, in a high tech lab, running tests from morning to night. He just put one together
in the space of three hours using junkyard pieces and solar panels,” Shuri points out. “Imagine
what he could do with our technology? When this is over, I am stealing him. Stark can borrow him
when I allow it.”

“I’m sure that will go swimmingly with Mr. Stark,” T’Challa says dryly.

Peter brushes his teeth, changes into his pajamas--a set of sweats that are beginning to become
frighteningly threadbare--and nestles into his bed. He’s asleep in moments.

***

Peter runs into Duke before class the next day, and jogs up to him. Duke’s arm is in a cast and
sling, and he’s struggling with his locker.

“Here, I’ve got it,” Peter says. Duke startles, but moves aside for him with a sigh and Peter’s quick
to input his locker code. He, Duke, and Tim just treat each other’s locker’s as communal property
between the three of them. “How are you feeling?”

“Sore,” Duke admits, rolling his shoulder. He frowns. “And a little frustrated. This sucks.”

“How bad is your arm?” Peter asks, grabbing Duke’s books for him and closing his locker. They
start to walk down the hall together. The school is quiet and subdued this early in the day, and it’s a
nice change from the overwhelming noise and sights when the day is in full swing.

“Bad. I’m in a cast for at least two months,” Duke admits. “And then there’s the physical therapy.”

Peter frowns. He’s broken his arm before, but it’s always healed within hours. Sometimes it takes
closer to a day if the bone is really mangled. “That sucks.”

“Tell me about it,” Duke says. They’re standing outside of his class. “Hey, you wanna get some
food after class? I’ve convinced Jason he owes me a pizza. Mostly by annoying him until he gave
in.”

“Ah, well--” Peter starts. He frowns, rubs the back of his neck, and shrugs. “Can we do a rain
check? I’ve got a lot going on these days.”

Duke frowns. “You’ve been working nonstop for awhile, Peter. You’ve got to loosen up
sometime.”

God, this is all way too familiar. “Yeah, I know, I know. Soon. Just, not tonight. Okay?”

Duke sighs. “Yeah. All right. Let’s do a rain check. It just can’t be this weekend. Tim and I are
going to visit my parents.”

That works out perfectly, honestly. Peter’s excuses to duck out from meetups over the weekend
have started to become thin even to his own ears. “That works. Sometime next week, at the latest.”

Duke quirks a brow at him. “You promise?”

“I promise,” Peter replies. He’s a little surprised to find that he means it.

“We’re going to hold you to that promise, kid,” Sam says quietly.

***

The antigrav puck works like a charm. He can only use it every other day because of how quickly
it loses its charge, but it makes his life so much easier. He can simply pin and stick muggers and
gangsters to the wall or the ground without worrying about them wiggling free of the webbing or
compensating for their struggling with more web fluid than he’s willing to spend.

He's also being watched. His spider sense never goes off, but he does catch sight of someone
watching him from afar. Someone dressed as a bat. If the Red Hood hadn’t taught him where and
how to look for him in the dark, Peter never would have noticed he was being followed. He keeps
his distance. He’d rather stay out of Batman’s radar entirely if he can help it. There's a rather long
and intimidating reputation attached to the man, and even though Peter may have drawn a hard line
against him, he has no doubt that he’d come out the loser of a fight if it came to that. Peter's fairly
certain he's not crossing any boundaries, but who knows. He did call out the guy the other night.
Maybe Batman’s just one of those slow anger types that build up their fury like a tidal wave.

Fortunately, Batman never makes a direct appearance. And Peter learns to ditch his bat-shaped
shadow when necessary. It almost becomes a game between them, and it reminds Peter of one of
his dreams. In his dreams, he’s avoiding packs of panthers and warriors; in Gotham, he’s avoiding
only one man. A man who happens to be as challenging to avoid as a literal army. Peter’s been
successful so far, but he’s starting to wonder how long Batman will keep up the game before
turning serious.

For now, he deals with it.

Peter and his shadow move through Crime Alley, and Peter focuses on his patrol.

***

Peter’s weighing his options of swinging by the bus depot for a quick bite to eat when a car speeds
past him, swerves towards a building, and doesn’t slow down at all. The car, a gray 90s Honda
that’s more rust than color, slams the hood through the glass doors of Lexcorp Labs. The doors
shatter inward, and a shrill alarm sounds off. A man in bright blue scrubs staggers out of the
driver’s side holding a cooler, and marches into the lab.

Peter tilts his head and swings after him, flinging himself up onto the ceiling and following the
man as he storms into the labs and heads straight for a cold storage room in the back. Peter sits
back and watches the man open the storage, his cooler, and the nearest cold storage locker. He
grabs vials of bright blue liquid, and carefully puts it inside his cooler, handling it as if it were
liquid gold.

"So, nurses don't usually break into pharmaceutical companies where I'm from. And they definitely
don't do it coming directly from work," Peter says, hanging upside down behind the man.

The man startles, glances over his shoulder at Peter, then turns around and keeps taking boxes and
placing them in the cooler. "Yeah. This is definitely a big no-no."

Peter pauses. "Okay, glad we agree? I've gotta be honest, man. Usually I catch people in ski masks
armed with guns doing this kind of thing. I think the most dangerous thing you have on yourself is
a Spongebob lanyard. This is super weird."

"Yeah, this isn't my idea of a good time either. Stay out of my way. I just finished a sixteen hour
shift at work and I’m tired."

"Only if you tell me why you're committing like five felonies right after getting off a sixteen hour
shift at a pediatric hospital."

The man glowers at Peter, frustration and rage intermingling. "Because the assholes that run this
company just jacked their prices up by five hundred percent and now the kids I take care of will
suffer for it. Our hospital is the poor one in Gotham, all right? Their families can't afford those
prices. Our whole damn hospital can't afford it! Now those kids are going to get worse or die
before they can get the last treatment they need to be cured of the fear toxin they absorbed from
the Scarecrow’s attack a few weeks ago." He slams the cooler lid shut. "Well, fuck that. I'm not
standing by and letting it happen. I don't care if I sit in a jail cell the rest of my life. It'll be worth
it."

He pauses, frowning up at Peter. "Unless you or that Batman freak stop me."

Peter shakes his head. "I won't stop you, but only if you have proof."

The man scoffs. "Fine." He pulls out a folded piece of paper from a pocket and offers it to Peter.

Peter flicks his hand and snaps out a piece of web to grab the paper and bring it back to himself.
He's feeling a tad paranoid these days, and doesn't want to open himself up to attack. He settles in
and scans the paper. The letter is pretty damning. The pharmaceutical company outright admits to
price gouging, practically mocks the hospital director for calling it out, and then smugly offer a
loan in exchange for the medicine. The man is telling the truth.

Peter pockets the letter. "Take the bigger coolers at the bottom of the storage locker. They'll
maintain the temperature for longer."

The man blinks, hesitates, then nods stiffly and picks up the cooler, leaving the building. Peter
watches over him until he gets back into his car and backs out of the building. Peter makes sure
he’s actually heading back to the hospital before swinging up to the rooftops.

He has to make sure the nurse stays free of Batman’s notice. Which isn’t exactly possible since
Batman followed him here to begin with.

This ought to be fun.

***

He finds Batman sprinting through the shadows of a rooftop, pacing the nurse's car. Peter comes at
him from above, flinging a glob of web fluid onto his ankles.

Batman drops, rolls, neatly slices through the webbing with a batarang, and stands ready to fight.
The time between falling and jumping back to his feet is near instantaneous, and it’s clear that the
only reason Peter hasn’t been punched in the face yet is because Batman doesn’t want to punch
him. Not yet, at least. Peter's suddenly glad he's a good guy.

"Leave him alone," Peter says, dropping down on the roof nearby. It’s supposed to be an order, but
it comes out as a mild plea. "There's more going on here than you realize."

Batman pauses, clearly surprised to see Spider-Man, and annoyed to be caught off guard, however
briefly. "You're helping thieves now?"

Good god, that voice. He sounds like he eats gravel for breakfast. It's somehow more intimidating
face to face. "In this case, yeah. Promise you'll hear me out before punching me? You're a lot
bigger in person and I’m not exactly at my best these days."

Batman regards him silently for a few seconds. Finally, he says, "You have five seconds."

“Cool. Okay--”

***

"I'll make sure the company is investigated and put in a good word for Mr. Lobatse. This should
disappear from his record. And if it doesn’t, I have a few contacts in Wayne Tech that would be
happy to hire him." Batman pauses, regarding Peter quietly. "Good work, Spider-Man."

Peter gives him a lazy salute before shooting out a web to yank himself back into the sky. He
shouts back. "Just looking out for the little guy. Thanks for not punching me!"

Peter isn’t sure, but he thinks he can see Batman smirk in response to that.

***

Crime Alley begins to change. People start to come out of hiding. The streets aren't filled with
menacing bruisers; they're filled with regular people. Food carts start to appear, cabbies become
marginally less surly, people still hurry along on the sidewalks, but there’s less tension in the air.
Less fear. A genuine air of community starts to form. Crime Alley earns a new designation: Spider
Alley. Graffiti shifts from marking off gang territory to murals of the community coming together.
More than a few have at least one web slinging silhouette in the background.

The streets themselves become cleaner. Safer. Brighter, even. Peter dedicates some of his very thin
savings and a few patrols towards replacing broken light bulbs inside streetlights along the darker
parts of the city. He remembers a cop in Queens casually mentioning that brighter lights have an
effect on a precinct's crime rate. Peter isn't sure about the science behind it (he tried to look up the
study but it cost far too much money to access) but he's willing to test the theory himself. It’s
something to keep him busy when he’s not cleaning up litter from the streets or chasing down low
level thugs and False Facers.

That weekend, when Duke and Tim are busy, he clears out a playground near some of the larger
tenements. It's full of trash and tires and dead weeds, but the playground equipment looks safe
enough. If in need of some cleaning and maintenance. He starts early, clearing off debris and
sectioning off trash and potential recycling.

A small, wiry man in a grease covered mechanic's coverall wanders over to him, cigarette in hand,
and watches. After a few minutes, he tilts his head.

"The hell are you doing?" he asks.

"Fixing the playground so the kids stay out of the street while they play. People speed up and
down the road without looking. It isn’t safe," Peter says, distracted. He tests the see-saw and
winces at the screeching sound of metal on metal. "Hey, you got any oil you can spare? I think we
can salvage this."

The man watches him flatly for a few seconds, sniffs, then sticks his cigarette in his mouth.

"Wait here," he says.

Peter shrugs, going back to his clean up. His senses never once twinged around the guy, so he isn't
worried. He fills two more trash bags and sets them neatly out of the way and starts to work on a
pile of wooden debris and rusted car parts.

"Hey! Spidey!" a voice calls out.

Peter looks up from his current project and pauses. The man in coveralls is back, carrying a dented
and faded toolbox in one hand and a shop floor broom in the other. And he isn't alone; a dozen
people are with him, varying in age, color, and outfits, all of them pulling on gloves and hats.

"I brought you some help," the man says.

"I can see that," Peter says, standing up and stretching. "Awesome. Okay, uh, let's focus on getting
this trash taken away first--"

They get to work. By the end of the day, the playground is cleared of trash and debris. By the time
dusk starts to fall, it's turned into a block party. A very subdued, very dirty block party, but a party
nonetheless. Peter mingles for awhile, but eventually he ducks away to crouch on top of the
tenement, content to watch the party quietly disperse as dusk turns to night. The playground is still
a bit dingy, but it just needs a new layer of paint; everything else is just fine.

A chill wind hits him as night falls. Peter weighs his options and decides to take an early night
himself, swinging back towards the firehouse. His back, shoulders, and arms ache from hours of
hard work. He can do an extra long patrol tomorrow night.

He slips inside the fire house, pulling the window shut behind himself as he yanks off his mask and
heads for the shower.

He doesn't catch any purse snatchers or mafia men that night, but he feels pretty accomplished
anyway. Even the freezing water in his shower can't dampen his mood.

He sleeps deeply and easily that night. Just as he drifts off, he hears someone nearby.

"Excellent work today, Peter," T'Challa says.

***

The woman in the black catsuit hits three more buildings in Crime Alley. Peter never gets any
closer to catching her. Peter spends the better part of his Sunday evening chasing her around and
eventually gives up. She’s fast, and unbelievably clever. She knows every inch of the district and
ducks out of his reach. He knows how Batman must feel now, and he’s very annoyed by it.

He’s on his way back to the fire station when his night becomes truly weird: clowns, armed with
guns, shove people out of a city bus and into a warehouse. They move quickly, shoving and
threatening dozens of terrified people inside. One of them slams the door shut behind the last
passenger, and Peter hears them lock it firmly from the other side.

Okay, so for a breakdown of the last day: he chased a cat burglar across the city, and didn’t get any
closer to catching her. He skipped two meals (not his brightest move) to make up for his patrol cut
short yesterday. And now there's a gang of murder clowns holding people hostage in the middle of
a warehouse in Crime Alley.

He can't just leave. This is out of his league by a significant margin, but he can't ignore this.

So he doesn’t. The warehouse is three storeys tall, and all of the windows on the topmost floor are
shattered. He swings inside, sticking to the shadows, crawling along the ceiling. He watches,
thinks, and looks around to get a wider view of what’s happening. There are twelve clowns. Four
stand on the second level and have high powered rifles aimed at the cowering crowd. Two patrol
the second level's perimeter, also armed. They walk looping patrols, passing one another every two
minutes.

The first floor is just as busy. Thirty terrified people sitting on their knees, hands behind their
heads. Two clowns aiming rifles at them, standing on either side of what looks like the main clown.
Three other guards are spaced out closer to the entrance. No patrols, but there's better light down
on the ground floor; a missing colleague is more likely to be noticed.

“It’s been so long, ol’ Batsy, that I thought I’d make my debut a bit special for you this time!” the
main clown says. He’s tall, lanky, and moves with an eerie and manic kind of grace. He’s holding a
phone in his hand, taking a video of the terrified passengers. “Look at all these fine people--”

Peter tunes him out and focuses on the task at hand. Thirty hostages, thirteen clowns. If even one
person sees him, the hostages will die.

Then they won't see me, Peter thinks. He looks up and sees a catwalk above the second level. One
near silent thwip, and he yanks himself onto that catwalk. He moves along the railing, his
movements smooth and silent as he stops above the first clown. This guy is furthest from the
others. One of the roving patrols passes him as Peter watches.
Timer start, two minutes. Peter stands, balancing on the round hand railing easily, adjusting his
web shooters. He fires twin ropes of webs onto the shoulders of the man below him, braces
himself, and then yanks the man up and into the air before wrapping him in a webbed cocoon and
attaching it to the catwalk.

The whole process takes seconds, and Peter's quick to drop into crouch and silently jog along the
railing, repeating the process with the remaining guards. The second floor is full of webbed clowns
within two minutes.

He has three minutes to handle the rest. No pressure.

“You got this,” Sam says. He can all but imagine the man kneeling beside him on the railing. “Go
for the one on the left. He’s not paying attention to his surroundings.”

“Move quick, kid,” Quill adds. Peter gets the sense that they're crouched on either side of him on
the railing. “That creepy clown’s speech is winding up for a grand finale.”

Right. He can do this. He can’t risk yanking the guy up; there’s too much light. He leaps at him
instead, pouncing him from shadows and pushing him into the darkness while simultaneously
webbing him up. The man lets out a terrified mmph! from behind the web fluid serving as a gag
across his mouth, but it isn’t loud enough for his friends to hear.

Now to handle the rest. Peter hesitates, trying to decide where and how to take on the rest.

“Hey! Boss! Something’s wrong--” one of the clowns yell.

Shit. He was too slow. Now they’re alert; what the hell does he do now?

"Move silent and quick, like I've taught you," T'Challa says quietly.

And the memories flood into his mind. Stalking through the city and the Wakandan homeland,
avoiding or hunting panthers prowling the night. Peter crouches low, as he did in the prairie, and
moves silently just out of sight of the armed men. He’s relying on muscle memory, letting his
limbs and body do the work, and idly wondering how he moves so quickly in the dark. Either way,
it’s a blessing: he uses the darkness as a shield, moving through it and around it, yanking the
clowns into the dark and webbing them to the floor or walls.

Finally, it’s just the main clown left. And he’s pretty much harmless; no weapons, just a phone.
Peter is on him in a heartbeat, and webs him up in seconds, suspending him from the roof to hang
upside down, arms and legs secured behind a layer of thick webbing.

“How’d he do for time?” Fury asks.

“He has a minute to spare,” Hill says.

Peter feels pretty good about himself, really. He brushes his hands off, then checks his web fluid.
He burned up quite a bit of it just now. He might have to ditch patrol altogether for the week if his
current batch doesn’t cook up properly---

“Well, you’re new,” a voice says behind him. “I don’t suppose old Bats has told you about the
Joker yet, has he?”

Peter turns and finds himself face to face with the Joker.

"Batsy's latest protégé, hm? I wondered if you were one of his," the clown says. There’s a strange
sing-song quality to the man's voice. His sentences start at a manic high and roll into a low,
threatening growl. The word his is practically snarled at Peter. "So good to finally meet you.
Awfully brave of him to send you in here alone. I thought he had standing orders for all of you to
avoid me after last time."

Yeah, Peter’s heard enough. A simple touch of the button along his palm sends a glob of web fluid
across the smug clown’s face. That voice is just creepy. The clown glares at him, furious, and
Peter briefly wonders if he hasn’t just made a terrible mistake.

"Good work, kid. Dumb as hell, but good work," a heavyset officer says, walking towards him.
He’s not a looker; between the scowl, the ill fitting clothes, and the mess of black hair peeking out
from beneath the man's trilby, he's not winning any beauty contests. "But tell Bats that the next
time he sends one of you in here alone to deal with the Joker, he's gonna deal with Bullock. Got
that?"

Peter tilts his head. "Is your name actually Bullock?"

Bullock narrows his eyes at Peter. "Get the hell outta here."

Fair enough. It's far past his bedtime and Peter’s feeling every bit of it. If he hurries, he can swing
home just in time to take advantage of his adrenaline crash. Peter makes a quick escape, launching
himself up to and then through one of the top windows.

The Joker's eyes follow his every move, unblinking.

 Chapter 12
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Batchat

Barbara (10:12pm): The Joker has been arrested by the GCPD.

Duke (10:13pm): literally how

Tim (10:13pm): like on purpose?

Steph (10:13pm): what?

Dick (10:13pm): Bruce, Damian, and I have been chasing Bane up and down Old Gotham for the
past three hours. Where was the Joker?

Barbara (10:13pm): Crime Alley. He was arrested about ten minutes ago. He and his gang
hijacked a bus and took it to a warehouse. Joker was apparently planning a massacre to announce
his return to the streets.

Jason (10:14pm): How many of them were killed?

Barbara (10:15pm): None. Spider-Man intervened. Hostages, cops, and criminals are completely
unharmed. Spider-Man snuck in, disarmed and webbed up all twelve gang members, then
suspended Joker from the ceiling wrapped in webs. GCPD came in and cleaned up after him.

Jason (10:16pm): That fucking idiot went in alone?

Barbara (10:17pm): Yes, he handled all of it by himself.

Dick (10:17pm): We’re heading to GCPD now.

***

Peter starts to get the idea he’s done something very impressive and very stupid when he climbs
onto the bus the next day. Lou stares at him, half in awe, half in blatant concern. He hands Peter
two sandwiches today.

“What’s the occasion?” Peter asks, unwrapping the sandwich. It’s the first warm thing he’s felt
since school ended on Friday. Autumn is starting to drift into early winter, and the cold has begun
to seep into every facet of his life.

Lou drums his fingers against the steering wheel for a moment, staring ahead. Finally, he cuts his
eyes towards Peter through the mirror and says, “The Spider-Man did the impossible last night. He
saved my friend and the people on his bus from the Joker.”

“Oh,” Peter says around a mouthful of food. “He does that a lot, though.”

“Not against the Joker,” Lous insists. “Spider-Man did the impossible last night.”

“He’s right, you know,” the young businessman sitting in the seat behind him adds. “That hasn’t
happened ever. Not unless Batman’s set some kind of trap for him or something. At the very least,
someone gets a face full of Joker toxin or maimed or something.

“What the hell is Joker toxin?” Bucky asks.

Which is a very good question, actually. He’s about to ask when Lou shuts the bus doors and
presses on the gas pedal. The bus lurches forward with a hiss, and starts to roll down the road. The
rain picks up, and Peter eats his breakfast in silence, wondering what exactly is so impressive about
catching a weirdo in clown makeup by himself. The guy was creepy, sure, but no more creepy than
any other clown that’s existed since the 1960s.

Except for his eyes, of course. Peter tries not to think about the flat, evil stare the clown had given
him while suspended from his webs. Just the memory of it is enough to make his skin crawl.

***

“You know what, let’s ask him, then,” Tim says, dropping down into his desk beside Peter. Duke
sits down on Peter’s other side, rolling his eyes. “Peter’s smart. He’ll be our tiebreaker.”

“Tiebreaker for what?” Peter asks, looking up from his homework. He’s somehow managed to
keep ahead of the tide of homework, and his grades have even gone up. That’s somewhat of a
recent development; it feels like the teachers aren’t grading him as hard now that he has friends.

Duke scoots his desk closer to Peter and leans in, his expression deadly serious. “Pineapple on
pizza, yes or no?”

“There’s only one right answer,” Tim adds.

Peter stares at them both, amused. “Yes, obviously.”

Duke makes a disgusted face and sighs dramatically. Tim lets out a quiet ha, and smirks at his
brother. “Right answer, Peter.”

Peter bumps his fist against Tim’s, shrugging at Duke. “Sorry, man.”

“I should’ve guessed you two would turn against me someday,” Duke says dryly. He grins. “But
fine. I guess we’re having pineapple pizza after school today.”

“We are?” Peter asks, frowning. He won’t have time to patrol if he gets dinner with Tim and Duke.
He loses track of time around them--

“You promised,” Sam says.

Duke’s eyes cut to Peter’s right shoulder for a brief second. “Yeah, man. Remember?”

Peter tilts his head, then rubs the back of his neck. Crime Alley can do without him for one night,
can’t it? “Yeah, I did promise. Sure, let’s do it. Pizza sounds great.”

Duke grins at him. “Good. Because, man, I could use some time with friends after this weekend.”

“I thought you visited your parents this weekend?” Peter says.

Duke smiles, and it’s just a touch sad. “Yeah. I did.”

Peter frowns, confused, and starts to ask what’s wrong when he notices Tim’s warning glare from
the corner of his eye. Tim shakes his head very slightly, and Peter catches his meaning. This pizza
trip is more than just an excuse for his friends to pay for his meal. Clearly Duke needs some time
away from whatever family drama is happening behind closed doors.

“Oh. Family’s rough,” Peter says instead, shrugging. “Pizza’s better.”

Duke smiles. “Exactly what I was thinking.”

***

Class passes by in a blur. Peter’s much less stressed now that he knows he’s not rushing home to
patrol Crime Alley after school. He actually manages to relax for a little bit, and he’s surprised by
it. Maybe he’s been too tense lately, too focused.

“You’ve been pushing yourself too hard,” Fury says.

Maybe he has. He’s making up for it tonight, at least. Tim and Duke take him to a little pizza shop
tucked away in the old market street of Gotham Village. The place wouldn’t be very remarkable on
a New York street, but it’s clearly a popular place judging by the crowd. Duke and Peter handle
claiming a booth for themselves, and Tim slips off to grab the food.

Peter sticks a straw into his drink and glances at Duke. “Hey, are you all right?”

“Hm?” Duke says, looking up from his phone. “What do you mean?”

“It’s just, you seem pretty withdrawn today,” Peter says, fumbling with his words a bit. “Did
everything go okay with your parents? I mean, I get that it’s awkward--trust me, I am super
familiar with awkward family stuff--but if you ever need to talk or something, I’m here. If nothing
else, I could listen. I’m pretty good at that.”

Duke looks at him for a long moment, and then smiles. When he smiles, it’s warm and gentle. “I’m
good, Peter. Things are just a little rough with my parents. They’re, uh, sick. The Joker sprayed this
toxin on them and it just--” He pauses, takes in a breath and sighs. “It’s not a death sentence. It’s
worse. I’m hoping Wayne Tech finds a cure for them some day. It’s just hard seeing them
sometimes.”

Peter frowns, idly swirling his drink with his straw. “Maybe they will. It sounds like they’ve had
breakthroughs in a lot of different areas. Kinda like--” He pauses. He almost said ‘kind of like
Stark Industries’ but that would mean less than nothing to Duke. “Well, they might pull it off.”

“Yeah, I’m holding out hope for it,” Duke says. He pauses, then makes a face when Tim nudges
his way through the crowd to their table and sets a pizza and a giant basket of mozzarella sticks on
the table in front of them. "Tim. What the absolute hell is that."

"Artichoke, jalapeno, and pineapple pizza,” Tim replies smugly. He drops into the booth beside
Peter and grabs a slice. “It's good."

"That isn't a thing. What the hell," Peter says, horrified. “Pineapple is fine, but artichoke and
jalapenos? You don’t do that to pizza.”

"See? Peter's on my side. And also God's. This is a war crime, Tim," Duke adds. This doesn’t keep
him from outright stealing two slices, of course.

Tim maintains direct eye contact with Peter and slowly bites his abomination of a pizza.

“You’re a monster,” Peter says, taking his own slice. It’s food, it’s warm, and it’s something he
hasn’t had to cook. To his surprise, it’s actually not that bad. He’d rather die than admit that to Tim
and let him win, of course. A man’s got to have standards.

Tim smirks at him. “You like it.”

“Lies and propaganda,” Peter says, shoving the rest of the pizza slice in his mouth before grabbing
his fork. He idly twirls it in his hand, a flashy bit of showmanship, and then stabs it into the
towering pile of mozzarella sticks sitting in the center of the table and forks over three of them onto
his plate.

Duke snorts. “That was unnecessary.”

He then mimics Peter’s move with his own fork and grabs the other half of the remaining
mozzarella sticks. Tim squints at them.

“Hey, where’s my share?” he asks.

“You’ve got your crime pizza,” Duke shoots back. He does give Tim two of his mozzarella sticks,
however.

“Crime pizza is nothing without food I’m going to regret eating tomorrow,” Tim says primly,
stealing one more mozzarella stick off of Duke’s plate. Duke narrows his eyes at him.

Peter adds a couple of his own to Tim’s plate, amused. “Right, usually you prefer kale chips.”

“Which are amazing because Alfred made them for me,” Tim says. “And only me. Even though
Damian keeps stealing them.”

“He does it to spite you,” Duke informs him. “Damian likes me.”

“That doesn’t mean anything. Anyone with sense likes you,” Peter says around a mouthful of food.

“Peter’s got you there, Duke,” Tim says.

Duke grins, rubbing the back of his neck. “Don’t make it weird, guys.”

After pizza, Duke and Tim take him on a tour through Gotham Village, pointing out other
restaurants, shops, and hang outs along the way. Tim still moves stiffly, and Duke needs help with
his transit card when they hop on the subway to head to a nearby park. Despite the cold wind, the
park is beautiful and full of more people than he expected. Couples wander down stone paths
together, groups of students from Gotham University meander towards an ice skating rink in the
distance with hockey sticks and ice skates slung over their shoulders, a few older folks haunt the
chess and checker boards set out beside an outdoor cafe. The difference between Crime Alley and
Gotham Village is almost unbelievable.

Tim leads them straight towards the chess boards. He looks them over, looks at the little kiosk that
sells and rents out game pieces, and grins at Peter.

“You up for a game?” he asks.

“Chess isn’t really my thing, but sure,” Peter says, pulling up a chair to the board.

“Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you,” Tim says.

“I can’t wait to see this,” Duke says, wandering over with a hot chocolate from the cafe. “Peter, if
you break Tim’s winning streak, I’ll give you Tim’s car.”
“You can’t give away my stuff,” Tim says.

“Watch me,” Duke replies.

Peter laughs, setting out the pieces with Tim. He loses, of course; even with Duke stepping in to
help him (much to Tim’s annoyance), he’s soundly defeated. It doesn’t take long at all. Tim is very
good at chess, and eagerly starts to teach Peter moves and strategies during their second game. He
gushes about the game, and Peter has as much fun listening to him as he does learning it. Duke
chips in every now and then with his own observations, but it quickly becomes apparent that he’s
just as impulsive and reactive as Peter when it comes to games. Tim’s the long haul player.

When the sun fully sets, they leave the park and head for the subway.

“We should do this again sometime,” Tim says.

“Soon,” Duke adds. He’s much more at ease now. The tension that followed him around school is
all but gone, and the easygoing grin and confident step are back in full force. Peter’s glad for it.

“Definitely,” Peter replies, grinning at his friends. “Thanks, guys. It was fun. I’ll catch you at
school tomorrow.”

***

Peter resumes his patrols the next day. It’s more of the same; hunt down a False Facer hideout,
clear it, swing by the playground to make sure the kids are okay, rescue Mr. Fluffles from a tree
again, and finally, chase down the cat burglar that keeps swinging through his territory. Most of
those chases end with Peter skittering around a cold, slick rooftop in the dark, completely at a loss.
But one rainy night, he gets lucky, and catches her in the act.

“You know, you could at least tell me why you keep robbing every laboratory in the city,” Peter
says testily behind the burglar.

“Hiya, Spidey,” the lady says, amused. She doesn’t even look up from cracking the safe she’s
working on, and that is far more annoying than it has any right to be. She does glance over her
shoulder at him and wink at him through her mask’s goggles. Beneath the mask is deeply tanned
skin, and bright green eyes shining with challenge and mirth. “I wondered when you’d show up.”

“You were a little more obvious than usual this time,” Peter says, idly swinging. She’s not much
older than him, if at all. Sixteen at the most, like him. “Which means you wanted me to find you.”

“I did,” she confirms. There’s a slight accent to her words, and it takes Peter a moment to realize
she’s hiding a Queens accent. She pops open the safe and “Mostly out of curiosity.”

“Isn’t there a saying about curious cats?” Peter says, flipping down from his perch to approach her.

“Curiosity killed the cat,” she says, then whirls and sweeps her leg high, aiming her heel for the
side of his head. He dodges, but the movement makes him lose his balance and he trips, for the
first time since he got the bite, and stumbles to the side, planting one foot firmly inside a wire trash
bin. “But satisfaction brought it back.”

She winks at him and sprints for the open window Peter had used to climb inside, leaping out into
the night. Peter sighs and shakes his foot loose from the trash bin. He can’t believe he tripped.

What rotten luck.

 ***

Peter meets his first truly weird bad guy the next night. His first inkling that something is wrong is
a faint buzzing of his spider senses. The second is when an armored delivery truck with Gotham
Biochemical printed across its side is sent flying past his head. He swings after the truck, adjusts
his web shooters, and swings around the flying truck, quickly webbing it up to slow its descent.
The webs aren’t strong enough to stop it completely--and given the laws of physics, he’d rather not
make it stop suddenly--but they slow the truck’s fall until it lands relatively gently on the street.
Satisfied the driver in the truck is safe, Peter swings for the monster standing in the street,
terrorizing a guard standing near a heavy steel crate.

Well, not a monster. Clearly a man. Just a big one that looks like he’s covered in a thick layer of
earth and clay. Peter grabs a trash can lid and flings it at the guy’s head. It bounces off with an
echoing clang. It also forces the monster to turn and face him. And boy, it is not a pleasant sight:
the guy’s skin--if it is skin--hangs and rolls down his body almost like water. The monster’s two
pig-like eyes glower at Peter as he swings out of reach.

“Oh, a dirt based supervillain!” Peter calls out, landing on the street just out of the man’s reach.
“You’ve definitely got some kind of villain name. Let me guess, Ground Pounder?”

The man roars at him, swelling up to the size of the Hulk and ripping a streetlight out of the ground
to swing at Peter. He ducks beneath it and lobs a ball of webbing straight into the man’s face. He
snarls again, his voice like grinding rocks, “Who the hell are you?”

“Spider-Man. Oh, hey, Sandman’s a pretty good name--” Peter ducks beneath another wild swing
of the streetlight. “Or! Dirtbag. That might fit you best, actually!”

“It’s Clayface!” the monster roars, finally throwing the streetlight straight at his head.

Perfect. Peter flings a web at the streetlight and whips it over and around, smacking Clayface
across the skull. The monster grunts in surprise, stumbles, and then falls face first onto the street.
Peter’s quick to web him up while he’s on the ground, practically covering him in a cocoon of
webbing.

“Sandman’s cooler,” he says.

“This ain’t over,” Clayface snarls.

“I mean, yeah, it is--” Peter starts, and then he stops. Because Clayface is melting.

Clayface smirks at him, melts like a popsicle, and then slinks into a nearby sewer grate, webs and
all. Peter’s utterly dumbfounded.

“What in the goddamn hell just happened,” Fury says. It should be a question, but it comes out so
flatly annoyed that it doesn’t quite reach it.

“Why is this city like this,” Sam mutters.

“You’ll get him next time, sweetie,” a nice old lady says from the sidewalk. She adds, helpfully,
“Maybe bring a tupperware container when you see him again.”

***

BATCHAT
Barbara (08:48pm): Spider-Man’s made another move. He stopped Clayface from robbing an
armored truck earlier tonight. Clayface escaped.

Jason (08:49pm): Hasn’t Bruce talked to him about this shit yet?

Barbara (08:50pm): Not yet. He was called away to an emergency meeting at the Hall of Justice.
Wonder Woman and Superman are still MIA.

Tim (08:51pm): great

Jason (08:51pm): Fine, I’ll handle it then.

Dick (08:52pm): That’s a good idea. He doesn’t know what he’s dealing with, and we could use
the help while Bruce is gone. He’s got the talent, he’s just new.

Jason (08:53pm): Where was Spider-Man last seen?

Barbara (08:55pm): I’m sending you the coordinates now. Play nice, Jason.

***

Peter searches for Clayface for an hour before giving it up as a lost cause, annoyed at the man’s
escape from his webs. He heads for one of the quieter alleys in the district, one far from where
most people live. He stuck his backpack there and he intends to grab it to pull on a hoodie and
jeans over his suit. He drops down to the asphalt and sighs, rolling his neck and shoulders. It’s
been a long night. He reaches for the loose bricks hiding the hole where his backpack is stashed--

“You’re an idiot,” a voice says to him from the shadows.

Peter freezes for a moment, then turns to face the Red Hood. The man is standing in the shadows,
just as Batman did a few days ago, glaring at Peter. He’s holding a gun in his hand, and he has it
aimed squarely at Peter’s head.

“If I wanted to kill you, I could’ve done it twice over by now,” he says before holstering the
weapon and stalking out into the dim light of the alley. Every inch of his body language screams
annoyed, as if he’s holding back a lecture of monumental proportions.

Peter tilts his head. “So, why didn’t you?”

“Because I didn’t want to, obviously. We’re on the same side,” Red Hood retorts. “I wanted to see
if you noticed me. You didn’t. You got sloppy. That’ll cost you your life one day if you keep it up.
Especially now that you’re going around getting into fights with Clayface and the Joker.”

“I didn’t exactly hunt them down and start it,” Peter says, his own annoyance coming through.
“Especially the Joker. He was going to kill a literal bus load of people! I handled it fine--”

“You got lucky. Luckier than you know,” Red Hood says, stalking close. He taps Peter’s chest.
“You should’ve stayed low and out of sight like you were before, but you didn’t. Now you’ve got a
target on your back and, if you manage to stay lucky, the Joker won’t try to take aim for it.”

Peter scowls, roughly shoving Red Hood’s hand away from his chest. His earlier annoyance rises
like a tide. He crowds Red Hood right back, actually forces the man to take a step back. “I’m
tougher than you think. He’ll be in for a surprise if he tries anything.”

“Peter. Take it easy,” Bucky says quietly.

 Peter pauses, takes in a breath to calm himself, and then steps back. Where had that come from?

“Not tough enough, and not trained enough,” Red Hood retorts. “Which is why I came looking for
you.”

“What?” Peter asks. He’s a bit more subdued now, half distracted by his sudden anger.

“Your training starts tomorrow. Nine o’clock, at the Wayne Memorial Plaza,” Red Hood says. He
doesn’t seem bothered by Peter’s anger in the least. He pins Peter with a stare. “Don’t be late, or
I’ll come looking for you. Got it?”

“Yeah. Got it,” Peter says.

“Good,” Red Hood says. He stares at Peter for a moment longer, then turns and stalks back into the
shadows.

Chapter End Notes

One day I will be less wordy and learn how to write concisely.

That won't be today, but like. It's a goal.

 Chapter 13
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Peter sits at his desk in the far corner of the classroom. The other students chat quietly amongst
themselves, subdued by the heavy rain ticking against the classroom windows and the chill draft
seeping from the hallway. He’s frowning at nothing, idly bouncing a knee up and down, distracted.
He’s been distracted for most of the day, but during home room, he has time to really think about
what happened last night.

He should have sensed Red Hood in that alley, but his spider senses never went off. Why? The guy
had a gun pointed at his head. Normally that sets his nerves on fire and makes him twitchy and
jumpy on instinct. But not with Red Hood, a vigilante renowned for short tempers and a brutal
fighting style. And then Peter’s temper setting off during their conversation. That’s the second time
it’s happened. He’s lucky his fuse hasn’t gone off during patrol. If he’d tried to clear out that clown
patrol with his temper boiling, they’d be cleaning creepy clown teeth out of the crevices of that
warehouse for the next three months.

“Someone’s thinking extra hard today,” Tim says, sitting down beside him. He has two styrofoam
cups in his hands with the school’s insignia printed across them. He sets one down in front of Peter.
Dark circles hang beneath his eyes, and he looks paler than usual, as if he’s fighting off an illness.
“Here.”

Peter blinks, sitting up in his seat. "What's this?"

"Hot chocolate. You look cold."

He is cold. He’s been cold since last night, in fact. Autumn is clinging on by the skin of its teeth
during the day, but winter seeps in during the late hours of the night. His shelter isn’t much
defense against the Gotham wind. And that’s when he’s not swinging right through a rain cloud.
Peter takes the hot chocolate gratefully.

“Thanks,” he says, wrapping his hands around the steaming styrofoam cup. He soaks in the
warmth for a bit, then looks around. “Where’s Duke?”

“On his way,” Tim says, stirring his coffee. His hands shake slightly. Peter can practically smell
the fever and sickness coming off of him in waves. “It’s Parent-Teacher night next week. Duke and
I had to submit a form and let the school know our Dad can’t make it. I think Steph’s doing the
same thing.”

Peter freezes. “Parent-Teacher night?”

“Yeah, my dad’s out of town and I’m definitely not asking my older brothers to come,” Tim says.
He pauses to take a deep drink of his coffee. “What about yours?”

“Uh, I’m not sure,” Peter says hesitatingly. “Does the school really care that much if a parent skips
it?”

Tim thinks, squinting at the Smartboard hanging on the wall behind the teacher’s desk. “Maybe. I
think it’s a requirement of the Wayne scholarship. Something about making sure kids who get it
have a stable and safe home life.”
Shit. Of course it is. He should’ve read the fine print. “Huh.”

“You could always put on a cheap moustache and grab some stilts and pretend to be Tony,” Sam
says idly.

Not helping, Sam.

“Did he just think at you?” Bucky asks.

“It probably won’t take very long, if he’s super busy. Your test scores are through the roof. He’d
be in and out in half an hour, at most,” Tim says.

“Yeah, I’ll, uh. I’ll mention that to him,” Peter says.

Tim frowns, goes silent for a moment, and starts to say something when Duke walks into the
classroom. He sets his books on the desk beside Peter and sighs.

“Dude, Mrs. Crabapple is ruthless with that paperwork,” he says. He pulls his arm out of his sling
with a sigh and sets his cast on Peter’s desk. Peter picks up his pen and idly starts to doodle on his
cast. There are a number of crossed out pictures already. “She had me fill it out three times. Steph
is arguing with her about her form right now.”

“Are you supposed to do that?” Tim asks, nodding to Duke’s cast.

“I dunno, are you supposed to run with bruised ribs?” Duke retorts, quirking a brow.

“Not really,” Peter says, idly drawing Captain America’s shield and Thor’s hammer on Duke’s
cast. “You can make the wound worse, and usually bruised ribs end up being cracked ribs. I
actually got pneumonia that way once.”

Duke and Tim pause at that. Peter hears someone sigh behind him. It sounds like Bucky.

“So, yeah, your Dad’s going to come to that Parent-Teacher conference, right?” Tim asks idly.

***

BATCHAT

Tim (05:25pm): Barbara, please.

Barbara (05:26pm): Absolutely not.

Tim (05:27pm): if you don’t go, then I’ll have to ask Dick and I’d rather not

Dick (05:28pm): Hurtful.

Jason (0529pm): What’s the replacement talking about?

Duke (05:30pm): Parent/Teacher night at school. Bruce is going to be out of town, so Tim can’t
bother him and ask him to look for Peter’s parents.

Tim (05:31pm): Barbara is being uncharacteristically unhelpful.

Jason (05:32pm): Good. Don’t help the twerp.

Jason (05:33pm): Also Cass and Steph are covering my patrol tonight. I’m running with Spider-
Man.

Barbara (05:34pm): Don’t forget his gift.

Jason (05:35pm): He’ll get it when he earns it.

***

Peter swings over to Wayne Memorial Plaza, landing on top of a long dried out fountain sculpture
for a moment before dropping to the ground. The plaza is empty, abandoned to the elements, with
empty and boarded up shops lining the cracked bricks lining the ground. It’s surprisingly well lit
for a place so desolate; the lights here are styled after Victorian gas lanterns, though their bulbs are
LEDs rather than flickering flames. A few of them flicker regardless, though the effect is less
‘flamelike’ and more ‘dilapidated horror movie set.’ This place was once beautiful, and it’s easy to
see how it could still be, despite the dirt, the trash, the graffiti, and the other detritus that seems to
wash across every empty building that exists in a city. The drizzling rain just adds to the feeling of
abandonment and loss. Peter’s never known a city that can mourn.

“Sorry,” Mantis whispers. “I think you’re picking up some of my thoughts.”

Maybe. But it really does feel---

Something moves in the dark behind him. His senses don’t trigger, but he hears the rustle of cloth,
and a shift in the wind. He drops low, barely ducking out of the way of Red Hood’s sucker punch
in time. He can feel the swish of air just above his head, and rolls back and away, relying on hard
won instinct to carry him away from danger and back onto his feet. He pops back up in a fighting
stance across from Red Hood. If he stopped to think about it, he’d realize he’s just matched one of
Black Panther’s elegant combat rolls point for point.

Red Hood hops back and gives himself a little bit of distance, assuming a boxer’s stance that
Peter’s seen cage fighters use on TV. He tilts his head. “Better than last night. Let’s see if you can
keep that up.”

No pleasant exchanges then. Peter’s trained before with Tony, Rhodey, and even Vision every now
and then. But all three of them had held back when fighting him in the comfort of the Avengers
Compound, testing his reflexes, teaching him a few moves here and there. None had been capable
of or willing to test his full limits. Red Hood does not share that philosophy. He comes at Peter
hard and fast, keeping up his momentum and shifting from a high punch to a low, sweeping kick
aimed at Peter’s head.

Peter leaps back and away, mimicking a move the Winter Soldier had once used to avoid a
crippling blow from Steve Rogers. His senses still aren’t setting off, and that’s a problem. Peter’s
fighting style is all instinct. Good instinct, with hard won experience, but that won’t get him very
far with someone like Red Hood, who fights with as much brutal cunning as Black Widow. The
two circle one another in the abandoned plaza.

“So, I have a question,” Peter says, panting a bit. He’s a bit surprised by that; he hasn’t had to put
this much effort into a fight in a long time. “What is this place?”

“This is what’s left of the last initiative to clean up Crime Alley and clear up its reputation,” Red
Hood says, and then he dives in close, throwing a few high punches as a feint before ducking down
to try and drive his fist into Peter’s stomach. Peter dodges all three moves, and he grunts in
approval. “It was a joint effort from the Wayne Foundation and the former mayor. They poured in
millions of dollars and thousands of man hours to clean up this area and fix the district’s
reputation. Draw in more businesses, more regular people, start over with a clean slate and prove it
can be redeemed. Bruce Wayne practically went on the campaign trail talking it up.”

This last is said in a low growl, and Red Hood closes in again. Another kick, and high punch, and
Peter dodges both. Swerving over and around Red Hood’s strikes like a snake. He doesn’t
remember learning this move, but he does remember seeing Loki move like it once in a dream. “It
looks like a bomb went off here.”

“You can’t stay on the defensive forever,” Bucky says. “Fight back!”

He knows. He has this. Just give him a minute; it’s hard to fight without his spider senses. He
didn’t even know he was that reliant on it, and it's disturbing how hard it is to fight when he
doesn’t have that power to fall back on. He can’t go full out in this fight anyway. Even tired and
starving, Peter could seriously hurt Red Hood if he had the mind to.

“It did,” Red Hood says flatly. “The three biggest crime lords in the city all tried to stake a claim
on the new business district, and it erupted into a three way gang war between Black Mask, Two-
Face, and the Penguin.”

“Those cannot be real people,” Quill mutters.

Even Peter’s thrown off by those names. And that momentary distraction is all Red Hood needs to
switch tactics. He latches on Peter’s arm, and turns, throwing him over his shoulder in a perfectly
executed throw and dropping him hard against the brick floor of the plaza.

Peter grunts, then rolls away from Red Hood, barely dodging a stomp aimed at his chest. He pops
back onto his feet and aims a quick punch at Red Hood. To his shock, it actually hits, and it hits
Red Hood hard enough to knock the man back on his heels for a moment.

But only for a moment. Peter may have left a fist sized bruise on the man’s chest, but it doesn’t
slow him down at all. Their back and forth turns into a boxing match; a game of back and forth
between them. Red Hood isn’t trying to win this fight, he’s trying to see how Peter fights.

“What happened?” Peter asks, sidestepping an uppercut.

“The usual,” Red Hood says. He blocks a series of strikes from Peter. “A gang war that went from
cold to hot in the space of a few hours. A shootout started at the kid’s playground, and ended with
a car bomb being driven into the restaurant behind me.”

The restaurant in question is a half collapsed pile of rubble. Peter can see scorch marks along the
facade of the building that’s still standing. There are other, darker stains on the ground and walls
that Peter can easily guess at; bodies that have been burned that badly tend to leave marks of their
own. There are at least two dozen that he can see. When he spares a glance at the children’s
playground, he sees more of those stains. Not all of them are as large as they should be, and that
realization sickens and infuriates him in equal measure.

“So my question to you is this,” Red Hood says, suddenly switching out of his boxing stance to
charge Peter and fling him over his shoulder again. Peter catches his balance mid air this time and
lands lightly on his feet before jumping away. “How long do you think you’ll last here? How long
do you think that little playground you cleaned up will stay clean?”

“As long as I’m around,” Peter retorts. He’s on the defensive again, and his frustration is starting to
grow. Between his useless spider sense, holding back his enhanced strength so he doesn’t actually
hurt Red Hood, and the knowledge of what happened here, he’s fighting a losing battle against the
green tinged rage simmering somewhere inside him.

“It’ll last until the first gang in the district sees it and decides to fuck it up and send a message to
you and the people who live in those apartments,” Red Hood says. He drives the point home with a
rabbit quick punch to Peter’s face. “And you’ll just be another in a long line of failures when it
comes to Crime Alley. I give it a month, tops.”

Peter is getting really sick of Red Hood’s snarky comments. His temper rises in a flash, and he
whirls to face Red Hood, ducking under the man's sucker punch. He draws his arm back, preparing
an uppercut with his full strength behind it--

"Stop!" T'Challa says. He doesn’t yell; he simply places every bit of royal authority into his voice.
It's a tone not meant to be ignored.

Peter stops. Red Hood doesn't. He shifts from his punch to a knee to Peter’s stomach. It knocks the
wind out of him and drops him to his knees. He coughs, gasping for breath, the anger knocked
clean out of him. Red Hood steps back, looking around as if he’s just heard someone speak before
focusing on Peter.

"What the hell just happened? You stopped halfway through that punch," Red Hood says. He’s
panting for breath himself, his arms and face are covered in a thin sheen of sweat. Peter isn’t the
only one who’s putting in work tonight, at least.

"I, uh. I got mad," Peter admits breathlessly.

Red Hood stares at him, confused. He offers Peter a hand up, grasping his forearm and hauling him
to his feet. "So? I'm always pissed. Use it. You can do a lot with it."

"Yeah, that isn't a good idea," Peter says. “You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.”

Instead of the eye roll and ‘Yeah, sure, whatever, Hulk,’ that statement would get him back in his
own universe, he gets an eye roll and a vaguely disappointed sigh. “You’re one of those, then.”

“Those?” Peter asks.

Red Hood waves a hand at him. “Nevermind. Let’s pack it in for the night. Follow me.”

He pulls a grappling hook gun out from under his jacket, aims it at the nearest building, and then
swings away. Peter pauses to give the wrecked district one last look before following on his webs.

***

Red Hood swings deeper into Crime Alley, hopping down onto a roof overlooking the playground.
Peter follows his lead, dropping down beside him. Red Hood lands silently, which is a feat for
someone as large and burly as he is. Peter’s a bit jealous of that. The playground below is well lit.
It's a bright candle against the darkness that covers most of the block, standing out against it almost
defiantly.

"Quiz time. What are you going to do when they destroy that?" Red Hood asks, pointing at the
playground.

Peter crouches down, considers the playground, then looks up to give Red Hood a baffled look.
"You really think they'll tear up some random playground? There’s no money in this. There’s
nothing to be gained from tearing it down."
"I know they will,” Red Hood says. He doesn’t sound happy about it; just resigned and bitter.
“This is Crime Alley, kid. Nothing good stays here for long. One day someone's going to wreck
their car on it, or set it on fire, or even blow it up. Maybe not on purpose, but it'll happen. What
will you do?"

"Fix it."

"And if they do it again?"

"Fix it again," Peter says firmly. "I get that things suck here. Trust me, I can see it. But you have to
start somewhere and nothing worth doing is easy."

"So you'll wage a one spider war against all this?" Red Hood asks, spreading his arm out towards
the rest of Crime Alley riddled with urban blight. "Just you against the night?"

"Yes," Peter answers simply.

"Why?"

"Because the people here deserve it. Because it's working, at least a little. And because I can. And
if you can help someone, you need to help them,” Peter says. “I can do this, so I will. I know it
won’t solve every problem, I know it probably won’t help most problems here. But it’s helping a
little, and that makes it worth doing.”

Red Hood stares at him for a long moment, then lets out a derisive snort. "You actually believe
that."

Peter shrugs. He’s stated his piece, and he does believe it. He always has.

After a few moments, Red Hood sits down on the ledge beside him and watches the cars below
pass them. Another minute passes, and he says, "For the record, I hope you’re right. And hey, I
want you to tell me if I'm going too hard at this. On you."

Peter turns to face him, tilting his head.

"It's just, I don't want you to get in over your head like I did. I know it sounds like I don’t believe it,
but you've done a lot of good in the Alley. Gotham has a way of ruining good things more often
than not, and I don’t want some rookie suit getting caught up in that like I did."

"It's definitely different from what I'm used to," Peter admits. "But I can’t sit back and do nothing."

Red Hood watches him for a moment, before punching his shoulder. It’s a friendly gesture, and a
little awkward. "I get it. From now on, you don't do it alone, all right? Us Crime Alley guys gotta
stick together. That’s one of the rules we play by here: no matter how you feel or what you think,
you’re not in this alone anymore."

“Yeah. All right,” Peter grins, rubbing the back of his neck. Red Hood nods, satisfied, and then
falls silent again. Peter watches him from the corner of his eye and finally asks, "Hey. How'd you
meet Batman?"

"I stole the tires off of the Batmobile when I was nine."

"No way."

"Sure did. How'd you meet Iron Man?"

"At a science expo. A bunch of homicidal robots tried to kill me. He saved my life."

"Huh. You know, I haven't heard of that guy. He must be pretty small time."

Peter grins at the thought of Tony overhearing that remark. "I would pay you five real American
dollars for you to say that to his face."

“You’re on,” Red Hood says. “If I ever meet Iron Man, I’ll call him a small time suit to his face.”

“You’re serious.”

“You have no idea what I’d do for five dollars, kid,” Red Hood says. He pushes himself back onto
his feet and cracks his neck. “Class time’s over, spider-twerp. Come back tomorrow. Same place.”

Peter tilts his head and nods. Red Hood gives him a lazy salute before leaping off of the building
and into the darkness below. Seconds later, he hears a grappling hook deploy, and the sound of
someone swinging into the night. Peter sits on the roof alone, sore and shaken and lost in his own
thoughts.

***

BATCHAT

Dick (11:22pm): How’d it go?

Jason (11:23pm): He’s got the instinct, he just needs the practice. And his fighting style is a
complete mess. It's a big jumble of a bunch of different styles that don’t really work together.

Jason (11:24pm): But he’s got my seal of approval. I’m not that big on this teaching shit, though.
My style of fighting doesn’t match his. He needs someone else to give him the finer points.

Steph (11:26pm): Cass and I can swing by tomorrow.

Jason (11:27pm): Sounds good. Duke and Tim can go next.

Duke (11:28pm): not happening. Alfred’s grounded us both.

Jason (11:29pm): The fuck for?

Duke (11:30pm): Tim went to school with a raging chest cold. A coughing fit messed up his ribs
again.

Duke (11:31pm): also my arm is still broken, how the hell am I supposed to fight some weird
spider-person with one arm?

Jason (11:32pm): That sounds like quitter talk to me. Grow up, Duke.

Dick (11:33pm): If Spider-Man still needs the training or help, I’ll swing by after Steph and Cass.

Dick (11:34pm): I think our styles would work pretty well together. He already moves like a
gymnast.

Jason (11:35pm): Then we have a plan. Good. Any word from B?

Barbara (11:36pm): None yet. I’ll keep you guys posted if I hear anything.
Chapter End Notes

I’ve been steadily reading through the Batman backlog at my library and y’all, the
writing inconsistency is driving me up the wall for some of these runs. Sometimes
Jason is cool with the family, sometimes he just shoots Damian for no reason.
Everything happens all the time in these things, good god.

That said, Super Sons is rapidly becoming one of my favorite series. If anyone knows
any good Superman or Wonder Woman runs, let me know!
 Chapter 14
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Peter wanders through Dr. Strange’s library during his dreams. It’s warm, and peaceful, and a tad
moody. Clouds gather outside of the Sanctum, flickering with blue-purple lightning. He can’t hear
the thunder yet, but he thinks that’s a quirk of the dream more than anything else. The Sanctum is
old, and powerful, and a comfort he takes advantage of in his sleep whenever possible.

He finds Loki in the stacks, still paging through that copy of The Fellowship of the Ring. Peter’s
more than a little amused by that. He stops and tilts his head.

“Tolkein was wasted on your people,” Loki says idly. “He should have been born an Asgardian.”

“He probably wouldn’t have liked you much,” Peter says.

“That wouldn’t exactly make him unique, now would it?” Loki replies dryly. He waves a hand at
Peter. “You can find the sorcerer brooding upstairs.”

Peter knows a dismissal when he hears one. He shrugs and moves past Loki, jogging up the grand
staircase to the second floor. The clouds have turned this floor gloomy, muting the golden light that
usually filters through the windows. Dr. Strange stands beneath the largest window, looking up at
the stormy sky through the dome glass window. The clouds roll and broil, flickering with
lightning, illuminating the stony, thoughtful expression on the sorcerer’s face. His cloak floats
above his shoulders, though one corner raises and waves at Peter when he draws close.

“Mr. Parker,” Strange says. His voice isn’t quite subdued, but it’s close. He sounds thoughtful,
withdrawn, and as the thunder rumbles above, Peter wonders if he should have left the sorcerer to
his thoughts.

“Uh, hi, Dr. Strange,” Peter says, standing near the stairs. He shoves his hands into his pockets,
suddenly anxious. The sorcerer is pretty intimidating, all things considered. And he can’t help but
think of Gandalf's famous line about meddling in the affairs of wizards.

“What can I do for you?”

“I’m not sure. Usually when I end up in someone’s soul world it’s because they brought me here,”
Peter says slowly. “I’m kind of confused why I’m here, though.”

Dr. Strange finally turns away from the storm above, focusing his gaze on Peter. He can see echoes
of the storm’s lightning flash behind Strange’s eyes. Peter takes in a deep breath and walks towards
him.

“You haven’t talked to me much lately,” Peter says. “I see Wanda when I have nightmares, or
Bucky or Sam, and Mr. Fury, Agent Hill, and King T’Challa help me train, but I don’t really see
you very much.”

Dr. Strange looks back up at the storm gathering outside. “Mhm.”

“Was it something I said?”

Dr. Strange sighs. “No. You’ve done nothing wrong, Peter.”

“Oh. Good.” He pauses for a moment. “Then what’s wrong?”

“I know what’s coming,” Dr. Strange says simply. “That’s all.”

And then he falls silent and regards the storm outside his sanctum again.

“Do I get to know what’s coming?” Peter asks, tilting his head.

“No,” Dr. Strange says after a moment. “I can’t tell you.”

“I knew you’d say that,” Peter replies. “Okay, so I don’t get any spoilers. Got any advice for me?”

Dr. Strange considers his question, and nods. “Yes. I suppose I can give you some advice. I want
you to remember two things. Do you remember what I told you when I gave you the letter?”

“No great thing can be done without sacrifice?” Peter says, half remembering it. “Yeah, I
remember that. What’s the other thing?”

“I’m sorry,” Dr. Strange says. It’s sincere and heartfelt, and deeply disturbing.

Peter frowns at him, confused.

“The letter is about to reach its destination. You’ll understand more when that happens. Until then,
good night,” Dr. Strange says. A simple gesture sends Peter out of his portion of the Soul Stone
and into another. Wanda or T’Challa, perhaps.

***

Dr. Strange leaves the upper floor of his sanctum once Peter is sent away. He stalks past rows of
bookshelves, his thoughts as stormy as the clouds outside. He pauses at the bookshelf where Loki
stands reading. He watches the Asgardian god for a long moment before approaching.

“Can I help you, sorcerer?” Loki asks, keeping his focus on the book in front of him.

“You called Peter here. Why?” Strange asks.

“I could say it’s because I wanted to see you squirm, to gain an edge on you, or to gain a bit of
revenge for that stunt you pulled on me back in New York,” Loki says. “But you would rightly
deduce that I’m lying to you.”

Strange simply stares at him and waits for him to get to the point.

Loki sighs. “You know, you’ve become significantly less interesting over time. Fine. I brought the
boy into your soul to see if I could. I have need of him for something, and I wanted to be sure I
could borrow him. Really, you should be thanking me for making the attempt where he's relatively
safe.”

“If you harm him--”

“You and I both know that would be utterly pointless. You aren’t the only one with the gift of
foresight,” Loki remarks dryly.

Dr. Strange has nothing he can say to that.

“I will borrow him for one night. That is all I need.”

“Fine,” Strange says. Perhaps Loki’s meant to do this. He only knows the highs and lows of this
timeline; the finer details had eluded him on Titan, and he simply didn’t have the energy or time to
waste to learn the whole of it. Regardless, Loki will have his way. “But only one night.”

Loki smiles. He knows Dr. Strange has no way of stopping him if he decides to borrow Peter’s
consciousness beyond that. Dr. Strange stares at him for a moment longer, then turns and leaves
the God of Mischief to his reading.

***

He’s exhausted by the time he reaches the bus stop, and wonders if he may have overdone it last
night. His usual fatigue hasn’t faded in the least, and his footsteps feel heavier than normal. Maybe
going on a quick patrol before meeting up with Red Hood was a poor choice.

“Extra training isn’t doing you any favors. Not with the amount of food you’re getting right now,”
Bucky says. “You’re burning more calories than you’re taking in.”

Which is...well. True. His school uniform feels a bit roomier than it should at the moment. He
should start looking for another job. There has to be something, right? Something other than
Wayne Enterprises internships, anyway. Peter isn’t eager to take a job from a man he’s stolen from,
and he’s already an intern for a rival company. Technically. Kind of. And anyway, he can’t pay
back the money he stole with money he earned from the same guy. That doesn’t accomplish
anything.

If he gets much hungrier, all bets are off, though.

Lou hands him a couple of sandwiches as he climbs onto the bus and Peter takes them both
gratefully. He drops down in his usual seat with a sigh, scooting out of the way of the businessman
who usually follows him onto the bus.

The guy has a breakfast burrito in hand, and fumbles with it while paying his fare. He drops it and
sighs as it splatters across his shoes and the floor. “Ah, crap.”

He kneels down and cleans it up as quickly as he can, using his copy of The Daily Planet to clear
away his mess. Peter sets aside his sandwiches and ducks down to help, and the guy smiles at him
gratefully. Peter realizes the business man isn’t much older than he is. Maybe three years at most,
but the guy has the kind of face that makes him look younger than he really is.

Lou holds out a small trash can for them, squinting at the paper. “The Daily Planet?”

“I like to keep up with things,” the man says, sitting down at his usual seat behind Peter. “So much
for today’s copy. And my breakfast. I haven’t had anything since lunch yesterday.”

“Sounds like they’re working you like a dog,” Lou says, closing the bus doors and putting it into
gear.

“You have no idea,” the man replies.

“Here, take one of mine. I can spare it.” Peter offers the man one of his sandwiches, and the guy
brightens.

“No, you can’t,” Fury says.

Peter pointedly ignores him.

“Hey, thanks,” the man says, taking the offered sandwich with one hand and holding out his hand
with the other. “I’m Jimmy. Jimmy Olsen.”

Peter takes his hand. “Peter. You aren’t from Gotham, are you?”

“Is it that obvious?” Jimmy asks with a wry grin while unwrapping the sandwich. “Guess it would
be. Gotham knows their own on sight. No, I’m from Metropolis. Born and raised.”

“Oh. What brings you to Gotham?"

"Doing research for the Planet," Jimmy says, shrugging. "Just some background stuff for one of
the reporters back home."

“Yeah? What’s the big scoop?” Peter asks. He likes Jimmy; there’s an earnest air about the guy
that just clicks with Peter.

"That new truancy law, mostly. I'm almost done with it. In fact, my ticket home is slated for
tomorrow,” Jimmy says around a mouthful of sandwich. “And, no offense, thank god for that. I
don’t want to stay here any longer than I have to. Usually I follow one of the investigative
reporters around while they do the research, but my regular guy is off sick or something. He’s been
out for awhile, actually.”

He pauses, frowns, and considers that for a moment. Peter finishes up his sandwich, bracing
himself when the bus slows to his stop, and grabs his backpack, standing up. Jimmy perks up when
he sees Peter start to leave.

“Hey, if you’re ever in Metropolis, swing by the Daily Planet so I can pay you back for the
sandwich,” he says.

“I’ll do that,” Peter says, tromping down the bus steps and through the doors.

He has no intention of taking Jimmy up on that offer, no matter how sincere it sounds. What on
earth would Peter be doing in Metropolis anyway?

***

Tim is withdrawn, pale, and intensely focused on his phone and notebook for most of the day. To
the point of only sparing Peter a brief nod when Peter sits down beside him in class. Peter leaves
him be, worried by the fevered pulse of his friend’s heartbeat. He takes notes for both of them
during their classes, and confronts him during home room.

“Hey, are you sure you should be here?” Peter asks. “You look, uh. Bad.”

“You’re a regular poet, Parker,” Bucky says.

Shut up.

“I’m fine. Just focused. I get like this sometimes,” Tim says, distracted. He picks up his coffee
cup--a new one, not the one he had at the start of the day, Peter notes, with some despair--takes a
deep drink.

“Should you be drinking coffee with a fever that high?” Peter asks, frowning.

“Probably not, no,” Tim says, before taking another deep drink. Peter reaches over and takes the
cup from him and he huffs. “Hey. That’s mine.”
“No more coffee, you’re going to blow up your heart,” Peter retorts. He pauses, then squints at the
phone and notebook on Tim’s desk while keeping Tim’s cup of coffee well out of his reach.
“What’s this?”

“Spider-Man,” Tim says, dropping back into his chair with a huff when it becomes clear that Peter
won’t let him have his coffee back. “He’s a new guy on the superhero scene. Nobody knows who
he is or where he came from.”

“So you’re, what, studying him? Your chemistry notes aren’t this exhaustive,” Peter says, amused.
And a little disturbed. There are sketches of Peter’s nightly patrols, with dates, times, and places
neatly marked on the notebook. Not even Flash had been this detail oriented with Spider-Man’s
habits.

“Yes. I keep track of all of the superheroes in town. And this guy came out of nowhere,” Tim says
simply. He picks up his pen. “”Right around the time things started getting weird around Gotham,
too. That’s a little odd.”

“Maybe he just has bad timing,” Peter tries.

“Maybe. Or he’s connected to the weird stuff happening. You know I heard the Bats don’t know
who he is? That won’t last for very long.”

“Yeah?” Peter asks, a tiny bit wary.

“Batman is literally the greatest detective in the world,” Tim says, offhandedly. “He knows
everyone’s secret identity. Or he learns it eventually.”

“Huh,” Peter says idly. Is that why Batman followed him awhile back? “I haven’t seen Batman
around lately.”

“Well, you aren’t a criminal, so that’s not a big surprise,” Tim says, amused. “And rumor is he’s
busy somewhere. Nightwing’s running the show right now.”

“Good choice. Nightwing’s cool,” Peter says. “Hey, where’s Duke?”

“At home,” Tim says. “He’s got the worst of my cold right now.”

“Shouldn’t you be at home, then?” Peter says, eyeing the coffee in his hand warily. His immune
system is worlds beyond what it was before the bite, but he really can’t afford a cold right now.

“Yeah, probably,” Tim says. He reaches for the spot where his coffee normally is on his desk,
pauses, then squints at Peter. “Hey. Can I have my coffee back?”

“No,” Peter says, rolling his eyes. “If you get any more flighty, I’m carrying you back to your
fancy mansion.”

“That’d be one way to get you there,” Tim mutters under his breath.

Peter politely ignores that.

***

Peter drops into Wayne Memorial Plaza, but he keeps to the shadows this time, wary of another
attack from behind. He stalks the shadows of the mournful shopping area, moving silently and
quickly. He avoids the playground, the restaurant, and the years old bloodstains that cover both.
He doesn’t want to get too close to those, not even to get a jump on Red Hood. And that’s what he
plans to do tonight: catch Red Hood off guard. Peter wants to show him that he may have been on
the defensive last night, but that won’t happen tonight. He isn’t the best at hand to hand, but he’s a
quick learner, and he knows better than to just drop into plain sight without scoping out his
surroundings this time. Red Hood had driven that particular lesson home quite handily last night.

It’s raining tonight; one of those steady soaking rains that’s pleasant to listen to when inside with
family, and utterly miserable to be caught outside in. Peter’s suit isn’t quite waterproof, but it keeps
him dry enough, and when he skitters up and under an awning, the rain is no longer a problem.
Bonus: he’s perfectly hidden, snuggled among the shadows out of sight.

Now all he has to do is wait for Red Hood to arrive. He settles in. He can stay still for a long time
if he needs; it helps if he’s upside down, too. He’s not sure why. It just feels natural.

Time passes. The rain eases up. No sign of Red Hood. Where the hell is he? Is this one of his
tests? Or is he hurt somewhere? Peter’s seen him swing through Crime Alley every now and then.
He’s in and out within an hour, usually. Maybe he’s hurt--

A young woman in a dark suit with a purple cloak drops down in the center of the plaza. She’s not
trying to be stealthy. She barely even gives her surroundings a second look, perfectly at ease. Peter
tilts his head, and prepares to swing out of the shadows--

Someone grabs his shoulder from the darkness, right behind him.

His reaction is a startled shriek, flail, and then a wholly undignified flop onto his back. He finds
himself staring up at the Black Bat, who blends into the darkness absurdly well. And who is also
immune to his spider senses, apparently. Maybe he has gotten too reliant on them.

Black Bat stares down at him with a curious tilt to her head. Spoiler saunters over and kneels down
above him, smirking through her mask. “Hi, new kid.”

Her voice is electronic at the edges, masking her true voice, whatever it may be. It sounds much
cleaner than Peter’s own modulator. Peter stares past her and up at the sky for a moment before
looking at her and then the Black Bat. “Hi. You guys aren’t Red Hood.”

“Nope, we’re way cooler,” Spoiler says. Black Bat offers one gauntleted hand to Peter. “Red’s
busy tonight, so you get to hang out with us.”

“Oh,” Peter says. He takes Black Bat’s offered arm and stands up with her help. “He, uh, didn’t
mention that.”

"He's big on surprises."

"I gathered," Peter says, brushing himself off. “So are you two, apparently.”

“It’s a Bat thing. If it makes you feel better, no one is better at sneaking around than Black Bat.”

“Usually no one can sneak up on me,” Peter says ruefully. “It’s happening more and more often
these days. Not a fan of that.”

“We’re a sneaky bunch,” Spoiler says. “Are you up for a little detective work tonight?”

“Uh, sure,” Peter says.

“Cool. First things first, your gift.”

He tilts his head when Black Bat approaches him and holds out a small box with a post-it note on
top of it with the words ‘A gift for the new guy’ and the Batman symbol drawn beneath in a
flowing, feminine hand. He takes it, looking it over for a moment, before opening it up.

It’s an earpiece. Small, elegantly made, and clearly very powerful. Peter takes it out of the box, and
turns away from Black Bat and Spoiler, examining it closely. Peter’s seen headsets like these
before. He’s built them into his own suit in Tony’s lab. He knows what they should look like and
what they should feel like, even in a universe that hasn’t been invaded by aliens. And he knows it
should only be half as large as it currently is. There should be a seam along the back--Ah. There it
is.

He gently pops off the back half of it and crushes it in his hand before rolling his mask up to put it
into his ear. Spoiler seems amused by his actions. Black Bat merely tilts her head to one side.

A very amused, and slightly exasperated voice greets him. “Hi, Spider-Man. I see you’ve found
your gift. And broken it already.”

“I didn’t break it, I just took off the tracker you tacked onto it,” Peter says calmly, rolling his mask
back down. “I don’t trust you guys enough to have you follow me home, sorry.”

“Fair enough. I’m Oracle. I act as a one woman support network for all of the heroes in Gotham
City. You’ve just been given the green light from Red Hood, which makes you a part of the team.”

Huh. He must’ve impressed Red Hood last night. More than he expected. “I didn’t think he had
that many friends.”

“He likes to pretend he doesn’t,” Spoiler says. She and Black Bat pull out grappling hook guns,
take aim, and launch them into the sky. “Come on, we’ll fill you in on tonight’s job.”

With that, they leap into the sky, swinging back up towards the rooftops of Gotham. Peter is quick
to follow them. To his surprise, they don’t stick to Crime Alley. They move away from it
completely, heading towards the southern end of the island. Mist and fog obscure some of the taller
buildings, and Peter is forced to be much more careful than he usually is while swinging. He
knows Crime Alley’s buildings by heart, but he’s not as familiar with buildings outside of that
district.

“So, what’s the plan for tonight?” Peter asks, swinging between Black Bat and Spoiler.

He isn’t used to swinging with people. On his few team ups with the other Avengers, he’d simply
stick a web to one of his teammate’s boots and hitch a ride. Rhodey, Tony, and Vision all have the
ability to fly, after all. It’s just quicker to hitch a ride from one of them. It takes a few moments, but
he finds his rhythm and swings with them easily. Black Bat gives him an approving look once he
hits his stride.

“We’re checking out a place Nightwing and Robin found during their patrol last night. A lab of
some kind. Some mutant creatures attacked one of our own a little awhile back and hurt him pretty
badly. Nightwing says they came from the lab he found,” Spoiler says.

“The manbats,” Peter says.

“Exactly. Well, not exactly. There’s only one Manbat that exists, and Dr. Langstrom is currently
serving out his prison sentence in Blackgate,” Spoiler says.

“The creatures that attacked Signal weren’t anything we’ve seen before, but most people call them
‘manbats’ anyway. I guess they think of it as a joke. I guess they do kind of look like bats from
afar,” Oracle says, cutting in.

“Right, I heard Signal got hurt. Is he all right?” Peter asks

“He’ll heal, but it’ll take some time,” Oracle says. And god, her voice is familiar. “He heals a little
faster than the rest of us. A benefit of his powers.”

“I thought Batman had a rule about that,” Peter says after a moment, his tone wary and
questioning. “You know. The whole ‘no metas in Gotham’ thing.”

“With Batman, there are exceptions to every rule,” Spoiler remarks. “Otherwise he would’ve run
you out of town a long time ago.”

“Comforting.”

“That rule is mostly meant to keep Justice League members from coming in and ‘fixing’ Gotham,”
Oracle says. “They mean well, but they don't know Gotham, and they aren't capable of handling
things here.”

“Oh,” Peter says. “So, Batman doesn’t hate metas.”

“No, Spider-Man, he doesn’t,” Oracle says, and there’s a touch of sympathy in her voice. “Is that
why you avoided him for so long?”

“Among other reasons, yeah,” Peter mumbles. They move in silence after that, and Peter mulls
over this new information. It doesn't last long; they're covering a lot territory in a short amount of
time.

“We’re here,” Spoiler says. She motions towards a foreboding building set near the southern dock
yards.

The fog hangs heavily over the dark building, adding to the ominous air surrounding it. Its
windows are dark, and it seems to shrug off the paltry light glowing from the street lights below.
Rain runs down its sides in steady streams, and Peter wonders how any of the buildings in Gotham
manage to stay so dingy and depressing under all of this rain. The three of them drop down on top
of the roof. No alarms sound off, and there are no guards that Peter can sense nearby. Though that
doesn’t prove anything, given his recent track record.

“I’ve had an eye on this place all day. No one’s gone in or out,” Oracle says. “But be careful going
inside.”

“Got it,” Spoiler says.

Black Bat pops open the door on the roof in seconds, and heads inside. Spoiler motions for Peter to
follow her, and the three of them duck inside and down the dim stairwell leading into a laboratory.

The lab is strange, dark, and silent. Strange, soot gray machines with odd buttons line the walls and
a part of the floor. There aren’t any monitors in sight, but there is a series of black tanks in the far
corner. Fluorescent lights shine uncertain light across the scene, and Peter’s thankful for his
enhanced sight. Without it, this place would be nothing more than dark shadows and shapeless
machines.

Black Bat and Spoiler split up from him and begin poking around the strange room and stranger
machines. Peter hangs back, looking over the room, and fights back an unsettling wave of deja vu.
A few months ago, he woke up in a room not unlike this one, and that thought sets off a low hum
of unease in the back of his mind. There’s a click in the comm link; Oracle is isolating his channel
from the others.

“Gotham’s been in a state of low grade emergency for the past six months. Between the bat
creatures, the Scarecrow’s new fear gas, the Arkham breakout, and the Justice League calling on
Batman constantly, things have been tense,” Oracle says. “It started with the bat creatures. At first,
it was just one or two, but they started to flock together. Never more than six at a time, which is
good for us. If there were more of them, we wouldn’t be able to hold them off.”

Peter moves away from Black Bat and Spoiler, heading for the dark tanks in the far corner. “What
happens when they show up? I haven’t seen them in Crime Alley.”

“Usually they ignore people. They’re looking for something--or someone--and don’t pay any
attention to people or things that get in their way. Until they attacked Signal, at least,” Oracle says.
“He followed them to a city bus and tried to draw them away from it.”

Peter stills for a moment, then keeps moving. “Why did they attack that bus?”

“Signal thinks they found what they were looking for, whatever it was. The bus was packed with
early morning commuters, so we can’t narrow down who or what they wanted,” Oracle says. “Not
that it matters. He and Red Hood have been hunting the things down ever since they showed up.
We’re pretty sure those three that attacked the bus were the last ones.”

Thank God, Peter thinks. He remembers the bat creature’s eyes focusing on him through the bus’s
windshield all too clearly. They were looking for him. But he wasn’t even here six months ago.
Why would they start looking for him before he got here?

“And none of the people on the bus seemed suspicious?” Peter asks quietly. He stops near one of
the black tanks and idly taps one of the controls. It accomplishes nothing, which isn’t surprising.
Makes him feel better though.

“Not at all,” Oracle says. “Everyone on that bus is painfully normal. Minus the brave kid that ran
out to fight the things with his backpack. Signal’s been singing his praises for awhile.”

Peter perks up at that, smiling beneath his mask. He taps one last button on the black tank,
prepared to give it up for a lost cause. It slides open. A bat creature falls out of the tank and onto
the ground.

Peter leaps back, trense and prepared to fight--and then stops. The creature doesn’t move. It isn’t
breathing. He can’t hear its heart beating. It’s dead. He straightens up and approaches it slowly,
looking it over. This one died awhile ago, judging by the smell, but it hasn’t started to rot. Peter
crouches down to get a better look at it.

Its wings are batlike, but that’s where the comparison to natural life ends. Everything else about
the mutated and misshapen thing is distinctly other in a way that makes Peter’s skin crawl. There
are two beady eyes set in the skull, but no nose, and no ears. Just a row of needle sharp teeth that
match the three massive claws that make up the creature’s hands.

Out of curiosity, he reaches out and touches the creature. It feels soft and slick and wrong, like a
tomato that’s smooth and ripe on the outside, but a rotten black beneath. It isn’t from Earth. He
knows that on an instinctual level. But it also seems familiar somehow, in a way he can’t quite
reckon with his own memories.

“Outrider,” Loki hisses in the back of his mind. Others murmur in agreement or aggravation when
he speaks.

Peter doesn't know what he means. He's never seen one of these before.

There are bits of metal embedded into its skin. Too small to be armor. Something electronic,
maybe. He kneels down to take a closer look, tracing the outline of one beneath his finger.
Definitely electronic, he decides. A transmitter or something like it, though he doesn't see how it
could be turned on or off or even controlled. Maybe this thing is half robot?

"Find anything?" Spoiler asks over his shoulder.

"No, not really," he answers, though the word outrider almost slips out. “Just a dead monster.
You?”

“No,” Spoiler says with a sigh. “But that isn’t surprising. This place is abandoned. Whoever made
these things are long gone, and they weren’t nice enough to leave a forwarding address.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” Peter says. Outrider is still echoing inside his mind. He can’t
understand the significance.

“Probably. Looks like your first detective detail ended in a bust,” Spoiler says. She shrugs.
“Sorry.”

“In this case, I’ll take it. I don’t want to be anywhere close to whatever made this thing,” Peter
says.

“We should clear this place out and send what we find over to Batman to look through,” Oracle
says, half to herself. “Spoiler, Black Bat, can you standby while I get that figured out? I think I can
have Red Robin there in thirty minutes or less.”

Spoiler looks over at Black Bat who nods. “Yeah, Oracle, we can definitely hang out in the murder
lab for a little while.”

“Thanks. Spidey, feel free to hang out. Red Robin would love to meet you,” Oracle says.

“No thanks,” Peter says, heading for the stairs. Normally, he’d skitter up the wall, but he’s not
eager to touch the strange machines covering the wall. “No offense to Red Robin, but I’m not
hanging out here any longer than I need to.”

“That’s fair,” Spoiler says. “Clocking out for the night?”

“More or less.” His exhaustion from this morning never really went away, and it weighs on him
heavier than ever. “I’ll probably do a spot check around the Alley and turn in.”

“Be safe,” Oracle says as he walks out onto the roof. “Call if you need anything. You’re not in this
alone anymore, remember that.”

“Got it,” Peter says. And then he turns off the headset. He knows how easily those are to trace, too.

***

Spoiler watches Spider-Man leave and turns to look at Black Bat. She tilts her head after a moment
and says, “You recognized him.”

Black Bat is silent for a long moment, and then raises her hand and makes a so-so motion.
As always, Spoiler understands her meaning. “You have suspicions.”

Black Bat nods.

“Are you going to share with the class?” Oracle says.

Another pause, and then Black Bat gently shakes her head.

“Guess I’ll just have to wait until Tim finds out, then,” Oracle says. “He may be grounded from
patrol, but he definitely hasn’t been grounded from the Batcave, and he’s taken interest in our new
spider friend.”

Spoiler laughs. “Spider-Man might as well say goodbye to his secret identity, then. How long do
you think it’ll take before Tim figures it out?”

Black Bat considers the question, then makes a few quick signs. She’s much more comfortable
with sign rather than speech, and she, Batman, Oracle, and Spoiler have developed their own
private language. She shares another version with the rest of the Bat crew, but only Batman,
Oracle, and Spoiler know this one.

“A month? Really?” Spoiler says.

“Mm, I could see it. Spider-Man’s crafty, and he doesn’t want us trailing after him yet. He might
even give Tim a run for his money,” Oracle says. She taps a few keys on her keyboard. “All right,
Tim and Duke are on their way with a truck.”

***

Felicia Hardy tucks the blueprints of LexCorp’s latest weapon into the satchel across her shoulder,
somewhat bemused by Lex Luthor’s utter obsession with Superman. The man’s technology is
impressive, and useful for her needs, but the fact that he’s wasted all of his engineers on designing
weapons to fight a single guy is exasperating. At least in her universe Tony Stark eventually used
his technology to better society. She doubts LexCorp will follow in Stark Industries footsteps.
Which makes all of his stuff free for the taking as far as she’s concerned.

She slips out of the twentieth floor window and leaps into the foggy night, shooting off her
grappling hook gun. She starts to swing back towards Gotham’s East End district, careful to avoid
areas where the Bats have been patrolling. She’s run into Nightwing and Red Hood briefly, and
she’s not eager to repeat the experience.

She’s halfway home when the clouds above flash with lightning, illuminating a figure in blue and
red. Spider-Man. She doesn’t know how long he’s been tailing her, but he picks up his pace once
he realizes she can see him. Dammit. She doesn’t need this. Normally she wouldn’t mind a good
chase, but not tonight.

She changes direction, swinging low and into the alleys at the edge of the Bowery. He gives chase,
because of course he does. She tries to lose him in the towering skyscrapers that cover the Bowery,
changing angle, direction, and speed, and can’t quite manage it. It isn’t surprising, but it’s very
aggravating.

She makes a split second decision, swinging between two hulking skyscrapers and above an
usually wide alley. She recalls her grappling hook, aims it, and shoots. It jams, clicks, and shoots
on a delay, the hook wobbling off target.

And suddenly, Felicia is in free fall. The grappling hook fell short, and she doesn’t have enough
time to recall it or aim it or, really, do anything to save herself. She can only fall and watch her
rapidly approaching death. To think, she survived the Decimation only to end up here with Spider-
Man. And here she is, about to splatter across the ground in front of him. She cringes, raising her
arms to shield her face, as if that will do anything more than shatter her arms first--

Something flies past her and bounces onto the ground. A small thing, barely larger than a hockey
puck, with small LEDs blinking across the top of it. It blinks once, twice, and then a wave of blue-
purple light erupts from it, catching the rain drops from the sky and suspending them in mid air.

Felicia hits it hard, but instead of shattering every bone in her body, she merely gets the wind
knocked out of her. It feels like falling into a giant beanbag; the force of her fall is spread out and
away from her, causing the blue field around her to ripple and undulate like water. Felicia gasps for
breath, flopping back into the field. Her hands are trembling and her heart is beating hard enough
that she can hear it echoing inside her ears. That had been close.

“Well, that’s one way to catch a cat burglar,” Spider-Man says. He’s perched on a thin ledge above
her. His hands are shaking too, just a bit. “Good thing I’m good at inventing things and have a
decent throwing arm, huh?”

“You haven’t caught me yet,” Felicia gasps. She tries to sit up. And doesn’t move. The force field
didn’t just break her fall and save her life. It’s a trap. Oh, that son of a---

“I mean, yeah, I kind of have,” Spider-Man says. She can hear the smugness in his tone even
through that ridiculous voice modulator.

Felicia locks eyes with him through his mask, narrows her eyes, and thinks in that special way that
always shifts her luck from bad to good. The bricks beneath Spider-Man’s feet suddenly shift by a
miniscule degree before falling off of the building. Spider-Man flails, scrambles for purchase
against the slick wall of the building, and then falls directly into the dumpster below. He lands
inside with an echoing thunk! loud enough to make her teeth rattle. At the same time, the force
field shrinks and collapses, allowing her to stand on her own two feet easily.

Okay, that had worked too well. What the hell is with Spider-Man’s luck?

“Are you dead? You legally have to tell me if you’re dead,” she says quietly, snatching up the
small hockey puck device and approaching the dumpster. She didn’t mean to hurt him, for god’s
sake. She peers into the dumpster, makes a face at the smell, and reaches down to check Spider-
Man’s pulse. She finds it easily; a strong and steady beat. “Did you just pass out?”

No response. If he’s faking, he’s doing an obscenely admirable job at it. Felicia Hardy bites her lip,
unsure of what to do. She can’t just leave him in a pile of cold garbage after saving her life. That’s
just uncalled for. Plus, she kind of enjoys their little game of cat and mouse. Or cat and spider, in
this case.

And, well, he is her hometown hero. Just in a different universe.

“--check for head wounds--” something hisses nearby.

Felicia startles, looking around the alley. Something stirs in the shadows, but a closer look reveals
nothing more substantial than an empty styrofoam cup rolling across the cracked asphalt. She
shakes her head; she’s been staying out too late this past week and it’s clearly taking its toll.

She reaches into the dumpster and hauls Spider-Man out of it. He groans, leaning back against her
until she can lay him out on the cold ground. She crouches beside him, hesitates, and then sighs.
 “Okay, so, don’t hold this against me,” she mutters, gently rolling up his mask. She stares at
Spider-Man’s face for a moment, frowning in confusion. “Spider-Man is the nerd from history
class? Are you kidding me?”

Spider-Man--Peter Parker--has nothing to say to that. Which is probably for the best. She checks
him for head wounds, gently running her hand through his hair to check for breaks in his skin or a
massive lump indicating a concussion. She finds neither; just that streak of premature white hair
above his right temple. She’d always been fascinated by that during class. Peter melts into her
touch and snuggles into her hand. Which is admittedly cute.

She rolls his mask back over his face and contemplates what to do from here. She can’t just leave
him out here, in the depths of Crime Alley, unconscious. That’s tantamount to murder, and she’s
no murderer. She could find one of the Bats; Nightwing and Red Hood have been showing up in
the Alley more and more often lately. They would help. She could also, theoretically, take him
home with her and try to explain his presence to Selina. That probably won’t go anywhere
productive. Selina is beyond patient with Felicia, but she probably won’t let her drag some idiot
from the Bat crew into her apartment uninvited. Felicia considers her options, weighing the small
device Peter used to save her life in her hands.

Peter stirs, sitting up with a low groan. “Wha’ happen--”

“You fell,” Felicia says, backing away to give him some space. “Are you okay?”

Peter staggers up, and shakes his head slowly. He sighs. “Yeah. Yeah, fine. I’ve fallen much
further than that before.”

That’s a horrifying thought. “Good thing you’re tougher than you look.”

“That’s me. The toughest guy in Gotham City,” Peter mutters, rubbing the back of his head with a
wince. She can recognize his voice now, even with the voice modulator. “So, are you going to
return the blueprints you stole or--”

“Nope. And I’m totally keeping this, too,” Felicia says, holding up his antigrav device. “Thanks
for the souvenir, Spidey!”

“What---hey! I only have one of those--”

Felicia smirks, aims her grappling hook gun above her head and shoots it. She winks at Peter and
launches herself into the Gotham night. She swings back towards Selina’s apartment, half
expecting Peter to follow her, but he doesn’t. She’s disappointed by that, but the guy did give
himself some potential brain damage saving her life. Maybe she should cut him some slack.

She’s definitely paying him a visit during class tomorrow.

Chapter End Notes

The geography behind DC’s universe has been a tiny bit maddening for tracing out a
plot, but the fact that general consensus places Metropolis basically next door to
Gotham amuses me to no end. The Edgy Goth City is next door to Prep Jock City. Can
you imagine being the governor of that state? How drunk are they on any given day?
Aide: Superman threw a guy into the Phantom Zone thirty minutes ago on live TV and
Arkham Asylum just blew up for the third time in two years. Also Amanda Waller is
on the phone.

Governor, popping open a worryingly large bottle of whiskey: Tell her I’m dead.
 Chapter 15
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Peter wakes up with an absolutely killer headache. Actually, he went to bed with it. It just followed
him into the morning, through his morning routine, his subway ride, bus ride, and into school. He
sits at his desk in class, half of it covered by Tim’s frighteningly obsessive notes and theories on
Spider-Man, massaging his temples and trying to force back an oncoming migraine by sheer force
of will.

It’s not really working. A steady frustration is starting to build inside of himself, and he has to
clamp down against it. Hard.

“You okay, Peter?” Duke asks. His voice is a bit froggy, but he’s on the tail end of whatever
sickness Tim is still struggling through himself. The three of them are a sight: Duke with his arm
in a cast half covered in doodles, Tim radiating fever and all but shaking from drinking too much
coffee, and Peter, pale and withdrawn, squinting at everything as if being awake is the worst
mistake he’s made in his life. No wonder everyone in school is avoiding them today. Even Steph is
keeping her distance from them, though she does walk with them between classes.

“Headache,” he murmurs. “Maybe a migraine. We’ll find out if I start seeing static again.”

“A fascinating description for a concussion leading into unconsciousness,” Dr. Strange remarks.

Duke gives him a sympathetic look, then digs into his backpack and hands him a bottle of
ibuprofen. “Take a few of these. They usually stop my migraines cold.”

Peter takes eight. He needs to; anything less, and it just wouldn’t work for him at all. And that’s
probably half of the dose he really needs.

Duke stares at him. “Uh. Maybe don’t take anymore today after that.”

“We’ll see,” Peter says, closing his eyes and leaning back in his chair.

***

His headache does fade after he takes the medicine, much to his own surprise. That’s a lucky
break. Usually he needs something much stronger to chip away at his headaches. He’ll take it.
He’s overdue for some good luck, frankly. By lunch time, the pain is gone, and the simmering
anger from the morning has ebbed away, melting back into the background of tension that’s
followed him since he first came to Gotham.

He piles his tray high with food and sits down with the rest of the Wayne Club. Steph is texting
someone on her phone, Duke is dozing above his own lunch, but looks up and smiles at Peter
when he gets close. Tim is surrounded by books, notebooks, his phone, and--for some reason--a
map of Gotham. Peter sits down next to Tim, frowning at him.

“Uh, hey, Tim,” he says. “What’cha got there?”

“Spider-Man’s movements and patrols since he first came to Gotham,” Tim says, distracted. He
hands Peter one of his notebooks. "He doesn't stick to a particular pattern, and he seems to know
where and when a crime is going to occur. Normally I'd dismiss that with a police radio, but most
of the time he gets there before the police are even called."

“Where are you even finding these extra notebooks?” Peter asks, paging through the notebook
with a small amount of alarm. “I’ve seen your locker. There’s nothing there. And your backpack is
practically empty.”

“Bought them from the school store.”

“Those things are like ten dollars a piece,” Peter says, aghast. There are at least five on the
cafeteria table. Peter would sooner die than spend money like that. Literally; he wouldn’t be able to
feed himself if he did.

“Yeah,” Tim says, blinking up at him. “I need them. This is important.”

Peter shakes his head and starts in on his lunch. Tim shrugs and goes back to whatever it is he’s
working on, and the table eases into a comfortable, companionable silence. Despite the general
noise and ruckus in the cafeteria, Peter feels himself relax; part of it is the food, sure, but a larger
part is the company. Patrol is a little less lonely these days, but he can’t actually call someone like
the Spoiler or the Red Hood his friend. Not yet, at least. Maybe not ever.

The peacefulness lasts for about five minutes before Peter is shaken out of his thoughts by a
sudden arrival at the table.

"Hi," a beautiful girl says to him, appearing beside him seemingly out of nowhere. Her hair is pure
blonde, nearly white, her skin is a deep golden brown, and her green eyes sparkle with intelligent
mirth. "I'm Felicia."

"Uh, I’m sorry?" Peter replies, half panicked, wondering why on earth she's talking to him. A
second later, his brain fully engages and he’s quick to correct himself. "Peter! I’m Peter. Hi."

Felicia raises her eyebrows at him, surprised, but her smile only seems to grow. Peter wants to
crawl under the cafeteria table and die. Forget starvation, freezing to death, Tim’s stalking, or
getting killed while on patrol: he’s going to actually die of embarrassment right here in the middle
of Gotham Prep.

“Jesus, kid, you literally took down a crime syndicate last week. The lady just said hi to you,”
Bucky mutters.

“This is kind of adorable,” Hill says.

“Don’t tease him, he is already nervous,” Wanda adds.

“What are you doing tonight, Peter?” Felicia asks, somehow determined to continue a conversation
with him despite his utter failure at communication. If anything, she seems charmed by it. At the
very least, she’s amused.

Peter blinks at her, confused. “Um, nothing?”

That’s not true. He probably has some kind of Bat training set aside or something. The Bat crew
are very cagey about telling him what they’re up to; it’s almost as if they want him to figure it out
himself, as if they’re leaving little clues out for him to find. For right now, he doesn't have anything
planned.

She takes his hand, snatches Tim’s pen out of his fingers, and uses it to write out an address on
Peter’s palm. “Swing by my place at seven, then.”
“Uh, yeah. Sure,” Peter says dumbly. “Seven.”

“It's a date," Felicia grins at him, then hands the pen back over to Tim. She pauses to look at his
notebooks and hums. “Spider-Man, huh? You know, he was always my favorite back home.”

“Yeah?” Tim asks, quirking a brow at her.

“Yeah. He saved my life once,” Felicia says idly, tapping one of Tim’s notebooks before walking
off.

Peter frowns. He doesn’t remember saving Felicia. And he would. She’s drop dead gorgeous, and
doesn’t seem the type to live in Crime Alley. She doesn’t have the perpetual scowl or pinched,
stressed look of the sort of people who live in that area of town, at least. Or she’s very, very good
at hiding it.

Felicia leaves, winking at him before moving off. Peter stares after her, baffled. When he turns to
face the Wayne Club kids, all of them are smirking at him. With the exception of Steph, who is
beaming at him with both thumbs up.

"What just happened?" he asks.

"You just got a date with one of the most beautiful girls in school," Duke answers. “But, honestly,
it almost looked like a kidnapping.”

"Congrats," Tim adds. "You're the only person she's shown interest in since she started going here."

That makes absolutely zero sense. What on earth could she possibly see in him? The only girl that's
given him a second look is Steph, and she doesn’t even eat lunch with them half the time.

“We’re going to have to work on your game, kid,” Sam says.

"Also Edison Bright has a total crush on her," Steph says helpfully.

Great. Just what he needs. Peter glances over at Edison Bright’s table. The teen is scowling at him,
fists clenched, practically scarlet with fury. Peter sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose, and deeply
considers faking his own death and fleeing Gotham entirely. Why is his life like this?

“Wonderful,” Peter mutters.

Tim absently pats his shoulder comfortingly.

***

The rest of the day passes by quickly. Peter hauls himself into the fire house and idly tosses his
backpack over in the vague direction of his bed. And then he begins to pace, first along the floor,
then along the wall and ceiling.

A date. Right. Okay. He can totally do this. Except the last time he went on a date, he ended up
getting her dad arrested and sentenced to life in prison. So that’s not a great track record.

“You did what,” Bucky says.

He’s caught somewhere between nervous excitement and vague panic. The first thing he does is
check his savings. He has around twenty dollars he can spare for the date; they’re not exactly going
to eat like royalty during this, apparently. He can’t even afford two tickets to a movie with that
much. He crouches on the wall, thinking.
There’s Gotham Park over in Old Gotham, where Tim and Duke had taken him after their pizza
party. He knows there’s an observatory there, a concert hall, and a skating rink. Maybe she’d like
to go skating? The tickets won’t be too expensive, and he’d have left over for hot chocolate at the
nearby cafe afterward. That wouldn’t be bad, would it? Not thrilling, but not terrible.

“That sounds perfect,” Shuri says. “She’ll like that.”

“Don’t forget flowers,” Bucky adds.

“Dude, no one does that anymore,” Sam says.

“Nobody has class anymore, you mean," Bucky retorts.

“Which of us has successfully dated in the 21st century again?” Sam asks.

Peter paces, half listening to some far away conversation. There’s a flower shop on the way. May
always went on and on about Ben bringing her flowers on their first date. And she’s the smartest
person he’s ever met. So really, the decision is already made. Hopefully it doesn’t make him look
like a massive dork.

Although, frankly, if Felicia thinks he’s cool then someone needs to stage an intervention for her.
Nobody even thinks Spider-Man is cool, and he’s the best part of Peter. Peter on his own just
oozes geek aura.

“Gross,” Quill says.

Well, decision made. He showers and gets dressed. Jeans, a faded band t-shirt he picked up from
the thrift store--it looked vaguely like something Tony had worn around him at some point--a
sports coat from the same thrift store run, and the sunglasses the man on the subway had given him
a few weeks ago. Peter’s not sure a migraine will hit tonight, but he’s not taking the chance. He
runs a hand through his hair, frowns at the length, and sighs. He checks to make sure the mice in
the firehouse haven't chewed holes through his clothes, and starts for the door.

“Looking good, Mr. Stark,” Fury says.

Peter pauses, then turns to face the cracked mirror leaning against the wall. He does look like
Tony. Or, at least, like a very pale imitation. The AC/DC shirt, the sport coat, the sunglasses and
jeans, all of it is exactly what Tony would pull out of his own closet when he needs to make a
public appearance somewhere. Peter can practically hear Tony preening over Peter’s accidental
mimicry of his style. Right alongside that is Rhodey’s teasing. He smiles a little in spite of himself,
and then leaves for the subway.

***

Felicia lives in Old Gotham, at an apartment complex in one of the nicer, quiet parts of the city.
The kind of apartment that caters to middle to upper middle class workers; doctors, lawyers, high
level office workers. The 'working class' rich, basically. That surprises him a little; it isn't precisely
normal for the type of kids who go to Gotham Prep. Although he's living in an abandoned fire
station in the middle of Murderville, Gotham City, so maybe he shouldn't be so quick to judge.

He finds a little flower shop near the subway and picks out a simple bouquet of lilies, roses, and
orchids. They're not in the best of health, but they smell nice and look fairly pretty.

Felicia's apartment is located inside an older gothic style building, well maintained, and clean.
Peter jogs up the stairs to the top floor, finds the right door, and then hesitates.
"Take a deep breath and relax, Peter," Shuri says, amused.

That's a tall order. Peter takes in a deep breath and gently knocks on the door. It opens
immediately, revealing a tall, beautiful woman with short black hair and brown skin dressed
casually. A black cat winds around her ankles, purring loudly.

“Uh, hi,” Peter says, nervously sticking his free hand into the pocket of his sport coat. “I’m here to
see Felicia?”

She looks him up and down for a moment, makes a quiet hm sound, and then steps aside,
motioning for him to enter. The apartment is warm, fashionably decorated, and playing host to at
least three cats. Peter steps inside, but stays close to the door, wary of becoming too comfortable.

"Felicia, your date is here," the woman calls out. She turns to Peter and offers him one elegant
hand. "I'm Selina."

"Peter. It's nice to meet you," Peter says politely.

She smiles slightly. "And you, Peter."

Peter can’t really tell what Selina thinks of him. She’s too composed, too careful with her body
language and expressions. So long as she doesn’t pull a gun on him during their one-on-one time,
it’ll be a massive improvement over his last date, at least.

Felicia strolls into the living room, running one hand through her platinum hair as she walks
towards him. She’s dressed casually, like him, and smiles when she sees him. When she sees the
flowers, that smile grows.

“Oh, a traditionalist,” she says, taking the bouquet from him. She sounds touched, if a little taken
off guard. Maybe the flowers had been too much. “Hang on, let me go put these in my room.”

She admires the flowers for a moment, then leaves again. Selina tilts her head, considering him.
“You’re one of Wayne’s kids, aren’t you?”

“I’m, uh, in the Wayne scholarship program,” Peter says. “So, yeah, kinda. Tim and Duke kind of
made it sound like that.”

Selina hums and nods, seemingly in approval. “You haven’t met Bruce then.”

“Ah, no. Not yet. Frankly, I’m trying to stay out of his notice.”

That makes her pause. Selina watches him for a moment, then smirks, reaching out to pat his
shoulder. “Good luck with that, Peter.”

Felicia comes back out, grabbing her purse and a leather jacket draped across the back of a dining
table. “All right, I’m all set.”

“Call if you need me,” Selina says, squeezing Peter’s shoulder briefly before releasing him. She
aims a look his way, raising one elegant brow. “And don’t stay out too late. It is a school night.”

Felicia rolls her eyes, but smirks. “Noted.”

Felicia takes his arm and leads him out of the apartment with one last wave to Selina. Peter
dutifully follows her out into the hall and down the stairs, jogging ahead a bit to get the door for
her.
“Your mom is--”

“Not my mom,” Felicia says casually. “More of a guardian.”

“Oh. She seems nice,” Peter says, holding the door open for her. And mentally cringing at his
social faux pas. He’s been on the receiving end of the same kind of comments for most of his life.
He should know better.

“She likes taking in strays,” Felicia says after a moment. “So, where are we headed?”

“I was thinking the park would be nice? It’s not raining for once, and it’s actually kind of nice out,
and, uh, it’s just a quick bus ride there from here so...” He trails off, suddenly out of words.

Felicia grins. “Sounds perfect.”

The bus stop is nicer than the ones Peter sees out in Crime Alley. There’s a little shelter, a bench,
and a digital map marking off wait times, weather, and news updates. Not that Peter has much time
to appreciate the differences. The bus rolls up to the stop within seconds of them reaching the stop.

He’s surprised to find Lou sitting behind the wheel of the bus. The big man grins at him.

“Hey, Peter. Thought you’d be at your, uh, part time job around this time,” he says.

“I’m stealing him for myself,” Felicia says. “Gotham can survive without him for one night.”

Lou raises his eyebrows, then smirks. “That it can, miss.”

He grins at Peter and gives him a thumbs up and then pulls the doors closed. Peter gives him a
weak, nervous grin back.

***

The bus ride is mercifully quick; within minutes, they’re at the park. It’s still early in the evening,
early enough that the temperature hasn’t dropped much, the outdoor cafe is pulling in brisk
business, and the chess and checker tables are crowded with people, and the ice skating rink is
similarly busy. He’s a little surprised by that. Gotham is a crime ridden hell hole by almost every
statistical measure, but people still go out at night. It’s impressive.

“So, uh, what would you like to do?” Peter asks, looking around the park.

“Ice skating,” Felicia says, smirking up at him. “You up for it?”

“Sure, that sounds like fun,” he says, walking over towards the ice skating rink with her. “I’m
surprised it’s even open. It’s not really cold enough for anything to freeze over like that.”

“They’re using Mr. Freeze’s technology,” Felicia says. “It’s frozen solid even in summer.”

Peter has no idea who that is. He doesn’t have a chance to ask, however, as they’re suddenly at the
rental kiosk. A tired man standing behind a register looks up at them and plops down two pairs of
ice skates on the counter alongside keys to the shoe lockers lining a nearby wall.

“Ten bucks for an hour,” he says.

Peter inwardly cringes at the amount, but hands over his twenty regardless. Good thing he gets
paid tomorrow. They take their skates, change into them and lock up their shoes. Peter wobbles
unsteadily on his feet for a moment before catching his balance.
Felicia notices that and grins. “Have you gone skating before?”

“No. But I should be pretty good at it,” he says. He should, right? His balance is perfect, after all.
He can orient himself while backflipping from a ceiling to a wall. That should carry over to
something as simple as ice skating. He’s Spider-Man, after all.

It doesn’t.

He barely makes it a foot out onto the ice before flailing, but he manages to keep from falling. He’s
certainly not graceful about his movements. Unlike Felicia, who skims across the ice flawlessly,
idly circling him and giving him gentle pointers and tips as he moves. He does try to listen, but
he’s fallen flat on his back within five minutes of hitting the ice, and stares up at the cloudy sky
above. Maybe if he’s lucky, Thor will strike him down here and now.

“If the goal is to frighten the girl away by sheer incompetence, then you are doing an amazing
job,” Loki says.

Felicia leans over him, braces her elbow against her knee and her chin in her palm and regards him
with a slight smirk. She balances on her ice skates perfectly, and Peter is envious of her grace. And
more than a little appreciative of it.

“Okay, so I might not be good at this,” he admits.

“I might have noticed,” Felicia says dryly, holding her hands out for him. “You should have asked
for help.”

“Would you believe me if I told you that I’m not very good at that?” he asks, sitting up. He takes
her hands and stands back up on his skates. She manages to pull him up easily, and he’s surprised
by her strength.

“Oh, absolutely,” she says, steadying him when he’s back on his feet. She takes hold of his hand
and tugs him along after her, moving slowly.

Peter shakily skates after her, focusing on his balance. He will get the hang of this--

Felicia lets go of his hands and skates ahead of him. She twirls, turns to face him, skating
backwards. She reaches out and takes both of his hands, gently tugging him forward.

“You’re overthinking this way too much,” Felicia says. “Loosen up! Stop trying to control the
blades and move with them. You can't control everything."

“Watch me,” Peter says.

But he also listens to her. He’s trying to stick the blades to the ground the way he sticks to the
ground on his own two feet. It’s a subconscious habit, and one he often forgets about. Usually that
isn’t an issue. Unless he happens to be ice skating, that is.

Felicia keeps hold of his hands until he starts to move on his own, matching her movements a little
stiffly. She gives him an encouraging grin and gently knocks his shoulder with her own when he
starts to get the hang of it. Peter is nothing if not a quick study, after all.

By the end of the hour, they’re skating beside each other, hand in hand.

***
After they finish skating, they start to wander around the park, walking along one of the wide
cement trails crossing the park. The sun has set by now, the air has become a bit colder, but the
park is well lit and still full of people.

All in all, Peter thinks this isn’t a bad date. He’s definitely had worse, at least. There’s no special
spark between them exactly--not that he’s sure there should be one after a single date--but it’s nice.
Calming. And Felicia is clever and strong, and full of gentle teasing, and Peter would be lying if he
said he didn’t like that.

Felicia walks alongside him in silence for a few minutes. She looks at him from the corner of her
eye. “So, where were you during the Battle of New York?”

“At home with my aunt,” he replies. It’s an automatic thing; everyone knows where they were
when aliens invaded New York and the Avengers came to save them. It’s the standard New York
icebreaker when you’re well and truly out of topics to discuss with someone. It’s not something
you’d ask a person on the street, but it might be something you’d bring up with someone you knew
well. “My uncle was a firefighter, so--”

He stops mid sentence and turns to face her, standing in the middle of the walking path. He blinks
at her.

“Yeah, I started to wonder if you were from back home during history class a couple of months
ago,” Felicia says. She takes his hand in hers and tugs him along. “Come on, you’re blocking
traffic.”

Peter stumbles along with her, staring at her incredulously. She's from his New York. He has to
fight off the sudden urge to cling to her the way a drowning man would to a life saver thrown out to
sea.

“How do you--” he starts.

“I was at my dad’s apartment when the first aliens zipped by our window. The Hulk used my jerk
neighbor’s car as a battering ram on live TV. I’ve never seen him so mad before. It was great,”
Felicia says. “Hulk was my favorite after that. And the Black Widow, of course.”

Peter walks alongside her, baffled and excited and worried. “Felicia, if you’re from my universe,
how did you get here?”

“Dunno. Everyone started falling apart and then this weird flash of gold hit me. I think I fell
asleep? I had a dream that some guy in a red cloak talked to me. He apologized, said I was needed
in a different part of the multiverse, that there was some kind exchange happening, promised me I'd
go home eventually, and then he disappeared. I woke up in the middle of a street here. You?”

Peter thinks of the green tank. “Were you getting all dusty when the flash hit?”

“Nope, I just had to dive out of a cab before it crashed into someone. The cabbie disappeared in the
middle of changing lanes,” Felica says, and then she pauses. “Did you ‘get all dusty’?”

“Yes,” Peter answers.

“Oh,” Felicia says. She pauses for a beat. “Did it hurt?”

“Yes,” he says again, softer this time.

She frowns. “I’m sorry.”

Peter doesn’t have a response to her pity. He should have something to say to it; he’s heard it
plenty of times in his life, after all. Instead, he simply walks with her. A part of him is in shock, and
a larger part is beyond grateful that she’s here. There are so many questions he wants to ask her
that he doesn’t know where to start.

“So, how did you--I mean, you must’ve woken up in the middle of nowhere, right?” Peter asks.

“Kind of. I was on my own for a week before I got desperate and hungry. I ended up breaking into
the first apartment I found to get some food. I was starving, and desperate. It was like breaking into
Fort Knox. I love a good challenge, though, so I kept at it. Even forgot I was hungry for awhile
there. Of course, it wasn’t as empty as I thought it was.”

“It was Selina’s apartment?”

“Yeah. Luckily, she was impressed enough to take me in, which has worked out for me pretty
well,” Felicia says. She tilts her head and regards him quietly for a moment. “You don’t have a
Selina, do you.”

It isn’t really a question. He rubs the back of his head. “I’m kind of doing things on my own at the
moment.”

“That’s stupid,” Felicia says.

He frowns. “It’s easier.”

She tilts her head. “Judging by how tightly you’re holding my hand, I don’t think you believe that.”

He drops her hand as if he’s been scalded and sticks his hands in his sport coat. Felicia sighs, then
threads an arm through his. He doesn’t shake her off, but he does sulk.

“Listen, it’s probably not my business--”

“It isn’t.”

“---but you can’t survive Gotham on your own,” Felicia says, pointedly ignoring his interruption.
“It’s--this isn’t Queens. This isn’t New York. Iron Man won't come out of the clear blue sky to save
you. Gotham is a completely different ball game.”

There's something pointed about the way she says that last part. "I'm not exactly swimming in
options."

"Yes, you are," Felicia says. "Tim and Duke would take you in tonight if you asked them. And you
know it."

"I can't get them mixed up in all this," Peter says.

"That's an excuse and you know it."

"I like her," Shuri says.

"Felicia--"

"Spider-Man might have been able to handle most things in New York by himself, but he still had
the Avengers as back up,” Felicia says, stopping to face him fully. “Spider-Man doesn’t have that
here.”
“What are you talking about?” he asks, frowning at her.

Felicia sighs. “Nevermind. Come on, let’s go.”

She leads him further down the path. A slightly awkward silence falls between them. Peter covers
her hand with his as they walk. She squeezes his arm in response, clearly trying to decide on what
to say next.

After a few moments, Felicia glances at him from the corner of her eye. “You know, I always
thought Spider-Man would be taller in person. And quicker to pick up on hints.”

“She knows,” Bucky says flatly. “Quit playing dumb.”

Peter pauses, then facepalms. “How do you know I’m Spider-Man?”

“You fell into a dumpster while chasing me and knocked yourself unconscious. I peeked under
your mask.”

Ah. The cat burglar. He stares at her for a long moment, flashing back to her conversation with him
at lunch, and the night before. “Your first impression of me is finding me unconscious in a
dumpster and you still wanted to ask me out?”

“Mostly as a pretense to have this conversation, but yes. You’re kind of cute in a dorky way.”

“Great. You’re really helping out my ego here. Also you’re a thief and I want that antigrav puck
back, thanks.”

Felicia smirks, bumping his shoulder with hers. “Yeah, that’s not happening. Finders, keepers.”

“You stole it--”

“Found it,” she corrects.

“Stole it off of my unconscious body,” Peter finishes, ignoring the correction completely. “Why do
you need it?”

“It’s useful for leaping off of buildings and landing quietly,” Felicia says. “I’ve broken into three
different labs with it so far. Doesn’t keep a very good charge though. Let me know if you ever
design a better one. I could use it.”

Peter huffs. His date is a cat burglar that robbed him blind while he was unconscious. This is
unbelievable.

“Yeah, about that. What’s this weird obsession with breaking into labs? I’ve chased you out of at
least ten in the past three weeks.”

Felicia stops them at the end of the path. The path opens up to the outdoor cafe and chess board
area. Firepits and string lights dot the area, keeping it relatively warm and well lit in the gathering
dark.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m trying to find a way home,” she says after a moment. “There’s no
Tony Stark in this universe, no Wakanda University of Science doctors, no alien tech for us to steal
and build a portal back home. But since you’re here, that means there’s a chance--”

“Me?” he asks, thoroughly confused.

“Yes, you,” Felicia says. “You were Tony Stark’s, like, pet genius or something--”

“Wow, okay, that’s completely wrong--”

“--and you build things like the antigrav puck out of pure junk. If I find you the right tools, the right
designs, you could build us a way to get back home.”

Peter stares at her. He’s been trying to do that, of course; he still has those notebooks stashed away
inside his room at the fire station, but he’s been working on it less and less lately. “What?”

“After I got here, I thought I’d never see my dad again. I gave up. Barely ate, barely slept, just laid
in my room for days on end. Selina was starting to worry about me,” Felicia says. “But then I
started hearing about Spider-Man. At first I thought you were just an alternate universe version of
yourself, but no, it was you. My Spider-Man.”

Peter frowns, tilting his head.

“Sure, we’re kind of on opposite sides of the law, but I always liked you. You always helped out
the people who needed it the most. And right now, we’re in the same boat,” she says. “Iron Man’s
Spider-Man. Everyone knows he wouldn’t give you the time of day if you weren’t at least as smart
as him. If anyone can get us back, it’ll be you.”

Peter stares at her, then looks past her at the cafe kiosk. His mind is a whirlwind; clashing
emotions--shock, confusion, relief, and disbelief--shake him to his core. He’s speechless for the
moment, trying to sort through it all.

“Don’t you want to go back?” Felicia asks after a moment, frowning at him.

He pauses, and gives voice to the fear that’s haunted him since he first appeared in that strange
machine. “What if there’s nothing to go back to?”

Felicia stares at him.

“We lost,” he says. Admitting it hurts worse than he expected, and while he feels strangely
detached from their conversation, he’s surprised by the hollowness of his own voice. “We lost bad.
Worse than you can imagine. Whatever hit us on Titan must have hit Earth too, if you started
seeing people disappear. You might have been lucky getting thrown into this universe.”

“You don’t believe that,” Felicia says after a long moment.

No, he doesn’t. Not yet. But the seed is there.

Felicia sighs, gently taking her hand off of his arm. She gives him a closer look, then leans up and
kisses his cheek. It’s feather light, and surprisingly tender. He leans into it for a moment, then
remembers himself and clears his throat, leaning back away. Peter hasn’t exactly been swimming
in physical affection since arriving at Gotham. He shouldn’t embarrass himself in front of her.
Worse than he already has, at least.

“It’s getting late,” she says. “I’ll see you at school tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” he says, automatically. “Sure. See you at school.”

Felicia gives him one last thoughtful look before walking towards the bus stop at the edge of the
park. Peter watches her, lost in his own thoughts.
 Well. At least he’s not alone in this universe anymore.

Chapter End Notes

I want you all to know that I’ve entered some kind of crazy investigator mode while
plotting out this fic. There are three separate main plots and a baker’s dozen subplots
I’m keeping track of. You’ll see the other plots eventually, but interweaving
everything is going to take some time, unfortunately.

Also, I can neither confirm nor deny some theories, but some of y'all are spot on with a
few things!
 Chapter 16
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

BATCHAT

Dick (06:03am): I’m calling it. Spider-Man was a no show tonight.

Barbara (06:04am): He probably forgot to turn on his headset. Or deliberately avoided it. We can
still track him through the cell towers in the city if it’s on and he knows that.

Barbara (06:05am): And we’ve already seen how paranoid he is about being tracked. Avoiding
Batman and then destroying the tracker Bruce put on his headset.

Jason (06:07am): He’s not going to trust easily. He’s from Crime Alley.

Dick (06:08am): I’ll try to find him tonight.

Barbara (06:09am): Afraid not. Bruce is going to pay him a visit tonight.

Barbara (06:10am): You missed your shot this week, Dick.

Dick (06:12am): I thought Bruce was out of town?

Barbara (06:13am): He’s back. Dad called him for help. Something big is happening in the
underworld.

Tim (06:14am): which means he still can't make it for parent-teacher night, probably.

Barbara (06:15am): Afraid not, Tim.

***

The morning starts cold, dreary, and carries with it the first true winter wind of the season. Peter
wakes up cold, takes a freezing cold shower, and doesn’t warm up fully until he reaches school. He
stuffs bunched up plastic grocery bags into his pockets for the extra insulation, and is mildly
surprised by how well it works. Gotham Prep uniforms are ‘all season’ clothes which means they
aren’t particularly comfortable in any given season; too drafty in winter, and too stuffy in summer.

Peter drops his books onto his desk and plants himself in his chair with a heavy sigh. Tim waves at
him, but doesn't look up from his research; he's laser focused on his current project. Duke smiles at
Peter.

“Hey, Peter. How’d the date go?” Duke asks.

Peter pauses for a moment. Finally, he says, “Technically, it’s not the worst date I’ve ever had.”

Duke winces. “Ouch. That bad?”

“Yeah, kinda. Felicia’s nice, but...” Peter trails off, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s, uh,
complicated.”
“How did you manage to form a complicated relationship with someone over the course of one
date?” Tim asks, looking up from his research. There’s no bite to his words, just genuine curiosity.

“Talent,” Peter replies with a helpless shrug. “I’m not exactly the best when it comes to dating. Or
talking.” He pauses for a moment. “Or people.”

“Too bad,” Duke says. “Steph thought you guys were cute together.”

“What?”

“She was at the park with Cass last night,” Tim says. “She said she saw you two walking together.”

“Huh,” Peter says. “I didn’t see her.”

The first bell sounds off. The teacher, half asleep up until that moment, startles awake and starts to
speak as if he had been awake the entire time.

“Don’t forget, guys, we have a half day on Friday,” the teacher says. An older gentleman, with a
thick Louisiana drawl, it takes Peter a moment to fully understand him. “We’ve got the dreaded
parent-teacher conferences that night. Mr. Parker, I still don’t have an appointment with Mr.
Stark.”

Crap. “Ah, yeah, sorry. I’ll remind him tonight.”

Which should be interesting, since Tony Stark isn’t even in this universe. Fortunately, he still has
three days to come up with something. Whatever that ends up being.

***

BATCHAT

Tim (09:21am): so what are you doing on Friday night, Dick

Dick (09:22am): Tim, it is day time, I am trying to sleep.

Tim (09:23am): and I'll let you sleep when I get the answer I want

Tim (09:24am): hey, unrelated to anything, does anyone want to see Dick’s disco and mullet
phase? I found this absolute treasure trove of pics

Barbara (09:25am): I do

Steph (09:25am): yes, absolutely

Duke (09:25am): lmao his what?

Jason (09:25am): Send it right now and someone give me Bruce’s credit card. There’s a billboard
for rent in Crime Alley that needs a new star.

Tim (09:26am): your move, Grayson

Dick (09:26am): God, FINE, I’ll come to your parent-teacher conference, Tim. But only if you
promise to destroy those pictures.

Tim (09:27am): it's been a pleasure doing business with you.

Dick (09:27am): I hate all of you.

***

School is school, and lunch is still undeniably the best part of it. Peter sits down across from Duke
and nods to his cast.

“How much longer do you have to wear that thing?” he asks, pulling out his pen. He starts to add
yet another series of doodles to the cast. An arc reactor, Falcon’s wings, Dr. Strange’s cloak friend.

Duke shrugs, clearly amused by Peter’s doodles. He shifts his arm closer so Peter can reach it
easier. “It’s healing better than the doctor expected. Two more weeks, and then I get to do physical
therapy for a couple of months afterward.”

“You’ll lose your favorite canvas in a couple of weeks,” Tim remarks. His voice is finally losing
that gravelly tone that comes with a bad cold, and the bags under his eyes seem lighter than usual.

“I’ll start over in your overpriced notebooks then,” Peter replies.

Tim narrows his eyes at Peter. “Touch my notebooks and we’re going to fight, Parker.”

Peter smirks. “I’m definitely gonna win that fight.”

Tim quirks a brow at him. “Oh, are you?”

“You eat kale chips and tiny cucumber sandwiches, Tim. Rule of Cool means I’ve already won,”
Peter declares, capping off his doodling and turning to his lunch.

“He’s got you there,” Duke says helpfully. When Tim narrows his eyes at him, Duke only grins.

Gentle, feminine laughter nearby grabs Peter’s attention. He turns and finds Steph and Felicia
chatting together like old friends, walking towards their table with their own trays. Steph sits down
next to Tim, lightly bumping him with her hip to get him to scoot over. Felicia sits beside Duke,
facing Peter. She gives him a quick wink.

And suddenly he’s very worried. She knows who he is. She could tell the entire school, or the city-
--

“And who would believe her?” Fury asks.

That---is an amazing point, actually.

Duke blinks up from his lunch, frowning at some point behind Peter.

She nudges him with her foot under the table. “Hey, you. I had fun last night. We should do that
again sometime.”

Peter stares at her blankly until Tim gently nudges him with an elbow and breaks him free of the
shocked expression that’s clearly on his face. “Oh, uh. Yeah! Of course.”

She smiles at him sweetly, winks, and then turns to talk to Stephanie, leaning across the table.
Steph grins at Peter briefly.

Tim leans in and murmurs, “Guess it’s not as complicated as you thought.”

Except it kind of is. Felicia’s more interested in going home than going on any kind of a date. Not
that he blames her, of course; if he hadn’t seen the Guardians turn to dust, he’d be feral over the
idea of getting back home to May. He started out that way when he first got to Gotham, but he’s
less eager now.

Peter shrugs back at Tim. And tears his uniform blazer at the shoulder seam. Great. “Aw, crap.”

"You should talk to Tony about that," Felicia says idly, and much to Peter’s absolute horror. This is
somehow worse than having her blurt out his secret identity to the world. "He can afford to buy you
a new one. Or a thousand."

Peter sighs. "Yeah, well, he's out of town. I’ll handle it myself after school today."

"Oh? Where’d he go? Usually I hear about that sort of thing," Felicia asks, perfectly innocent. He’s
tempted to throw a pen at her. Sure, she’d dodge it and probably fling it right back at his face, but
still. The temptation is there.

"Yeah. Business trip." Why is she doing this to him?

"But he has a phone," Felicia continues.

"And I don't."

"Your dad skipped town for a fancy business trip and didn't bother giving you a phone?" Steph
asks, tilting her head.

"He doesn’t know it’s broken or he would’ve flown back and thrown one at me,” Peter says
irritably, and then he leans in to whisper to Felicia, too low for anyone else to hear, “Why are you
the way that you are?”

"I can’t get home if you’re starving to death on the streets. Learn to ask for help," she whispers
back.

He'd sooner learn to walk on water. And only partly out of pigheaded spite.

Tim, Duke, and Steph all share one of those looks they often do when they’re together, as if they’re
having some kind of silent, telepathic conversation with one another. Peter starts to respond, but is
saved, quite literally, by the bell. He sighs, grabs his tray and leaves the table completely, annoyed.

***

BATCHAT

Duke (12:31pm): that was weird

Tim (12:31pm): very.

Steph (12:32pm): is Peter okay? I feel like he just went through a whole spectrum of emotions
near Felicia during lunch

Tim (12:33pm): he’s okay. Back to drawing on Duke’s cast.

Steph (12:33pm): oh, good

Duke (12:34pm): sorry, couldn’t add anything after that message.

Duke (12:35pm): i was talking about his ghosts

Duke (12:36pm): one talked about a ‘crime syndicate’ the other day, and one said, verbatim, ‘and
who would believe her?’

Tim (12:36pm): i keep forgetting our friend is deeply haunted

Steph (12:37pm): are his ghosts evil?

Duke (12:38pm): the only one I can see clearly is Sam and only every now and then

Duke (12:39pm): i know he isn’t evil

Duke (12:40pm): the rest? Dunno

***

Peter is antsy and fidgety for the rest of the day. He needs to figure something out for that damn
parent-teacher conference, and he needs to figure it out now. It’s a requirement for his scholarship,
and he can’t afford to get kicked out of school or lose the stipend that comes with it. Not now. He
considers the problem during the last half of the day, half hearing the teachers, and only
occasionally joking with Tim or Duke.

He could ask Lou to stand in. He might do it. Peter considers going that route and immediately
tosses it out. He doesn’t want to drag anyone into a web of lies of his own design, especially not
someone who would feel obligated to lie on his behalf. That doesn’t feel right. It’s
too...transactional. Peter didn't save Lou's life just to use him as a pawn in some scheme. That's not
his style.

“Unless your style is starving in the streets, I suggest you figure it out,” Loki remarks dryly.

Shut up, he’s thinking.

The final bell rings. Peter packs his things, and all but flees the school.

Maybe a night of patrol will clear things up.

***

BATCHAT

Tim (03:02pm): i think Felicia knows something about Peter

Tim (03:03pm): i’m going to try and talk with her after class

***

Felicia knew it was coming, but she’s still mildly startled when she looks up from her locker and
finds herself the sole focus of Tim Drake, Duke Thomas, and Stephanie Brown. She looks at each
of them for a moment, measuring them the way she measures everyone, then goes back to her
books.

“You know Peter’s dad?” Tim asks.

“Everyone in New York knows Tony Stark,” Felicia replies. “That goes double for anyone in
Queens.”

Tim pauses. “Is he a good man?”

Felicia hesitates. That’s a loaded question. She knows what Peter’s answer would be, of course,
and he might even be right. But Tony Stark is a complicated subject and a controversial one at that,
and he sits at the heart of so many different issues back home that it’s almost ridiculous.

“He is to Peter,” Felicia says finally. “And he’s trying to be better. He is better, if you want a more
objective opinion. Personally, I still think he’s kind of an asshole. No one that self obsessed ever
becomes tolerable, in my experience.”

Well, she’s definitely not being fair in that regard. She doesn’t entirely care. Sure, everyone that
works for his company seems happy, healthy, and glad to be there, but that somehow irks her more.

“Where is he?" Duke asks. "Peter doesn’t talk about him much, and it doesn’t seem like he’s really
around.”

“He really is out of town. Which also isn’t surprising," Felicia says after a moment. She's interested
in dropping hints for now. If she outright tells them Peter is alone, she'll lose him completely. She
doesn't want that; she needs him to find a way home for them both. And she needs that connection
to home that comes from talking with him.

“Peter was quick to defend him earlier,” Tim says.

“Tony is his personal hero.” Felicia pauses, then admits, “He’s a hero to a lot of people, really. I’m
not being fair to him, but I also didn’t grow up with Tony Stark coming to my rescue at a moment’s
notice.”

“You're saying his name like we should know it,” Duke points out.

“Where we’re from, it’d be weird if you didn’t," Felicia says.

“When was the last time Peter saw him?” Tim asks.

“I’m not sure.” Not technically true; she knows Iron Man followed Spider-Man up into that
spaceship in spring back in their universe. She can’t just say ‘probably May’ without opening
herself up to more questions.

Tim seems to realize she’s lying. His eyes narrow slightly.

“So, why isn’t he here?” Duke asks.

Felicia pauses, drums her fingers against the locker door, then shrugs. “I don't know.”

But she suspects. She thinks Tony is dead, or hurt, or ‘dusty’ and that Peter’s isolated himself out
of guilt or shame. That would be so painfully typical of a hero like Spider-Man; all angst, and no
sense. She turns back to her locker, speaking without looking up.

“Just try and be there for him, okay? You guys are friends with him, and I’m worried. He’s not the
Peter I knew back home.”

In more ways than one.

***
Peter swings through the alleys of Crime Alley, trying to cover as much of the district as he can
before the dark clouds hovering in the sky open up in earnest. He can smell the rain in the air, can
feel the air pressure shift, and he knows it’ll start soon. That should chase most of the low level
thieves and muggers off the streets, at least. He idly adjusts the ear piece Black Bat and Spoiler
gave him, contemplating turning it on. He should at least check in with Oracle at some point
tonight.

He spots a dark form standing on a gargoyle far above the playground Peter helped clean up a few
weeks ago. Peter adjusts his swing, changing angles, and leaps over to Batman, sticking to the wall
beside him. The man doesn’t startle, but Peter can see tension in his shoulders; apparently he
hadn’t been expecting Peter to just stick to a wall near his head.

“Hey. This is my brooding spot. Get your own,” Peter says, dropping down on the ledge beside
Batman. He glances around warily. “Where’s Red Hood and Spoiler? Black Bat? Usually someone
in the shadows pops out to scare me when I show up.”

“Busy. You’re working with me tonight,” Batman says simply. He’s watching the park below. His
expression is dour, as always, but his voice isn’t quite as intimidating as usual.

“That’s news to me,” Peter says.

“This is your part of the city,” Batman says, checking a small computer screen built into his
gauntlet. Peter thinks the guy desperately needs some holo projectors; it can’t be safe having that
much glass near major arteries in the wrist. “And I need your help. People may die if I don’t have
it.”

Of course, he’s thinking this with heavy glass goggles shaped into his iconic teardrops over his
own eyes, but whatever. His eyes will grow back if something happens. Peter tilts his head. “Well,
if you put it that way, how can a guy say no? What’s going on?”

Batman turns to look at him. “What do you know about Black Mask?”

“Not much,” Peter admits. “Red Hood said he’s out of my league and to avoid him. He’s said that
about most of the big names in Gotham, really.”

Which is advice he's been pretty good at following. Frankly, the last thing he needs is a Scorpion
situation in Gotham. That’s more heat than he can afford to handle at the moment, and he’d rather
not deal with it when he’s got his hands full trying to survive and also figure out a way back home.

“Unfortunately, you’ve been sending most Black Mask’s foot soldiers to jail during your regular
patrols. He’s sending his heavy hitters into the neighborhood to set up shop in the warehouse
district of Spider Alley. Possibly a drug operation, judging by information Oracle has found.”

Peter’s a little amused and oddly touched that Batman’s calling Crime Alley by that name. It feels
significant somehow. “Any idea what they’re making?”

“That’s what we’re going to find out,” Batman says, pulling out his grappling hook. “Turn on your
earpiece. Let’s go.”

Despite his size, Batman swings through the air just as easily as Peter. Peter is quick to follow,
hastily flicking on his earpiece as he moves.

Guess he’s working with Batman tonight.

***
It doesn’t take them long to find the warehouse in question. It’s the only one surrounded by men in
masks armed with rifles, after all. The men in question are taking turns either guarding the
perimeter or unloading barrels of some unknown chemical into the warehouse. Several box trucks
back into loading docks or park within the guard’s perimeter. The sun has disappeared by now;
swallowed by rain and the night, and thunder echoes distantly.

Batman and Peter drop onto the roof of an office building just north of the warehouse district, high
enough for a good view of the warehouse and far enough that the men below won’t notice them. A
stake out ensues, with Batman and Peter switching off between watches and Oracle filling them in
on other things happening in the city. Peter, full of nervous energy and more than a little bored
when he’s not on watch, attempts to balance himself on two fingers the way Nightwing did so long
ago.

He fails. After the third time he falls on his back, he sighs.

“Make your left arm parallel to the ground,” Batman says, his eyes never leaving the men below.
“Hold it like that until you find your balance.”

Peter tilts his head, shrugs, then gives it one more try. He manages it, barely, for a few seconds,
then pushes himself back onto his feet. “Huh. Did you teach Nightwing that?”

“No, he learned that on his own.”

“Oh,” Peter says, leaping up onto the stone gargoyle next to Batman. He settles into his normal
crouch. “Nightwing’s cool.”

The slightest smile forms beneath Batman’s mask. “He is.”

Peter watches the men below for a moment. He doesn’t need binoculars at this distance; his
eyesight is sharp enough to make out details, even in the rain and dark. “Why do they keep
switching places like that?”

“To keep the guards sharp and mentally stimulated,” Batman says. “Most people can only maintain
the kind of awareness necessary for a security detail for so long. The cut off point is two hours.
The guards switch places with the men unloading the trucks to keep from getting bored.”

“He’s right,” Bucky says.

“Makes sense,” Peter says. A thought occurs to him. “Hey. You make me switch off every twenty
minutes.”

“Some people have varying degrees of focus,” Batman says politely, and after a significant pause.

Oracle snickers in his headset. Peter huffs. “How long are we going to watch?”

“Until they finish unloading the trucks. This looks like their main supply. If we can take it out of
their hands, it’ll set them back by months. Longer, if we’re lucky.”

“And it’ll give us a chance to see exactly what it is,” Oracle adds. “We still aren’t entirely sure.
The rumors we’ve heard don’t make any sense.”

“Good idea,” Peter says, half to himself. He would have swung in and knocked out the whole crew
within seconds of arriving. Which would have given the remaining trucks time to scatter to the
four winds before he could catch them. Tony always did hint that he needed to slow down, to
consider the big picture. Peter hadn’t paid much attention to him at the time, but...
Well, maybe he was right.

***

Hours pass. Evening ticks over into night. Trucks are still arriving and being unloaded below. The
rain shows no sign of stopping. It’s Batman’s turn on watch. He’s kneeling on top of one of three
stone gargoyles jutting out from the corner of the roof ledge, as still as the stone lion beneath him.
He has a small pair of binoculars held to his eyes.

Peter crouches on top of his own gargoyle--a screeching gryphon--to Batman’s right and goes still.
He keeps perfect balance on the gargoyle, despite shivering from the rain. Why is Gotham so
rainy? He’s never seen so much rain in his life; it’s like the planet is trying to drag the whole city
back into the ocean. Peter’s gotten used to standing still in the rain, but he’s not comfortable with it.
Once the rain chill sets in, it doesn’t disappear until school starts the next day. A hard wind drives
the rain down harder, and he huffs in irritation.

The rain suddenly stops. Peter looks up and sees a black fabric stretched out above his head. He
turns towards Batman and blinks. Batman has one hand on his binoculars, focused on the trucks
below. His other hand is holding his cape out and over Peter, sheltering him from the rain and
wind. Peter considers making a smart remark about it, but decides against it. He simply rests under
the cape.

And then he dozes, caught somewhere between true sleep and resting his eyes. It’s a strange kind
of half sleep he’s done on the subway and bus in Gotham. After a few moments, he hears Batman's
radio click on.

"Looks like your partner is sleeping on the job," Oracle says.

"Hm.”

"We should bring him home."

"He won't go. He doesn't trust us yet,” Batman says, keeping his voice low and quiet. “There’s a
standing offer for him. He won’t take it.”

"We have to try.”

Batman is silent for a moment. "I'll ask Nightwing to discuss it with him. He’s always been better
at this sort of thing."

“Sounds like a plan,” Oracle says. “As a side note, the roads are clear. You’re looking at the last of
the trucks below. And they’re taking most of the guards with them, apparently. Time to get to
work.”

Batman draws his cape away from Peter, then grips his shoulder, squeezing just hard enough to
pull him out of his doze.

“Follow my lead,” he says.

***

Batman sneaks into the warehouse through one of the windows near the roof of the warehouse. He
has to rely on careful jumps and swings with his grappling hook whereas Peter simply scurries into
the warehouse and along the wall closest to Batman. The man does a double take when he sees
Peter crawling on all fours along the wall, but quickly regains his focus.
The warehouse is bisected by a wall, separating it into two halves. The room they’re in is empty of
people, but stacked to the brim with crates and barrels. They move around them, scouting the room.
Peter keeps to the shadows, moving smoothly in the dark while Batman looks over the items the
men had spent so much time unloading.

“This is definitely something chemical. From the smell, I’d say it’s something toxic. And acidic. I
bet this stuff isn’t even the worst of it, though. That stuff will probably be in the next room,” Peter
says quietly. “Ned, can you tap into---”

“Who’s Ned?” Oracle asks, politely curious.

Peter freezes. “Nothing. No one. Oracle. Can you tap into the security network? I saw the cameras
outside, but I’m not sure if they’re on or not.”

“Already done,” Oracle answers. “And you’re right. They’ve got fifty barrels piled up in the
middle of the next room, and they’re being very gentle with it.”

“I found three crates full of blue poppies. There’s a good chance those barrels are full of the liquid
form of fear toxin that Scarecrow uses,” Batman says.

“It smells like burning diesel and rotting lavender,” Peter remarks, skittering across the ceiling
towards Batman. The man is still vaguely disturbed when he sees Peter moving in ways humans
don’t, and honestly, it’s kind of funny.

“You can smell it from there?” Oracle asks.

“I’ve got super senses,” Peter says casually. “I can smell everything in a mile.”

“I do not envy you that super power,” Oracle says. “Okay, test time: how many people can you
hear in the warehouse?”

Peter pauses, closing his eyes. “Seven--no, eight--heartbeats.”

“I only see seven on my camera.”

“Check the far northwest corner. He’s asleep, judging by his heartbeat,” Peter says, dropping down
to crouch on a crate beside Batman.

There’s a moment’s pause and then Oracle laughs. “Yeah, you have excellent hearing. I also don’t
envy you that. Okay, eight guys, one asleep, and fifty barrels of what is very likely to be a
concentrated form of liquid fear toxin.”

“And a partridge in a pear tree,” Peter mutters.

Batman ignores his very clever and very cool commentary. “I’ve seen enough. Contact GCPD,
Oracle. Spiderman, stick to the shadows. You take the north side, I’ll handle the south.”

“Yessir,” Peter says, shooting out a web and yanking himself up into the far corner of the
warehouse. He slithers into the vent effortlessly and skitters through it to the other side, slipping
out of the other end above the sleeping guard.

"That will never not be creepy," Sam mutters.

Peter makes a mental note to be as spidery as possible at Sam Wilson the next time he sees him.
He’s not sure why. It just seems like fun.
"Great," Sam says, annoyed amusement threading through the word.

Peter webs up the guard. It doesn’t take much; two shots of his webshooter pins and gags the man.
The guy doesn’t even wake up. Too easy. Peter doesn’t even leave his perch on the ceiling.

Batman takes a much less subtle approach. He drops from the ceiling into a group of three men.
All three are unconscious before he hits the ground. The rest rush him with pipes, clubs, and
knives, skirting around the barrels fear toxin.

“He’s good,” Bucky says.

Peter has to agree with that. He watches Batman take on the remaining guards, shuffling along the
ceiling. So far, he seems to be handling things on his own just fine. The first three men he attacked
are already handcuffed, and two more are shaking their hands and cursing vehemently after
Batman throws something dark and sharp that bounces between them and leaves their weapons on
the ground.

And then there’s that unmistakable twinge of his spider senses, like a feather tickling the inside of
his ear. Back and left, behind Batman, a man is sneaking through the shadows with a revolver. He
stands up from behind a crate, and aims at Batman’s head.

Peter is already moving. He flings out a web and yanks the man’s arm aside, throwing off his aim
just as he pulls the trigger. The shot goes wide, striking one of the barrels. A thick, oily substance
begins to pour out of the perforated barrel. Peter leaps over the trail of toxin, using his web to sling
shot himself over to the man before laying him out with a single punch.

Batman spares him a quick look and approving nod, before turning to face the remaining guards.
Peter moves in to cover his back, and Batman shifts his fighting style slightly, working with Peter,
covering him and trading foes in equal measure. It’s almost a dance more than a fight, and if Peter
didn’t know any better, he’d think Batman had fought alongside Peter for years. Peter’s style is
more acrobatic than anything else; flips, jumps, and misdirection. Batman fills every gap in his
defense. It’s impressive.

“He’s fought alongside someone who moves like you before,” Fury says idly.

That explains it.

The fight ends quickly. Peter idly webs up the guards while Batman stalks and searches the rest of
the room for anyone hiding in the dark.

Peter taps his chin, leaning over the gangsters curiously. “These are False Facers, right? They
don’t normally work with this Scarecrow guy, do they?”

“No. Black Mask works alone. He’s too selfish and too narcissistic to care about anyone but
himself, and Scarecrow is off-putting enough that he’s never managed to gather any kind of
following,” Batman says looking over the scene. “This is new.”

He doesn’t sound pleased by that. “Do your supervillains usually work together?”

“Never,” Batman says. “They’ve never shown any kind of coordination beyond the occasional and
very brief team up. This is too organized, too well thought out.”

“Guess they’ve decided to switch things up,” Peter says, half to himself.

“So it seems,” Batman says. He pauses for a moment, then turns to Peter. “Good work earlier.”
It sounds like the man is pulling out his own teeth while saying that. Compliments clearly don’t
come easy for Batman, and it makes his poor attempt to do so seem even more sincere. Peter gives
him a lazy salute. “Just doing my part. Oracle, what time is it?”

“Almost midnight,” she says, distracted. “Police are en route with a HAZMAT team. ETA, five
minutes.”

“Yeesh. Way past my clock out time,” Peter says. “I’m outta here--”

He starts to step towards the barrels to get a better angle at one of the high windows. He stops
when a black gauntlet grips his arm iron tight and yanks him over to the side. Peter, thrown off by
Batman’s grip on his arm and the fact that his senses didn’t trigger again, stumbles towards
Batman and nearly runs into the man.

“Hey, what--”

“You almost stepped in it,” Batman says tightly.

Peter blinks up at him, then turns towards the area Batman is focused on. A shallow pool of that
oily toxin has formed on the floor, inches away from his foot. The smell of diesel and lavender is
almost overpowering. Peter isn’t sure how he missed it.

“Exhaustion. Stress. Starvation. The usual for you, in other words,” Hill remarks.

“Is it that bad?” Peter asks him. “I mean, to even step in it?”

Batman watches him for a moment, letting go of his arm. “It’s designed to incite anxiety, fear, and
stress to a level that forces people into a near fatal psychosis. Exposure is ill advised, to say the
least.”

“Good to know,” Peter says, edging away from the pool.

“Stay for a bit. I know it’s late, but you can come back with me to my headquarters,” Batman says.
“You can rest there.”

Peter starts shaking his head before he even finishes the word ‘headquarters.’ He shoots a web
towards the ceiling and yanks himself up and away from the barrels of fear toxin, calling down to
Batman.

“Sorry, Bats, not gonna happen. I’m a Lone Ranger kinda guy. And I’ve got stuff to do anyway.
This was fun, though! We should do it again! See ya!”

He’s through the window and gone before Batman can respond. Just to be safe, he flicks off his
headset so Oracle can’t track him.

***

School the next two days is almost a total blur. Peter spends so much of the day focused on and
stressed by the idea of losing his scholarship that he doesn’t notice Tim, Duke, Steph, or Felicia.
He does confirm Tony’s appointment with his teachers, however. That earns him quite the curious
look from Felicia. He doesn’t comment on it.

And after school lets out at noon on Friday, he skips patrol, focusing instead on pacing around the
fire station, hands in his pockets, trying desperately to think of what to do. If he loses the
scholarship, will they expect him to pay back the money they’ve given him? Would they consider
it theft that he got the scholarship at all? That’s definitely a felony amount; he’d be in prison by the
end of the month--

There’s a flash of green in the corner of his eyes. He turns and finds himself face to face with the
ghostly version of Loki.

“I have an offer for you,” Loki’s ghost says.

“Uh,” Peter says, flabbergasted. “Okay?”

“You help me--which is really a help to all of us--and I will help you stay a homeless orphan, free
of the control of others, as you so clearly desire.”

Peter stares at him. “How do I help you? You’re a ghost.” A beat. “No offense.”

Loki smiles, and though Peter knows he doesn’t mean it to be--how he knows he isn’t sure--it
comes across as condescending. “Simple. Promise you’ll walk with me in your dreams tonight.”

What. Peter stares at him, confused. “Uh. Sure. I guess?”

“Excellent. Now, for the second step.” He holds out one ghostly hand. “Take my hand.”

Peter’s senses tingle ever so slightly when Loki stretches out his hand. He considers the Prince’s
hand for a long moment, and then reaches out and places his hand in Loki’s.

There’s another bright flash---

And then Peter is suddenly not the one in control of his own body.

***

Loki sighs, stretching his borrowed arms and legs. It’s good to be alive and embodied again. Even
in a form this small and weak. He paces around the boy’s hovel, getting a feel for physical
movement again. He is matched step for step by two others: Nick Fury and Bucky Barnes. Both
walk on either side of him, glowering hatefully.

"What are you doing, Loki?" Fury asks. He does manage to look suitably threatening, even as a
ghost, and a Midgardian at that. Loki is mildly impressed.

"I fail to see how that's any of your business,” Loki says. He can feel the child hovering in the back
of his mind; not fully aware, but not fully asleep either.

"Get out," Bucky snarls. He’s furious. More than that, he’s scared. He knows all too well what it
feels like to have one's body usurped, Loki supposes. “Get out of his goddamn body!”

That's the downside of this little adventure: everyone’s souls and memories rub off on another. For
some, like the Guardians and the Wakandans, this isn't much of an issue. For Loki, it's like living
in a room made of sandpaper. He can feel himself change, feel their influence on him into his mind
and heart. He hates it.

"Or what?" Loki asks. His voice sounds odd coming out of the teenager's body.

"Or you will have to deal with us," T'Challa says, appearing in front of Loki so clearly that he
almost seems physical himself. His voice is calm, but carries with it an unmistakable threat. “And
that is not a fight you want.”
Loki pauses, bows slightly to T'Challa, and grins widely at him, making sure to show all of his
teeth. T'Challa narrows his eyes.

"A point well made," Loki says, keeping his tone courtly and polite. It’s odd to hear himself using
this voice. The little spider could never manage to maintain proper manners. Not with that gutter
drawl of an accent and permanent slouch. He can tell such niceties annoy the Wakandan King and
makes a mental note to keep it up when possible.

He grabs one of Peter’s pens and a piece of paper on the desk and quickly writes out a set of runes
on it, enchanting it as he goes. When he finishes, the paper disappears in a flash of smoke and he
sets the pen down where he found it. He never intended to steal the boy's body, anyway. Not really.
He'd considered it, of course, back when the boy first stole the soul stone, but the idea of it has
become less appealing over time. It had even seemed cruel to him, and he is loathe to do anything
that would outright harm Peter. The idiot has started to remind him of Thor as of late, and that’s all
but sealed the child’s fate in Loki’s mind. Despite everything, he still loves his brother and he
always will, and idiot children who mimic his brother seem to earn some kind of vague feelings of
protectiveness from Loki. He isn't used to caring about others who aren't his family. He finds this
forced empathy as irritating as it is irresistible.

The other ghosts circle him like wolves. Even if he did decide to stay in Peter’s body, he would be
literally haunted by the vengeful dead, robbing him of any moments of peace he could hope to
have. Time to prove he isn’t as much of a monster as they assume he is, then.

"You’ll have difficulty remembering this, but you will pay attention here: When I snap my fingers,
you'll lay down for a nap. When you wake up, you will ask for help and then draw the runes I’ve
just shown you." There's no need to make the child rest, there’s no need to show this kindness. But
he does it anyway. The places within his own soul rubbed raw by the others demand it. And
besides, the rest will do the child some good. If nothing else, Loki won’t have to hear the boy’s
constant worry and guilt for a few hours.

Loki snaps his fingers. Peter shuffles for his bed, head slouched forward, leaving Loki's soul
behind as he moves away. The others seem to breathe a sigh of relief. T’Challa and Sam Wilson
stand beside each other, watching Loki with almost matching glares. The Guardians look on with
vague disapproval.

Bucky grabs his collar and yanks him close. His eyes are bright and furious. "Do that again and I’ll
make every moment we’re stuck in here a personal hell for you."

"So very little trust," Loki says dryly. “Believe it or not, what I’m about to do will serve all of us
equally well.”

“Don’t. Do. It. Again,” Bucky growls before roughly shoving him away.

Loki rolls his eyes, but smiles and backs away from the snarling wolf.

He’s gotten what he wants, anyway.

***

When Peter wakes up, it happens all at once. One moment, he’s in a deep, restful sleep and the
next he’s wide awake and on his feet. His stomach clenches painfully; a half day at school has
robbed him of the largest meal of his deal, and the sandwich Lou gave him this morning is long
gone apparently. He runs a hand through his hair, attempts to smooth out the wrinkles in his
uniform, and checks the time. And then groans.
The conference starts in an hour and he’s still no closer to figuring out a solution than he was
before his sudden nap. He sighs, grabs his notebook and a pen, and starts to doodle. Doodling
helps him think, calms him down. He lets the pen move on its own, frustrated and hungry.

If he had help maybe---

There’s a flash of gold. And suddenly, Loki of Asgard is standing in the middle of the room. Peter
stops midstep, staring at Loki blankly.

“And here I was worried you wouldn’t remember,” Loki says.

“What the fuck,” Peter says.

“Mind your language. Do you remember our agreement?”

Peter stares at him blankly, and then it comes back. “You’re going to help me?”

Loki smiles at him. “Indeed.”

A flash of green light hits Loki, changing him. One moment he's there, the next he’s been replaced
by a mirror perfect image of Tony Stark. Peter stares at him, then amends that statement. Sure, he
looks like Tony, but this is a younger version of Iron Man. There’s no hints of grey in his goatee or
hair, and the worry and laugh lines are gone completely.

"Consider me the superior version of Iron Man," Loki says, using Tony’s voice. It doesn’t quite
sound right to Peter’s ears. "You will hold up your end of the bargain, and I will hold up mine."

Peter watches him for a long moment. Finally, he says: "This is a very bad idea."

“Mind our agreement, spider,” Loki says, adjusting his suit jacket. “I’m loathe to compliment your
people too much, but I will say your idea of formal wear is rather nice. In a boring sort of way.”

Peter rolls his eyes, pauses, and sniffs the air. “What is that smell?”

“A part of the illusion. Cologne masking alcohol. It was a rather persistent thing for Tony during
the invasion and afterward. I don’t exactly have a frame of reference for anything more recent than
that,” Loki says, adjusting his cufflinks. “Let’s be off.”

His mimicry of Tony’s voice is perfect, except for the speech cadence. Tony’s never used such a
casually mocking tone towards Peter. Not even when he’s screwed up or pissed him off. In fact,
the longer Peter’s known Tony, the gentler the tone has become. This version of Tony is all cutting
barbs and defensive snark, and Peter can say with certainty that he doesn’t like it.

But this might work.

Is it worth it though?

“Of course it isn’t fucking worth it,” Sam says sourly.

Peter sighs. “Fine. In and out, and you only talk to my teachers long enough to satisfy the
scholarship. And then you're going to tell me how you're even able to do this. Got it?”

“Sure thing, kiddo,” Loki says, clapping Peter’s shoulder fondly.

“Do not make this weird, please,” Peter says, shrugging off his hand.
 Loki smirks, turns and leaves. Peter sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose, and feels the start of a
headache. A gentle throbbing behind his eyes.

“This is a horrible fucking idea,” Peter mutters, walking after Loki-as-Tony.

Chapter End Notes

This is 2,000 words longer than it needs to be because I enjoy writing Duke, Tim, and
Peter being friends in school more than I do advancing the plot, apparently.

Anyway! Tune in next time for a chapter I’ve been lovingly calling Slow Fiery
Trainwreck Power Hour. It's both a sitcom scenario and plot relevant.
 Chapter 17
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

BATCHAT

Barbara (05:45pm): Bruce is out of town. Again.

Jason (05:46pm): God, now what?

Barbara (05:47pm): Another emergency meeting at the Hall of Justice. Something to do with the
Green Lanterns, I think. Things will get tight tonight with you guys at the school.

Tim (05:48pm): if you need us, we can come back. my cold is almost completely gone.

Steph (05:48pm): and make you miss your opportunity to snoop on peter? never

***

“In and out, quick as you please,” Loki says behind Tony Stark’s face and voice. He demonstrates
this with a flourishing snap of his fingers that’s close to the sort of thing Tony would do. “As soon
as I’m done with your teachers, we’ll pull a disappearing act back to your little hovel and I’ll leave
you to recover. You’ll need it.”

Peter follows Loki on the sidewalk leading up to the school, one step behind. It’s full to the brim
with students, parents, and faculty, bustling in a way that’s out of place in the fog. It’s strange
seeing a school busy at night. It feels wrong, somehow.

Or maybe that’s just Peter’s potential headache talking.

“So how are you able to just appear?” Peter asks Loki quietly. “I know there are others, but I don’t
hear them sometimes. It’s hard to think of them. They get fuzzy. Like dreams when you first wake
up. You can remember them, but then they’re just gone. Can I make them appear like you?”

“No,” Loki replies immediately. “I’ve died several times. I know the paths back to this realm like
the back of my hand, and I’m borrowing against your own life force to be here. The others don’t
have that ability, save for the witch.”

Peter pauses. “Okay, that sounds bad.”

“There won’t be any lasting harm. I’m rather dependent on your continued survival, after all,” Loki
says, distracted. “But you will feel like you’re dying. As will I, for the record. I’m not fond of
putting myself at risk. You should be honored.”

“Oh, good. As long as I only feel like I’m dying, I guess,” Peter says dryly. “This is a bad idea, we
should turn back--”

“Too late,” Loki says. “We’re already here. And your friend has spotted us. We can’t exactly flee
into the night now, can we?”

He’s right. Tim and a tall, brown skinned man with dark hair and blue eyes are watching them
walk towards the school. Tim’s focus is almost entirely on Loki, but the blue eyed man is
watching Peter closely. It seems like he recognizes Peter from somewhere, but Peter’s not sure how
that’s possible. He’d recognize Tim’s dad. Or, he amends, his older brother. The man is maybe ten
years older than Tim, maybe a little more or less. He’s built like a champion gymnast, which isn’t
unusual for the rich and well to do who have time to dedicate to rigid gym routines. But like Tim,
he doesn’t carry himself the same way the other parents or students do.

Peter is again struck by how stupid this whole plan is when Loki smiles at Tim and claps his
shoulder. “Tim! The kid’s told me all about you. It’s good to see you face to face.”

Tim manages a polite smile despite being obviously startled. Maybe he was expecting someone
similar to Peter. “It’s good to meet you, Mr. Stark. This is my brother, Dick."

He motions towards the athletic man standing beside him. Dick Grayson is dressed casually, a
simple button down shirt, khaki pants, and black, polished loafers. Nice, but simple and
comfortable. He almost looks shabby compared to Loki’s suit. A Kiton bespoke, Peter realizes he's
seen Tony wear one before. Not often. Just the once, really, when Peter almost signed the Accords.

Dick Grayson looks Loki up and down. He doesn’t seem overly pleased by what he sees, but he
holds his hand out. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Stark. Peter is a great kid from what I’ve seen.”

“Of course he is, he’s mine after all,” Loki says, shaking Dick’s hand. His grin is indulgent, as if
he’s doing Dick a favor by speaking to him. It’s not at all like Tony’s real smile, and the difference
irks Peter.

“Right,” Dick says, drawing the word out. “Here, let me show you where we’re supposed to wait.”

“Lead the way,” Loki says.

The two men step into the school. Dick holds the door open behind himself for Tim. Loki does not
extend that same courtesy for Peter. The door slams shut in his face and he pauses, rolls his eyes,
and pulls it open before following Loki into the building. Much to his horror, this does not go
unnoticed by Dick and Tim, who share matching frowns in his direction.

Time to distract them, then. He turns to Tim. “Where’s Duke?”

“Getting some stuff from his locker,” Tim says, the frown disappearing. “Come on, the students
are supposed to wait in the gym. Let’s go find him.”

“Yeah, sure,” Peter says. He spares a look at Loki.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Loki says. “Shoo. Have fun.”

Peter aims a flat, unamused look at Loki and leaves with Tim. He feels like he shouldn’t leave the
literal God of Mischief alone with his teachers, but he can’t figure out a way to stay and babysit
him either. He has to trust Loki actually has his best interests at heart.

Which, now that he thinks about it, is a terrible fucking idea.

***

Loki watches Peter and the other boy leave, and lets out a small sigh of relief. Peter’s constant
suspicion and worry was starting to grate on his nerves. Better that he’s gone for the moment. The
sigh catches Dick’s attention, and he focuses on Loki, his expression unreadable.

"That's a very nice suit, Mr. Stark," Dick says.

"You like? I picked it up during my last trip to Italy. There’s a lovely little shop in Rome I visited,"
Loki says. “Almost forgot to bring it home. Remind me to give you his information. He’s booked
for the next six months, but I think I can put a good word in for you.”

“It seems like you can afford a lot of nice things,” Dick says after a long moment, breezing past
Loki’s offer.

“I’m sensing a bit of judgement in your tone,” Loki says, idly brushing off one of his sleeves.

“I’m just curious about a few things. You’ve got a new suit, nice sunglasses, a pair of shoes that I
know cost more than my car,” Dick says, still with that casual tone, though there’s an edge of
anger entering it. “But Peter is in second hand clothes fresh off the rack of a thrift store.”

“He’s an independent soul. He prefers it when I don’t help him too much,” Loki says casually.
He’s not exactly wrong, of course. The best lies are those that are mostly true.

That answer, oddly enough, doesn’t seem to endear Loki to the man at all. “You’re his father?”

“Guardian,” Loki says in that casual, grandstanding tone Tony Stark used around him so often in
the days before Loki was taken back to Asgard. “But we do share the same eyes, I always thought.
Brown eyes run in the family.”

A surprising pause follows that.

“His eyes are hazel. Almost green,” Dick states simply after a long moment. The look he gives
Loki is cool and considering.

Loki blinks in genuine surprise. The boy’s eyes are brown in the soul stone; his true color as far as
he knew. When had they turned green? He frowns in thought, then realizes that Dick is watching
him for a reaction.

“Guess I’ve never noticed. Hey, thanks for showing me where everything is. I appreciate it.” Loki
plasters on a press ready smile, pushing past him and into the cafeteria where the rest of the
students and their parents are lingering.

***

BATCHAT

Tim (06:00pm): so how’s it going?

Dick (06:03pm): This guy is Peter’s family?

Tim (06:04pm): as far as we know, yeah

Tim (06:10pm): judging by your typing, I’m going to go out on a limb and assume the talk you
guys had went poorly

Tim (06:14pm): okay, wow, it must’ve gone really bad, what happened?

Dick (06:15pm): Peter deserves better. I’m tempted to just grab him and take him home. We can
get away with it. We’re Waynes.

Tim (06:16pm): two things

Tim (06:17pm): first, you’re probably right

Tim (06:18pm): second, peter won’t come willingly and kidnapping is still HIGHLY illegal. I’m
pretty sure Bruce will call a Family Meeting if we commit prosecutable felonies in his absence

Jason (06:19pm): Please commit a felony so I can watch the old man try and explain how it’s
different when you do it.

***

Tony all but flees from Dick the moment he steps inside the cafeteria, apparently eager to put some
distance between them. Dick is both annoyed and relieved by that; something about the man just
rubs him the wrong way, even without the casual and very obvious neglect. There’s a tension
between Tony and Peter that bugs Dick, and he can’t quite figure out what it is.

He pours some distance of his own, leaning back against the wall of the cafeteria and pulling out
his phone to text Tim.

“Well, fancy meeting you here, little bird.”

Dick looks up from his phone, startled, and stares at Selina Kyle. She slides over to his side and
leans against the wall beside him, nursing a wine glass half filled with something red and
expensive. Because of course Gotham Prep serves wine at a parent-teacher conference. This is like
being at one of Bruce’s galas without the benefit of being able to leap out of a window or slide into
a wall as a way to avoid insufferable guests.

“Please tell me you’re not here to scope out potential victims,” Dick says tiredly.

“Hardly. Your father has rubbed off on me in more ways than one---”

“Oh my god, gross,” Dick says, mutely horrified.

Selina continues, smirking slightly at his reaction. “Not in that way. I’m here for the conference,
believe it or not.”

Dick stares at her, confused.

Selina holds up a class schedule. “I’ve taken in a young lady recently. She’s a student here. I’ve
just finished meeting with all of her teachers, in fact. Most of them seem like functional
alcoholics.”

“You adopted someone?” Dick asks, curiosity briefly scattering his dark mood.

“Mmhm. She’s tight lipped about where she came from. The girl’s a puzzle, but she’s clever, and
she has quite a lot of potential. With the right guidance, she could be my match easily.” Another
pause. “Better, maybe. I don’t say that lightly.”

That’s honestly fascinating. Selina had always been a loner, save for the brief times she’s come to
help Batman, which were often brief, passionate affairs. Dick vividly remembers Bruce and
Selina’s enemies-to-rivals-to-lovers dance when he was a kid; that same heated thread winds its
way through their conversations even now, though they’ve both calmed down from their early
days. And thank god for that.

“No offense, but you don’t seem the type,” Dick says after a moment.
Selina smiles at him. “I didn’t think I was either. Like I said, Bruce’s bad habits are rubbing off on
me.”

“Please stop saying that.”

She smirks, but mercifully changes the subject. “Who are you here for?”

“Tim and Duke,” Dick says. “Tim strong armed me into it and I’m already regretting it.”

“It should go quickly for them, at least. They’re clever boys,” Selina says.

“Yeah, I’m not worried about that part,” Dick says. “I’m more concerned with keeping my cool
around these kinds of people.”

His eyes follow Tony Stark around the room. The man has a glass of wine in one hand and is using
the other to make some grand, intricate gesture in the air while a group of the rich and famous
watch on fascinated. Tony says something, and the men burst into laughter, with one clapping his
shoulder. Every last man in that group, save for Tony, has invested in, funded, or otherwise used
their wealth and influence to make Gotham a worse place. The man is clearly much more at ease
with them than he is with Peter.

Selina follows his gaze and hums quietly. “He seems charming.”

“He’s an arrogant asshole,” Dick mutters darkly.

“If you start disliking everyone here based on that criteria, you’re in for a long night,” Selina says,
fighting back a small smirk. She checks her smart watch. “Fortunately, I won’t have to suffer
alongside you. Good luck, little bird. Try not to have too much fun.”

“Yeah, see ya, Selina,” Dick says. He doesn’t hear Selina leave.

Tony is on the move again, and Dick follows him with his eyes. It’s the way he moves, Dick
realizes. This is a man who doesn’t walk often, despite keeping in shape. There’s a stilted quality to
his movements that he hides well when he’s being watched, but which become all too apparent
when left alone. He ducks into a crowd and seems to disappear.

“Mr. Grayson?” a prim woman says beside him. “You’re next on the list to speak with the faculty.”

“Oh, right,” Dick says, distracted. Damn, he lost sight of Tony. He sighs. “Okay, lead the way.”

***

BATCHAT

Barbara (07:01pm): How’s it going?

Dick (07:02pm): Normal. Tim, you forgot to turn in a ten page history report last week.

Tim (07:03pm): wow announce it to the whole chat.

Dick (07:04pm): You can turn it in by Friday for half credit.

Tim (07:05pm): pass

Dick (07:06pm): Do it or I ground you from patrol. Steph, your teachers love you and your grades
are perfect

Steph (07:07pm): lmao, of course they are

Tim (07:08pm): dick wtf.

Duke (07:09pm): hahaha

Dick (07:10pm): Duke, you’re literally at the top of your class. Awesome job!

Duke (07:11pm): damn right I am

Dick (07:12pm): In other news, Selina Kyle apparently has a daughter enrolled in your class.

Tim: (07:13pm): what

Duke (07:13pm): what

Steph (07:14pm): what

***

The gym is full of students, hastily laid out tables, and several very bored teacher chaperones more
interested in their phones than their jobs. Peter sits alone, in the dimmest part of the room, head
buried in his arms on the battered table. What had started as a brief tickle of pain in the fire station
is rapidly becoming a roaring river of fire pounding against the back of his eyes. He looks
miserable enough that most of the other students leave him alone.

Someone sits beside him, on his right. Another person sits on the other side of him. Peter sits up
and blinks up at his visitors. It’s Tim and Duke, of course. Tim is watching Peter closely, while
Duke digs through his backpack, quietly cursing to himself.

“You look terrible,” Tim says. There’s a wary gentleness to his tone that hadn’t been there before,
and Peter fights back a fresh wave of annoyance at Loki.

“It’s just a headache. I get them sometimes,” Peter mutters, rubbing his eyes. He blinks at his
friends and starts to say something when he notices Duke staring at him intently. Or rather, staring
around him intently. “Uh.”

“You’re alone,” Duke says, as if in revelation. “It’s just you.”

Peter stares at him, confused. “What?”

“Uh, nothing. Nevermind,” Duke says. He sighs, getting up and slinging his backpack over his
good arm. He jogs for the doors. “I’ll be right back. I forgot something.”

Peter makes a small noise of acknowledgement, caught somewhere between a grunt and ‘yeah,
okay’ before massaging his temples. Tim watches him for a long moment.

“Peter, are you alright? Is everything okay at home?”

Peter sighs. He should have seen this coming. Of course Tim is going to be worried about him after
that little performance in the hallway. “Yeah. Yeah, everything’s fine. You’re not seeing Tony at
his best, for the record. At all.”
“I thought I smelled alcohol on him earlier,” Tim says after a long moment.

Peter’s headache gets just a bit worse. And with it, his temper. “Yeah. Look, I’m not interested in
talking about it. Drop it, all right?”

He’s never used a sharp tone on his friend, and he regrets it immediately. Tim blinks at him in
surprise, but nods. “Okay. I’ll drop it. Let’s just chill for a bit.”

“Yeah, sounds good,” Peter mutters, putting his head back into his arms.

***

Duke rifles through his locker, searching for his missing notebook. It has all of his homework in it
for the week and he’d rather not go back and do it all over again if he can help it. He finds it,
finally, and sighs in relief, shoving it into his backpack and then slamming the locker shut. He
turns, walking past a half open utility closet, and starts to head back to the gym.

Duke stops dead in the hallway. There’s a man with two faces standing in the hallway in front of
him. Duke never heard him approach. He’s half translucent, with the edges of his face and body
fuzzy at the edges. Well, that’s not quite right: the face and body he’s standing near is as real as
can be, but the face behind the face very much isn’t. It’s as if a man’s face and body is being used
as a bodysuit by another.

“What the fuck are you?” Duke asks. The man inside the man reminds him of Gnomon, his
biological father. Who also happens to be an evil god that tried to kill him.

“Right now, I’m a friend,” the man says. There’s an odd accent to his words that Duke can’t place;
it’s old and dignified and very condescending. “Did you know that you were fated to die tonight?”

“What?” Duke asks, warily taking a step back. If a fight starts, he’ll be at a disadvantage with his
arm in its sling, but he can work around that. Hell, he can fight with both hands tied behind his
back if it comes to it.

“I couldn’t make out the shape of the threat, of course. I would’ve had to borrow the boy’s body to
do it. The others get so very touchy if I do that,” the man says. He trails off, thinking, then shrugs.
“No matter. I want you to remember this: the letter is a lie, and death is coming for you all.”

Duke frowns at him, confused. “Yeah, I’m going to need you to--”

The man snaps his fingers. A bright green flash illuminates the hallway, blinding Duke and
overwhelming his meta senses. He staggers back and away from the man, blinded, but still ready
for a fight. He’s Signal, Batman’s day time guardian; fighting blind is a requirement to wear the bat
symbol. But when he was fighting blind before, he could at least hear his opponents breathe or
move. He’s fighting a ghost who does neither.

To his eternal credit, he manages to get one good hit in. It’s like hitting steam, except the vapor is
freezing to the touch, chilling him both body and soul. The man huffs, apparently unhurt, and
suddenly Duke is lifted into the air. He hears the utility closet door swing open behind him.

“Striking me does nothing. It does, however, hurt your friend. A pity you won’t remember that
until much later, too.”

“What the fuck are you--”

Another blinding flash. Duke’s thrown unceremoniously into the utility closet. The door slams shut
behind him. A third flash knocks him out cold, his memory is blasted clean of the past five
minutes.

Loki hums quietly to himself before walking back down the hall towards the gym, adjusting his
cufflinks.

Amazing what the wrong man at the right place can do to a timeline.

***

BATCHAT

Tim (07:32pm): duke where are you?

Tim (07:33pm): it’s been like twenty minutes

Tim (07:36pm): Dick, is Duke with you?

Jason (07:37pm): Tim is officially worried if he’s using proper grammar.

Dick (07:38pm): No. Why?

Tim (07:39pm): Something isn’t right.

***

Peter is quietly suffering in agony when he suddenly jumps in place, gasping for breath and
clutching his side. It feels as if he’s just taken a solid punch to the ribs. Not enough to really hurt
him, but enough that he can feel the start of a bruise. The skin grows taut and tender, and he
amends that statement. It feels like he just got popped by Cap; hard enough to hurt, but not enough
to leave last damage.

Tim, naturally, is highly fucking concerned. He drops his phone down on the table and shifts
closer, gripping his shoulder. “Peter? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, just a muscle cramp,” Peter mutters, sitting up. His headache is getting steadily worse,
and this new mystery bruise isn’t going to do him any favors. He winces, sucking in a careful
breath.

Tim frowns at him, and starts to speak when a voice cuts through the crowd.

“Kid!” Tony yells from the doorway. It sounds so much like him, that Peter actually perks up,
momentarily forgetting who is using that voice. “Over here, come on!”

Peter stands, relief flooding through him, turning to face Tony. He’s here. He found him. He’s---

He’s Loki. Loki quirks a brow at him from the doorway, waving at him impatiently. Dick Grayson
is standing behind him, looking at Tim. Peter clamps down on a sudden wave of disappointment,
takes in a deep breath, and walks over to him, keeping his back straight and stiff to avoid the
mysterious bruise that’s forming under his shirt.

Loki slings an arm across Peter’s shoulders the moment he’s within reach, and Peter tenses
immediately, briefly glaring daggers at him as the man pulls them up the hallway, past a utility
closet and a row of lockers. His pace is just short of too fast, and he puts distance between them and
Dick and Tim.
"Try not to make a scene," Loki mutters quietly. “Your friend and his brother have been watching
us like hawks all night.”

He can see Dick watching them from the corner of his eye, and takes in a deep breath, forcing
himself to relax. His hands are still clenched, and it takes a surprising amount of effort to tamp
down on his frustration enough to loosen his fists.

“How much longer do we have to stay here?” Peter asks.

“I only have one more meeting,” Loki says, guiding Peter away from Dick and Tim. “Which is
fortunate for you. You’ve been getting paler by the minute ever since we got here.”

“It’s just a headache,” Peter mutters, reaching up to rub his eyes. Loki quirks a brow at Peter, and
Peter fights back the urge to punch him, frustrated. He raises his voice, just a bit. “Just make it
quick so we can leave before you embarrass me anymore, all right?”

“Someone’s a little touchy,” Loki says idly, pulling his arm away as they stop outside the door. He
turns to face Peter, quirks a brow, and points a finger in his face, half an inch from his nose. In a
stern, quiet voice, he says, “Try not to pass out. I’ll disappear if you do and then you’ll have more
than just a scholarship to worry about. Harness your strength just a little while longer.”

Great. Peter scowls, batting his hand away hard and glaring up at him. “Make it quick.”

Loki is about to make a retort when he freezes, looking past Peter and frowning. The lazy
arrogance in his eyes is gone in an instant, replaced by sharp awareness and cunning. A second
later, Peter’s senses go utterly mad, filling him with an electric sense of wrongness in an instant.
He can feel the hair on his arms stand straight out.

The hallway has a skylight running the length of it. Peter often ignores it--what’s the point of a
skylight in a place as dreary and rainy as Gotham?--but right now it has Loki’s full focus. A second
later and Peter joins him.

Something is watching them. Something almost as big as the Hulk and just as green, with glowing
red eyes. It looks as if a crocodile stood up on two legs, shrank its head down to match that of a
man with a particularly large underbite. His eyes flash yellow in the dim light of the hallway, his
gaze flickering back and forth between Dick and Peter. He snarls when he realizes he’s been
spotted, revealing rows of jagged fangs. He raises one clawed fist and smashes through the glass
and frame as if it had been made of tissue paper, raining metal and glass down into the hallway,
bringing with it the steady rain and fog outside. A sharp, twisted length of steel slams into the
ground near Tim. In another time, Duke Thomas would have been standing beside his brother, as
always.

The lizard man leaps into the hallway, dropping to the ground with enough weight to crack the fine
marble tiles covering the hallway. Dick and Tim leap out of the way in smooth, almost identical
jumps, acting on pure instinct. Part of the ceiling collapses in front of them, dropping a pile of
metal, brick, and glass in the hallway. It puts them on one side of the lizard man and Loki and
Peter on the other.

“Killer Croc,” Dick hisses from the other side of the hallway. “Shit. Tim, your phone--”

“Peter, run!” Tim shouts over the rubble.

Killer Croc’s eyes flash dimly in the dark, a bright vibrant blue, then yellow, and he whips his head
back and forth between Dick and Tim and Loki and Peter, clearly considering his targets. He’s
gripping a glass vial in one hand. Peter can smell the fumes leaking out: burning diesel and rotting
lavender.

Fear toxin.

“Man, it’s good to be back,” Killer Croc growls, stalking towards Loki and Peter. They back away
from him, practically in lockstep with one another. Peter’s head is starting to throb, his headache
worsening. Whether from the fumes, the stress of manifesting Loki, or dealing with the parent-
teacher conference is anyone’s guess. Maybe all three. “Years in Arkham, locked in that dank cell
with doctors poking around in my head for fun, and then this weirdo in a dark suit comes in with
this blue rock and starts talking to me. I get my freedom, and all I gotta do is find someone at this
school.”

He holds up the vial and grins. “This is gonna make it easier. Who gets the first dose?” He sees
where Peter’s focus lies and grins, mean and ugly, all teeth and sadistic glee. “Guess you’re a good
start.”

He pops open the vial with one clawed thumb, and stalks towards Peter. Peter stumbles back,
disoriented by his headache, his exhaustion, and the giant man lizard coming towards him armed
with a substance that even Batman is wary of.

“Then come and get me,” Peter shoots back, whirling around and sprinting down the hall.

He can hear the monster’s snarling laugh, and the crunching pounding of its feet as it begins to
chase him. This side of the school should be essentially abandoned, at least. Thank God Tim and
Dick ended up on the other side of the rubble. He can fight this guy here if he needs--

Killer Croc suddenly screams in pain. Peter skids to a stop and turns to look behind himself. A
twisted piece of broken steel is sticking through Killer Croc’s thigh, the sharp end of it coated in
dark red blood. Loki stalks down the hall towards him, lifting up another hefty piece of steel in
both hands. Killer Croc whirls around to face this new threat, flinging the toxin at Peter and aiming
a heavy swipe of his claws at Loki. Peter staggers back and away from the toxin. The vapor hits
him hard and he coughs, covering his mouth and nose.

Loki ducks under Croc’s arm before slamming the steel bar hard across his jaw. The lizard man is
rocked back onto his heels and his wounded leg, letting out another one of those startled, furious
screams.

Loki stalks past him, grabs Peter’s arm, and hauls him bodily towards the nearest fire exit. “We
need to leave now.”

“We need to help everyone here--” Peter protests. He tries to pull his arm free, but he’s shocked to
find that his hands and arms are trembling. His heart rate is steadily rising and with it, the headache
and a vague sense of panic.

“No. You’re in no condition, and it’s about to get much worse for you. We need to get you back,”
Loki says. He steadies Peter, annoyed and frustrated, and starts to haul Peter towards the nearest
bus station.

Peter, shivering from fear and panic, stares at the buildings towering over them in the street,
certain that they’re about to collapse on top of him. “I didn’t think you could fight like that.”

Loki sniffs. “Then you have not seen an Asgardian prince at war. Move.”

His tone brooks no argument, and Peter, trembling with anxious fear, can’t find the strength to
fight him. They leave the school grounds just as the first squad cars skid to a stop outside the
school.

***

BATCHAT

Barbara (07:50pm): Guys, what’s going on at the school? Every cop in the city is on the way
there.

Dick (07:51pm): Killer Croc armed with fear toxin

Dick (07:52pm): Duke’s MIA, Tim and I are on it, we need help.

Barbara (07:53pm): Cass and Steph are on the way.

***

Loki hauls Peter into the fire station, and over towards his bed. Peter is drenched in fear sweat,
twitchy and panicked in a way that he can’t explain. The adrenaline chases away his headache a
bit, but he knows that’s only a brief reprieve; the moment his fear dies down, the pain will return
tenfold. He staggers for the bed and the blankets, burrowing into them like a child fleeing monsters
in the dark, as if the blankets offer any kind of sanctuary.

Maybe they don’t, but it’s the best he has. He curls into a fetal position, fighting back waves of
anxious fear, certain that his death is moments away but he’s not sure why he thinks that. If his
head was clearer, he’d recognize the symptoms of a potential panic attack.

He hears footsteps approach. Loki keeps his distance, setting a water bottle on the floor beside
Peter’s head. “You will want to drink that before you collapse. It will help with the headache.”

Peter peers out at him from within the blankets. He’s not wearing Tony’s face anymore. “Why are
you helping me?”

“Because I intend to collect on our bargain, and I can’t very well do that if you’re dead,” Loki
replies. He nudges the water bottle with the toe of his boot. “Drink. Ride out the fear. You weren’t
truly exposed. You’re merely experiencing what I am.”

Peter snakes out a hand to grab the water bottle, draining it in one go. He pauses, frowning up at
Loki. “You’re this scared?”

“No. Yes. Somewhere between. What happens to one of us, happens to both of us. I know what
you’re feeling, at least to a muted degree,” Loki explains. He backs away. “My end of the bargain
is complete. Yours will follow soon. Rest.”

He disappears in a flash. And suddenly, Peter can feel the others around him again. He wasn’t
aware of their disappearance, of how empty the fire station felt a few seconds ago. There’s
murmuring concern, snarling accusations, and finally, a red hand that reaches out and gently taps
his forehead.

***

BATCHAT
 Barbara (08:30pm): Status update, guys.

Dick (08:36pm): The parents, staff, and kids have all been evacuated.

Barbara (08:37pm): Good work. Where’s Tim?

Dick (08:38pm): Helping Duke. He’s really out of it.

Barbara (08:39pm): Fear toxin?

Dick (08:40pm): Maybe. He was going on about letters and death and ghosts. He wasn’t making a
lot of sense.

Jason (08:41pm): Sounds like fear toxin to me. I’m on the way. I can get him somewhere safe.

Barbara (08:43pm): Got it. Any sign of Killer Croc?

Dick (08:44pm): Croc is MIA. We found a lot of blood and an empty vial of toxin in the hallway
where he had Peter and Tony cornered.

Barbara (08:45pm): Any sign of them?

Dick (08:46pm): No. We did hear a lot of screams in the hallway after we got separated, but with
the fear toxin, that’s to be expected.

Dick (08:47pm): Tim’s having a rough time with it.

Barbara (08:48pm): I’ll keep an eye out.

Chapter End Notes

We're getting really close to some of my favorite scenes. Also, Selina is a lot of fun,
I'm going to have to write something with her and Felicia, I think.
 Chapter 18
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

His nightmares find him quickly after he falls asleep. And he sees them clearly, as if living in them.

Or in this case, living them again.

He's on Titan, helping Tony struggle against the gauntlet on Thanos's hand. Peter alternates
between prying the titan's fingers back and pulling against the gauntlet itself. Tony is helping, but
he stops to look at Quill.

“Okay, Quill, you gotta cool it right now, you understand?” Tony says. He takes a second glance at
Quill and tries again, speaking louder and with no small amount of desperation. “Don’t engage!
We almost got this off!”

Quill is beyond all reason at that point. And Peter can’t blame him, finding out his friend was just
killed by her own father. If he found out May or Ned had been killed, he’d be worse. No, he doesn’t
blame Quill for what happens next.

He blames himself.

Quill screams, and starts to slam his gun across Thanos’ face, completely lost to his own rage and
grief. He strikes once, twice, three times, wrecking Mantis’ hold on Thanos, and waking the Titan.
Thanos growls sleepily, stirring.

His hand goes slack. The gauntlet starts to slide off easily, and Peter cries out in shock and victory,
“I got it, I got it---”

And he does. He has the gauntlet and all of its stones in his grasp. It’s as good as done; with his
powers, he can stick to anything---

He’s distracted. He doesn’t stick to the gauntlet. It’s ripped out of his grasp and a second later, he’s
sent flying. He catches Mantis on instinct, deploying the legs to break their fall and protect her
from the jagged rocks covering the ground. He curses, trying to protect her while Tony fights
Thanos, alone, because he got so excited he forgot to do the one thing that’s basically instinct to
him: stick to things.

And because of that, Thanos gets the gauntlet. Then the Time Stone. And then he leaves, and finds
Vision.

Vision, who was Peter's friend. Who must have died moments after Thanos found him. He hopes it
was quick for Vision. He can’t stand the thought of him suffering. And then Guardians start to
disappear in front of them, one by one.

The memory plays out. He starts to crumble away. He can barely manage a weak apology to Tony
before he fades completely. The pain is muted compared to the real thing, but it’s sharp enough to
shock him awake.

All because he couldn’t do the one thing Tony asked him to do. A whole universe, gone. It must be
the whole universe, right? If someone survived, they would’ve found him by now. They would’ve
found Felicia.
He sits up with a groan, stuffy and sweaty, and sore all over from curling up tight into a ball. He
feels wrung out and exhausted, the way he does after every migraine. He’d described this feeling to
Tony once, who had scoffed and simply said, “Kid, you’ve got a hangover.” He remembers
preemptively swearing off alcohol altogether after hearing that. Tony had pointed at him and
simply said, “See, I knew you were smart.”

His head’s drifting. He needs clear air. He pushes himself up and stretches, carefully working out
the kinks in his arms and legs as he heads for the fire escape, peering outside. It’s still night out,
maybe four or five hours since he left the parent-teacher conference with Loki. The night sky is
mostly clear for once, glowing with the ambient light that comes from any metropolitan area at
night. A few high clouds scuttle across the sky.

He pulls himself out onto the fire escape and heads towards his usual night time hang out.

***

Peter sits on the ledge, idly kicking his feet and watching the moon peek out behind the clouds
above. The cold actually helps him; migraines are stuffy, overheated affairs for him that leave him
tender and feeling as though he's been baking out in August heat. His migraine is gone, but the
hangover effect is dragging at him fiercely. Patrol is completely out of the question. Unfortunately.

He sighs and flops onto his back, arms thrown to either side, soaking in the cool air. At least he’s
going to keep the scholarship. Assuming Loki really did speak with his teachers and didn’t stab
them or something. He does seem to like knives.

He hears two feet land on the tarred rooftop somewhere behind him, and near silent footsteps
approach. Peter recognizes the steps--and the heartbeat associated with them, strong and steady,
even when leaping across buildings-- and contemplates sitting up and greeting Nightwing directly.
He ultimately decides against it.

Nightwing sits down beside him, subtly shifting his stance in case he needs to stop Peter from
falling over the edge. Or jumping, Peter supposes. The man doesn't say anything at first. He simply
sits beside Peter and provides a kind of silent support Peter hasn’t experienced since the last time
he saw May. His heart clenches at the thought, and he lets out a heavy sigh.

“Hey, Pete,” Nightwing says. “You look like you’ve had a rough night.”

“A lizard man armed with a bioweapon tried to kill me,” Peter replies tiredly.

“Yeah, that definitely counts as rough.” Nightwing says after a long moment. He briefly leans over
Peter to take a closer look at him, and Peter can see the worried frown lines crossing his forehead.
“You don’t look hurt, but we found a lot of blood in one of the hallways."

“Tony beat the lizard guy with a pipe and got me out of there. I still caught a few drops of
whatever that stuff is,” Peter says, reaching up to rub his eyes.

If anything, Nightwing looks even more alarmed. “Peter, if you were hit with that toxin, even just a
drop--”

“I slept it off,” Peter says. “It was barely one drop, Nightwing. I’m fine. Just had a really bad
dream.”

Nightwing doesn’t look convinced, but mercifully drops the subject. “I just got back from your
school. It’s shut down for the next week while they clear out the toxins.”
And there goes his lunches for the week. Peter sighs. “Yay.”

Nightwing considers him for a long moment. “You’re lucky.”

“You are literally the first person in my life to ever say that to me, I want you to know that,” Peter
says. “How am I lucky?”

“You must have some kind of natural immunity to the fear toxin Killer Croc had. Most people lose
their minds just breathing that stuff in.”

Probably his enhancements. God, if that’s what natural immunity is like, then what does a normal
person go through? “Why didn’t Killer Croc?”

“Scarecrow gives his lackeys antidotes to counter the effects caused by exposure. Killer Croc
probably got a dose of it before heading to the school,” Nightwing guesses, shrugging.

"Makes sense," Peter says. He pauses. "Did anyone else get hit with it?"

"One person. A guy named Duke."

Peter shoots up, staring at Nightwing in horror. "What? Is he okay?"

"He’s fine," Nightwing says, holding his hands out. "His brother took him home. He's safe, he has
the antidote, he'll feel a little tired for awhile, but he'll be okay."

He shouldn't have let Loki drag him out of the school. "I should've stayed and helped."

"You were smart to get out," Nightwing counters. “That’s the best thing you can do whenever
someone tries to use fear toxin: get the hell out and let the professionals handle it.”

Peter frowns, but drops it. He should have stayed.

Nightwing watches him for a long moment. Finally, he asks in a carefully neutral tone, “Tony left
you alone after you were exposed to that toxin?”

“He had somewhere else to be,” Peter says. “He wasn’t going to be in town for long, and I’m better
off on my own anyway.”

Shockingly enough, that enough does not seem to soothe Nightwing. “You shouldn’t have to deal
with anything like this alone. Why not ask your friends for help? They’d do it in a heartbeat.”

Peter starts to shake his head before Nigthwing even finishes his sentence. "I'm not dragging them
into my fucked up life. I don’t belong here and I'm enough of a burden as it is. The last thing I want
is to be a drag on Tim or Duke--"

"Peter, listen to me," Nightwing says, cutting him off, his voice firm and insistent. He grips Peter’s
shoulder, waits until Peter is looking him in the eye, and continues, "You are not a burden. Okay?
Not to anyone. Definitely not to your friends."

Peter’s taken off guard by the sheer sincerity in Nightwing’s voice. He’s equally surprised when
his eyes blur with tears. He takes a moment to sniff and clear his throat.

"You make it sound like you know them," he says, trying to make his tone light and joking. It
comes out paper thin, likely to break at a moment’s notice and cracking at the edges.

"If they’re your friends, I know they're good people," Nightwing says earnestly.
Peter scoffs, glancing away. "You barely know me."

"I know enough,” Nightwing insists. He pauses, as if coming to a decision. “Peter, listen, I--”

The power goes out. The city falls into darkness, lights blinking out ahead of a wave of shadow
that falls over the entirety of the city. The city is plunged into full darkness, and Peter tenses.
Gotham at night is already dangerous. Gotham in the shadows is much worse. He can hear distant
shouting, laughter, and cursing as drunken men spill out of the nearest dive bar, their night of fun
ruined. There are probably hundreds of similar scenes playing out across the whole of Gotham.
Maybe thousands.

“Dammit,” Nightwing says quietly. “How the hell did that happen? The power grid was reinforced
by Wayne Industries.”

“No grid is perfect. There’s always a weak point. You can’t out engineer natural disasters and
multi point failures. There’s only so much you can protect against,” Peter says, pushing himself up
to his feet. “This is bad. There are probably people trapped in subways. Or hospitals. And without
the lights, cargo ships heading for the harbors will be in danger.”

The city is suddenly much quieter without the electric buzz of power running through it. He can
still hear and see cars in the distance, winding uncertainly through pitch black streets. The moon is
out, and it’s providing some light, but not nearly enough. There are going to be car wrecks, traffic
jams, confusion and road rage. The stop lights aren’t even blinking red.

Nightwing stands up and presses two fingers to the ear piece resting in his right ear. He tilts his
head, listening to Oracle, then sighs. “All that and more, I’m afraid. Peter, stay here. This is safer
than the streets, and I want to keep talking with you when this is fixed.”

“Uh, yeah. Sure,” Peter says, blinking up at him. He can see fine in the dark. Well, kind of; his
spider senses kick in fully in the dark, and guide him.

Which means he sees the moment Nightwing realizes he’s lying. “Promise me you’ll stay where
it’s safe tonight, Peter.”

His tone is firm, almost paternal. Peter hesitates, then sighs. “I promise.”

“Thanks,” Nightwing says, clapping him on the shoulder. “We’ll talk again soon, okay?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

Nightwing walks towards the ledge, stops to look over his shoulder at Peter one last time, and then
leaps into the darkness below. Peter stays until he can’t hear Nightwing’s grappling gun anymore,
then climbs down the building on all fours, heading for the fire station.

He should put on the suit and go and help Nightwing, but his limbs are heavy and slow, and the
night seems much colder without Nightwing nearby to talk with. He opts for his bed instead. He
falls asleep soon after.

This time, he dreams of dust falling down his throat, of choking on something green and sharp like
acid, and of lizards with flashing blue eyes.

***

Peter’s migraine is a thing of the past the next day. He wakes up feeling vaguely out of sorts, and
then it simply becomes too cold to feel much of anything. He showers, changes into the warmest
clothes he can find, and then heads out into the city. The walk to the post office is long and cold,
but the traffic lights work, and there’s power in the buildings lining the street. Nightwing must
have handled things after Peter fell asleep. Thank goodness.

His weekly stipend is there, as well as a massive bonus: an extra five hundred dollars for his
grades. The letter that accompanies it is plainly boilerplate; no personal signature this time. That’s
probably for the best, really. Peter would like to imagine he’s still somehow under Bruce’s radar.

The money is nice; he spends it on a huge breakfast at a diner, and then portions out half for
necessities and extras for his suit. Most of the day is spent on chores, buying warmer clothes, better
fabric for his suit, and a few odds and ends. Most of that money is spent in a thrift shop. He
wanders through the shop, not quite ready to brave the cold again, then stops at a shelf tucked
away in the back.

It’s a cluttered mess of religious symbols, books, and objects of varying faiths. Tucked away in the
back is a menorah. Peter considers the menorah on the shelf, idly shifting back and forth on his
feet. His relationship with religion is complicated at best; his parents and Uncle Ben were Jewish,
May is a self described ‘lapsed Catholic’ and Peter is...well, he’s not entirely sure. Somewhere in
between, maybe. Aunt May is nothing but supportive, asking if he’d like to speak with a rabbi
during the deepest parts of his grief after Ben’s death, offering to take him to various religious
gatherings. He’d never taken her up on the offer. His faith hasn’t died, exactly; it’s just
complicated. Like most things in his life.

He and May had kept Ben’s menorah, and quietly celebrated Hanukkah even after Ben’s death. It’s
more family tradition than religious meditation at this point. It seems oddly sad to celebrate it by
himself. In his hovel.

But it would be a reminder of home, and he has precious few of those these days.

After a moment’s contemplation, he gently picks up the menorah and pays for it alongside various
electronics, books, candles, and candle holders.

He might as well hold onto at least one family tradition in this place.

***

He decides on an early patrol, and starts out early. He spends a few hours doing the usual;
checking in on the kids at the playground, stopping a few muggings, giving directions. The usual
friendly neighborhood Spider-Man stuff. The afternoon edges into evening, bringing with it the
usual evening traffic jam. He’s swinging above a line of stalled cars, heading towards the bus
depot to take a brief break and check in on Lou and the bus drivers when he hears a voice call for
him on the street below.

“Spider-Man! Hey! Down here!” a man in an EMT uniform calls out. He’s standing next to an
ambulance whose front end is crushed against a light pole. The pole is tilted at a slight angle, but
the ambulance’s engine compartment is crushed.

Peter snaps out of his drifting thoughts and adjusts his swing, dropping down on top of a bus stop
near the crashed ambulance. He looks over the paramedic quickly; the man’s heartbeat is normal,
he’s breathing fine, and he doesn’t look like he’s bleeding, so he must be okay.

“Hey, what’s up?” Peter asks. “Is someone hurt? That’s a nasty crash.”

“We’re fine! We’re fine,” the man says. “But we need your help. Do you know where Drake
Memorial Hospital is?”

Peter pauses, pulling up a mental map of Gotham in his mind. “Yeah, over in the East End. I know
it.”

“Good. We need you to take a heart there,” the paramedic says. He ducks around the back of his
ambulance and rips open the doors.

“I’m sorry, you what,” Peter says.

“Listen, there’s a ten year old kid at the hospital that needs this. The traffic jam is keeping another
ambulance from reaching us, and we’re on a time limit here,” the driver says. He pulls out a hefty
red container with the words ‘Human Organ: For Transplant’ stamped across it and holds it out to
Peter.

“Uh, right,” Peter says, dropping down to gently pick it up. “And it’ll survive being swung
around?”

“That’s a Wayne Tech box,” the driver says. “It’ll withstand a bomb. Just get it to the hospital.
There’s a team waiting at the ambulance entrance.” He stops and looks at his watch. “You’ve got
forty minutes.”

“Got it,” Peter says, webbing the box to his back in a makeshift backpack. He checks and double
checks the webbing before launching himself back into the air.

The East End is forty minutes away by car. He can cut that down by half if he’s generous with his
webs. Peter sets off for East End, swinging down the main thoroughfare with none of his usual
showmanship.

***

He makes it halfway to the hospital when his luck runs out. He swings from building to the next,
raises his left hand to shoot out a new line, presses the button on his palm--

And nothing comes out. He’s forced to abandon the swing, dropping down onto the nearest roof
with a muttered curse. He pops out the empty pellets, then pats down his pockets. They're empty.
Typical.

He’s out of web fluid. Normally that isn’t much of an issue; he can just hop on top of a bus until
he’s close to the fire station and take it from there. Except he doesn’t have time for that right now;
that’s twenty minutes in the opposite direction. He mulls over what he should do next and then
sighs.

Well, there’s no hope for it. Peter turns on his ear piece. It clicks on instantly, and he can hear the
faint background static that indicates a connection has been made.

"Hi?" he says, feeling more than a little foolish.

“Well, hello, Spider-Man,” Oracle says, her tone surprised. "What's up?"

“I need help,” he says. “I’m playing delivery guy for a couple of EMTs I found in Crime Alley.
They gave me a heart to take to Drake Memorial Hospital. And, uh, I sort of ran out of web fluid.”

“You don’t have a grappling hook?” Oracle asks.

“No. It’s just me and my questionable parkour skills right now.”

“I’ve got it, Oracle,” Nightwing says. “Spider-Man, give me your cross street. I’ll meet you there."

Peter peers over the edge of the roof, squints down at the nearest intersection, and rattles off the
names. "I'm on the roof of the Queen Industries building. The, uh, one with the obnoxious green
sign."

Nightwing bites back a laugh. "I know the one. I'll be right there."

He isn't kidding. Peter can see Nightwing swinging towards him right now. He's a few blocks away
and closing fast. Close enough that Peter briefly wonders if the man had been following him.

He doesn’t have time to wonder for long. Nightwing drops down on the roof beside Peter with a
careless grin and slight flourish. He has two utility belts on, and opens the pouch on one, pulling
out a small, sleek grappling hook gun and tossing it over to Peter. Peter catches it, then looks it
over. He's a little amused to see a small Batman symbol etched into the dark metal.

"Here ya go, Spidey," he says. He nods to Peter's hand. "Have you ever used one of those before?

"No, not really," Peter admits.

"It's easy, just like riding a bike. Or swinging on a web in your case," Nightwing says. He steps
close and gently adjusts Peter’s arm. "Loosen up your arm a bit. You don’t want it to be stick
straight.”

“Uh, right,” Peter says, forcing the muscles in his arm to loosen up.

Nightwing continues. “Use it like your webs, but recall the hook at the highest point of your swing
so you have time to aim and shoot for the next building."

That sounds simple enough. Peter steps up to the rooftop's edge, preparing to aim the grappling
hook. It looks simple enough. He hesitates and looks at Nightwing.

"What if I screw it up?" Peter asks.

"Then I'll catch you," Nightwing answers, clapping Peter’s shoulder. "Come on, let's get this heart
to its rightful owner. Think you can handle a little leap of faith?”’

Peter tilts his head, considering Nightwing for a moment. He grins under his mask, aims the
grappling gun, and then shoots. The recoil is a surprise, but he counters it, and the hook finds
purchase on a gargoyle leering over the street on the next building.

Peter leaps.

Nightwing follows.

***

“There’s a rhythm to it,” Nightwing says, swinging alongside Peter. “Recall, aim, shoot, swing.”

“Right,” Peter says. He’s sweating under his suit despite the chill afternoon. If he misses with the
grappling hook, there’s nothing stopping him from hitting the ground. He’d probably survive a fall
from this height, but the heart strapped to his back wouldn’t.

He calls back the hook, aims, shoots, and swings. It’s a rough and jerky affair; Peter is too used to
yanking himself along with his webs. He can’t exert that kind of pressure on the grappling gun
without cracking it.

“Easy,” Nightwing says patiently. “I’ve got you. Just take a deep breath and find the next target.
Just like you do with your webs.”

It takes a few more tries, but Peter finds his rhythm with the grappling hook gun. It’s not as
instinctive as his webs, and he doesn’t like that there’s a limit to how far the hooks can reach, but
he’s a quick study and adjusts. Within fifteen minutes, he’s swinging from building to building
easily enough that Nightwing stops hovering. Peter glances over at the other hero and finds it hard
to not stare.

Where Peter swings, Nightwing flies. He moves through the air effortlessly, as if he was born with
grappling hooks for hands. Peter’s both impressed and highly envious; his skill with webs comes
mostly from his enhanced senses and a few hard knocks early on in his Spider-Man career.
Nightwing isn’t enhanced; he simply has a lifetime of hard work and experience behind every
movement.

They close in on the hospital with fifteen minutes to spare, landing near the Ambulance entrance of
the hospital. A team of doctors and nurses swarms them, waiting impatiently while Peter shrugs
off his web backpack and dissolves the webbing around the container. The moment it melts away
from the cooler, the doctors snatch it out of his hands and sprint inside.

“Not bad. You’re not as strong on your left arm swings, though,” Nightwing says. “If you’re not
busy tonight, I could give you a few tips.”

“Dude, yes,” Peter says eagerly. “Teach me.”

Nightwing grins.

***

Peter practices with the grappling hook gun under Nightwing’s careful eye for a few hours after
that. He doesn’t come close to Nightwing’s smooth glide through the air--not without his webs, at
least--but he does become much more comfortable with the gun. Enough that it meets Nightwing’s
standards, at least. He motions for Peter to follow him to the nearest building, a towering
skyscraper at the edge of Crime Alley, and drops down on the roof. Peter’s right behind, landing a
little stiffly. He recalls the hook and sighs. The air is crisp up here, uncomfortably so, but the night
sky is clear again. This high up, Peter can see the faintest pinpricks of stars past the light pollution.
Nightwing claps his shoulder.

"See, I knew you'd get into the swing of things," Nightwing says, grinning at his own pun.

Peter laughs in spite of himself. “Dude, that’s terrible.”

Nightwing caps it off with a dorky finger gun aimed at Peter.

Peter rolls his eyes and shakes his head, but he’s secretly amused by Nightwing’s dorky jokes and
friendly attitude.

“Oh, hey, while I’ve got you,” Nightwing says, motioning Peter closer. He unclips one of the
utility belts strung across his hips and tosses it over. “Courtesy of Batman.”

“A utility belt?” Peter asks, catching it. It’s blood red, and the buckle has the image of a spider
across it; the legs are elongated and sharp, at odds with the fat red spider across the back of his
current suit. He actually likes that design. He checks it for trackers first, and idly crushes six of
them then and there. Come on, if he can find all of the trackers in a suit built by Tony Stark, he can
find whatever Batman has hidden on a belt.

Nightwing, for his part, is highly amused by this. “It’s useful. First aid kits, extra batteries for your
headset, spare grappling hooks and ropes, smoke bombs, batarangs--”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Batarangs. You know.” Nightwing flicks his wrist, and a small black object appears in his palm,
flicking out into Batman’s symbol. The wings are wickedly sharp; Peter can see their keen edges
even from this distance.

“Oh my god,” Peter says. “That is simultaneously the coolest and dorkiest thing I’ve ever seen in
my life.”

“Hey, they’re way more useful than you’d think,” Nightwing says, pointing the batarang at Peter
before flicking it closed and pocketing it again. “Anyway, you’ve got five in the belt.”

“Huh. Neat.” Peter takes one out and flicks it open, considering it. It’s perfectly balanced, of
course. “And smoke bombs?”

“Good for a quick getaway. Check the last pouch.”

Peter tilts his head, flicking the batarang closed and putting it back into its proper place on the belt
before checking the last pouch. He pauses, then reaches in and pulls out a thick grey pellet, staring
at it in shock.

“Web fluid,” Nightwing says. “Batman put that together after you first met him. I guess he got a
close enough look at your web shooters to figure out what you needed. He wasn’t sure how much
you’d need, and the chemical formula isn’t exactly like yours, but it should work.”

“He figured that out just by looking at my webshooter?” Peter asks, astonished.

“And testing your webbing before it dissolved. That took some effort on his part. Batman’s pretty
clever,” Nightwing says, amused. “Hopefully you don’t mind your webs turning grey.”

Peter quickly slips the grey pellet into the web shooter on his right hand. He shoots a web at the
nearest building and clasps it in his hand. There’s a bit too much give in the line when he tests it; if
he has to catch anything heavy, he’ll have to use twice as much as he usually would. But it holds,
and the extra spring might actually be useful in certain situations.

“Huh,” Peter says, idly flicking the line with his free hand the way he would a guitar string. It
wobbles.

“So, does it pass inspection?” Nightwing asks. “Batman and Red Robin were losing some sleep
over the formula.”

“It does,” Peter says after a long moment. “The grey webbing might be better suited for Gotham’s
weather, too. This city is a lot damper than New York. Tell Batman he gets a solid ‘B’ grade for
his work.”

Nightwing smirks. “Only a ‘B’?”

“He doesn’t get a perfect score for stealing my intellectual property,” Peter says. He pauses. “Hey,
if you had these, why didn’t you give them to me earlier?”

“Because you needed to learn how to use a grappling gun sooner or later,” Nightwing says,
shrugging. “And everybody knows that the best way to learn is under intense, mind numbing
pressure.”

Peter is quiet for a moment, then says, with no small amount of exasperation, “No, it isn’t!”

“It is in Gotham,” Nightwing laughs, walking towards the roof ledge. “Hey, I’m overdue for a
thing. I’ve got someone I need to check in on in Crime Alley. Call if you need anything, all right?”

Peter rolls his eyes again, but nods. “Sure. Thanks, Nightwing.”

Nightwing grins, then casually backflips off of the building and swings away into the night. Peter
rolls his eyes at the needless showmanship, then makes a note to do a double backflip the next time
they meet. Just to prove he can, of course.

Peter puts on the utility belt, adjusting it until it rests comfortably across his hips. It’s comfortable,
and it is useful. He’s not sure what he’ll use the batarangs for exactly, but everyone else seems
useful enough.

Time to test Batman’s webs.

He leaps off of the building and shoots out the first web, swinging for Crime Alley. He still has a
few hours of patrol left.

***

BATCHAT

Tim (11:29pm): any luck finding peter?

Dick (11:30pm): Not yet. I’ll give it a little more time. He might show up again.

Oracle (11:31pm): Sorry, Dick, but you’re needed at GCPD. Joker broke out during the power
outage last night. It looks like Killer Croc and Clayface helped him.

Tim (11:32pm): since when did Clayface and Killer Croc help the Joker?

Oracle (11:33pm): Since this week apparently.

Dick (11:34pm): I’m on my way. I’ll just have to try and find Peter tomorrow.

***

Patrol moves along quickly after that. More of the usual, thankfully, and nothing approaching the
surprise heart delivery he had to do earlier in the day. He hauls himself into the fire station with a
sigh, rolling his shoulders as he heads for the shower. It’s a quick one; the water is freezing. He
shuffles out in clean clothes, heading straight for bed. He pauses just outside of his makeshift room
and tilts his head.

It’s been oddly silent lately, he realizes. No half whispered conversations, no comments, nothing.
He frowns, considering that, sitting down on his bed.

“You aren’t hearing them because I’ve pushed them away from you,” Loki says.
 That seems bad.

“Go to sleep. It’s time you paid your end of the bargain,” Loki says.

Following that is a wave of exhaustion that hits him so suddenly that Peter sways in place. He
frowns, confused, and then lays down on his blankets. He’s asleep in seconds.

Chapter End Notes

Bruce has to know about Selina's new kid, right. Can you imagine the texts between
them?

Bruce: Please ask your new sidekick to stop breaking into my buildings.
Selina: No. ❤

Note: if you're binge reading this fic, this is a good time to put it on pause if you're
trying to sleep/get ready for work/etc. The next few chapters are going to be intense.
 Chapter 19
Chapter Notes

I am comic book sciencing the hell out of a certain part of this. I’m sure the physicists
that stumble into this fic will know.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Peter’s dreams are, as usual, vivid affairs that he won’t remember clearly. He’s walking on top of a
nearly invisible bridge suspended in the air. He’s walking alongside a dead god, following him into
a black storm. Loki is thoughtful and withdrawn, and Peter is confused. This isn’t like his usual
dreams at all. Most of his dreams these days involve him sneaking through alleys and across
rooftops, evading panthers or falcons or wolves. He’s not even sure that’s right; dreams seem to
function more on symbolism than the real thing sometimes.

“Have you thought about what’s happened to you?” Loki asks finally, breaking the silence. His
words cut through the wind and rain.

“What?” Peter asks.

Loki aims an unamused look at Peter. “You’ve died. A few times, in fact, though I don’t think you
remember them well.”

“Well, yeah,” Peter says, shoving his hands into his pockets. He pauses, frowning. “Wait. A few
times?”

“I believe the final count was four, though I admit I lost count after a certain point. It was
becoming rather tedious. Your captors were incapable of handling the machine they created,” Loki
says. “We all witnessed it.”

Peter isn’t sure what to make of that. He’s very sure he doesn’t want to think about it much, and
shoves away at the half remembered nightmares of a machine full of green liquid that linger at the
edges of his mind. He focuses instead on following Loki across the flickering rainbow path, taking
in the sights and sounds of this strange place. The air is frigid; cold in the way the air becomes just
before a storm rolls in. The clouds above rumble threateningly, swirling violently, with distant
rumbles of thunder following brief flashes of light within them.

Loki is watching him from the corner of his eye, clearly waiting for Peter to respond. Peter sighs.
“So?”

“There are consequences for that. You are not allowed to die and come back the same. I certainly
haven’t been the same after every death,” Loki explains, using a tone one would save for a
particularly slow child. Peter frowns at him, annoyed. “That goes double for a mortal creature like
yourself. Were it not for the Stone and the others, you would be nothing more than a wounded,
maddened beast.”

Peter considers that. Is that why his temper has been so touchy lately? Is it going to get worse? Has
it been getting worse? He can’t tell.
Loki pauses for a moment, and then adds, “Well. With the exception of the Panther, perhaps. Kings
are almost always the exception, aren’t they? And he seems like a good King. One that nurtures
rather than conquers. I would have loved to see him meet my father.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Peter says. “Where are we going?”

“To visit my brother,” Loki says, as if that’s possible in the slightest. "He has prophetic dreams.
Flashes of things to come. A gift from our mother, and one wasted on him, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t,” Peter says.

“You’re in my soul, spider, you don’t get to counter my opinions,” Loki replies dryly.

Peter rolls his eyes, but stays silent. He might as well be polite.

The thunder grows louder, sharper, all encompassing. The storm reaches a fever pitch of violence,
and the wind hits them fully. Loki withstands it just fine. Peter is soaked to the bone immediately,
bending against the wind and rain, shielding his face against hailstones buffeting around him.
Without the subtle glow of the rainbow path beneath his feet, he would be lost to the storm.

“Thor’s mind is a stormy place these days,” Loki remarks. He stops then, standing on top of the
rainbow bridge suspended in the storm and looks at Peter. “We’re here. If you get lost, find the red
thread and follow it back to your body.”

Peter can barely hear him over the storm. “What?”

“Good luck, spider,” Loki says. “You won’t remember this in the morning, I’m afraid.”

The rainbow bridge disintegrates beneath Peter’s feet, and he falls into the storm with a startled
yelp. He’s tossed by wind, rain, and hail, and lands in a heap on a smooth city street. The wind is
knocked out of him, and he struggles to stand against the storm. He’s standing in a city he doesn’t
recognize, one that shines even in the dark storm. He’s taller, stronger, and wearing a suit he
doesn’t recognize; a sleek black thing with blue accents and a red and gold spider etched across the
chest. Captain America’s shield rests on the ground beside him, gleaming even in the dim light of
the storm.

A terrified scream breaks through the storm. Peter’s head snaps towards the source of it and finds
himself staring at a blue-black tear in reality in the middle of the street. Demons and darkness pour
through it, leaping for innocent people standing nearby. Most of them don’t stand a chance and die
before they realize they’re under attack.

Peter snatches up the shield and charges into the fray. He flings the shield at the nearest demon,
leaps into the air, and then kicks it towards another demon closing in on a terrified teenager. He
switches off between fists, kicks, and shield throws, drawing the monster horde’s attention towards
himself so people can escape. He somehow manages it, but he can’t keep this up forever.

His lungs are on fire. His arms are trembling with the effort it takes to keep them up, and every
time he catches the shield, it seems to grow heavier. His hits become sloppy, and once the first
monster hits him, the rest pile on like starving wolves. If not for his suit--made from materials he
definitely doesn’t have available at the moment--he’d be torn apart. The most he can do is brace
himself against the tide of fangs and claws.

A roar like thunder cuts through the din, and white blue lightning follows, blinding Peter as it
flashes above and across him. It incinerates the nearest monsters, violently throws back others, and
then Thor is there, wielding an axe as big as Peter, crushing three unlucky monsters that get too
close in one massive swing.

“On your feet!” Thor orders, fighting back the horde to give Peter room.

Peter scrambles onto his feet, hefting the shield up and taking up a place back to back with Thor.
The monsters recover from their shock and charge in again. Peter is clumsy with the shield now.
His exhaustion is overwhelming, as is his confusion.

Which is why he doesn’t see the goblin faced creature wearing the armor of Thanos’s Black Order
until he feels the spear pierce his heart. Peter doesn’t even have time to scream. His vision goes
dark at the edges as he stares at the spear and the creature wielding it in blatant confusion.

The dream, or vision, fades with Thor’s furious scream as he’s left alone to fight the oncoming
horde. Peter wants to apologize, to stay and help, but his vision fades to black. He’s left in a black
void, alone save for a single red thread leading into the dark.

He stands in the dark, then picks up the red thread.

It yanks him into the void.

***

Thor Odinson snaps awake, landing on his feet with a full throated snarl. He grips Stormbreaker in
one hand and summons a roll of lightning across the other, clenching his fist tight enough to crack
his knuckles. His body tenses, ready to face the nearest foe--

There are no foes here. Not in the Avengers Compound. Only the others, who stare at him in shock
or with concern.

He blinks, lowering Stormbreaker.

“Thor,” Natasha says, her stance wary. She’s standing beside Steve, Clint, and Rhodey, the four of
them looking at him from the holographic table projecting an image of the galaxy. A blood red
blob covers a significant portion of it. The army Thanos has been gathering ever since he
devastated the universe. “Are you all right?”

Thor is quiet for a long moment, bringing himself back from the blood tinged dream and forcing
his breath to even out. Finally, he says, “I think I’ve just had a vision.”

As he says that, an orange red portal rips itself open at the far end of the room, and a blonde haired
man in a brown trenchcoat falls through with a litany of curses. He lays on the floor for a long
moment, then sits up, groaning in pain. He looks exhausted, as if he’s just been dragged across
storm tossed seas behind a tugboat; his coat is singed in places, torn in others, and utterly wrecked.
Cuts and bruises cover every bare inch of skin visible to the naked eye, and thin trickles of blood
trail down his face. He aims a wide eyed, shaken look at the others.

"'Follow the red thread', he says. 'It's the best time to cross over', he says. 'You won't get torn apart
by the void storms separating universes!' Bullocks. I am never doing a favor for your bloody
sorcerer ever again," the man says in a thick British accent, his voice wavering. And then he sways
in place, grows pale, and collapses back onto the floor, unconscious.

For a moment, no one moves, and the next, chaos. Rhodey and Steve are at the fallen man’s side in
an instant, checking his vitals. Natasha leaves them to it, alerting the medical staff in the
Compound before queing up a call to Wong in New York City on her personal holophone. Wong
answers after the second ring, and Natasha steps into her office to speak with him in relative
privacy.

Thor and Clint are left to themselves, at a loss as Steve and Rhodey grab the man and bodily haul
him towards the elevators, leaving the two men alone. A prolonged silence follows.

Finally, Clint rubs his eyes and sighs.

"What the fuck just happened?" Clint asks.

***

Peter wakes up cold, stiff, and weak. It takes him a long time to recognize where he is, and even
longer than that to realize how thirsty and hungry he is. He blinks up at the tarp hanging above his
bed and then rolls over to look at the alarm clock he built, tapping at it with a hand that only half
feels like his own. The STARK lights up, followed by the time. He squints, then sighs. He’s been
asleep for a little over sixteen hours. He staggers up, moving drunkenly, as if he’s not fully aware
of his own limbs. He tilts to the left, then to the right, and catches himself against the wall.

"Easy, Peter," Bucky says. " You’re trying to move too fast."

"Take it slow," Shuri says.

Right. One step at a time. Peter steadies himself, then walks slowly towards the bathroom, taking
each step with the same level of caution one would use while walking across an ice covered
parking lot. He finally makes it to the bathroom and staggers inside to deal with all of that
nonsense. The murmured conversations are back, and he’s unbelievably grateful for it, listening to
them through the wall while he showers.

“Where’s Loki?” Hill asks.

“In his own soul,” Wanda answers. “He’s diminished. Not as strong as he was. I think he needs to
recover.”

“Dr. Strange is off in his own world, too,” Fury notes.

“Like always,” Quill mutters.

“He was the one who pulled Peter back to his body,” T’Challa says.

“He was doing more than that. Something followed Peter and Loki, and something else came back
with him. Bucky and I saw it,” Sam says.

Peter walks back into the main room after his frigid shower, toweling off his hair. Despite sleeping
for most of the day, he’s exhausted, and sore, as if he’s fought off every mugger in Gotham City
twice over without a break. He stops and considers his suit, debating going out on patrol.

“No.”

So many people say it that Peter can’t tell who says it first. He decides to listen to them, however,
and settles for a night in with his tattered copy of Watership Down and half of his food stores. He’ll
buy more food tomorrow before patrol.

This time when he sleeps, it’s peaceful and dreamless.

***
He’s back in full form by the next day, and swings out for an early patrol. He makes a habit of
swinging by the playground whenever he can. He just hovers nearby, occasionally using a web to
catch a ball bouncing into the street to sling it back to the kids playing basketball or kickball. He
doesn’t stay long, usually, but he does check in when he can. Most of the kids wave or shout his
name when he swings by (and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t preen a bit at that), but usually
they’re too busy playing to notice when he drops down on top of streetlight or balances himself
against the wall of the building.

Today, he swings by early in his shift. And finds Nightwing showing off to a group of kids in the
basketball court. He’s teaching them how to do a handstand or a cartwheel, much to the kids’
delight. Peter drops down on his usual spot, a light pole near the center of the playground, and
watches. Nightwing catches sight of him, grins, excuses himself from the group of kids, and
effortlessly launches himself up onto a ledge near Peter.

"Hey, Spider-Man! I hoped I'd find you here," he says.

Peter grins. “Trying to steal my turf, Nightwing?”

“Hardly. I came looking for you. I could use some help tonight if you’re free,” Nightwing says.

Peter tilts his head. “I’m free. What’s up?”

Nightwing motions for Peter to follow him, and then leaps into the air, swinging towards the
Bowery. He waits until Peter catches up to him and says, “We’re going to take a look at Gotham
Power’s headquarters to figure out what caused that power outage the other day.”

“Do you have any leads?” Peter asks.

“A few, but I’d like to see what you find out,” Nightwing says. “It never hurts to have an outside
perspective.”

***

Nightwing takes him to a few substations on their way to the power station. Five of them, in fact.
Every last one is damaged in some way; one torn apart as if by massive claws, one blown apart,
one expertly sabotaged, another destroyed by a hail of bullets, and the last one melted by acid
(Peter could smell that one from three blocks away). The method is different for each one, and if
the timeline Nightwing gives him is right, then all five substations plus the main station went out at
the same time in a perfectly coordinated attack. After briefly looking over each one, Nightwing
takes Peter to Gotham Power’s main station, slipping inside.

It’s little more than a fancy warehouse filled with silent machinery at the moment. The station has
been touted as one of the most advanced in the nation, but it’s at least five years out of date by
Peter’s standards. At least, until he sees the main reactor. It’s huge, taking up most of the room,
with giant batteries, regulators, and monitoring stations taking up the rest.

“Is the station nuclear?” Peter asks. “I didn’t see any cooling towers outside.”

“No, not nuclear. Cleaner and safer than that, but the idea is the same. It’s a very powerful energy
source created by Wayne Tech. The details are a little sketchy for me, but the elements involved
just dissipate if they’re not kept stable,” Nightwing says. “It’s still ultimately a steam engine,
though.”

Nightwing is standing back while Peter looks around the ruined station. Unlike the substations, this
one looks completely intact. Peter can’t hear the faint buzz of electricity anywhere in the building.
If it wasn’t for his enhanced vision, he’d be in the dark. He can see Nightwing’s outline in the far
corner of the room, and the faint glow of his eyes through his mask, and leaps over to stick to the
wall next to him. Nightwing, unlike Batman, is more curious than anything else by his wall
crawling tendencies.

“So what do you think?” Nightwing asks.

“I think you’ve got a very well coordinated team of enhanced terrorists running around,” Peter
says.

Nightwing tilts his head. “Enhanced?”

“Sorry, I meant meta. I forget you guys call them that here.”

“Huh. Never heard that term before,” Nightwing says. “Okay, so we have the who. What else?”

Peter looks around the room, looking over the giant steam turbine that sits silent and still, the
pipes, the work stations. After a moment, he says, “This was a heist.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. They wanted something in the reactor,” Peter says, half to himself. He goes quiet, then uses
a web to yank himself across the room to the empty reactor. He crawls across the surface of it,
looking over every nook and cranny. He even pokes his head inside to take a look at the system of
wires and cooling rods. “Huh. They stole something from inside here. What was it?”

He pops his head back out of the reactor to aim a curious look at Nightwing. The man shrugs. “The
reactor is the heart of the system. There was a sort of focusing crystal inside that kept the system
stable.”

“Like the quartz in a computer’s motherboard,” Peter says thoughtfully. “They used alternating
current to vibrate the crystal and create a constant signal. And without it, the system falls apart. Not
the best failsafe.”

“Maybe not, but it sits at the heart of a reactor channeling enough power to keep Gotham City
running. Even if the station is fully powered down, there’s enough energy running through the
crystal to vaporize anyone dumb enough to touch,” Nightwing points out. “Not that it stopped this
crew, of course. But now we know what they were after.”

Peter squints, thinking. “Why would anyone need a giant crystal?”

“That’s the question we need to find out--” Nightwing starts.

Someone knocks something over with a muttered curse in the dark, and Nightwing and Peter go
silent.

“Who’s there?” Nightwing calls out. “Show yourself--”

A crackling blast of electricity cuts off the rest of Nightwing’s words, illuminating the dark reactor
room. Peter catches sight of a big man in an armored suit and oversized metallic gauntlets standing
between two batteries at the far end of the room. His eyes are startlingly blue, almost unnaturally
so. Nightwing dives out of the way of the energy blast.

“Hey, I think we’ve found our guy,” Peter calls out. “East end of the room, behind the batteries!”
The man screams, electricity tracing crackling lines across the surface of his suit. He draws one
hand back before snapping it forward to send two deadly arcs of energy at Peter. Peter dodges it;
leaping over to the opposite wall.

"He calls himself the Electricutioner," Nightwing adds helpfully.

"Gee, I wonder what his gimmick could possibly be," Peter says dryly.

"It's a mystery for the ages. Move high, I'll swing around and blindside him."

“You got it!” Peter says. He swings high, drawing the man’s attention to himself with a few shots
of web fluid across the man’s gauntlets. It sticks wetly to his gauntlets. “Hey, ugly! Over here!”

“I am not ugly,” the man cries out in rage. “I am a harbinger of glorious purpose---”

“Where have I heard that line before,” Fury asks dryly.

The Electrocutioner doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence. Nightwing comes from the
shadows, swinging low. He drives both heels into the larger man’s side, sending him flying across
the smooth cement floor and into one of the hulking batteries resting on a cement slab in the
middle of the room. Nightwing lands near the man, walking towards him.

“No!” the man screams, pushing himself up. He presses one of his electric gauntlets against the
side of the battery. Lightning crawls across the surface of his suit and into his gauntlet and the
battery it’s pressed against. “I won’t fall here! I won’t disappoint him! Not until I’ve fulfilled my
purpose!”

“What the hell is he talking about?” Bucky asks.

Peter’s spider senses go wild. The battery starts to glow with power, turning orange with heat and
pressure. If that battery is made of any of a number of rare earth metals, this whole place will be
full of toxic fumes on top of dangerous shrapnel in a matter of seconds. The Electrocutioner grins
at Peter viciously, and then sprints away, leaving the ticking time bomb of the battery behind
himself.

He makes a split second decision, shooting a web at the ceiling and then swinging down. He
lowers his arm, calling out, “He’s going to blow it up! Grab my arm!”

Nightwing’s reaction is immediate. He grabs Peter’s arm and lets himself be carried away from the
battery. He even helps Peter gain momentum with his swing, expertly adjusting his weight and
adding his own swing to give them that last bit of speed they need to reach the exit. They swing
through the double doors and slam them shut just before the explosion hits. The building rocks on
its foundation but holds steady.

Peter looks at Nightwing. “So, that was fun.”

Nightwing sighs. “Looks like Gotham’s going to be connected to Metropolis’s power grid for a bit
longer than initially thought. But at least we know who did it, even if the why is a mystery. Come
on, let’s get out of here. HAZMAT and GCPD can handle the rest.”

***

Nightwing and Peter swing back towards Crime Alley. Peter doesn’t pay much attention to where
they’re going until Nightwing leads them towards the fire station.
“Do you patrol this part of Crime Alley much?” Nightwing asks, landing on the rooftop near the
fire station.

Peter drops down on the roof, looking around. “No, not really. This place is basically abandoned. I
stick to the more populated areas.”

Nightwing nods, looking around the rooftop for a moment. “Can you do me a favor?”

“Yeah, sure,” Peter says.

“Try and check in on this rooftop for me,” he says. “There’s a kid that comes up here sometimes.
He’s going through something, but he won’t ask for help. He’s started avoiding me, too.”

“How do you figure?” Peter asks.

“He stopped coming to this roof right when I started making it a habit,” Nightwing says. “I’ve
checked in on this roof every night since I first met him. Not at the same time, and only when I
wasn’t being dragged all over Gotham, but I haven’t had a chance to talk to him much.”

“More than you’d think, pal,” Bucky says wryly.

“Uh, sure. I’ll talk to him if I ever see him up here,” Peter says.

“Thanks, Spidey. I appreciate it.”

They sit on the rooftop. Nightwing rests against the old HVAC system and Peter perches on top of
it. He’s a little uncomfortable sitting on this rooftop as Spider-Man. This place is his favorite spot
to sulk as Peter Parker, and it feels wrong to stand here with Nightwing. He lets his eyes roam
across the roof, idly throwing out a web at something shining in the moonlight. He yanks it back
and catches it in his hand, tearing it free of the webbing to look it over.

It’s his driver’s license. It must have fallen out of his pocket the other day. Peter is annoyed with
himself for losing track of it. It's not really a valid license, not in this universe, but it still comes in
handy every now and then.

"What's that?" Nightwing asks, peering over his shoulder.

"A driver's license. This guy must’ve dropped it up here at some point," Peter says, holding it up so
Nightwing can see it. "I'll take it to a police station later."

Nightwing is laser focused on the driver's license. He takes it from Peter, looking it over, and
squinting down at the picture. It isn’t one of Peter’s best pictures, but the puzzled frown on
Nightwing’s face makes Peter nervous.

"Uh. You okay? Is this guy trouble or something?"

"Brilliant acting, Parker," Fury says.

Look, he’s trying, okay.

"No, no, he's not trouble," Nightwing says, distracted.

"Oh. What's so interesting about his driver's license?"

Nightwing is quiet for a moment, and then he says, "He has brown eyes in this picture. And his hair
is different, but the picture is messed up. I can’t get a clear look at the color."
 The way he says it is odd. "So? DMV cameras aren't the best. Especially in that part of Queens."

Nightwing considers the license for another moment, then pockets it. "I'll keep hold of this. I know
a few of his friends. I can get this back to him."

Awkward. Peter can't argue against that without looking suspicious as all hell, though. "Sure, it's
all yours."

Nightwing is about to say something more when thunder cracks across the sky. Some bright
furious thing lances across the sky, red and gold. It casts a dim, ominous light across the city before
disappearing over the horizon.

Nightwing sighs tiredly.

Peter says nothing. His senses are going mad, and the fear has him rooted to the spot. But he can’t
quite articulate why.

“I better go find out what that was,” Nightwing says. “I’ll catch up with you later, Spider-Man.”

***

BATCHAT

Steph (11:30pm): did anyone else see that falling star? it lit up half the sky.

Tim (11:33pm): that’s weird. the next meteor shower isn’t due until next week

Oracle (11:38pm): Something just fell out of the sky and landed outside of Metropolis.

Oracle (11:43pm): Bruce is investigating.

Chapter End Notes

Just gonna casually steal Clint out of Endgame’s clutches and give him normal hair
(seriously wtf was that haircut) and scrub the murder off of him. Thor gets a new plot
too, because what the hell was that shit.
 Chapter 20
Chapter Notes

Welcome to what is possibly the busiest chapter of this fic so far.

Also small warning for blood. Someone gets stabbed in this chapter; it isn't described
graphically, but you know. Just in case.

I listened to three songs by Les Friction while writing out bullet points for this fic, and
I realize now that the lyrics have spoilers. Anyway, for the two people interested, the
three songs are:

Dark Matter
World Will Fail
Louder Than Words

They are very 2010s YA novel-ish songs, as a forewarning.

Diana’s memories are fuzzy things, the shape of which can’t fully see. One moment she’s near a
traumatized child, battling a sorcerer. A bolt of blue strikes her. Darkness. And now she’s in a cell,
chained to every surface imaginable with a material that does not crack against her strength. She’s
practically wrapped in a metal cocoon. A blindfold is wrapped tightly around her eyes. Unlike the
chains, it’s simple cloth. There’s no need to become extravagant when she can’t free her hands to
remove it.

“I see they’ve been forced to use rather extreme methods for you,” a prim voice says somewhere in
the dark.

Diana scowls. She feels sluggish, slow. Drunk and weary.

“Who’s there?” she asks. The words are heavy and slow, completely lacking the commanding snap
to her tone she intended to use.

“And they’ve bespelled you on top of it. I suppose I would do the same in their place if I were
foolish enough to anger a warrior goddess,” the man muses. He hums. “Pardon the intrusion. This
won’t take but a moment.”

The blindfold is removed, and something green flashes behind her eyelids, chasing away the
weariness. Diana’s eyes sting at the sudden light, but they adjust quickly and she focuses her
attention on the source of the voice. A man with shoulder length black hair stands in front of her.
He’s wearing fine leather armor, marked out in Nordic runes, and he’s watching her curiously and
expectantly. A red thread is wrapped around one finely made boot. Her sword, lasso, and shield are
neatly stacked at his feet. There are signs of battle in this tiny cell, and she recalls fighting--
something. Someone. Monsters. Creatures with bat shaped faces and deadly claws.

“Who are you?” she growls, straining against the chains. They creak, but do not break. Not yet.
She’ll need time to tear free of them. “What is this place?”

“This is one of the Black Order’s prison planets. The one where Thanos keeps his most promising
and most dangerous potential slaves. You meet that criteria, I suppose. As for who I am? Right
now, I am the nearest thing to a friend you’ll find here,” the man replies, light and lofty. He raises
one hand, snaps his fingers, and the chains fall away from her as if neatly cut. Diana staggers
forward, then catches her balance and uses her forward momentum to snatch up the sword and
shield at his feet.

She tests both, finds their weight satisfactory, and then grabs the lasso, clipping it to its proper spot
on her belt. She eyes the man warily. “I was with two others.”

He takes a few very prudent steps back when she grabs her weapons, keeping his empty hands in
view. “They are both far beyond your reach at the moment, I’m afraid.” He hesitates and then adds,
“I have a favor to ask of you.”

She watches him for a moment, then nods.

“When you meet my brother, tell him that I intend to keep my promise. And that Asgard will shine
once more,” he says. And then he taps the red thread with the toe of his boot.

A flash of red and gold fills the room, blinding her. When her eyes recover, she finds herself
standing inside a cell alone, clutching sword and shield in hand. She is confused. She is lost. More
than that, she is furious that someone would think to kidnap her. That they would do the same to
Superman, a dear friend, and Peter, an innocent she had tried and failed to protect. With the fury
comes knowledge and memories hidden by their foul magic. Memories of what they tried to do to
her. Memories of what they did to Clark. The fury chases away the rest of her confusion and
exhaustion, and fills her with an icy determination.

The Black Order does not yet know what a great and terrible enemy they’ve made.

They are about to learn.

***

Clark Kent knows three things.

The first is that he’s laying in a field outside of Metropolis, in full costume, at the bottom of a
crater the size of a small house. He must have fallen from a very great height to carve a hole this
deep into the earth’s crust. He makes a mental note to fill it in later when he’s feeling better. And
to leave an apology note to the farmer for damaging his field.

The second is that time has passed since he was last here. The fields outside of Metropolis had
been the golden yellow color typical of late summer when he was last here, and the trees had been
a verdant green, with the air thick with the smell of summer. The field he’s in now is a dull brown,
the tree limbs are bare, and the air smells of icy rain. He’s lost several months of his life
to...something. Somewhere.

And that’s the third thing: his head is absolutely throbbing. His thoughts are a jumbled mess, and
his memories are even worse. He feels uncharacteristically weak and off kilter, as if he’s been
strapped to a kryptonite mountain.

No, not straps. Chains. He vividly remembers chains. And a dark place. Flashes of multicolored
stones, glowing and pulsing with power. Someone calling his name. Someone important, a friend,
one bound in chains, one he raced to help--

The half formed memory glows red and crumbles like ashes in his mind before he sees the full
shape of it. The pain in his head grows sharper and threatens a migraine, something he hasn’t
experienced since he was a child growing into his powers. He struggles to retain the memory, to
pull it back.

It doesn’t come. Something else does instead; a half remembered thing more dreamlike than
anything based in reality: Diana asking him to help her look into a death cult stealing items of
power from her museum. He had agreed, of course, and right away. And they---

His eyes flash blue, though none are around to see it. His migraine raises into a sharp crescendo,
overwhelming him. And he struggles again with the memory that crumbles like sand in his grip.

No, he hadn’t agreed. He was busy. With something. He can’t recall it now, but it must have been
vitally important if he had pushed aside a request for help from Wonder Woman. Someone else
asked him for help. Then he had a pleasant conversation with them, and they asked him for a favor,
though they would not tell him what it was when he asked. Only that he would know when he saw
it. They needed help finding someone with a Stone. Capital ‘S’ stone. He isn’t sure what they
mean.

But he had promised to help the man with the golden glove. The memory around that feels
sandlike and crumbles at the edges as well. In his mind, he sees a pleasant conversation between
two godlike beings who understand one another. But his body trembles with unremembered torture
and pain and fruitless rebellion.

After that, he met a man with a red cloak, who said something earnestly important to him before
wrapping a red thread around his hand. Blinding red and gold light filled his vision after.

And now he’s here.

Odd.

Something to consider another time. He can’t stay here.

He pushes himself up with a groan, shocked at how heavy his limbs feel, and lifts himself into the
air with a thought. He rises slowly, unsteadily, and then collapses back into the dirt, breathing hard.
The ground sways beneath him, and he tries to push himself up again. He hears the familiar sound
of Bruce’s jet close in and land, and feels a sudden wave of relief. The relief only builds when he
hears Bruce gracefully leap over the side of the crater and slide towards him.

“Clark?” he asks, dropping beside him. He takes in the sight of Clark and hesitates. “You’re hurt.”

“Head feels like it’s been torn open and scrambled like eggs,” Clark rasps. “Hurts. Help me.”

And then he collapses into the dirt, unconscious before he fully hits the ground.

***

BATCHAT

Barbara (06:12pm): So good news, bad news time, guys.

Duke (06:13pm): it’s never good when you put that into the chat

Tim (06:14pm): agreed

Steph (06:15pm): what’ve you got for us, Babs?

Barbara (06:17pm): Bruce found Clark. That’s who fell out of the sky last night.

Dick (6:18pm): But?

Barbara (06:19pm): He’s hurt. Bruce didn’t say how bad, but he’s staying in Metropolis for
awhile.

Dick (06:21pm): If he isn’t giving us details, it’s bad.

Jason (06:22pm): What the fuck is going on lately? The bat monsters, the Arkham break out,
gangs working together, the fucking Joker getting friendly with every other big name in the
criminal underworld, Superman and Wonder Woman disappearing, then Superman comes back
fucked up bad enough that Bruce won’t talk about it.

Jason (06:23pm): It all feels connected somehow and I don’t like it.

***

Peter swings by the playground during his patrol, pauses mid swing, and then drops down beside
the Red Hood on a rooftop looking over the playground.

“You know, I’m starting to think you guys are following me,” Peter remarks. “A guy could get
nervous when a bunch of weirdos in bat costumes follow him around.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. We know you come by here to keep this place safe,” Red Hood says. He
pauses and then adds, “We all switch off looking after the playground when you’re busy, too.”

“Oh. Huh.” Peter doesn’t know what to say about that. He’s touched, honored even, that the Bats
would go out of their way to help keep this little piece of Crime Alley peaceful. Especially with
how busy they’ve all been.

“Anyway, this isn’t a social call. I need some back up, and right now, you’re the only one
available,” Red Hood says, turning to face Peter. “Black Mask is moving his people around en
masse, and I’d like to squash a few of his hideouts. You in?”

“Sure, why not,” Peter says, shrugging.

“Try to keep up,” Red Hood says before launching himself off of the roof, swinging down into the
alley below where a red and black motorcycle sits in the shadows. He practically lands on top of it,
dropping into the seat with practiced ease before turning it on and revving the engine.

Peter scoffs at the dramatics, but grins at the implied challenge. Red Hood wants to see if he can
keep up? Fine. He can do that.

Red Hood revs his engine once more before tearing out of the alley and down the street. Peter
swings behind him, keeping pace despite the speed.

***

Peter peers through the window of the hideout--a dingy old dive bar tucked away into one of the
back corners of Crime Alley--taking stock of the situation inside. Red Hood stands in the shadows
of the alley beneath him, sheltered from the wind and rain that cuts through Peter’s suit. He
watches for a few minutes, then leaps across the alley to the other wall and skitters over to Red
Hood. Like Batman, Red Hood is deeply disturbed by how spidery Peter can be.
“Okay,” Peter says quietly. “There’s twelve guys, all of them big and mean, and a lot of high
powered rifles between them.

He shoots out a web, sticks the gun in Red Hood’s hand, and casually flings it across the alley
where it lands with a clatter. “No guns.”

“Hey. Do you know how much money I stole from Bruce Wayne to customize that?” Red Hood
asks.

“Does everyone just steal from Bruce Wayne in this city?” Peter asks, tossing a metal pipe Red
Hood’s way. “No murdering anyone. Got it?”

Red Hood snatches the pipe out of the air and somehow manages to give off the impression he’s
rolling his eyes at Peter behind his mask. “No promises. Stick with me and don’t get killed. I don’t
need Nightwing giving me shit for getting his sidekick’s ass kicked.”

He’s through the doors of the old dive bar before Peter has a chance to be offended.

***

Twelve guys is nothing, really. Peter’s taken on higher odds than that before, though it was by
accident and earned him a scathing lecture from Tony (“think before you act!”) and a grounding
from May (“Peter, you could have gotten killed.”). And that was back when he was new at this sort
of thing. He’s not new anymore, and Gotham is basically superhero Hard Mode, so he can handle
this.

Except he can’t. Because he and Red Hood aren’t fighting run of the mill bad guys. Peter’s first
indication that something is wrong occurs when one of the biggest men presses one meaty thumb
against a button. The next three indications follow: Peter notices the thin, nearly invisible
translucent tubes weaving into the man’s flesh. The tubes fill with a blue tinged liquid. And then
the man grows in size and bulges with muscle, snarling ferally at Peter, ripping a knife out of his
pocket.

The next thing Peter knows, he has a knife sticking through his right arm and roughly two hundred
pounds of rabid henchman pounding him into the dirt. The guy isn’t pulling any punches either;
each strike to his face and chest hits him like a hammer, stunning him.

“Get out from under him!” Bucky orders. “Web him!”

Oh, yeah. That’s a good idea. Peter’s right arm isn’t responding thanks to the knife, but sets loose a
massive glob of web fluid into the big man’s face. The man yells in frustration, reeling back off of
Peter to claw at the web fluid covering his eyes. Peter takes the opportunity to hit him with more
webbing, trapping his hands against his face before driving both heels into the man’s midsection to
send him skidding across the ground.

Peter rolls back onto his feet, webbing up a few more of the henchmen. Red Hood is handling the
fight much better than Peter; it looks like the man is used to going up against unfair odds and
coming out the winner. Still, Peter makes sure to web up the men sneaking up behind him. He
leaves the last two to Red Hood and considers the knife sticking through his arm.

“That needs medical treatment,” Shuri says. “Leave the knife in--”

Peter rips the knife out and idly tosses it across the room. He can feel the horrified silence that
follows that, as well as the aching, burning itch when his healing factor kicks in. He has to fight the
urge to scratch at the wound like a dog; the itch is always sharpest when it first starts to heal.
Unfortunately, he doesn’t notice one of Red Hood’s foes has shifted his attention to Peter until the
man’s fist lands squarely in Peter’s face, knocking him back down. Red Hood is on the man with a
furious snarl, beating him with the metal pipe Peter gave him just outside. His strikes are hard
enough to bend the metal, though they seem more annoying than anything else to the man.

Peter webs the man’s arms and feet up from his position on the ground. The man curses a blue
streak at Red Hood and Peter both until Peter sends another glob of web fluid across the man’s
mouth. Red Hood idly kicks the man when he’s down and stalks over to Peter.

"Man, those guys hit way harder than usual," Peter says with a groan.

"Venom," Red Hood says sourly. He reaches down and hauls Peter back onto his feet, not quite
hovering protectively. "Bane must be sharing his secret recipe with Black Mask. Which makes no
fucking sense."

"What's venom?" Peter asks. He checks the stab wound in his forearm and is thoroughly annoyed
to find it still there. It should have healed.

"Think steroids, but super powered," Red Hood says. He pauses. "You got hit."

"Just a stab wound,” Peter says, shrugging.

“Yeah, through your forearm. All of the tendons controlling your fingers are there, genius. We
need to get you to a doctor.”

“I’m fine, mom,” Peter replies, digging out a pen and sticky note pad from his utility belt.

“The hell you are, mouthy punk,” Red Hood mutters. He stares at Peter. “What the fuck are you
doing?”

“Leaving a note for the cops,” Peter says, pulling a sheet free and sticking it to the wall near the
door. He clicks his pen open and starts to do exactly that. With a few bonus doodles.

“You can’t be serious,” Red Hood says.

“Serious as a heart attack,” Peter replies, quickly scribbling out a note for GCPD. He adds a small
doodle of himself and Red Hood for good measure. “Commissioner Gordon likes ‘em. He says
they help. Also he likes the doodles. Who am I to deny my adoring audience their joy?”

Red Hood looks over his shoulder and scoffs. “I look way cooler than that.”

“You aren’t allowed to look cooler than me on my post-it notes to the police, Red,” Peter replies,
adding stink lines to Red Hood just to be petty.

“Whatever, spider-dork,” Red Hood says, lightly shoving the side of Peter’s head before guiding
him towards the exit leading back into the alley. “Let’s go. We need to get that arm looked at.”

“I’m, uh, a little short on cash these days--” Peter starts.

“You won’t need cash,” Red Hood says. straddling his motorcycle. He pulls off the spare helmet
hanging off the back of his bike and tosses it Peter’s way. “Dr. Thompkins has an arrangement
with Batman.”

“Right,” Peter says, catching the helmet. He hesitates, briefly considers fleeing into the night, but
decides against it. He pulls the helmet on and sits on the bike.
Red Hood waits until he’s settled, revs the engine, and then darts out onto the Gotham streets,
winding a labyrinthine path through the streets.

***

“Oh, this isn’t nearly as bad as I thought it was,” Dr. Leslie Thompkins says over Peter’s arm.
She’s a thin woman in her mid thirties with long brown hair and thick rimmed glasses, and she’s
apparently quite used to superheroes stumbling into her clinic and bleeding all over her floors. She
had taken one look at Peter and Red Hood and ushered them both into the exam room.

“Not bad at all,” she says idly. She cleans off the blood around the wound and presses a clean
bandage to the wound. It doesn’t even count as a stab wound now; the extra food has kicked his
healing factor into overdrive, and the wound is nothing more than a large cut. “We won’t even
need stitches. Just a good cleaning and a bandage.”

The clinic is small, but very well maintained. The polished floors gleam in the bright light, and the
exam room is full of supplies. Which is a strange sight to see in Crime Alley; most of the clinics
Peter’s seen in Crime Alley are far more run down and sketchy looking.

“I told Red Hood this was nothing to get upset about,” Peter says. “He’s a worrier.”

“Hey, I’m not trying to get Nightwing’s mini-me killed,” Red Hood retorts.

“Nightwing wishes he was as cool as me,” Peter says.

Dr. Thompkins fights back a smile. “Boys, behave.”

Red Hood and Peter resort to flipping each other off behind Dr. Thompkins’ head for a few
moments before Peter resumes looking around the clinic room. His eyes fall on a row of bright
orange packets marked with a clown face and a red circle with a diagonal line crossing over it.
They look like needles meant to treat allergic reactions. Dr. Thompkins glances up from her work
to see what has his interest.

"That's the antidote for the latest version of the Joker's toxin," she says, wrapping a tight bandage
around Peter’s arm. "It’s fully effective as long as the victim is given the antidote within the first
half hour. After that, it's still effective, but there might be side effects."

“Side effects?”

“The side effects are different for each person,” she says with a sigh. “Even some antidote is better
than none, but if twenty four hours has passed, there’s nothing that can be done.”

He files that away for a later date. “Oh. Good to know.”

“Has Batman given you any?” she asks him, looking up from her work.

“No, I don’t think so,” Peter admits. “I haven’t seen him that much.”

“Batman’s working a case in Metropolis,” Red Hood says. “He hasn’t been able to outfit the
newbie yet.

“I also don’t need him to do that,” Peter adds.

Dr. Thompkins hums to herself, ties off the bandage around Peter’s arm, and stands up. She grabs
one of the packets and holds it up. “Tear open the packet, press the tip of the syringe against the
outside of your thigh, and hit the plunger. And hold your hand in place. It takes time for the
antidote to deploy. Got it?”

“Got it,” Peter says.

She tosses the packet over to him. “Good. Now get out of there. I’ve got a hot date with the
inventory sheets in my office.”

“Later, doc,” Red Hood says as he and Peter head for the door.

“Be safe,” she calls out after them.

***

Peter and Red Hood are back to the rooftops after their little trip to the clinic. Peter is perched on
the wall near Red Hood, idly poking his stab wound, much to the man’s disgust and annoyance.

“Quit that,” Red Hood says.

“If I did that, I wouldn’t be able to annoy you,” Peter retorts.

“I will throw you off this building,” Red Hood says.

Peter is about to respond when a grappling hook latches onto the building ledge. A few seconds
later, Black Cat flips herself up onto the roof. Her eyes are well hidden behind the opaque yellow
goggles of her suit, which looks insulated and more than capable of handling the frigid Gotham air.

“What the fuck,” Red Hood says, staring at her.

“Hi, I need to borrow your sidekick,” Felicia says to Red Hood. The man looks between Peter and
Felicia, then snorts.

“Gross,” Red Hood replies. “Have fun, use protection.”

And then he leaps off of the building. Peter glowers at Felicia. “ Sidekick?”

“What? I’m not wrong. You’re the unofficial sidekick for all of the bats in town. Everybody knows
that,” she replies. She holds up a manilla folder that’s been tied shut with a black ribbon. “And
focus. I need you to look at this. I found it in the Joker’s hideout.”

“What the hell were you doing in the Joker’s hideout?” he asks, horrified.

“I didn’t know it was his hideout. He doesn’t plaster a clown face on all of his places, you know.
Just the ones he wants Batman and his crew to find. And, again, focus,” she replies primly, lightly
bapping his nose with the folder before handing it to him.

He huffs, but takes the folder, opening it up and taking a look inside. He pauses, frowns, and
squints down at the paper. He trails a finger along one page, the eyes of his mask narrowing as he
squints. “These are blueprints, but I don’t recognize what they’re for. They’re using the focusing
crystal that was stolen from the power company, and materials that I don’t recognize.”

“Yeah, but what is it?” Felicia asks, peering over his shoulder, bracing herself against it for
balance. The warmth of her hands and presence is a welcome break from the freezing wind, and
Peter fights against leaning back against her.

“A dispersal device,” he says finally. “For a gas? Maybe? It’s supposed to release a chemical into
the sky that will mix with the clouds. The rain will dilute whatever it is--maybe, I’m not sure, I
need to see what they’re trying to release--and spread it across the city.”

“So I’m going to go ahead and guess that it’s not good that Joker has these blueprints, huh,” Felicia
says.

“Not at all, no,” Peter says with a sigh. “Can I keep these? I can hand them off to Nightwing. He’ll
know what to do with them.”

“Sure thing, sidekick,” Felicia says, winking at him through her mask before leaning back to give
him space. “I’m going to head home.”

“Try not to rob anyone on your way home,” Peter remarks dryly, closing the folder and tying it
shut again with the ribbon.

“You’re in luck, I’m giving up the criminal life for the rest of the week,” Felicia retorts. “There’s a
blizzard coming in a few days. I’m not interested in dealing with all of that.”

“A blizzard?” Peter asks.

“One of the big ones,” Felicia says, strolling towards the roof edge and pulling out her grappling
gun. “They cancelled school for next week, so it must be bad. Later, spider!”

She leaps off of the building and swings away into the night. The bitter winter wind hits Peter full
force again and he sighs, flipping on his ear piece.

“Oracle? I’ve got something for Nightwing,” he says.

***

“I’d love to come meet with you, Spider-Man, but I’m a little busy,” Nightwing says. He does
sound apologetic. And the sound of shouting, gunfire, and vague explosions proves that isn’t a lie.

“This is important,” Peter says.

“Give me the details,” Nightwing says.

“Are you sure? It sounds like you’re getting shot at.”

“That’s not really new for me,” Nightwing says. “Go on.”

Peter gives Nightwing a brief overview of his night, and the plans Felicia brought him. For a
moment, Nightwing is silent, busy as he is with dealing with several heavily armed men. Three
solid, meaty thumps fill the line, followed by a pained groan, and Nightwing speaks again.

“Okay, yeah, that’s weird. I want to look at that. Listen, I’m going to be busy here for a little while,
but we’ve got an apartment safehouse set up in Old Gotham. Can you take the file there?”

Peter looks up at the sky. The clouds are gathering for another round of freezing rain, his arm
hurts, and he’s really starting to get hungry. But this is important. “Yeah. I can do that.”

“Awesome,” Nightwing says. He rattles off an address to Peter. “Oracle will let you in. Let me
know when you drop it off, all right?”

“You got it,” Peter says.

 ***

The apartment is actually a penthouse at the top of Wayne Towers. It’s also locked up tight, with a
fully engaged security system. Peter, tired and thoroughly soaked by the rain, waves up at the
security cameras when he gets close. Oracle unlocks the door for him and he steps inside, glad to
be out of the rain. He pauses and looks around the room. It’s sparsely decorated.

Actually, it’s not really decorated at all. It’s mostly empty, and looks more like a lab than a
penthouse. One of the strange machines he, Spoiler, and Black Bat found a few weeks ago rests in
the middle of it. Peter eyes the machine warily as he walks past it, setting the manilla folder Felicia
found on a nearby table.

“This place is. Something,” Peter says. “What’s with the giant thing in the middle of the room?
The machine.”

“That’s a Lazarus Machine. It’s broken. Red Robin’s been taking it apart and trying to figure out
how it works in his spare time,” Nightwing says. He doesn’t seem entirely pleased that Red Robin
is doing this, judging by his tone.

"What's a Lazarus Machine do?" Peter asks, peering into the tube. The smell of the green liquid,
sharp and tangy, hits him, and he reels back as if struck, fighting off a wave of memories more felt
than seen.

“Ground yourself,” Bucky says quietly.

"Lazarus pits bring back the dead. Someone built a machine that does the same thing. And they
used it, which is something of a problem," Nightwing says.

Peter stops to consider the ramifications of such a machine. “Is it? I mean, as long as the person
who was brought back isn’t evil, it’s good news, right?”

"There are side effects,” Nightwing says.

"Yeah?"

"You can come back wrong. Usually the mind doesn’t survive. Victims suffer from insanity,
depression, memory loss, uncontrollable anger, all to varying degrees," Nightwing says, distracted.
"There are also physical changes. They're more subtle, but not by much."

"Like what?" Peter asks, looking over the machine. It sets off his spider senses; a constant electric
buzz that crawls across the back of his neck and the inside of his ear, agitating him.

"The eyes, for one. Your eyes will turn slightly green and your hair--" He stops. The line goes dead
silent.

Peter looks up. "Nightwing?"

"Your hair," he says, as if in realization of something. "Green eyes. A white streak of hair.
Depression, anger, and confusion. How did I not notice--" He curses. “I know who came out of the
machine.”

Peter suddenly notices the time. "If I see anyone who matches the description of a season one
anime villain, I'll let you know. But it's way past my bedtime. I'll catch you later, Nightwing.

"Spidey, wait, I need you to go by that rooftop I showed you--"

Peter clicks off his headset. He considers turning it back on--Nightwing sounded oddly upset--but
he’s exhausted. Oracle will be more useful.

***

BATCHAT

Dick (11:38pm): I know who came out of the Lazarus Machine.

Dick (11:39pm): Everyone meet up at the cave ASAP.

***

Peter strolls into the fire station just as the rain begins to turn to sleet, pulling off his mask and
wringing it out over the floor. A depressing amount of water falls from it and Peter sighs. He really
needs to make this suit waterproof. What he wouldn’t give for five minutes alone in FRIDAY’s
lab.

He changes out of his wet suit and leaves it out to dry inside the bathroom. He pulls on every warm
piece of clothing he can find and crawls into his bed, sore and exhausted, but in a way that follows
a good workout. He stretches his arms and legs,

He did some good tonight: he helped Red Hood clear out a hideout, he met a new ally, he delivered
some important information to Nightwing, and now he can relax. His bed starts to warm up,
chasing the chill out of his bones. He starts to close his eyes in a half doze, taking in a deep breath
and letting it out slowly--

A flash of green light wakes him.

A thick piece of parchment, more cloth than paper, gently drops onto his chest. Peter picks it up,
confused, and then the memory comes to him. The letter. The one Dr. Strange gave him and told to
keep hold of for safekeeping. God only knows where it’s been this entire time, but it’s here now. It
could be instructions on how to get back home or a way to even talk to home.

Peter sits up, his heart thumping against his chest, exhaustion forgotten. He flips the letter over in
his hands and then pops the wax seal, unfolding the parchment with trembling hands. He starts to
read.

Peter,

I am writing this while standing behind you on Titan. There is much I wish to say to prepare you
for the things to come. Time is, unfortunately, too short for that. I will be as brief as I can. The
letter will not survive in this universe for long. It will crumble into ash when the spells maintaining
it begin to fail. I must be careful with what I share with you. Please know that I am keeping some
things to myself, that I have my reasons, and that it is for the best of both worlds.

If you are reading this, then I am dead. Thanos has won and our universe is lost to you. There is no
going back. Not for you. It is very likely that your aunt, your friends, and most of the Avengers did
not survive his use of the Infinity Stones. I cannot tell for sure. In most of the timelines I witnessed,
they died quickly, if not peacefully, and did not suffer. I know this is a cold comfort, but it is all I
can give.

By all rights, you should be dead as well. I used a very powerful spell to change your fate, one that
has not been used in millenia, and the consequences of its use are not fully understood. There is a
chance you’ll arrive near good people who will help you. There is a much larger chance that you
will not. I apologize for the pain this will and has caused you. There was no other way.

Find a home in this universe. You are an Avenger, one of Earth’s mightiest heroes. You can do a
lot of good in this world. Do so. You need to marshal your strength.

There will be an unequal exchange in your future. You will suffer a great loss and make an even
greater sacrifice. This is true in every future I witnessed.

I am sorry.

-Dr. Strange

PS: As the Red Hood has undoubtedly already told you: You are not alone. Remember that above
all else.

Peter sets down the letter and stares straight ahead. His mind is a whirlwind of mixed emotions--
confusion, followed by disbelief, mostly. He stares at the letter, reading and re-reading it, over and
over, until the edges of it begin to curl and crumble into ash. A cold wind blows the ashes away,
and Peter is left to stare at nothing.

He does not move for a long time. And then it hits him full force: most of the Avengers are dead.
His friends are dead. Aunt May is--

That's what breaks him. He feels a lump form in his throat, and his sight blurs with tears.

They failed.

Ned, MJ, all of his classmates are gone.

The Avengers are dead. No one is coming for him.

Aunt May is gone.

That above all else is what breaks him. He crumples, just like he did at the police station after Ben
was murdered, covering his face. May, the one steady influence in his life, gone for good. Because
they failed. Because he failed. And now he’s alone, trapped in a universe not his own.

He wails. He clutches his hair and screams. He sobs. He loses his mind to grief and pain and rage
and the unfairness of it all.

All it does is exhaust him.

He falls asleep sometime after midnight, curled up in a ball on his bed, quietly weeping, even in his
sleep.

A flash of gold briefly illuminates the room, and a hand outlined in red energy reaches out to grab
his blanket. It gently pulls the blanket over Peter’s sleeping form before fading away.
 Chapter 21
Chapter Notes

Graphic depictions of violence, a brief discussion on suicide ideation, and grief take
place in this chapter.

BATCHAT

Barbara (06:02am): Okay, guys, time to clock off soon. What’s everyone’s status?

Steph (06:05am): Cass and I are getting medicine for Damian. He definitely caught Tim’s cold.

Jason (06:06am): I’m in bed. Do not call me or I will set this entire city on fire.

Tim (06:07am): sitting with duke.

Jason (06:08am): How is he?

Tim (06:09am): better. still disturbed by what happened at the school, but he’s back to himself

Jason (06:10am): Good.

Barbara (06:11am): Dick?

Dick (6:14am): Eating ibuprofen like candy. That was a rough fight last night. I’m not going to be
at my best for a few days.

Jason (06:15am): That’s what happens when you run off without your sidekick.

Dick (06:16am): Yeah, well, someone snatched him up before I could find him yesterday.

Barbara (06:17am): Speaking of which, Spider-Man's earpiece turned on earlier this morning.

Tim (06:18am): Can you track it?

Barbara (06:18am): No. The storm is making it difficult.

***

Peter doesn’t go to any one particular place in his dreams. Not this time. He’s alone in the dark,
drifting, considering all that he’s lost. He closes his eyes.

When he opens them again, he finds himself in the Wakandan ancestral homeland. There isn’t as
much tranquility and peace here as before; it exists, and he can even feel its presence, but it doesn’t
pierce his grief. He curls up beneath the great tree, under the watchful eyes of the panthers hidden
among its branches. They hover nearby, protective but aloof. Peter hugs his knees and buries his
face against them. He doesn’t weep; the sorrow and pain is too deep for mere tears. It's filled every
part of him, glowing like an ember. He stays like that for some time.
T'Challa sits beside him on the warm grass. He says nothing. He simply watches the stars above
and the glittering city below. Peter eventually looks up at him.

"Grief is a heavy thing to carry," T'Challa says after a long moment. "And you have been forced to
carry more than your fair share. That does not mean you need to carry it alone."

"I can't come crying to the King of Wakanda," Peter says.

"Why not?" T’Challa asks, facing him now. "Do you think I will not listen?"

Peter doesn’t have an answer to that question. Or, rather, he does, but he knows the answer will
only make him sound more pathetic: because he doesn’t deserve it.

The King seems to sense it regardless. T'Challa presses a hand on Peter’s shoulder. "You are not
alone in this, Peter. We are here for you, even if you cannot see us. Remember that. Promise me."

Peter hesitates, but nods. "I promise."

T'Challa smiles at him, both sad and relieved. "Thank you."

Peter can’t manage a smile back, but he does feel a tiny bit better. Not many people can say that
the King of Wakanda has their back, after all.

“You cannot stay here forever. You must push forward,” T’Challa says. It isn’t quite an order.
“Walk with me, Peter.”

Peter hesitates, then pushes himself back onto his feet. He and T’Challa walk through the
Wakandan Homeland together.

***

At some point, T’Challa disappears. Sam takes his place, walking beside Peter. The landscape
around them shifts into that Louisiana coast. Peter finds himself momentarily pulled out of his
grief, looking around. Peter walks with Sam through his family's property, fascinated, in spite of
his grief. He’s never been to Louisiana, and he’s struck by how different the trees are, how humid
the air is, and the strange calls of the birds above. Sam is perfectly at ease, relaxed and calm as he
walks beside Peter.

"I feel like I've been asleep forever," Peter says, looking at Sam. "Shouldn't I be awake by now?"

"Yeah, normally you'd be awake," Sam says, walking beside him. "Wanda and Mantis are keeping
you asleep."

"Why?" Peter asks, frowning up at him.

“Because we know what you were planning to do when you woke up,” Sam says.

His words hit like a truck. Peter looks away, shoving his hands in his pockets, suddenly ashamed
and sick. Sam sighs, wrapping an arm around Peter’s shoulders. Peter walks with him like that for a
long moment.

“I wasn’t going to do it,” he says quietly. “Not really.”

“I know,” Sam says. “But none of us wants to take that chance. You’d do the same in our position.”

Peter frowns, but doesn't argue the point. Sam is telling the truth, after all.
“The best thing you can do is wait it out,” Sam says. He sounds as though he’s speaking from
experience. And maybe he is; Peter has avoided looking too deeply into the minds and hearts of the
souls attached to him. “You find a reason, any reason, doesn’t matter how big or small, to ignore
that impulse. Wait until the darkness goes away, then get help. ”

"Who do I go to?" Peter asks. His own voice sounds small and raw and wounded.

"Duke. Nightwing. Tim. Red Hood or Felicia. Hell, any of the Bats, maybe even that cop you
talked to weeks ago," Sam answers. "You have options. Take them. All right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, all right," Peter says. He pauses. "Thanks, Sam."

Sam nods. He keeps a protective arm around Peter’s shoulders.

At some point, others walk with them, offering their own silent support. Bucky. Shuri. The
Guardians of the Galaxy. Dr. Pym and his family. Even Nick Fury and Maria Hill join them. Some
speak to him, but mostly they simply walk beside him.

Gradually, the darkness in Peter’s mind retreats. The others seem to drift away when this happens.
Peter keeps walking. The landscape shifts and changes as he walks. Peter finds himself inside the
Avengers Compound. Memories of the other Avengers play out across the grounds, ghost like, and
muted. Peter is less paralyzed by his grief now; he stands up and walks through the halls of the
Compound's residence wing. A door is open, golden light spilling across the hall, and the canned
laughter of a sitcom echoes out into the hall. Peter walks towards the door, peering inside
curiously. This room had been closed off when he visited the Compound.

Wanda Maximoff sits on her bed. A flatscreen TV is playing a rerun of Friends. She looks up and
silently waves him inside. Peter hesitates, then walks into Wanda's room and sits with her.

They say nothing.

Somehow, Peter knows she understands his grief more than the others. He watches cheesy sitcoms
with her until the pain lessens, and he drifts off to sleep.

***

He wakes up gradually, as if someone is gently pulling away a blanket. The grief and pain are still
there, but it isn’t overwhelming like it was last night. And other, darker thoughts haven been
pushed away. They haven’t disappeared, but they aren’t as close and tantalizing as they were
before. That gives him a shaky sort of relief he doesn’t want to think about too much. He rolls over
in his bed and checks the time.

It’s almost six o’clock in the evening. It’s dark and dreary outside, with a chill wind that smells of
snow and ice cutting through the drafty building. He’s almost slept the entire day away. Maybe
that’s for the best. He certainly wasn’t going to do anything worthwhile with his day. He sits up,
stretches, pushes himself to his feet. He paces, grabbing three breakfast bars and eating each one
mechanically as he moves. He’s starving, but even that feeling is oddly muted. The breakfast bars
will keep him going for awhile yet.

He thinks about his current situation, pacing through the chilly fire station. ‘You are not alone.’ Dr.
Strange had written it larger than the rest of the letter, as if to emphasize the point. In the back of
his head, he hears Felicia say Learn to ask for help! and T’Challa and Sam. Their words swim
around the back of his mind, and the obvious conclusion strikes him.

There’s no going home, and no one is coming to save him. He’d somehow held out hope that one
of Dr. Strange’s portals would just pop into existence in front of him and take him home. He
knows that it was stupid to hope for that, especially after all this time, but it would have been nice.
Reality has set in, however, and Peter knows he can’t go it alone anymore.

His headset lets out a quiet ping from inside his suit. He pulls on the mask, engages the voice
modulator, and turns up the earpiece. “Yeah?”

“Good evening to you, too,” Oracle says, a little taken off guard by his tone.

“Oracle. Hi,” Peter says. He changes out of his pajamas and into the suit. It’s mostly dry by now,
but freezing. He puts on the utility belt and double checks his webshooters. “Sorry, I’ve had a day.
What’s up?”

“Nightwing could use some back up for his patrol tonight. You in?”

That’s perfect. Peter’s answer is immediate. “I’m on my way.”

“Glad to hear it,” Oracle says. “Head to the East End. Nightwing will wait for you there.”

A quick patrol will help clear his head. And by the end of it, he’ll ask Nightwing if Batman’s
invitation is still open.

***

The storm clouds thicken, and snow flurries start to fall by the time Peter reaches Nightwing. He
drops down the roof ledge beside Nightwing and looks out over the streets below. The city seems
darker than usual; more worn down, more hopeless than before. The shadows are deeper, the cold
sharper, and Peter wonders if he’s just seeing the city for what it truly is for the first time.

“Hey, Spidey,” Nightwing says, focused on his phone. “Easy work tonight. I need your help
finding someone.”

“Sounds good,” Peter says, his tone flat and uninterested.

Nightwing notices the change immediately. He looks up from his phone, frowning at Peter. “Hey.
You alright?”

Peter sighs, reaching back to rub the back of his neck. Maybe he should just come clean now
instead of waiting until the end of their patrol. “No. I just got some bad news from back home.”

Nightwing gives him a sympathetic look. “Let’s go talk--”

“Not yet, guys,” Oracle cuts in. “Black Mask’s men are moving in on Lexcorp’s labs. They’re
heavily armed. And someone just called in a fire at an apartment tower on the other side of the
Bowery. Details are sketchy on that one, but the company who owns the building doesn’t have a
stellar record with the fire marshal.”

“When it rains, it pours,” Nightwing says with a sigh. “Back in my day, we only had one crisis per
night.”

“You’re like eight years older than me, if that,” Peter points out.

“Hey, that’s like twenty in superhero years,” Nightwing points out. “Okay. Spidey, you go check
out the fire, I’ll head to Lexcorp. We’ll meet up again afterward.”

“Right,” Peter says, standing up straighter. “Be careful, Nightwing."

 ***

Peter swings through the Bowery, keeping his head on a swivel. The apartment tower doesn’t look
like it's on fire, but it could be an internal fire that hasn’t yet breached a window. Peter reaches the
tower, sticks to the wall and crawls around the entirety of the tower. No fires, no alarms, not even
the smell of smoke. The brick walls are damp and cool under his fingers, and the only sounds he
can hear coming from inside are the usual noises one would hear in any apartment complex:
laughter, annoying bass boosted music, chatter, and clattering noises in kitchens.

“Oracle, I’m here, but I don’t see anything,” Peter says. “I can’t even smell smoke.”

A lengthy pause follows that.

“Oracle?” Peter says, louder this time. He says it loud enough to startle a man standing on a
balcony outside his apartment, holding a cigarette. Peter awkwardly waves at the man who returns
the wave, just as awkwardly. “Hey, you there?”

“Shit,” Oracle says quietly. “That was a false call. Someone hacked into the 911 system and filled
it with bogus calls. I’ve got two dozen bomb threats, one hundred fires, and four bank robberies on
the screen right now. None of them seem legitimate.”

Gunfire cracks across the comm line, and Nightwing says, “The Lexcorp robbery isn’t! I could use
some back up!”

“I’m on the way,” Peter says. He launches himself off of the apartment tower and swings back
towards the Bowery.

Even through the clouds and snow, he can see the giant L shining through. The Lexcorp building
isn’t the tallest one in the district, but it’s close. Peter uses his webs to throw himself across the
district. He crosses it in no time at all, using a crane settled across the roof of a nearby building to
swing around the rooftop and get an idea of what’s happening below.

Nightwing is facing off against twelve opponents and holding his own. The men have translucent
tubes burrowing into their skin like the men he and Red Hood fought last night. One man aims a
punch for Nightwing, misses, and cracks the cement wall where Nightwing’s head had been
seconds before. They’re enhanced, then.

Peter finds his opening and swings down towards Nightwing and the men he’s fighting. Warning
bells start to sound off when Peter starts his swing, and the full alarm hits him three seconds before
the red dot of a laser appears on Nightwing’s back. Nightwing doesn’t notice; he’s too busy
fighting back a dozen frenzied False Facers.

It’s just enough time for Peter to adjust his trajectory. He switches direction on a dime, yanking
himself hard to the left, and swings low and fast. He lands a shoulder against Nightwing’s side,
hard enough to send the man flying across the roof with a startled, breathless grunt just as the crack
of a gunshot rings out.

Things slow down for him after that.

He sees the red dot hover over his side. Peter’s swing isn’t as fast as it should be. He can’t dodge
this, and if he tries to turn or shift into another maneuver, he’ll just slow himself down and make
himself a bigger target for the next shot. He tenses, his senses going absolutely wild.

He sees the blood when the bullet strikes home, but all he feels is a sharp, burning sensation, as if
he’s been bitten by the spider from Oscorp again. It pierces deep, smoldering inside his guts,
setting his ribs on fire, and adding a strange, wheezing sensation whenever he breathes in.

He sees Nightwing roll back onto his feet, staring at Peter in confusion that shifts to horror.

The force of the bullet interrupts his swing, throwing him off balance, and sending him over the
side of the building. He lands on a lower roof with a sickening thud, cracking his head against the
tarred roof hard enough to send stars in his vision. He rolls over onto his hands and knees,
frustrated by his slowness, and tries to catch his breath. There’s a stitch in his side--

“There’s a bullet in your side,” Bucky hisses.

Right, that too.

Two more red dots appear on his hands, tracing jerky lines up towards his face. He launches
himself off of the roof blindly, swinging away in a drunken, hasty arc that has none of his usual
grace as two loud cracks echo across the evening sky. He swings from building to building,
ducking between alleys and putting the larger buildings between himself where the snipers are.

Naturally, his headset is absolutely exploding.

“Nightwing? Someone is throwing a lot of interference into the line,” Oracle says. “Report. What’s
your status?”

“I’m fine! I’m fine!” Nightwing snaps. Peter has never heard him this upset before. “He just--
Spidey pushed me out of the way of a bullet. He’s hit. I’m in cover, but I can’t leave. They have me
pinned down. God, there must be a dozen of them in the buildings around us.”

“Stay low, help is on the way,” Oracle orders. Three more thundering cracks shatter the air and
Nightwing curses. She’s typing furiously on her end of the radio. “Help is coming as fast as they
can--”

Peter lands hard on the roof of a bank some distance away from the Lexcorp building, standing in
the shadow of the crane. His side throbs in agony, sharp enough to make his knees wobble and his
breath come out in sharp gasps. This is much worse than his normal gunshot wounds. He’s never
been shot with a sniper rifle before; normally it's a smaller caliber, if it happens at all. A little .22
bullet would be far more preferable to the absolute slug buried in his side. And it is still there, he
can feel it. He prods the wound and hisses in pain, biting back a sudden wave of nausea. Flashes of
white light creep into the edge of his vision, and his breathing becomes ragged. Blood is pouring
down his side in a constant cascade, growing stiff in the cold, damp air.

At least he pushed Nightwing out of the way. This probably isn't a fatal wound for Peter, but it
definitely would've been one for Nightwing. A bullet this large would’ve shattered his spine. It
might have blown him in half entirely. Better the bullet hit him than Nightwing. Now for the fun
part: getting the bullet out of himself. He can’t heal while it’s still there, and there’s only so much
blood he can lose before it becomes troubling.

“Spider-Man, what’s your location?” Oracle asks. Peter has never heard her sound so tense. “I can
get an ambulance to you--”

And then she cuts off. A muffled explosion in the distance sends smoke and debris into the air near
the base of the crane, and the main cell tower in the neighborhood begins to topple over to the
street below. Distant echoing pops in the neighborhood around him sound off, and Peter has the
sinking realization that someone has just taken out every cell tower and repeater in the district.

“Someone just neutered the communication network,” Fury says.

“This is too organized,” Hill says.

Peter has to agree. The 911 hack, the snipers, the cell towers. This is connected. But god, it’s hard
to think right now.

“Yeah, I fucking wonder why,” Bucky snaps. “Get to cover--”

The crane creaks ominously. Peter’s senses, already at high alert, shoot up to a low alarm when the
massive machine is hit by a gust of wind. It creaks, then tilts, and then starts to fall to the streets
below. The same streets that are currently packed full of cars and people. When it hits the ground,
it’ll pancake anyone or anything it lands one.

He can’t let that happen. Peter pushes himself up, looks for any lingering snipers (he spots two),
and then moves. He sprints across the slick rooftop, moving over and around each obstacle, using
the parkour tricks Nightwing taught him weeks ago, adjusting his webshooter as he goes. If he
does this just right---

He leaps into the air and shoots a wide web at the crane, swings below and then around it,
connecting the web to the nearest building. It holds, creaking ominously. He keeps going, repeating
the process down the length of the crane. It's a process that takes less than a minute and eats up
almost all of his web fluid. He can feel blood pour out of his side with every leap, every swing, and
every breath. It slows him down, but he pushes through it. He can’t stop now, and he’s not going
to. Too many people are counting on him.

The final web, swing, and stick takes place barely twenty feet above ground. Peter succeeds in
suspending the crane mid air above the busy streets of Gotham just as the crane brushes against the
tops of a few buildings below.

He tries to land on the crane, misses by centimeters, and instead lands hard on the cold asphalt of
another building. The wind is knocked out of him. He wheezes, staring up at the crane in a daze,
blood gently pouring out of the wound in his side. The crane dangles from its web cocoon above
him, creaking in the wind. Despite the pain, the exhaustion, and the very real bullet wound in his
side, Peter feels relief.

God, that had been close. Was it not anchored properly? Was it rigged to fall? How did it---

Danger.

Peter freezes. His senses are going haywire. He can hear footsteps. And the sound of a coin being
flipped, over and over.

"You know, kid, you chose a really bad time to drop in. That trap wasn’t meant for you," a low,
gravelly voice says. Peter doesn’t recognize.

"Stupid do gooders are all alike," another voice says, sibilant and snarling. This one smells like a
reptile. Killer Croc. "Instead of Nightwing, we get a Spider."

"Hang on there, pal," another says, and this one sounds like he's talking through a mouthful of mud.
Clayface. "He ain't our mission. We don't need to kill him, right, Two Face?

Two-Face says nothing for a moment. And then that first gravelly voice speaks and Peter puts a
name to it. "Everyone deserves a chance. Fifty-fifty. That's the best anyone can ask for."

Another coin flip, the smack of one hand catching a coin against another. Silence, and then, "Looks
like the odds weren't in your favor."
“Oh, I was hoping it would go that way,” the Joker says, laughing. “Let’s call this a team building
exercise, hm? Nothing brings friends together like a good beating. I even brought my favorite
crowbar!”

“Leave him alive enough for me,” a voice hisses, low and echoing. The body it comes from smells
of Fear toxin.

“If he survives this, he’s all yours, Scarecrow,” Joker says. “Just leave him somewhere for the Bat
to find.”

“Get up,” Sam says urgently. “Get up!”

Peter Parker, grievously wounded, exhausted, and rocked by the knowledge that he’ll never see his
friends or family again, pushes himself to his feet to face his foes.

Alone.
 Chapter 22
Chapter Notes

Graphic depictions of violence to follow.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

BATCHAT

Barbara (07:01pm): Nightwing and Spider-Man need help, sending coordinates now.

Message Failed; No Signal

Barbara (07:01pm): Emergency, everyone get to Nightwing.

Message Failed; No Signal

***

So he has a bit of a situation here.

From left to right: Killer Croc, hunched low for a pounce, flexing his meaty claw tipped fingers,
watches Peter hungrily, breath steaming in frigid air. Beside him stands Clayface, a man with skin
the color of white clay, muscles gradually growing thicker by the moment; when he sees Peter
glance at him, he grins, revealing rows of jagged, stone-like teeth, and clenches fists the size of
small boulders. Next to him, front and center to the whole group is the Joker in his purple suit,
gripping an old crowbar covered in the rust like stains formed from dried blood, teeth bared in a
wide slasher’s smile. To his right is a man in a simple two toned suit, one half white, the other half
black, matching the wildly different halves of his face. One normal, the other horrifically scarred,
as if freshly scorched from some massive fire, lips peeled back in a sneering snarl. Two-Face. He
regards Peter coldly, idly flipping a coin in one hand. And beside him is an absolute nightmare: a
spindly man standing well over six feet tall wearing a leather mask over his face. The eyes and
rictus grin mouth shelter a hellfire red glow within, as if there isn’t a man behind the mask at all. In
his hands rests a scythe with a trailing chain welded to the handle. Peter can hear the clink of
bottles inside his tattered coat as he moves. The Scarecrow.

Five of Gotham’s worst, and all of them looking right at him. He definitely isn’t cutting an
intimidating figure here: all of them tower over him, wild eyed and grinning at him cruelly. They
stalk towards him, wolves circling wounded prey. The distant crack-crack of sniper fire echoes
across the air, at odds with the snow gently falling from the slate gray sky above. That gunfire
means he’s well and truly on his own; Nightwing can swing fast, but he can’t swing fast enough to
avoid snipers. It also means that Nightwing is still alive. There’s no need to shoot a dead man, after
all.

Peter hunches into a fighter’s stance, thinking quickly. His left side is stiff; the skin around the
bullet wound is already growing tight from the no doubt massive bruise forming across the length
of his torso. He takes a moment to shoot a glob of web fluid across the wound to stop the bleeding.
He has to bite back a sudden shout of pain; holy shit, that hurt.
He’s at a massive disadvantage, to put it lightly. He slowly backs away as the others approach,
considering his options. He doesn’t have many: he could run away, but that just means these
assholes will find and kill Nightwing. Not an option. But he sure as hell can’t fight Gotham’s worst
on his own.

Can he?

Peter blinks behind his mask. Maybe he can. Oracle had said she was calling for help. He doesn’t
have to win the fight. He just has to keep them busy long enough for back up to arrive. And the
longer he keeps from fighting, the better off he’ll be.

Okay. So stall. Put up a tough front. Don’t let them see how drained he is. Peter straightens his
back and faces the approaching gang, chin held high. Even doing that much pulls at his wound, but
he pushes through the pain.

Time to bluff.

“Okay, this is how it's gonna go,” Peter says, slowly shifting in place to keep them all in view. He
manages to keep from sounding breathless and exhausted, but only barely. "Right now, every Bat
in the city is on their way. The whole crew. Plus the GCPD, maybe the Justice League--"

"Hardly," Joker says dryly. "The only bats in this city are right here. Nightwing up there--” He
points to the building above, and the steady cracking thunder of sniper rifles. “And you, down
here. With us.”

“He’s hurt,” Scarecrow says, pointing his scythe towards the bloodstain that covers Peter’s side.
His voice is gentle, even, and unnervingly calm, at complete odds with his appearance. “Look at
the blood.”

“He won’t last five seconds,” Clayface remarks. He sounds annoyed and bored. “Get it over with.”

“Croc? Tear his arms off,” Two-Face says.

Killer Croc laughs, lumbering towards Peter’s wounded side. His nostrils flare at the scent of
blood, and Peter can see the feeding frenzy forming behind the monster’s eyes. He moves with a
heavy limp, favoring the leg that Loki impaled at the school.

So much for stalling. Time to show them he means business.

Peter aims both web shooters at Killer Croc and fires. Twin tendrils shoot out. One tangles up
Croc’s good leg, forcing him to land too heavily on the wounded one. He lets out a startled snarl
when it starts to collapse beneath him. The other tendril sticks squarely to his scaly chest, holding
as tightly as any of the buildings Peter would swing from on a normal night. He still intends to
swing, but the method is a bit stranger tonight.

Peter braces both feet on the ground, enabling his sticky powers, and pulls, putting his strength
behind it. He yanks Killer Croc right off of his feet and into the air, twisting his body around to
swing the confused and frightened lizard man in a wide arc that ends at Two-Face. The two men
crash into each other with thunderous force, cursing and crying out in pain as they’re bodily flung
across the roof to land on the far side ledge. He hears Two-Face’s arms and ribs break and knows
he won’t be a problem after this. Peter wouldn’t normally use that much strength, but he needs to
send a message to the rest, to make them second guess their plan.

The others stare at their comrades, then face him, stunned. Peter stares them down, fists clenched,
doing his best to keep from swaying on his feet. He can feel a trickling warmth seep out of his side.
“Who’s next?” he asks.

The others hesitate. Peter considers that a victory. Every second they aren’t trying to kill him is one
second closer to help reaching him.

He just has to hold the line. Just long enough for help to reach him.

***

BATCHAT

Barbara (07:05pm): If anyone can see this, respond.

Message Failed; No Signal

***

"We can do this the easy way or the hard way,” Peter says when the Joker, Scarecrow, and
Clayface start to move towards him. Adrenaline is numbing the pain in his side and chasing away
the exhaustion. “And you don’t want the hard way. So if you’d all just line up with your hands out
so I can web ‘em up, that’d be great--”

“Oh,” Joker breathes. “I’m going to have so much fun with you, little spider.”

Peter points at him without missing a beat. “Okay, wow, creepy. You’re definitely next in time
out--”

Clayface swings one massive fist at him from halfway across the roof. His arms lengthens,
stretches, and flies straight at Peter with enough speed that Peter barely has enough time to turn
with the punch. He still catches a rock hard set of knuckles to the side of his face, but the force is
mitigated. Instead of losing several teeth and breaking his jaw, the punch merely rattles his mind
and flings him off the side of the building.

He enters free fall, sailing towards the ground alongside thick, fat snow flakes. After losing two
precious seconds of awareness while in free fall, he raises one wrist and engages his web shooter.

It clicks. Nothing comes out.

Empty.

Peter doesn’t have enough time to reload them. He thinks, for one panicked second, I need help!

Something gold flashes above him, and the sound of wings follows. Not natural wings. Falcon’s
wings. Moments later, strong hands grip Peter’s outstretched arm and slow his descent. It’s hard
work; the snow storm is picking up speed, and Sam has to fight against a rising wind that keeps
trying to slam them both into the building. He manages it, wings braced against the wind snow like
an angel’s.

“I’ve got you!” Sam yells. “Don’t let go!”

Peter clutches Sam’s hand, confused, hopeful, and desperately relieved by his sudden appearance.
He even helps Sam move them away from the building and into a controlled fall towards the
ground.

And then Sam disappears. One moment he’s there, lowering Peter safely to the ground, and the
next, Peter is in full free fall again. He barely has enough time to register that Sam is gone before
hitting the ground.

***

To: Bruce Wayne

Barbara (07:10pm): Dick is in trouble. He needs you.

Message Failed; No Signal

***

Peter lays on the ground, catching his breath. He can feel the burning itch of his healing factor kick
in along his ribs. He must have cracked one or two with that last fall. He’s damn lucky he didn’t
crack his back. He lays still, catching his breath, and lets his healing factor work as much as it can.
Horrified motorists and pedestrians stare at him. They’re quick to make a hasty retreat when
Clayface slithers down the side of the building with Joker and Scarecrow in his arms. He sets them
down on the sidewalk some distance from Peter.

Peter groans. So much for letting his healing factor kick in.

“Why did it push me back here?” Sam asks, furious.

“Because the boy needs to use the Stone to summon you. He doesn’t know how to do that
consciously, and when you appear, you are borrowing against his own life force,” Loki explains,
his tone short. “Something he is rather short of at the moment.”

“So every time we appear, we drain him,” Bucky says.

“Then we better make our appearances count,” Fury says.

“Aw, the little spider survived the fall. Good. I was worried,” Joker says.

Peter clenches his eyes shut. He can’t fight them all alone. He needs help.

The Joker takes a few steps towards Peter, raising his crowbar. And then freezes.

The flash of gold is subtle this time. The form above him is real for only a moment: the black
silhouetted figure of the Black Panther, standing in a fighter’s crouch above Peter, staring down
Gotham’s worst. An eerie stillness comes from the King of Wakanda, and Gotham’s villains pause
in genuine terror at this stark reminder of their own worst fear made manifest.

A moment later he disappears. He’s bought Peter time, nothing more. But that might be enough.
Peter’s head is clearer now, sharper, and cycles back to the stall portion of his plan.

“So, hey, guys,” he says, pushing himself back onto his feet. That landing had been one of his
rougher ones, to put it lightly. “While you’re all here, I’ve got a question or two.”

“Oh?” Joker asks, grinning at him.

“I might have stolen some plans from your hideout,” Peter says. A blatant lie, but he can protect
Felicia with it, at least. He can do that much. “What’s with the machine? What’s it supposed to
do?”
“Oh, that,” Joker says, his grin stretching wider. “That’s a gift for him.”

“Him?” Peter asks, taking a few more steps away.

“Yeah, him. He can’t bring his army here, so we’re gonna make one for him,” Clayface laughs,
lumbering towards Peter’s wounded side. His eyes are opaque stones, glittering darkly in the
snowy night.

“You’re being annoyingly cryptic right now,” Peter remarks, flexing his arms. His hand aches
where it was broken when he first came to Gotham. And his arm flashes with pain from his stab
wound; the swinging hasn’t been good for it.

“Well, you don’t have to worry about it too much,” Joker says idly. “Scarecrow? Your turn.”

The spindly man’s eyes flare red, the grin on his mask growing wider somehow. He idly swings his
scythe on its chain. He’s unnervingly fast, and Peter has no doubt that the man is whipcord strong
despite looking like a toothpick with a Halloween fetish.

His suspicions are confirmed when his spider senses flare and the scythe is suddenly in his thigh;
Scarecrow had thrown it so quickly Peter had been unable to track it. Peter curses his lapse in
attention and yanks the scythe out of his flesh. Blood pours out of the wound, but it’s already
starting to slow; the wound is shallow, and is well on its way to healing. The biggest victim of that
attack is his suit; a ragged tear traces the length of his thigh, letting in the cold and snow.

Scarecrow yanks back the scythe and traces its bloodied edge. The infernal glow within his mask
grows brighter.

Peter quickly reloads his web shooters using the pellets Batman made. He pours some more
distance between himself and Scarecrow, limping on his wounded leg.

This is gonna suck.

***

The Titans Network

Oracle (07:13pm): This is Oracle from Gotham City. Titans, Nightwing needs you.

Message Failed; Signal Lost

***

The Scarecrow is frighteningly efficient with his scythe. Without his spider sense and years of
experience (short as they may be), Peter would’ve been sliced into pieces seconds after the fight
began. As it is, he can barely dodge out of the way of most of Scarecrow’s attacks; the snow has
grown heavier, obscuring his vision. Add to that general exhaustion, a mad sprint to suspend
several tons of steel and metal between skyscrapers above, and an honest to god bullet wound and
Peter just isn’t at his best.

The Scarecrow lands three big strikes against Peter; once across his chest, once in his bicep, and
once down the length of his back. Every last one oozes blood into his ruined suit. Peter is starting
to feel woozy. He tries to aim his web shooters but his arms are just a hair too slow. All three shots
of web sail harmlessly past Scarecrow. After the last one misses him, Scarecrow stops advancing.

It occurs to Peter, far too late, that the Scarecrow’s goal isn’t to kill him. It’s to exhaust him. Which
he’s done beautifully.

“Do you boys mind if I go next?” Joker asks, strolling up to Scarecrow, crowbar held loosely in
one hand. “I’d like to get some licks in.”

Scarecrow stands aside, but produces a small vial from within his tattered coat: the liquid is a
milky orange color, holding it out towards Joker. “Make sure to spray this on him before you land
the killing blow. I want to study its effects.”

Joker’s face positively lights up. He beams, grabbing the vial and holding it up. “Oh, our little
project together! I’m honored you brought it with you, dear boy!”

This is really going to suck.

Peter tries to push himself back onto his feet. His arms tremble with the effort, and he’s starting to
feel dizzy. Where the hell is that back up? He can still hear sniper fire. It’s distant, muffled by the
steadily falling snow.

“Ask for help,” Bucky says.

Help isn’t here yet, though. Who is he going to ask? Nightwing is closest, and he’s on a rooftop a
block away

“Just ask for help!” Wanda snaps.

Okay.

He needs hel--

The crowbar strikes him across the back, sending him to his knees.

He needs--

The next blow strikes his head. Stars fill his vision, and a white roaring noise fills his ears. He
becomes confused. For some reason, he can hear Ben, distantly, repeating an old ad from TV after
a particularly rough shift at the fire station where he worked: Don’t worry May. I can take a lickin’
and keep on tickin’!

“Focus!” Fury snaps. “Ask us for help!”

Right. Right, he needs---

The Joker raises the crowbar for a third blow and Peter’s mind becomes overwhelmed with panic,
interrupting his thoughts.

The blow never comes.

Two things happen instead: the rev of a motorcycle engine, and the snap of a pistol. The
motorcycle, red and black, with the Batman’s signal painted across it, sails down the slick, snowy
street and right into Clayface and Scarecrow. The rider, Red Hood, leaps off of the bike and aims
his pistol at the Joker, firing three more times as he stalks towards Joker. The bullets strike home,
all of them burying into the arm holding the crowbar. It falls from Joker’s thoroughly demolished
arm and lands on ground with a rattling clatter, snow sticking to the bloodied surface. Red Hood
holsters his gun and swipes the crowbar off the ground, closing in on the Joker.

What follows is one of the most brutal beatings Peter has ever seen. Red Hood does more than just
put Joker on the ground; he destroys the arm the Joker used to wield that crowbar only seconds
before. First his shoulder, then his elbow, then the delicate bones of his hand. All of them crushed
and nearly flattened by a series of heavy, meaty thumps fueled more by rage than the pragmatic
efficiency he’s seen Red Hood use in every fight up to this point. Either Red Hood really likes him
or this is a bit personal for the guy.

The creepiest part is that the Joker just laughs during it.

Peter stops to catch his breath, to let his healing factor kick in, and then stands up. “Red, that’s
enough.”

Red Hood stops and does a double take. “How the fuck are you even conscious right now?”

“I’m tougher than I look,” Peter says, feeling anything but. “They’re trying to kill Nightwing. They
ambushed us.”

Red Hood stiffens, and his grip on the crowbar tightens. “Where is he?”

“Up top,” Peter says, bracing himself against a car. His hand smears blood across the window, and
a horrified driver stares up at him through it. “Snipers have him pinned down.”

Red Hood stops, listens, and seems to relax when he hears the steady crack-crack of gunfire from
above. “If they’re still shooting at him, then he’s alive.”

“You need to go up and get rid of the snipers. I can’t make that swing right now, but you can--”

“He can handle himself. Nightwing is the best of us,” Red Hood snaps. “And like hell am I going
to leave you alone to handle the worst Gotham has to offer.”

Peter blinks, momentarily thrown by Red Hood’s protective anger.

Which is a moment he should’ve used to warn the man about Clayface. The shapeshifter swells up
and off of the ground, and then skids across it towards Red Hood’s open back. He slams into the
Bat from behind, gripping his neck and slamming his head against the frozen ground. Red Hood’s
helmet cracks under the first strike. The second shatters it. After the third, blood begins to seep
through the ruined helmet.

***

Hall of Justice Network

Oracle (07:20pm): This is a general distress call from Gotham City. If anyone can see this, we
need help.

Message Failed; No Signal

***

Red Hood is unconscious. He’s not fighting against Clayface anymore; that last strike to the head
was too hard, too well placed. Peter is at a loss of what to do.

Think, think, think--

Peter can’t fight Clayface. If he was at full strength, he could make a go of it, but he’s not. He
can’t wrench Clayface off of Red Hood, and he can’t fight him even if he could. So he needs to
think outside the box. Which is a shame, because thinking is starting to become very, very difficult.
He can hear Red Hood gasp and weakly struggle against Clayface’s weight, can hear his pounding
heartbeat, and how his lungs begin to deflate from lack of air.

Peter’s panic is starting to climb. How the hell do you fight clay? It’s dirt you can’t just--

Peter’s eyes lock onto a bright red fire hydrant half covered by snow. He sprints over to it in a
lumbering, shuffling gait, slipping across the ice and slush. He drives his heel across the lid
covering one of the outlets. His strength hasn’t failed him yet; the lid cracks under his heel and
water shoots out of the side of the hydrant. Peter braces himself, and then cups his hands over the
water. It hurts and stings, and the cold numbers his hands within seconds, but he’s able to guide the
water blast. He aims it right at Clayface’s chest.

The bigger they are, the harder they fall. Clayface is pretty damn big, and he falls harder than
most. The water strikes him with enough force to send him flying off of Red Hood. It cuts right
through him, making him roar in pain and fury. Peter doesn’t let up; he uses the water to chase
Clayface away, forcing the monster towards a sewer grate. He melts down and slithers inside it,
cursing Peter vehemently.

Peter is just about to let out a sigh of relief when someone flings snow and ice into his face. It
blinds him, temporarily, and he backs away from the hydrant. He starts swiping at his eyes,
clearing them just in time to see the Joker standing in front of him, grinning madly, holding that
vial of milky orange liquid in his one good hand. His other arm, crushed beyond all recognition,
hangs limply at his side.

"You may have won this one, kiddo, but I’ll make sure you don’t savor the victory," he says, in
that same manic sing-song.

He slams his fist into Peter’s face, crushing the vial against his nose. An explosion of heat and pain
sears his mask. He smells burning diesel and lavender for a brief moment, mixed with something
else, and then he starts to laugh. It’s a strangely terrified, manic sort of laughter that hurts. And the
fear that comes after is overpowering and all consuming.

Using strength he didn’t think he had left, Peter launches himself back into the Gotham sky,
swinging away from the Joker, Two-Face, Clayface, Scarecrow, Killer Croc, and Red Hood. The
fear toxin takes hold of him completely, and his terrified laughter echoes off of the buildings as he
flees in a blind panic.

***

BATCHAT

Signal Restored; Messages Delivered.

Duke (07:25pm): what’s going on?

Tim (07:25pm): just got the message, suiting up

Steph (07:25pm): Cass and I are suiting up, too. We need the location, Babs.

Barbara (07:26pm): Sending now. Confirm that you got the coordinates.

Tim (07:26pm): Got them

 Steph (07:27pm): confirmed, on our way

Duke (07:27pm): Confirmed.

Tim (07:28pm): Where’s Jason?

Barbara (07:29pm): Standby. I’ve finally got the news feed back.

Barbara (07:31pm): Witnesses are saying Spider-Man and Red Hood fought Joker, Killer Croc,
Two-Face, and Scarecrow. Casualties unknown.

Tim (07:32pm): What the fuck?

Barbara (07:32pm): Jason’s suit isn’t responding to my pings. Spider-Man has been shot and is
currently MIA. Nightwing is unaccounted for.

Barbara (07:34pm): Get there and find out what the hell happened. I’ve got a lot of phone calls to
take.

Chapter End Notes

This version is wildly different from the original. I'll share details on that version after
the next chapter.
 Chapter 23
Chapter Notes

This chapter officially got long enough to warrant cutting out a huge chunk to put into
a one shot companion piece. We're getting Peter's perspective here. We'll eventually
get Nightwing's perspective in that one shot.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Peter is being chased.

He swings through Gotham in a blind panic, moving faster than he has in his life. He practically
flies, propelled by adrenaline and fear and something else, something that forces helpless giggles
of terror out of himself with every turn. He hears murmuring around him, voices that he vaguely
recognizes but can’t quite place in his panic. He flees from those, too.

He doesn’t know what’s chasing him. But he can hear its laughter, see the shadow of its giant
metallic wings fly overhead, and hear the skittering of legs crawl across the walls of the buildings
looming above. Buildings that tilt precariously, swaying back and forth in the frigid wind,
threatening to fall and crush him beneath their weight. There’s a strange unreality to his
surroundings, as if he’s seeing things through a veil, and some part of him recognizes the
hallucinations for what they are. But his senses are rattling him apart from the inside, a constant
stream of dangerdangerdanger.

Something is chasing him.

He can feel the destruction behind him, racing to meet him, swirling around him. The thing Thanos
did that dissolved half of his universe and killed his family and friends. The dusting. The ashes.
They’re everywhere. Stinging his face, falling from the sky, some large and fat, others small and
stinging. Ashes that used to be people--

“Peter!”

A voice. He recognizes it. Someone important.

“Peter, you need to get somewhere safe,” Shuri says, keeping her tone even and gentle. It cuts
through the panic, but not by much.

Safe. What’s safe? There’s nothing safe here! Thanos won, the Vulture is circling above, the
buildings are starting to crumble--

The building nearest to him shifts, twisting like a vine, the bricks cracking and crumbling; it’s
going to fall. Right on top of him. He can’t get trapped like that again. The crushing pressure,
trapped alone--The memory forms unbidden. It’s as if he’s there again, buried alive and left for
dead. He bites back a giggling scream.

He has to get away from the buildings. Peter yanks himself over to the side, swinging hard for the
riverfront. Something warm runs down his side, and a fresh wave of anxiety follows that thought,
but he can’t recall why. It isn’t important; what’s important is getting away from the buildings. He
swings along the outside edge of them, keeping to the riverfront. The snow (ashes) becomes
thicker, the wind becomes stronger. He’s swinging right into the teeth of the storm now.

A gale force wind hits him as he’s swinging from one building to the next, throwing his swing off
balance. It pushes him out and over the river. His panic freezes him in place, and he tries too late to
shoot a new web. The wind pushes him over the river, stretching the web line he’s connected to
much too far; if it was his formula, there wouldn’t be enough give to pull him this far. It isn’t his
formula; it’s Batman’s. Good, but not built to snap back the way his webs would allow.

The line snaps.

He falls into the water, the icy cold a shock to his system that cuts through the panic completely.
Most of his suit, torn and bloody, is ripped away from him by the currents. The utility belt is ripped
away in the torrent. His mind is just clear enough to realize how close he is to dying.

He thinks, Someone help me!

There’s a flash of gold, and a strong arm wraps around his middle. Peter Quill lifts Peter Parker out
of the frigid river and into the sky, carrying him towards Crime Alley. He makes it as far as the fire
station before flickering out of existence again, cursing. Peter lands hard on the icy alley next to
the fire station.

He lays there, shivering and giggling, surrounded by ghosts. He starts to crawl for the fire station
wall. He climbs up the wall, teeth chattering, down to just his boxers and socks. The fire station is
safe. He knows it is. Uncle Ben worked at a fire station, and Uncle Ben is (was) one half of his
security blanket against the world. It’s safe.

The hallucinations around him shift at the thought of Ben. He hears gasping below himself, in the
alley. It’s all too familiar to Peter, and he bites back a laughing sob. He can smell the gunpowder.
The singed flesh. The blood. It occurs to him, suddenly, that he’s been shot close to where Ben was
hit during that fateful night.

“Jesus, what has this kid been through?” Quill asks.

Uncle Ben gasps in pain behind him, back in the alley. Going back down there is a death sentence,
but he can’t leave his uncle alone--

“Keep climbing,” T’Challa orders, insistent and reassuring. Peter gets the idea that T’Challa is
hovering behind him, as if he intends to block Peter’s view if he turns around. “There is nothing for
you to see. Keep going.”

Peter hesitates, and then keeps climbing. He hauls himself in through the window with herculean
effort, and starts to laugh.

He’s not sure when he started crying, but he’s doing that, too.

***

BATCHAT

Barbara (07:40pm): Status update, guys. Bruce is on the line and he needs to know what’s
happening.

Duke (07:41pm): Cass and Steph took out the snipers. Dick’s safe. I have Jason. He’s hurt, but
he’s awake. Concussion. How are things on your end?
Barbara (07:42pm): Fielding calls from Bruce and the Titans. Bruce is on his way, but the storm
is going to delay him.

Barbara (07:43pm): Any word on Spider-Man?

Duke (07:44pm): Not yet.

Barbara (07:45pm): Keep me updated.

***

“Snipers are down,” Spoiler says, her voice made tinny by the speaker of his earpiece. “We just
took out the last one. What’s your status, Nightwing?”

“Not hurt,” he says, snapping out of cover and sprinting for the roof ledge as fast as he can.

He leaps off of the building within seconds, fires his grappling gun, and almost burns out the brake
as he lowers himself to the ground. Snow stings his face as he falls, and he wipes at it irritably
when he drops to the ground, looking around. The scene in front of him is one of chaos and
confusion. Blood covers the icy sidewalk, gradually disappearing beneath a layer of snow. Cops
are waving in cranes and work crews to disassemble the massive crane suspended between
buildings above, all of them moving as quickly as they can before the blizzard makes it impossible
to work. Red Robin is speaking with a crowd of people huddled up together; more than a few are
speaking animatedly, pointing at the rooftops, the crane, the blood on the ground.

Two-Face and Killer Croc have been retrieved from the rooftops and are sitting on the curb, still
bound in thick webbing, cursing at one another viciously as they try to break free. It won’t work, of
course. Spider-Man’s webs are unbelievably tough. Batman had even been impressed by them, and
that is no easy feat, as Nightwing well knows.

“Well, if it isn’t the party guest,” Killer Croc drawls. “You’re swinging in fashionably late, kid.”

Nightwing stares at him impassively, but the grip on his grappling hook gun grows tight enough to
make his knuckles turn white. “Why?”

“I never got the real reason,” Two-Face says, grunting in pain as Killer Croc elbows him while
struggling against the webs. “It was supposed to solve a few problems for our employer and keep
Batman busy dealing with your death. Win-win.”

“Since when did you work for someone, Two-Face?” Nightwing asks. “Let alone with the Joker
and Scarecrow?”

“Since--” he pauses, actually stammers, frowning in confusion before scoffing. “Since none of your
business. Results are results.”

Killer Croc chuckles lowly. “Just us and four of our best friends working to put you Bats into place.
We didn’t get you but we got someone.”

Nightwing stares at them coldly for a moment, his temper fraying. He almost does it. He almost
beats them both into paste then and there on the sidewalk. They tried to kill him. They shot Spider-
Man. They beat the hell out of Red Hood. And now they’re going straight to Arkham, where
they’ll stay for a few months or years and then break out again.

Red Robin seems to sense it. He looks up from the group he’s speaking with and then quickly
shoos them away before walking towards him, calling out. “Nightwing!”
“What have you found?” Nightwing asks, turning away from Killer Croc and stalking towards Red
Robin. It comes out as a demand, actually. He’s antsy, practically thrumming with repressed fury
and energy.

Red Robin closes the distance between them with a sigh. He rubs the back of his neck. “Witnesses
are all over the place. Half of them say an angel caught Spider-Man falling from the sky, half say
Batman showed up to scare off the Rogues Gallery, and a third say they saw Spider-Man take a
direct hit across the back of his head with a crowbar and shrug it off no problem. After being shot,
stringing up a crane, and falling from a skyscraper.”

“That’s wilder than usual,” Nightwing admits, tense. “What have you heard from them that we can
trust?”

“Only a few things. The general consensus is that Spider-Man stopped the crane and then took on
all of Batman’s worst enemies at the same time before getting saved by Red Hood. And then, well,
things went poorly for both of them,” Red Robin says.

He nods to Red Hood, currently getting bundled into a Batmobile by Spoiler and Black Bat. He
tries to fight them off, to get up and walk over to Nightwing, but he’s too exhausted, too rattled
from the fight. Nightwing isn’t looking forward to the conversation they’re going to have in the
future.

“How is he?” Nightwing asks.

“The way he always is after he’s hurt. Pissed,” Red Robin says. “The one thing all of the witnesses
can agree on is that he saved Spider-Man from the Joker and then Spider-Man saved him from
Clayface. They said Joker poured or threw something into Spider-Man’s face. Spider-Man left after
that. Panicked. Joker and Scarecrow made themselves scarce afterward, too.”

A long pause follows that. Nightwing clenches his fists tight enough for the leather of his gloves to
creak. He looks at the sidewalk. Splotches of blood have frozen and mixed with the snow and ice,
turning it pink.

“Joker’s toxin?” Nightwing asks. “That doesn’t explain why he left. Most people hit with that are
too busy laughing to run.”

Or killing people. Nightwing refuses to think of that; it’s so utterly not like Spider-Man that he
can’t even imagine it.

“A few of the people I talked to said Joker used a vial that Scarecrow gave him,” Red Robin says
after a moment. He jerks his head over towards Two-Face, and Killer Croc, sitting on the sidewalk
with their hands and legs bound in chains. “Scarecrow confirmed it. He said it was a new recipe,
but he hasn’t had a chance to test it. He wouldn’t tell me if it had any of Joker’s toxin in it.”

“A new version of fear toxin at the very least,” Nightwing says. He can’t afford to think of what
that particular concoction is capable of doing to someone. Particularly someone already pumped
full of adrenaline from a fight. He knows people who’ve died from fear. “We have to find him
before he hurts someone. Or himself.”

"Time isn't on our side, Nightwing," Red Robin says quietly. "The storm is here. We’ll have white
out conditions within the next twenty minutes, and temperatures will hit rock bottom not long after.
The only benefit we have is that there won’t be very many people outside."

Your friend is going to die of either blood loss or exposure to the cold, but at least he probably
won’t kill anyone before he dies, in other words. Tim wouldn't say it like that, but that's his
meaning regardless.

"Then we'd better find him in the next twenty minutes," Nightwing snaps.

He says it loud enough that Spoiler and Black Bat’s heads snap up to look in his direction. They
can count on one hand how often they've heard Nightwing use that tone. Red Robin blinks, but
otherwise only nods, pulling out his grappling gun.

“Witnesses said he was heading north,” Tim says. He has to speak louder now; the snow and wind
are starting to pick up in earnest. “We might get lucky and find a trail. This way.”

He launches himself into the air. Nightwing is right behind him, swinging behind his brother.

***

Voices. Far away voices that suddenly seem too close or too far. It’s hard to hear them over the
laughter that robs him of his breath and tears at his side.

“His emotions are becoming harder to control,” Mantis says, her voice wavering. “He will hurt
people unless we stop him.”

“How is that different from normal?” Hank Pym asks. “You’ve been keeping the kid from going
apeshit since he woke up in that tube.”

“This is worse. Much worse,” Mantis says. “I am barely keeping his rage away.

“We need to get that toxin out of him,” Fury says. His voice becomes louder, clearer. It feels like
the man is right beside his ear, yelling at him. “Parker, get the needle the doctor gave you.”

The needle. It takes his scattered mind a moment to remember what that is. The red packet is near
the first aid kit, stacked neatly on a makeshift shelf near his bed. He leaves a trail of blood behind
himself as he crawls towards it, giggling helplessly. The laughter is becoming a problem. So is the
cold. Peter’s teeth chatter violently as he bumps into the shelf, groping for the packet. He tries to
tear it open with numb fingers, and sobs when he can’t manage it.

“Call for help!” Fury orders.

“Helpmehelpme--” Peter chokes out between giggles.

A flash of gold. And suddenly, T’Challa and Bucky are on either side of him. Bucky grabs the
packet and tosses it to T’Challa before grabbing Peter in a bearhug, trapping him against his chest.
Peter, confused by this sudden attack, starts to fight against him, panicked.

“Easy!” Bucky says, gritting his teeth. “I’m holding you still so T’Challa can hit you with that
antitoxin. And warming you up. You’re freezing, kid.”

“How--” Peter starts.

T’Challa tears open the packet and presses the tip of the autoinjector to the side of Peter’s leg. He
hits the plunger. Something sharp stabs Peter’s leg, followed by twitching heat that traces its way
through his veins. Peter gasps and whimpers. Bucky’s hold loosens a little.

“Keep it in place,” Bucky says. “Remember what the doc said. Has it been more than thirty
minutes?”
“I have no idea. Time does not work for us the way it works for him. We will simply have to hope
not,” T’Challa says. He keeps the autoinjector steady with one hand and reaches over to grab
Peter’s first aid kit with the other, tossing it over to Bucky. “White Wolf--”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Peter’s focus wavers and disappears when the heat traveling
through his body reaches his gunshot wound. Without Bucky to support him, he flops back onto
the cold ground with a pained moan. The autoinjector falls beside him, rattling against the cold
floor.

***

“I’ve called the Coast Guard,” Red Robin says, he has to shout to be heard above the wind. “They
can’t send out anybody right now. The storm is too violent. If he’s there...”

He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t need to. The river is starting to freeze; icy shards of water clumping
together and breaking apart in the tide. Falling into the waves on a good night would be dangerous.
Falling into it during a violent storm, while already injured and panicked from fear toxin is a death
sentence. They won’t know for sure, of course. The body won’t wash ashore; Gotham’s river never
gives up its dead in winter. The frigid temperature affects decomposition. Bodies just sink.

It’s possible he made it out somehow. Maybe with his web slinging. But even that’s a thin hope.
Spider-Man would be disoriented and confused from the frigid water. Nightwing’s fallen into the
river once before, and if Batman hadn’t been able to pull him out of it, he would’ve drowned. That
was during a relatively peaceful night during the summer, the polar opposite of the rough waves
and brutal wind cutting through the city right now.

Nightwing stares at the bloodied suit swirling in the water’s turbulent surface. He says nothing.

“I’m sorry,” Red Robin says after a moment.

"He was only here because I asked for him," Nightwing says quietly. "It was--it wasn't supposed to
go like this! If I had just gone by myself, like I planned--"

"Then you would’ve taken a bullet to the back of the head without realizing how much trouble you
were in," Red Robin says, voice thick and weary. The cold is wearing on him. "He saved you. And
then he saved Jason and who knows how many other people."

Nightwing sighs, weary. “Yeah. He did.”

“Nightwing?” Oracle asks. “You’ve got a visitor heading your way.”

Nightwing frowns, reaching up to key up his earpiece. “Who?”

“Starfire. I tried to contact the Titans when I couldn’t reach the rest of the crew,” Oracle says.
“She’s on her way to you right now. My message might have upset her. I’ve managed to head off
most of the Justice League, but the Titans...Well.”

Nightwing winces. He’s seen the Batchat. He can only imagine the kind of panic that would inspire
in the Titans. He’d be a furious wreck himself if the positions were reversed and someone set up an
elaborate assassination attempt on her.

“Got it, Oracle. I’ll wait for her here,” Nightwing says, sitting at the edge of the bridge. He sounds
tired, even to himself.

Red Robin glances at him for a moment, and then sits beside him. They watch the turbulent waters
pull the bloodied suit beneath the waves in silence.

***

The panic leaves Peter gradually. The confusion drains away bit by bit after that. He doesn’t fully
come back to himself until the fire in his veins lessens to an uncomfortable heat, and his laughter
dies down to rough, chuckling coughs. He has no idea how much time has passed. In fact, he’s not
entirely sure of what’s happened to him. His memories are all jumbled together. One minute, he’s
swinging through the city in abject panic and fear, and the next he’s laying in the middle of the
firehouse, confused, mostly naked, and trembling from blood loss and exhaustion. His side is white
hot agony. His skin is drenched in half frozen blood. He’s rocking in place, as if trying to comfort
himself, confused and upset, and weak. Something important happened--something bad--

"The gunshot wound." Sam hisses at him. Peter can almost see him. It’s like looking through a
transparent pane of glass. He can see Sam, but also see through him to the other side of the room.
There’s a faint trace of gold outlining his body. "You need to get that taken care of!"

Right. The gunshot wound.

"Stop the bleeding. Get some clothes on. Go outside, try to flag someone down--" Bucky starts.

Peter grabs his first aid kit. Well, actually, he crawls for it. He doesn’t have to go far for it. It’s
resting right beside him.

"What the hell are you doing?” Bucky snaps. “Go outside! Find a bat! Find a goddamned cab--”

He holds the first aid kit, frowning at it. His mind is spinning, and he’s having trouble making
connections between things. He knows he has a bad gunshot wound. He knows it needs to be taken
care of. He knows he’s holding a first aid kit that can help. But those three ideas are separate
things, and he can’t string them together into any kind of action. Whatever was in that autoinjector
is strong. It's like a house with the lights turned off inside. He giggles to himself every so often,
jarring his wound, and he can't figure out why. He's laughed nervously before, but not by himself.
And it isn't just laughter. There's a jerky, twitchy movement to his limbs when he laughs. It’s going
to make this DIY surgery--already a sketchy decision, considering his trembling hands--even
riskier than usual.

“He can’t be serious,” Bucky says. “If he tries to take care of that gunshot wound himself, he’ll
fuck it up and die.”

“If he asks for help, Mom and I can handle it. I can shrink the bullet, and Mom still has some
power left. Quantum healing should be able to handle all of those wounds,” Hope says.

“He can’t focus long enough for any of us to stay longer than a few seconds,” Hill says. “Even if he
manages to use the Stone to summon us, we won’t be able to stay long enough to help.”

“There might be a way to work around that,” Loki says, as if reluctant to mention it at all. “It will
come at great cost to us. Me, in particular, which I’m not personally thrilled about.”

“Do it,” Fury orders.

“I’m not sure you understand--” Loki begins.

“I understand what I’ll do to you if you don’t do as I goddamn say,” Fury retorts. “Do. It.”

“Fine,” Loki spits. “The consequences will be on your head, then.”

“I can live with that,” Fury replies dryly.

Loki curses, but goes silent. Peter stares at the first aid kit, then at the packet that held the antidote
to Joker’s toxin. A small warning is printed along the side of it: May cause confusion and
hallucinations. Do not administer alone except in dire circumstances.

Huh.

“Peter, you need to ask us for help again,” Shuri says, drawing him out of his confusion.

That’s a good idea.

"Help me," he gasps, to no one in particular.

Peter is blinded by another flash of gold, this one mixed with tendrils of red and green. Sam flashes
gold for a moment. He turns from a strange, orange translucent color to something far more solid.
He reaches his hands out, and he puts hard pressure over the wound. Sharp enough to make Peter
gasp and wince beneath his hands.

“We need to get you to a goddamn hospital,” he snarls, putting on yet more pressure. His tone is by
turns furious, heartbroken, and terrified. “What the hell were you thinking taking on all of those
fools by yourself--”

Peter stares up at him dumbly. “Are you real?”

“Yes, goddammit! Stay awake. I need to get you stable,” he says. Several more flashes of gold flare
to life around them, but Peter can’t see what’s happening. Sam is hovering over him protectively.
He glances over his shoulder for a moment. “Janet, Hope, if you’re going to do it, do it now.”

“We’re all set here,” Janet says, somehow maintaining a calm and pleasant tone despite everything.
“Hope?”

“Keep him still,” Hope says to Sam, flipping her helmet down before disappearing. There’s no
flash of gold this time; she’s just gone.

A second later, Peter hears the telltale buzz of a wasp’s wings and Sam pulls his hands back just a
bit. Something flies between Sam’s bloody fingers and into Peter’s gunshot wound. That’s enough
to make the blind panic return. He doesn’t want something inside him--

“Easy, easy,” Janet says soothingly. “Hope is going to get the bullet out. Just lay still.”

Something shifts inside the bullet wound; a pressure and stiffness disappears completely, if the
bullet’s been plucked out of him. Something flies out from beneath Sam’s fingers and Hope
reappears behind Janet and Sam. She flicks something out from between her fingers; a tiny metal
pebble by the sound it makes when it pings off of the floor.

“Shuri? We need you, switch off with me,” Hope says.

Another flash, and two others appear near him. Princess Shuri and Dr. Strange. Hope disappears.

"Princess--" Sam starts.

"Hold him steady," Shuri orders, plucking a bead off of her bracelet. "Move your hands when I
say."

"Yes, ma'am," Sam says. He glances at Strange. "Doc? We good?"

"Make it quick. Loki, Wanda, and I can't keep this up for long. Death isn’t meant to be cheated like
this," Strange says quietly, gently gathering golden energy between his palms. They tremble from
the effort and sweat stands out against his brow. Ashes begin to fall from his hands. "You have five
minutes. Tops."

“We’ll only need one,” Shuri says confidently. Sam pulls his hands back again, and Shuri presses
in the sides of the bead, spraying something into Peter’s wound. It’s cold, whatever it is, sharp
enough to make Peter grunt in pain. “Dr. Van Dyne?”

Janet kneels beside her. “I don’t have a lot of power left. Most of it went to help Ghost.”

“But you do still have some?” Shuri asks.

Janet nods, rolling up her sleeves. “Yes.”

“Every little bit helps right now,” Sam replies, pressing hard against Peter’s wound. Whatever
Shuri did slowed the bleeding, but Sam isn’t taking any chances, apparently. “Do your thing.”

“Right. Okay. Peter, you’re going to feel warm for a bit,” Janet says, keeping her tone calm. Her
hands glow, and she cups his face. “I need you to promise me something, okay?”

Peter startles at her touch, and then leans into it. Janet’s face softens. “Okay.”

“You need to rest and then you need to go find help,” Janet says. “You’re going to feel tired, and
it’ll be hard to wake up, but you have to get up. Promise me you’ll do it.”

As she speaks, a gentle golden light flows from her hands and across Peter. It covers him like a
warm blanket, drying him off from his dip in the river, and spreads across him, hovering over the
cuts Scarecrow left on his chest and legs, the blue black bruises Joker’s crowbar left behind, and
the bullet wound. The bruises lighten and disappear and the cuts seal shut, but the bullet wound
takes more. The skin closes and seals, but it doesn’t heal completely; Peter can feel his healing
factor kick in to help.

“Okay,” Peter mumbles, relaxing into the warmth. “Okay, I promise. After I sleep.”

Sam pulls his hands back for a moment, and sighs in relief. “It’s closed. He’s going to have a nasty
scar, but I think we did it.”

Janet’s shoulders slump and she pulls her hands back. “That’s all I’ve got. I’m sorry, I have to go
back.”

“Go ahead,” Shuri says. “Sam and I can do the rest.”

Another flash of gold, and Janet disappears back into the Soul stone. Dr. Strange is pale, shaking,
and struggling to maintain the spells keeping them corporeal. Sam takes one look at him and then
starts to move.

“Get his bed ready. I’m going to get him dressed, and then we need to get the hell out of here
before Doc, Loki, and Wanda burn out their souls doing this,” he says.

“Will he be warm enough to survive the night? The blizzard is gaining strength,” Shuri says,
already moving.

“Maybe. I don’t know. We’ll just have to hope so,” Sam says helplessly. “There isn’t a damn thing
we can do to help him after this. I feel like I’ve been swimming through molasses, and it gets
 worse the longer I’m here.”

Peter feels himself being manhandled into his warmest clothes. Jeans, shirt, socks, his coat, shoes.
If he was more awake, he’d be mortified by this, embarrassed that he needs help at all. But he’s too
out of it, too warm, too exhausted to complain. Strong hands carry him over to his bed where he’s
wrapped up and tucked away beneath his blankets and spare clothes.

Peter blinks up at Sam and Shuri from under the blankets, and then drifts off to sleep. His side
burns and itches by turns, but even that isn’t enough to keep him awake.

“I can’t hold it much longer--” Dr. Strange warns. Most of his lower half is gone, flaking away into
smoldering ash. He’s pale and shaking from pain. “Loki isn’t faring much better. Are you--”

“We’re done,” Shuri says hurriedly. “Break the connection, Dr. Strange.”

Dr. Strange clenches his fists and dismisses the spell, disappearing with Sam and Shuri in another
flash of light.

Peter sleeps, unaware of the world outside of his fire station.

Chapter End Notes

The original version of this chapter was much darker: Peter dies shortly after capturing
the Rogues Gallery (he's absorbed into the Soul stone). The stone would've attached
itself to Nightwing, leaving him with the Avengers's ghosts, a stone of infinite power,
and the corpse of a friend. Strange’s letter would’ve popped in, explained the above,
and then it would have begged him to help save their universe. The rest of the fic
would've hopped into the MCU.

After dealing with Thanos, the Batcrew takes over Queens with one of them taking
over Spider-Man’s patrol via interdimensional travel.

The ending is May being adopted into the batfamily, playing host to the crew
swinging by to visit her or stay in Peter’s old room after a rough night on patrol.

I didn't like it for a lot of reasons so I changed it a long time ago, but that version still
exists. It'll eventually pop into a Divergence Point chapter for people who like MCD
and angst.
 Chapter 24
Chapter Notes

Peter finds a home.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Peter rests through the night. He doesn’t sleep, and therefore doesn’t dream; it’s far too cold to do
that safely. The blizzard hits Gotham hard and fast. The world outside the fire station is a blanket
of white, with snow and ice blasting the windows. Frigid wind slips through the drafty building,
causing Peter to shiver and groan, keeping him from reaching true sleep for longer than a few
minutes at a time. There’s an unsettling, rattling, watery sound to his breathing, that forces him to
cough and startles him awake the few times he starts to drift off. He’s buried under his clothes,
blankets, and backpack. It barely keeps him from freezing.

He forces himself to consider his situation, to try and plan. He has nowhere to go. He just has to
wait one more day before the stipend hits his account. If he bankrupts himself, he could use all of it
to rent a cheap hotel room for the week. He’ll be stuck without food, but right now his shelter is
becoming a bigger hazard than starvation. Maybe he can beg some food off of Felicia? She’d help
him. Probably. Almost definitely, actually. She is his friend, at least.

He’s tired. It’s hard to think. He needs to sleep, at least for a little while. He can wait one more day.

“You can’t stay here,” Fury says.

“Get up,” Quill says, frustration and worry thick in his voice. “You have to find help, man!”

Peter grunts, burying himself further in his nest. It’s just warm enough that he can sleep. He closes
his eyes and starts to drift off--

Something shoves him. Hard.

“Kid, stay awake,” Bucky snaps. “If you fall asleep, you’ll die.”

No, he won’t. He has a healing factor. He can rest just fine, thank you.

“This isn’t working,” Mantis says. “He is very stubborn.”

“I have an idea,” Wanda replies. She sounds tired. Scratch that, she sounds like how Peter feels;
one foot firmly planted in her own grave.

“Are you sure that’s smart? You, Doc, and Loki aren’t exactly at your best,” Bucky says. “We
haven’t even seen Strange or Loki. They’re stuck in their own worlds.”

“You’d be amazed what a soul can endure,” Wanda says. “This will not take much effort.”

Everything falls silent after that, finally, and Peter huffs out a quiet sigh before closing his eyes. A
nap will help. It’ll fix his gunshot wound, if nothing else. He starts to relax despite the cold,
drifting off to sleep.
The radio he built clicks on across the room, at full volume. Hit the Road, Jack echoes across the
empty room, loud enough to blow out the relatively tiny speakers in the radio. Peter startles awake,
jars his gunshot wound, and groans in frustration, pulling his backpack and pillow over his head.
Why is that thing on? How is it on? It’s an analog switch and he turned off the alarm function last
week!

A burst of static startles him out of his thoughts. These Boots Were Made For Walking starts to
play at a truly obnoxious volume.

“Hey, this one’s pretty good,” Quill says.

“Focus, Spaceman. Peter, get the hell up,” Sam says. He sounds sleep drunk and worn down, as if
he’s two steps away from falling asleep himself. Something gold flashes, and half of his blankets
are suddenly gone.

“What the fuck are you doing, Sam?” Bucky snaps. “You just ashed half of your arm doing that!”

“If he doesn’t get up, it doesn’t matter how much of myself I burn up,” Sam says.

Peter sits up with a frustrated groan, flailing at whoever stole his blankets. The meager warmth
he’d built up is gone and he shivers. He’s half tempted to lay back down and fall asleep again. It’s
so hard to get up and move. His side throbs in agony, and his back and shoulders are stiff from
sleeping in an awkward position. The effort is almost enough to rob him of his strength entirely.

“Think if we play it loud enough one of the Bat people will hear it?” Bucky asks.

“Not unless one of them has super hearing,” Nick Fury replies. “And that’s assuming they decided
to frolic across Gotham’s rooftops during a blizzard.”

Another burst of static, this one louder than the rest. Highway to Hell starts to play, loud enough to
echo into the alley below. Peter is suddenly struck by nostalgia; this one is on Tony’s workshop
playlist. He hasn’t heard it in so long. He forces himself awake to listen to it.

“That’s got his attention,” Hank Pym says.

“Get up, Spider-Man,” T’Challa says.

And go where?

“The library,” Hill says. “It’ll be warm there, at least.”

Well. That’s an idea, yeah. Peter isn’t looking forward to the trip, but it’ll be worth it to stay out of
the cold for the day.

“You promised me, Peter,” Janet says gently. She’s tired, too.

That forces him awake a little more. He did promise he’d get help, and the library is as good a
place as any. Peter sighs, and begins to push himself onto his feet and towards the fire escape.

The snow has shifted to freezing rain. It makes for an utterly miserable walk. Every movement is
torture, but the gentle, murmuring encouragement that surrounds him keeps him going.

***

The library is closed.

A hastily written sign is taped to the door: Closed due to weather. Sorry for the inconvenience!

There goes that plan. Peter buries his hands into his pockets and walks back towards the street,
heading straight for a bus stop. A huge pool of icy water surrounds the stop and he has to carefully
navigate it to avoid slipping or falling into it. He needs to find help. A place to stay. Something. It's
so hard to think in this cold. The bus stop is full of snow drifts, so Peter stands outside of it, near
the street curb. He wracks his brain, trying to think of where to go from here. If the library is
shutting down, then everywhere is going to shut down, sooner rather than later. There’s a cheap
hotel at the edge of Crime Alley he could rent a room at---

A red sports car slows near the bus stop, and then speeds past, the driver deliberately swerving into
the puddle and dowsing Peter with half frozen road water. Peter startles, shivering, too shocked to
even yell. He stares at the car in confusion and shock.

The window rolls down. Edison Bright points and laughs at him before speeding off.

Peter stares after him, baffled.

“I’m gonna murder that kid,” Quill mutters. “What a prick!”

This is bad. Peter's only set of warm clothes, already unsuitable for the freezing weather, are now
an active danger to his health. The wind cuts through his shirt, and he can feel his jeans start to
freeze in place. He needs to get out of these clothes, into a place that's warm--

"Hey, Peter!" a voice calls out behind him.

He turns around and nearly slumps in relief. “Tim?”

Tim smiles, jogging over. He moves through the ice and snow as if it isn’t there, effortlessly
keeping his balance over the treacherous sidewalk as if it were bone dry.

“Hey. I was just heading home,” he says, lifting up his car keys. There's an odd expression on his
face, caught somewhere between relief and shock. He takes in Peter’s condition and tilts his head.
“You want to come over? The whole city’s shutting down because of the storm.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to be a bother. And I’m kinda soaked--”

“Kid, buddy, I will throw you into his car if that’s what it takes,” Quill says irritably.

“Get in the motherfucking car, Parker,” Nick Fury orders.

“---but I wouldn’t say no. I mean, as long as you don’t mind?”

Tim scoffs. “Forget about that. You’re almost the same size as me. You can borrow some clothes
until yours dry out and stay until the snow dies down tonight. You in?”

“Yes,” Peter says immediately. “Absolutely.”

Tim’s smile returns, relieved. “Cool. Come on, my car’s around the corner.”

Tim motions for him to follow, practically jogging over to his car, a sleek black sedan that Peter
can't even imagine ever owning. He unlocks the door for Peter and hops inside, turning the heat on
full blast for Peter as he carefully settles into the passenger seat.

Tim glances at him. "Man, you look rough, Peter."

"It's been a really shitty week," Peter says earnestly, thumping his head against the passenger side
window. “A really, really shitty week.”

"Well, Duke and I will have to fix that for you," Tim replies, pulling the car out of park and
carefully driving out onto the icy Gotham streets.

"I'd like that," Peter says.

***

Peter drifts off. He can’t help it; the car is warm, the rain is soothing, and Tim is nearby, so he
knows he’s safe. Even with his wet, cold clothes, he’s comfortable enough to close his eyes and
relax. He dozes for awhile, flirting with the edge of true sleep before stirring awake when the car
makes a wider than usual turn, the back end slipping just slightly. The movement is smooth, but
unusual enough to pull Peter out of his nap.

“Hm?” Peter says, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. His side itches terribly; his healing factor has
fully kicked in. Judging by the rough edge in his voice, it’s left his cold alone. Great. Hopefully
spending some time somewhere warm will help him fight that off, too.

“Sorry,” Tim says, shooting him an apologetic look. “I hit an ice patch. We’re okay, though. You
can go back to sleep.”

“No, no, I’m up,” Peter replies, stretching. He tugs against his gunshot wound and bites back a cry
of pain. He sucks in a breath and slowly lets it out. Okay, so his wound is healing, but not yet fully
healed. Not for awhile yet. Good to know. “Um. Where are we going anyway?”

He glances at Peter from the corner of his eye, frowning. He must have seen Peter flinch.
Hopefully he doesn’t ask about it. Peter’s not exactly in the right headspace to lie. Tim clears his
throat. “Wayne Manor, just outside of the city.”

Peter freezes. Wayne Manor? As in Bruce Wayne’s Wayne Manor? The thought shakes him free of
sleep. “What. Why?”

“Because I live there?” Tim answers, amused. “Bruce is my dad. I thought you knew that?
Everyone at school does.”

"Your dad is Bruce Wayne?" Peter asks, feeling himself go pale.

"Yeah, he adopted me. And Duke, Dick, Jason, Cass--well, we all live here," Tim says, waving a
dismissive hand. “Don’t worry, he knows you’re coming over. I called him while you were asleep.
He’s cool with it.”

“Oh,” Peter says. He’s definitely not cool sleeping in the house of the man he’s stolen from. “Uh,
if he’s sure...”

“He’s busy. You probably won’t even see him,” Tim adds. “Alfred’s waiting for us.”

“Alfred?”

“Our family butler. Alfred Pennyworth. But he’s more like family than anything else.” Tim shrugs.
“You’ll see when you get there. I think he’ll like you.”

“Hope so,” Peter says, rubbing his throat. Now that he’s awake, he can feel a burning ache in his
throat. Talking is starting to become an issue; it feels like he’s speaking around a pile of jagged
rocks.

Tim drives slowly and carefully up a winding road covered in a rapidly thickening layer of snow.
Wayne manor is built on top of a waterfall, and its brooding hulk towers above the pristine winter
landscape. It’s grimly majestic, and looks intimidating even with the snow softening the hard edges
of it. Peter’s first thought, above all else, is that Tony would hate Tim’s home. The mansion is
huge, austere, and steeped in old world architecture that, while beautiful, is painfully outdated. It
looks more like a modern palace rather than a mansion, as if it houses a grim knight rather than a
playboy billionaire like Bruce Wayne.

Yeah, Tony would mock every inch of this place. Too dark, too closed off, too old. And Tony
would know old, considering he lived through the turn of the millennium and actively threw an
‘Anti-Y2K’ party on New Year’s Eve. Peter had feigned ignorance of the Y2K scare and relished
in the despairing, boggled expression on Tony’s face before the man caught onto his teasing and
threatened to throw him off the Compound roof.

The thought of the memory, of Tony’s reaction to this place, makes him smile.

Tim brings the car to a stop in front of a set of stairs leading up to two massive doors. He turns off
the engine, and the steady sound of the heater is replaced by the sound of the icy rain tapping
against the roof. He steps out of the car, pocketing his keys. Peter takes a moment to brace himself,
carefully unbuckles his seatbelt, and just as carefully stands up out of the car. The rain hits him
hard; after the steady warmth of Tim’s car, it feels that much colder, and the wind outside of the
city is sharper.

“Here we are,” Tim says, appearing beside him as if by magic. He eyes Peter worriedly, pauses as
if he’s about to comment on it, then presses on. “Come on, let’s get out of this cold.”

He jogs up the steps, paying no attention to the ice covering them. Peter follows at a more sedate
pace, wary of jarring his wounds. The door swings open before Tim can put the key inside,
revealing a tall, balding man in a well tailored suit. There's a steel gray moustache covering his
upper lip and threads of silver streaking thinning black hair. He holds himself in perfect posture.
Alfred Pennyworth takes one look at Peter Parker and seems to adopt him on sight. One moment
Peter’s standing outside the door with Tim, the next he’s been swept inside and wrapped inside a
very thick, very warm, and very expensive looking blanket. The change is done so quickly and
smoothly that Peter’s barely aware of it happening at all.

“Master Tim, you didn’t tell me our guest is in need of warm clothes,” Alfred says, a hint of gentle
reproach in his tone.

Tim rubs the back of his neck, walking inside and shutting the door behind them. “Yeah, sorry,
Alfred. He can borrow some of mine.”

“An excellent idea,” Alfred says, guiding Peter through a grand entry hall and towards a staircase
tucked away inside a guest parlor just past the hall. “Please retrieve them for me.”

“Got it,” Tim calls out.

Peter walks towards the stairs, fighting back the urge to gawk at the polished marble floor, plush
red carpets, and portraits that line the hall. This place is wealth incarnate and Peter feels more than
a little out of place. Tim jogs ahead of them, taking the stairs three at a time and leaving Peter
behind with Alfred.

“I’m Alfred,” Alfred says pleasantly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you at last, Master Peter.”
“Oh, uh, you know about me?” Peter stammers out. He’s shivering hard now, harder than he did at
the bus stop. The cold is always worse for him, and the manor is a little drafty. Alfred adjusts the
blanket around Peter’s shoulders, holding it in place for him when his shivering hands fail to find
purchase.

“Of course. You are Master Duke and Master Tim’s best friend. They’ve told me all about you.
Even Master Richard has mentioned you to me a few times,” Alfred says. He stops at the top of the
stairs with Peter. They’re standing inside the living room, inside the northern wing of the manor.
Alfred guides him further inside the manor, leading him through a series of hallways until they
reach one lined with doors.

“Oh. Huh. I guess that makes sense,” Peter says idly. He hasn’t been surrounded by this much
wealth since he visited Tony’s Malibu home over winter break. It’s a different flavor of billionaire
playboy, but it’s essentially the same thing. He tries not to think about it too much.

Alfred hums for a moment considering the hallway. “I believe the room across from Master
Richard’s is open. Let’s check, shall we?”

He guides Peter over to a door in the middle of the hallway. He opens it for Peter and then steps
back into the hallway when Tim comes out of a room next door, holding a set of clothes. Peter
peers into the room and blinks. It’s a bedroom suite with a private bathroom, a king sized bed, and
a closet that looks big enough to park a car inside of. It's half the size of his apartment back in
Queens.

“Make yourself at home, Master Peter,” Alfred says, handing him the clothes Tim brought out of
his room. “I’ll prepare a lunch for you momentarily.”

“Uh, right, thanks,” Peter mumbles. He hesitates outside the door, then steps inside the room and
closes it behind himself.

***

“I’m not sure how long he’ll stay,” Tim says quietly, walking with Alfred down the hall. He
glances over his shoulder, frowning. “I said he could stay until the storm passes, but only because
I’m pretty sure he would’ve said no if I said he could stay longer.”

“He isn’t one to ask for help, then,” Alfred says.

“God, no. Never,” Tim says with a sigh. “Duke can usually talk sense into him. Maybe he’ll
convince Peter to stay. I would’ve suggested Dick handle it, but...”

He trails off, pauses, and then glances around the manor, as if realizing something.

“Hey, where’s everyone else?” Tim asks. “I know Steph and Cass are busy trying to find the Joker,
but I thought everyone else would be home by now.”

“Master Duke is with Master Jason in his home. Master Damian is resting in his rooms. His cold is
on the upswing, I believe” Alfred says.

“Huh. Has anyone been able to call Dick?”

“No, he hasn't been answering his calls,” Alfred says, a frown evident in his voice.

“Yeah, that figures,” Tim says. “Listen. I’m going to go visit him and make sure he’s okay.”
 “Of course, Master Tim. Be safe.”

***

Peter spends half an hour in the shower, mind blank, relaxing under the heat and steam. He checks
his gunshot wound and is relieved when he finds tender, pink skin where a ragged hole had been.
The scar is thick and ugly, and it’s undeniably a bullet scar, but it looks as if he was shot years ago
rather than yesterday. He takes care to clean it anyway, and finally ends his shower feeling bone
tired and rejuvenated. He leaves his dirty clothes in the hamper, dresses in the clothes Tim gave
him; sweatpants, a black and red Superman t-shirt that is far too large for Peter or Tim, and thick
socks. Dressed, he shuffles back into the bedroom.

He sits on the bed, stretches, and lays down. He’ll get up in a moment and get lunch. For now, he
just wants to lay on something soft for once. He melts against the mattress, snuggling into it with a
pleased sigh. His back and shoulders finally unclench, and the stiffness in the muscles there slips
away. The room is silent except for the sound of the furnace, the gentle drumming of the rain
against the window, and the ticking of the clock on the nightstand. Another benefit over the fire
station, where he can hear every mouse's heartbeat within the building. He revels in the warmth
and comfort, allowing himself one small moment of relaxation.

He’s asleep in seconds.

Fifteen minutes later, Alfred taps on the door and pushes it open. “Master Peter, I’m afraid Master
Tim was called away to--oh.”

Peter's response is a gentle snore. The souls attached to Peter’s presence watch the butler carefully,
ready to shout Peter awake at a moment’s notice.

Alfred takes in the scene for a moment before walking silently into the room and carefully pulling
the blanket over Peter. He tucks Peter into bed with the casual movements of an old pro before
dimming the lamp on the nightstand and stepping away. Before he leaves, he frowns back at Peter,
blatant worry crossing his features, breaking through the politely neutral expression that he usually
wears. He stays like that for a moment before shutting the door behind himself as softly as
possible.

The Avengers spread out across the room and stay silent, letting him rest.

Peter sleeps, and for the first time in a long while, his rest is deep and peaceful.

Chapter End Notes

This should have happened ten chapters ago, but I can't be silenced, apparently.

As a heads up, updates are going to slow down for a little bit. I've got a couple of
projects I need to finish and IRL work is starting to pile up. No set schedule just yet;
my work shifts have doubled, so writing time is at a premium.

As an aside, I am perpetually baffled and humbled by the reaction this fic is getting.
I'm glad people are enjoying it!
 Chapter 25
Chapter Notes

Wherein I make a mess of the MCU now instead of just DC’s ‘verse.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Steve Rogers sits in the main conference room in the Avengers Compound. He’s tired, freshly
dressed in a simple shirt and worn jeans, and he’s staring at the shield resting on the table in front
of himself. His thoughts drift, shifting from memory to regret to discovery, and finally ending at an
emotion that’s a mix of nostalgia, shame, guilt, and mild confusion.

He isn’t alone for long. James Rhodes walks into the conference room, holding a Starkpad in one
hand and a steaming mug in the other. He glances up at Steve, sees the shield and pauses for a
moment before setting his tablet down.

“I was wondering when you’d find that,” Rhodey says.

“I just found it today. It was tucked away in the closet.” Steve holds the shield in front of himself,
frowning at it. “It’s been in my room this whole time?”

"Tony left it there in case you and everyone else came back,” Rhodey says, shrugging. “I thought
you knew. You’ve been staying in that room for awhile now.”

“Would you believe me if I told you I haven’t gotten around to cleaning the place up until now?”
Steve asks.

“Given the sorts of missions we’ve been putting time into lately? Yeah. Definitely. If I never hear
the word ‘food riot’ ever again, it’ll be too soon,” Rhodey mutters. Steve shares the sentiment.

The shield’s been polished, Steve notes. It looks good as new. He runs his hand over the surface of
it, conflicted. On one hand, he's glad to have it back. As much as he hates to admit it, the shield is
as much a part of him as the uniform. On the other hand, it doesn’t feel right to hold this shield.
Not anymore. It feels like it belongs to someone else.

"Oh, you found it,” Natasha says, walking into the room and past him. She looks up at him,
catches his eye, and says, “Good. Keep it with you. You're at your best with that thing, and people
could use the morale boost."

Steve isn't so sure. He's at his best when Sam and Bucky are nearby. But he also knows Tony, and
he knows what refusing the shield would mean to the man, even if he isn’t on Earth to hear about
it. He won’t do that to him; this is a kind of olive branch from him, delivered in his usual odd way.
And there are worse things to carry than the shield. Besides, Natasha just used her Command
Voice on him, and he’s fallen into the habit of listening to her more and more often.

“It could be useful,” Steve admits, putting the shield on his back. It settles against his shoulders
just as it always has; both a comfort and, oddly, a responsibility. One he didn’t think he would be
carrying with him into the 21st century. “Assuming Thanos decides to make a return visit.”

“Let’s not even joke about that,” Rhodey says quietly. Clint trickles into the room, and he nods to
them as he walks in and takes his place.

Fair enough.

The Avengers settle into place around the conference table. Holograms of Okoye and Rocket pop
up at the empty spots of the table. Well, two of the empty spots. The rest are left empty out of
respect (for the Dusted) and hope (for Tony and Spider-Man). Speaking of which....

"Our interdimensional friend is still dead asleep in the infirmary. He’s waking up each day, but it’s
just long enough to eat, shower, and use the bathroom. The doctors say he’ll need a few days to
recover before we can get a conversation out of him," Natasha says.

“That’s a shame,” Okoye says idly. “I’d like to know how he spoke to a dead man. Wong knows
your Dr. Strange is dead, does he not?”

“He knows. He says Strange’s presence in this reality disappeared the same time everyone else
did,” Natasha says. She frowns. “Where's Thor?”

"Asleep," Clint says, rubbing the back of his head. "Which translates into nightmares which means
I didn't want to get too close. His nightmares make him sparky."

"He fried half his room during the last one," Rhodey mutters.

"We'll let him sleep," Natasha says. "Since I'm not going to wake him up. Let's get started. Steve?"

“Have we heard anything about Tony?" Steve asks.

Rhodey sighs. “No. Carol went off to look for him and now she’s gone MIA, too. He could be out
in space with Peter, hiding from Thanos, or trapped or...”

Rhodey trails off. The ‘or’ is self explanatory. Or they became dust. Or they died fighting Thanos.
Or they’re on their way back. Or-- The possibilities are endless and infuriating.

“Peter’s pretty smart, right?” Clint says, half to himself. “I mean, if he and Tony were left alone on
a ship together, they’d figure out a way to contact us by now, right?”

“Peter’s brilliant,” Rhodey says bluntly. “At least as smart as Tony, probably smarter. If those two
were stuck in a ship together, they’d have tricked it out in red paint and discovered three different
types of space travel by now. Assuming they had the resources.”

Steve frowns. He never had the chance to meet Peter, but his absence is felt everywhere inside the
Compound. Tony’s office, which has recently been repurposed into Natasha’s office, still has the
odd picture or note strewn about. Natasha leaves them where they are, and the others politely
ignore them. Steve’s caught Rhodey looking at them more than once during the few meetings
they’ve had since the decimation. The man’s expression can only be described as haunted.

He ignores that, too. They’ve all gotten pretty good at ignoring each other’s ghosts these days.

“That's a pretty big assumption, pal. Resources are hard to find these days. Half of the stuff people
are making is taken by Thanos. There’s a real fuel crisis out here,” Rocket says, scratching one
furry cheek. “And sending messages is dangerous with Thanos gathering his army up for whatever
the hell he plans on doing. If your friends are half as smart as you say, they’re staying low, moving
slowly, and keeping quiet until they get out of his reach.”

Rhodey nods, conceding the point. “If we’re lucky, they’re both on that donut ship and heading
back to us. With Carol."

Which is probably too much to hope for, Steve thinks. He keeps it to himself.

“Speaking of Thanos, he’s got trouble at home,” Rocket says. He gestures, and a holographic map
pops up in the center of the table. Seven golden orbs are marked in the center of Thanos’s territory.
“These are planet sized prisons right in the middle of his territory. They’re so far past enemy lines
that you can’t hope to break anyone out. People who end up there just don’t come back. For
obvious reasons.”

“Okay,” Natasha says, frowning. “I’m surprised he keeps prisoners.”

“One of ‘em was used for his kids,” Rocket says. At the horrified looks that earns him, he scoffs.
“You think that big purple bastard was a good father? Anyway--” He waves a hand. Two of the
golden orbs turn red. “--someone’s been tearing them apart from the inside.”

“Who’s strong enough to pull that off?” Rhodey asks.

“Dunno. Maybe your missing friends, maybe someone else,” Rocket says, shrugging. “I’m still
getting more information. “I should have something by tomorrow.”

“Then we’re going to have another talk tomorrow,” Natasha says, staring at the map with interest.
“If it is Tony, he’ll find a way to turn it into a message.”

“This is about as subtle as he would get,” Rhodey says cautiously, obviously trying to fight back a
surge of hope.

Steve pauses, thinks, and smiles for a moment. “That would just be like him, wouldn’t it?”

“Yeah, well, we’ll find out more tomorrow,” Rocket says. “That’s all I got.”

“Okay,” Natasha says with a sigh. “Moving on to things much closer to home--”

She leaves the holographic map up. Rhodey stares hard at the red orbs floating inside it.

***

It’s easy to learn about the things you destroy. Diana knows she’s not in her home universe. She
knows that she’s deep within the heart of a territory belonging to a creature called Thanos, the Mad
Titan. She knows that she’s inside one of his specially made prisons. She doesn’t find Clark or
Peter in her prison, so she destroys it and moves to the next one. And destroys that one, too.

Diana is halfway through the third prison when she hears someone groan in pain inside one of the
cells beyond the sound of battle. She rips her sword free of a strange, four armed batlike creature
and begins to cut her way through the mob towards the cell door. By the time she reaches it, there
are no more guards left to kill; only a pile of hewn bodies and a floor sticky with blood.

She pushes open the door; it protests at first, but she puts a bit of strength into it and the door folds
like paper, screeching and bending out of her way as she steps inside. In the room, a blonde woman
is bound in chains as heavy and thick as the ones that had kept Diana trapped in her own cell not
very long ago. Some small alien device is attached to her head, pulsing an odd purple light. Diana
gently removes it, idly crushes it in one hand and tosses the remains to the floor. She tears the
chains apart like tissue paper, bracing the woman against herself so she doesn’t fall and strike her
head. The chains shatter, and the woman’s eyes clear. She blinks up at Diana, wary at first, but
then relaxes when she takes stock of her situation.
“You’re a prisoner too, aren’t you?” the woman asks as Diana lowers her to the floor. She sits hard,
leaning back against the wall.

“I was. I’m not anymore,” Diana says. “You’re the only other prisoner I’ve found since I broke out.
They took pains to keep us out of reach of each other.”

“Probably smart of them,” the woman says. She tries to stand, becomes visibly pale, and drops
back down, reaching up to rub her temples. Her voice becomes less weak, a bit less thready. “Hoo
boy. I feel like I’ve just gone ten rounds with the Supreme Intelligence. Ugh.”

“You don’t look well,” Diana says, frowning. “We need to get you out of here. Is there somewhere
you can go?”

“Yes, but I won’t. Not yet,” the woman says, steel in her voice. She pushes herself back onto her
feet. Golden energy flashes along her forearms and hands, and she meets Diana’s eyes. “What’s
your name?”

“I am called Wonder Woman,” Diana says.

“Call me Carol Danvers. Captain Marvel, if you feel like getting fancy,” the woman replies, rolling
her shoulders.

Diana quirks a brow. She knows a Captain Marvel, and a Kara Danvers. She stops and looks at
Carol once more. The stance, the blue and red suit, the golden symbol across the chest. She smiles.
Perhaps this universe has its own version of Kryptonians after all.

"How did they capture you?" Diana asks, backing away to give the woman room to recover.

"I was on a search and rescue mission. After Thanos wiped half the universe, I came home to Earth
and got the full story. Two of the Avengers and most of the Guardians of the Galaxy were still
missing. Unlike everyone else, I can fly through space, so my job was to find them with a rescue
kit. Food, water, medicine, supplies to fix a ship in case they were stranded in space. I found them
drifting in space, gave them everything, and started to help them get things put together. And then
a Black Order fleet found us."

Carol goes quiet, rubbing her forehead and frowning, as if fighting off a migraine. Diana frowns.

"Are you all right?" she asks.

"Yeah. Yeah, my memory's just jumbled. I don’t remember..." She trails off, then shakes her head.
"I know they're alive. Tony and Nebula. Everything else is a blur. I’ve been here for a long time."

"We can discuss it later. Right now, we need to move," Diana says.

"Agreed," Carol says. “And I have an appointment with the people who run this place.”

“Then let’s not keep them waiting,” Diana replies, moving for the door. “Follow me.”

Behind Diana’s back, Carol winces.

And her eyes flash blue.

***

BATCHAT
Bruce (03:09pm): Status update.

Barbara (03:10pm): Dick, Tim, and Starfire are at his apartment. Duke is with Jason. Cass and
Steph are wrapping up an investigation in Crime Alley. Joker hit the Alley with his new toxin
before the storm picked up, but casualties are low.

Bruce (03:11pm): No one is allowed in the field until I get back. Bring them in.

Barbara (03:12pm): Roger that. Guys, you heard B-man.

Steph (03:13pm): We’re headed to Jason’s safe house. ETA fifteen minutes.

Bruce (03:14pm): Report in when you get there. I’m on my way to the manor. Do we still have
our guest there?

Tim (03:15pm): yeah, he’s been asleep in one of the guest rooms since I left this morning, so he
probably won’t notice the plane

Bruce (03:16pm): Noted.

Bruce (03:17pm): Check in every thirty minutes until I get back.

Bruce (03:18pm): This is not a suggestion.

***

“--Peter.”

"Nngh?" His mind isn't working at full capacity. Peter knows three things: he is very tired, he is in
a bed that is far too big and soft to be his own, and someone is waking him at an ungodly hour if
he’s this exhausted.

He must be at the Avengers Compound. Vision must have found something fascinating to talk to
him about, or Tony had a breakthrough in the lab and is paging him to come down and help.
Normally he’d be eager to talk to one or both, but not right now. His head is pounding, his side
aches painfully, and the bed is right at that perfect temperature, where it’s warm, but not too warm.

But he is also a guest.

He groans. "Five more minutes--"

“Lunch was quite some time ago, Master Peter," Alfred says gently. "Normally I wouldn't mind
letting you sleep through it, but I think you need it."

Peter freezes in place and then slowly tilts his head until he can see Alfred out of one eye. The man
is standing beside his bed, half illuminated by the lamp on the nightstand. "How long have I been
asleep, sir?"

"Call me Alfred,” he replies, checking his watch. “And you’ve been asleep for three hours.”

Oh god.

His mortification must show, because Alfred is quick to continue. "It's quite alright. You needed
the rest. Clearly."
"Yeah, but I came here to hang out with Tim, not sleep," Peter mutters, sitting up and running a
hand through his hair. The curls have gone wildly out of control as they tend to do when he falls
asleep with wet hair. He probably looks like hot garbage. He certainly feels like it. Beyond the
embarrassment, at least. There’s a heat in his body just above comfortable, and a gravelly tone to
his voice that’s gotten worse since he first spoke with Tim this morning. Those jagged rocks have
turned into a mountain, smothering his voice. "I kind of feel like a tool."

"You needed the rest and Master Tim certainly doesn't hold that against you." Alfred repeats. "He’s
running an errand for one of his brothers at the moment regardless."

“Duke?” Peter asks. He frowns. “Is he all right?”

“Master Duke is with Master Jason at the moment. He’s quite all right. Master Tim is visiting
Master Richard,” Alfred says. He pauses, watching Peter closely. After a moment he reaches out
and presses the back of his hand against Peter’s forehead.

“Um,” Peter mumbles.

“You have a fever,” Alfred says.

“Oh.” He does. He can tell. But he also can’t afford a trip to see a doctor, or medicine. “No, I just
run warm--”

“And you sound ill. Is there someone I can call to take you home later when the storm passes? I
don’t want you walking home in this cold.”

“Uh, no. Not really,” Peter mumbles.

“Surely a parent--”

“No, there’s--it’s just me. I live alone.” He knows he should think of something to say. If only to
keep Alfred from calling child protective services on him. He can’t. He’s just too tired.

Alfred goes silent at that, his expression softening. “I see. Then you’re staying here.”

It takes Peter's feverish mind a moment to understand him. That’s also a bad idea. He can’t just
stay in Bruce fucking Wayne’s house. "Oh, no, that’s okay. I-I don't want to impose--"

"You aren't," Alfred says simply, tucking Peter back into bed. Peter is so tired and the bed is so
warm that he doesn't put up a fight as Alfred deftly folds the blankets back over him."Stay here,
please. I'll be back with your meal in a little while. We’ll discuss further arrangements after you
start to feel better."

“That sounds like a supremely awkward conversation,” Peter mumbles.

“Not as much as you would think,” Alfred replies, his tone dry and amused. He dims the lamp on
the nightstand and moves towards the door. “Good night, Master Peter.”

Peter makes a quiet noise back, melting back into the blankets. The room falls back into silence as
he sleeps.

Unseen and unheard, the dusted Avengers rest alongside their comrade, nursing their own wounds.

***
 BATCHAT

Tim (05:13pm): something’s been bothering me

Tim (05:13pm): croc said it was just him, Two-Face, and four of his friends who took the hit on
Dick

Duke (05:14pm): witnesses only saw five attack Spider-Man. Killer Croc, Two-Face, Clayface,
Joker, and Scarecrow.

Tim (05:15pm): which means the last one is out there and probably gunning for Dick

Barbara (05:16pm): Keep an eye out.

Chapter End Notes

As a heads up! I signed on to do a horror collab with an amazing author throughout

October (and likely beyond, because I don't know how to be quiet) so Dark Matter will
be a bit slow and irregular with updates for a little bit.
 Chapter 26
Chapter Notes

I casually mentioned to a friend that I needed to research some stuff for the wider DC
‘verse. She asked if I’d read any of the Teen Titan stuff, and I said no. She then
attempted to explain Superboy to me.

All of them.

Eventually she gave up and loaned me part of her comic collection. And now I have
eight volumes of Teen Titans comics to page through at work. So that’s fun!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Dick Grayson paces the perimeter of his one bedroom apartment in Blüdhaven. It’s a barren mess
of a place; clothes, books, and his utility belt are strewn across the well worn couch and part of the
floor. Starfire is sitting on the arm rest, cross legged, perfectly balanced, and watching him with
deep concern. He glances at her and sighs, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You don’t have to stay here, you know. I’m safe now.”

“That remains to be seen,” she says quietly. “In my experience, assassins are not so easily chased
away from their intended target.”

“Kory--”

“I am not leaving you,” she says, her tone calm, warm, and final.

Despite everything, despite the pain, and grief, and guilt, the warmth that follows her words makes
him smile. It’s brief, and small, but it’s there. “Right. Okay.” He pauses for a moment and says,
quietly, “Thank you.”

She smiles at him, and starts to say something when someone knocks on his door. Dick is instantly
tense and alert, stalking towards the door warily. Starfire stands and then floats towards the high
corner of his apartment, wreathing her hands in silent flame. She hovers in a spot that gives her a
clear shot at the door, but limits the view of whoever is standing in the hallway. Dick waits until
she gives him a little nod--essentially saying I’m here, I’ll protect you--before he opens the door.

It’s Tim, rosy cheeked from the cold, and shivering in the breezeway outside of Dick’s apartment.
He brushes the ice and snow out of his hair and visibly relaxes when he sees Dick.

“Hey,” he says, his words tumbling out in a rush. The air is cold enough to steal his breath, and
Dick can hear his teeth chatter. He blinks at the apartment behind Dick, squints, and then relaxes
before adding, “Hi, Kory.”

“Hello, Timothy,” Starfire replies warmly.

Dick grabs Tim’s arm and pulls him inside, shutting the door behind him. “Jesus, Tim, you just got
over a cold. What the hell are you doing out here? You should be at the manor.”
Tim pulls off his scarf and coat, tossing them over a dining chair in Dick’s kitchenette. He shrugs.
“I wanted to check in on you. You haven’t been answering your phone. We’re all a little worried
about that. Including Alfred.”

That last gets him a side eye. It’s a rare Batkid that doesn’t immediately buckle under extreme guilt
when someone points out how their actions are upsetting Alfred. Including Bruce himself. Dick
sighs, rubbing his eyes.

“I needed some time away from Gotham. I think I’ve earned that, considering everything,” Dick
mutters.

Tim gives him a sympathetic look. “Yeah, I know. But you know Bruce, too. He’ll come get you
when he realizes you aren’t at the manor. Jason, too.”

“God, that’s going to be a disaster,” Dick mutters. He pauses. “How is Jason?”

“He’s barely said more than three words to Duke. He blames himself,” Tim says with a sigh,
dropping down on top of the clean laundry pile on Dick’s couch.

Starfire resumes her earlier position on the couch, dismissing the flames around her hands with a
casual flick of her wrists. She offers Tim a folded up blanket from the back of the couch, and he
takes it gratefully, bundling up in it.

“That makes two of us, I guess,” Dick mutters. He resumes his earlier pacing. “What I don’t
understand is why they’ve become so focused now. I’ve been doing this for literal years. And I’ve
been in Blüdhaven more often than not lately. Why am I a target now?”

“Let’s take a look at the facts,” Tim says, calm and even, the way he gets when he’s found a
problem to solve. “Start from the beginning.”

Dick wonders if Tim knows how much he sounds like Bruce when he speaks like that. “What
beginning? This came out of nowhere.”

“Let’s start with the weird stuff. It’s been going on for awhile,” Tim suggests. He offers a brief
shrug. “Weirder than usual, at least.”

He takes a deep breath. “Right. From the beginning of the weird stuff: Earlier this summer, weird
bat mutants show up and attack different parts of the city, looking for something. Most of them are
killed or disappear within two weeks. Late summer and early fall, Bruce is called away from
Gotham because of Justice League business. Superman and Wonder Woman went off the grid--”

“Maybe just Gotham stuff,” Tim suggests. “I doubt Superman or Wonder Woman have anything to
do with Gotham.”

A fair point. They’ve always been very localized. Superman and Wonder Woman barely even visit
Gotham. “Okay. The bat mutants disappear, the gangs start getting riled up, and then someone
blows up the docks trying to smuggle in kryptonite.”

He pauses. That was the first night he met Peter. He can still see the scene: Peter, standing on a
roof ledge, looking down into the city with a frighteningly focused expression on his face. His
startled jump when Nightwing spoke to him. He’s not sure if Peter was going to jump or not--the
kid’s legs were braced for a jump, at least, so there was a good chance of it happening--but he’s
glad he ran into him before it happened.

“Kryptonite, which we still haven’t found,” Tim remarks.

“Which we still haven’t found,” Dick confirms, pacing again. “I hope you warned Connor about
that.”

“Of course I did. Haven’t you noticed he hasn’t been around much?” Tim replies dryly. He pauses
and frowns for a moment. “Actually, he still hasn’t answered that message I sent him about it.
That’s not like him.”

“Maybe he’s been busy trying to help Clark?” Dick suggests.

“No, he would have told me,” Tim says firmly. He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck; a sure sign
of his anxiety. Conner’s silence is definitely bothering him. “I’ll have to find him when things calm
down around here.”

Fair enough. Dick is about to continue when Starfire speaks up.

“Would the kryptonite not be a concern for Superman?” she asks, frowning.

“Normally, yes, but he was missing when it showed up at the docks,” Tim says. “Connor’s the
only Kryptonian that shows up in Gotham. And even that isn’t exactly on a regular basis. It’s way
more likely that the kryptonite is being used as a power source.”

“Oh,” Starfire says. She doesn’t sound entirely convinced, but she doesn’t press on. Merely frowns
in thought. A crease forms between her eyes. Dick’s always thought that crease is adorable.

“Right,” Dick says, pacing again. “Bat mutants. Explosion at the docks. Traces of kryptonite in the
explosion. Then the break out at Arkham Asylum while Bruce is out of town handling League
business. All of the escapees immediately start to work together and coordinate plans. Not just spur
of the moment alliances, either. Active cooperation.”

“Focusing on physics labs, energy sources, and destabilizing Gotham. More than usual, that is,”
Tim says. “Spider-Man found some plans. They’re trying to build something.”

“Which is also massively weird,” Dick mutters. “Someone breaks out most of Batmans’ worst
enemies and manages to get them to agree to work for them. On top of that, they convince them to
work together. Not even Bane managed that.”

“And they were all aimed at you,” Starfire says quietly.

Tim frowns at the name, squinting at the far corner. “Actually, are we sure they were aiming for
you and not Spider-Man?”

Dick stutters, almost stumbles. In an instant, he sees it all again, hears it, feels it. His own
breathless grunt when Spider-Man drives a shoulder into his side, the feel of the gravel when he
rolls back to his feet, the shaky green of the laser dancing over Spider-Man’s side, the thundering
crack of the sniper rifle--

Kory is suddenly there, holding his hand. She murmurs softly, “Richard.” and he comes back to
himself with a start.

“They were aiming for me,” Dick says. “Spider-Man wouldn’t have gotten hit if he hadn’t pushed
me out of the way.”

Tim starts to say something else, pauses, and then nods. Dick can all but see him put ‘Spider-Man’
as a topic directly into a box labelled ‘don’t talk about this.’ He clears his throat.
“Okay, but this didn’t start tonight,” he says.

“No, it started with Bane,” Dick says. He keeps his hand in Kory’s, intertwining their fingers and
idly drawing a thumb across her knuckles while he thinks. He freezes. “Shit. Bane. Have we heard
anything from him?”

“No,” Tim says. He pauses, then snatches up his phone. He unlocks it and starts to tap away at the
screen. “We last saw him in Old Gotham with Joker and Scarecrow. That was before Killer Croc
attacked the school. He’s been a secondary concern ever since--”

“And isn’t that a little weird?” Dick asks. Silence follows his question and he turns to face the
couch, still holding Starfire’s hand. Tim is frozen in place, pale and stiff and terrified. “Tim?
What’s wrong?”

“I can’t connect to the Manor’s servers,” Tim says, staring at his phone.

“What?” Dick asks, his grip on Starfire’s hand growing tight.

“Someone’s cut off the network. Babs can’t get in. Neither can Duke or Jason or anyone else. We
were cut off twenty minutes ago,” Tim says. He grows more agitated by the second, shifting from
one app to the next on his phone. “The BATCHAT is offline. I can’t pull up the manor’s security
system. That isn’t supposed to be possible, at all.”

“Suit up,” Dick orders, snatching his own suit off of the couch.

“Will you be able to make it there in time?” Starfire asks, frowning.

“Probably not, no,” Dick answers. “Can you--”

“I’ll carry you,” she says.

***

Something happens as Peter sleeps. There’s a distant clunk, and the lights go out, along with the
furnace. The manor is suddenly filled with the peculiar sort of silence that only comes from a home
deprived of power. A few seconds later, Peter starts awake with a weak and startled cough. His
senses are going haywire. It takes him some effort to get up, and he gets the strange feeling that
there are nearly a dozen people standing around him, yelling at him to wake up, to move, to defend
himself. They fade away as dreams often do shortly after waking.

But the electric buzz of his spider senses does not. In fact, it only grows stronger and louder until a
shot of adrenaline chases away the fogginess of his half asleep mind. He shoves the blankets away,
stands, sways, and catches himself against the bed. His borrowed Superman shirt clings to his chest
and back from sweat, and he’s absolutely freezing. He fights back a shudder as he pushes sweaty
hair out of his eyes and takes in a deep breath. He nearly bends over from the effort to keep from
coughing. There’s a distinct rattling sound to his lungs that wasn’t there earlier. How did he
manage to get sicker while sleeping? He muffles a coughing fit against the inside of his elbow. The
coughs sound suspiciously like chuckling. He decides to not think about that. Not right now.
Something is very wrong at Wayne Manor.

The manor suddenly seems too large without light. The darkness is held at bay by the snow
outside, but the interior is dim and shadowy. Peter tenses, falling into a light footed crouch as he
moves towards the door, pressing his ear against it. He can hear voices, but they’re muffled by
distance and the dark. One deep, and hard, and cold. Another, much younger, with a slight accent
that Peter can’t place. And then Alfred’s, raised in alarm.
The deep voice speaks, and Peter’s danger sense spikes hard. He braces himself against the wall,
closes his eyes, and manages to get control of his breathing before slinking down the dark hallway
and over to the stairs. It’s hard to place where the voices are coming from; the manor is
soundproofed well, and it carries echoes in such a way that he can’t place them. The damn place is
designed like a medieval fortress in some respects.

So he relies on his senses instead, and finds himself in a shadowy hallway, just outside of a parlor.
He’s crouched beside an end table, peering into the room from behind a massive marble bust of
Bruce Wayne. A kid, no older than eleven, who could be Bruce Wayne’s clone were it not for the
deep brown of his skin, is tied to a chair, reeling with sickness and, judging by his heartbeat, two
seconds away from a total freakout. Alfred is sitting across from him, also tied to a chair, clenching
his jaw, staring up at the third man.

And the third man---

Jesus Christ, he’s the fucking Hulk. Peter finds himself staring up at a man nearly seven feet tall
and absolutely bristling with muscle. He’s wearing combat boots, cargo pants, a tank top that
strains against his muscles, and a luchador helmet. The helmet’s eyes glow dimly in the dark,
letting out a gentle red light over the man’s captives. A thick tube protrudes from the back of it,
snaking down the length of the man’s back and into a small pump clipped on the man’s belt. Bright
green fluid flows through the tube; Peter can see the man’s muscles throb in time with the pump.

He’s the fucking Hulk on steroids.

“There is nothing personal in this, you understand,” the man says. He settles his massive hands on
Alfred’s thin shoulders. “But someone in this city has a particular item that my new friend deeply
desires. An ancient thing. He told me I would know it if I saw it. I know Mr. Wayne has quite the
artifact collection.I intend to find it. And to leave him a message.”

He raises his hands and grips Alfred’s head. The old man looks shockingly frail in Bane’s grip. “I
will start with you. It will be quick. The people of Gotham need their spirits broken, and I will start
with their favorite playboy and his family.”

“Please. Not in front of the boy,” Alfred begs.

Okay, Peter’s heard enough. He grabs the marble bust, rears back, and then launches it at the Hulk-
like figure looming over the old man. It strikes the side of the man’s head with a heavy thump,
making him stagger back and away from Alfred with a snarled curse. It doesn’t seem to do much
more than that, which is probably a bad omen for the rest of the fight.

Whatever.

“Pick on someone your own size, asshole!” Peter shouts. Well, the first half is a shout. He rapidly
runs out of breath by the end of the sentence and barely chokes out the last word before smothering
a cough.

The kid’s head whips around to face Peter, his dark eyes widening in shock for a moment before he
begins to shift in his chair, wriggling against the tight restraints tied around his chest and middle.
Alfred spares a glance at Peter, his face pale.

“Peter--”

The large man faces Peter, flexing his hands, nostrils flaring in rage. The pump at the man’s waist
is working overtime, and Peter can all but hear the guy’s massive heart thumping.
“You aren’t one of Wayne’s children. You idiot. You could have survived this if you’d just stayed
out of it,” he remarks, stalking towards him. “Now I have to kill you.”

“You’ll have to catch me first, prick,” Peter says. He sees the man pause at that and turn to
consider Alfred and the kid. That’s not good. Peter grabs the end table the bust had been resting on
and throws that at him, too. The wood is finely made and heavy and unbelievably expensive. “Hey!
Tough guy! You forget you were in a fight or what?”

The man bats the table away with a snarl and stalks down the hall towards Peter, hands clenched
into fists. The man is huge. The Hulk might be taller, but Peter’s pretty sure this guy has the same
amount of muscle on him. He keeps a healthy distance between them, backing away from the man
and drawing him further and further back into the hallway and away from Alfred. He hears
someone in the dining room slip free of their bonds; either the kid or Alfred, Peter can’t tell.
Shortly after that, he hears a button gently click into place.

A panic button. The police or maybe some private security force should be on their way.

But with the blizzard outside, who knows how long it’ll take for them to get here? He’ll have to
stall until Alfred and the kid get into a panic room or something. They should have one of those,
right? Rich people always have some weird safety box to hide in during disasters. And ‘Hulk On
Steroids’ definitely meets that criteria.

He’s in no shape to fight. He’d be hard pressed to fight a giant like this even on his relatively few
good days in Gotham, and today is definitely not a good day. So he’ll just have to rely on his
charming personality to keep from getting pummeled to death.

“So, before we start hammering at each other, what’s your name?” Peter asks. The man is closing
the distance between them steadily. Peter is rapidly running out of hallway to back away from.

“I am called Bane. I won’t ask for your name. You are an unfortunate diversion that will be put
into place and soon forgotten,” Bane sneers.

“Well, someone has a high opinion of themselves,” Peter remarks. “You’re acting like you’ve
already won.”

"Everyone in this manor is already dead. Who would stop me? You? You won't last longer than
five seconds against me."

He's right. Peter might stand a decent chance if he was in good health and in practice. But he's not;
he's wheezing, feverish, and his limbs feel impossibly heavy. Which just means the fight is slightly
uneven.

Peter smirks, falling into a loose boxer's stance that Rhodey and Happy had shown him once upon
a time. When he speaks, his accent comes through thick as mud. "Pal, I could do this all day."

He can't. He'll be lucky if he's standing and capable of coherent thought in the next five minutes.
But giving up means the kid and Alfred are killed, and Peter won't let that happen. So Peter tries to
stand straight, dressed in a sweaty Superman shirt and sweatpants.

The shirt isn’t much defense. The first punch hits him squarely in the chest. He can feel his ribs
creak from the force of it, and all of that coughing and wheezing comes out full force. Bane has,
essentially, beaten him with one punch. And it’s not even his strongest punch; the man was clearly
holding back.

Bane has him dead to rights.

Help me, Peter thinks. A strange tension tugs at the back of Peter’s eyes, as if he’s using an
overextended muscle, stretched to its absolute limit. But help does come.

Bucky Barnes appears out of an explosion of orange and gold light. He drives his fist into Bane's
stomach, digging his metallic knuckles up and under the man's ribs in a strike to his liver. Bane
wheezes, drops Peter and staggers back, clutching his abdomen. Bucky spin kicks Bane across the
jaw, knocking him back, and then disappears.

Peter, gasping for breath, falls into a coughing fit strong enough to keep him on the ground. Deep,
wracking coughs, sabotage his every breath. The worst of them sound like bitter laughter.

Something dark flashes by the window beside them. Peter glances at it, frowning. His coughing fit
grows worse, and there’s a sharp pain behind his eyes now. One that pulses in time with his
heartbeat. It’s getting hard to keep his breath, and harder still to keep his focus.

Bane stands up slowly, snarling furiously at Peter. "You will pay for that--"

The hallway is suddenly filled with the unmistakable sound of a shotgun getting cocked. Half a
second later, it’s filled with the sound, light, and smell of a shotgun being fired. Bane staggers
forwards by a couple of steps, and then whirls around to face his new attacker. His back is a mess
of blood and torn cloth; Alfred isn’t using slugs in his shotgun, but birdshot. And the shot has
shredded the thick tube carrying Bane’s steroids.

“You--” Bane starts.

“You have two seconds to step away from the boy before I blow your bloody head off,” Alfred
says coldly. He cocks the shotgun again. “The first shot was a warning. The next will be much
more final.”

“That little gun won’t kill me,” Bane growls, stalking towards Alfred. He stands in front of a grand
window, bleeding profusely from his back. The window looks out into a blur of white and gray;
the blizzard is weaker than before, but still going strong.

“No, but he will,” Alfred replies, nodding past Bane.

At first, Peter thinks Alfred is nodding at him. And then he sees the shadow pass by the window,
building momentum. A moment later, the window beside them explodes as a black shape launches
through it.

Oh thank god, Batman's here, Peter thinks, slumping against the wall. And he didn’t come alone.
Red Robin and Nightwing follow him through the window.

The beating Bane gets after that is one for the record books. Batman’s strikes are powerfully
brutal, at complete odds with their fight together in the warehouse. He’s not holding back at all, and
neither is Nightwing or Red Robin. Bane doesn’t stand a chance against the three of them.

Red Robin does a double take when he sees Peter, and Peter offers him a weak wave before falling
unconscious.

***

He dreams. And, as always, he walks with another. It's Dr. Strange and Nick Fury this time.
They’re walking through the Avengers Compound together. It’s summer here, unlike Gotham, the
air pleasantly warm and calm under a sea of stars that, logically, shouldn’t be visible with the bright
light of the Compound nearby.
Peter takes a moment to soak in his surroundings, then turns to face Dr. Strange, tilting his head
curiously. “You have something to say.”

“You can tell?” Dr. Strange asks.

“It’s getting easier to feel your emotions,” Peter says. He pauses. “For the record, I’m not sure I’m
cool with that.”

"You’ll learn to adapt. And you’re right. I wanted to let you know that we can't help you for awhile
after this," he says. "We’ve used too much power, stretched our limits. It's weakened us."

"Oh," Peter says, frowning.

"We'll still be here, watching you, but we won't be able to help. Hell, you probably won’t even
hear from us," Fury says. He pauses for a moment. "This also means that we can't protect you if
you need help."

"That includes your nightmares," Dr. Strange adds.

Peter winces. Nightmares have followed him for most of his life, and they’ve only gotten worse in
Gotham. Add in that letter Dr. Strange sent...

Well, he’s not eager to see what the shadows of his mind are going to show him.

“So, on top of everything else, I’m going to have nightmares again,” he says. “Great. We’ll see
how long I last at Wayne Manor before they kick me out.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” Fury says dryly.

Peter frowns at him, but goes silent, walking with them. Finally, he asks, “Will I hear or see you
guys again? At all?”

“Eventually, yes,” Dr. Strange says. Peter feels his shoulders slump with relief. “But it will take
time. We need to recover, and so do you.”

“Right. Okay. I can do that, I think,” Peter says.

“Good,” Dr. Strange says. “You’ll need it.”

And then he snaps his fingers. Dr. Strange and Nick Fury disappear, and Peter falls into a
dreamless sleep.

***

The steady, calm beep of a heart monitor draws Peter out of his rest. It’s a gradual process; every
time he wakes up, the warmth and comfort of the bed pulls him back into sleep. He hears voices
sometimes; distant murmurs, low whispers, conversations centered around words like ‘security
system,’ ‘his ghosts are gone, man,’ ‘Joker toxin’ and ‘odd blood test results’ mostly. Peter can’t
keep track of them, so he sleeps through them.

Until the nightmares start, that is.

It isn’t exactly a coherent dream: just darkness, dust, icy cold, and an overwhelming feeling of
dread and despair that robs him of his breath and leaves him clawing at his blankets. He starts
awake, kicking at his blankets with a startled gasp that turns into a weak cough. The heart monitor
spikes, and Peter takes a moment to catch his breath and his bearings. He’s in a hospital, he can tell
that much by the scent of the room alone. There’s a cold sterility to it that lends weight to that
assumption. Hospitals are always a little oppressive, no matter how fancy they are.

Peter blinks up at the ceiling, willing his eyes to focus. His head is pounding. His chest is tight and
sore; he can feel a massive bruise along the length of his torso, and the tightness from it makes his
labored breathing even more difficult. He’s burning from a fever, and shifts restlessly on his bed,
accidentally kicking off his blankets.

He lets out a frustrated groan that leads into a wheezing cough.

“Easy,” a man’s voice says, gentle and unfamiliar. The voice is smooth, rich, and carries the same
distinctive old money accent that Tim has. The blankets return, the man tucking Peter in gently.
“There, better. Are you awake?”

Peter slowly turns his head away from the ceiling and towards the source of the voice. He has to
squint against the light and movement; his headache is actually a migraine, which explains why
he’s having so much trouble seeing. Ugh.

After a moment, his vision clears, just a bit. He’s in a very expensive hospital room. Half of the
lights are dimmed around his bed to at least give the illusion of darkness to let him sleep better.
He’s hooked up to an IV (ugh), a heart monitor, and probably something else, but he can’t be
bothered to figure out what just yet. He’s also very much not alone; his room is crowded with
people.

Duke, Tim, and their brother, Dick, are all sprawled out in chairs and benches at the edge of the
room. All three of them are deeply asleep. Steph is near the door, playing on her phone; she
glances up when she feels Peter’s eyes on her and gives him a small, relieved smile before standing
and slipping out of the room, raising her phone up to her ear.

Peter blinks after her, and then realizes that someone is standing beside his bed. The owner of the
voice that helped him with his blankets. He squints up at him.

"Hi, there," the man says, friendly and curious. His suit is tailor made, cut from the finest cloth,
and his shoes are polished to a gleam. He's every bit as put together as Tony, though he stands
taller and his shoulders are almost as broad as Captain America's. Honestly, he looks like Tony
with a protein shake and massive steroid habit. “My name’s Bruce Wayne.”

Peter, laying in his hospital bed, dressed in a patient gown, and confronted with the man he’s
stolen from, suddenly feels very out of his depth. "Uh."

The man offers Peter his hand, still with that friendly smile, though he can see the man's eyes
wander over Peter's room. Peter takes his hand, offering him a firm, businesslike shake, just the
way Tony had taught him. It seems to impress the man. Or, at least, it seems to.

So he has that going for him, at least.

Bruce smiles, releasing his hand. "We haven’t had a chance to meet yet, but my sons have told me
all about you. I’m sorry our meeting is happening here, but well, Gotham has been a bit more
lively than usual. As I’m sure you’re aware.”

"It’s been a little rough lately, yeah," Peter mumbles, glancing around. Peter has a sinking feeling
in the pit of his stomach.

“Rougher on some more than others,” Bruce replies. He looks at Peter, and there’s nothing
‘playboy billionaire’ about it. There’s a sharp intellect behind those blue eyes. Peter glances away.
 “How’s Alfred?” he asks. “And the kid. Were they hurt?”

“They’re both fine,” Bruce says. He moves away from Peter, grabbing blankets from a cart set near
the door and gently placing them over Duke, Tim, and Dick. “Damian activated the alarm system,
but Batman, Nightwing, Red Robin, and Starfire were already on the way by the time it reached
the police. Starfire and Nightwing are the ones who brought you to the hospital.”

“Oh,” Peter says woozily. “That’s lucky.”

“Lucky for you especially,” Bruce says, spreading the last blanket over Dick before glancing at
Peter. “Alfred told me what you did. That was a very brave thing you did.”

“Couldn’t just stand there and do nothing,” Peter says, yawning. “Had to help.”

Bruce tilts his head at that. A small smile forms. “I understand. You should rest.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I think I’d better,” Peter mumbles, sinking back into the bed with a weary and
slightly wheezy sigh. Bruce pats his shoulder and dims the lights a little more for Peter.

“We’ll speak again soon, Peter,” he says.

Chapter End Notes

For those of you who are interested, I do have a few alternate scenes and an alternate
start for this fic in Divergence Point. One of them might become it's own version of a
'What If' fic.

Let me know what you guys think!

 Chapter 27
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

His dreams are restless and stressful; one moment, he’s falling, unable to grab Sam’s hand as he
reaches down to help, the next he’s drowning in the frigid waters surrounding Gotham. The only
thing that seems consistent is how uncomfortable and restless his sleep is. When he wakes up
again, he feels off kilter, his body not fully awake. He blinks, looking up at the hospital ceiling,
gradually waking up. Physically speaking, he feels a little better; sore, exhausted, and wrung out
mentally and emotionally, but a tiny bit better for the rest his body is getting inside a warm and
safe place.

His stomach is another thing altogether. It growls. Loudly. And Peter realizes his last full meal was
quite some time ago. A quiet chuckle draws his attention, and he turns his head to the side. Bruce
Wayne is sitting comfortably in a chair tucked away in the corner. He nods when he sees Peter
awake. He’s alone, Peter notices; Duke, Tim, and Dick have left the room. It’s just Peter and Bruce
right now.

Peter stares at him. Some time must have passed since their last chat--a few hours, at least--but
Bruce looks as fresh and calm as he did when they first spoke. It’s hard to tell time in a hospital;
there’s an odd ‘anytime’ sense that haunts most of them, and the only window he can see shows a
city under a blanket of snow.

“Good evening,” Bruce says. “I’ve asked a nurse to bring you something to eat. Dr. Thompkins has
cleared you for food, but she wants you to eat slowly.”

“Dr. Thompkins?” Peter asks sleepily, sitting up. He winces, and slumps back onto his bed. His
ribs are bruised and tender. They've been taped, restricting his movement, but that isn't helping
much.

“The family doctor,” Bruce says. He frowns when he sees Peter wince. “Take it easy and try not to
move. How do you feel?”

“Like I was hit by an angry truck on steroids,” Peter says. His fever is broken, at least, but he still
has a nagging pain in his throat when he speaks. His voice is gravelly and thick, choking off his
words. But his mind is clear enough. Thank god for small favors. “I think I’m more awake now, at
least.”

“That’s good. You’ve had us worried,” Bruce says.

Peter had worried himself for a little while there. Thinking back to the river and how close he came
to just sleeping himself to death in the cold fills him with an icy dread. The memory is blurry and
smudged at the edges, but he distinctly remembers hearing voices, a radio, and the others.

Others who aren’t saying much of anything at the moment. That worries him; it feels strangely
empty without hearing Bucky and Sam’s bickering, Fury’s dry observations, and Shuri and
T’Challa’s gentle encouragement.

“Where am I?” Peter asks, rubbing at his eyes. The exhaustion is leaving him.

“In a private room at Drake Memorial Hospital. You’re quite the celebrity here at the moment,”
Bruce says.
Peter frowns at him, confused. “I am?”

“One of Batman’s worst enemies broke into my manor with the intent to kill my family, and you
distracted him until help could arrive. That makes you something of a celebrity in this city, and
someone I owe a personal debt to,” Bruce explains. “Congratulations, you’ve just become one of
the hottest topics in Gotham.”

Oh god. The marble bust and the display stand it was resting on were both well over one hundred
pounds. He threw both of them at Bane. Sure, he didn’t have much of a choice, and it was worth it,
but neither of those things can be considered light enough to be thrown by a skinny, sick kid.
Hysterical strength can account for some amazing feats, but it can’t account for that. Come to think
of it, he probably won’t be able to easily explain away the fact that he took a massive punch to the
chest from Bane and came out of it without any broken bones.

“I know you’re a meta,” Bruce says simply. “You wouldn’t have survived that punch unless you
had some kind of physical enhancement.”

“Yeah. Is that going to be a problem?” Peter asks hesitantly. “I know Batman isn’t a big fan of
people like me.”

Something flashes behind Bruce’s eyes, just for a moment. Something like shock and annoyance. It
passes so quickly that Peter wonders if he saw it at all. “Now, what gives you that idea?”

“It’s, ah, something I’ve heard around town, that’s all,” Peter mumbles, rubbing the back of his
head. “I’m not sure it’s true, but you know. I’d rather stay on his good side if I can help it.”

“I think you’ve got that covered,” Bruce says. “And it’s the police who tend to be less than kind to
people with your abilities in Gotham, unfortunately.”

“Okay, that’s also a problem, then,” Peter mutters. He rubs his throat, annoyed by the soreness. His
healing factor is nothing short of miraculous, but he’s been relying on it heavily lately, and he’s not
exactly replacing all that energy he’s using up.

“Not in this case,” Bruce says, standing up to grab a plastic cup from the cupboard above the sink
tucked away in the corner of the room. He fills the cup and brings it over to Peter, setting it down
on the small table beside Peter’s bed.

Peter grabs the water and sips at it, relaxing. “Why’s that? I kind of made it obvious that I’m
enhanced.”

“Alfred and Damian have told the police everything,” Bruce says. “How you distracted Bane
before Batman and the others were able to intervene. I owe you for that. For more than that, in fact,
but that’s something we can discuss later.”

There’s a pregnant pause. Peter watches Bruce, and Bruce calmly returns his gaze. The playboy
billionaire facade is almost completely gone. He isn’t sure what kind of man Bruce Wayne is, but
he meets Peter’s gaze with a steady and frank curiosity that could match T’Challa’s steely looks.

“They said I distracted Bane?” Peter asks, mind turning slowly. That’s an odd choice of words. He
attacked Bane, it just wasn’t strong enough to count as more than a distraction given how weak
and tired he was.

“Yes. You yelled at Bane and drew him away from the kitchen. That gave Damian enough time to
slip out of his restraints and call for help,” Bruce says, still in that calm and steady voice. “Bane
broke a marble bust of myself while charging towards you. Alfred saw him knock it over.”
Peter stares at Bruce. Alfred couldn’t have seen that. His neck was in Bane’s hands.

Bruce pauses, and gives Peter a significant look. “Which is a good story to tell the press and the
police. If they think you’re different, they might start to investigate the incident at the manor a
little more closely than they should. There are already a lot of questions surrounding you. We
shouldn’t give them more than they already have.”

Ah. Yeah, a homeless meta kid throwing hands with one of Batman’s worst enemies in Bruce
Wayne’s kitchen might turn this into a bigger shit show than it already is. Nothing good will come
of Peter admitting that he’s enhanced or meta.

“Oh. Right. Got it,” Peter says.

He desperately thinks back to Tony’s ‘this is how you handle the press’ lectures, and tries to think
of something useful. Somehow, he doesn’t think, ‘sunglasses, the mirrored kind; it throws people
off’ and ‘always keep moving, you never know who’s trying to catch up’ and ‘always give them a
show, people love a good show’ have any place in this particular situation. Probably because Tony
was in the habit of fleeing the press if they weren’t specifically invited for a press conference by
Stark Industries. Often because they had very awkward questions to ask him.

Bruce smiles. “Good. For the record, I have no issue with meta individuals, but I know there are
others who do. I don’t want anyone to make you a target for their own agendas if I can help it.”

Peter pauses, taking that in. He blinks. “You won’t tell anyone?”

“Not a soul,” Bruce confirms.

“Oh,” Peter says. He fidgets a little, and says, quietly, “Thanks.”

Bruce nods, pauses, and starts to say something. He’s interrupted by the door swinging open. The
man freezes, tensing in a way that reminds Peter of Natasha before relaxing once more when he
sees Dick Grayson peering into the room from around the door. Dick smiles when he sees Peter
awake.

“Hey, Peter,” he says. He sounds tired. Actually, he sounds worn down, as if he’s just had the
roughest week of his life. Peter can understand that. “Good to see you’re awake. You had us all
worried.”

“Yeah, I bet. Sorry about that,” he says, rubbing the back of his head.

“What’s wrong, Dick?” Bruce asks.

“Dr. Thompkins and Detective Bullock want to talk to Peter, and Damian is refusing to stay in
bed,” Dick says evenly. “You might have to pull rank here. He’s really riled up. He doesn’t want
Alfred out of his sight.”

Which is understandable. Alfred must have raised that kid, just like the other Wayne kids (he
assumes; he really doesn’t know). If Peter had been in Damian’s shoes, he’d be absolutely feral
about keeping May in sight--

May. The note. Peter frowns, withdrawing while Dick and Bruce speak. So much has happened, he
almost forgot about Dr. Strange’s note. For a moment, he loses himself to thoughts of the note, and
what it means. For himself and for Felicia.

God, Felicia. He needs to tell her about Strange’s letter.

“--right, Peter?” Dick says.

Peter blinks, snapping out of his thoughts and looking at Dick. He’s standing near Peter’s bed now,
and Peter can see that his eyes are bloodshot and red, possibly from tears. Peter can’t blame the
guy; Alfred is family, and he nearly got his head torn off by someone on super steroids.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I said that Detective Bullock and Dr. Thompkins want to speak with you. Is that all right?” Dick
asks. “One of us can stay with you, if you’d like.”

Peter shakes his head. “No, no, that’s fine. I’ll talk with them.”

“I’ll be right outside if you need me,” Dick says, gently squeezing his shoulder before heading
towards the door with Bruce.

Peter frowns after them. There was something familiar in that brief squeeze. He can’t quite place it
right now, but it tugs at the back of his mind as Bruce and Dick leave and Detective Bullock and
Dr. Thompkins enter the room. Dick hesitates for a moment before shutting the door with a gentle
click.

Bullock lumbers towards Peter, offering his hand and giving a firm shake before sitting down in
the chair Bruce left behind. The chair struggles to contain his bulk; Bullock is heavyset, but in a
way that suggests there’s a great deal of muscle beneath the fat. He looks tired, and a bit more
rumpled than he did in the warehouse when Peter met him as Spider-Man. He manages a pleasant
enough smile.

“Peter, good to see you’re awake,” Bullock says. His tone is polite, but suspicious; Peter wonders
if that’s just his default voice. He hopes so. “Most people Bane takes a swing at aren’t really
capable of talking much afterward. Especially not--well. No offense. You’re not exactly a hard
case.”

“None taken,” Peter says, rubbing the back of his neck. He glances at his arm and is relieved to see
the stab wound from a few days ago is pretty much gone. Only a thin white scar remains from the
knife wound.

“I’ve pretty much got all I need already, kid, but I wanted to check in on you before I left,” he says.
“Won’t take very long, I promise. I know the doc here wants to talk to you.”

“Right. Um, anything you need.”

“Can you tell me what happened? I need to make sure the fine details match up for my report.”

Ah. So that’s why Bruce wanted to meet alone. He wanted to help Peter get his story straight with
the cops. Tony’s given him advice on this before, too. What was it? ‘Tell ‘em you have a lawyer,
then call Happy. He’ll get a lawyer for you. A real shark of a bastard, too. I keep a few around for
situations like these. Just try not to get caught with your literal pants down, it doesn’t look good in
court.’

Okay, so that’s not helpful in this situation. Especially since Tony and Happy are both likely dead.
Which is another thought he can’t afford to get lost in.

“Right. Okay. Um, Tim brought me over earlier in the day, and I dozed off--”

“Dozed off?”
“Yeah, uh,” Peter stammers for a moment, and then opts for the truth. “I live in Crime Alley. My
place doesn’t have heat, so I tried to go to the hospital to warm up and ran into Tim.”

“Tim Drake? How does a kid from Crime Alley know one of Bruce Wayne’s sons?” Bullock asks.
He’s scribbling in his notebook as Peter speaks, and his tone is more matter of fact than
accusatory.

“We go to the same school. I got in on a scholarship.” Bullock grunts, seemingly satisfied with that
answer, and Peter pushes on. “Anyway, my cold got the better of me and I fell asleep in one of the
guest rooms. I woke up when the power went out and went to find Alfred.”

“You woke up because the power went out?”

“I live in Crime Alley, detective. You either react to the world changing around you or you end up
dead,” Peter says dryly. “Spider-Man can’t be everywhere, and neither can Red Hood.”

Bullock sighs. “Yeah, well, he’s not going to be anywhere these days. All right. You woke up.
What then?”

“I could hear voices downstairs. I followed them and saw Bane threatening Alfred.”

“And then?”

“And then I yelled. Kind of,” Peter says, rubbing his throat. His voice is starting to give out on
him, and he stops to take another deep drink of water. Bullock waits patiently. “Mostly I called him
an asshole and tried to piss him off enough he’d get away from them. I think I struck a nerve, or
startled him--” Well, literally struck a nerve by flinging Bruce Wayne’s face into the side of the
man’s head. “--he started chasing me. Then Batman and the others came in.”

“Pretty brave,” Bullock remarks, still writing in his notebook.

“Not really. I couldn’t just stand there and do nothing.”

“You’re not from Gotham, are you?” Bullock asks suddenly.

Peter blinks at him, frowning. “No, I’m from Queens.”

“That explains it,” Bullock says, clicking his pen idly. “Crime Alley kids would’ve run at the first
sign of trouble. It’s how they survive long enough to end up being Crime Alley adults. Frankly, the
fact that you’ve survived in Crime Alley this long without being a native is amazing.”

“Queens isn’t exactly a cakewalk, you know,” Peter says. He pauses. “But it doesn’t have much on
Crime Alley, I guess.”

“I’d bet not,” Bullock replies dryly. He pauses. “Is that all?”

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t try to fight Bane? Didn’t hit him?”

Peter’s heartbeat spikes a little. The machine tracking it lets out a slightly quicker beep. He fidgets
in his bed a little. “No. What kind of damage could a skinny kid like me do to him?”

Bullock eyes him for a moment, and scoffs. “Yeah. That’s what I thought. But Bane says you
threw Bruce Wayne’s bust at him, then the display case, and that you punched him in the stomach
and kicked him across the chin. He’s got the bruises and busted jaw to prove it.”
“Batman gave the guy the beating of his life,” Peter says.

“Yeah. He did. And he’s pretty damn strong, but I don’t think he’s that strong. Not unless he’s
Superman.” He gives Peter a level stare for a moment. The kind of stare that says ‘I know you’re
lying, and I want you to know that I know.’ Peter stares back. After a moment, Bullock shrugs.
“But who knows. That Starfire woman was with him. She packs a mean punch. Maybe she got a hit
in or two.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Peter mumbles.

Another pause follows that. Bullock shakes his head, closing the notebook. “That fits the story
everyone else has told me.”

Oh, thank god.

“By the way, we’re having trouble tracking down your guardian. I got in touch with your school,
and nobody can find this Tony Stark guy,” Bullock says, pocketing his notebook. “You wouldn’t
happen to have another number for him, would you?”

The number Peter gave them goes to FRIDAY. He can imagine that they aren’t going to find Tony
at that number in this universe. Peter shakes his head slowly. “No.”

“We really need to--”

“If he was capable of being here,” Peter says, suddenly exhausted. “Then he’d be here. He’s not
coming.”

Another pause follows that. Bullock frowns at Peter for a moment. After a few seconds, he says,
“Dick Grayson has some paperwork signing over temporary guardianship to him from Tony.
Sounds like your guardian made some arrangements to have you taken care of.”

How in the fuck did Dick Grayson get that? Peter frowns. Maybe Loki did it? He has been oddly
helpful lately. Even kind, in his own way. Peter could see the God of Mischief conning Dick
Grayson into looking after Peter.

“Well, no, but we haven’t talked much lately.”

“Then it sounds like Tony did you a favor getting you in with the Waynes,” Bullock says.
“Between you and me, kid, I think you’d be better off with them. They never lose heat in the
middle of a blizzard.”

Peter says nothing, looking away to frown at the ground. If Tony was here, he wouldn’t have been
starving in the streets. Bullock sighs, seemingly aware that he’s hit a sore spot.

"Is Nightwing still around? I'd like to talk to him," Peter says.

"He left as soon as he brought you here," Bullock says, pushing himself up from the chair with a
sigh. He adjusts his hat and pulls a toothpick out of his front breast pocket, popping it into his
mouth. "He wasn't in good shape. He lost a friend recently, and he has to lay low for a little while."

Yeah, Peter can only guess at what Nightwing is going through right now. And Red Hood. He
needs to find them as soon as he can. Which he can’t exactly do if he’s just been kind of adopted by
Dick Grayson and the Wayne family.

“Thanks for your cooperation, Peter,” Bullock says heading for the door. He places one meaty
hand on the doorknob and glances over his shoulder at Peter. “One last piece of advice before I
go.”

“Yeah?”

“Never play poker. You’re a terrible liar,” Bullock says. He pushes open the door and shuts it
behind himself, leaving Peter alone with Dr. Thompkins. A long silence follows, until Peter lets out
a heavy sigh and flops back against the bed.

Dr. Thompkins steps into view, picks up his cup of water, and refills it for him. She smiles at him.
“Hi, Peter. I wanted to discuss a few things with you if you’re feeling up to it?”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Peter says, with a sinking feeling in his stomach. It’s never good when a doctor
uses that particularly gentle tone with someone. Usually it’s followed by something like, ‘so good
news, we’ve just discovered a fascinating new illness that will finance years of study. Bad news is,
it’s inside you.’ Or maybe that’s just his anxiety talking. “What’s up, doc?”

“Well, I wanted to talk to you about a few things,” Dr. Thompkins says, sitting in the chair Bullock
just left. “Your blood tests specifically.”

Peter goes very, very still. His blood tests have been slightly weird since the spider bite. Most of
the doctors he’s visited (which isn’t exactly a regular occurrence these days) typically make polite
‘hm’ noises before checking May’s insurance and deciding against pursuing it when they realize
the policy won’t pay for any further tests. But since he’s technically under Dick Grayson’s
guardianship, that’s not true anymore. Bruce Wayne’s kids probably have the best medical care
money can buy.

“Yeah?” Peter asks warily. There’s a window behind them. Peter can make a break for it if he
absolutely needs to, but the idea of fleeing the hospital in a patient gown during a snowstorm isn’t
exactly appealing. “Is something wrong?”

“Yes, and no. There are a couple of things I’d like to talk to you about. We found evidence of
Joker’s toxin in your system. You said you live in Crime Alley?”

“Yeah, I do,” Peter says.

“He set off a few of his bombs in Crime Alley to throw off Black Bat the other day. Is that when
you were exposed?”

“Yeah,” Peter says, leaping on that excuse as quickly as possible. “I wasn’t able to get the antidote
for awhile, but I think it worked.”

“You should have come to my clinic,” she says. “But I think you got lucky, as far as exposure
goes. Kind of.”

“Kind of?”

“The Joker is a brilliant chemist. His toxins are notoriously difficult to counter. Most people who
are exposed don’t recover if they aren’t given the antidote in a timely fashion, and there are a few
who never recover if the Joker sprays them directly. I think you’ll be alright, but you might have
some side effects.”

“Side effects?” Peter asks, worried.

“Laughing fits,” Dr. Thompkins explains. “Almost like seizures. A few of my patients have it.
There isn’t exactly a term for it yet, and we do have a treatment, but it’s often permanent.”

“Oh,” Peter says numbly. “So I’m going to have, what, laughing seizures for the rest of my life?”

“It’s still too early to tell. Your immune system is fighting it, which is one reason why your throat
is so sore.” She pauses, then adds gently. “And your healing factor is something to consider. I
know you’re meta, and I know you’ve been in a Lazarus Pit. I can recognize the signs.”

Jesus Christ, he might as well walk around with it tattooed across his face. Peter sighs, rubbing the
back of his head. This is a lot to take in. “Okay. So, um, a few questions?”

“Go ahead.”

“What do I do about the laughing seizures? Is there anything I can do for them?”

“Yes, actually, there is,” Dr. Thompkins says. She stands up and grabs a small box from one of the
cabinets above the sink in the room, then sits back down and sets it on the table beside his bed.
“Have you ever used an inhaler before?”

Great. “Yeah, trust me, I know how to use those. So I just use this whenever I start to laugh?”

“Only when you can’t stop laughing. It might take awhile for you to recognize the signs,” Dr.
Thompkins explains. “Two puffs, hold in your breath, then release. You’ll know when it works.”

“Never thought I’d start using these again,” Peter mutters. Dr. Thompkins gives him a sympathetic
smile. It seems genuine; most doctors are only capable of pulling off a polite, noncommittal smile.
“Okay, next question.”

“Go ahead.”

“The Lazarus Pit thing. What did you mean by that?”

“That you died and came back when someone put you in a Pit. Or something like it, at least,” Dr.
Thompkins says. Her tone is carefully neutral now. “There are a lot of side effects to that.”

“Like what?”

“Psychological trauma is the most common,” Dr. Thompkins says. “One of the most concerning
side effects is, potentially, homicidal rage.”

Peter stops for a moment. This is what Loki was talking about during that weird dream awhile ago.
Dr. Thompkins is watching him carefully, and Peter wonders at her courage. She’s in a room alone
with a meta suffering from joker toxin poisoning and the side effects of resurrection.

“I mean, I’ve gotten frustrated and angry a lot easier than usual, but I haven’t--I mean, I wouldn’t--
-” he gropes for the words. He can feel a simmering fury somewhere deep inside himself, held at
bay by...something. Someone? After a moment, he admits, “I think it’s gotten close a few times.”

“It can come and go in waves,” Dr. Thompkins says sympathetically. “Do you remember anything
about it? Who put you in the Pit and why?”

Peter hesitates and then shakes his head. Explaining it to her won’t do him any good. If anything,
it’ll put a target on her back if the people who put him into the Lazarus tube come looking. “No.
And I don’t want to. I have nightmares about it sometimes and those are bad enough.”

She nods, unsurprised by that answer. “I understand that.”

A brief silence falls over the room after that. Peter breaks it, rubbing the back of his head. "Bruce
Wayne wants me to stay with his family. If I did---I mean, am I a danger to them? Would I be
putting them at risk? I don’t want to hurt anyone."

"Pit Madness usually lessens over time," Dr. Thompkins says reassuringly. "It's been months,
right?"

“Yeah,” Peter says. “I don’t know how many. Four or five?”

Frankly, he’s lost track of time recently. Too much has happened.

Dr. Thompkins nods again, thinking. “Your case is special. Joker toxin can cause it’s own brand of
psychological trouble. I’m going to be honest, Peter. The fact that you’re able to carry a
conversation like this is astonishing, and probably thanks to your special abilities.”

Well, that and the souls of half of the Avengers he’s carrying around telling him to calm down
whenever the anger gets to be too much. Peter decides against telling her that he can hear dead
superheroes whispering to him. It might cause her some concern. To put it mildly.

“I’m cautiously optimistic in your case. If you start to feel like the anger is becoming
uncontrollable, call me. Day or night. I’ll do everything that I can to help,” Dr. Thompkins says. “I
know Dick feels the same way.”

“He doesn’t even know me,” Peter says.

“He knows enough,” Dr. Thompkins says, standing up. She takes out his IV, and disconnects the
machine monitoring his heart rate. Peter wishes she’d done that sooner. “I know Bruce wants to
talk to you. I’m clearing you for a brief trip outside, but I want to keep you here for one more
night.”

“Oh, uh. Right. Thanks, doc,” Peter says.

Dr. Thompkins pats his shoulder idly and walks towards the door, opening it and slipping outside
into the hall. Peter lays back in his bed and stares up at the ceiling, mind reeling from everything
he’s just been through. He listens for the others, to see if they have anything to say about what he’s
just learned. He hears nothing. He feels very tired and very alone.

A gentle knock on the door draws him out of his thoughts. Bruce Wayne stands in the doorway,
holding a backpack in one hand. “Do you mind if I come in?”

Peter waves him in, sitting up with a sigh. Bruce steps into the room and closes the door behind
himself. After a moment, Peter looks up at him. "Mr. Wayne, can I ask you a question?"

"Of course, anything."

Peter looks at him from the corner of his eyes. This next question will tell him exactly what kind of
man Bruce is. "Why did you have a bust of yourself outside of the kitchen?"

Bruce’s expression becomes wry and a tad exasperated. "It was a gift from the rest of the family.
They knew I'd hate it but feel obligated to show it off, so they hired the best sculptor in the city to
make it. I couldn’t exactly turn down a gift from my children, and the sculptor was only too happy
to take on such a large commission.”

Peter already has his head in his hands. "I threw a birthday gift from your kids at Bane?"
 "Yes. Alfred said your form was impeccable.”

Great, Bruce has jokes. "Please tell me I didn't break it."

"No, unfortunately. It's still in one piece. I think Dick suspected it might fall during an ‘accident’ at
some point," Bruce says wryly. "You have, at least, given it character. And justified Dick, Tim,
and Jason’s future crimes against taste when they inevitably order a replacement.”

There’s fond exasperation in his voice, and Peter smiles a little at the sound of it. Bruce seems like-
-well, not a bad father, at least. It’s good to know that the bust wasn’t some manifestation of an
oversized ego. Just mild family terrorism between family.

"Listen, why don't you join me for lunch?" Bruce asks. “I’d like to talk to you, and I know you
must be starving.

Peter looks down at his patient gown. "Um. I'd like that, but--"

"Duke and Tim brought you some clothes,” Bruce says, lifting up the backpack. He sets it on the
chair next to him. “”

“I think I’ve got it,” Peter says.

Bruce doesn’t seem surprised. He nods. “I’ll meet you in the hall. There’s a burger place around
the corner.”

With that, he steps out of the room one last time. Peter sighs, pushing himself out of bed. If nothing
else, that procession of people helped distract him from the steady itch of his healing factor. He’s
already moving easier, and the bruise across his torso is green and yellow at the edges. His ribs
still itch and ache, but a good meal and better sleep might take care of that. With his immune
system fighting the Joker toxin in his blood, who knows how long it’ll take to heal.

Peter showers and changes into the clothes Bruce left in the backpack. Jeans, socks, shoes, and
another Superman shirt. This one is the classic red and blue design and it fits Peter perfectly when
he pulls it on. He idly wonders how many of Bruce Wayne’s kids are a fan of Superman.

When he steps out of the bathroom, feeling better for the shower alone, he stops and takes stock of
himself. He eyes the inhaler on the table beside his bed and grabs it, pocketing it on his way
towards the door.

He never thought he’d need one of those again.

Chapter End Notes

Kind of a slower chapter compared to the last few, but hopefully it's interesting
enough. Next time: Peter chats with Bruce, Damian meets Peter, and we get a quick
peek at the MCU.

Let's start that countdown for the identity reveals, shall we? It's still a little ways off,
but only because I intend to make an Event of it.

Have a good one!

 Chapter 28
Chapter Summary

Basing the food court knowledge off of my brief job working at a hospital. If you're in
the US, godspeed to you folks working on Black Friday.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

They end up walking out of the hospital and across a skyway, a pedestrian bridge connecting the
hospital to a shopping center across the street, as well as a parking garage and hotel. Peter looks up
at the sky through the glass walls and ceiling. The storm above Gotham is just as menacing as it
had been days ago, but the snow has turned to flurries and rain. The city looks dark and gloomy in
the fading evening light, even under a blanket of snow. It's strangely beautiful.

“This place is huge,” Peter says, in a tone equal parts wonder and worry. Mostly to break the
silence.

“It's the biggest hospital in the city, more of a medical complex than a regular hospital. It owns
three blocks and they might expand it more,” Bruce confirms, walking beside him.

“Exactly how much is all this going to cost?” Peter asks. He knows, on some level, that Dick or
Bruce is paying for this, but he also has long baked in near poverty instincts about what he can and
can't afford.

The few doctor’s visits he’s had since the bite were often in small, unassuming buildings that still
manage to be expensive. He has the sudden realization that if a ten minute conversation with a
doctor in a tiny office in the not-so-great part of town racks up a two hundred dollar bill, then a day
or two inside a medical complex at the heart of Gotham City is going to ask for a price he doesn’t
want to think about.

Bruce blinks, as if the cost of all of this never once entered his mind. “Don’t worry about it. Here,
there’s a food court up ahead.”

And there is, in fact, a massive food court to their left. Doctors, visitors, various hospital staff, and
even a few other patients fill out booths and tables lining the room. It reminds Peter of a mall food
court, with separate store fronts. Most of the options are healthy enough: a soup and salad shop, a
sandwich place, and far in the corner, a Batburger. Soup will get him nowhere, and a sandwich
won’t last him a minute. Peter heads straight for that one.

Bruce follows him at a sedate pace, his movements easy, graceful, and far too silent for a man of
his size. Peter makes note of that, wonders about it for a moment, and then becomes far too
engrossed in the menu to care.

“Dr. Thompkins didn’t give you any dietary restrictions?” Bruce asks, stepping up beside him.

“Nah, she’s not worried about that,” he answers.

“Get as much as you’d like, then.”

Peter happily does so. Three burgers, more fries than necessary, a massive drink, and more. It’s
probably more than his stomach can handle, to be honest, but he’ll find that out soon enough.
Bruce settles for a regular burger, small water, and a fruit pie. Peter orders three pies for himself.
Fruit is relatively healthy, so that’ll even out his horrible food decisions, right?

He half expects to hear some kind of comment on that from...someone. Anyone. It’s odd when he
doesn’t hear anything. Odd enough to make him pause for a moment before grabbing a table in the
far corner of the room while Bruce pays for their meals. Peter’s already eaten one burger and is
halfway through the second when Bruce sits down across from him. carefully spreads a napkin
across his lap, unwraps his burger, picks up a plastic fork and knife, and then cuts his burger down
the middle like a steak.

Peter can only stare. It’s such a contrast to Tony demolishing a burger with one hand that, in any
other instance, it’d be funny. If only because Peter can clearly imagine Tony nudging him with an
elbow and commenting on it.

“So I noticed something a little while ago,” Bruce says between bites, a little too casually for
Peter’s liking.

“Um, what’s that?” Bruce is cutting the burger into bite sized pieces and it’s distracting Peter
terribly.

“I’ve been sponsoring a new student at Gotham Prep. Now, normally I make a big deal about that
sort of thing. Press release, or at least a brief article in the paper. It looks good for my company,
and it’s a good way to give back to the city that’s helped me maintain my wealth.”

Peter goes still.

“It seems your name was added to the list at some point. I don’t remember that.” Bruce sets the
fork and knife down, watching Peter closely. There’s a sharp intelligence there to rival Tony’s
glinting in those eyes. Peter suddenly realizes he's completely misjudged Bruce Wayne.

Peter sighs. The man wouldn’t bring it up unless he already knew the answer. He might as well
come clean. "That’s because I put it there."

Bruce tilts his head and says nothing.

Peter's face burns with embarrassment. "I just needed to go to a school with a really good science
program."

The part where he needs a good science program because he’s trying to figure out a way to get
back to his original universe is left unspoken. There are some things you just don’t drop on
billionaires upon first meeting them. And, if Strange’s letter is anything to go by (and why
wouldn't it be?), that's no longer possible, so it doesn't matter anyway.

Bruce nods, thoughtful. "I thought so."

"Listen, I'm sorry I stole--"

Bruce raises his hand and stops Peter there. "Your grades are perfect, you set a new record for the
entrance exam, and the teachers tell me you're a diligent worker who’s perfectly well behaved,
despite being antagonized by other students. I prefer that people ask for my money rather than take
it but given your circumstances, I can understand why you did it. As far as I’m concerned, you've
more than earned that scholarship, Peter."
Peter stares at him, shocked. He relaxes slightly, but he can hear the unspoken ‘however’ hovering
at the end of Bruce’s sentence.

"I am, however, worried about your living situation. Your neighborhood isn't safe, to put it mildly."

"Honestly, I've lived in worse."

Well, not much worse, and only for a week while May got them into a better apartment after losing
the one she and Ben had shortly after his death. He really is at a low point in his life, shelter wise.

That earns him a deeper frown. “I like that even less. That won’t do. You need food, shelter, and a
safe place to sleep. Preferably on an actual bed.”

“I mean, I can figure it out, if I can just find a steady job--” Peter starts.

“You can stay with my family. Dick has the paperwork for it already, but it’s a choice I'd like you
to make."

Peter stares at him. “What?”

“Stay with my family," Bruce repeats. "Tim and Duke have told me all about you. Alfred is
obviously fond of you. Dick already has the legal side of it handled. They’d be happy to have you
there. So would I, frankly. I don’t like the idea of you sleeping in the cold. It's a wonder you kept
your grades up living like that.”

“Are you serious?” Peter asks incredulously. “I literally stole from you.”

"Lots of people steal from me. Very few of them have a good reason for it." Bruce shrugs. "And
why not? Dick becomes your guardian permanently, and gives you a safe place to live until you
graduate or as long as you like.”

“Hasn’t that decision already been made for me?” Peter asks.

“Yes, but only as far as medical care is concerned. I want you to decide whether to take the offer or
not,” Bruce explains. “You didn’t get any say in the matter when you were brought here. You do
now.”

Peter is quiet for a moment, thinking it over. It’s basically a no-brainer; winter is in full swing in
Gotham, and he simply won’t survive it without shelter and food, something that Bruce and his
family are offering him without strings attached, apparently. But with that comes several
downsides. Manageable ones, but unique frustrations all the same.

“A few ground rules first,” Peter says.

Bruce quirks a brow, but nods, politely folding his hands on the table in front of him. “Go ahead.”

“Don’t ask where I came from, or how I ended up in Gotham. The past is past, leave it there,” Peter
says. The less the Waynes know about him, the safer they’ll be.

“Fair enough,” Bruce says easily. Too easily, actually.

“Second, I want you to talk to Dr. Thompkins first before agreeing to this,” Peter says after a
moment. “I, uh, might have some lingering medical issues.”

“Such as?”
“Joker toxin. Dr. Thompkins says there could be some lingering effects from it. If you want me to
stay with you, it’s only fair you know about that,” Peter says. "I mean, I still don't fully know what
it means besides having to use an inhaler. It could get ugly."

What’s left unspoken is this: Are you willing to take a potentially emotionally unstable meta into
your home? Well, in so many words; he’s definitely not telling Bruce about the Lazarus Machine
thing. You can’t just drop ‘hey, by the way, I’m also a zombie’ on someone like that. At least, not
right away.

Something flashes behind Bruce’s eyes for a moment. “You realize how difficult this rule makes
the first one to keep?”

“I do. But just accept it at face value for now,” Peter says.

Bruce tilts his head, but nods slowly. “All right. Anything else?”

“If you ever try to pull me into your billionaire rich people nonsense, I will become a problem on
purpose,” Peter says. He’d given this same ultimatum to Tony. Tony had tested it and then
immediately regretted it.

“No different from the other kids, then,” Bruce remarks dryly. “All right. I have a few things to
say, too.”

“I agree to your rules, but there are a few things you should be aware of," Bruce says. "The media
will latch onto you for a few weeks no matter what. That can't be helped. You made a name for
yourself defending my family. The attention will die down eventually, but don’t be surprised if a
few reporters follow you around for awhile."

Peter hadn't considered that. God, that's going to make finding Nightwing even more difficult than
he thought.

"Give it a few weeks and it'll die down. I'll do my best to keep you out of the spotlight in the
meantime, but I can’t promise you complete privacy when you leave the manor," Bruce says, and
there's a genuine apology in his tone. "My family is well known and well entrenched in Gotham.
People are going to be curious about you based on that alone.”

That’s definitely going to be a problem. He doesn’t want to wait a few weeks to find Nightwing,
but he may not have a choice. Between his general exhaustion, the joker toxin, whatever the
Lazarus thing did to him, plus all of Batman’s worst running through the city...

Maybe a couple of weeks in bed could be useful. There’s a bone deep exhaustion that drags at his
body and limbs even with the rest and food. And the uncomfortable itch of his healing factor is
only making it worse; his body is already churning through the food he’s eaten to heal him and
fight off whatever the joker toxin is doing to him.

“As long as you don’t mind me staying out of the public eye as much as possible,” Peter says after
a few moments.

“You’ll still have to go to school,” Bruce points out. “But I think you can handle that. I just wanted
you to be aware of it.”

“Yeah. Thanks. I hadn’t thought of that.” His other option is fleeing back into Crime Alley and
living in the streets.

“I can give you tips on how to handle the press, if you’d like,” Bruce offers. “It’s actually pretty
easy--”

“No, thanks. I already know.” More or less. Tony liked to share his knowledge, and even though
the vast majority of it didn’t have any place in Peter’s life, he still listened to him. Turns out the
media advice might actually be useful, though.

Bruce looks genuinely happy about that. “Let me, Dick, or Alfred know if you need help adjusting
to things. Duke can give you some good advice on adjusting to life in the manor, too.”

“It’ll be nice living close to them. I missed hanging out with them,” Peter says, polishing off the
last of his food. It was probably rude to eat during all of that, but fuck that. He’s hungry, and he’s
had his fill of eating cold food. Peter stacks up his trash on the tray and stands up.

“You'll be in the hospital for another night. Dr. Thompkins’s orders,” Bruce says, clearing
grabbing his tray and standing with him.

"Guess my cold was pretty bad,” Peter says, dumping his tray into the trash can and stacking it.
Bruce dumps his own tray behind him. His gaze isn’t focused on Peter, but Peter can tell the man
is keeping an eye on his every move somehow.

“Dr. Thompkins thought it was pneumonia at first, but it cleared up so quickly that she ended up
giving you cold medicine instead,” Bruce says. He pauses. “She also mentioned a gunshot wound
in your side."

There's a very strange weight to that sentence. Peter blinks up at Bruce, doing his best to feign
ignorance. "Gunshot wound?"

"It looks like it happened a few months ago."

He must have healed while resting at the manor. A good meal, several hours of rest in a warm
environment, and knowing he was safe apparently kicked his healing factor into overdrive. He still
feels like he’s got a cold, but that’s clearing up by the minute. "Oh. Yeah."

"I have to admit I'm interested in finding out how that happened.”

"It's, um, a long story." And one Peter has no interest in sharing at the moment. "I'm not ready to
talk about it. Consider it a part of rule number one."

Bruce tilts his head for a moment, clearly debating on pressing the issue. Finally, he nods. "Only
when you're ready. Come on, Alfred’s waiting for us.”

The walk back to his room passes quickly enough. Bruce is content to walk at Peter’s pace,
occasionally pointing out landmarks and skyscrapers visible from the skyway. He mostly points
out the businesses; Queen Industries, LexCorp, Wayne Towers, the Gotham Gazette building.
Peter humors him while he slips into ‘billionaire businessman’ language; it’s oddly comforting and
familiar, even if Bruce lacks Tony’s sarcasm and near manic infodumping.

Alfred is standing outside of Peter’s room. He seems glad to see Peter standing under his own
power. He doesn’t quite perk up when they draw close and walks towards them.

“Master Wayne, Master Peter. I was just going to check on Master Damian,” he says. He looks
between them. “I trust the conversation has happened...?”

“It has.” Bruce says, and he presses a hand on Peter’s shoulder. "Alfred, Peter has agreed to stay
with us."
The older man looks relieved. "Very good, sir. I'll make formal arrangements when we return to
the manor." Alfred turns to Peter and smiles. "Welcome to the family, Master Peter."

"I have a meeting to go to, but Alfred will help you settle into the manor when Dr. Thompkins
clears you,” Bruce says, his mind clearly already focused on other things.

“A meeting in all this?” Peter asks, jerking his head towards the skyway and the snow covered
streets below. The sky, already dark and dim from the storm, has been steadily growing dimmer.
It’s almost dark now.

“I’ve got a few things to handle at the office, plus I need to speak with the contractors coming in to
fix the window, and I’m due back in Metropolis very soon,” Bruce explains, walking Peter back
into his room. “I’m afraid I won’t be back for a week or two.”

“Oh, uh, right,” Peter says, kicking off his shoes and dropping down on the bed. That makes sense;
Bruce still directly runs his company, unlike Tony. His schedule is probably ridiculous. “Thanks
for taking the time to talk.”

Bruce pauses and then smiles. “We’ll talk more when I come back. Get some rest and settle into
the manor. You’ve gone through a lot.”

Bruce doesn’t even know the half of it. “I’ll do that. Thanks, again. For taking me in after
everything.”

“Of course,” Bruce replies, as if taking in a homeless thief is the most natural thing in the world.
“Good night, Peter.”

He shuts the door behind himself. Peter stretches and flops back onto the hospital bed. It’s a touch
too soft, really, but it’s warm, and that’s novelty enough to make up for the softness. He stretches,
sighs, and relaxes. Peter is dozing in his bed, flirting with the edge of true sleep, when someone
speaks.

"I thought you had enhanced senses," a young voice says from beside his head.

The voice is tinged with the barest Middle Eastern accent, and sounds, for lack of a better word,
coldly haughty. It also sounds like the owner is speaking through a wall of mucus, which leads to
an interesting effect.

Peter startles back awake, and finds himself face to face with none other than Damian Wayne. The
kid is clearly exhausted and feverish, but he hides it surprisingly well, standing stoically beside
Peter’s bed with an impressive glare across his features.

"Wha--when did you come in here?" Peter asks, reaching up to scrub his eyes. "Actually, how long
have you been here?"

"You told the police that you heard voices in the kitchen from the bedroom hallway," Damian
says, ignoring his questions. "That is physically impossible for a human. You almost blew your
own cover story with that idiotic lie."

A brief pause follows that.

“I didn’t think of that,” Peter mumbles, still sleepy. How had the kid snuck inside? He should’ve
heard the door, if nothing else. Hell, he should have heard the kid breathing or his heartbeat or
something.
Damian stares at him, hard. It is focused, and intelligent and unbelievably creepy to see on the face
of a kid. “Are you Kryptonian?”

Peter stares at him. “I don’t know what that is.”

“Hm. I didn’t think so, but you move like one. Clumsy because you can’t move as fast as is natural
for you. And the strength, of course,” Damian says, half to himself. He squints at Peter. “Can you
fly?”

“No, I’m pretty sure that the laws of physics apply to me,” Peter replies.

That just gets him an even more speculative look from Damian. It isn’t hostile, exactly, just
focused. Peter’s seen Tim get a similar look around a particularly stubborn problem he needs to
work through at school. Somehow, Peter thinks Damian wouldn’t appreciate the comparison. He’s
pretty sure little brothers at this age hate being compared to their older siblings.

"You saved Alfred’s life. I owe you a debt for that,” Damian says after a moment, shifting topics so
quickly that Peter’s exhausted brain is having trouble keeping up.

"You are super intense," Peter says blearily. He pauses. “Hey. I saved your life, too.”

“Debatable,” Damian says loftily, waving a dismissive hand. “I would have escaped my bonds and
handled Bane eventually.”

“You would have handled Bane. The seven foot tall guy on steroids. By yourself,” Peter says
slowly, quirking a brow.

“Yes,” Damian answers flatly, and with perfect confidence.

Silence follows that. Holy shit, this kid is serious. He fully intended to attack Bane, despite the fact
that the man probably would’ve dropped kicked him through a goddamn window. What’s more,
Peter’s not entirely sure Bane would’ve won. He would’ve been thrown off balance at the very
least.

“You scare the hell out of me,” Peter admits finally.

Damian seems pleased by that. “Maybe you’re as intelligent as Drake claims you are.”

“Thanks?” Peter says.

“Master Damian,” a voice says, cutting off their conversation gently. “I believe you were told to
stay in bed.”

“I’m merely visiting Father’s newest addition to the family,” Damian says, turning to face Alfred.
The butler is standing in the doorway, holding the door open.

“Creepy,” Peter says.

“I see,” Alfred says. “And I see you’ve completed your task. To bed, please.”

It isn’t a request. Damian lets out a large sigh, gives Peter another speculative look before walking
towards the door.

“We’ll speak again soon, Parker,” Damian says, striding through the door with perfect confidence.
Alfred offers Peter a fond smile before turning to herd Damian back into his own room. He tugs at
the door, content to let it swing shut on its own momentum as he walks off.
The door is caught and held by a small, feminine hand. Steph saunters into his room, cell phone
pressed to one ear.

“Yeah, he’s awake,” she says, walking over to his bed. He stares at her blankly and she offers him
a brilliant, cheerful smile before listening to whoever she’s speaking with. “Sure, okay.”

She offers him the cell phone. He stares at it blankly. “Uh. Who---”

“Felicia,” Steph says.

Oh god. Felicia.

"Uh," Peter says into the phone, fumbling with it. "Hi?"

"Oh, thank god, you are alive," Felicia says, relief evident in every word. "Peter, you absolute
asshole, if you ever pull a stunt like that again, I'll kill you myself."

"Oh, hey," Peter says, flopping back onto the bed. God, he’s talked to so many people today. He’s
not exactly an introvert, but this is straining. "So, uh, you probably have some questions--"

“To put it mildly, yes," Felicia retorts. “Right now I’m just glad you’re alive. Seriously, you had
me really worried. I tried to find you when I found out how bad the storm was going to be, but you
were already catching the crane by then. And then you...”

Peter grimaces. “I’m sorry, Felicia.”

She takes in a shaky breath and lets it out. "I'm really glad you’re okay. Lou will be happy to hear
it, too."

"Lou?” Peter says, and then he remembers. Lou. His bus driver. The man who always brought him
an extra sandwich for breakfast and who keeps food waiting for him at the bus depot during his
patrols. God, how could he forget? “Is he all right?”

“No, he’s really upset. He saw you fight them, Peter. His bus was trapped in traffic a block away
when everything happened.”

“I should visit him,” Peter murmurs.

“You should. In the meantime, I’ll let him know you’re okay,” Felicia says. She pauses for a
moment, and then speaks softly. “How are you? Seriously. You were--I mean, I saw the videos on
the internet...”

Peter sighs. “I’m alright. More or less.” He pauses. “A little bit on the less side than is normal,
maybe.”

“Maybe,” Felicia repeats back, but there’s less worry and more of her usual wry fondness.

“Listen, we should talk soon. There’s a few things we need to talk about. It’s about, uh, home.”

“Okay. We’ll talk soon,” Felicia says. “For now, just rest, okay? I’m going to go talk to Lou.”

“Got it. Tell him I said hi,” Peter says. The call ends. Peter stares at the phone for a moment and
hands it back to Steph. He says, "I think I upset her.”

"You definitely did," Steph replies cheerfully. "But she'll forgive you. You are a hero, after all.
Girls are totally into that."
 "That may or may not work in my favor,” Peter says. “Right now I’m leaning towards no.”

“You’d know better than I would,” Steph says. She pulls out another phone from her pocket and
hands it to him. “Here, for you. Everyone in the family gets one.”

He takes the phone, staring at it in frank confusion for a moment, before swiping his thumb across
the screen and activating it. It’s a WayneTech phone, and it’s bulkier than what he’s used to back
home. The case is sturdy, and looks to be dust and waterproof. WayneTech makes things meant to
survive harsh environments, apparently.

“I’ve added everyone to your contact list already. Including Felicia,” Steph adds with a quick wink
and teasing grin. He blushes, and her smile turns fond before she moves on. Peter has a sneaking
suspicion that Steph is a bit of a romantic. “There’s the family chat, plus all the standard apps:
news, weather, social media. Feel free to grab whatever you want off the app store. Bruce pays for
it all and he usually doesn’t even notice."

“Uh, right,” Peter says, taking the phone. God, he’s missed having a cell phone.

“Here, let me give you the grand tour,” she says, dropping down on the chair beside his bed. He’s
tired, but he’s also missed Steph, and he’s missed cell phones even more. He sits up and lets her
show him all of the features on his new phone.

***

Wayne Club Chat

Peter (03:09pm): hi, Steph is insisting I say something here

Cass (03:10pm):

Tim (03:11pm): she got the phone to you! Awesome

Duke (03:12pm): this should make your hospital stay a little less boring

Peter (03:13pm): hey I can entertain myself

Peter (03:14pm): i’ve counted the tiles in this room three times so far and watched Dr. Thompkins
yell at the media trying to sneak into my room four times. Also, at any moment, Damian might
show up and terrify me, which is a nice shot of adrenaline to help stimulate that homey Crime
Alley feeling I’ve been missing

Peter (03:15pm): this is riveting stuff

Tim (03:16pm): yeah, you’re gonna fit in just fine. Welcome to the family, Peter

Cass (03:17pm):

Peter (03:18pm):

Chapter End Notes

Bruce taking pains to eat a burger in the Most Rich Boy Way Possible when, in the
comics, he definitely eats them like a normal human being is one of my favorite scenes
in this chapter.

Out of curiosity, how did you guys find this fic?

 Chapter 29
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Steph leaves the hospital room a little while later, letting Peter rest. To his credit, he lasts a whole
twenty minutes before hopping onto the internet. He’s been woefully disconnected since he came
to Gotham, and it’s nice to have the internet back in his pocket. And this gives him an excuse to
avoid falling asleep. He can avoid the nightmares waiting for him a little longer.

The first thing he does is google himself. He finds two news stories in the past week: one for Peter
Parker, and one for Spider-Man. Both are twitter posts from The Gotham Times. He follows the
links.

Terror at Wayne Manor

Homeless teen helps Batman save the youngest Wayne heir. Story here.

Peter debates on clicking the story and ultimately decides against it. He’s used to reading news
stories about Spider-Man. It’s infinitely weirder to read stories about himself. He scrolls on. Near
the bottom of the news feed, he stops.

Crime Alley Mourns Loss Of Spider-Man

Story found here.

After a few moments of hesitation, Peter taps the link. He’s a little amused that an article
chronicling his ‘death’ doesn’t even warrant the use of a byline in Twitter, but whatever. Spider-
Man can’t exactly compete against Bruce Wayne’s fame and family drama in Gotham City.

Spider-Man was announced missing and assumed dead after fighting a number of super villains
who broke out of Arkham Asylum weeks ago. Eye witnesses claim the hero suffered a number of
injuries before fleeing the fight after being struck with Joker gas. Crime Alley vigilante Red Hood
was also present, and his current condition is unknown.

An image of the crane, suspended between skyscrapers by his webbing and other cranes, takes up
half the page. Workers are busy disassembling it, piece by piece, in the snow and wind. Below it,
the article continues.

Local restaurant owners Omar and Sophia Noor hosted a candlelight vigil for Spider-Man despite
the storm. Hundreds of Crime Alley citizens came to show their support, laying out wreaths,
pictures, and thank you letters to the fallen hero.

Mr. Noor’s comment on the hero was brief, poignant, and to the point: “Spider-Man took down the
gang extorting us for protection money, cleaned up the neighborhood park, and helped all of us in
a dozen different ways. He’ll be missed.”

Elsewhere, riots broke out in Crime Alley after news of Spider-Man’s death reached the streets.
Suspected criminal hideouts and gang strongholds were torn down or set on fire by crowds of
furious citizens. Police response to the riots was notably lackluster. When pressed for comment,
Jim Gordon seemed nonplussed.

“This happened when Robin was killed a few years ago, too,” Gordon pointed out. “If you take
away a local hero, the locals aren’t going to take it lying down anymore. Especially not the kind of
locals you find in Crime Alley.”

Peter stares at the article for a moment. They rioted because of his death? He’d better make an
appearance as Spider-Man sooner rather than later before anything else happens. Before he can do
that, he’ll need another suit. And web shooters. And web fluid. He lost all of it in the river.

A problem to be handled later. At least Omar and Sophia are okay; he hasn’t been able to check on
them lately. He’s touched that they would host a vigil for him even though he never visited them as
Spider-Man. That needs to change when he gets a suit again.

He finds a way to dick around on the internet for another hour despite being exhausted. Eventually,
sleep claims him, and he falls into a restless, whimpering sleep. He can’t hide from his grief here;
he dreams of May, of Ned, of his classmates. He dreams of Felicia and the conversation to come.

Most of all, he dreams of Titan, and ash, and blood, and death.

***

When he snaps awake, he’s trembling and coughing, and there’s a distinctive chuckling quality to
the cough that robs him of breath and makes his bruised ribs ache and creak. He flails for the table
beside his bed, half asleep and half panicked, trying to find the inhaler the doctor gave him
yesterday. He sees it on the table, but bumps the inhaler off of it during his flailing, lets out a
barking, breathless laugh of despair that blurs his vision with tears.

“Whoa, whoa, easy,” Dick says. A weight settles on the bed, and the inhaler is pressed to his
mouth. “Don’t panic. Just take a deep breath, all right?”

A breath of something that tastes distinctly medicinal and vaguely minty hits Peter. It takes him a
second to remember how to use an inhaler, but he remembers it in the end. Two puffs, some
lingering giggling laughs later, and he’s more or less back to normal. Albeit slumped against
Dick’s shoulder and completely out of breath. Everything is oddly sore and vaguely off after the--
well, it isn’t an asthma attack. Joker attack? His cold isn’t helping matters, even though it’s
nowhere near as bad as it was last night before he ate. His head throbs, his gunshot wound aches,
and he’s struggling to keep from flopping back against the bed.

Dick braces him easily, watching him. He doesn’t seem to mind having a near stranger slumped
against his shoulder. He just looks worried.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah. Yeah, fine, totally fine,” Peter says. He doesn’t sound convincing in the least. And,
truthfully, he's not okay. “That’s never happened before. What--”

“There’s a kind of incubation period for the toxin. That wasn’t the worst I’ve seen, but it sounded
pretty rough,” Dick explains. He presses the inhaler to Peter’s hand. “Keep this with you, okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay,” Peter mumbles. God, this is going to complicate being Spider-Man. He runs a
hand through his hair, taking in his surroundings while he catches his breath. “What time is it?”

They’re not alone in his room. Alfred is standing near the doorway with a coat draped over one
arm, watching Peter with some concern. Peter gives him a little ‘I’m definitely okay’ wave, and
Alfred manages a small, reassuring smile that somehow conveys ‘I don’t believe you’ without
saying it.
“A little after nine. I was just coming by to wake you. Dr. Thompkins signed off on your release
earlier,” Dick says. He frowns at Peter. “But I’m not so sure she should let you go after that attack.
Do you want me to call her back in--”

“No. No more hospitals,” Peter says, cutting him off. He sighs, rubbing his eyes and leaning away
from Dick. “Let’s just get out of here.”

“Sit and catch your breath,” Dick says. “We’ll leave in a few minutes.”

“To the manor?” Peter asks, resting for barely a moment before leaning down to grab his shoes and
pull them on. His ribs and gunshot wound ache terribly when he pulls this little maneuver and he
has to sit up slowly.

“Eventually, yes,” Dick says, leaning back against the wall. “I thought we’d stop and pick up your
stuff from Crime Alley first.”

Peter pauses while tying his shoe, glancing up at Dick in confusion. “What?”

“Your school stuff at least,” Dick says, shrugging. “Maybe your uniform. And anything else you
want to keep, too.”

“I’d like that,” Peter says after a moment. He would like to grab a few things from the fire station.
His school work, yeah, but also the books he’s bought, and the radio he built. That little thing saved
his life, after all. “But I don’t know if you, um. Well, you and Alfred aren’t going to blend in.”

Dick looks a little amused by that. “Don’t worry. We’re bringing a friend.”

A voice comes from the doorway, the tone rough and short. “Steph and Cass are taking the demon
back to the manor. We good to go? The paparazzi are starting to lose their minds out there.”

“We’re almost ready, Jason,” Dick says.

The voice’s owner--Jason--steps into the room. He’s tall, broad shouldered, and there’s a shock of
white hair above his forehead. He looks annoyed, as if bristling for a fight, and the look he shoots
towards Dick doesn’t entirely look friendly. His voice is stiff and purposefully cool, as if he’s
clamping back on some hidden emotions he’s doing his best to keep under control. Peter can’t tell
if it’s sadness, anger, or both. Grief, maybe.

Peter squints up at Jason. Finally, the memory clicks into place. "You're the subway guy."

Jason frowns at him for a long time and then recognition hits him. He simply shrugs at Peter in
response, shoving his hands in his pockets and glancing away from him.

"Subway guy?" Dick asks, looking between them.

"I got hit with a migraine on the subway awhile back," Peter explains. "A bad one. Jason gave me
earplugs and sunglasses when he saw how bad off I was. Man, you saved my life with that. Thank
you."

Jason doesn’t quite fidget at praise; he moves restlessly, clearly not used to being thanked. Or
thinks he doesn’t deserve it, maybe. He shrugs at Peter again. “Yeah, don’t mention it. I just didn’t
want you to hurl all over my shoes.” He checks his watch. “Come on, let’s hurry. We don’t want to
be caught in Crime Alley after dark. I think it’s stupid you and Alfred want to go there, for the
record.”
“Noted,” Dick says, picking up the backpack Peter’s new clothes came in and slinging it over his
shoulder. “Peter?”

“Yeah, on my way,” Peter says, checking to make sure he has his phone and inhaler in his pocket
before hopping off the bed and following the group into the hall.

He ends up walking alongside Alfred, who hands him the coat, a beanie, and a pair of gloves.
“Here, Master Peter. I’m afraid we’re in the heart of winter now. Best to put these on before going
outside.”

Peter is quick to pull all of them on. His cold is still lingering, and the last thing he needs to do is
let it get worse. Not when a coughing fit could trigger a laughing fit. He’s also had enough of the
cold in general, frankly. If he could spend the rest of his life in warmth, he’d gladly take it. He’s
earned it at this point. The coat is a navy peacoat, the beanie is made of thick wool, and the gloves
are fine leather.

“Thanks, Alfred,” Peter says, tugging the hat down over his ears as they near the hospital’s side
exit. The main exit is swamped with news reporters and paparazzi, each jostling for position as
Steph, Damian, and a vaguely familiar dark haired girl leave through the double doors. There’s a
surge of noise that’s neatly cut off when the doors slide shut. Peter glances at the butler. “Are you
sure you want to come to Crime Alley?”

“We won’t be there for very long. And I can handle myself, Master Peter,” Alfred assures him. He
speaks with utter confidence, shifting so that he stands between Peter and the main exit doors,
blocking him from view of any potential reporters. “Bane simply got the drop on me. That won’t
happen again, I can promise you that.”

Peter actually believes him. They step out into the freezing Gotham air, onto a service road whose
main use seems to be for hospital deliveries. Jason is leaning against a sleek red motorcycle, black
helmet in hand. Dick is standing near a sedan that seems newer, but isn’t nearly as flashy as Tim’s
car. Which is a good thing, given the neighborhood they're driving into. He’s currently clearing out
various clothes and gym bags from the backseat so Peter can sit in the car easily. The amount of
clothes he’s pulling out to shove into his trunk is actually a little bit concerning.

Peter stands on the sidewalk outside of the hospital, marveling at being able to stand outside
without being cut to the bone by the icy wind. Winter is actually pretty pleasant when you aren’t
catching windburn from the cold air with every step. He watches Dick clean out his car, idly
wondering how he should tell them to just skip Crime Alley altogether for the manor.

Jason watches him from his motorcycle, then pushes himself away from it and walks over to stand
near Peter. The two of them watch Dick and Alfred work. After a few moments, Jason speaks
quietly.

"They aren't going to judge your old place," Jason says quietly. He’s watching Peter, his eyes
guarded but sympathetic. "No matter how bad it looks. They won't say anything about it."

"Yeah?" Peter says, idly shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “You wanna take a bet on
that? I don’t even have a bed.”

“I grew up in Crime Alley, too. I know how bad it can get,” he says. Jason pauses, squints into the
middle distance, and finally shrugs. "Dick might get a kicked puppy dog look on his face, but he
won’t say anything about it. Alfred won't either. They're not as soft as you think. They're still from
Gotham."
"There’s a difference between Gotham and Crime Alley",” Peter retorts. He pauses and sighs.
“Sorry, that was rude. You’d know them better than I would. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Jason says. “Where are we headed anyway? I can scout ahead and make sure
it’s safe.”

“Would you?” Peter can tell Jason knows how to fight. He has surface level scars on his knuckles
most street brawlers get after a few fights, and he walks like a street tough.

“Yeah, sure. I’m driving on my own, anyway,” Jason says, shrugging. The man is clearly eager to
get away from Dick and Alfred.

Peter glances between Jason and the other two men. “You’re a little more down to earth for a
Wayne.” Jason snaps his head towards Peter, expression stern, but unreadable. Peter, perhaps a
little foolishly, pushes on. “You are a Wayne, right? I mean, Tim and Duke call you their
brother...”

A very lengthy pause follows that. Finally, Jason scoffs. “I am when it counts. Give me your
address, kid.”

What the hell does he mean by that? Peter decides to not push his luck; he gives Jason the cross
streets. Jason frowns. “There aren’t any apartments in that block. Just an old fire station and some
broken down office buildings.”

“I live in the fire station,” Peter says.

Jason pauses for a moment, taking that in and scoffs. “Okay, yeah, Grayson’s going to hover over
you like a mother hen when he finds that out.”

“Great,” Peter mutters.

“But he won’t make you feel bad about it. He didn’t when Bruce took me in,” Jason continues.
“Just tell him to fuck off if he gets weird with it and he will.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Peter says, giving Jason a second look. Maybe Bruce just has a habit of
adopting kids from Crime Alley? It would make sense, in a way. He’s pretty free with his wealth.

“I’ll meet you guys there,” Jason says, heading for his motorcycle. He pulls on his helmet and
straddles the bike, giving Dick and Alfred a careless little wave before revving the bike and tearing
down the street. The roads are relatively clear of snow and ice, but Peter still tenses a little when
Jason speeds off. He’s taking the corners at speed.

“Okay, all done!” Dick says over the echoing growl of Jason’s motorcycle. He waves Peter over.
“Hop in. The sooner we leave, the sooner we can get you home.”

Home. Yeah, right. Peter sighs, pulling himself into the car. It’s warm and dry, and he settles into
the backseat while Alfred and Dick sit in the front. Dick looks up at him from the rearview mirror.

“So, where are we headed?” he asks.

Peter gives him the cross streets. Dick frowns for a moment, then nods.

“Okay. I know where that is,” he says, turning on the car.

Moments later, they’re on the road, driving over icy roads under a steel grey sky. Peter settles into
the car, marveling over the fact that, aside from a steady itch from his healing factor, he feels fine.
Better than fine. Normal. He considers that for a moment, and realizes he’s not sure how to handle
it. He’s been rushing from one thing to the next just to survive almost from the moment he ended
up in Gotham. He’s been too focused on staying warm and fed and finding a way home to really
stop and take stock of himself. He has a feeling that he’s going to have to play catch up on that
front soon.

Later on, he’ll wonder how Dick managed to drive into Crime Alley and directly to the fire station
without GPS.

***

They reach the fire station barely twenty minutes after leaving the hospital. Dick pulls up to the
curb and parks behind a rusted car with no tires resting on cinder blocks. The street light Peter used
as his light source for his homework flickers on and off in the waning light of the wintry afternoon.
A freezing wind slips between the mostly abandoned buildings in the neighborhood, half heartedly
pushing swirls of snow across the cracked asphalt of the street. Elsewhere in the city, the snow has
softened the hard edges of Gotham, turning it from a brooding hive into something softer, gentler,
though no less cold. In Crime Alley, the snow has only amplified the feeling of hopelessness and
isolation.

He never realized how utterly horrifying his neighborhood is in daylight. Granted, he was usually
busy looking into the shadows of alleys for gangs looking to jump him, or running for the subway,
or doing a dozen other things. Seeing the fire station in the stark light of day brings his nervousness
out full force.

Jason’s motorcycle is parked in front of the fire station. Jason is looking up at the fire station,
squinting at it thoughtfully as Dick turns off the engine.

“This is the place?” Dick asks.

“It is,” Peter says with a sigh. “It looks worse than it is.”

Dick looks as though he’s about to say something, then thinks better of it. He settles for a quick
nod before stepping out of the car. Alfred follows him, saying nothing. Peter hangs back for a
second, taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly. They’ll be in and out within an hour at
most. He can handle this. He pushes open the door and steps out into the cold. The coat Alfred
gave him (the cost of which he can only guess at) blunts the worst of it.

Dick, Jason, and Alfred are near the doors. Jason rattles the door a little and frowns when it refuses
to open.

“These are boarded shut,” he says, turning to face Peter. “How’d you get inside?”

“The fire escape around back mostly,” Peter says. Which is technically true. When he wasn’t
crawling up the side of the building with his hands, at least. “The window should be open.”

“Hopefully no one else has moved in,” Jason says easily, moving away from the front doors and
walking towards the alley leading to the back of the building. Peter falls into step beside him,
mostly to avoid seeing how Dick and Alfred react to that particular statement. Jason side eyes him.
“You all right?”

Peter is amazed at Jason’s ability to sound both impatient and worried at the same time; the guy is
being genuine, but his tone is short, as if he’s not used to asking that particular question or offering
comfort.

“Handling it so far,” Peter says. “Didn’t realize how bad this place looks.”

“It’s pretty rough,” Jason says as they get close to the fire escape. He jumps up and yanks the
ladder down with a ringing clatter before climbing up it. “If I’d known you lived in an abandoned
building, I probably would’ve taken you in. I live a few blocks over.”

“There’s even odds on me taking you up on that offer back then,” Peter says, following him up the
fireplace. He can hear Alfred and Dick turn the corner in the alley below.. “I would’ve been a
terrible roommate.”

“Can’t be any worse than Drake,” Jason remarks before ducking in through the window.

Peter follows him, suddenly glad that his suit and web shooters are lost to the sea. He would’ve
had a hard time explaining all of that to the Waynes. Jason moves aside so he can climb in through
the window. Dick climbs in after Peter, his movements smooth and even. To Peter’s surprise,
Alfred follows him, moving with an easy grace despite his age. Peter glances at them briefly before
turning to look at his makeshift home.

It looks like a total dump.

The Waynes take in the scene in silence. Peter can't even imagine what it looks like from their
perspective. The makeshift desk he used for homework is damp from a new hole in the roof, the
ramshackle lights (admittedly not his best work) dangle from the ceiling, swaying in the wind, and
the ragged tarp that serves as his bedroom is leaning drunkenly against the wall for support,
weighed down by half melted snow. The storm dropped enough heavy snow on the roof to tear
open a hole directly above his bed. If he had stayed in the fire station, he would’ve frozen to death
during the storm.

Jason looks grim and sullen. Dick looks heartbroken and sick. Alfred’s expression hasn’t changed,
but his shoulders have slumped just slightly.

"Not a bad idea with the tarp. You probably would’ve been better off with a tent, though," Jason
remarks, breaking the silence. "What's with the newspapers?"

"Crumpled 'em up and stuffed my clothes and sleeping bag with them. They hold heat really well.
A homeless guy in Queens taught me that trick," Peter remarks, grabbing his electronics and tools.

"Clever," Jason says.

Peter shifts awkwardly, then clears his throat, walking towards his wreck of a home and kneeling
down to grab his backpack from a pile of snow. "I'll get the stuff I need. We can throw out the rest
on the way out."

"Of course, Master Peter," Alfred replies, perfectly polite. The lack of judgement is heartening.

“We should probably throw out the food,” Dick says, doing his best to keep his tone light and even.
“It looks like some mice have gotten into it. Gotham mice are pretty stubborn.”

Peter hesitates at that. Jason shakes himself out of his sullen glower when he notices that, shooting
Dick a look briefly before looking at Peter. “Dick’s right. Toss the food. I know that’s going to be
hard, but it’s safer. And Alfred’s got plenty at home.”

“I’d be happy to make you anything you like, Master Peter,” Alfred adds. “I daresay I’ve become
rather experienced at feeding a troop of growing boys. Meta and human.”

Home cooked meals seem like a dream come true. “I’d like that. I’m always hungry these days.”

“Consider it done,” Alfred says.

Peter moves around the fire station, gathering his things and putting together a trash pile. Jason
takes his old food, his sleeping bag, and the tarp he used for his makeshift tent down to the
dumpster in the alley. Alfred looks over Peter’s uniform with a critical eye, letting out a quiet ‘hm.’
at the state of it. Dick seems at a loss at first; he opens his mouth several times to speak, stops, and
then stays silent, simply helping Peter grab the few keepsakes he wants to take with him to the
manor.

Peter keeps the Stark radio. He's still proud of it. Sure, it's simple work, and frankly not his best,
but the art deco style Stark that lights up when it connects with a channel has become one of the
very few comforts he has in Gotham. Dick eyes it coolly, but he’s very gentle with it when Peter
hands it to him. He handles the few books Peter bought weeks ago with equal care. The books
aren’t exactly in top shape since he bought them from a second hand shop, but Dick treats
Watership Down and The Lord of the Rings as if they’re holy books.

He keeps his tools, his backpack and school supplies, and almost nothing else. The rain and ice
ruined his tent, his sleeping bag, and froze his blankets solid. He throws all of that away, along
with the scarce food stock he had saved. The mice and rain made quick work of it in his absence.

By the end of it, he's left with the radio, a ragged backpack full of homework, a couple of library
books, and the clothes on his back. It's a good thing he didn't try to get back to the firehouse after
getting splattered with freezing rain last week. Alfred considers the menorah set on Peter’s
makeshift table near the one of the few intact windows on the second floor. The candles and cheap
lighter Peter bought with it are set neatly to one side of the table. It’s one of the few organized
spots in the whole building. Peter sighs when he notices it.

“I think I’ve missed a few days this year,” he says, shrugging on his backpack and heading towards
the table.

“Given your circumstances, I think that can easily be forgiven,” Alfred says gently. “Is that
everything?”

Peter gently picks up the menorah, glancing around the fire station one last time. It wasn’t a great
home, but it was safe enough. He’s surprised to find that he might actually miss it some day.

“Yeah, I think it is,” Peter says.

“Let’s get to the car,” Dick says, a layer of false cheer in his voice. “I think Alfred and I can make
lunch for everyone when we get back. You must be hungry.”

Peter’s stomach growls. “That sounds like a good idea.”

Dick and Peter leave the fire station. Dick pauses at the dumpster to toss a few things inside, and
Peter stands beside him, looking up at the building next door to the fire station. The old office
building looms high in the dim afternoon, the windows boarded or broken. Peter looks up at the
roof, shifting his backpack. If he could figure out a way to get up there, he could leave a note for
Nightwing--

Dick places a hand on Peter’s shoulder, gently squeezing it. “Come on, Pete. Let’s head home.
There’s nothing up there for you.”
Peter disagrees, but he can’t exactly make a scene at the moment. He sighs. “Yeah, let’s go.”

He makes a mental note to come back here as soon as he can. For now, he heads for the car with
Dick and the others. The ride out of Crime Alley and across Gotham to Wayne Manor is one made
in weary silence. Dick glances at Peter every now and then through the rearview mirror, but wisely
says nothing. Alfred is silent and still in his seat.

Peter’s phone lets out a small ding.

***

Wayne Family Chat

Duke (1:23pm): hey peter, you any good at Smash Bros?

Peter (1:24pm): reasonably good yeah

Duke (1:25pm): cool, tim, and steph and i have a tournament planned tonight. You in?

Peter (1:26pm): definitely

Peter (1:27pm): we’re on the way now

***

Across the multiverse, the Avengers gather for another meeting. The sun shines dimly on the
compound, the first true rays of sunlight to reach the earth in weeks. The Avengers seem heartened
by the sight of it as they go about their work.

Thor watches the others, sitting in a far corner of the command center Natasha has taken over
inside the Avengers Compound. He keeps himself separate from the others. Most seem fine with
this arrangement; his moods as of late have made the Avengers wary of his presence. He doesn't
begrudge them their wariness. The nightmares--or, really, the nightmare--has haunted him night
after night. Always the same battle, always the same failure: the boy wielding the Captain’s shield
falls beneath a wave of the Black Order’s outriders no matter what Thor does. He has only
managed to forestall the boy’s death, never avert it. It grates at his nerves. Failure after failure in
his waking moments and now that same failure follows him to some unknown city in his dreams,
defending a young warrior he has never met.

He doesn’t blame the Avengers when they cast a wary glance his way and put a bit more distance
between themselves and his seat in the corner. Another meeting is taking place. This time the
sorcerer Wong and Bruce Banner have joined the meeting, taking their places at the council table
while Thor broods in the shadows.

“Have you heard anything about those prison planets that blew up, Rocket?” Steve asks.

“No, not yet,” Rocket says, shaking his head. “My contacts went quiet for some reason. I don’t
want to risk sending ‘em another message in case they’re in hiding.”

“And we still don’t know where Carol is?” Natasha asks, twirling a stylus in her fingers.

“I haven’t heard anything,” Rocket mutters, his projection scratching one fuzzy cheek. “It’s not
easy getting news all the way out here, you know. Earth is a galactic backwater, it’s hard for me to
get any information without tipping off Thanos.”
Natasha nods, conceding the point. Rocket is the galactic expert on the team, after all. Steve stares
at the holographic map of the galaxy cycling through the holo screens in front of the team, his face
grim.

“Thanos still has his army, and he’s not shy about using it against anyone trying to muster up a
force to strike back at him in revenge,” Steve says. “I don’t think many people have tried, but he’s
not putting any effort into preventing an attack either. He prefers a show of force.”

“None of his moves make any kind of strategic sense,” Rhodey says, walking around the projected
map of the galaxy hovering in the center of the room. “He’s effectively destroyed every standing
army in the universe and instead of moving in and consolidating his power, he’s just...what? Going
back to bed? Kicking back? He still has an invasion force, but it hasn’t moved in months. Once you
break an army, you send in your own forces and establish yourself. He hasn’t done that.”

“It isn’t as though he has any real rivals to worry about. He is a warlord with a savior complex. He
will let us suffer from his decimation and return as a savior once the fight has been starved out of
the survivors of his genocide. People will be desperate to join him, if only to get a steady supply of
food,” Okoye points out. She’s physically present this time, opting to fly to the Compound for this
meeting. A rare occurrence for her.

"Yeah, I don’t know how well that’s going to work for him. I’d rather starve to death, and I know
I’m not alone in that," Clint says idly. There’s always a feral glint to his eye when someone
mentions Thanos in his presence. Thor approves of it.

“It might work on the rest of the population. Logistics are completely shattered. The only reason
things are holding steady is because Stark Industries is bankrupting itself to keep food, power, and
water running for the world,” Natasha says, idly pulling up a list of the Avengers lost to Thanos.
She adds Carol’s name to the list with MIA beside it.

"Pepper’s doing good work," Steve agrees, quietly.

"She always has," Rhodey adds.

“The food supply is evening out, too,” Banner says. Thor still isn’t used to hearing his friend’s
voice come from the Hulk, but he’s glad the man has finally found peace with himself. It’s one of
the very few things he can be glad of these days, and he clings to it. “Between the seed vaults in
Europe and the automated farms FRIDAY is running, we’ll have a much more stable food supply
soon--”

The meeting continues.

Others lost to the Snap cycle across the screen in front of Natasha as she works and Banner speaks.
One in particular stands out to Thor.

“Wait,” Thor calls out from the corner. The room pauses and goes still as he rises and approaches
Natasha and her holo screens. He stands behind her and leans down, squinting at one screen before
pointing at one of the photos. “Who is that?”

“That’s Peter Parker,” Natasha says, cutting a wary glance to Steve before focusing on Thor.
Thor’s moods have been variable lately; caught somewhere between bitter fury and manic,
nihilistic grief. Thor can see Steve brace himself in case he needs to intervene. Natasha reaches in
and plucks Peter's picture out of the screen, expanding it for Thor. The boy is smiling awkwardly
at the camera, at once earnest and unsure. He’s posing with Tony in the picture, holding some
award. “Spider-Man. He was with Tony and the Guardians when the Decimation happened.”
“And he was dusted?” Thor asks, confusion crossing his expression.

“We aren’t sure,” Rhodey says. “Not yet. Carol went to find them, but she’s turned up missing,
too.”

Thor goes quiet, comes to some private conclusion, and pushes himself back up. He steps away
from Natasha, rubbing his chin in thought. His eyes lose focus for a moment and he withdraws.

“Is something wrong?” Rhodey asks. He’s careful to avoid looking at Peter’s photo, Thor notices.

Thor doesn’t answer. He’s withdrawn, brooding, staring a hole through Peter’s image on the
screen.

"Thor," Steve says, a wary question in his tone.

“After I left Earth, I became haunted by nightmares,” Thor says. He hesitates, then amends. “More
than nightmares. Visions of the future. Ones that became true.”

“You had prophetic visions?” Natasha asks.

“Yes, of Asgard’s destruction,” Thor says. He points at Peter’s picture. “I have had dreams about
this one lately.”

That brings things to a crashing halt. He has the undivided attention of every surviving Avenger
now. Natasha and Steve share another one of those looks, passing some silent communication to
one another. Rhodey stiffens and stares at Thor, clenching his jaw. Okoye watches intently. After a
moment, Steve clears his throat.

“What did you see in this vision? What was Peter doing?” Steve asks.

“I saw him standing alone against an invasion, wielding your shield against a tide of darkness.
Outriders, chitauri, strange batlike monsters, he faced them all alone,” Thor says simply.

The image in his mind is as clear as day; Peter wearing a red and blue suit, fighting against a horde
of abominations in a city Thor does not recognize. The city changes in the vision; one moment, the
city is a dark, brooding metropolis choked with smog and clouds, and the next it’s a bright and airy
thing, with smooth edges and bright lights. The fight does not change, only the location.

And the outcome.

“The dream comes every night now,” Thor says. The others watch him silently. Rhodey in
particular focuses on him hard, tense. “I try to help, to fight, but I fail. Neither of us is enough to
fight the tide, but he never falters.”

“Is Tony with him in your vision?” Rhodey asks.

Thor shakes his head. “He’s alone when I find him.”

“But he’s alive?” Rhodey presses.

“He is," a gravelly British voice says from the doorway.

The Avengers turn as one towards the doorway. The man who appeared in the Compound days
before staggers into the room, bracing himself against the wall or furniture as he limps inside. He’s
still covered in bruises and bandages, he moves stiffly, as if his very bones have been bruised. He
drags himself over to the conference table and drops down into a chair with a grunt.
“Right, I think I’ve got it now,” the man says, taking in the Avengers. He points at Steve. “You’re
Superman.”

“What?” Steve asks.

“You’re Wonder Woman,” he says, pointing to Thor, who merely tilts his head. Next he points to
Clint. “You’re Green Arrow.” To Natasha. “You’re terrifying.” To Rhodey. “And you’re Cyborg.
Maybe. Are you human?”

“Human enough to get annoyed at you,” Rhodey replies dryly.

“Only one missing is Batman. Got any billionaires laying around, moping and brooding?” The
silence that follows is cold enough to draw him up short. “Guess I’ve hit a sore spot?”

“Who are you?” Steve asks.

“My name is John Constantine. I’m here because Dr. Strange asked me to help him with
something. Of course, he never mentioned I’d start hopping dimensions. Bloody wizards. Never
could stand them.”

"Aren't you a wizard?" Clint asks.

"Yeah. That doesn't change my opinion. I know what we’re like."

“You spoke with Dr. Strange,” Rhodey says.

“A few weeks ago.” He pauses and squints. “Well. Maybe. Time doesn’t exactly work the same in
all universes. A few weeks ago for me.”

“Dr. Strange has been dead for months,” Natasha says.

“I know. Bloody annoying ghost. Kept popping up in my dreams and wouldn’t take no for an
answer,” Constantine huffs. “He wasn’t alone. I saw a bunch of others with him, but I couldn’t tell
you their names. He’s the only one who introduced himself.”

The Avengers pause, looking at one another. Wong tilts his head, regarding Constantine curiously
and warily.

“You crossed over from another dimension?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“That shouldn’t be possible. Not with your level of power, no offense,” Wong says.

“None taken. And normally, you’d be right. The void that separates our universes would prevent
that. Plus all the beasties inside the void. But that’s not true anymore,” Constantine says. He pats
his coat pockets and pulls out a crumpled cigarette packet. “Mind if I smoke?”

“Yes,” Clint says.

“Thanks,” Constantine replies, lighting a half bent cigarette and ignoring Clint’s annoyed look. He
looks at Wong. “See, our universes aren’t so far apart anymore. They’re closer than they should be,
and they’re only going to get closer as time moves on because of your Thanos.”

“How is that possible?” Wong asks.

 “He’s playing merry hell with the fabric of creation, that’s how,” Constantine says shortly. “Dr.
Strange explained it to me in a dream. Thanos can’t punch through to my universe, so he’s
physically dragging universes towards this one instead. Like an interdimensional black hole.”

Wong looks thoughtful, and disturbed. Steve exchanges a look with Natasha, frowning. Thor
frowns.

“Peter was able to reach your universe. And you have reached ours. Why is Thanos not able to do
the same?”

“That’s a little complicated,” Constantine says with a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck, cigarette
dangling from the corner of his mouth.

“Mr. Constantine, I think you should start from the beginning,” Steve says. “Just so we have a
clear picture of what’s going on.”

Constantine seems equal parts amused and tired. “You know, Blond Supes, that might be a good
idea. Right, settle in, this is going to be one hell of a story.”

Chapter End Notes

I'm a little surprised by everyone's reaction to Lou. I didn’t think people would latch
onto the big guy so much. I think he and Happy would be friends, if the two of them
ever happened to meet.

Also:
News: There are riots in Crime Alley.
Gordon: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Mondays, amiright?
 Chapter 30
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

“Let’s start from the beginning,” Natasha says, watching Constatine closely. She leans forward,
idly toying with the stylus in her hands, watching Constantine closely.

“Oh, I know that tone of voice,” Constantine says with a sigh. “Interrogation.”

“Just an interview for now,” Natasha says pleasantly. “You don’t want me to move into
interrogation. Let’s start from the beginning.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right about that. Right. Okay. So, from the top,” Constantine says, ashing
out his cigarette on the floor in front of himself. “I’m John Constantine. I’m from a universe that’s
a bit to the left of this one, cosmically speaking, and I came here because your Dr. Strange is the
most annoying ghost I’ve ever had the displeasure of dealing with.”

“How did you get here from your universe?” Wong asks. “That shouldn’t be possible. Not without
one of the Infinity Stones.”

“I had to prepare a special ritual Dr. Strange showed me, drain almost every bit of magic I have,
and follow a spirit over here. Tearing open a hole in my reality wasn’t hard, but finding the spirit
and walking the tree was pretty damn difficult,” Constantine says.

“Tree?” Okoye asks, quirking a brow.

“Yeah. I climbed Yggdrasil," Constantine says, idly waving his hand. He doesn’t pronounce it
correctly; his accent all but butchers the word, and it takes a moment for Thor to recognize it. He
goes stock still. “The doc said a serpent would lead me here, I just had to stay out of his sight while
he walked the tree.”

Thor stares at him. “You walked Yggdrasil.”

“What, like it’s hard? Simple walk in the park, mate,” Constantine says. He’s pale, weak, and most
of his skin seems to be made of bruises and cuts that have turned an ugly shade of green-yellow as
they heal.

Thor gapes at him. Clint slowly raises his hand, catching Thor’s attention.

“Hi. What’s Yggdrasil?” Clink asks when Thor glances at him.

“Yggdrasil is the Tree of Life that rests at the center of the cosmos. It connects all nine realms
through its roots and branches. It’s a font of creation and life itself, and therefore as dangerous as
the void between stars. Not even the gods dare walk Yggdrasil,” Thor says. “Only my father, Odin,
was brave enough to approach it. It’s where he gained his wisdom of the nine realms and powerful
runes that fueled his magic. He hanged himself from Yggdrasil for nine days and nine nights.”

“Yeah, Odin as the Gallows God. I ran into him while he was hanging from it. Literally. Once I
was done screaming my bloody head off, he gave me directions and a message for you,”
Constantine says, gesturing with his cigarette.

"My father is dead," Thor says. His tone is carefully neutral, a calm that belies how much pain and
grief he still carries over the loss of his family. "You met his spirit or a memory--”

Constantine shakes his head. “No, I met him. The Allfather. Time doesn't exactly follow rules
there, so it might have been him while he was first hanging from the tree. Listen, mate, it's a really
bloody big magic tree. Weird things are supposed to happen there. Work with me here."

Thor stares at him in disbelief for a long moment. "What did he say?"

"He said to keep the hammer with you at all times."

"The hammer is broken," Thor says after a long moment. “Shattered. I only have the pieces.”

Constantine shrugs. "Keep ‘em in your pocket then, I guess. I promised him I’d pass along the
message if he’d point me in the direction I needed to go, and I’d rather not piss off Odin, if it’s all
the same to you.”

Thor goes quiet, staring past Constantine, thoughtful and mildly overwhelmed by everyone
Cosntantine’s told him. He walked Yggdrasil. He followed a serpent--and he only knows of one
serpent brave and clever enough to walk the world tree--here. Which means Loki led him here.
Something close to hope sparks within Thor, and he can feel his grief and shame melt away. Just a
bit.

“Yggdrasil can be used like that?” Wong asks Constantine.

"Yggdrasil is huge. Its branches and roots reach Midgard. Every version of Midgard, in fact, which
is why I needed Odin’s help. I took a bloody beating from the void storms that shake its branches,
which is why I dropped in on you lot the way I did.”

“That explains the how. Why did Dr. Strange come to you?” Natasha asks.

“Convenience. I’m a magic worker like him--though he’s a bit stronger, I think--which means I was
one of the only people capable of seeing him. And I’m an occasional member of the Justice
League.”

“What’s the Justice League?” Rhodey asks.

“You guys, basically. Or close to it, I suppose. You know. Earth’s greatest defenders,” Constantine
says, with exaggerated hand gestures, his expression caught somewhere between embarrassment
and sheepishness. “A bit corny if you ask me, but they’ve proven themselves more often than not. I
suppose you guys have the same motto?”

“Earth’s mightiest heroes,” Thor says. He watches Constantine closely, his mind racing. No
wonder this mortal had been hurt when he arrived. Even the gods don’t dare travel between realms
without reason. Even Odin would balk at that journey.

“Sure, if you like,” Constantine says. “End of the day, it evens out to the same thing: I'm from a
different universe. Normally, we wouldn't have anything to do with each other. We wouldn't even
know about each other. There’s a vast void between our universes, keeping us separate so we don’t
muddle around in each other’s existence. But someone in this universe is poking holes into mine.
Sneaking people over and taking them out, building bridges between the two that don’t last very
long, but work long enough to stir up trouble."

Wong looks alarmed. "You're certain of this?”

"Very. It's playing merry hell with the void beasties between realities. Your Doctor is damn good
at his job. Most were still asleep when I snuck over. That’s not going to last forever. It probably
won’t last the next few months, in fact,” Constantine says. “Which is one of the reasons why I’m
here.”

“Interdimensional travel isn’t meant to happen,” Wong says, half to himself. “It’s dangerous. The
trip is deadly for all but the most powerful beings. Even taking into account your walk through
Yggdrasil’s branches, the experience should have killed you from thirst and hunger due to the
metaphysical distance.”

“Normally, you’d be right, but your universe is closer than it should be. According to the good
doctor, Thanos is using your universe to drag everyone else’s towards it like a black hole. Ours
was closest, cosmically speaking, and he’s dragging it closer.”

Wong looks horrified. “Why?”

“He’s been trying to break through the interdimensional barrier between our universes, but he can’t
pull it off, so he's bringing us here,” Constantine replies.

“He’s that strong?” Banner asks.

“He has that bloody Infinity Gauntlet. As long as he’s here, he’s the most powerful thing in the
multiverse,” Constantine remarks.

"Which means he can force the two realities to collide," Wong says numbly.

"What happens if he manages that?" Natasha asks, looking between Wong and Constantine.

"No idea, but it won't be very bloody pleasant, I can promise you that. Plus the things that live
between our realities will find it easier to wiggle their way into both universes, weakening the
barriers further.”

"And that’s also bad, I’m guessing," Rhodey says. He looks lost; Thor knows that Rhodey is a man
of science, and doesn’t easily accept explanations of magic. He adapts well, but the talk of power
that he doesn’t understand irks him the same way it does Tony Stark.

"Depends on your definition of bad, I suppose,” Constantine drawls, turning to face Rhodey with a
shrug. “Do you fancy slap fighting the Dweller-In-Darkness on the way to the pub?"

Rhodey pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “That makes no sense. He has the Infinity
Gauntlet. He has all of the Infinity Stones. If he thinks it, he can make it happen. If he wanted to
get into your universe, he’d already be there.”

“It’s a bit more complicated than that,” Wong says. He looks at Constantine with less suspicion.
“Stephen knows what’s happening?”

“Does he ever,” Constantine replies. He plucks the cigarette out of his mouth and taps the side of
his head. “He shared his memories with me. Not the most pleasant experience I’ve ever had. He
used the Eye to see how the timeline was going to play out back on Titan and planted that
knowledge, plus his last few living memories, right inside my brain while I was asleep.”

Wong nods, going quiet and thoughtful. The Avengers shift, bristling with questions. Clint is the
first to break the silence.

“So, Thanos is in your universe right now?” Clint asks. “Going in and out of it? Building an
army?”
“Not him, but he is trying to get there. He’s drilled holes into it. He’s slipped in a few of his
stronger people and minions, if what the doc says is true.”

"Why can't Thanos break into your universe?" Natasha asks.

“Two reasons. The first being that your Infinity Stones need to acclimate to my universe. There’s a
whole energy thing involved in all this,” Constantine says, waving his hand impatiently. “Your
stones can become infinitely powerful in my universe, but only if they’re allowed time to adjust to
it. Once a stone gets that new energy signature, it can be used in both universes freely."

"That sounds too simple," Steve says after a moment.

"Well, it is the simplified version. The problem is that the stones need to adjust to the new
universe. The stones are more of a curse than anything else when they’re taken to a different
universe," Constantine says, shrugging. "For awhile, whoever has a stone is weakened by it. It
draws on the only energy source it's used to, and that's usually the stone bearer's life force. It can be
fatal if you’re not careful, and it’ll definitely weaken you."

“So, if he has all of the stones, then hopping next door would probably kill him outright,” Clint
says. “There’s a nice thought.”

“If only he were that foolish,” Okoye remarks.

“Thanos has to give up each stone to acclimate them,” Wong says slowly. “He has to trust his
minions with the stones, send them into a universe completely free of his control, and wait for
them to return. And they have to survive the attempt, since the stones will harm them until they
adjust to their new universe. That limits the people he can use.”

“Trust does not come easily to a warlord as bloody as Thanos,” Okoye notes. “He would not dare
give up all of the stones or a way to recall his minions if necessary.”

“The Black Order worships him as a god,” Thor says. “He doesn’t need to worry about their
loyalty.”

“Oh, that son of a bitch. He’s recreating the Battle of New York,” Clint says, his tone flat. The
others look at him and he sighs. “Think of it. He sends one of his most trusted people into
Constantine’s universe with the Tesseract--the space stone--which lets them pull through more and
more people as the stone adjusts to this new universe.”

“Got it in one. Good job, Ollie,” Constantine says, sticking his cigarette back into his mouth. He
talks around it easily. Clint sends him an utterly baffled look at the nickname. Constantine points at
the picture of Peter Parker hovering among the holograms. “The thing of it is, it won’t work the
way he wants. Not really. Your Thanos has a problem, and it’s in the shape of that kid on the
screen.”

Thor looks between Constantine and Peter’s image on the holoscreen. Rhodey is the first to speak,
to no one’s surprise.

“How?” Rhodey asks.

Constantine blows out a wall of cigarette smoke and waves his hands. An image of Tony and Peter
appears in the smoke, hauling against Thanos’s arm with all of their might. The Guardians of the
Galaxy and Dr. Strange have Thanos pinned. The Avengers stare at the image, transfixed.

"Oh, holy shit," Rhodey says quietly. "They trapped him."

"Right, welcome to Dr. Strange’s memories from before his death. Give me a moment, I haven’t
done spell work like this in awhile,” Constantine says. The image fades in, then out, then turns
sharp again as he concentrates. After a few moments of struggle, he stabilizes the image.

“I’ll be damned,” Rocket says quietly. “Mantis managed to knock the bastard unconscious. Look at
‘em. They could’ve pulled it off if Groot and I were there.”

“If you’d been there, you’d have been killed,” Constantine says. “I saw the same timelines as Dr.
Strange. Trust me, this is the kindest one by far.”

The gets a wide range of reactions from the Avengers, from Natasha’s puzzled but steady frown to
Clint’s scowling fury. Rhodey gets them back on track.

“What does this have to do with Peter?” Rhodey asks.

“Thanos doesn’t know it, but the kid swiped the Soul Stone right out of that glove of his while he
was trapped. Well, most of it. There was a piece left, and that piece had enough power to kill half
your universe," Constantine explains. He waves his hands, the image moves. Peter suddenly
stumbles back from Thanos and Tony both, looking at his hands in blatant confusion until Tony
grits out a plea for help. He scrambles back into position, but keeps glancing at his own hand.

"Clever kid," Clint murmurs.

“Lucky kid,” Natasha says. “Infinity stones aren’t meant to be held like that from what I’ve
researched.”

“Not unless the stone chooses you,” Constantine says. “Your Dr. Strange gave me a crash course
on the buggers.”

“Now he has the oldest and most powerful stone in creation,” Wong says.

“You’re telling me a sixteen year old boy has an Infinity stone, and this is a good thing?” Clint
asks. “Someone used the Tesseract to invade our planet, and they weren’t even using it at its full
power. The kid is basically carrying around a multidimensional nuke.”

"It is better than Thanos having it," Okoye points out. Clint stops to consider that and nods,
conceding the point.

"Peter’s responsible. He can be trusted with a stone," Rhodey says, eyes focusing on Tony and
Peter in the small image.

“What’s the most responsible thing you can do with a stone of infinite power?” Steve asks.

“You don't use it,” Clint answers.

"Exactly," Wong says. "Or use it sparingly. The Eye of Agamotto--the Time stone--gave the
Sorcerer Supreme absolute control over time. Using it required precision and supreme discipline.
More often than not, the best course of action is to not use it."

"The kid hasn't used it much from what Dr. Strange told me," Constantine says.

“Which would explain why Thanos hasn’t found him. Peter hasn’t used the stone yet,” Thor says.

“He hasn’t used it in a big way, at least,” Constantine counters. “He’s using it a bit, but only a little
at a time. I’m not sure how he’s managing that. It’s like opening up a dam against a river.”
“Stephen could be helping him restrain the stone’s power. Limiting it,” Wong adds, his expression
thoughtful.

“Like easing off pressure in a steam engine,” Rhodey says.

Constantine nods, digging out yet another cigarette. Wong frowns at him.

“It shouldn’t have been possible for him to steal a stone. They aren’t things. They’re almost
sentient,” Wong says.

“He’s right,” Clint says quietly, eyes going distant. “The Space stone spoke to me when Loki had
me under his spell. There is a kind of intelligence there. I mostly just saw images. Things. And
apparently had very blue eyes for awhile.”

“He passed some kind of judgement test for the Soul stone and it hopped over to him, according to
Dr. Strange.” At the Avengers’ curious looks, he simply shrugs. “Intelligence cuts both ways,
mates.”

"I am so lost," Banner says after a moment.

"Right, well, to simplify it: Thanos is trying to get to my universe. He can't do it because your
Spider-Man stole the Soul stone out of his fancy glove during their boxing match. There was
enough residual energy for Thanos to pull off the Snap, but he can’t make the jump to other
universes to pull off that same trick without it. So, now he’s trying to get one of his people to sneak
over with one of the stones while simultaneously yanking our two universes together. Got it?”

Banner blinks, then nods. “Okay, yeah. That makes sense.”

“You probably should’ve led with that,” Rhodey remarks dryly.

Constantine shrugs, pulling another drag off of his cigarette and adding smoke to the floating
image of the battle on Titan.

Steve stares at the image, hard. "What happened to Tony?"

“Sorry?” Constantine asks, turning to face Steve. His confusion is genuine. “Ah, which one---
listen, I’m going to count myself lucky remembering your names, I don’t know everyone in Dr.
Strange’s memories. I hate thinking in someone else’s voice.”

“The man in the red and gold suit next to Peter,” Steve says, pointing at the frozen image of Tony
straining against the Gauntlet. “We don’t know what’s happened to any of the people in that image,
except for Peter and Dr. Strange. You have Dr. Strange’s memories, right?”

“Yes,” Constantine says. “Of Titan, at least. That’s as much of his brain as I’m comfortable having
inside my head, personally.”

“Did he see what happened to Tony? Or the rest of the people in that image?” Steve asks.

Constantine hesitates for a very long moment, squinting into the air above Steve’s head. His eyes
become unfocused, as if he’s watching some internal image. After a long moment, he pales and
grimaces.

“Yeah. He did,” Constantine says, glancing away and rubbing the back of his neck. “Bloody hell.”

“Can you show us?” Natasha asks, her tone even and gentle.
Constantine hesitates, glancing around at the Avengers, as if suddenly realizing he’s outnumbered
and, for all intents and purposes, trapped with them. “You won’t kill the messenger, right?”

“Would your Superman kill you if you gave him bad news?” Steve asks.

“No,” Constantine answers. “The man’s the ultimate boy scout.”

“Then you're more right about Steve than you know,” Clint says. He jerks his chin to the image
suspended in smoke. “Show us. We can take it.”

“Right, okay,” Constantine says, taking a deep breath. He stretches out a hand lined in golden
power, and sends out a tendril of magic towards the floating image. “We’ll just watch one of the
good doctor’s memories, yeah? I’m sure no one will be upset by this.”

Thor can feel the magic tickle his skin as Constantine reaches out, grabs the smoke, and expands it.
Suddenly, they aren’t looking at a small image hovering within cigarette smoke; the spell functions
like one of Stark’s holograms, covering the room with a simulation of Titans. It’s as if the
Avengers are there, on Titan, while the Guardians and Tony and Peter struggle against Thanos.
Thor can smell the dust, feel the wind, and the persistent empty heat of the long dead planet. With
a flick of Constantine’s wrist, the memory begins.

“Hurry,” Mantis grits out. “He is very strong--”

“We’ll have to pry his fingers back to get the glove off,” Peter mutters to Tony. Tony nods.

Steve stands at the head of the crowd, eyes taking in every detail. Thor paces restlessly, like a
caged lion, eyeing Thanos with deadly intent. Clint and Natasha stand beside one another, grim
looks on their faces. Rhodey stares at Tony and Peter. Okoye keeps separate from the others,
watching events play out with a tactician’s eye.

They watch Quill’s breakdown. Thanos shaking off the trance. Nebula’s arrival. The moon.

“He had to pull a moon down to stop them,” Bruce mutters.

“And all that did was piss off Tony,” Natasha says.

Peter swings after the Guardians, catching and saving their lives, suspending them from his webs
as he dances around flaming rock and debris. Tony faces off against Thanos. His suit changes on a
whim, defending, attacking, the nanites reshaping themselves at his command. The suit is no match
for Thanos. The fight is lost when Tony is forced to sacrifice his armor for offense. When Thanos
drives the nanite blade through Tony’s stomach, the Avengers wince or glance away. Constantine
freezes the memory.

“It really doesn’t get much better after this,” he says in the sudden silence. “I’m not sure you lot
want to see--”

“Show us,” Steve says.

“Right,” Constantine says.

The memory begins again. Thanos mocking Tony, preparing to obliterate him with the Gauntlet,
Strange interrupting the deathblow by surrendering the stone. Thanos disappears. Tony stares at
Strange, betrayed, as Peter drops down and runs to Tony’s side.

For a long moment, nothing happens.

And then the Snap. The Guardians collapse into ash first. Dr. Strange begins to fall apart after
them. His vision flakes apart; he’s fighting against death just long enough to trigger a spell. Before
he collapses completely, he gets one last look at Peter staggering towards Tony, trails of ash rising
from his shoulders as he stumbles.

“I don’t feel so good--”

Darkness falls. Constantine flicks his hand, ending the spell, before grabbing another cigarette and
lighting it. He takes in a long drag and lets out the smoke slowly.

“I hate that part,” he says, looking as sick and miserable as he did the moment he popped into their
universe. “I keep seeing it when I sleep. It’s no fun being inside someone else’s head when they
die.”

A long silence follows the memory. Rocket, who’s been silent until now, curses quietly. “He killed
all of them.”

“At least we know where to find Tony,” Rhodey says numbly. “Rocket, I know you’re--”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll swing by Titan when I can,” he mutters. “I’ll probably find the Benatar there, too.
Might as well get my ship back.”

Rhodey nods, satisfied, though he looks like he’s fighting back a wave of grief. The rest of the
room goes silent, rattled by the vision of Titan that Constantine showed them. Thor lets his mind
wander, impressed by the sorcerer, and worried for the man’s home. He’s equally worried about
Peter. There’s a sense of urgency now that the realization that the Infinity War hasn’t ended occurs
to each of the Avengers. Thanos won his war against the Avengers here, but there are gods know
how many other universes, and he clearly intends to take the fight to them. And right now, the only
Avenger capable of countering him is Tony Stark’s apprentice.

Constantine sits down heavily, snuffling out his cigarette with a long sigh. “I don’t suppose
someone could bring me a drink? Or food. I’ll eat anything at this point.”

His voice is weary, and he looks almost as pale as he did when he first appeared in their midst.
Steve clears his throat.

“We do. Just sit tight, Mr. Constantine,” Steve says. He looks at Natasha for a moment, then the
others. “In fact, I think we should take a breather after that. I’m sure we could all use the fresh air.”

“Good idea. Let’s take a break,” Natasha says, slowly standing up from her seat. “When we get
back, I think we’d better start making plans.”

Murmured agreement follows that. Rhodey mutters something about calling Pepper and Happy.
Banner nods, rubbing the back of his head, his earlier good cheer gone. Clint says nothing; he
never saw his family collapse into ash, and Dr. Strange’s memory of Titan has rattled him. Wong
has already left, presumably to get some of his famous tea. Okoye merely nods.

Thor watches the others leave, looks to Constantine, and then walks past the wizard, briefly
clapping him on the shoulder he moves past. The man jumps in his skin, but offers a weak, if
confused, grin to Thor. Thor returns to his room to grab the remains of his hammer. The pieces are
little more than shattered steel and wood, but if Odin asks that he carry it, then he will.

***

Peter doesn’t stay awake long enough to join in on Tim and Duke’s games. In fact, he pretty much
passes out in the back seat once Dick drives out of Crime Alley. He doesn’t stir for most of the ride
back to the manor. Dick watches him through the rearview mirror and can’t help but think he looks
painfully small and thin. A part of him wonders if he looked that small and lost the night Bruce
took him in.

“As much as I appreciate your concern for Master Peter,” Alfred says. “I’d appreciate it if you kept
your eyes on the road a bit more, sir.”

“Right, sorry, Alfred,” Dick replies, focusing on the road again. The highway is busy, but not
terribly so; if he needed to, he could drive home blindfolded. That probably wouldn’t make him
very popular with Alfred, however. “Did Jason say where he was headed?”

“No, he did not,” Alfred replies. “But I believe you know where he’ll be.”

Dick sighs. He does know. Ever since Spider-Man’s death, Dick and Jason have been watching
over the part of Crime Alley that Spider-Man cleaned up. Primarily the playground and
surrounding neighborhood, but a few other spots, too. Lately, they’ve been watching over
candlelight vigils and small memorials set up in Spidey’s honor.

“I should be there,” Dick says after a moment.

“You have other responsibilities now, Master Richard,” Alfred says gently.

Dick glances up at the rearview mirror. Peter is asleep, head resting against the window, bundled
up in a coat and hat that look too big for him. Alfred’s right, of course; he can’t let his grief for
Spider-Man prevent him from helping Peter. He’s Peter’s guardian now, after all. Even if the
legality of that is questionable.

The rest of the drive passes in silence. Dick parks inside the manor’s massive garage and carries
Peter up to his room. Alfred follows, carrying Peter’s things with them. They pass Duke and Tim
in the family room on the second floor, who both look up with alarm when they see Peter.

"Sorry, guys, but I don’t think Peter’s going to join in tonight," Dick says. “I think moving took it
out of him.”

“I wondered how long he’d stay awake,” Duke says, standing up and walking over to Alfred to
help him with the boxes.

“How bad was it?” Tim asks quietly.

“Bad,” Dick says with a sigh. “Come on, get the door for us.”

Tim hurries ahead of the group, opening Peter’s room for them. The room has changed a bit since
Peter last slept here. The closet is filled with clothes and shoes, the small living area in the corner
has new recliners and a small sofa tucked into the corner, and a new laptop rests in the middle of
the desk. It doesn’t have any of the personal touches of the other bedrooms like Tim’s photography
wall, or Duke’s puzzle games and card collections, but that should change soon enough. Dick sets
Peter onto the bed and tucks him in while Duke sets down the boxes. Something tumbles out of the
box, rolling across the floor. Dick bends down to pick it up. He lifts it up and stops.

In his hand is a tiny version of himself in his old Nightwing suit.

"He got that at Batburger with us awhile back," Duke says at his questioning look. "He said it was
his good luck charm."
 He isn’t sure how to feel about that. He stares at himself for a long moment before setting the
Nightwing figurine on the nightstand and standing up from the bed. A thought occurs to him as he
leaves Peter’s bedroom with Duke, Tim, and Alfred.

He hasn’t told Starfire that he’s technically a father now.

Chapter End Notes

I am never putting more than four characters into a single room ever again, jesus
christ that Avengers scene was so hard to keep track of.

I have an actual timeline map keeping track of:

-Peter and the Waynes
-Superman
-The Justice League
-Wonder Woman and Captain Marvel
-The Avengers
-Constantine
-Tony
-the Dusted

I haven't forgotten anyone, but a fic with this kind of cast means I'll have to take some
extra time to keep plot holes to a minimum.

Wishing you and yours health and prosperity in the new year!
 Chapter 31
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Dick gently closes Peter’s door behind himself, his mind wandering. He’s surprised to find Bruce
speaking with Duke and Tim in the hallway.

“And don’t go on patrol alone. Not until we find out who’s behind the attack,” Bruce says, his tone
firm and final.

“No need to tell me twice,” Duke replies. He glances at Peter’s door. “I’m going to stick around to
help Peter settle in anyway. I know how overwhelming this place can be, and my arm is still a little
whacked out.”

“That’s a good idea, Duke. It’s going to be a shock for him,” Dick says, walking over to the little
group. “Just having a warm bed in a safe place will be a novelty for a little while.”

Bruce frowns. Tim looks mildly sick at that thought. Duke doesn’t seem surprised, but he doesn’t
look happy, either.

“I kind of figured,” Duke says. He checks the time on his watch. “I’m going to grab some lunch
with Cass. I’ll catch you guys later.”

“I’ll come with you,” Tim says. “I’m starving.”

“Yeah, that happens when you forget to eat breakfast,” Duke remarks dryly. He aims a friendly
wave at Bruce and Dick, falling into step with Tim as they walk towards the stairs.

Dick watches them leave, hands in his pockets. He looks at Bruce from the corner of his eye.
“How’s Damian?”

Bruce sighs, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose and Dick fights back a small smirk.
“Alfred and I restricted him to bed rest. Whether he stays in bed or not remains to be seen.”

Dick’s smirk grows for a moment. “I’ll talk to him.”

“Please do. He’s--” Here, Bruce pauses, as if trying to find a way to express himself. That’s not
necessarily uncommon with him; Dick knows how to wait it out while Bruce travels through the
murky waters of his own emotions. It can be a lengthy process sometimes. “Anxious. Alert. He
almost lost you and Alfred within days of each other.”

Ah. Dick hadn’t considered that angle. Damian is closest to Dick and Alfred in this weird, screwed
up family; the assassination attempt and then the whole thing with Bane would him on high alert.

“I’ll go talk to him,” Dick says, running a hand through his hair. “After I make a very awkward
phone call to Kori and explain how I kind of illegally adopted a teenager. I’ll have her join me on
patrol tonight so we can talk it out.”

Peter likely isn’t going to wake up anytime soon. And he wants to check in on Jason, too. That
meeting won’t go anywhere positive, but he has to try. He knows it'll end with Jason blaming him
for Spider-Man's death and a fistfight as a bonus. Honestly, it might start that way. Jason doesn't
have many friends (by his own choice), so the few he makes are often kept close and protected
zealously. In some ways, Spider-Man had been a bridge between them. That bridge is gone and
Jason’s made it clear he puts some of the blame on Dick.

Not that Dick necessarily disagrees with Jason.

"Report in to Oracle when you leave the manor," Bruce says after a moment.

"I plan on it," Dick says, walking towards the stairs.

Bruce joins him, and they walk side by side through the manor. Bruce is watching him closely, his
gaze frank and piercing. It’s a look he’s often used on Dick when he was Robin and trying to brush
off an injury or a lie. Dick has to fight back a wave of annoyance and frustration. He’s a grown
man; Bruce should’ve retired that look years ago.

"How are you?" Bruce asks after a moment.

Dick clenches a fist. "Perfectly fine. If you think I'm not capable of field work--"

"That's not why I'm asking," Bruce says quietly.

Dick pauses, his anger dissipating as quickly as it appeared. Bruce isn't looking for a readiness
report. He's genuinely asking. A rare thing indeed for Bruce, given how cold the man can be
towards those he cares for. Dick appreciates the effort, no matter how clumsily it's done, and
boggles at what it means. Is the old man learning how to express emotions?

"We lost one of our own because of me," Dick says finally, his tone bitter and guilty. "How do you
think I feel?"

Bruce has no answer to that, but he does squeeze Dick's shoulder comfortingly. Another surprise.
Maybe the old man is softening in his old age.

That's a terrifying thought.

"I know," he says simply. After a moment, he pulls back his hand and walks away. Maybe he’s hit
his limit on emotions for the day or something.

A brief silence hangs between them before Dick speaks. "I thought you were headed out of town."

Bruce leaps onto the change of subject gratefully. "I am. I needed to check a few things here."

"Is Clark in that much trouble?" Dick asks, frowning. "You've been spending a lot of time in
Metropolis lately."

Superman is like an uncle to him. Clark has always been a steady, comforting presence in Dick's
life, as much a part of his family as Bruce and his brothers and sisters. He hasn’t had a chance to
ask after him for awhile, and frankly didn't think to do so. Superman is Superman; what could
possibly hurt him?

“I’ve been spending less time there than you think,” Bruce says. “I’m not sure if there’s any kind of
help I can give him.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Dick asks.

“I’m not sure,” Bruce admits. “He complained of headaches, then denied ever having a headache
in his life a few hours later. And his eyes seem different, though I can’t place how. Something’s
happened to him.”
“Where has he been? It’s been, what, weeks or months since he disappeared?”

“He doesn’t remember. And he didn’t tell Lois he was going anywhere before he left. He only does
that with a short mission he doesn’t think will take very long.”

Dick quirks a brow at that. Bruce mimics the gesture. Dick scoffs. “Clark has a mind like a steel
trap.”

“Not at the moment he doesn’t,” Bruce replies, his tone stiff and cold, and a bit defensive. Dick
can recognize the fear behind it, though most others wouldn’t. Whatever’s happened to Clark has
Bruce shaken and determined. “Has Tim mentioned Conner lately?”

“The day Bane attacked, yes,” Dick says slowly. “Apparently Conner hasn’t been returning his
calls.”

“I need to talk to him before I leave,” Bruce says after a moment.

“Why? What’s going on?”

“I believe someone is targeting the Justice League and Kryptonians in particular,” Bruce says.
“Kara Danvers is overdue from her trip in space. The Kents haven’t seen Conner in weeks. His
room was covered in dust and, oddly, ashes. I was hoping to find out something before speaking
with Tim about it, but I don’t think I’ll get the chance.”

Dick is silent, walking beside Bruce towards one of the entrances to the batcave scattered around
manor. He turns over this new information slowly, examining all sides of it. Tim is going to be
upset, to say the least. Red Robin and Super Boy are usually inseparable when their schedules
allow. If Conner is missing...

“He’s not going to handle the news well,” Dick says. Which is something of an understatement.

“I know,” Bruce replies, leading them down towards the computer that takes up a majority of one
side of the cave.

The cave is cool, but not cold. Dick can hear bats shuffle in place on the rock ceiling above them,
and smell the damp air. This place feels more like home than the manor above; he knows every
shadow, every distant drip of water. The cave has changed over the past few years, but it still feels
the same. It still feels like home.

“I’ll wait until he finishes with lunch and talk to him then,” Bruce says, sitting down in the well
worn chair. He looks more comfortable here, more at ease. “If I bring him into the investigation
from the start, I might be able to counter a few of his bad habits.”

Dick thinks that’s a lost cause, but he can see the logic in it. “Treat him as an equal, Bruce. It’s
long past time.”

Bruce pauses, then gives the slightest nod. “I intend to.”

Maybe the old man has started to soften up. Dick considers that for a moment, desperately trying to
find a tactful way to ask when and how Bruce gained emotional intelligence, when he spots a new
addition to the row of suits carefully placed inside glass cases lined up in a row along one wall of
the cave. Most of the suits there are simply old or retired suits from every member of the family:
his original Robin suit, the original Nightwing design, Tim’s Red Robin suit, Duke’s Signal suit,
Cass’s variations on the Black Bat suit, Steph’s Spoiler and Robin suit. Even a few of Jason’s older
Red Hood helmets have a place. And Bruce’s old Batman suits that have since been retired. But
there’s a new addition to the line up.

At the end of the row, a sleek black and red suit with large, pronounced white eyes stands inside a
clear glass case. A black belt is slung across the hips and matte black gauntlet web shooters are
clamped around the suit’s forearms. The chest is covered by a thin, sharp angled spider emblem
against a blood red chest, the black legs meshing with the black fabric of the arms and hips. Dick
stares at it for a long moment before walking over to stand in front of it. He isn’t sure how much
time passes before he feels Bruce stand beside him, staring at the suit.

“I was going to ask you to give this to him when I got back from Metropolis,” Bruce says quietly.
“It wasn’t quite finished before I left. I thought I would have more time.”

“No bat symbol?” Duke asks. He’s surprised by how strained and weak his voice is, and he takes a
moment to clear his throat, fighting back a wave of grief.

“No,” Bruce says. “I was going to offer it to him, and a place here at the manor.”

“Too bad that didn’t work out,” Dick says weakly. “Can you imagine? We drag two more people
into this family. Peter and Spider-Man.”

Bruce makes a quiet hn sound. He’s quiet for a long moment. “The city wants to throw a
fundraising gala in Spider-Man’s honor for Crime Alley. They’re asking me to host it here at the
manor.”

Dick whirls to face him. “They what? Bruce, that’s garish. He’s not even--no one’s bothered to
bury him yet. There hasn’t even been a funeral.”

Bruce looks as unhappy as Dick feels. “I know. I stalled them for the moment, but a few of the
requests are coming from Spider Alley itself. I can turn away the mayor and city council easily
enough, but...”

But Bruce Wayne can’t be seen publicly turning away a call for help from the city’s poorest
citizens, especially when it would cost him nothing, and when he’s done similar things in the past
for Batman. It would cause nothing but trouble for Bruce and, by extension, the rest of the family,
if he did turn them away. Increased media focus, this time with a negative slant to every question
and every interview, the public opinion turned against them, which could have ripple effects on
their night time work. Dick grits his teeth.

Bruce watches Dick for a long moment. He looks tired. “I’ll delay it as much as I can. With luck,
most of the funds we raise can help fund a few restoration projects in the Alley.”

“Yeah. With luck,” Dick mutters. He brushes past Bruce, heading back for the stairs. “Excuse me.
I have a phone call to make.”

He could really use Kori’s advice right now. And some fresh air.

***

When Thor returns to the conference room, he finds Constantine sitting alone, one hand gripping a
mug of steaming tea, the other holding another cigarette. He looks worn down, and Thor wonders
how much strength it took for the man to use his magic again so soon after traveling across the
multiverse.

“If you take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Constantine mutters. He rolls his shoulders and cracks his
neck with a sigh.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to seem rude," Thor says. The remains of the hammer hang from a leather
sack on his belt.

"Ah, don't worry about it," Constantine says. Behind him, the Avengers begin to file back into the
conference room, one by one. "I'm not the most pleasant person to deal with in the best of
circumstances. Now that I'm stranded here for awhile, I might be a little more snippy than usual."

“I think you’ve earned the right to be mildly unpleasant,” Thor remarks, trading a nod with Steve
and Natasha as they pass by.

It’s strange how quickly the Avengers change. What was once another tooth grindingly slow
meeting has turned into something else. Now when Steve speaks with Natasha, there’s steel to his
words. Natasha’s eyes have filled with a subtle glimmer of purpose. Clint checks over his gear with
slow and calm precision. Rhodey stands apart from the others, but he stands straight and tall,
looking over the various holo displays floating in the middle of the room. Okoye walks over to join
him, keen eyes scanning the galactic maps.

“Remember you said that the next time I say something that pisses you off,” Constantine says.

Thor is about to reply when Rocket reappears, the hologram bursting to life with a scattershot of
blue light that stutters in place before creating his image. He looks excited, and starts speaking the
moment his image assembles itself.

“Big news, guys. Another one of those prison planets just got blown to hell, and one of my contacts
got a picture this time,” Rocket says. His hands are flying across a keyboard that’s not visible in
the call, and he’s moving with an excited sort of energy.

The holograms disperse, reforming to create an image of Carol Danvers smashing through a
platoon of the Black Order’s soldiers, wreathed in golden light. Another figure stands nearby,
wielding a sword and shield, though they’re obscured by Carol’s golden light.

“I guess we know who’s been breaking apart those prison planets,” Rhodey remarks dryly.

“My guess is she got picked up looking for the Benatar,” Rocket says. “It looks like she broke
out.”

“That’s deep into enemy territory,” Steve remarks. “She’s cut off from all support and making a
hell of a lot of noise.”

“Then we’ll change that,” Natasha says. “Rocket, how fast can you swing by Earth to pick us up?”

“Two hours, give or take. It’ll be a long ride out there,” he says. “We’ll have to avoid a lot of
patrols.”

“We’ll be ready,” Natasha says. Rocket grunts, and ends the call, stepping away and letting his
holographic image collapse. Natasha takes in a deep breath and looks at the Avengers. “Thanos
isn’t going to let her get away with destroying his things like that. We have the choice of taking
this fight to his doorstep or waiting for Carol to come back here. I think we all know the smart
choice.”

The Avengers nod, or murmur their ascent. Steve rolls his shoulders, adjusting his shield on his
back. Rhodey runs diagnostics on his suit. Okoye and Wong speak with one another quietly. Thor
touches the leather bag on his belt and the hammer within it.

Natasha makes her way over to Constantine. “Are you staying here or coming with us?”
 Constantine lets out a slow breath, squints, and shrugs. “I’ll come along. What the hell. The Doc
said I’d be better off sticking with you lot, and he’s been right so far.”

Natasha smirks. “Smart choice. Welcome to the Avengers, Mr. Constantine.”

Chapter End Notes

I keep finding half finished scenes written out in my notebooks that I’ve forgotten to
add or just cut out entirely. I need to add those at some point. Dreams where Peter
meets the Pym family and the Guardians in the Soul Stone, a cut scene from the
Parent-Teacher conference where Loki (as Tony) casually threatens Edison Bright and
his father, a scene with Red Hood and Black Cat, etc. They’re in rough shape at the
moment, and most of them aren’t longer than a few paragraphs.

Anyway, this is a quick chapter before we hop back into Peter's POV.
 Chapter 32
Chapter Summary

A few slower paced chapters for some good hurt/comfort are on the horizon until we
get to that identity reveal.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Peter sleeps. His dreams shift from Titan to an earlier time of his life, dragged back by a familiar
grief.

He’s eight years old, sitting in his newly furnished room at his Aunt and Uncle’s apartment. It’s
late; the moon hovers outside his window, partially blocked by a neighboring building. Peter is
hugging his knees, head pressed against them to muffle his sobs. His aunt and uncle have work in
the morning, and he’s already woken them up twice this week. He knows he should stop, force the
tears back, but he can’t.

He wants his mom and dad.

From the corner of his eye, distant golden figures shift and murmur among each other. He ignores
them.

Peter lets out a quiet hiccupping sob. The door to his room opens, spilling in light from the hall. He
winces and tries to muffle another sob. He doesn’t quite manage it as May and Ben sit down on
either side of him on the floor. May wraps a warm, protective arm around his waist while Ben curls
an arm around Peter’s shoulders.

"Life has a habit of knocking us down, Peter," Ben says idly.

"Yeah, it does," Peter says, withdrawn and subdued. Silence follows, and he feels Ben’s eyes on
him.

"And what do we do when life knocks us down?" May asks.

"We get up," Peter says quietly. The words carry a weight he doesn't understand yet. "We always
get back up."

Ben hugs him. It's warm, gentle, familiar, and comforting. "Damn right we do, kiddo. We got
knocked down pretty hard this time, and there’s no shame in being sad about it, but we get back up.
It’s just us now, you know. Me, your aunt, you."

Peter’s world has shrunk. The void left behind by his parents seems unfathomable; he'll never play
hide and seek with his dad again. Never hear his mom hum silly pop songs and dance with him in
their tiny kitchen. The memories are already fuzzy around the edges. Eventually they'll fade almost
completely until he’s left with just his mother's laugh and his father's smile. Not yet, but soon.

"Yeah, just us," Peter says against his uncle's shoulder. He clings to May’s hand, and she squeezes
his hand comfortingly. She reaches up to gently ruffle his hair with her free hand, a thing she’s
done for him ever since he can remember. He leans into her touch, letting out a soft snicker when
she accidentally tickles his neck.

The snicker turns to a laugh.

And the laughter lasts a long time. Longer than it should. Long enough to draw horrified looks
from May and Ben. He can’t stop it. The laughter grows, shredding the dream memory apart, until
Peter’s caught somewhere between deep sleep and awareness. Eventually some vaguely golden
shape shoves him out of that lightless purgatory and into full awareness.

Peter wakes up laughing.

It's a painful, wracking kind of laugh, mixed with a wheezing coughing fit that strains his muscles
and robs him of breath. He can barely see through the tears forming in his eyes, but he sees enough
to mark out the inhaler on the nightstand beside the bed, resting beside the Nightwing figurine. He
snatches it up and presses it to his mouth, taking in a deep breath as he activates the inhaler.

The medicine, whatever it is, tastes acrid and bitter, with a weirdly mint aftertaste. It works fast,
and for that, Peter’s beyond grateful. Using an inhaler when he’s trying to laugh himself into
unconsciousness is a nightmare and a half. He stifles a chuckling cough and focuses on breathing.
When the urge to laugh subsides, he lets out a weary, slightly frustrated sigh and tosses the inhaler
onto the night stand. He probably shouldn’t do that.

Whatever.

“Hey, man,” Duke says from his doorway. He looks like he’s half asleep, and he rubs at his eyes.
Peter glances at the clock on his nightstand. 8:50 am. He must’ve slept through the night after
Dick carried him inside. “You all right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” Peter mutters, flopping back onto his bed. He is, too; he’s warm and
somewhere safe. He’d be feeling great if it wasn’t for his unsettling dream and the laughing fit he
just woke up to. And his cold. And his aching bullet wound. And--

Well, he’s fine enough.

“That wasn’t convincing,” Duke remarks, smiling a little. He walks into Peter’s room and leans
against the desk near the door, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I have it on very good authority that I’m an amazing liar. Just ask Detective Bullock and Damian,”
Peter says, running a hand through his hair. He sighs. “I don’t remember getting here.”

“Alfred and Dick brought you in last night and pretty much took you straight to bed. Alfred tried to
wake you up for dinner, but he gave up after a little while,” Duke says.

“Makes sense,” Peter mutters, his voice thick and rough like gravel. He stretches, careful of his
wounded side. He’s still wearing his clothes from yesterday; they’re rumpled and wrinkled, and
he’s in dire need of a shower. He must have broken through a fever while he was asleep. “I’d like
to know why I feel worse now than I did at the hospital.”

“Probably the rebound effect from the Joker toxin,” Duke says with a small shrug. “It comes and
goes in waves until your body builds up an immunity to it.” He pauses, and then amends his
statement. “If your body builds up an immunity.”

His tone is more than a little subdued. And touched with grief. Peter can recognize that easily.
"You've dealt with it before?" he asks, flopping back against his bed. It's too soft, but it’s also
warm, and he'll never pass up the opportunity to stay warm again. Not after living in the fire
station. “You seem to know a lot about it.”

As in, knew immediately that Peter’s been exposed to Joker toxin. Hopefully that’s not a common
theme among the rest of the family.

"My parents were hit with it. I was too, but I got lucky. It doesn’t affect me very much," Duke says
simply. He shrugs at Peter’s horrified look. "It's Gotham, man. It happens."

“Still horrifying,” Peter mutters. Duke shrugs again. He’s quiet for a moment and tilts his head
slightly.

“Did you know that you talk in your sleep?” Duke asks.

“I do?” Peter asks, rubbing his forehead. His chest aches from his lingering cold and laughing fit.
His heart aches from the memories he just relived. Exhaustion tugs at him.

“Yeah. I saw these two--” Duke pauses and starts again. “I heard you mention a couple of names.
Ben and May?”

Peter sighs, too exhausted to feel embarrassed. The grief still hits, though it’s subdued. “Yeah. My
aunt and uncle.”

Duke pauses for a moment, seeming to read between the lines. His eyes soften, and he mercifully
changes the topic. “Hey, are you hungry? Alfred’s making breakfast downstairs right now.”

Peter’s first reaction to being offered food should probably be embarrassing. He doesn’t care. He
perks up like an excited puppy, standing up from his bed in an instant. Possibly too fast for a
regular human, judging by Duke’s headtilt. “Yes. Always.” He pauses and looks down at himself.
“Give me five minutes to clean up and change. I probably shouldn’t go downstairs wearing my
clothes from yesterday.”

“Trust me, Alfred’s used to seeing way worse,” Duke says amused. He nods. “I’ll wait for you in
the hall.”

“Thanks,” Peter says, ducking into his bathroom.

He showers, brushes his teeth, and changes. Having a private bathroom is going to be a novelty for
awhile. As is warm water. And warmth in general. The new clothes in his closet are also going to
be a shock; his closet isn’t packed, exactly, but it does have an array of new and very high quality
clothes. Everything from sweatpants to school uniforms to shoes. Peter settles for a plain black
shirt and sweatpants and runs a hand through his damp hair. It’s in dire need of a trim; he’s never
had hair this long before. He almost looks like a miniature Bucky Barnes at this point.

The thought causes some distant murmuring he can’t quite hear; it sounds suspiciously like, “You
wish, kid.”

Peter steps out of his room and into the hall and finds Duke leaning against the wall, idly scrolling
through some social media feed on his phone. He perks up when Peter steps out and grins at him,
pocketing his phone before jerking a thumb over his shoulder.

“Follow me. And stick close. Trust me, it’s stupid easy to get lost in this place. I can’t tell you how
many times Tim and Damian had to help me when I first moved in.”
“Yeah, I’d rather not embarrass myself in front of you guys like that yet,” Peter says, smoothing
out his shirt and following Duke out of his room and into the hallway. He tilts his head, nodding to
Duke’s shirt. It’s a vibrant red with an emblem in the center of it. A golden lightning bolt. “What’s
with the shirt? Some kind of sports team?”

Duke gives him an odd look. “No, dude, this is the Flash’s symbol. Bruce got it for me when he
was out of town awhile back.”

Peter stares at him for a moment until some far off neuron inside his brain fires off and reminds
him that Flash here doesn’t refer to a classmate rival he actually kind of misses. “Oh. The, uh, the
Justice League guy?”

“Yeah, he’s a part of the League too, but he’s mostly a solo hero. He’s the hero of Central City.
He’s so cool.,” Duke says. “I haven’t had a chance to meet him yet. I hope I get to some day.”

Peter smiles, in spite of himself. He and Ned used to gush over which Avenger was the coolest;
Peter called it a three way tie between Thor, Iron Man, and Captain America. Ned preferred the
Falcon, Black Widow, and Vision and begged Peter to introduce him to them at some point. Peter
had promised he would.

A promise he isn’t ever going to keep, as it turns out.

He shoves the thought away. He’s barely capable of ignoring the grief caused from hearing Ben
and May’s voices in his dreams. If he stops and thinks about Ned, he’ll shatter.

God, what is with him today? He’s safe and warm for a few days and his emotions immediately get
whacked out. He needs to pull himself together and at least pretend to be normal around everyone
here.

“Who’s your favorite member of the Justice League?” Duke asks, interrupting Peter's train of
thought. He pauses, amused. “Man, I can’t believe it’s taken me that long to ask you that. That's an
ice breaker question.”

Shit. Peter wracks his brain; Nightwing would be an easy answer but he doesn’t seem to be a
member of the Justice League. Or is he? There are so many heroes here, it’s ridiculous. He thinks,
then goes for the easy and obvious: “Three way tie: Wonder Woman, Superman, and Batman.”

“Cop out,” Duke says, grinning as he leads him down a hall, a set of stairs, through a living room,
a ballroom, and another two hallways towards the kitchen. The layout of this place is boggling;
Peter marvels at the fact that he was able to track down Alfred and Damian during Bane’s break in.
Without his spider sense, he never would have found them. “The original three are everybody’s
favorites.”

Peter shrugs again. He thinks of the Avengers for a moment and says, “Yeah, well. They earned it,
right?”

“Can’t argue with you there,” Duke says, pushing open a door that leads into yet another hallway.

"Where’s Dick?" Peter asks. God, how big is this place? A few of the walls sound odd as they pass
them; the doors shut far too loudly. As if the walls they're connected to are empty inside. Weird.

"Visiting Jason. They had kind of an intense discussion last night," Duke says, rubbing the back of
his neck. “Dick spent the night at Jason's place in Crime Alley, I think.”

"Jason doesn't live at the manor?" Peter asks.

"God, no. He'd hate it here," Duke says. "He lives in Crime Alley. We usually only hear from him
in the family chat. He’s been pretty active lately but he drops off the radar every now and then,
too." He pauses. "Honestly, we're all pretty guilty of that. Everyone in the family just disappears
for awhile sometimes. Except for Alfred, obviously."

Yeah, Peter can guess everyone will notice when the family butler disappears. He frowns. “Even
Damian? He’s like eight.”

“Thirteen, he’s just short for his age,” Duke says, amused. “And yeah, he’s pretty good at sneaking
out of here when he wants.”

That’s a lot to take in. Peter walks with Duke. “What about Steph and Cass?”

“They have rooms, but they typically stay at their own place,” Duke says. At Peter’s questioning
look, he shrugs. “They think everyone in this house is dramatic as hell. And honestly? They’re not
entirely wrong. Sometimes I'll go stay with my uncle over at the Narrows myself if I need time
away from here. Usually only during the summer.”

“Oh.”

“We're still family, we're just not here all the time,” Duke says. “We’ve all got pretty intense
personalities. Trust me when I say it’s best that we split off every now and then.”

That makes sense. A family this big and rich tends to spread out from one another in his
experience.

They keep going, drawing closer to the kitchen and the sounds of quiet conversation, cutlery
tapping plates, and the smell of a freshly made breakfast. They pass through another hallway; this
one is covered in photographs. Most of them are posed family portraits. They pass by too quickly
for Peter to look at all of them, and then Peter’s attention is focused solely on the bust of Bruce
Wayne settled near the kitchen entrance. He draws up short, stopping mid step to look at it. Duke
breezes past him, heading into the kitchen. Peter hears Steph call Duke’s name, followed by
conversation.

Peter stares at the bust. The heavy wooden stand is no worse for wear after Peter threw it into
Bane’s face, but the same can’t be said for the bust of Bruce Wayne. Hairline fractures thread
through the marble, and one of Bruce’s ears and his nose were knocked clean off. Someone has
thoughtfully duct taped both back into place. It probably would’ve looked better if they’d bothered
to line up both pieces correctly rather than tape them to Bruce’s face at a ninety degree angle.

“We decided to keep it like this,” Tim says, walking up beside him. He’s holding a worryingly
large coffee cup in one hand and looks as if he’s caught between feral over caffeination and utter
exhaustion. Probably both at the same time. “It adds character.”

“Who taped the nose on wrong?” Peter asks after a moment.

“I did,” Tim replies. “Cass taped the ear. Dick wrapped it up with masking tape." The bust is,
indeed, wrapped with white tape. It looks like someone’s taken a hammer to a burn victim with
how thickly it’s wrapped around Bruce’s head. "I think it adds a certain charm.”

"Right," Peter says. Another pause. “And Bruce saw this?”

“Oh, yeah, absolutely,” Tim says brightly. “We’re going to see how long it takes for him to say
something about it. Right now he’s pretending he didn't see it.”
Peter considers Tim’s words and the broken bust for a long moment. “Well. I’m glad my property
destruction is being used as a form of low level terrorism against the man I stole money from and
whose house I now live in.”

“Thank you for your service,” Tim says soberly, clapping Peter’s shoulder.

"Yeah, no problem," Peter says. He squints at Tim. "Have you slept?"

"Nope," Tim replies. He takes several long drinks from his coffee, and sighs. Peter can all but see
the caffeine perk him up. "I'm going to my room. I've got a big project to work on."

"Uh, okay," Peter says. He watches Tim leave and calls out. "Maybe take a nap first?"

"Not going to happen!" Tim calls back.

“God, he sleeps less than Tony,” Peter mutters, turning away from the bust and walking into the
kitchen.

It’s huge. Just absolutely massive. There’s enough space for a full kitchen staff to work, with room
to spare. The standard appliances are here, along with several ovens, stoves, and other appliances.
A kitchen island lined with high backed stools takes up the center of the room. Empty plates rest in
front of some of the stools, as if whoever ate there left in a hurry. Maybe they did; Bruce probably
left for an early flight, Tim is deeply focused on...something, and there are a few others in the
manor somewhere. Other staff or family, maybe. Duke is sitting in one of the stools, apple in hand,
back on his phone.

"There you are, Master Peter," Alfred says by way of greeting. He’s dressed in a fresh tuxedo, but
wearing an apron over the fine clothes, and standing in front of a stovetop. "What would you like
for breakfast?"

Peter pauses, unused to having options. The pause lasts long enough that Alfred tilts his head
curiously, watching him with a gentle patience, as if he’s gone through this before. Maybe he has;
Jason’s a Crime Alley kid, too. His circumstances may have been similar to Peter’s.

“Can you make wheatcakes?” Peter asks after a moment.

“I believe I can do that,” Alfred says. “Feel free to eat whatever you like while I cook. There’s
fresh fruit in the fruit bowl, oatmeal, and a few smoothies in the fridge.”

Peter hops into the stool next to Duke and grabs an apple and a banana. Fresh fruit was a rarity in
the firehouse; he’s not passing up the opportunity to indulge.

“Master Duke, what would you like for breakfast?”

“Double up on the wheatcakes, Alfred,” Duke says. “That sounds good.”

“Two orders coming up. Peter, your meal will be double the usual size.”

“Definitely not complaining about that,” Peter says, already three bites deep into the apple.

“Any plans for the day, Master Duke?” Alfred asks.

“Physical therapy,” Duke replies with an eye roll. “It’s my last day, thank god.”

“You should keep up the exercises for a little while longer,” Alfred says idly, plating the
wheatcakes and setting them down in front of Peter and Duke. “Believe me, you’ll thank yourself
for it later in life.”

“Jason keeps telling me the same thing,” Duke says dryly. He perks up at the food and pulls the
plate closer to himself. Peter does the same, grabbing a fork and digging in.

“And how is Master Jason? We didn’t have much of a chance to speak yesterday before he left,”
Alfred says.

“He’s, uh, hanging in there,” Duke says. He nudges Peter with an elbow. “He’s a fan of your
doodles, by the way.”

“My what?” Peter asks around a mouthful of food. He pauses, swallows, and tries again. “Why?”

“Not sure, but I think he liked that little warrior guy you drew with the hammer,” Duke says.

That’s weird. But Jason also seems like a weird guy. “I can doodle it on his bike helmet if he
wants.”

“Given how intense he was about it, he might ask you to do just that,” Duke says. “Speaking of
plans, what have you got lined up for the day, Peter?”

That’s a damn good question. “Unpacking, I guess. I’m too tired to do much else.”

Which is true enough. With his hunger satisfied--still something of a novelty for him--he’s just
exhausted now. Bed sounds amazing, frankly.

“Need any help?” Duke asks.

“There’s not enough stuff for you to help with,” Peter says frankly, shrugging. “It’ll take me
twenty minutes tops. But I wouldn’t mind the company.” He pauses for a moment and then admits,
“Or a guide back to my room. This place is huge.”

Duke laughs. “Deal. I don’t mind being a tour guide.”

“Awesome. Thanks, Duke,” Peter says.

"Master Richard will be along later this afternoon. His work kept him out late last night, I’m
afraid," Alfred says.

“He has a job?” Peter blurts out. Duke snorts in laughter, briefly coughing as he regains control of
himself.

“He does. Primarily in Blüdhaven, but he’s been known to work in Gotham as well,” Alfred says.
“I’m sure he’ll explain it to you fully soon enough.”

“Huh. Guess I don’t really know all that much about him,” Peter says. “I thought he was--well.
You know. Just rich.”

Alfred smirks. “He once said the same of Master Bruce. I’ll let you know when he’s on his way
back to the manor.”

Fair enough.

They don’t say much after that; Peter and Duke are focused on eating, and Alfred busies himself
with cleaning the kitchen before moving on to another part of the manor. Peter cleans his plate,
eats half of the fruit in the fruit bowl, and grabs a smoothie out of the fridge on his way back to his
room. He finishes half of it before they make it back to the bedrooms and sips at it with a more
leisurely pace when they get back to his room and step inside. The cup is empty by the time he
walks through the door. His hunger is fully satisfied, and it’s making him feel a bit sluggish. It
doesn’t go unnoticed by Duke.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, fine. Just going to unpack one box before I lay down for a nap, I think,” Peter mumbles,
rubbing the back of his head. “The food is making me sleepy.”

“Weird, I would’ve thought the massive cold was doing that,” Duke remarks. “Okay. One box.”

Compared to the rest of the manor, Peter’s room is oddly empty and a little bit sad. Duke pops
open the box on Peter’s desk and starts to pull a few things out of it. Books, mostly, plus a few of
Peter’s tools. He hands Peter the books.

“Hey, can I ask you something?” Peter asks, taking the books and heading towards the nearest
shelf.

“Sure, anything.”

“Why do you keep looking around like that?”

Duke blinks, turning to focus on Peter. “What?”

“You keep looking around me,” Peter says, shelving his books. A relatively short process,
considering he has five total. Maybe there’s a library here? Bruce probably has a library. “Like
you’re looking for someone?”

“Oh.” Duke pauses for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “It’s a long story. You probably don’t
want to hear it right before you head to bed.”

Fair enough. “I’d still like to hear it someday.”

“You probably won’t be able to avoid it,” Duke remarks. He tilts his head, picking up a notebook
from the box on Peter’s desk. He idly flips open the cover. “Hey, what’s this?”

Peter looks over at him and frowns. It takes him a second to recognize the notebook and, when he
does, he fights back a sigh. It’s the notebook he used to scribble out ideas on how to get home way
back when he first ended up in Gotham. “A thought experiment that ultimately went nowhere.”

“This is some serious stuff,” Duke remarks, raising his eyebrows. “I knew you were good at
physics, Peter, but I didn’t know you were this good. What’s this supposed to be anyway?”

“A kind of quantum GPS device,” Peter says. He pauses, and adds, “It’s just theories and wildly
unsafe--and obviously untested--ideas based on a thought experiment. You know. For fun.”

“Not interested in hopping the barrier between universes, huh?” Duke says, closing the notebook
and setting it down on Peter’s desk.

“Not anymore, no,” Peter says. “Like I said, it was a thought experiment.”

“You should show that to Tim,” Duke says. “He’d get a kick out of it.”

Peter glances at his door. “I dunno. He seems pretty focused on some big project right now.”
“Then he definitely needs the distraction,” Duke says dryly. “Just don’t try to go into his room
when his door is closed. If it’s open, he’s up for a talk.”

“Got it,” Peter says. He peers into the box and makes a face. “The only things left in this are some
old clothes. We don’t have to unpack those.”

“Yeah, probably not. Alfred would just get rid of them if you put them in the laundry,” Duke says.
His phone lets out a quiet beep and he pulls it out of his pocket to check his messages. He squints at
it. “Damn.”

“What’s up?” Peter asks, flopping down onto his bed.

“Cass is checking to make sure I did my physical therapy. I better go do it now before she finds out
I haven’t,” Duke says with a sigh.

“I haven’t met her yet,” Peter says, frowning.

“You will. She and Steph are going to come stay at the manor for a little while,” Duke says. He
grins. “You’ll like her. She’s the best.”

“Looking forward to it,” Peter says, fighting back a yawn. “If you’re headed out, could you shut
the door behind you? I think I’m going to sleep off breakfast.”

“No problem,” Duke says. “We’ll talk later.”

“Later, Duke,” Peter says, waving a bit as the door closes. His own phone vibrates on the
nightstand and he reaches over to grab it from the Nightwing figurine.

New Message

Felicia: talked to Lou; he’s glad you’re okay, but you should come visit soon

Peter: I plan to. Need a new outfit first. Lost the old one. Sleeping now; talk later?

Felicia: get some rest

Peter is asleep before he finishes reading the last message.

He dreams of distant golden figures murmuring amongst themselves, too far for him to reach. He
dreams of storms and darkness and the Avengers on a ship, flying into danger. It isn’t as
emotionally wrenching as the dream about Ben and May, but it’s unsettling and weird, and he
wakes up feeling off kilter and anxious. Not spider sense anxious; the regular, garden variety
anxiety that sets him on edge.

He sits up slowly, stretching, and takes stock of his room. The windows have gone dark, and his
stomach is rumbling from hunger. He must have slept through the whole day. Great.

At least his side doesn’t hurt as much. He can move pretty easily now, in fact. He stands and finds
a covered dish on his desk with a small note beside it.

I’ve left several meals for you in the kitchen. Eat as much as you like. -Alfred.

Alfred is a god among men. Peter makes a mental note to thank him as he takes off the dish cover
to find a bowl of soup and fresh bread underneath. Both disappear within a minute, curbing the
edge of Peter’s hunger, but not his anxiety. He definitely needs more. And maybe someone to talk
to. Maybe Alfred is still downstairs and wouldn’t mind the company.

The hallway is dim and gloomy when he steps out of his room, but a door down the hall is wide
open, with light spilling out from the doorway. He peeks inside when he gets close and finds Tim
bent over a desk and laptop, frowning intently on at the screen. Peter almost walks away and
leaves him to his thoughts, but...

But, well, he could use some company right now.

He taps on the door frame. Tim’s head snaps up and blinks at Peter, first in confusion, and then
with something close to relief.

“Hey, I was going to go wake you up for dinner,” he says, leaning back in his chair. He checks the
time on his laptop and winces. “Guess I lost track of time. How are you feeling?”

“Okay,” Peter says, shrugging. It’s not entirely a lie, but Tim doesn’t look very convinced. He
sighs. “Bad dreams. Mind if I hang out here for a little bit?”

“Not at all. Come on in.”

“Have you left your room at all today?” Peter asks, stepping inside Tim’s room.

It’s cluttered; clothes are scattered around, along with books (varying between thick tomes and half
read paperbacks), notebooks, pens, a few half built electronic devices the use of which he can only
guess at, and a few video game cases scattered around the mess. It feels homey, and it reminds
Peter of Ned’s room.

“Once or twice when Alfred came to find me,” Tim says. “Granted, the last time he came by it was
to confiscate my coffee.”

“And how many cups did you have before he took it?”

“I plead the Fifth,” Tim says primly, with a small sniff.

Peter fights back a small grin, looking around at Tim’s walls. Most of them have posters (Justice
League, Teen Titans, and various movie or game posters), but one wall in the far corner catches his
interest. It’s covered in photographs; candid photos of family and friends or of Gotham’s skyline.
Peter wanders over to it to take a closer look.

"Are these yours?" Peter asks.

"Uh, yeah. It's a hobby I picked up awhile back," Tim says. He fidgets self consciously, his eyes
darting between Peter and the photographs. "They're not really--"

"They're good," Peter says, cutting him off. He points at one in the far top corner. Jason is leaning
against his motorcycle beneath a blue-white light in Crime Alley. The only warmth in the scene
comes from a lighter he's using to light a cigarette. It casts a gentle yellow glow across Jason’s
features, softening them from the near permanent scowl that usually rests there. "This one
especially. Your contrast and framing is awesome. What camera did you use?"

Tim stares at him for a moment, shocked, and visibly brightens. He stands up from his desk and
walks over to a shelf, pulling out a weatherproof box and setting it on his desk. He opens it and
pulls out a camera, handing it to Peter. “Here, it’s an old film camera Bruce gave me years ago.”

“I prefer film myself.” He takes the camera from Tim carefully, slowly examining it for the
branding marks. Peter can feel his eyebrows lift in surprise. “A Leica M? No wonder your shots
are coming out so well. This thing is a tank. You can’t find one for less than a thousand bucks back
home, and that doesn’t include the lens.”

“It’s a great camera,” Tim says, sitting down beside him. Peter can feel Tim’s gaze on him, sharp
and curious. “I didn’t realize you were into photography, Peter.”

“My uncle and I found an old Kodak at a second hand shop once. We fixed it up and started taking
pictures together. I really got into it,” Peter says, half smiling to himself at the memory.
Somewhere back home, there’s a couple of photo albums full of pictures of May, Ben, Ned, Ned's
grandmother, and himself. Most of them are candid, though a few are posed family pictures with
both the Parkers and the Leeds. Ned’s grandmother has copies of almost all of them in her own
family album, plus a few mounted on the wall. “Honestly, I was obsessed.”

“Your uncle Tony?” Tim asks after a moment.

Peter starts, knocked out of his memories. He scoffs. “No, Tony’s not--” Peter pauses for a
moment, and then tries again. “My Uncle Ben is the one who helped me build the camera. Tony
would have, if I asked, but we never talked about that kind of stuff. Not really.”

“You guys didn’t talk about photography?” Tim asks.

“We didn’t talk about family. It wasn’t a good topic for either of us outside of one or two really
specific things. Tony would've talked to me about anything if I asked, just not his parents. He
never asked about mine either. It worked out better that way,” Peter explains. He admires the
camera in his hands for another moment, and then carefully sets it down on the desk. “You should
start taking pictures again, Tim. You’ve got a real talent for it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Tim says, tilting his head. He’s quiet for a moment. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, why?”

“You’re crying,” Tim says gently.

Peter starts, reaching up to touch his cheek. He’s mortified to find that he is crying; just one or two
slow trails of tears from his eyes. Peter sighs in frustration, leaning back to rub his eyes with his
sleeve. It’s been years since this has happened; ever since Ben’s death, sometimes even the mere
mention of his name is enough to cause him to cry. Not the sobbing kind of crying--though there
was plenty of that--but a slow trickle of tears from the corner of his eyes. This time, it’s worse, and
it takes him a moment to realize why. The family photo albums, full of his silly little photos of his
family, are gone forever now. Lost to another dimension entirely. He’ll never see them again.

Tim squeezes his shoulder. It’s the gesture of someone not used to giving or receiving comfort, but
trying their best. Peter sighs. Way to make it weird, Parker.

"Peter--"

“Sorry. I haven’t thought about home in awhile, and it’s catching up to me,” Peter mumbles. He
swipes at his eyes again and lets out a shaky breath, astonished at the depth of his own grief. A
part of him wonders if anyone is left back home to bury Aunt May and that thought almost sends
him into hysterics. He pauses, takes control of himself, slowly stands up. “I should let you get back
to work. Thanks for letting me poke around your room."

He manages to keep himself together long enough to leave Tim and reach his room. Once the door
shuts behind himself, his vision blurs with tears and he chokes out a sob. He fights it back long
 enough to get back to the bed before dropping down on the edge of it and covering his face with
his hands. What the hell is wrong with him?

“You haven’t had time to grieve,” a voice says softly, distantly. It sounds like Shuri.

He hears his door open, footsteps, and then someone sitting beside him. Tim hugs him, arms
wrapped around his shoulders. Peter normally would shake off the comfort, make a joke, or do his
best to not make things awkward. He's too hurt to care about that right now.

Peter stays like that for a long moment before, eventually drifting off to sleep. Tim watches him,
then pulls out his phone.

BATCHAT

Tim (01:02am): dick, end your patrol early. Peter needs you.

Dick (01:03am): What’s wrong?

Tim (01:03am): he’s going through what we all went through when we first moved in. it’s
probably worse for him

Tim (01:04am): you know what it’s like.

Dick (01:05am): On my way.

Chapter End Notes

Hey, remember that neato notebook Peter started scribbling in way back in chapter
five?

And hey, it's almost a one year anniversary since I started this fic! Hooray for
pandemic projects getting wildly out of hand? Thank you for the kind comments! I
hope you have a great day!
 Chapter 33
Chapter Notes

One last chapter to address the worst of Peter's trauma from the past several months so
he's a little more prepared for what's to come. This is a slower paced chapter, but
things will start to pick up after the next one.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

When Peter wakes up, it’s to the sound of gentle snoring at the foot of the bed, and two beating
hearts. One on the bed, the other beside it. He blinks down at the bed and finds Tim facedown in
the blankets, asleep, as still as a log. Peter does his best to move his legs away from his sleeping
friend to keep from waking him and looks over to his side, still mostly asleep.

Dick Grayson is sitting in a plush chair on the other side of Peter’s nightstand, focused on his cell
phone. He’s dressed casually and looks a bit tired and vaguely stressed. Peter can only guess at
how long the man has been sitting there, and hopes he didn’t sit there all night. That can’t have
been a good use of his time.

Dick looks up from his phone and smiles. “Hey, Pete.”

He bites back a cough and rubs his eyes. It takes him a moment to orient himself, to recognize that
the weird light coming from the windows is sunlight, and that morning has come. It takes him a
second moment to realize that the tickle at the back of his throat is from a laughing fit and not a
coughing one.

“Ugh,” Peter responds, his voice thick and gravelly. He slaps at his nightstand for his inhaler. Dick
plucks it from the nightstand and hands it to him. Peter snatches it up, uses it, and then sighs in
relief when the medicine starts to work. “Thanks.”

“Anytime,” Dick replies. He considers the Nightwing figure on Peter’s nightstand for a moment
and picks it up, amused. “You know, they never did get this costume right.”

“They didn’t?” Peter asks, putting his inhaler down on top of the Stark radio and sitting up. He
runs a hand through his hair and sighs, feeling wrung out and sick. Which he is, but still, it’s a little
rude for him to feel this much of it.

“Nope,” Dick says, setting the figurine down with great care. “They never bothered painting the
wings across the chest. Someone I met once told me branding was pretty important for that kind of
thing.”

Something tickles the back of Peter’s mind when Dick says that, but the connection doesn’t quite
form. Typical for waking up with a horrific cold. “Oh. They were right.” He yawns, stretches
carefully, and stares at Tim for a moment before asking, “Is he okay?”

“Tim doesn’t keep to a normal sleep schedule, and when he does sleep, it’s usually done in a way
that’s, at best, vaguely concerning,” Dick replies dryly. “Trust me, he’s fine.”

"Should we move him over to his room?"

Dick shakes his head. "No. Tim’s a heavy sleeper, but he doesn’t like getting forced awake. He'll
act on instinct if someone grabs him or startles him when he's asleep. His training will kick in."

"Training?" Peter asks, standing up from the bed. He tosses a blanket over Tim’s sleeping form.
Tim responds by curling up inside it like a caterpillar.

"Martial arts training," Dick explains. "It's a family tradition around here."

"That's an odd tradition to have," Peter says.

"Given recent events, it's probably a good one to have," Dick says, shrugging.

Fair enough. Peter thinks on that and relaxes. "That's where he got those bruises from, isn't it?
When we were changing for gym class awhile back, I saw these bruises on his ribs and...well, kind
of assumed the worst."

"He had a pretty rough sparring match awhile back, yeah,” Dick says, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I’ve got a few bruises of my own from a little while ago.”

Peter feels himself relax. Tim’s bruises have been bothering him for awhile now. “I wondered. You
guys should probably pull your punches when you spar together. That was a really nasty bruise.”

Dick’s smile turns wry. “Our sparring partners don’t always agree to that. Actually, you should
think about taking some lessons with us when you’re feeling better--” His phone beeps, and Dick
snatches it up, and swipes open the screen, frowning down at it. He sighs.

"What were you working on anyway?" Peter asks, silently thanking whatever god interrupted that
thread of conversation.

A quick boxing match at school that doesn’t last longer than three minutes is one thing, a
prolonged self defense lesson is another. He can suppress his innate fighting instincts for only so
long. And given how weird his moods have been lately, that might not be the best idea. The
Waynes seem to not care and accept his weird meta abilities, but they might not be so forgiving if
he flings Dick through a wall on instinct.

“Moving,” Dick says simply. “I live in Blüdhaven, but my place isn’t exactly....Uh.” He pauses.
“Suitable for taking in another person? It’s a little cluttered like my car, you know, kind of--”

“It’s a total dump, isn’t it?” Peter asks, amused.

“Absolute trash fire,” Dick replies with a rueful grin. Peter finds himself warming up to Dick a bit
more; sure, he grew up rich and pampered, but he has the same down to earth practicality as Tim
and Duke. “Anyway, I thought it would just be easier to stay in the manor instead of dragging you
over to Blüdhaven. I was trying to get into touch with a friend to help me move back into the
manor, but Wally isn’t answering his phone for some reason.”

Peter tilts his head. “Is that weird?”

“Very weird. Normally if I call him, he’s at my door within the hour, but he’s not answering at all.
And that’s just not like him. Maybe I should call Barry,” Dick replies, speaking half to himself. He
rubs at a spot on the back of his head and frowns down at this phone for a moment. Then he shakes
his head. “Nevermind. Are you hungry?”

“Starving,” Peter admits.

“Clean up and meet me in the kitchen,” Dick says, standing up from the chair and heading for the
door. “There’s someone I want you to meet. And we should talk anyway.”

“Right,” Peter says. “Meet you downstairs.”

Dick smiles, nods, and shuts the door behind himself. Peter gets up and stretches, briefly touching
the gunshot wound in his side. It still aches and burns, but it’s a healing ache now. Alfred’s
cooking has done wonders for his healing factor, thank god. If this keeps up, he might be close to
full strength in a month. Maybe less. Depending on the Joker toxin, he supposes.

He makes a mental note to look into that toxin when he gets the chance. Though where he’s going
to find a lab, let alone one stocked with everything he needs, is anyone’s guess. He’ll need to find
one soon, if only to get more web fluid. He can probably cobble together a cheap suit from the
clothes Alfred has bought him...

He’s getting distracted. He sighs, throws the blankets over Tim’s sleeping form, and heads for the
shower, curious about this person Dick wants Peter to meet.

***

He has his answer the moment he steps into the kitchen, still a little damp from the shower and
wearing warm clothes.

Dick is sitting at the kitchen island with a beautiful woman wearing a purple coat. He perks up
when Peter steps inside the kitchen and waves him over to a seat that has a steaming meal resting
in front of it. Peter is eager to hop up onto the stool and grab a fork.

“There he is,” Dick says. “Kory, this is Peter. Peter, this is Kory, my girlfriend.”

The first thing Peter thinks when he meets Kory is: wow, she’s beautiful. And she is. She stands a
few inches taller than Dick and carries herself with a quiet self assurance that somehow conveys
both confidence and appreciative curiosity about her surroundings. Her hair is a shade of red that
seems just a bit out of the range of normal human color, but is no less beautiful for all that.

Of course, he’s kind of got a thing for redheads.

The thought that follows immediately after that is: she’s meta. Her eyes are just a hair too bright,
her movement just a bit too uncanny, and her heart beats a bit too fast. Oddities like that are
common for meta people like him, especially those that have enhanced strength. Captain
America’s heart was the same way.

Oddly, despite the faster beat, Kory’s heart seems to match Dick’s heartbeat as much as possible.

“It’s nice to meet you, Peter,” Kory says, smiling warmly at him. “You’re Dick’s son now?”

“Uh--” Peter starts, thrown by the question.

“Technically, he’s my ward,” Dick says, cutting in smoothly. “I haven’t--the paperwork is more
like a guardianship. I’m responsible for Peter, but not his father. A caretaker.”

And Peter hears, distantly, a different voice sneer, “I’m a little confused as to the relationship here.
What is he, your ward?”

Kory frowns at this, not quite understanding. “Like Bruce did for you?”
“Until he adopted me, yeah,” Dick replies. “Think of the tower, back when we all moved in
together.”

That seems to click for her. She smiles at Peter. “I see. Well. Welcome to the family, Peter.”

"Thanks," Peter says, sitting down beside her. "What did you want to talk about, Dick?"

"I wanted to touch base with you, that’s all. You’re going through a lot. You’ve gone through a lot,
too,” Dick says.

“Bruce gave me the rundown. Something about paparazzi, and--uh.” Peter pauses. “And I think I
threatened him if he made me do rich people nonsense.”

“The standard threat we’ve all given him at one point or another. To his credit, he’ll do his best to
protect you,” Dick says. “So will everyone else, but you’re kind of the hot topic on the internet at
the moment.”

“What? Why?” Peter asks.

“You’re involved with the Waynes. It’s just something that comes with the territory, unfortunately.
The press is going to have a field day over you for at least a month, assuming nothing else
bombastic happens in the city,” Dick explains. “They can’t reach you here, and Alfred and Bruce
and I can chase them away here at the manor, but they’re too rabid to deal with right now.”

“I would’ve thought Spider-Man would’ve been bigger news,” Peter says, squinting at one article.
‘Newest Wayne Heir: Peter Parker’. Heir? What the hell is that about? “You know, since he’s out
of action after that thing with the crane.”

Dick freezes for a moment, and visibly fights back some kind of strong reaction. Anger, maybe.
Definitely grief. That surprises Peter; he’s never seen Dick in Crime Alley as Spider-Man or in his
regular day to day life. And he would’ve noticed him. Dick’s far too easy going and clean cut to
blend in with the usual Crime Alley types.

“You would think that, wouldn’t you?” Dick replies, his tone even and calm. Kory reaches out and
gently places her hand on top of his and Dick shakes his head. “I just wanted to warn you to be
careful. Not that it matters since you’re recovering from being sick.”

“Well, noted. I’m not completely clueless, believe it or not. Tony taught me some tricks awhile
back.”

“Oh, yeah?” Dick asks. There’s curiosity there, but a lot more wariness. “I haven’t seen him
recently.”

Shocker. Peter tilts his head, looking at Dick for a long moment. Finally, he asks, “Did Tony really
sign over custody to you?"

"Would he normally do that?" Dick counters.

Peter pauses. If Tony had literally appeared in this universe, found out what Peter had done, and
knew he had only a short amount of time to help Peter, then yes. Hell, Peter wouldn't be surprised
if Tony wouldn’t have managed to sketch out some rough design of a transdimensional device in
the process. If May were here (the thought of her name is enough to cause a burning ache in his
chest), she would probably do the same thing.

But Tony wasn't at the conference. Loki was. And Peter has no idea what Loki would do.
"Believe it or not, that is an unbelievably complicated answer," Peter says.

"We're still looking for him, for the record," Dick says. “If only to tell him where you are.”

"You won’t find him," Peter says. "He's gone."

Dick frowns. “I’m pretty good at finding people. If you don’t mind telling me about him--”

His phone goes off before Peter can even think of an answer (thank god), and Dick glances at the
screen, frowning at it. The name on the screen reads Barry Allen. He hesitates, glancing between
the phone and Peter.

“You should take that,” Kory says. “I’ll stay with Peter.”

Dick shoots her a grateful look and stands up, grabbing his phone and patting Peter’s shoulder on
his way by. He steps out of the kitchen and into the hallway. Peter can hear brief snatches of
conversation: ‘Hi, Barry, what’s up?’ and ‘No, I haven’t seen him, I thought he was busy with
you?’ before Dick’s voice fades from his hearing completely. The joys of abnormally thick and
weirdly soundproof walls.

“So, Kory, where are you from?” Peter asks after a moment of awkward silence.

Kory smiles.

They spend some time speaking. By the end of it, Peter realizes he still doesn’t quite know where
Kory is from, just that she lives in New York with a bunch of roommates. That works as a
springboard for the rest of the conversation, at least, until she excuses herself and leaves him alone.

She seems nice.

After eating half of the meals Alfred left for him in the kitchen’s industrial sized fridge, Peter
excuses himself and heads back upstairs, grabbing one last smoothie for the road. This one is
green, and smells strongly of healthy vegetables, completely at odds with the strawberry banana
smoothie he drank dry while speaking with Kory. He taps the door to his own room and peeks his
head inside.

Tim is sitting up on his bed, wrapped tightly in the blankets Peter threw across him earlier, clearly
half asleep. His hair is sticking up in every direction, and his eyes are open to bare slits. Judging by
his heartbeat and breathing, he just woke up.

"Dude, you look like a zombie," Peter says by way of greeting, walking into his room.

Tim’s response is a grunt.

“I brought you a smoothie,” Peter says. “Since I don’t think you had dinner last night.”

Another grunt. A three second pause, and then Tim slithers a hand out from under the blankets and
reaches for the smoothie.

Peter is beyond amused and a little concerned. He hands Tim the drink and flops down across his
bed, sinking into it. It’s way too soft. He wonders if Alfred would be insulted if he found Peter
sleeping on the floor.

Tim drinks his smoothie, gradually waking up. He watches Peter carefully. “How do you feel?”

Peter shrugs, and aims for honesty. “I’m good until the next mental breakdown hits.”
He’s only half joking. He feels okay now, but he’s also tired, and a little jittery from the inhaler. He
can’t remember his dreams, but the thought of them sets his teeth on edge. He’s exhausted and
needs sleep, but he knows the moment he closes his eyes, he’ll be dragged over the coals by his
own memories. That’s going to spell disaster sooner or later.

“I know how that feels,” Tim says, taking a deep drink. “As a heads up, I might get a little, uh,
focused over the next few days.”

“Yeah, it seemed like you were super into your project last night. What were you working on?”

Tim pulls his phone out of the blanket cocoon and swipes it open. It’s much more high tech than
Peter’s, filled with apps that look to be custom made. Peter idly wonders if Tim and Ned would
have been friends if they’d had the chance to meet.

The grief that follows that though sours his mood a little.

“Just checking up on a friend I haven’t heard from in awhile. Then I got sidetracked by something
else,” Tim says, holding out his phone. There’s an image of a tall, broad shouldered teenager
standing in front of a modest farm house near a field of sunflowers. A kid sits on his shoulders; the
two look like brothers, and both of them are wearing shirts with Superman’s symbol across the
front. They look like brothers. “This is Conner. He’s my best friend. He sent me this a month ago
when he and his brother went to visit their grandparents. It’s the last I’ve heard from him.”

Peter is fascinated by the turns of fate that allowed an over-caffeinated old money genius to
become best friends with a Kansas farm boy who looks able and willing to juggle a herd of cows
with one hand tied behind his back. Actually, he looks weirdly familiar.

Peter squints at the picture. "He kinda looks like Superman.”

"He gets that a lot,” Tim says. He drains the rest of the smoothie down, and stands, leaving Peter’s
blankets behind. “I should let you rest and get some coffee.”

“Sure. Go easy on the coffee,” Peter says, fighting back a yawn.

“No,” Tim says, walking for the door. He hesitates at the doorway for a moment. “Hey.”

Peter, already half buried in the blankets, blinks up at Tim.

“Call me or Duke if you need anything, all right?” Tim says. “I might be distracted, but I’m still
here if you need me.”

“I know,” Peter says. He pauses. “Thanks for putting up with me last night.”

“I don’t ‘put up’ with family,” Tim explains patiently. He pauses. “Minus Damian, I guess, but
also not really. Anyway, don’t think like that. You’re not a burden, Peter.”

“Nightwing said the same thing to me once,” Peter says, amused. “He told me you’d say that, too.”

“Nightwing’s a pretty smart guy,” Tim says, with an air of familiarity that’s surprising to Peter. He
pauses again and adds, “And he’s right.”

He leaves after that, stepping through Peter’s door and shutting it behind himself as he goes. Peter
stretches out on the bed, annoyed by how exhausted he feels. He got up, showered, ate, and spoke
to three whole people and he’s ready for a nap. Is this how old people feel? God, this sucks.
His phone vibrates on the nightstand, and he grabs it on autopilot.

New Message

Dick: Hey, sorry I left in such a hurry. I’m going to be a little busy moving back to the manor, but
I’m here if you need me. Day or night. Okay?

Peter: yeah, got it! Good luck with your move!

Okay, so that wasn’t the most elegant or smoothest end to a conversation, but he couldn’t just leave
Dick on read. Peter sets his phone down on the nightstand, gently bumps fists with the Nightwing
figurine, and then turns out the light.

His room is dark, quiet, and warm. He sleeps.

And dreams of his family.

***

His cold lessens by the hour; after a little bit of good rest and better food, Peter finds himself
almost back to full strength. If it wasn’t for the occasional burst of laughing seizures, he’d be back
to normal. Or, at least, normal enough to start up his patrols again.

The problem is this: good rest means he’s no longer distracted by hunger and exhaustion. His
temper becomes hotter and sharper. Harder to control. It’s strong enough to pull him out of a sound
sleep.

His dreams about May and Ben become nightly affairs. They’re not quite nightmares, but they
aren’t pleasant either.

They end with May trying to speak with him. It almost feels too real for a mere dream.

***

The nightmares become a problem two days into his new life with the Waynes. To his utter shock,
they aren’t made uncomfortable by his screaming nightmares. In fact, they’re treated as almost
routine, as if each of them expected this or has personal experience with nightmares of their own.
Maybe that’s true.

He’d bet good money that they definitely don’t have the same nightmares as he does.

He dreams of Ben and May. Of Titan. Of the Vulture. He sees the Joker grinning at him from the
shadows, bloody crowbar in hand. The worst nightmares are a combination of all of the above. And
the absolute worst ones are chased away by indistinct figures wreathed in orange and gold. Peter
gets the sense they hurt themselves doing this.

He starts to avoid sleeping. Not a lot; his body is just too beaten up and exhausted to allow much
insomnia. Just enough that the nightmares stop becoming a nightly occurrence because he’s simply
not sleeping on a nightly basis. He’s balancing his mental health against his physical health at the
moment and feels as though he’s walking a tightline between two separate disasters.

Not exactly an elegant solution, but a solution nonetheless.

***
“You should sleep, man,” Duke says. He invited himself into Peter’s room a few minutes ago. It’s
the first thing he’s said to Peter, and unfortunately, it sets off a level of aggravated annoyance that
Peter’s wholly unprepared to hide.

“No,” Peter says. He’s been pacing his room for hours now, staving off sleep minutes at a time.
His tone is sharper than he intends, and his fists are clenched at his sides, and he’s moving just a
hair too quick for a normal human. If Duke wasn’t currently in the room, he would literally be
crawling the walls to stave off sleep for just a few more minutes.

That he can’t indulge in his weird spider instincts is another annoyance to pile on top of the others.
Including the sound of the rain tapping his window, the sound of Duke’s heartbeat, and the sound
of electricity running through the walls. If he was less tired, he’d recognize the telltale sign for an
impending migraine; oversensitivity is usually a big clue for him.

Duke is quiet for a moment, clearly concerned, and then tries again.

“Peter, seriously, I think you should lay down at least--”

Peter crosses the room, grabs Duke by his shirt, and slams him against the wall before he realizes
what he’s doing. He glares up at Duke. The anger is quickly boiling over into a simmering rage.
His vision actually starts to turn red; a thing he never thought possible before.

Distantly, a voice calls to him. Something golden from far away shouts, “Peter! Enough!”

It sounds like T’Challa, calling out across a fathomless void. It distracts Peter away from his
tantrum long enough to realize how tired he is, and that drains away more of his anger.

Duke is watching him warily, and with a steady, almost unnerving amount of calm. Either people
lose their shit on him constantly or he’s not very impressed with Peter’s tantrum. Peter sets him
down gently and takes several big steps back, covering his face with his hands, breathing in deep,
heavy gasps. A few come out in chuckles, and he takes that for the warning it is. He staggers over
to his nightstand, snatches up the inhaler, and uses it to head off the crazed laughter. He stays
hunched over his nightstand, dropping the inhaler down with a heavy sigh.

A very tense silence follows.

Duke hasn’t moved from where Peter set him down. His heart rate is elevated, and so is breathing,
but only from dwindling shock. Peter’s spider sense isn’t touching off, but well. It hasn’t pinged
against anyone in this house. Peter sighs.

“I need to be left alone right now,” he says, trying to keep his tone even. It comes out harsh and
bitter at the edges. After a few seconds, he grinds, “Please.”

Duke says nothing. He simply leaves, gently shutting the door behind himself as he goes. Peter lets
out a long sigh and holds his head in his hands.

What the fuck was that all about?

***

BATCHAT

Duke (11:20pm): Dick, where are you?

Dick (11:22pm): Crime Alley. Bane broke out of prison, Jason and I are trying to track him down.
 Dick (11:23pm): Correction: I’m trying to track him down. Jason might actually kill him.

Duke (11:24pm): Peter needs you. Drop the patrols for awhile.

Dick (11:25pm): What happened?

Steph (11:26pm): A pit reaction. A pretty bad one, but Peter controlled himself.

Dick (11:27pm): Where is he now?

Steph (11:29pm): asleep. Cass is keeping an eye on him right now.

Dick (11:28pm): I’ll be back as soon as I can.

Jason (11:32pm): What’s that old phrase? History repeats itself?

Jason (11:34pm): How many times did Bruce leave you alone in that manor to go chase the
fucking Joker when you were a kid?

Dick (11:46pm): Point made.

Chapter End Notes

And hey! Happy Anniversary to this weird crossover idea I started typing out to cope
with the pandemic.

Hope you're all staying safe and healthy!

Edit: Anyone got any comic suggestions? DC or Marvel, either or.

 Chapter 34
Chapter Notes

One last slower paced chapter for the road...

See the end of the chapter for more notes

BATCHAT

Dick (12:06am): I’m here. Heading upstairs now. Status?

Duke (12:07am): he’s calmed down

Steph (12:08am): did he really stop in the middle of a pit reaction?

Duke (12:09am): one of his ghosts distracted him

Steph (12:10am): his ghosts are back?

Duke (12:11am): not sure, but one was close enough to help

Dick (12:12am): Good to know. I’ll take it from here.

***

Peter isn't surprised when he hears a gentle knock on his door barely an hour after Duke left. He
half expects it to be Alfred, coming in to gently shoo him off with a couple of police officers.

"Come in," Peter says, mentally preparing himself for whatever’s coming next.

The door opens and shuts on nearly silent hinges. Peter turns to face the door, and is surprised to
watch Dick walk in, alone, freshly dressed and with utter confidence and concern.

"Hi, Pete," he says, sitting down on the edge of Peter’s bed. He’s completely calm, as if he’s had to
come talk to some teenager losing his shit on a regular basis. "It sounds like you're having a rough
night."

Peter winces. “A little, yeah.” He pauses, and asks, “Is Duke--”

“He’s okay. His arm’s a little sore, but he’ll be fine.,” Dick says, shrugging. He watches Peter. “I’m
more worried about you. You don’t seem like a violent kind of guy.”

Buddy, you have no idea, Peter thinks. He sighs, rubbing his eyes. “I’ve always kind of had a
temper. It’s gotten worse since I came to Gotham. I’ve never lost control like that before,
though...”

“The Joker toxin probably has more to do with that than you think. And the lack of sleep,” Dick
says. “Trust me, if you get tired enough, you’ll start suspecting everyone is out to get you. Sleep
deprivation is hell.”
“I’ve been sleep deprived before,” Peter mutters, walking over to sit down on his bed. Dick gives
him space, watching him intently.

Dick pauses, glancing at the streak of white hair above Peter’s right temple. “I think you might be
dealing with more than just a horrible cold and sleep deprivation, Pete.”

“You could say that,” Peter mutters.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“Bad dreams.”

“Believe it or not, I’ve had my share of those,” Dick says. “If you feel like sharing...”

Peter glances at him from the corner of his eye. He debates on telling him everything: Titan, the
weird tube thing he woke up inside, Wonder Woman, Superman, all of it. In the end, he decides
against it. Dick is a good man, and patient and kind, and he’s given Peter a life he literally could
not imagine having otherwise, asking nothing in return. If he believes Peter--a pretty hefty if, all
things considered--then he’ll probably start to treat Peter differently. If he doesn’t believe Peter,
then he’ll likely have him committed. Oh, sure, Peter could prove the Spider-Man thing pretty
easily, but the dimension stuff? Dying and coming back? More than once? That’s a harder sell.

He settles for a simpler version of the truth: “I keep dreaming about people I’ve lost.”

“Your family?”

“Mostly, yeah, but other things, too. My home. My friends.” A brief pause. “I keep thinking about
what happened to them.”

Dick is quiet for a moment, folding his hands in his lap, thinking. After a moment, he turns to face
Peter.

"I know you’ve gone through something terrible," Dick says simply. "I know you asked Bruce to
not pry into your history--and the fact that he listened to you is amazing, frankly--but a few things
are easy to guess."

“Yeah?”

“You just confirmed a few of my suspicions,” Dick says. “I know you’ve lost a lot. I know you’re
grieving. I know that grief and anger typically go hand in hand.”

“I don’t--” Peter starts. And stops.

He recalls some pretty...well. He wouldn’t call them tantrums, exactly, but whatever they were,
they were rough. Most of them happened right around the time Uncle Ben died. There was one
ugly incident where he trashed his bedroom, felt terrible about it, and then hid in his room until
May came in and talked to him.

“When I lost my parents, the only thing I could think of was revenge. I was angry for a long time,
more than I realized. I didn’t realize how much of that grief came from guilt,” Dick says simply.
“Because I lived, and they didn’t. I was furious over it. It wasn't fair. I was angry for a long, long
time."

Peter falters, grasping for words. He’s not sure how to explain this to Dick. He’s looked up Dick
Grayson since his questionably legal adoption, and he knows the man’s history. He suspects Dick
would understand his grief and guilt.

Still, he’s not sure how to describe to Dick that he’s living in two different dimensions at the same
time: some part of his mind is constantly reliving his death on Titan, his fight with Gotham’s
rogues, his fight with the Vulture, and the night his uncle died. All at once, over and over,
endlessly, as much a part of himself as his arm or leg. Most of Peter is living in the here and now,
but that one piece, whether its at a whisper or deafening roar, will always be there. All he has to do
is think of it and he'll snap back to any one of those points in his timeline.

Peter stares past Dick, feeling his cheeks burn hot with frustration and anger. Finally, he says, “I
have no right to survive when everyone else died. I shouldn’t have come back at all. I should’ve--”

It goes on in that vein for awhile. Dick doesn’t interrupt or press for details (thank god), he simply
listens. Something Peter’s needed for longer than he’d like to admit; without May or Ned or even
his AI, Karen, he’s been bottling up a lot more than usual.

Dick doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t ask for clarification (thank god, Peter would be hard pressed to
explain some of his word vomit), and he doesn’t tell Peter that he has no reason to feel guilty. It’s
refreshing.

Eventually, he talks himself out. Dick wordlessly ushers him into bed and tucks the blankets over
him.

“I didn’t understand all of that,” Dick says quietly. “But I think you’ll explain it when you’re
ready. I’m not sure you and I have the same definition of Titan, for example.”

“It was a place. And a person,” Peter says sleepily.

“Right. When you’re ready, I’ll listen to the full story. For now, just get some rest, okay?”

Peter, already half asleep, murmurs. “I just don’t want the bad dreams to come back.”

Dick sighs. “Yeah, I know. I’ll stay close tonight, all right? Just in case.”

Peter considers that for a moment. Finally, he says, “You know, I think Nightwing would like
you.”

And then he falls asleep.

***

Dick pulls the blankets over Peter, tucking him in. He does it casually, as if he’s done it a dozen
times before. Mostly because he has. Between Jason, Tim, and Damian, he’s got plenty of
experience. It feels a little different now that he's illegally named himself the main caretaker for an
entire human being. One who's clearly died and come back, no less.

Speaking of the dead...

There’s no way this could work, but it’s worth a shot.

Dick looks around the room slowly, tucks his hands in his pockets, and then says, very casually,
“I’d like to talk to Sam, please.”

A minute passes, and nothing happens. Dick sighs, and starts to head for the door---

A gentle flash of gold illuminates the room, and Sam Wilson appears in the corner, casually
leaning against Peter’s desk. He’s fuzzy at the edges, surrounded by a golden, partially translucent
aura. He’s wearing some kind of super suit; red and silver armor, with red tinged glasses similar to
what the Flash wears. One arm crosses his chest, the other ends at his elbow, though Dick can see
hints of it where it should be. There’s a steady nobility to the man that instantly reminds Dick of
Clark, and his wariness subsides. A bit.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Grayson?” Sam asks. His tone is polite, good humored, and carries an
accent. Louisiana, maybe?

“Gimme a sec, I didn’t expect that to work,” Dick says.

“Try not to take too long, I’m kind of breaking a few rules doing this,” Sam says. His voice is easy
and calm, but it sounds off somehow. Not quite echoing, as if coming over a very cheap phone line
or across a massive chasm. “Dr. Strange can’t keep this up for long.”

Dick’s stomach drops, and he feels his shoulders and arms tense. “Hugo Strange?”

Sam frowns at him, confused, and shakes his head. “Stephen Strange. Listen, focus. There’s limits
to this and you need to know them.”

“What kind of limits?” Dick asks.

“I can answer one question before I have to head back,” Sam says. Flecks of gold and orange flake
off of him and drift away into nothingness behind him. Dick has the disconcerting feeling that Sam
is burning himself alive to have this conversation. An odd thought to have for a ghost. “And I can’t
give you an answer Peter doesn’t want you to hear. We’re all kind of under his power, even if he
doesn’t realize it.”

“Right, okay,” Dick says slowly. He’s gone through a lot of weird things in his life. Talking to a
superhero’s ghost isn’t that weird, really, and Wayne Manor has been haunted in one form or
another ever since he was a kid. That said, it is a little weird to see a literal ghost in his childhood
home. “How do I help Peter?”

Sam is quiet for a long moment, as if listening to someone else that Dick can’t see. Finally, he says,
“Tell him to listen to his aunt the next time he falls asleep.”

And then he disappears, fading away back into nothing.

Dick stares at the empty spot where Sam stood moments before, thinking. Finally, he settles into
the chair he sat in a couple of days ago and leans back in it, thinking.

***

BATCHAT

Duke (02:09am): everything okay?

Dick (02:10am): He’s asleep. I think we made some progress.

Dick (02:11am): Lots of guilt. I don’t know exactly what for. It’s more than just survivor’s guilt.

Dick (02:13am): Help him if you guys can, okay?

Duke (02:14am): you don’t even need to ask

Barbara (02:15am): Sorry to interrupt, guys. Dick, Bruce is on his way back to Gotham.

Barbara (02:16am): He says he needs to talk with you.

***

By the time Peter wakes up tomorrow, Dick is long gone. A note sits next to his inhaler:

Meeting with Bruce, will be back tonight. Be kind to yourself, okay?

-Dick

Peter considers the note for a moment, sets it aside, and uses his inhaler. His cold is all but gone
now; the food alone has given him the energy he needs to fight it back. The bullet wound in his
side twinges and seizes up every now and then, but that’s more of an annoyance rather than the
white hot agony of the initial wound. Or even the tooth grinding pain he experienced when he
jostled it in Tim’s car.

He doesn’t quite isolate himself the next day. He gets up, he showers, he eats his weight in food,
but he doesn’t linger and chat with Alfred or anyone else in the kitchen. He heads back into his
room and sits on the floor, staring at the murky winter sky outside his windows, watching the
snow and brooding. A knock at his door brings him out of his thoughts. He turns to face it as
Stephanie pushes the door open, stepping inside as if invited.

“I come bearing gifts,” Steph announces. She drops a backpack on his desk. It lands with a very
loud and slightly intimidating thump. “Your homework.”

“Homework?” Peter asks, dumbfounded, staring at the backpack. And then it clicks and he groans.
“Oh god. School.”

“Yeah, school is still a thing, unfortunately,” Steph says, amused by his reaction. She jumps up and
sits on the edge of the desk, idly kicking her legs a little. “Alfred’s called you in sick for the next
week. There’s a lot of catch up work to do.”

“Wonderful,” Peter mumbles, walking over to the backpack. He lifts it up and blinks at the weight.
“What the fuck.”

“Welcome to finals season,” Steph says brightly. She laughs at his look of despair and nudges his
shoulder lightly. “Duke, and I are hosting a study session in the living room. Wanna join us?”

He blinks. He’s surprised they want anything to do with him after his midnight shit fit. “Uh, are
you--”

“Yes, we’re sure,” Steph says. At his startled look, she continues, “You aren’t the first person to
lose their temper in this house, Peter. You’re definitely not going to be the last.”

“I lost my mind on Duke. He was just trying to help,” Peter mutters.

“He’s heard worse.”

“Wow, that does not make me feel better.”

Steph shrugs, her eyes softening. “Peter, you’ve gone through a special kind of hell. You’re finally
somewhere safe enough for you to let out all the emotional baggage you’ve been piling up for god
knows how long because you were focused on survival. No one thinks less of you for being upset."
Well, that does help. He still feels bad, though. He’ll find Duke and apologize to him later.

Steph continues. “And, honestly? That was a small time tantrum. Bottom of the scale, frankly.”

Peter pauses and squints at her. “Are you calling my midnight breakdown low tier?”

Steph gives him a sober look, places her hand on his shoulder, and says, earnestly, "I'm afraid
you're going to have to up your tantrum game if you're going to be a Wayne kid, Peter. We're the
best of the best when it comes to dramatic breakdowns. You can’t make us look bad. At this rate,
you’ll never beat Jason’s tantrum spirals."

Peter stares at her.

She smirks and winks at him.

That startles a laugh out of him, and he shakes his head. “I can’t believe that’s actually making me
feel better.”

"What can I say, I've got a gift," Steph says, bumping shoulders with him. "Come on, if we go now,
we can get the comfy chairs."

Peter grins after her, picking up his backpack and slinging it over his shoulder as he follows her out
into the hallway. He half expects Steph to bring him to some massive, opulent library or study.
Instead, she brings him to a large, but reasonably sized and decorated living room. Couches, sofas,
and chairs fill the area, and a large flat screen is mounted to one wall. The furniture looks well
worn and comfortable, as if they see near constant use.

Steph flops across one of the couches. Her homework and notes already cover most of it. After a
moment, Peter sits down on the other end of the couch and opens up the backpack. Paperwork
almost immediately pops out of it when he does so.

“There is no way I’m going to be ready for finals,” Peter mutters. It also seems hilariously unfair
that he has to worry about academics now, too. He’s already two steps away from losing his shit
permanently, dammit.

“That’s why we’re having a study group,” Duke says, strolling into the room and sitting down on
the couch between Peter and Steph. He grins at Peter, just as friendly as ever, and opens his own
backpack. “Steph and I figured we’d help you catch up.”

“Oh,” Peter says, a little overwhelmed. “Is Tim coming, too?”

“He already took his exams,” Steph says.

“You can do that?”

“When you’re Tim Drake, yes,” Duke remarks dryly. “Come on, if we start now, we can finish up
your homework by dinner.”

They get to work. Steph keeps the mood light with an occasional joke or simply by breaking the
tense silence. Duke doesn’t treat him any differently than he did before. The study session goes by
quickly and easily (god, Peter is so far behind on school work it isn’t even funny).

At the end of it, Steph slips off to grab a drink from the kitchen, and Duke packs up his homework
and starts back towards his bedroom down the hall. Peter taps his pen against his notebook for a
long moment. Finally, he sweeps his homework and books into his backpack and jogs down the
hall after him.

“Hey, about last night,” Peter says, catching up to Duke. Duke stops in the hallway and turns to
face him, tilting his head slightly. Peter sighs. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell at you like that. Or
hurt you. I--I’ve never lost control like that before.” He pauses for a moment. “And you really
didn’t deserve that. You were just trying to help.”

Duke glances at the white streak in Peter’s hair, then at some distant point over his shoulder. After
a moment, he smiles. “Apology accepted. I didn’t realize you were that upset or I would’ve given
you some space.”

“Man, I didn’t even realize I was that upset,” Peter says, relieved. “I promise I won’t lose my shit
on you again.”

“And I won’t come barging into your room without warning anymore,” Duke says. He holds out
his hand. Peter clasps it and almost starts his handshake he usually uses with Ned. He stops at the
last second.

“Deal,” Peter says. “Are you ready for finals?”

“Hell no,” Duke says cheerfully, walking with Peter to his room. “You?”

“I literally haven’t thought about school in weeks,” Peter admits.

“That’s the spirit,” Duke says. “Who needs school work when you’re a hero anyway, right?”

Peter blinks at him.

“You know. Because you saved Damian and Alfred?” Duke says. He raises an eyebrow. “That
does make you a hero. And kind of a big deal.”

“Oh. I guess I’m not used to it,” Peter says, rubbing the back of his head. “Usually when someone
talks about heroes around me it’s about someone else. Like Spider-Man or someone.”

“Did a lot of people talk about Spider-Man around you?” Duke asks, tilting his head.

Peter shrugs. “No more than anyone else in Crime Alley.”

Duke hums, thoughtful. “I never got to meet him.”

“I mean, that’s probably for the best. He lived in Crime Alley,” Peter points out. “You really don’t
have a reason to be in that part of town.”

“More than you’d think,” Duke says. He checks his watch. “Hey, has anyone given you a tour of
this place yet?”

“No, not yet,” Peter admits.

“Come on, I’ll give you the grand tour,” Duke says, smiling. “That should last until dinner.”

“Dinner is in like an hour. There’s no way it’ll take that long,” Peter says, amused

Duke smirks. “Wanna bet?”

***
It takes longer than an hour. Eventually, Duke excuses himself, and Peter heads back to his room,
exhausted and a tiny bit overwhelmed. He can feel an itch at the back of his throat and a rising
frustration that has nothing to do with anyone, and decides to skip out on dinner entirely. The last
thing he wants to do is have one of his fits during family dinner.

Peter uses his inhaler, then stalks his room, agitated and annoyed, fighting back a wave of anger he
doesn’t fully understand the source of. It isn’t anywhere close to the near blinding rage he
experienced last night, but it’s still there.

It doesn’t make sense! He’s safe now. He has more food than he could ever hope to eat at once, a
warm bed, he’s surrounded by people who care about him to a baffling degree, and his wounds are
healing. He should be fine. He is fine.

So why the nightmares? Why the constant, grinding anger?

A knock at his door draws him out of his thoughts, creating a flash of annoyance that quickly melts
away. He rubs his eyes, takes in a slow breath while counting to ten, and then walks over to the
door and opens it.

Dick is on the other side, holding a covered dish and one of Alfred’s smoothies. He smiles at Peter.

“Hey, Pete. Alfred said you missed dinner,” Dick says. He holds up the covered dish and walks
inside, setting it and the smoothie down on Peter’s desk. “Which, for the record, you shouldn’t
miss.”

“Yeah, probably not,” Peter admits, rubbing the back of his neck. The food smells incredible, and
when Dick raises the dish cover and reveals the steak, vegetables, and baked potato underneath, he
has to fight back the urge to grab the plate and skitter up the nearest wall to devour it.

Okay, so his spider instincts are starting to drift back. That could get awkward.

“Eat up,” Dick says. “There’s more downstairs if you need it.”

“Thanks,” Peter says. “How was the meeting with Bruce? He’s in and out of this place every other
day.”

Dick sighs, reaching up to rub his temple. “He wanted to give me some bad news, that’s all.”

“Bad news?”

“Bruce has a lot of unspoken expectations placed on him by the city,” Dick explains. “One of them
is supporting clean up efforts for Crime Alley. He’s been working on it for decades, with varying
degrees of success. Believe it or not, it’s not as bad as it used to be.”

Peter stares at him, horrified. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Dick says. “Anyway, there’s fresh public support for another renewal effort in the
wake of Spider-Man’s death. It’s an opportunity he can’t really ignore, especially with the Mayor
trying to win back some support after that school or jail law that was passed a few months back.
Bruce can’t really say no without disappointing a lot of people, so he’s going to host a Spider Alley
memorial fund.”

“You don’t sound very happy about it,” Peter says after a moment, mildly overwhelmed by his
‘death’ causing so much ripple effect changes so quickly.

“I’m not,” Dick says. “He’ll host a ball or a gala or--honestly I’ve never gotten the names straight
for these things--and invite in the rich and well to do and try to convince them to match whatever
donation he’ll put towards it. Most of them are just going to treat it as a way to rub shoulders with
one another.”

“Oh,” Peter says.

Dick shakes his head. “Nevermind. I shouldn’t have dumped that on you. I just wanted to talk with
you really quick.”

“Sure,” Peter says, sitting at his desk and grabbing the knife and fork for his meal. “As long as you
don’t mind me eating for most of it.”

“Not at all,” Dick says, leaning against the wall near the door. He crosses his arms and frowns, as
if trying to decide how to best approach a topic. “I wanted to ask you about your nightmares, if
that’s okay?”

Peter’s appetite dims a little. He pauses, but nods.

“Are any of them about your family?” Dick asks.

Peter scoffs. “They’re all about my family. More or less. Usually my aunt and uncle.”

Dick nods, going quiet. After a moment, he starts to speak quietly. “You know, I had dreams like
that after my parents died. I kept forcing myself awake whenever they started. It was hard waking
up and remembering they were gone.”

Peter frowns, setting his fork down. That’s exactly why he’s been avoiding sleep. Dreaming about
Ben and May consoling him after his parents’ death, only to wake up and realize they’re gone has
been too much for his already wounded psyche.

Dick presses on, his tone gentle. “Eventually, that stopped working. I needed to sleep. And it hurt
having dreams about them at first, but eventually, I started to have dreams about the good times we
had together. And eventually, I had dreams that weren’t memories at all. It was like my parents
were there.”

Peter tilts his head, looking up at him. “What were they like?”

“Upsetting, at first,” Dick admits. “More upsetting than the others, but then they weren’t. I dreamt
I showed them my new home, my new family. They were happy for me. I think it was just my
mind’s way of handling the grief, but it helped. A lot more than I expected, really.”

Peter frowns at him, going quiet.

Dick doesn’t say anything for a moment, then sighs. “Anyway, just keep it in mind. A little bird
told me listening to advice from your family is a good idea. Even if that family is gone.”

Peter thinks on that for a moment and nods. “Okay. I’ll, uh. Keep that in mind.” A pause. “And I
guess I can’t avoid sleeping forever...”

“Preferably not,” Dick says. “

Peter taps his plate, clears his throat, and nods. “Okay. I’ll give it a shot.” Another pause. “Thanks.
 I know this is probably a lot more than you signed up for--”

“No, it isn’t,” Dick cuts in gently. He pats Peter’s shoulder, squeezing it for a moment. “Eat up.
I’m going to go check in on Duke and Damian.”

“Right. Thanks,” Peter says.

Dick gives him one last reassuring squeeze, and then leaves, shutting the door behind himself.
Peter stares at the wall, thinking over Dick’s works while he finishes his dinner. He should take
the plate downstairs and wash it, but he decides against it. The food has helped stabilize his mood
and also made him realize just how exhausted he is.

After fighting it for longer than is necessary, Peter lays down on his bed. A short nap, and maybe
those nightmares won’t find him. Or maybe they’ll be like Dick said, and they won’t bother him as
much?

One can dream.

In this case, literally.

Chapter End Notes

Two things:

1. We're drawing close to the end of this fic. This was always meant to be a short fic
detailing how Peter falls in with the Bats before the Big Plot kicks off in the next
installment. I got carried away.

2. The next fic is 50% done. I plan on writing it out completely and posting it weekly
to avoid the occasional hiatus.

Thanks for the comic recs in the previous chapter!

 Chapter 35
Chapter Notes

One last 'quiet' chapter with a tiny bit of a time skip so Peter can finish healing in time
for...something. :)

See the end of the chapter for more notes

He knows this dream.

Peter sits in his bedroom, beneath a window gone white with snow. He's not eight years old
anymore, and he knows Uncle Ben won't come in to talk. In fact, that’s the reason why his
bedroom is currently a disaster area. The full memory is fuzzy, but he remembers the salient
points: coming home from school, calling out to Ben out of pure habit, realizing he’s gone, and
then--

And then something like a tantrum. Frustration and anger and tears, and not much else. His room is
a disaster; clothes, books, some broken Lego models, and a few other things cover the floor. The
result of his grief induced tantrum.

He’s dreamt of this place and time dozens of times, but it’s different. It's more real. Steady. Logical
in the way his dreams get when he taps into something inside him that brings out ghosts. He’s also
older in this dream that he would be if he was reliving his memory. He’s sixteen, not fourteen, and
he sits taller.

Before he can contemplate what that might mean, he feels someone appear beside him.

May Parker sits beside him, as real and present as if she were alive. She smiles at him, warm and
sad, and pulls him into a protective hug that feels real, too. Peter melts into her hug, clinging to her
and burying his face against her shoulder.

“Hey, you,” she says quietly. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“Again?” he asks, leaning back out of the hug.

“You don’t remember? You came back to the apartment before,” May says. “Back when you were
first figuring out how to use your new power. Honestly, that was a little weird, but Sam explained
the whole soul stone thing to me. What’s weirder is that I think he came to talk to me with
someone else.”

Peter frowns at her. And then he winces. “New power? I don’t know what you’re--”

“Yes, you do,” May says patiently. “You do know. You’ve been pretending you don’t. And
apparently you’ve done it so well that you’ve almost forgotten.”

Peter can’t deny that. May knows all of his tells; he couldn’t even hide being Spider-Man from her
for very long. And he was arguably failing at that even when she didn’t suspect he was Spider-
Man. She knew he was sneaking out of school and out of the apartment almost the moment he
started doing it.
"With great power, there must also come great responsibility," May tells him patiently. "You know
this already, Peter. Remember?"

Peter’s room shifts, changes. He finds himself watching a memory. The day he met Tony Stark.

"If you can stop the bad thing, but you don't, then the bad things happen because of you," his
younger self tells Tony.

Tony looks away, thoughtful. After a moment, he claps a hand on Peter’s shoulder and almost
smiles.

"But I never wanted this," Peter tells May. In his hand is a stone the size of his palm, glowing
orange and emitting a strange heat. The light rises and falls in time with his heartbeat. “Not this
stone thing. That’s too much for one person.”

"I know. But you have it anyway," May says, her tone understanding but firm. “You have a gift,
Peter. And you have a responsibility to use it. A responsibility you’ve been avoiding.”

Peter frowns, going silent. “So, where is this thing, anyway? Like, I have it, but how? I can kind of
feel this ‘orange’ thing inside me, but...”

“You might have to ask an expert for that one, kiddo,” May says.

Fair enough. Despite his childhood beliefs, May probably doesn’t have an answer to every problem
in his life. “I don’t know how to use it.”

“Neither do I, but I think you’ll figure it out.”

“That’s like trying to figure out nuclear fission,” Peter mutters. “Where do you even start with
that?”

“The first thing you should do is rest,” May says. “Give yourself a chance to heal, and then forgive
yourself.”

“Forgive myself?”

“For surviving,” May says gently. “The rest will come in time.”

Peter goes quiet. That’s a big ask; he’s felt guilty for surviving ever since he was a kid. First with
his parents, then with Ben, now with--well. A whole universe, apparently. He looks up at her.
“You’re really her, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I’m really me,” May says, smiling. “Larb and all.”

He grins a little in spite of himself. The conversation enters a quiet lull; his bedroom shifts around
them. Tony disappears. Peter’s younger self disappears. The desk is replaced with something nicer.
A bunk bed replaces the twin sized bed pressed against the wall; something he asked of May so
Ned could comfortably stay the night during their weekends together.

“Do you forgive me for surviving?” he asks her.

“Yes,” May says immediately.

Her voice is sincere, gentle, and firm. She means it. Peter feels himself relax just a bit.

"What do we do when we get knocked down?" May asks him after a moment.
"We get back up," Peter answers. He hesitates. “Can you stay?”

She smiles sadly. “No. I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

He isn’t surprised, but the disappointment is overwhelming. “Not even if I learn how to use the
Soul Stone?”

“Not even then. I don’t know the details, but I'm only here because your friends brought me here.
The guy with the cape, mostly.”

“Dr. Strange,” Peter says, frowning. “I didn’t think he was strong enough to do that.”

“He said he was getting help from the other side, whatever that means.” She pauses. “I guess I did
pass by a chain smoking British man earlier. Either way, honey, I can’t stay. I’m sorry.”

He considers that for a long moment, and then frowns at her. “I don’t want to wake up and
remember you’re gone again.”

She has no response to that. May pulls him into a warm hug and simply holds him.

***

When Peter wakes up, it isn’t done by screaming, sobbing, or laughing. He simply wakes up, safe
and warm in his bed. He still has to use his inhaler, and cough up half of a lung, but physically and
emotionally, he seems...

Well, ‘better’ may not be the correct word, but it’s the closest he’s got. On the mend, maybe? His
side aches, but it aches less than it did yesterday. More of an annoying bruise rather than a bone
deep wound. He stretches, yawns, and wanders over to the window, idly pushing aside the curtain
to look outside.

It’s snowing. Just like in his dream, when May--

The memory and grief hit him both at roughly the same time. He wavers, caught between the two.
Eventually, the memory of May’s arms around him wins out over the grief from losing her, and he
leaves the window to go shower and start his day. He still has homework to do, and wounds to
recover from.

He spends the better part of two weeks recovering. Eating, sleeping, gradually learning to control
the weird fury inside him. None of the others in the manor reacts if he excuses himself to pace the
halls or wander through the snow covered garden outside of the manor. The latter is usually only
briefly tolerated by Alfred or Dick, who chase him back inside within ten minutes of his idle walk,
much to Peter’s annoyance.

He sticks inside after that. Gotham’s constant rain and snow make for poor walking weather,
anyway.

***

Finals come and go; Peter doesn’t see Felicia during it, which is a disappointment. Bruce wanders
through the manor occasionally, brooding and serious in a way that does not fit his playboy
persona in the least; Peter keeps his distance. Peter grows stronger and healthier by the day; his
healing factor kicks into overdrive, and the weight he’s lost to too much exercise and not enough
food gradually returns. Not to the point where he was when he first came to Gotham, but arguably
close.
After finals, he’s on winter break. His cold is all but gone, and steady use of the inhaler has kept
the Joker toxin inside him from becoming an issue. Everyone in the Wayne family seems to scatter;
Steph stops coming over after finals, Duke disappears at daybreak and only comes in sometime
near the evening, Dick, Bruce, and Tim all disappear at various points of the day. Of those three,
Peter can count on one hand how often he’s seen Tim. Damian, still suffering from a brutal cold
himself, wanders the manor with his service dog when he’s allowed out of bed at all.

Peter is, for the most part, left to his own devices. He tries reading. Watching TV. After two days,
he’s bored out of his mind. Sitting still has never been his strong suit, and with his renewed health
comes renewed spider instincts: he’s fidgety at the best of times, and without something to occupy
his hands--

Oh. There’s an idea. Peter grabs a book and heads down to the kitchen.

Alfred finds him washing dishes out of sheer boredom.

"You realize that's my job, yes?" Alfred asks, his tone dry and amused.

"You realize I'm never going to get used to that, right?" Peter replies.

The silence that follows his question lasts long enough that Peter turns to look at the butler. Alfred
stands near Peter, sleeves rolled up, dish towel in hand, smiling at him. His expression is soft; a
look of fond nostalgia and amusement.

"Master Richard said those very same words to me when he was your age," Alfred says after a
moment. "Forgive me. I'm becoming sentimental in my old age."

"He seems like a nice guy," Peter says, handing the last freshly washed dish over to Alfred from
the sink. “I’m surprised he went through all the trouble to take me in.”

Alfred hums in thought, drying the dish carefully before setting it aside. “I think you’ll find it
much less surprising as time goes on. What do you want for lunch?”

Peter drains the water and shrugs. “Whatever you’re making. I’m not exactly picky these days.”

“Lentil soup, then,” Alfred says.

Peter dries his hands, and takes a seat at the kitchen island. He picks up his book and idly pages
through it while Alfred begins to cook. Eventually, a foot step--one so silent Peter barely hears it--
draws him out of his reading and he looks up to find himself under the careful scrutiny of Damian
Wayne. The boy eyes him for a moment before sitting in the stool beside him.

“Good afternoon, Master Damian,” Alfred says warmly.

“Alfred,” Damian replies, clearly half asleep. He looks at Peter, focusing on the book in his hands.
“Parker. What are you reading?”

Peter closes the book and shows Damian the cover. He’s just finished reading it for the third time,
so he doesn’t mind the interruption. "Watership Down. It's one of my favorites. It's about a group
of rabbits finding a new home after their old one is destroyed."

"Ah, an excellent book,” Alfred says from the counter. He makes a vague gesture with the knife
he’s using to chop vegetables. “Your father loved it as well, Damian."

Damian squints at the book cover. "Father's favorite book as a child is about rabbits?"
"Yes," Alfred says, amused by Damian's disbelieving look. He pauses in the middle of chopping
vegetables. "There was one particular passage in their creation myth that he enjoyed. Oh, how did
it go? 'All the world will be your enemy, Prince with a Thousand Enemies, and when they catch
you, they will kill you.'"

"But first they must catch you," Peter continues, closing the book and shifting it over into Damian's
hands. "Digger, listener, runner, Prince With The Swift Warning. Be clever, and full of tricks, and
your people shall never be destroyed. I always liked that part, too."

Damian quirks a brow, taking the book. "I can see why Father latched on to that particular
passage."

Peter sure as hell doesn't. "I'm surprised. He doesn't seem like the type who’d be interested in that
kind of book."

Damian aims a shrewd look his way. "You haven't spent enough time with him yet. You'll see."

“That sounds vaguely threatening,” Peter notes.

Damian smirks, but looks at the book with interest.

“You can borrow this if you want,” Peter says. He offers it to Damian. “I’ve read it more times
than I can count.”

“You don’t mind?” Damian asks.

“Not at all," Peter says. "Tell me what you think of it when you finish."

Damian takes the book and considers it for a moment before opening the cover. By the time Alfred
brings them their soup, he’s deeply engrossed in the book and barely looks away to thank him.
Peter switches to his phone, letting the conversation die off so Damian can read in peace. He
doesn’t know much about Damian, but he knows that the kid socializes like a cat; simply being in
the room with him is a sign of--well, not approval, exactly, but trust. Something that clearly doesn’t
come easily to Damian. Given that he’s been raised in the shadow of Bruce Wayne, that isn’t
exactly surprising.

Alfred favors Peter with an approving smile when he sets a bowl of soup in front of him. “Eat as
much as you like, Master Peter.”

“Thanks, Alfred,” Peter says. His phone lets out a quiet ding! when Alfred steps away and he picks
it up to read the message.

Felicia: hey, are you going to come by anytime soon? Lou is getting worried.

Felicia: also your Red Hood friend is making my life extremely difficult by following me around
when I’m trying to do things

Peter: stop breaking and entering and he’ll leave you alone

Felicia: no ❤

Peter rolls his eyes and lets the conversation drop. He’s still restricted to the manor, and he doesn’t
have access to a suit yet. But he’s healed enough to consider the prospect now, and since everyone
seems to leave the manor pretty quickly these days...
Peter eats his soup and considers his options, mentally putting together suit concepts and ideas.

***

Peter’s cold is all but gone a few days later. He spends his time sketching out suit ideas in the
kitchen and plotting a way to get into Crime Alley. He could ask one of the others to drop him off,
maybe, but everyone here treats him like glass and goes out of their way to keep him from feeling
stressed. Even if he manages to convince them to drive him into the Alley, they’ll probably stick to
him like glue. The better plan would be to build new webslingers and a new suit, though he would
still have to escape Wayne Manor’s grounds. He can probably manage that.

He’s gradually coming around to the idea of the whole Infinity Stone thing. As in, acknowledging
it, at least. He doesn’t have a clue how to use it yet, or even if he should. He can handle his own
strength and speed, but if Dr. Strange’s ramblings are right, then Peter has a stone connected to one
of the basic building blocks of the universe...somewhere. Inside him, maybe? Hopefully not, or
Dick’s going to get a very awkward phone call from Dr. Thompkins at some point when she
reviews his x-rays and finds a fully formed stone in his lung or something.

As to how to use it---

A sudden commotion at the door draws Peter out of his thoughts.

“Give it back,” Damian demands.

“Nope, mine. I got it first,” Steph replies, apparently utterly immune to Damian’s furious tone.

Silence follows, a sound of a struggle, a curse, and then something is flying at Peter’s head. He
catches it before looking up from his phone and is surprised to find a cookie in his hand. A freshly
made one, too.

“Holy crap, I can’t believe you caught that,” Steph says, impressed.

“Your reflexes are almost as sharp as Cain’s,” Damian notes, narrowing his eyes.

Peter takes a bite out of the cookie, much to Damian’s annoyance, and shrugs. “I can catch
anything you throw at me. Try it.”

Steph and Damian glance at each other, and then grin.

***

Fifteen minutes later, quiet chatter from Alfred, Dick, Duke, and Tim drifts into the kitchen, and
then falls silent when the group enters.

“What the hell is going on,” Dick asks from the doorway.

“Testing Parker’s reflexes,” Damian informs him.

“He’ll literally catch anything you throw at him. Even if he doesn’t realize you’re in the room,”
Steph explains. “Damian tested it.”

“He wasn’t aware of my presence for the second one,” Damian adds, flinging an apple at Peter.
Peter catches it without looking and adds it to his slowly growing pile of food and treats on the
table.
“Can you both please stop throwing food at Peter,” Dick says, with a small thread of exasperation.
Alfred simply walks around the chaos and gives Peter a plate to store his treats.

“Hey, don’t ruin this for me. I haven’t had to get up to grab food for hours,” Peter says, not looking
up from his phone.

He sees Dick roll his eyes from the corner of his eye and give up. Steph takes careful aim and
throws an orange at Peter. He snatches it out of the air. Steph lets out a low whistle.

“Okay, I’m officially jealous,” she says, before looking over at the group. “What are you guys up
to?”

“Gala preparation,” Tim mutters from the coffee machine.

“I’m preemptively excusing myself,” Duke says, snatching one of Peter’s apples out of his snack
pile and ducking away before Peter can grab it back. “Too slow, Peter.”

“You’re keeping that only because I’m letting you keep that,” Peter says.

“Why does Drake sound irritated over the gala?” Damian asks, attempting to repeat Duke’s theft on
the snack pile.

Peter moves it just out of his reach and earns a narrow eyed glare for his trouble until Peter relents
and hands him one of the cookies from the pile. Damian perks up and sits down beside him to eat
the cookie, pulling out a book to read beside Peter while the others speak.

“I have more important things to do,” Tim replies.

“You should make an appearance, Master Tim,” Alfred says, watching Tim pour half of a pitcher
of coffee into a thermos with something close to despair on his features. “Even briefly.”

“I’ll consider it. Who’s even coming to this one?” Tim asks.

“The usual, I’m afraid,” Alfred replies, handing him a list. Tim takes it and scans the names,
apparently grows bored with it halfway through, and hands it off to Dick.

“Luthor’s coming,” Dick says, his expression going sour. “Great.”

“Is he?” Tim asks, his tone just a hair too innocent. “Convenient. I’d like to speak with him.”

“As a reminder,” Alfred cuts in. “You are not allowed to stab any of the guests at Master Wayne’s
galas.”

“I never said anything about stabbing him,” Tim says. “That’s Damian’s thing. By the way,
Damian, I have a favor to ask.”

“That depends,” Damian says, nose firmly stuck in the book Peter gave him. “Alfred, are the Kents
going to be in attendance?”

“I’m afraid so, Master Damian.”

“You’re on your own, Drake,” Damian says. “Jonathan is very insistent on his ‘no stabbing’ rule
and I’d rather not hear him complain when I break it. You might as well do it yourself.”

Tim thinks, and shrugs. “I can make that happen.”

“No,” Dick says flatly. Tim rolls his eyes, but drops the subject.

“Uh, quick question,” Peter says, raising his hand and interrupting what’s starting to sound like the
plot of a future murder mystery novel. “What’s going on? Some kind of fundraiser gala?”

“A memorial gala for Spider-Man,” Duke says.

Oh, yeah. Dick mentioned that. That’s awkward.

“And who is this Luthor guy?” Peter asks.

“Lex Luthor, owner of LexCorp, one of the smartest men in the world--present company excluded-
-and one of the most insufferable assholes on the planet,” Duke says. “He’s brilliant, richer than
God, and has a weird obsession with aliens.”

Peter tilts his head. “Aliens?”

“A big part of LexCorp is focused on astrobiology. He’s convinced that aliens exist, that they’re
coming for earth, and that he’s the only one who can save us all from them,” Dick says with a sigh.

Okay, well. People have said the same about Tony at one time or another. Peter remembers seeing
more than one clickbait article declaring Tony insane for being ‘hyper focused’ and ‘obsessed’ on
alien threats only a few years after the Battle of New York. He frowns.

“I mean, what if he’s right?” Peter asks. “Have aliens ever invaded?”

That brings the room to a proverbial halt. Everyone turns to face him, faces unreadable. Even
Alfred spares him a quick glance, eyebrow quirked curiously. Peter has the unsettling feeling that
he’s just stepped into a minefield and cannot, for the life of him, figure out how.

“Wouldn’t it be better to be prepared?” Peter asks. “In case they attack?”

“It would,” Dick says after a long moment. “But Luthor’s not really interested in protecting the
planet. It’s complicated.”

“Oh,” Peter says. The mood in the kitchen has shifted, and he fidgets slightly.

Dick pats his shoulder. “Hopefully you won’t have to deal with him during the event.”

“Wait, I’m going?” Peter asks, vaguely alarmed.

“Only for an hour,” Dick says. “We’ll need to get you a suit. And maybe a haircut.”

Peter considers his hair. Yeah, it’s gotten a bit long. Almost as long as Bucky’s, really. “Why is
Duke excused?”

“I’m cooler than you,” Duke replies.

“Patently false,” Peter retorts. Duke smirks.

“He’s got a thing with Jason planned out,” Steph puts in helpfully. “Previous engagement.”

There’s an odd weight to the words, as if he’s missing some hidden meaning. “Lucky you.”

“We’ll have to get you a suit, Master Peter,” Alfred says. “Tomorrow, preferably. It’ll give the
tailor time to finish alterations.”
 “Uh, yeah. Sure,” Peter says. This is definitely not the suit he wants.

If he gets desperate enough, he could probably swing off into the city in a three piece suit with a
bag over his head or something.

***

BATCHAT

Duke (2:03pm): seriously, guys, don’t make Peter stay at that gala too long

Duke (2:04pm): he looked like he was going to pass out when you mentioned it was for Spider-
Man

Dick (2:05pm): I won’t make him stay for longer than an hour. That’s enough to get the media off
of him

Dick (2:06pm): And we’ll use each other as an excuse to leave early.

Jason (2:07pm): Find me when you get out of the gala.

Jason (2:08pm): We should talk.

Steph (2:09pm): did Jason willingly initiate a conversation with us after going silent for two
weeks?

Dick (2:10pm): I’ll let you know as soon as we’re free.

Chapter End Notes

Next chapter will be slightly delayed; we're going to switch between MCU and DC. It's
about time we caught up with Wonder Woman and Captain Marvel...

Hope you're all having a good day!

 Chapter 36
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Steve feels like he should feel some kind of awe or wonder as they fly through space. Actually,
that's a lie. He does feel something, but it’s a muted kind of wonder. The stars are beautiful, the
vast void humbling, and the distance is unfathomable. When he considers his humble beginnings to
now, he boggles at it all.

Their ship is drifting through a system full of shrapnel. Rocket and Thor guide their ship through a
field of twisted metal that ranges from the size of small villages to entire continents. Most of it
drifts aimlessly, swirling around a red giant star that burns sullenly at the heart of the system.

The ship is cramped, and mostly silent, the few conversations taking place small and mostly
tactical in nature. Every word is punctuated by the steady beeps that indicate another sensor sweep
through the void.

"Anything?" Natasha asks.

"There's nothing out there but dust, wreckage, and bodies," Rhodey says. "I can't even find power
sources when my scans do get through the dust.”

"Every one of Thanos’ prison planets is gone," Clint says. "Carol’s taking matters into her hands, I
guess."

“That isn’t a sound strategy. Unless she was looking for someone?” Okoye asks.

"Maybe," Rhodey says. “Or getting revenge.”

“That seems pretty in character for you lot, being the Avengers and all,” an exhausted voice says
from the doorway leading into the back of the ship. The newest member of their team, John
Constantine, staggers into the main compartment. He looks exhausted, and rubs his eyes with a
long, drawn out sigh.

"Finished with your magic working?" Wong asks, curious and polite. The new Sorcerer Supreme
has taken an interest in Constantine, and understandably so. Banner has mentioned more than once
that Wong treats Constantine not unlike Dr. Strange.

Steve has to take his word for it; he’s never met Dr. Strange, after all.

"Yeah. Yeah, I did," Constantine mutters.

"What exactly were you--"

"Can't tell you. Sorry, mate," Constantine says, shrugging. "Your doctor friend was awfully strict
about that. Said it'd change the timeline, and he doesn’t want to keep track of any new variables."

Wong considers that, and nods, accepting the answer after a moment.

“Don’t suppose any of you have got a drink on hand,” Constantine says, after a long moment.

Thor hands him a flask. Constantine pauses, shocked that someone actually does have a drink,
before swiping it from Thor’s hand and taking a deep drink. He lets out a coughing oof, and draws
back from the flask, making a face.

“What the hell is this?” he asks, his voice raspy.

“Asgardian mead. You share it with your brothers and sisters before entering battle, so that your
destinies are entwined, for good or ill,” Thor says, eye focused on the console in front of him. The
electronic--bionic, Steve corrects himself, though the difference is a bit lost on him--eye is
currently sitting in a modified port, recharging, and repairing itself. The damn thing twitches
around in the console like a real eye, and Steve shifts uncomfortably when it focuses on him. “It’s
a hero’s drink.”

“Explains why it goes down so poorly with me, then,” Constantine mutters before taking a deep
drink. He lets out another quiet cough.

"No one’s here," Rocket says from the pilot’s seat, his face twisted into a scowl. “It’s just dust and
scrap.”

“No, something is there, rabbit,” Thor says easily. “We need to fine tune your scanning tools and
push through the debris field. Banner, try--”

Steve half listens to the astrogation discussion, letting his mind wander. Constantine, apparently as
uninterested as Steve, taps his arm with the flask of mead.

"Penny for your thoughts, Supes?" he asks.

"That's one of the weirder nicknames I've gotten," Steve remarks, unsure of whether he likes the
nickname or not. "And I'm regretting leaving so quickly. I wish I had thought to leave a note for the
support group I run. I think I was finally starting to really help our youngest member."

Constantine tilts his head, apparently willing to listen. Steve continues.

"His name’s Ned Leeds. He’s sixteen," Steve says. "Brilliant kid. He's terrified of sleeping."

"Yeah? How come?"

"The Snap happened while he was taking a nap at after coming home from school. He woke up
three hours after the Snap happened to an empty house. His whole family and most of his friends
disappeared while he slept." Steve sighs. "I worked through something similar once. I think I
helped him but..."

“That’s not easy to work through as a grown man, let alone some teenager,” Constantine mutters.
He looks haunted for a moment, then takes a drink and silently passes the flask over to Steve.

Steve takes it out of politeness, considers it for a moment, and then takes a quick drink. The mead
is heavy, sharp and surprisingly bitter. He can actually taste and feel the alcohol in it and silently
decides to cut off Constantine from the rest. Instead, he offers it to Thor, who takes the flask,
drinks, and caps it before putting it back on his belt.

“I’ve got something,” Natasha says. “Rocket, look at the coordinates I’m sending you.”

“You have more than something,” Rocket replies, tensing. “That’s a damn war juggernaut.”

“What’s that?” Steve asks.

Rocket pauses, clearly at a loss. He doesn’t know how to answer a question that, to him, should
have a blatantly obvious answer. Fortunately, Thor picks up the slack.

“Imagine the helicarrier from SHIELD, but the size of a planet,” Thor explains.

“An invasion platform,” Natasha says quietly.

Rocket keeps the ship tucked behind large pieces of debris, matching the ship’s velocity with a
nearby piece of hull the size of New York City. The juggernaut is ship of enormous proportions;
Steve simply doesn’t have the ability to judge the size of interstellar objects. That’s more of a Tony
thing, and something Steve would not-so-innocently pretend to not understand to get a rise out of
the man during better times--

Times that would never happen again, as it turns out.

“I recognize this,” Rocket says. “It’s The Inevitable. The Black Order’s main military flotilla. Each
part of the thing can come apart and attack multiple planets and targets at once, then reattach.
Gamora told me about it awhile back.”

“It’s taken damage, and the fleet assigned to its protection has been scrapped,” Rhodey says.
“Look--”

Just as Rhodey is about to point at something on the vast ship, a huge gout of flame silently
expands from one end of the massive ship, bright enough to illuminate nearby debris before fading
into nothing. The Avengers are silent for a moment.

"I think we just found Carol," Natasha remarks. "Let's make contact and get her out of here before
Thanos starts looking for his invasion fleet. Rocket, can you get us close?”

“I can probably land on top of it,” Rocket says, leaning forward to push the flight sticks down. The
ship gains momentum, sliding down towards the ship. “Doesn’t seem like there’s anyone manning
the guns, so to speak.”

Landing takes no time at all and drives home how unbelievably huge The Inevitable is. Rocket’s
ship--not his true ship; apparently the Benatar is still MIA--is some other design: one big enough to
carry the Avengers and enough supplies to keep them warm and fed in the void, and no more. The
Inevitable dwarfs it. Rocket lands his ship near a hole that’s been torn in the ship, engaging the
landing gear and hitting a series of buttons too fast for Steve to track.

“Well, no one shot us down,” Rhodey remarks.

“Great job, team,” Constantine says.

“I’ve got a forcefield around us and the hole. There’s air inside, so their life support forcefields are
still at work. We’d better make this fast, though. I don’t want to be here if your friend decides to
start ripping apart the hyper engine,” Rocket says, hopping down from the pilot’s seat and
grabbing his gun.

“This is still a warship,” Steve says, standing up and moving to retrieve his shield. He doesn’t
understand space very well, but he does understand missions. Thanos’ warship won’t be any
different than the other strange machines he’s fought inside. “Be careful everyone.”

***

They leave the ship, slipping through the hole and the invisible forcefield holding in the
atmosphere. It’s a long, slow crowl through the hole into the ship.
Someone has punched a human sized hole into the hull of the ship, tearing through several dozen
feet of thick metal. Steve can see handprints in the metal, as if someone simply pulled it apart like
clay. Impressive, and concerning; Carol seemed like a steady, practical woman when they met.
Why would she suddenly attack Thanos and his invasion fleet without back up? Without checking
in?

Natasha and Clint are the first ones to drop into the main ship. Steve drops down beside them,
pulling his shield off of his back and bracing himself for a fight. The others drop down behind him,
all of them keeping their backs to one another.

“Oh, what the hell is this,” Clint says quietly.

The room is wide, tall, and full of machines whose purpose Steve can only guess at. Rows of tall
glass tubes run the length of the room, most of them shattered or broken, with a few holding a
strange green substance inside. There are at least two dozen of them in this room alone, gleaming
in the dim light.

“Cloning vats?” Okoye suggests.

“Not unless they’re cloning werewolf sized bats,” Rhodey says, aiming a light over one of the few
solid tubes remaining.

Something broad, tall, and bristling with muscle floats in a vat of sickly green liquid, arms lax
beside it. A pair of massive bat-like wings press against the inside of the glass.

“That looks like an outrider,” Natasha says. “Except they’ve changed the top pair of arms into a
pair of wings.”

“That’s an odd choice. Thanos has advanced tech. He could just give his armies jet packs,” Banner
says.

“Tech doesn’t survive a jump between dimensions very well,” Constantine mutters. “Not unless it’s
protected in a magic field or something. Too much work to give everyone that kind of treatment.”

Something moves in the shadows above them. Steve catches it first.

“Above us!” he shouts.

Clint reacts first, firing one of his custom arrows into the darkness. It strikes home, landing with a
solid thunk that’s shortly followed by a bellowing roar of pain. One of the bat-like creatures falls
from the ceiling and lands in front of them, tearing the arrow out of its wing with a furious hiss.

The wound seals up with an eerie green glow.

“Well, that’s not fair,” Banner mutters.

The bat monster roars in fury. Dozens of eyes appear in the shadows along the ceiling, and
answering shrieks and snarls echo down from above. Steve is reminded of the outrider horde in
Wakanda, the sound of their bloodthristy shrieks echoing back and forth in the metallic room. The
monsters fall on them from above, one swooping low to drag claws along Rhodey’s armor while
another hits Banner with a full tackle, tearing at the Hulk with its claws and fangs.

The Avengers snap into action: Clint fires more arrows at the horde, knocking them out of the sky
and briefly disabling them while the rest of the team brace themselves against the oncoming tide.
Okoye switches between firing blasts from her spear and using the vibranium tipped blade to stab
or slice anything that gets near. Natasha slips through the horde almost unseen, using a well placed
knife to distract or disable the monsters so that Banner can smash them flat. A few survive the
knives; none survive the Hulk. Constantine and Wong play rear guard; Wong with a well placed
teleportation portal, and Constantine with a gout of fire he summons with a simple snap of his
fingers.

Steve leaps into the fray, moving through the fight to support the others or play bait for the horde.
He uses his shield to knock back a bat monster from Natasha’s flank before turning to fling it in an
underhanded throw towards one sneaking up behind Constantine. The man jumps, startled,
apparently unused to having someone cover his blindspot. He gives Steve a startled, thankful nod,
and then incinerates the monster that had been sneaking up behind him. Steve moves into the heart
of the fight, where he’s always felt most at home.

The monsters are almost endless. More and more are crawling out of tubes, along the ceilings,
from the shadowy corners of the room. There’s no end to them. The Avengers are holding their
own, but the quicker they end this battle, the better.

“Thor, we could use a bit of lightning here!” Steve calls out, catching one of the monsters by the
wing and bodily flinging it against the nearest wall. It hits the steel wall hard enough to dent it,
with more of that strange green blood seeping out of its mouth. It falls limply to the ground,
healing.

“And you will have it!” Thor calls back, his voice booming. “Avengers, behind me!”

“What’s he going to--” Constantine starts.

“Get behind him!” Wong shouts back.

The air fills with the smell of ozone and heat. Steve ducks into a doorway leading into another
vast, dark room and raises his shield just before the first bolt of lightning strikes home. A flash of
light, and an almost deafening crack of thunder follows. The bat monsters shriek in pain, dying by
the scores. Steve can hear Constantine’s impressed and horrified, ‘Fucking hell!’ sound off in the
silence before the next round of lightning comes from Thor. Again, there’s a near blinding flash of
light that illuminates both the room the Avengers are in and a part of the room Steve is standing in-
--

Something golden glints in the darkness. Steve tenses, going utterly still as another crack of
thunder echoes. The battle restarts, but there are much less monsters to fight. He ignores it and
focuses on this new room. The room is dark and still and vast. Steve stalks through it, silent and
alert, gripping his shield. He can hear the Avengers fighting the strange bat monsters behind him.
The battle is well in hand between all of them, leaving Steve free to seek out the larger shadow in
the dark.

He hears a the near silent step of a foot behind him, and something heavy and metal slicing
through the air towards him. He snaps his arm up just in time to knock it aside, sending a shower
of blinding sparks through the air that disappear almost as quickly as they appear. He sees the
shape of a woman, a flash of gold, and then nothing.

He blocks the next two strikes with his shield, each of them landing hard enough to make his teeth
rattle. Each one sends another shower of sparks into the air and small bursts of force from his
shield shedding extra kinetic energy from the woman’s blows. The woman has a shield, like him,
and she’s wearing armor; something Grecian in design. She’s strong. Damn strong. And
unbelievably fast.
Steve doesn’t have time to think beyond those lightning fast observations; it’s all instinct and hard
won experience from previous battles. The shieldbearing woman never lands a hit on anything but
his shield, but the same is true for him. This woman is at least as strong as Thor, and that presents a
problem. On good days, Steve is equal to Thor in battle. On really good days, using a combination
of skill and luck, Steve can beat Thor--but never for long.

Their stalemate lasts for another three blows. On the last one, he’s too slow to raise his shield and
she knocks his helmet loose with another shower of sparks. His opponent raises her shield, ready to
knock him flat--and hesitates when she sees his face in the light. The woman stares at him,
momentarily startled, as her eyes meet his. He snatches his helmet out of the air before it can fall
and pulls it back on, putting distance between himself and the woman.

Captain America is a paragon of virtue, a legendary hero, and an honorable man.

Steve Rogers of Brooklyn, however, knows that there's no such thing as a fair fight, especially
when it comes to someone bigger and faster than you. That goes double for someone stronger than
him who fights as hard as Thor and with just as much skill. Steve needs to take whatever advantage
he can get.

He charges her, closing the distance between them with inhuman speed, and slams the front of his
helmet into her face. It feels a lot like he just ran headfirst into a wall; his teeth rattle and he feels a
part of his helmet--built from metal that’s the next best thing to vibranium--actually dent from the
force of the blow.

He also feels the woman rock back on her heels, startled.

That’s terrifying. On anyone else, a hit that hard would cave their head in.

Okay, no holding back--

"Easy! Easy, you two!" Constantine shouts.

The room fills with light, courtesy of a glowing orb hovering above John Constantine’s hand. He
sprints into the room, neatly sliding between Steve and the warrior woman, palms out. The
glowing orb of light gently hovers in place, illuminating the room.

"Calm down! Put the shields down!” Constantine orders.

Steve skids to a halt, staring at Constantine. His initial instinct is to shove him aside before the
woman hurts him--

The woman stops in her tracks, lowering her shield, shocked. “Constantine?”

“Hi,” Constantine says, relaxing slightly when he sees both Steve and the woman have stopped. He
still looks back and forth between them, ready to dive out of the way at a moment’s notice. "Right.
Okay. Seems we need an introduction.”

“You know her?” Steve asks.

“Sure do,” Constantine says. He turns to the woman. “ Wonder Woman, meet the Avengers. Think
'Justice League' but uh. Not as big and ten times more dysfunctional."

“Hey,” Clint calls out, walking in from the next room. He eyes the group warily, but lowers his
bow when Steve waves him off.
“Sorry, mate, but it’s true,” Constantine calls back. He turns back to Steve. “Captain, meet Wonder
Woman. One of our best and brightest.”

Before Steve can respond, the rest of the Avengers run in. Thor stops dead in his tracks, staring at
Wonder Woman with nothing short of utter shock. His hands drop limply to his sides, nearly
dropping the massive war axe he’d used moments ago against the monsters.

“You okay there, big guy?” Rhodey asks.

“Do you not recognize a goddess when you see one?” Thor asks, a thread of awe in his voice. He
approaches Wonder Woman. “You’re an Amazon, from Themyscira. How have you come to be in
this place?”

The woman turns and looks at them, keeping her shield lowered. Steve can see she’s using more
than just a shield; a broad, Grecian styled sword and bright golden rope are secured to her belt.

She frowns, warily glancing at Constantine before answering. “I was captured after a battle in my
world. A man brought me my weapons and freed me from my cell.”

“A man?” Constantine asks. “Tall bloke with a fancy, living cape?”

“No. Someone else. I did not get his name,” Wonder Woman says. “I found Captain Marvel after I
was freed, and we began to dismantle the Black Order’s fleet not long after that.”

“Yeesh, there’s like nine planet sized prisons and who knows how many ships floating around out
there,” Rocket says, impressed.

“We have kept busy,” Wonder Woman remarks, her tone a bit wry.

“Remind me to not piss you off, lady.”

“Where is Captain Marvel?” Natasha asks.

“I don’t know,” Wonder Woman says, frustration threading through her words. “She said she was
heading for the communications array to contact the Avengers. I have not seen her since.”

“She might be in trouble,” Banner says.

“If she’s still got her pager thing, I can try to send her a message,” Rhodey offers. “No promises
it’ll work. We’re dealing with hopped up nineties tech.”

“It’s worth a try,” Natasha tells him. “Give it a shot.”

The more technologically minded part of the team gathers around Rhodey while he works. Banner,
Rocket, and even Okoye offer their own input. Rhodey takes it with a lot more grace than Tony
would have.

Wonder Woman is staring at him, watching him with a strange expression caught somewhere
between shock and confusion. He tilts his head towards her respectfully, idly adjusting the shield
on his arm.

“Is everything all right, ma’am?” he asks, perfectly polite.

That chases away the shock and brings in nostalgia--and grief. He can see it plainly on her face;
Wonder Woman has lost someone. Maybe someone who looks and sounds a lot like him.
“Apologies. You reminded me of someone for a moment,” she says. She offers him her hand.
“Princess Diana of Themyscira. You may call me Diana.”

Steve takes her hand and shakes it firmly. “Steve, Captain America. Just call me Steve. And thank
you for helping us out. God knows we could use all the help we can get these days.”

Even his name seems to trigger another of those fond looks. She’s not seeing Steve Rogers; she’s
seeing someone else entirely, someone with his name and possibly his face. It’s there and gone in
an instant, but he feels a sudden kinship with Diana. He still has moments like that with Natasha.

“It was my pleasure,” she says. She considers him for a moment and says, simply, “You are a
skilled warrior. You carry your shield well.”

And then she walks off. Thor stands beside him, awestruck.

Steve looks at him and nudges him with an elbow. “You sure you’re okay, Thor?”

“You have no idea how rare it is to earn the praise of an Amazon. Even minor praise,” Thor says
after a moment. “If Valkyrie were here, she would kill you out of jealousy.”

“I’m glad she isn’t here, then," Steve replies dryly, though Thor has already turned to face
Constantine.

"You did not tell us that you are an agent of Themyscira," Thor says to Constantine.

"If they ever get so desperate as to claim me as one of their agents then that magic island's in dire
straits indeed," Constantine drawls. "She’s part of the League. We’re coworkers, of a sort."

“Of a sort?” Steve asks.

“Yeah, you know. See each other at the annual parties, politely say hello, otherwise stay the hell
away from each other in case our mutual baddies decide to trade off,” Constantine says. He pauses.
“That said, I’d pay a lot of money to see her go into Hell and meet some of my regulars."

"No luck calling Carol," Rhodey says, cutting off their conversation.

"Someone's near the communications side of the ship," Rocket adds, stepping forward. His
presence startles Diana for a moment, but she recovers quickly. "There's full power there, and it
looks like they're about to send out a signal. Internal sensors are going nuts. I don’t think they're
alone."

“We must hurry,” Diana says, cutting off their conversation. “Captain Marvel may be in danger.”

“Rhodey, you lead the way. We’ll follow behind,” Natasha says. She spares a look at Diana.
“Maybe you can help fill in the blanks for us on the way. I’d like to know how you got here.”

“I will do my best,” Diana says.

***

BATCHAT

Barbara (02:15am): So I can’t help but notice that someone has gotten into our arsenal lately

Barbara (02:20am): Exactly how many incendiary bullets and grenades do you need to finish one
(1) patrol, again?

Barbara (02:35am): Jason, if you’re going out there alone, you should at least check in with me.

Jason (03:00am): Something is happening in the Alley

Barbara (03:01am): What’s going on?

Jason (03:02am): The manbat things are back, and they're fucking huge.

Barbara (03:03am): How many?

Barbara (03:10am): Jason?

Barbara (03:11am): Dammit.

Bruce (03:12am): What’s his last location?

Barbara (03:14am): Suddenly and violently reminded of the fact that you actually read this.
Horrifying.

Barbara (03:15am): He removed all of his trackers. They just spell ‘fuck you’ now.

Barbara (03:15am): I can send you a general area.

Bruce (03:16am): On my way. Keep me informed.

***

Peter dreams of home.

Well, he dreams of a home. Maybe the home; the image of all of his various homes over the course
of his life. The comfortable townhome his parents owned that holds a strange nostalgic grief, Aunt
May and Uncle Ben’s smaller apartment that always seems warm and sunny, and the apartment he
and May moved into not long after Ben’s death, which is no less warm, but a bit less sunny. Even
the fire station he’s been living inside of for the past several months edges into appearance every
now and then, though he tries to ignore that. It’s as if his mind told itself to summon up home and,
failing to choose, simply yanked up every version of home he’s experienced so far.

“If this is your idea of ‘home’ then you should perhaps thank the mother hen that’s taken you
under his wing,” Loki drawls from beside him. “He’s at least taken you to something approaching
acceptable shelter on a planet as backwards as this.”

His appearance is so sudden, so clear, that Peter lets out a startled yelp of shock.

“It’s odd the Wayne Manor hasn’t leaked into your dreams yet,” Loki adds, plainly ignoring Peter’s
shock. “I suppose that’s only a matter of time, however.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” Peter asks.

“I’m here to help you.”

“Help me?” Peter asks.

“I’ve used an Infinity Stone before, but not in the way that you have,” Loki says, his tone somehow
thoughtful and arrogant all at once. “The stone chose you. That changes things, though I’m not sure
how. Nor is anyone else, I’m afraid. Regardless, I can give you the basics.”

“Why would you do that?” Peter asks. He pauses and adds, “And why can I see you? I thought all
of you ghosts were a little...you know. Under the weather.”

“Oh, they’re not sick. They just don’t want to hurt you by using your life force to manifest nearby.
I am, however, older and more practiced than them,” Loki explains. “And we’ve all gained in
strength since you finally started taking care of yourself instead of living on the street like a
wretched orphan.”

Peter sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, his patience already thin. “Loki, I do not need this right
now--”

“Do not banish me until I’ve said my piece,” Loki says, pointing at Peter. “You’re in dire need of a
teacher. Fortunately, you have me.”

“I thought you were the god of mischief, not the god of teachers,” Peter says.

“Trickster gods are often the best teachers,” Loki says, idly poking around the apartment. He
doesn’t seem terribly impressed by most of it, but he’s careful to not interrupt the translucent
memories of May bustling around the apartment. “And we are running out of time. You need to
learn as much from me as you can.”

“Uh. Right,” Peter says warily. “Starting with what?”

“Starting with the most important advice you’ll ever hear: magic lies. Magic users are the biggest
liars you’ll ever meet.” He claps his hands. “Now, with that out of the way, I have a few tricks to
burrow into that thick skull of yours. Pay attention to everything I say.”

Peter quirks an eyebrow at him. “Including the lies?”

Loki grins, genuine and just shy of feral. “Especially the lies, little spider.” He nods to Peter.
“Now, summon the stone.”

“How do I do that?”

“You’ll have to use your brain for that,” Loki says dryly.

Peter glares at him for a moment, pointedly turns away from him, and thinks.

A heavy, warm weight falls into his hand, thrumming with power. It reminds Peter of an Arc
Reactor, but amplified to a power of a million. The stone bathes the home of made of memory in a
seething orange light that overpowers the room until he frowns at it and thinks ‘stop being so
bright’ at it.

The light dims to something approaching acceptable. It’s still bright, but its light equals that of
‘checking your phone at 2am with full brightness’ rather than ‘power of the freaking sun.’ He
examines the stone, turning it over in his hand. Aside from the light and feeling of power, it’s really
not all that impressive.

Okay, so he has the soul stone. Aunt May said he should learn how to control that. Loki wants to
help him learn how to control it. How, exactly, is one supposed to do that?
“By gaining control of your own soul,” Loki says. “The stone hasn’t yet melded with you. You
spent so much time ignoring it that the process has stalled. You’ll need to restart.”

“Stop reading my mind,” Peter says, examining the stone. “And how do I gain control of my own
soul?”

Loki tilts his head, quirking an eyebrow at Peter. “What is a soul?”

That is so far beyond Peter’s knowledge that it’s almost laughable. He gives Loki an exasperated
look. “How the hell should I know?”

Loki rolls his eyes. “Fine, we’ll save the interesting discussion for another time. You’re no fun, for
the record.”

“Thanks.”

“Your mind is scattered. I don’t mean that in the normal way mortal minds are scattered--though
you are an astounding example of that, too--I mean that you are not yet whole after your experience
in that little resurrection machine,” Loki explains. “Your memories are there, but drifting. Were it
not for the alien woman, you would be nothing but rage and grief. She’s the reason you came out
of that machine with any kind of sanity.”

That’s a scary thought. "So, what do I do?”

Loki shrugs. “Heal. Think of home. Grieve. Attain some level of acceptable mental health. The
rage inside you is dying, slowly, and that will help you access the stone’s power. In fact, you
started to accept the stone’s power months ago. And it’s a good thing you did. None of us would
have been able to speak with you or help you without it.”

Peter frowns at him. “When did I do that?”

“When you were building that little trinket of yours. The radio. You drifted back into your own
past. It dampened that green rage.”

Peter blinks. He had been thinking of the radio he’d built for Tony during their first few meetings
after the whole Vulture affair. He remembers that moment at the firehouse when he felt himself
pulled back into the memory, half hearing Tony as he worked.

“I have to, what, relive my memories?”

“That’s a simplified version, but I suppose it will do.”

“Huh,” Peter says, thoughtful. “Okay.”

“And just as a friendly heads up: we’ll see them, too. All of us ghosts,” Loki adds, drifting away in
a swirl of orange ash. “Be mindful of what memories you focus on.”

And then he’s gone. Peter is left standing alone in his dream, holding one of the infinity stones in
his hand.

Memories, he thinks.

A strange, buzzing sound fills the dream. The noise fills the room, then beyond it, and Peter--

***
 --wakes up to sound of his alarm, and gentle knocking on his door.

Peter flops a hand out from under the blankets, smacks everything on the night stand at least twice
before managing to find the button to silence the alarm. He picks up the Nightwing figurine and
steadies it before groaning in frustration at being pulled from sleep. He stays like that for a
moment, and then sits up, running a hand through his hair and sighing.

He feels strange. Anxious in a way he can’t quite articulate. A singular, constant, buzzing itch at
the back of his neck.

“Hey, Pete,” Dick calls out through the door. “Get up and get dressed. Alfred’s got us both booked
up for the day. We’re due for a suit fitting after breakfast.”

“Got it, I’ll be right down!” Peter calls out. That warning buzz tugs at him more as his grogginess
slips away. When he stands up, he has to fight against the sudden urge to skitter up the wall and
hide in a ceiling corner.

Something has his senses going nuts.

Peter stops to consider this for a moment before heading for the shower.

Whatever it is, he’ll deal with it. For now, he has to at least pretend he’s human.

Chapter End Notes

Wonder Woman’s reaction is based on my complete inability to keep track of and

differentiate Chris Pine, Chris Evans, Chris Hemsworth, and Chris Pratt.

We'll be switching between MCU 'verse and DC 'verse for the next few chapters. We
are slowly, but surely winding towards the end of this fic. I've got a few big things left
to throw at Peter. It's gonna be fun.

Stay safe during the summer heat!

 Chapter 37
Chapter Notes

The cliffhangers start now.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

BATCHAT

Barbara (05:01am): Whoa. The 911 system just lit up in Crime Alley.

Bruce (05:02am): Earthquake.

Bruce (05:03am): Several buildings are on fire.

Barbara (05:04am): Emergency services are swamped. If anyone is inside those buildings, you’re
their only hope.

Bruce (05:05am): On my way. Keep searching for trackers.

***

BATCHAT

Bruce (07:06am): Fires are handled. Rubble is clearing. Any sign of the trackers?

Barbara (07:08am): No, whatever faint traces I had are gone.

Barbara (07:09am): Duke is awake. He’s suiting up now.

Bruce (07:10am): Have him search where I left off. We need more help. Are the others awake?

Barbara (07:11am): They are. Cass and Steph are dealing with some things downtown.

Bruce (07:12am): I’m on my way back.

Bruce (07:13am): If you find any trace of him, you tell me. No matter what.

Barbara (07:14am): Copy that.

***

Peter showers. Dresses. The electric buzz of anxiety follows him every step of the way. He almost
forgets to use his inhaler before another laughing fit hits him. The burning tickle at the back of his
throat is lessening by the day, but that’s probably because he’s been awake and aware enough to
use his inhaler to counter whatever the hell the Joker did to him.

He's in the middle of pulling on a clean shirt when his phone lets out a quiet buzz of its own. He
instinctively flings out his hand to use his webshooters to bring it over to him, realizes he hasn't
actually made new webshooters yet, and grumbles to himself before crossing over to his bed to
pick up his phone like a normal person.

Felicia: the Alley is getting weird

Felicia: you should at least take a look at it. Soon.

Peter: weird how?

Felicia: people going missing, city inspectors think they’ve found some massive underground
bunker and disappeared after reporting it, LOTS of bat monster sightings

Felicia: Lou can tell you more, but it’s getting bad out there

Felicia: someone says they've seen Bane and Clayface hanging around, too

Shit.

Maybe that’s what’s spiking his senses? It would explain them, at the very least. If something is
going wrong in Crime Alley, bad enough that he can feel it all the way in Wayne Manor, then it’s
an Avengers level threat, and one that needs to be handled as soon as possible.

As this world’s only Avenger, that means it’s up to him. Except he doesn’t have a way to get to
Crime Alley, short of opening a window and sprinting through the winter landscape outside.
Which would probably cause a bit of a stir in the Wayne household.

Felicia: i’m going to go take a look later. Come with?

Peter: i’m kinda in the middle of stuff here today

Peter: and i don’t have a way to sneak into the city. Can’t just swing away from a manor

Felicia: your loss

Peter sets down his phone, his senses buzzing like a high voltage wire. He wants to tell Felicia to
stay out of it, to drop back and wait until he’s able to sneak off and help. But he knows how well
that will go. They aren’t exactly close friends, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out how well
Felicia would take that kind of unwanted advice.

He considers his predicament, tugging on his shoes and tying them off before walking out of his
room. Peter wanders through the hallway, following the sound of activity. He goes downstairs,
wandering through the halls towards one of the living rooms, his mind churning through his latest
trouble. He could get away with sneaking off, probably. Most of the Wayne kids are busy these
days, and they tend to give him his space more often than not. If he does sneak off, he will, at the
very least, upset Dick and Alfred. Maybe that’s a necessary evil? He can’t just ignore the Alley,
not that he knows something is wrong.

That’s setting aside the issue of getting there. Wayne Manor is about as far from Crime Alley as
you can get, and it’s not like he can just swing from the manor grounds over to the center of the
worst part of the city. He’ll need a ride out there. And in order to get that, he’ll need to dream up
some reason to get into Crime Alley to bum a ride off of one of the Wayne kids or Alfred, or
borrow a car himself. None of those prospects seems likely to happen.

Peter flops down on the couch, face first, and buries his face against the cushions with a frustrated
groan. It’s dramatic, and maybe it’s a little uncalled for, but whatever. He's allowed.

Why is life so difficult.

“Are you alright, Peter?” Bruce asks, concerned.

Peter tilts his head, looking up. Bruce is sitting in a chair across the room, holding a tablet in his
hands. His suit is perfect, but dark bags hang heavily beneath his eyes. He’s watching Peter
curiously, but in the fuzzy way that Tony used to; clearly functioning on less sleep than is healthy.
Tim’s sleeping habits are no longer a mystery.

Peter panics for a moment, desperately searches for a reason to be upset that doesn’t sound insane
as hell (‘hi, Bruce, I’m a street vigilante and you’re about to throw a gala in my honor, isn’t that
neat?') and blurts out, “Have you ever dated a cat burglar?”

Bruce freezes.

“Because I think this girl I went on a kind of date with is a cat burglar and I don’t think she’s
stealing from the poor, but it’s kind of a whole thing between us,” Peter continues. “Also she threw
me in a dumpster once. Somehow, that’s made her more attractive, and I feel like that should be
something I need to look at, but I’m also not sure if I want to know if I’m just naturally attracted to
women who can and will kill me yet. So, yeah, do you have any advice for that?”

Bruce stares at him for a long moment before setting the tablet down on the coffee table and
standing up. He moves to the liquor cabinet, pours himself a worryingly generous amount of
brandy into a glass, downs it in one go, then looks at Peter.

“Good luck with that,” he says, before leaving the room.

Peter stares after him, baffled that worked so well. He’s left alone for a few moments before Tim
shuffles into the living room, holding a mug of coffee potent enough to make Peter’s nose itch
from across the room. Tim waves.

“Hey, Peter,” he says, motioning for Peter to follow him. “Most of us are in the kitchen.”

“Oh,” Peter says, hopping up from the couch. “I wondered where Dick ran off to. He woke me up
and kind of disappeared.”

“Yeah, he’s been up half the night answering phone calls from his friends, I think,” Tim says.

“Friends?” Peter asks.

“Work friends,” Tim says. “They sometimes call him for input on, uh.” He pauses, as if unsure of
how to says this. Finally, he settles with, “Family business stuff.”

“So, Wayne Tech?” Peter guesses, shoving his hands into his pockets as they walk the halls. He’s
still not entirely used to how large the manor is. How wide the halls are. The walls are well
decorated, but something about them bothers him.

They pass by one in particular, one of the more hollow sounding ones, and Peter pauses, frowning.
Something clicks inside the wall. It’s gentle, almost impossible to hear over the ambient noise of
the kitchen, but it almost sounds like a door. Peter stops midstep and tilts his head, frowning. When
Tim sees him stop, he nudges Peter’s shoulder, gently herding him away from the wall.

“A little bit different from that,” Tim says after a moment. “The Wayne empire is wide and vast. In
a lot of ways. Wayne Industries has a lot of subdivisions. I tend to stick my nose into WayneTech’s
operations more often than anywhere else, really.”

The idea of a kid his age--a brilliant one, to be sure, but still a guy he takes physics class with--
having a hand in the operations of a company subdivision that employs a significant portion of
Gotham City’s population is baffling enough to make him forget about the strange wall.

“Oh. That’s interesting,” Peter says, suddenly feeling out of place.

Tim notices and doesn’t quite flinch. “Sorry. I forgot you’re still settling in. Don’t worry about that
right now. Let’s just focus on today.”

Sounds good to Peter. “What are we doing today?”

“We’re getting our suits,” Tim says, heading for the coffee maker and pouring himself a generous
refill. “And then I’m going back to work.”

“Have you slept?” Peter asks, eyes roaming the kitchen. No one else is here, but there's a steaming
mug of tea on the counter, freshly made.

There’s a small flatscreen TV in the corner, channel tuned to Gotham Morning News with the
headline: Third earthquake strikes Crime Alley in twelve hours; officials suspect abandoned
subway stations are collapsing beneath the streets crawling across the bottom of the screen.

That headline makes his teeth itch.

“Yes,” Tim says. After a moment, he adds, “In theory.”

What the hell does that mean. Peter turns to face Tim and ask exactly that when his senses spike,
focusing on the corner behind him. He snaps a hand out, snatching an orange out of the air.

"Nice try, Damian," Peter says, turning around slowly and tossing the orange back and forth
between his hands. He grins as the youngest Wayne steps out of the shadows of the doorway. "But
you have to try harder than that."

"That can be arranged, Parker," Damian replies, his tone as somber as a church.

It’s then that Peter realizes that Bruce, Dick, and Alfred are also in the doorway. Bruce watches the
interaction with sharp interest, his eyes clear and his gaze focused. He looks at Peter with such
intensity that it almost feels like a physical thing. Peter fidgets; the last time anyone looked at him
like that, they were dressed as a giant bat.

Damian fastballs another orange at Peter while he’s distracted. Peter catches this one as well and
idly starts to peel it; he shares some pieces with Damian.

“Seriously, how is this possible?” Damian grumbles, taking the orange pieces.

"I have reflexes you'll never be able to match," Peter says easily, grabbing a nearby plate to put the
orange slices on. "I'm just that good."

"We'll see about that," Damian retorts, biting into his orange slice. His eyes take on a devious glint
and Peter wonders, just for a moment, if the kid could actually pull it off.

Bruce watches the exchange closely, a glint in his own eye. It's a look Peter can’t quite place,
though he's seen something like it before. After a moment, it hits him. He’s gotten that look before
alright. From Tony, the day they first met at his apartment.

"The kitchen is now officially a no-fly zone, gentlemen," Alfred says firmly, walking into the
kitchen. "The tailor and his assistant will be here soon. They've served the Wayne family for as
long as I have and I will not have them struck by stray fruit. We are not having a repeat of the
‘Knife Incident.’”

There’s a distinct thread of desperation to that last part. Peter is suddenly very curious about the
‘knife incident’ and also not entirely sure he wants to know.

“Master Peter, you’ll need a haircut first, I believe--” Alfred starts. He pauses, when a phone
begins to ring in one of the rooms down the hall. It’s unbelievably loud and strange to hear; Peter’s
used to the beeps and chiptune jingles of modern phones. Or just the quiet buzz of a phone set to
vibration only. Alfred frowns. “Please excuse me, I must take that.”

He slips out of the kitchen, leaving Peter along with the Waynes. A brief silence follows. Peter can
hear Alfred’s polite tones speaking to whoever is calling them.

“Dick, Tim, Damian, come with me,” Bruce says, breaking the silence. “We need to discuss--”

“I'm going with Peter,” Dick says.

Bruce pauses, drawn up short. He glances at Dick, then at Peter. An odd tension forms between
them, and Peter does his best to not squirm. After a few moments, Bruce settles with, “Join us
when you’re available.”

“When I’m available,” Dick confirms, pointedly not giving Bruce the timeline. "Duke can stand in
for me if it's really important."

"Not me?" Tim asks.

"You haven't slept," Dick says.

“Since when has that mattered?”

"Duke is--" Bruce pauses and glances at Peter for a moment. "Busy. Family business."

“I mean, I can handle getting a suit fitted by myself," Peter offers. The tension between Dick and
Bruce is ratcheting up by degrees the longer this conversation goes on, and he’s not a fan of being
the cause for it. Plus, if he handles this by himself, there’s the added bonus of possibly sneaking
off sooner than expected. “It’s not a big deal, especially if it’s a family thing--”

“You’re a part of this family, too,” Dick says simply. He aims a look at Bruce. “I’ll catch up with
you later.”

"Have you checked the group message?" Bruce asks.

“No, not yet. My phone is in my room. I’ll check it later,” Dick says. “Bruce, there’s a ton of us.
You can handle things without me for one day.”

Bruce is about to reply when Alfred steps back inside the kitchen and clears his throat, catching the
attention of the room.

“That was Lois Lane. She called to inform you that her husband has fallen ill and won’t be able to
make it to the gala,” Alfred says to Bruce.
The snaps Bruce and Dick out of their staredown. Both men turn to look at Alfred, nearly identical
looks of concern on their faces.

“Since when has Clark gotten sick?” Tim asks.

“Since a few weeks ago,” Bruce replies. He starts to say more, but his eyes flick towards Peter and
he hesitates for half a second before speaking again, “Tim, Damian, come with me. We should
talk. Dick---”

"I'll join you when I can."

Bruce pauses, but nods slightly, before leaving the room with the others. Tim offers Peter a quick
wave. Damian grabs the plate with all of the orange slices. Peter frowns after them, disturbed, but
in a way he can’t quite articulate.

Alfred, meanwhile, is as calm as ever. He moves one of the stools from the counter towards the
sink. "Normally, I would take you to the family barber, Master Peter, but given how soon the gala
is taking place..."

"Trust me, I'm way more comfortable cutting my hair in the kitchen."

"Excellent. Master Richard, if you could get the barber's kit for me from the cabinet--"

The two men begin to set up a makeshift barber station near the kitchen sink. While they're busy,
Peter checks his phone. The last message in Wayne Manor Chat is from Duke, asking Peter to join
him for a round of video games. It's dated back to the day he officially moved into the manor.

They have an entirely separate group chat. Without him. For all of Dick’s insistence that he’s a part
of the family, he's been cut off from it in a significant way.

He clenches his fist when the realization hits him, feeling the green tinged anger inside him begin
to simmer with a mix of embarrassment and slow boiling rage. Well, he feels a hell of a lot less
guilty about sneaking off tomorrow now.

A distant voice at the edge of his consciousness cuts in.

"Do not let your anger overcome your sense," T'Challa says, his voice distant and difficult to hear.
"There may be a reason for it."

That's enough to dampen the worst of his anger, and he takes a shaky breath, forcing himself to
calm down.

"Here, Alfred," Dick says.

"Thank you. Master Peter, if you would please join me ," Alfred says.

The haircut takes no time at all. Alfred has an eye for it, despite lacking most of his own hair. Dick
hops up and sits on the counter while Peter getting his haircut, chatting idly and kicking his legs.

By the end of it, Peter’s anger has dimmed to an uncomfortable annoyance. He wonders if his
senses are somehow making it worse, alongside whatever the lingering effects of the Joker fear
serum have on his mood. It helps that Dick and Alfred spend most of the haircut chatting with one
another.

“There you are, Master Peter,” Alfred says, stepping away from the stool. “And just in time for the
tailor. I think he’ll have extra time for you today since Master Tim and Master Damian are
otherwise busy.”

Peter stands up from the stool, running an experimental hand over his hair. His head feels lighter.
Dick gives him a grin and a thumbs up.

“Looking sharp, Peter. Ready for a new suit?”

In the back of his mind, Peter hears an echo of Tony, driving up alongside him in one of his fancy
sports cars and coming to a halt in the most dramatic fashion possible: “Get in kid, we’re getting
you a suit. Oh, by the way, I’m getting married. It’s kind of your fault.”

“Yeah, sure,” Peter says, half lost to his memories as he follows Alfred and Dick over to one of the
various rooms in the manor. “Looking forward to it.”

And he is, shockingly, though not because he’s getting new clothes. The tailor is polite, patient,
and happy to explain the finer points of how to dress for certain events to Peter. The amount of
coordination, the subtleties of how a suit is put together, is a bit lost on Peter, but the tailor’s
enthusiasm is pleasant enough. He spends half of the fitting thinking of May and Tony; May
helping him learn how to make a tie knot that isn’t an utter disaster, and Tony sweeping through a
shop and talking Peter’s ear off while he finds the perfect tux for his wedding. He snaps out of it
when the tailor finishes.

“I believe we’re finished here, young man. The suit fits you perfectly. As always, Alfred has an eye
for measurements,” the tailor says.

Peter blinks. Almost invisible golden shapes at the edge of his vision fade away. “Thank you.”

The tailor smiles at him as Peter steps aside. The suit is a lot more comfortable than he expected. It
still feels stuffy, however. The tailor turns to Dick.

Dick grins at him, bright and mischievous. “Don’t suppose you’ve got anything bright and colorful
in that bag of tricks this time?”

“If you try to bedazzle one of my ties again, Mr. Grayson, we’ll have words,” the tailor replies,
amused. “Let’s get started.”

Dick laughs, bantering with the tailor like an old friend. Peter half pays attention to their
conversation before ultimately tuning it out. He looks outside the nearest window instead, looking
out over the snow covered grounds of Wayne Manor. The sky is clear; the air bright and cold.
Peter’s eye keeps wandering towards the city beyond the grounds, and the sky. Something about
the sky is bothering him.

His anxiety begins to creep back in, despite the pleasant chatter around him.

***

BATCHAT

Barbara (06:03pm): Check in time, Duke.

Duke (06:04pm): No luck so far. Jason’s usual hideouts are all clear.

Duke (06:05pm): Another earthquake just hit. It’s too localized to be natural.
Duke (06:06pm): Where is everyone?

Barbara (06:06pm): Bruce is in the cave at the moment with Damian. He’s looking into the
earthquakes.

Barbara (06:07pm): Someone with a Metropolitan accent keeps calling in bomb threats in Old
Gotham and the city hall district. Steph and Cass are handling those. They’ve found six so far.

Barbara (06:08pm): Dick is with Peter. I’m not sure why he’s not checking his phone.

***

“Why are we still wearing these suits? We don’t need them right now, do we?” Peter asks, tugging
at his shirt sleeve. The shirt fits him perfectly, and the whole encounter with the tailor had been
much less painful than expected, thanks to some half forgotten tips Tony had rambled at him once
upon a time.

The haircut is still too new. Peter’s ears are cold, and he has to fight the urge to keep from fussing
with his hair too much.

“Portraits,” Dick says, grinning wryly. “Alfred can’t get any of us in a suit very often, and that goes
double for me, so he’s taking advantage of our current condition.”

“Portraits?” Peter asks, walking over to Dick.

“Family portraits,” Dick says. “You know.”

“Oh, uh. Right,” Peter says, suddenly feeling awkward.

The only portraits he’s used to getting end up in the school yearbook. And very few of those turn
out well. He literally blinked in the middle of his last picture at Midtown. And he never bothered to
pay for his picture at Gotham Academy.

“Yeah, my parents didn’t do this sort of thing very often either,” Dick admits. “But Bruce and
Alfred are both pretty dead set on this sort of thing. Think of a school picture, except they’re going
to put it in a thousand dollar frame and mount it to the wall in the main entrance.”

“And that’s supposed to be reassuring?”

“No, but it’s important to Alfred,” Dick says. “The portrait hall is his favorite place in the manor.”

Well. Peter doesn’t want to upset Alfred. Not when he’s about to go sprinting off to Crime Alley
tomorrow. Peter sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right. Okay. I won’t have to do any stupid
poses, will I?”

“Just one,” Dick says, amused. He grips Peter’s shoulder and guides him over towards the grand
staircase in the entrance hall. “He knows better than to expect us to hold still for very long. He kind
of gave up on that when I first came here and started swinging from the chandeliers out of
boredom.”

Peter pauses, his earlier frustration at Dick momentarily resurfacing before dropping back once
more. “You what?”

“They were in perfect reach! How could I not?” Dick says, pointing at the glittering chandelier
above them. The sunlight from the windows on the upper floors makes the chandelier glow with a
golden light.

That thing is within easy reach of Peter, sure, but he can’t imagine how Dick could pull off a jump
like that. Unless he jumped from the bannister.

Peter grins. “I wish I could have seen Alfred’s face.”

“Honestly, he handled it pretty well. Just kind of blinked and went, ‘hm’ before taking the picture
and finding a ladder and broom to chase me off of it. That picture is on the wall in his room,” Dick
says.

Peter wishes he could introduce Alfred to Pepper one day. He has a feeling they’d get along. He
grins.

“In front of the stairs, gentlemen,” Alfred says, walking into the entrance wall with a tripod and a
camera tucked under one arm. “This won’t take but a moment. Do not climb the walls or
chandeliers, Master Richard, I just had them cleaned.”

Dick grins and winks at Peter. “It’s always fun having a house rule created because of you.”

Peter laughs.

Alfred takes a few pictures. The process is quick and neat, and Peter’s anxiety rises for almost all
of it. When the it’s done, Peter lets out a quiet sigh of relief. He idly wonders what kind of camera
Alfred is using. He’s about to ask when the room darkens. Clouds sweep in across the sky,
dimming the light inside the hall to a shadowy darkness as the windows shift from a bright winter
afternoon to an almost unnatural darkness.

“Huh, I guess we’re due for another snow storm,” Dick says, his tone a bit uncertain.

“Those don’t look like snow clouds,” Peter says, frowning.

The clouds more closely resemble thick black smoke rolling across the sky. Flashes of light can be
see within them. Thunder crackles threateningly above the manor, lightning flickering in the sky,
casting sharp shadows inside the entrance hall with every flash. A brilliant flash of lightning
briefly illuminates the manor, followed by the near deafening thunder, cracking the sky and
rattling windows with a deep rumble Peter can feel in his chest.

It sounds horrible. Threatening, somehow.

“Thundersnow?” Dick hazards, his gaze sharpening. His stance changes slightly, losing the easy
grace from before. There’s a strength to it now, one that’s oddly familiar, though Peter can’t quite
place it.

“It isn’t snowing,” Peter says after a moment. “It’s not raining. There’s not even any wind making
the trees sway outside.”

“You’re right,” Dick says. He squeezes Peter’s shoulder. “Hey, I’ve gotta go do something. Are
you okay if I leave?”

Peter does his best to not slump in relief. He nods. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“Thanks. I’ll be back later,” Dick says. He leaves, moving swiftly down one of the halls Peter
hasn’t explored yet.
Alfred frowns after him for a moment before turning to Peter. “You can change into more
comfortable clothes now, Master Peter. Leave your suit where I can find it so I can prepare it for
tomorrow.”

“Sure, Alfred,” Peter says, his eyes wandering up towards the window and rumbling storm above.
“I think I’ve had my fill of stuff to do for the day, anyway.”

“A not uncommon sentiment in this home,” Alfred remarks.

***

BATCHAT

Barbara (08:04pm): Duke isn’t answering my pings. When was the last time anyone had eyes on
him?

Bruce (08:05pm): The last time you spoke with him.

Barbara (08:06pm): Not promising. How are things at the cave?

Bruce (08:09pm): Not promising. Tim has been helping with the bombs. They aren’t human in
origin. I’m going to go find and talk to Dick.

Barbara (08:10pm): When it rains, it pours.

***

Peter changes, grabs a notebook, and begins to plan. He won’t be able to make a good suit with the
time he has available, but he can make one that works. Maybe something like his original suit. The
one he wore before Tony Stark wandered into his apartment and offered him an upgrade in
exchange for help.

He gets to work. Outside, black clouds and rolling thunder shake his windows. Peter is sitting at
his desk, contemplating suit designs, when he hears two voices outside of his room. Bruce and
Dick. They’re muffled by the thick wood, but if he strains, he can just make out their words.

“Have you considered--” Bruce starts.

“I know exactly where you’re going with this and no. We aren’t exposing Peter to any of the family
business,” Dick says.

“He’s proved himself already. He can handle it.”

“Absolutely not,” Dick says, furious. “Leave him out of this. All of it. At least one of us needs to
grow up normally, Bruce. He’s gone through enough.”

“With his abilities, I think he could--”

“I said no,” Dick retorts, voice as hard as granite. “We’ve lost one already, within the past month.”
A brief pause, and then very quietly, “If you turn him into one of us, I’ll never forgive you for it.
Do you understand?”

A very lengthy pause follows that.

“I understand,” Bruce says, finally. There’s a strained tone to it, and an undercurrent of stiff
 apology.

“Good,” Dick says. A door opens and slams shut. After a few moments, the strange too quiet tread
of Bruce Wayne walks down the hall.

Peter sits at his desk and wonders what the hell, exactly, is going on inside Wayne manor. This
whole day has been full of a simmering tension from start to finish, and Peter is frankly done with
it. He heads to bed, fidgeting restlessly for a long time before he falls asleep.

His eyes briefly flash gold when he begins to dream.

***

BATCHAT

Barbara (11:14pm): Update?

Dick (11:16pm): I found Jason’s last location. His guns are here, at least.

Barbara (11:17pm): What did you find?

Dick (11:18pm): Several dead bat monsters.

Dick (11:19pm): And ashes.

Chapter End Notes

The next time Bruce, Dick, and Peter meet, they'll know each other's identities. More
or less.

Next chapter will focus on the Avengers. It'll be the last we'll see of them in MCU.

Trust me.
 Chapter 38
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

They move as a group in the eerily silent halls of the ship.

The Inevitable hums quietly beneath their feet, and the sound grows as they move from one end of
the massive ship to the next, following Carol’s signal. Steve has the unnerving sense that they’re
walking across the back of a sleeping giant, one that’s somehow unaware of them but more than
capable of smashing them flat once it wakes.

They move quickly, prepared for a resistance that doesn’t come. One empty hallway leads into
another. No enemy contact, but the scorched walls and ceiling speak of a fierce battle that
happened at some point in the past. One that gradually shifts into normalcy the deeper they go.
Rhodey leads the group, occasionally adjusting settings on his jury rigged scanner tracking Carol.
Steve and Thor flank him, each prepared to leap to his defense in case he's attacked while his focus
is elsewhere.

The stillness of the ship bothers Steve. The fact that they've passed more of those rooms lined with
vats of monsters submerged in green liquid bothers him more.

"Exactly how many vat rooms does this place have?" Banner asks incredulously, pitching his voice
low as they walk through the latest one. "This is the tenth one we've gone through."

"I'm more interested in knowing how many of those creatures are kept inside them," Okoye says.

"We don't know," Wonder Woman says. She's near the front of the group, just behind Thor and
Steve, shield braced on her arm. "Perhaps a thousand per room? They only use them for a short
time before leaving."

"A thousand vats of green goop cooking up mutant soldiers," Clint remarks. "Seems like overkill."

"It isn’t," Rhodey says, scarcely looking up from his tracker. When he does spare the vat rooms a
glance, it's with the shrewd glare of a seasoned tactician. "War is a numbers game. You always
have to make the move that saves you the most of what you need. Soldiers, supplies, and people.
All three can be boiled down to numbers. In fact, they have to be, if you want to win. You can’t
humanize either side until after the fighting is done."

"If your Thanos plans on invading my Earth, he'll need a hell of a lot of these things. We have
some heavy hitters back home," Constantine says. “Of course, Thor here just zapped a few dozen
of the beasts and didn’t break a sweat, so maybe my neck of the woods will fare a bit better.”

"He's also Thor, a literal god," Natasha points out. “We fought one room with maybe one or two
hundred of those things, working together. What if it were one thousand? Ten thousand? One
million? How many living gods do you have protecting your Earth, and how long could they last
against an endless wave of these things?"

Constantine considers that for a moment before shrugging. "More than you'd think, but I get your
point."

They keep moving.

 ***

Sometime later--by Steve's internal clock, he measures it as an hour at most--they reach the middle
of the warship. The marching order has changed; Constantine has drifted towards the back with
Wonder Woman, idly grabbing Thor’s mead flask off of his belt on his way, and the two share a
drink while speaking with one another in hushed tones. Natasha and Clint stand near them, not
quite spying. Rocket, Banner, and Okoye stand in the middle. Thor drifts closer to Steve as the
passageway narrows.

“You recognized Wonder Woman,” Steve says, breaking the silence. Thor glances up at him.

“It is hard to mistake a warrior of Themyscira for anything else,” Thor says. “It is surprising she is
here. She has made a great sacrifice by leaving her home.”

“How so?”

Thor becomes thoughtful, and continues, in a careful tone. “The warriors of Themyscira do not
leave their island without sacrifice. Their home is a paradise, crafted by the gods of the cosmos to
meet their every need. If any of them leave, they cannot return. The gods will not allow it. And if
their princess is here...”

Steve glances at Diana. She’s deep in conversation with Constantine on the other side of the group,
Thor's mead flask in hand. As he watches, she takes a deep drink before capping the flask. “If
Thanos destroyed half of her home, it might be a sacrifice they felt was necessary to make.”

“Perhaps," Thor says. "I don’t know much more about the Amazons. Only whispers and rumors
from the Valkyrie warriors I followed around as a child."

“Which is a hell of a lot more than the rest of us have,” Rhodey points out, turning suddenly down
a hall. “What do you know?”

“They are warriors of unparalleled skill and honor, blessed by the gods. Darker rumors say my
father once tried to invade Themyscira. When I was younger, I didn’t believe that, and he refused to
speak of it. After speaking with Valkyrie however...”

“Why wouldn’t he tell you about it?” Steve asks.

“Because he lost terribly,” Thor says. “Theymyscira didn’t kill any of our warriors. Rumors say
many of our warriors and even a few of our Valkyrie joined them. My father’s ego was fragile in
certain respects, especially during his younger days. He would never speak of losing a battle in his
own hall. His pride wouldn’t allow it.”

Steve considers that, watching his friend from the corner of his eye. Despite being thousands of
years old, it seems that Thor has only truly grown since coming to Earth. He can remember a time
when the Asgardian warrior would bristle at the weakest suggestion that Asgardians are not
perfect.

“If she’s that strong, then why didn’t she just lay me out during our fight? She has a sword. She
just used her shield.” And it was still an even match, at best.

“Because she didn’t wish to kill you,” Thor says simply.

“We’re here,” Rhodey says. He stops in front of a massive steel door.

This one is different from the others; heavier and wider than the others they have passed through
so far. It's clearly meant for a larger number of people to pass through. For example, a column of
troops marching side by side. Or flying, Steve supposes.

"This is the center of the ship. Near the bridge," Rocket says. “Hey, suit guy, I’m gonna need your
help with this door.”

“Tell me what you need, fuzzball,” Rhodey says, kneeling down and pulling open a compartment
on his suit for Rocket. The raccoon man grabs a couple of cables from Rhodey’s suit and plugs
them into a nearly invisible port next to the door.

The Avengers spread out, falling into defensive positions around the two genius heroes while they
begin their work. The silence falls across their little group again, and Steve notices the tension
growing among their group. Clint glances up and down the hall, gripping his bow tight.

"So where are the guards?" Clint asks, tense.

“Killed?” Natasha asks, standing beside him.

“There’d be signs of a fight if that were true.”

“Perhaps they abandoned their posts?” Okoye asks, spear held ready. “It’s not as if we were subtle
when we entered the ship.”

“The ship has been relatively silent since Captain Marvel and I forced our way inside of it,” Diana
says, stepping forward to fall into line between Thor and Steve. The others move aside for her.
“The silence has bothered me, but your companion saw it as an opportunity to strike at the heart of
the Black Order.”

“And then you just lost track of her when you got inside the ship?” Clint asks.

“Yes.”

“How’d she find you?” Natasha asks.

“I found her, actually. We were both prisoners. A man snuck into my cell and freed me before
giving me my weapons and a message,” Diana says. “He disappeared almost immediately after.”

“What was the message?” Okoye asks.

“‘Tell my brother I intend to keep my promise, and that Asgard will shine once more.’”

That brings the conversation to a proverbial halt. Thor whirls around to face Diana, a grin splitting
his face.

“Loki,” he breathes, and then laughs. “My brother lives.”

Clint narrows his eyes, his shoulders going tense. His bow raises slightly, the tip of one arrow
aimed at Diana. “That’s not exactly a good thing, Thor. Unless you’ve forgotten who your brother
is? What he’s done?"

“He’s changed,” Thor insists. Pauses, and adds, “Mostly. At the very least, he’s an ally in this. He
tried to kill Thanos.”

“Mostly isn’t good enough,” Clint retorts, slowly raising his bow. Diana meets his gaze steadily,
neither tensing or showing fear. “Your brother’s alive, and instead of coming to find you, he came
to her, and the only person who really knows her is some bum from a different universe.”
“Whatever you’re thinking, drop it,” Constantine says. “I know I’m suspicious as hell, but Wonder
Woman is as straight and true as anyone.”

“And why should we trust that?” Clint asks.

“If she wanted us dead, she would have made her move long before now,” Thor points out.

"I have no desire to do that," Diana adds, keeping utterly still. Steve has no doubt she could cross
the distance between herself and Clint at a moment’s notice, but that won’t make the situation any
less tense. Or dangerous, if Clint decides to push things further.

"Not good enough."

"Hawkeye, put the bow down," Steve says, moving to step between Clint and Diana. "She’s with
us. And we could use all the help we can get. We’re not exactly at full strength anymore."

Clint looks ready to press the issue, his eyes flaring. Natasha steps in front of him and presses a
hand on his forearm. An unspoken communication passes through them; Steve has always been
slightly jealous of whatever private language those two speak between each other, but he’s glad for
it now. If anyone can reel in Clint, it’s Natasha. She gives Clint a steady, calm look and he
eventually lowers his bow.

“And who’s fault is that, Cap?” Clint growls.

Steve has no answer for that.

“This discussion isn’t over,” Clint adds shortly, before stepping away to guard their backs. He
keeps one eye on Diana and Constantine. Steve isn’t looking forward to seeing this particular
conversation continue.

"Got the door," Rocket says, breaking the tense silence that follows Clint’s declaration. "Easiest
lock I've picked in awhile. Barely worth the effort."

"Yeah, for you," Rhodey grumbles. "Alright guys, how are we going to do this?"

“They had plenty of time to prepare a defense if they have access to their security systems,” Okoye
says. She pauses and adds, somewhat dryly, “Or simply listened for us.”

Which is true enough; any element of surprise they had disappeared a long time ago. Steve steps
towards the steel doors, nodding to Rhodey and Rocket. “Open it. Let’s see what’s inside.”

Rhodey and Rocket move to the side, allowing Steve and the rest of the Avengers, plus Diana and
Constatine, to stack up around him. He raises his shield and gives them a quick nod. Rhodey nods
back, shifts forward a little to shield Rocket from any incoming attack. Rocket presses a button and
the doors slide back with a metallic click and hiss--

Revealing a massive, empty room, the details of which Steve can’t fully make out in the shadows.
It’s too big to cover effectively, and he’s hesitant to charge in alone. The last time he did that, he
ended up going one-on-one with someone Thor doesn’t seem eager to fight.

Steve holds up a hand to stall the rest of the Avengers and glances at Rhodey. He isn’t too familiar
with the Iron Suits, but he knows they have a way to scout ahead. Rhodey tilts his head, the eyes of
his suit flashing brightly once, twice, and then dimming back to their normal color. He shakes his
head slightly. No threats.
Or, at least, none that he can see. Steve steps through the open doors first, followed by Thor and,
surprisingly, Diana. She slips between the others, falling into place on his left as the rest of the
Avengers file in.

The doors open up into a room wide enough to fit the Avengers Campus inside and high enough
for most of New York's skyline to sit comfortably inside. It’s absolutely massive; all dark steel and
yawning darkness broken by strips of light that can’t quite dissipate the darkness. The group is
standing on a raised platform perched halfway up the wall that overlooks the massive room. The
platform itself is wide enough to host three separate areas: a control center, a cluster of vat tubes
that are twice as large as the ones they’ve seen before, and something that looks like a shrunken
version of one of Tony’s labs. Ramps on either side of the platform arc down towards the floor
below.

The floor below is massive, empty save for the occasional cluster of empty vats, and one other
thing:

“Fucking hell, it’s a portal,” Constantine says. “I can feel the energy pulsing off of that thing from
here.”

The portal is huge, twice as large as the hole in the sky that let in Loki’s army back in New York.
Big enough to move several armies through at once. Black steel curves upward, glinting ominously
in light made dim by the size of the room. The air within the portal seems subtly wrong, shifting in
place like a river with a strong current roaring just beneath the surface. Something about that portal
makes Steve’s teeth clench. Judging by the way Wong winces and shies away from it, he’s feeling
the same thing as Constantine, even at this distance.

“This is a staging ground for an army,” Rhodey says, walking over to the control center. He taps a
few of the controls, bringing up holo screens that stream data across their floating surfaces. A
second smaller screen appears, projected from his suit, translating the alien text in real time.
“Scratch that, this is their war room and invasion platform. This is an intel goldmine.”

“So why is it not guarded?” Okoye asks. “There should be electronic deterrents, if nothing else.”

That’s a very good question. Natasha frowns at the room, eyes roaming over the shadows before
looking at Steve. “This feels like a trap. We should find Carol, torch this place, and get out.
Stopping to steal intel will slow us down.”

“If we try to destroy that portal without containing or cutting off the magic that is powering it, we
risk destroying ourselves as well,” Wong points out.

“And we can’t exactly contain this stuff unless we know what kind of magic we’re dealing with,”
Constantine adds. “Well, we can, but you probably won’t like the results.”

Steve turns to Rhodey. “How much information can you get out of that thing in the next ten
minutes?”

“Almost all of it, if I shut down all of the combat protocols in my suit and have Rocket and Hulk
help me,” Rhodey says.

“Do it,” Steve says. He turns to Wong and Constantine and points at the distant portal. “Is that
dangerous?”

The two magic workers exchange a look. Finally, Constantine lets out a huff. “Could be. Depends.”

Steve once walked in on Tony ranting about Asgardian magic, and how impossible it is to plan
around when building a suit or creating a combat simulation. He’s starting to understand Tony’s
distaste for magic. “On?”

“On if we mess with it and how we mess with it,” Constantine says. “There’s a lot of latent energy
there. It’s not all magic, but a lot of it is, and it’s mixed with whatever technology this ship runs on.
That’s not how it normally works. Technology and magic don’t usually play nice. It’s a bit like
shoving the wrong ends of two magnets together.”

“It’s safe, if you’re careful,” Wong adds. “There is volatile energy surrounding it, but we aren’t in
danger at the moment.”

“Can something come through it?”

“Yes,” Wong says. “If the patterns I’m seeing are correct, then something already has. I’m just not
sure which way it was going.”

Concerning. “Keep an eye on it and if you see something coming through, sound the alarm.”

“Aye, aye, Cap,” Constantine says, pulling a cigarette out of his coat pocket and lighting it. It’s
almost a nervous tic for the man; Steve wonders if his magic can cancel out the lung cancer
diagnosis he’s working towards.

He turns to the rest of the team. “Everyone else, spread out, stand guard.”

“Hurry up and wait,” Clint mutters. “My favorite part of every mission.”

“Could be worse,” Natasha says, falling in beside him.

“How?”

“Not sure,” Natasha says, shrugging. “But it could always be worse somehow.”

Clint scoffs, but doesn’t disagree.

***

Time passes slowly.

Roughly fifteen minutes after Cap gives out his orders, Rocket, Banner, and Rhodey make
simultaneous sounds of disgust. They’re each looking at different holo screens: Rocket is looking
at the floating image of a vat, Rhodey is studying rotating map of a massive city, and Banner is
looking at diagrams of...something. Chemicals? Steve has to admit that he’s never really had a
head for science; that was more Bucky’s thing.

“What did you find?” he asks.

The three heroes look at one another for a moment before Rhodey motions to Rocket. “You first,
furball. I’m still trying to figure out a few things.”

“Thanks, tin man,” Rocket replies dryly. “And I’ve got some idea of what that green goop in the
vats is, and it is nasty stuff.”

“I thought it was simply some nutrient bath,” Okoye says.

“Ehh, kinda.” Rocket tilts his hand one way and then the other, half shrugging. "So, if I'm readin'
this right--and I am, for the record--that green goop heals those things or brings them back to life,
depending on how bad the trip goes and how long they’re stuck inside the vats. They get sent over,
they get wrecked, they’re yanked back here and dumped into a vat to heal before being thrown
back into the fight," Rocket says, flipping through the floating screens rapidly. "It’s not really fun
for the monsters. They’re not getting any air while they’re in the tubes, so unless they’re sedated,
they’ll smash the whole thing to bits from the inside out.”

Steve puts two and two together and almost feels sorry for the creatures. “They can’t breathe, but
that green stuff won’t let them die. They suffocate, die, and wake up over and over until the worst
of their wounds heals and they can break out?”

“Basically, yeah,” Rocket says, shrugging. He isn’t moved by the Outriders’ plight. And for good
reason. Steve can’t find much sympathy for them himself.

Constantine looks vaguely sick and glances away.

“They’ve got a limited supply of the stuff,” Rocket says. “It comes from the other universe, and
some angry old man keeps beating the hell out of all of the teams Thanos and his lackeys keep
sending over to get it. They’ve got enough to make their own version and leave the old man alone,
but it doesn’t work as well. Four out of every ten of these things comes back wrong, or goes nuts
and has to be put down. The more they’re shoved into a vat, more likely it is they come out
broken.”

“An old man is chasing off Outrider strike teams?” Steve asks, frowning.

Rocket shrugs. “Doesn’t sound far fetched to me. I’ve met some angry bastards in my time.”

“That explains a few things I’ve found,” Rhodey says. “Namely why they haven’t been able to
launch a full scale invasion yet. Since a significant chunk of their army is dying before they even
make it across, they’ve started to source local help while they figure out what’s killing their
cannon fodder.”

“Local help?” Diana asks.

“Yeah, and they’re not picky. Mercenaries, gangs, some little cult devoted to Thanos and his Black
Order. Looks like they’ve been quietly spreading across that version of Earth,” Rhodey says,
flipping through screens of reports. “No idea how close they are to doing anything, though.
Someone’s gone through and deleted all the reports.”

“Probably when Wonder Woman and that Captain Marvel chick came crashing through the door,”
Rocket says. “I’d run like hell if two women just punched in the door on my spaceship from a dead
vacuum.” He pauses. “Actually, I’d trip Quill, grab Groot, and then run.”

“I’ve managed to piece a few things together,” Rhodey says. He expands the image of the city so
the others can get a clear view. Several small areas glow red within the city. “They’ve been
focused in these smaller areas and this central part of the city in particular.”

“Strategic points of interest?” Natasha asks.

“I can’t see how,” Rhodey says. “None of the smaller areas look all that important, and the larger
area is in the center of the city, far from almost anything useful.”

“That might be the point,” Natasha says. She squints and points at a spot inside the larger area.
“What is that?”

Rhodey plucks the spot out of the map and tosses it onto another holo screen that pops out of his
suit, expanding the image with one hand. “It’s a portal, like the one at the other end of this room.
And...a thing.”

That isn’t the best description for it, but Steve doesn’t blame Rhodey for being at a loss. The
second image is a machine, all sleek black steel that matches the design of both the portal and The
Inevitable itself. It almost looks like a lightning rod, but with fuel tanks attached up and down the
length of it.

“Everything I’ve found referencing this thing is steeped in codewords and a lot of math I’m not
familiar with,” Rhodey says. “It almost looks like a weather machine Tony came up with back in
MIT. It was meant to seed rain clouds above drought stricken areas.”

“They wouldn’t need to seed rain clouds above this city,” Clint points out. “It looks pretty damp.”

“That doesn’t mean they can’t seed the rain clouds with something else,” Natasha says. “A well
placed poison works just as well as an army.”

“They’ve been powering a spell over a city,” Wong says, suddenly. He frowns at the floating
image, one finger tracing out the . “A memory spell. A powerful one, but very subtle. I recognize
the symbols. It’s meant to weaken and muffle intelligence, and then usurp a victim’s mind. A spell
this large and intricate would take a great deal of power and knowledge, and a long time to settle
in.”

“You recognized that awfully quick,” Clint points out.

“Yes. It’s best you don’t ask why,” Wong says.

This does not go over well with the rest of the team.

“You’d think they’d go for the bridges connecting the city to the mainland instead. They could
establish a bridgehead that way,” Rhodey muses. “They want to take this place over, so why not
isolate it first? Why go to the trouble of building a portal, a rogue weather machine, and a giant
memory spell?”

Constantine steps forward, squinting at the image. After a moment he curses. "That's Gotham.
They've been leaking that mind poison into the city for god knows how long. And now they're
putting together some kind of weird weather machine on top of it."

“And they’ve been trying to work out what exactly to put inside that machine for awhile,” Banner
says. A screen appears in front of him, and words and symbols Steve doesn’t recognize begins to
scroll past at an alarming speed. “I’ve found one version, and it’s a real piece of work.”

“What does it do?” Natasha asks.

“Honestly, I don’t know how to describe it.” Banner pauses for a moment, frowning at the screens
in front of him. One of them has the image of a vial of liquid in the center of it. “It’s a drug that’s
meant to instigate a stress response. Fear, anger, that sort of thing, but taken to an absolute extreme.
You’d have to be very lucky or have a healing factor like Cap to shake this off, and even then I’d
put good odds on side effects lasting for years afterward.”

“You got all that just from looking at an image of the vial?” Steve asks.

“No, by reading the label,” Banner says, lifting up the vial and pointing to a string of alien text
printed on a label along its side and the small holoscreen hovering beside it. “I’ve been living in
space for years. I kind of had to pick up the lingo.”
Fair enough.

“It’s easier to brainwash someone if they’re in a heightened emotional state,” Natasha says.
“Clever.”

Steve thinks of Bucky and says nothing.

“The good news is that there isn’t a lot of it. It doesn’t seem like they’ve been able to make as
much as they need, and most of what they did make was too unstable to use. You’d have to have
really bad luck to get hit with the potent stuff,” Banner says, shutting down his screens. “Which is
probably why they went with something more magical.”

“Even a little could go a long way,” Steve points out.

“They’d have a rough time of it in Gotham,” Constantine says. “Everyone wears gas masks there.”

That brings the conversation to a halt. Okoye stares at Constantine as if he’s just grown two heads.

“Why on earth do your people wear gas masks inside their cities?”

“Honestly, we don’t have time to get into that.”

Steve decides to yank them back on track. He turns to Banner, looking up at his friend. It’s strange;
he’s not used to seeing clear eyed intelligence inside the Hulk’s eyes. “Were they able to find a
version of that stuff that works?”

“Yes,” Banner says. “They settled on something that’s meant to trigger hallucinations and an
extreme fear response. Apparently they were able to mass produce that, but a lot of their stock
keeps getting destroyed.”

“By who?” Steve asks.

“Um,” Banner says. “A bat?”

As they speak, four of the glass tubes near them on the platform click, hum, and fill with the thick,
eerily green water from before. Another click, and the liquid swirls around, forming a whirlpool, as
if some unseen portal has opened beneath it. For three of the tubes, ashes in the shape of the bat-
like Outriders appear before muddying the green water into a grey-green sludge.

In the final tube, a form appears, thrashing and flailing hard enough to shatter the tube’s glass. It
slides out onto the steel floor of the ship, gurgling and flailing.

And dying, Steve realizes. Thick blood oozes from the body, pooling on the floor. It takes him a
moment to recognize the creature as one of the Outriders. It’s been beaten all to hell, as if it’s gone
toe-to-toe with the world’s angriest boxer, and it dies messily right in front of them on the floor.

“Looks like Thanos has a neat little retrieval system in place for his army,” Natasha says beside
him. “If they die on the other side, they’re sent back here. Pretty clever.”

“A pretty efficient use of his resources,” Rhodey says, disgusted, but also a bit impressed. “No
need to replace manpower when you can use the same ones over and over.”

“That explains the magical force,” Wong says. “It would require constant spellwork to bring them
back here. They’re tied to the portal itself, the anchor between our realities. If the spells aren’t
renewed, they don’t come back.”
 “Most of the ones that came back were just ash. Except this unlucky bastard,” Constantine says,
idly nudging the dead monster with his foot. It flops over onto its back, something metallic and
dark sticking from its throat. Constantine grins, kneels, and plucks it out of the monster, holding it
up to Wonder Woman. “Three guesses as to who handled this little group, and the first two don’t
count.”

The metallic thing turns out to be a weapon. A throwing knife in the shape of a bat. Judging by
Diana’s answering smirk to Constantine’s grin, it probably belongs to one of their comrades in the
Justice League. That’s a relief for Steve; the idea that the Avengers’ failure would lead to other
universes suffering the same fate as this one has been quietly gnawing at him ever since
Constantine appeared. This is an Avengers mess. It should be an Avenger who ends it.

“This looks like a scouting party. Light armor, lighter weapons,” Rhodey says.

“I think our bat friend is doing a lot more than just wrecking their hallucination juice,” Clint adds.

“He is,” another voice says from the doorway.

The others turn as one to face the door, braced for a fight, but draw short when they see who’s
standing there.

Carol Danvers, Captain Marvel, holds up her hands before stepping through the door. There’s
something odd about her that tugs at the back of Steve’s mind when he sees her.

“Hey, everyone,” she says. “You have no idea how glad I am to see you.”

Chapter End Notes

Turns out we'll actually have two MCU chapters since I doubt anyone wants a random
15k chunk of plot thrown at them all at once.

As a side note, the chapter count isn’t set in stone. It could be shorter or (more likely)
longer than 43 chapters. We’ll see.

Hope everyone is having a good December!

 Chapter 39
Chapter Notes

Welcome to an extremely busy chapter. I now understand why they usually have a
committee of writers on hand for big events in the comics/games/movies, good lord.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

“I lost track of you when we entered the ship,” Diana says, stepping forward to meet Carol
halfway. “What happened?”

“I went for the portal room,” Carol says. She looks exhausted, tense, and her eyes dart around the
room, looking past the Avengers, into the shadows behind them. “I thought you were right behind
me until the monsters found me.”

“Outriders,” Carol says, sighing. “They got the jump on me before I realized you weren’t behind
me. There were too many of them for me to fight alone. I had to duck and run and face them in one
of the hallways so they couldn’t smother me.”

Diana frowns. “You should have stayed with me. We are more powerful together.”

“Trust me, I’m not leaving you after that little disaster,” Carol says. She pauses, again glancing
around the dark room, growing tense. “At least you’ve found back up. That’s good.”

“You said you Batman’s been doing more than killing these things?” Constantine asks, stepping
forward.

“He’s called Batman?” Rhodey asks. “Seriously?”

“Watch yourself,” Diana says, her tone mild but carrying a warning note. “He’s among the best of
us.”

“We don’t have much room to talk,” Natasha adds. “Iron Man isn’t exactly the pinnacle of
creativity.”

Rhodey scoffs, but doesn’t argue the point.

“He has,” Carol says, rubbing the back of her neck. Steve doesn’t like how twitchy she seems.
He’s seen it happen before, back in the war; soldiers going out, getting stranded behind enemy
lines, constantly looking for an enemy that may or may not be there. “I didn’t get a chance to hear
all the details before the monsters found me, but the Black Order knows about Batman and he’s
apparently managed to slow them down somehow.”

“Is the Black Order here?” Rhodey asks.

Carol shakes her head. “I don’t know. I lost track of them after the monsters rushed me.”

“Then we’d better take a look at that portal while we have the chance,” Rhodey says, disengaging
his suit from the alien computer he’d hacked into moments before. “And decide what we’re going
to do about it before they decide to come back.”
“Good idea,” Steve says. “Let’s move out.”

It takes them a few minutes to cross the distance from the raised platform to the portal. The true
size of it hits Steve when they reach the control panel set near its base. They could march half of
New York City through this thing and have room left over. The odd feeling from before only
intensifies; this close to the portal, he can see the surface of it shift ever so slightly, like oil slick
waves rolling. Seeing that on the ocean can be disturbing. Seeing that same rolling motion take
place across the air itself is downright unnerving.

Rhodey, Rocket, and Banner immediately move to the control panel. Wong and Constantine move
to the side, watching the portal. If anything, they look even more unnerved than before. After a
brief conference between the two groups, they get to work.

There’s only so much work that can be done while the more technically advanced and magically
inclined members of the team work, and frankly, most of the Avengers don’t have experience with
interdimensional travel. That leaves the majority of the team free to discuss their current situation,
bringing Carol up to speed.

"So Spider-Man isn’t dead, and he has a stone. Without it, Thanos can't invade,” Carol says, her
expression turning thoughtful and distant, as if she’s half listening to the group.

“He has half a stone, which means Thanos can invade, just piece by piece,” Constantine points out,
distracted by his magical working. To Steve, it looks like a lot of hand waving. “If he had a full
stone, Thanos would be stuck here completely. Or so your dear doctor explained to me.”

“I am sensing quite a bit of magic moving around us,” Wong says thoughtfully. “Like a black hole,
drawing in everything around it. Most of that energy hasn’t been put to a purpose yet. We could use
it to our advantage, if done right.”

“You’re thinking of a barrier spell to cut the power?” Constantine asks, rubbing his chin. “Awfully
simple solution to a big damn problem.”

“Sometimes the simpler solutions work best,” Okoye points out.

“If we cut the flow of magic while the others disable the technology it pours into, we could safely
destroy the portal and undo Thanos’ work,” Wong says.

Constantine hums, tilting his head back and forth as he thinks. After a moment, he shrugs.

“Fair enough. If we put a stop to whatever he’s doing in this universe, trap him here, he won’t be
able to reach mine. We cut him off completely, lock him here,” Constantine says. He pauses and
looks at Diana. “That would cause a problem for the two of us, however. We’d be shutting the
door leading back home.”

Diana considers his words for a moment. Finally, she shrugs. “I’ve been forced to leave my home
behind for the greater good before. I can do it once more. What about you?”

Constantine thinks about that, rubbing his chin. “I’ve got friends I’d hate to leave behind, but if we
don’t put a stop to this, several universes just pop out of existence. They’d be pretty pissed about
that, I think.” After a moment, he shrugs. “Suppose I could just try to walk the tree back home.”

“The what?” Diana asks.

"Your wizard friend walked Yggdrasil to reach us," Thor says. Diana's eyebrows raise in shock.
"I'm not eager to repeat the experience," Constantine says.

“But that would leave Spider-Man stuck in your world,” Rhodey points out. “We could use this to
find him first, bring him home, and then shut it down.”

Constantine winces. “Yeah, well. Keeping this open for a rescue operation isn’t exactly smart--”

“No, it isn’t. In fact, it’s dangerously stupid. We have to leave Spider-Man there,” Natasha says
quietly.

“You can’t be serious,” Rhodey says, whirling around to face her. “If he knew there was a way
home--”

“We have to make that choice for him. Setting aside the fact that every second here is a deadly
risk, Spider-Man has a stone. Without it, Thanos and his army can’t fully invade. Thanos has to
stick to scouting parties and small offensives. Something the Justice League seems more than
capable of handling.”

Steve winces. Natasha isn’t wrong, but no one is eager to trap a sixteen year old in another world,
cut off from his friends and family. Assuming he has any of those left after the Snap.

"So we leave him there? Alone?" Rhodey asks. "Trapped in--what city did you say it was, new
guy?"

"Gotham," Constantine answers.

"And that’s a safe place?"

Constantine laughs. "Absolutely not, no. Bloody hell, that place is horrific--" He sees the
expression on Rhodey’s face, stops, coughs, and says, "It's, ah, not the best place, no. Bit of a fixer
upper, you could say."

"We're not leaving him there," Rhodey says flatly.

“We have to,” Natasha says quietly. Rhodey glares at her, and she meets his stare evenly. “Don’t
act like you haven’t made these kinds of choices before, Rhodey. Step back and think. Billions of
lives are on the line, in this universe and the next. At some point, every war turns into a numbers
game.”

Rhodey stiffens when her words strike home, clenching his jaw. Throwing his own words back at
him isn't the smoothest or most diplomatic way to handle this, but it is the most effective.

“So we leave him there for the rest of his life, cut off from anyone who knew him,” Rhodey says.

“How long do you think Thanos would let him live if he came back to this universe?” Natasha
asks. She nods to the rows of empty vats inside the ship. “Look at this. If we can keep up the fight
here, do a deep strike against Thanos and the Black Order while they try to build an invasion army,
and keep Spider-Man safely out of their reach, we might be able to prevent another universe from
being devastated like ours. Think of Earth. Think of all of the empty and half dead worlds we
passed to get here. Is it worth the risk to bring him back here? For one hero?”

Steve’s reaction is instinctive, instant. "We don't trade lives."

"How well did that work out for Vision, Cap?" Clint asks.
Steve frowns as Rhodey says, "Low blow, Barton."

"But not an inaccurate one," Okoye says.

"What happens if he comes here?" Banner asks suddenly, interrupting their conversation.

That brings the room to a halt. He’s elbow deep in alien computer hardware, but he pokes his head
up to look at the others. "Tony’s his mentor, which means he’s either as smart as or smarter than
Tony. He wouldn’t have let the kid anywhere near his lab otherwise. What happens if he tries to
come home?"

"Even Asgardian magic could not pierce the veil between universes," Thor says. "Not easily. The
fact that the wizard from this other universe survived climbing Yggdrasil is--well. Unheard of. It
should be impossible for mortals to endure. No offense, wizard.”

“None taken, your tree is a nightmare for human minds, and I hated every second I spent there,"
Constantine says.

"That might be true, Thor, but you've seen Tony in action," Banner points out. "What would Tony
do if he was stranded somewhere? What would he do if one of us was trapped in another
dimension?"

Thor pauses. "Point taken."

The group falls silent after that. After a few moments, Rocket clears his throat and says, “So, uh,
what’re we doing here? Stay and wreck this thing or keep it and go through?”

The others look at Steve. He thinks of the state of Earth. He thinks of the deaths that have followed
from a collapsing economy, the food riots and looting that are still happening despite everyone’s
best efforts, and the painfully slow recovery that occurs in starts and stops as the people pushing
for recovery simply collapse from physical, mental, or emotional exhaustion.

He thinks of the support group he leads, the empty eyed men and women who sit in a room to talk
to him about failing love lives and bleak job prospects while the lights flicker on and off from
rolling black outs. He thinks of the teenagers in that group, who are more grown and weathered
than anyone should be at sixteen after losing half or more of the loved ones in their lives. He thinks
of Ned Leeds, who fell asleep waiting to hear from his best friend and woke up to an empty house
and a friend who never called.

After a moment, he sighs, and says, “Natasha’s right. Destroy it. We can’t let this happen to
another universe, no matter what.”

I hope you can forgive us for this, Queens, he thinks. He knows Tony, wherever he might be, will
never forgive them for this.

Rhodey makes a quiet sound of disgust, but doesn’t voice any further objections. He simply snaps
his helmet back over his head and gets to work. Steve has no doubt that this is the last time Rhodey
willingly works with the Avengers for a long time.

“Okay,” Rocket says, cutting through the tense silence. He points a finger at Wong and
Constantine. “We’ll have to fire it up before we can start taking it apart. Don’t do anything until we
turn this thing on.”

“Let us know where you need us,” Wong says quietly.

They get to work. The rest of the Avengers wait while the tech workers and magic users speak
quietly among themselves. Rhodey’s tone is metallic, cold, and distant from within his suit.
Banner’s tone is puzzled, but cooperative, and Rocket’s is short, but authoritative. When the portal
ignites, it flares up like liquid fire, an eerie blue-black light rolling out from the center to the edges
of the portal. The center of the portal turns black, though the edges pulse with that eerie blue light.
A quiet rush of wind follows, pushing at the Avenger’s backs.

“Alright, it’s your turn,” Rocket says, waving a hand at Constantine and Wong. “Just make sure
you stop when we tell you.”

Constantine lets out a low whistle. “This is gonna take awhile.”

Wong steps up beside him and flicks his wrists, summoning fiery golden discs over his hands that
gently spin in the air. “I prefer to think of it as meditative. You might even like it.”

“Trust me, we don’t need me to start getting introspective,” Constantine replies dryly. His hands
light up as well, but with a darker red that seems more sinister to Steve. “You take the lead, I’m not
completely attuned to the magic in your universe yet.”

“We’ll compare techniques another time,” Wong says, taking one step forward to take the physical
and metaphysical lead.

Things settle into a tense, waiting period after that. The experts work their magic (in some cases
literally) while the rest of the team sits and waits. The wind at their back grows stronger and more
insistent as they work, the portal’s black surface rolling like ocean waves. Steve is on edge. This is
all too easy, too clean. Clint and Natasha seem to share his sentiment; Clint's grip on his bow is a
tad too firm, and Natasha’s hand never strays far from the knives hidden on her person.

Carol reaches up and rubs her forehead, as if suddenly struck with a headache. The movement
doesn’t go unnoticed.

“You hurt?” Clint asks.

“Yes,” Carol says. A moment later, she shakes her head. “No. Just shaking off some confusion. It’s
been a long--actually, I don’t know how long it’s been.”

“The Black Order did have you trapped for some time,” Diana says, frowning. “And we have not
had a chance to rest. Have we pushed too far?”

“No. Maybe,” Carol shakes her head. “Sorry, give me a second. I need to get some air.”

She moves away from Clint and Natasha. Steve frowns at Carol. Something about her is off,
though he can’t place it. Something about her face...

Thor walks up beside him. "Is something troubling you?"

"Carol’s eyes. They weren't always blue, were they?" Steve asks.

“No, they were brown,” Thor says slowly, frowning at him. “Unless her powers turn them blue?
We do not know much about her.”

Rocket, Rhodey, and Banner are all clustered around the control panel. Rocket and Rhodey are
bent over the half disassembled panel, with Rhodey’s suit plugged into it and a blue holoscreen
hovering in front of them. As Steve watches, Rocket and Rhodey quietly puzzle out the controls
together: Rocket uses a set of thin tools that look like lockpicks while Rhodey helps guide him
around whatever security is wired into the system. Banner, whose hands are simply too big to help
contribute to the delicate work required, stands back and offers input or suggestions as the other
two work.

Carol walks over to the little group. Banner looks up from their work and gives her a welcoming
smile. Steve remembers first meeting the man and is briefly struck by how much he’s changed; the
twitchy fugitive he met is a distant memory to the self-confident Hulk standing with them today.

"Hey, Carol," Banner says. He nods to the control panel. “Stay back from that. It’s going to get
pretty unstable.”

“Is it?” Carol asks, and there’s a tone to her question that sets Steve’s teeth on edge.

He isn’t the only one to notice; Diana’s head snaps towards Carol, and she frowns. She crosses
over to Wong and Constantine, standing beside her fellow Justice League member. He glances at
her briefly, confused, but refocuses on his own task moments later. There’s a slight shift to Diana,
one that almost reads as protective.

“Very,” Banner says. “But don’t worry. We should be done soon.” He laughs, a little nervously,
though Banner’s laughs have always been a tiny bit nervous. “And then I guess we can say we won
and head home.”

Carol goes utterly still, losing the oddly strained fidgeting from moments earlier. She stands up
straight, looks Hulk in the eye, and says, “You’ve already lost.”

Banner frowns at her, utterly confused. “What--”

Carol’s arm flares with blue light and she snaps her fingers.

Banner flakes apart, his massive body collapsing into ash and dust in seconds. He barely has
enough time to aim a wounded look of betrayal at Carol before he disappears.

Two things happen immediately after: Diana grabs Constantine by the scruff of his neck and bodily
yanks him back and away from the portal and Carol begins to glow. Golden energy flashes across
her body, gathering along her other arm. She aims her arm at the control panel where Wong,
Rhodey, and Rocket are standing.

One blast of golden light aimed at the heart of the machine blows it apart. The portal snaps into
life. The pitch black voids flashes into a strange, red-gold color and the wind at their backs shifts
from a strong gust to a near hurricane wind, as if the portal has turned into a vacuum. The wind
staggers Rocket, and then sucks him into the portal. Rhodey and Wong follow, the surface of the
portal flashing when each one passes through it.

Carol whirls around to face the others. Okoye is the first to react, and the first target of Carol’s
next attack. A blast of gold energy knocks the Wakandan general off of her feet and towards the
portal; she curses, driving her spear into the dark steel of the ship. The vibranium tip digs a furrow
into the steel before the magnetic pull of the portal pulls her inside.

Steve leaps for Carol, slamming the rim of his shield against her arm, sending a second blast of
golden energy aimed at Natasha and Clint wide. She barely flinches, and even then he’s not
entirely sure it’s due to pain; it’s the kind of jump someone would give when startled. Her
answering strike to his chest sends him flying through two of the empty vats, dropping him in a
heap near Nat, Clint, Diana, and Constantine.

He grunts, and rolls over towards Natasha and Clint, who both move to cover him. Steve’s not
really used to fighting so many people outside of his weight class these days.

Thor lets out a roar of challenge, and twin flashes of golden light and blue-silver lightning fill the
room.

Constantine grunts, holding his head and blinking woozily up at Diana. “What--”

“Be still, and stay low,” Diana orders him, half shielding the sorcerer. She glances at Clint and
Natasha huddled behind one of the vats nearby, calling out, “What is happening?”

“Carol’s been hit by one of the stones,” Clint says. He has to shout to be heard over the fight
between Thor and Carol. “She’s under mind control!”

"The last time this happened to one of us, we had to use a little bit of cognitive recalibration to fix
it," Natasha calls out.

Diana frowns at her. Clint clarifies.

"She hit me in the head really goddamn hard," he shouts.

"I believe I can do that,” Diana says, rising up, gripping her own shield.

“We’ll help,” Natasha says. Clint nods.

“Not sure how we’re going to do that, but sure, we’ll help,” Clint mutters, just barely loud enough
for Steve to hear. He glances at Steve. “You okay, Cap?”

“Got my bell rung, but I’ll be fine,” Steve replies, shaking off the last of Carol’s strike. It hadn’t
been a killing blow, fortunately. He’s going to have one hell of a bruise, though. He stands up,
crouching low. “Distract her, but keep your distance.”

“Arrows aren’t exactly close range weapons,” Clint remarks dryly, pulling out an arrow and rising
up to aim and let it loose. A quiet whoomph sound fills the air, followed by crackling pops. A
flashbang arrow. “Nat, that’s your cue.”

Natasha is already moving, low and quick. Her distraction is much simpler; several knives, slim
black blades, flung from several directions almost at once. Carol avoids every last one, but they’re
an annoyance and distraction, and they give Thor an opening.

“Wonder Woman--” Steve starts. He pauses when he sees Constantine shake himself, and start to
stand. “Is he all right?”

“Magical blowback,” Constantine says, his voice rough and strained. “It happens when a spell is
interrupted halfway. Gimme a moment, I’ll be fine.”

Steve nods, then looks at Diana. “Hit her hard, make room for me or Thor if you need, and don’t
let the portal catch hold of you.”

“Understood, Captain,” Diana says. She sprints out of the dubious cover of the vat and goes to aid
Thor, Clint, and Natasha.

Steve looks at Constantine. “Can you finish the spell? Destroy the portal?”

“You wanna do that with most of your friends inside?” Constantine asks.

God, he hopes they’ll forgive him for this. “Yes.”

Constantine frowns, but nods. “I’ll get to work. I’ll have to get close to the portal, though.”

“Be careful,” Steve says. He sprints out of his own cover and into the fray.

To her credit, Carol gives the heroes a run for their money. In a straight fight, it wouldn’t last this
long, but she’s looking to hurt, and they’re looking to restrain. The Avengers and Wonder Woman
are trying to stop her, and are mildly hamstrung by it. Carol, for her part, strikes as hard and
quickly as she can--except for when she doesn’t. Every few seconds, she stumbles, staggers, or
wildly shifts a dead certain strike so that it smashes into a wall, one of the empty glass vats, or
floor.

A flashbang arrow from Clint, a shoulder shove from Thor, a surgically thrown knife from Natasha,
and Carol is sufficiently distracted enough for Wonder Woman to land a crushing blow across the
side of Carol’s head. She staggers back, losing the golden light around herself. Steve capitalizes on
the opening and grapples with her.

“Get back,” she snarls at Steve, her eyes briefly flashing back to their natural color. “Get away
before I hurt you.”

“We aren’t abandoning you. Fight it, just a second longer,” Steve says. He’s not strong enough to
knock her out; that has to come from Diana or Thor, preferably both. He can see the two gods
prepare for another blow.

“I’m not giving you a choice,” Carol retorts. She lifts her hand towards him, the way she did
towards Banner moments ago. Steve feels his stomach drop; they’re locked together and there’s no
way he can jump back from her or duck away to avoid what’s coming.

He grits his teeth and braces himself. Maybe if he shifts just right, he can force his ashes into her
face and distract her long enough for Thor or Diana to land a solid hit--

Carol yanks her arm free, throwing him off balance and pushing him away two or three steps. Her
eyes flash blue and brown for a moment, settle on brown--

And she snaps.

She disappears in a cloud of ash and dust in front of his very eyes. For a moment, his awareness
snaps back to the Battle in Wakanda, and he hears Bucky’s unsure, ‘Steve?’ as clearly as he did the
day Thanos killed half of the universe.

Another Avenger lost.

A voice comes from the darkness, one that makes Steve's blood run cold, says, “A pity. She would
have been so useful in the other universe.”

The red stone on the gauntlet gleams, and a veil of darkness rolls away from Thanos, the heavy
shadows of the massive room pulling back to reveal the Mad Titan. Beside him, crouched on the
walls and ceiling, practically stacked on top of each other, are thousands of mutant outriders, their
eyes and teeth glittering in the eerie light pouring out of the portal.

“Oh, that’s a problem,” Clint says.

“Avengers, form up,” Steve hisses, turning to face this new threat. Dimly, he’s aware of the ashes
covering the front and arms of his suit.

“I left you alive as a mercy,” Thanos says evenly, stepping towards them. “An undeserved one, but
a mercy nonetheless. I gave you purpose in a newly changed universe. A chance to rebuild and
renew your world, to prevent it from falling to the corruption from before. And instead you defy
me.”

“Come and say that to our faces!” Thor calls out. Steve glares at him. Thor shrugs, sweeping his
axe across another group of bat monsters. “I can’t very well hit him with my axe from here, now
can I? Those things are in the way. He’ll dodge it.”

“How the hell did Carol snap Hulk and herself away?” Natasha hisses to Steve’s left. She’s
standing beside Constantine, who is deep in concentration. “This doesn’t make sense!”

“I gifted her a portion of the Space Stone,” Thanos explains. “Even a sliver of a stone is
unbelievably powerful. I did this first to maintain my control over her mind, but I found a new use
for it. I can channel the use of the stone’s powers through it if the bearer doesn’t master the use
over their own portion.”

Thanos begins to step towards them, and the room is suddenly filled with the hissing swish of
thousands of monsters moving with him. They match him step for step, some snarling, others
growling eagerly, flexing massive claws.

“This is poor timing on your part,” Thanos continues, half to himself. “I was intending to use that
portal today, and you’ve delayed it. Death is too merciful, but it would be the most efficient use of
my time.”

The Avengers are spread out, facing Thanos and his army in a ragged line. Constantine is standing
beside Natasha, with Steve beside her, and Thor and Diana on the other side of him. Clint is behind
Natasha and Constantine. The sorcerer is murmuring something under his breath, hands shifting in
the air.

Thanos stops, tilts his head, and focuses on Constantine. “That cannot be allowed to continue.”

He raises the gauntlet, the stones flash, and a wave of force shoots out of the gauntlet, aimed
directly at Constantine. Natasha slams her shoulder into Constantine’s side, sending the man
staggering off to the side with a startled oomph and a curse. The blast hits Natasha dead center, and
she flies back into Clint who instinctively catches her and braces for a fall.

It’s a fall that never comes; they hit the event horizon of the portal, and are quickly dragged inside.
It flashes as they sail through, and something like thunder follows it.

“She--why the hell would she do that--” Constantine asks shakily, at a loss.

“Focus, Constantine!” Steve snaps. He’s just lost most of the Avengers, including three of the
closest people to friends he had left after the Infinity War. Of the original six, it’s just himself and
Thor now. “Thor--”

Thor doesn’t need any instructions. He roars in fury, and throws Stormbreaker at the Titan,
flooding the room with crackling lightning and thunder. As he predicted, waves of outriders leap in
the way of the god forged axe, and they fall by the dozens from the blade alone.

Which gives Diana just enough room for her to throw her sword at Thanos. The golden blade sails
through the air behind Stormbreaker, hidden by the axe’s lightning and larger size. And it strikes
true.

Whatever Diana’s sword is made of, it’s strong enough to wound Thanos. It buries itself into his
chest, up to the hilt, staggering the Titan, wounding him enough that purple blood begins to pour
out of the wound. When he grips it with the gauntlet, it’s shunted aside, as if by magic. Thanos
snarls.

“Kill them,” he rasps. A flick of his wrist and Thanos disappears, Diana’s blade still buried in his
chest.

“You should have gone for the head,” Thor says helpfully.

“I didn’t have a good angle for that,” Diana replies. “But thank you, I’ll keep it in mind for next
time.”

A ragged shriek enters the air, and the remaining batlike outriders rush towards the remaining
Avengers. They’re on them in moments, forcing Steve, Thor, and Diana to shift and stand side by
side to face the oncoming horde. Constantine quite sensibly stays behind them, keeping out of the
way of the more physical members of the team.

What follows is a bloody war of attrition. If Steve held any illusions that Diana had been fighting
him to her full ability, they’re gone now. She matches Thor for strength and ferocity, and at first,
it’s a struggle for him to keep up with the two gods. He manages to match their rhythm, and the
three of them soon work together like a well oiled machine, churning through the monsters with
shield, sword, and axe while Constantine covers their flanks with well placed bursts of magical
fire. It’s a bloody war of attrition; for every inch the monsters gain, they lose nearly a hundred.

But there are thousands of them. And they are gaining ground.

Worse than that, the bat creatures piece themselves back together. Their brackish, black blood
reverses flow, dragging crushed and severed limbs back towards the monster’s body. Soon, even
the monsters they’ve managed to cut down rejoin the fray, all the more furious for having been
killed in the first place. That’s about the time Steve realizes they’re going to lose.

The four of them are a formidable team, but the sheer number of those damn bat monsters presses
against them. At first, the remaining Avengers break the tide. Thor and Wonder Woman fall in
beside each other with their respective weapons, seasoned warriors from distant lands instantly
finding balance with one another as they slaughter any of the monsters to get close. Thor's axe
sweeps off the heads of three monsters attempting to attack Wonder Woman's flank. Wonder
Woman’s shield crushes four leaping for Thor. The monsters crash into them, around them, and
soon Constantine has to shift positions, ducking in between Steve, Thor, and Diana when the
monsters circle around to their backs. They’re crawling over one another to reach them, and the
fight is becoming more and more of a pitched battle.

“I need a weapon!” she shouts, ducking past Thor to slam her shield against one of the monsters
leaping for Steve.

“I have a dagger on my belt!” Thor shouts back, struggling to hold back a fresh pack of monsters.
“Grab it! It’s better than nothing!”

Diana grabs for the dagger on Thor’s belt. Her hand brushes against the handle of Mjolnir hanging
from the pouch on his belt.

Mjolnir leaps into her hand, the shattered pieces of the hammer flowing back together like water.
There’s a flash of gold, a crack of thunder, and golden lightning crawls up her arm and across her
armor as Mjolnir’s power floods through her. Her armor shifts, changes, the Grecian symbols
intermixing with Asgardian runes. Her eyes flash gold, and she slams the hammer down,
vaporizing nearly a quarter of the attacking force with a war cry loud enough to echo through the
ship.

“Or use that, I suppose,” Thor says, his tone equally shocked and giddy.

“This is a good hammer,” Wonder Woman says, awe in her own voice. Golden lightning arcs off
of her armor and the hammer itself.

“I’ve got an idea. We need to get to the portal!” Constantine shouts.

“We’re going into that thing?” Steve says, shouting to be heard over the battle.

“You have any better ideas?”

He doesn’t. “Wonder Woman, Thor, clear us a path! I’ve got rearguard!”

Thor and Wonder Woman crash into the oncoming horde hard enough to send several of the
monsters flying in all directions. Lightning, gold and blue, courses through the front ranks,
obliterating scores of the monsters and leaving nothing but black ash behind--if anything is left
behind at all.

“They are endless,” Thor shouts, barely heard above the screeching fury of the tide of monsters.
“They just keep advancing!”

“Then so will we!” Diana shouts back. A flash of golden lightning, and thunder emphasize her
words, and scores more of the monsters die.

It’s all Steve can do to push Constantine ahead of himself so they don’t fall too far behind from the
battle eager gods. Constantine curses, sparks of fiery magic twirling in the air between his fingers
as they run. He mutters something low and strange and flings out a hand, sending a tongue of flame
from his palm to the portal. The surface shifts, rippling away from the flame, the color shifting to a
golden-green.

“Oh, thank fuck, it worked,” Constantine pants. He cries out, “When you get inside, jump!”

Thor and Diana reach the portal first, leaping into it fearlessly. Constantine is next, stumbling as he
crosses over. Steve crashes through the portal, leaping at the last possible second.

The world shifts, tilting wildly in place, and setting off a vicious case of vertigo. The portal opens
up onto a massive branch that pulses with green and gold. It smells like spring--but not just that. It
smells like summer, winter, fall, all of them at once. Steve looks up and finds himself staring up at
an impossibly massive tree, whose branches stretch out and touch the stars above, intermingling
with them. Unfathomably huge fruit hangs from some of the branches, fruit that shifts and rolls,
filled with brilliant stars.

Galaxies. The fruit on this tree are entire galaxies.

Constantine hijacked the portal’s end point. He sent them to Yggdrasil.

“Fuck!” Constantine yells, behind him. Scrambling sounds follow, and dozens of bloodthirsty
shrieks follow. He’s clinging to the edge of the branches, his grip slipping while the outriders bear
down on top of him.

Steve dives down to grab Constantine, gripping the man’s arm. Constantine didn’t clear his jump;
he’s being pulled back towards the portal, and the monsters crossing over behind him. Constantine
curses again, clinging to Steve’s arm desperately. Steve’s balance slips and he barely manages to
keep his balance. It’s a losing proposition; he’s being subjected to the same gradual pull as
Constantine, and even his strength is no match for it.

They won't make it. Steve sees that clear as day. The monsters are gaining on them, and Steve
can't pull Constantine and himself up in time. Not with the shield weighing down his other arm--

The shield.

Steve snaps his arm out, launching the shield in a perfect arc past Constantine's head and towards
the swarming beasts behind Constantine. The shield strikes the lead monster with an echoing
clang, and sets off a domino effect with the rest of them. The leader goes down and trips the two
closest to him; the closest fall and take out two others and so on. It’s a delaying tactic, but it might
be enough to buy them time.

Time enough for Wonder Woman to grab Steve, and Thor to grab Constantine. The two gods haul
their mortal friends back onto the shimmering branch, pulling against gravity and wind with
extreme effort.

The shield sails off into the void and crashes into a patch of darkness. The darkness shatters,
splitting apart like waves in a storm, opening up to reveal a dingy warehouse and a man. The man
is tall, broad shouldered, dressed in practical combat clothing, with a shirt that has a stylized red bat
across the chest. He’s wearing a red mask and a red hood over it. Blood streams from beneath the
hood, smearing across his neck and staining his shirt. He’s swaying on his feet, battle weary, and
he startles as the shield bounces onto the ground beside him. His head snaps up at Steve just before
the waves of darkness roll back into place.

Hope he likes the gift, Steve thinks wryly, shifting his weight and helping Diana haul him up onto
the massive branch. She handles his weight easily, and he’s again distantly thankful that she held
back during their initial meeting.

“Are you all right?”

“My pride took a beating, but I’ll live,” he says, letting her help hoist him up onto his feet.

He can hear Thor ask a similar question to Constantine, who lets out a shaky answer. Thor laughs
and claps a hand on Constantine’s shoulder. The sorcerer staggers, but offers a weak grin in return,
more out of politeness than anything else.

"Lost my shield," Steve says idly.

"I wouldn't worry about that. It'll end up exactly where and when it needs to be," Constantine says,
pulling out a cigarette with shaking hands. His shield against the violent winds and brilliant dust is
holding, but it’s clearly putting a strain on him. “Right now, we should worry about moving. We’re
too exposed to the cosmic winds here, and the storms are bound to roll in soon.”

“Can you hold back the storm for all of us?” Thor asks, frowning at him.

Constantine lets out a harsh laugh. “Haven’t got much of a choice, do I? At least we’ve ruined their
portal for a bit. Let’s go.”

Yggdrasil stretches before them.

They begin to walk.

Chapter End Notes

Danger happens and Diana just throws Constantine like a wet sack of potatoes into
safety.

We're gonna hop back over to DC and check in on Peter and the ghosts real quick.
Kind of a breather chapter before the big reveal.

Happy New Year!

 Chapter 40
Chapter Notes

Bit of a breather chapter before the climax ramp up. Remember when Peter told Bruce
about that 'rich person BS' he'd been dragged into before?

See the end of the chapter for more notes

BATCHAT

Barbara (03:00am): The cell towers in Crime Alley just lit up with something weird

Barbara (03:01am): Electronic broadcast, but it’s encrypted, and surrounded by gibberish

Dick: (03:03am): What is it saying?

Barbara (03:04am): It’s hard to tell. I can only make out the word ‘Friday.’ Maybe a timestamp
for today? I think it’s a distress call.

Dick (03:05am): Tell whoever it is to get in line.

***

When Peter enters sleep, his vision turns gold, and then gradually fades back into the view of that
image of home the soul stone has built for him: a steady mix of his Aunt’s apartment, the
dilapidated firehouse, and his parent’s home. The latter of which is fuzzy at the edges, not fully
formed. As if he’s pulling it form a memory fading from overuse or crumbling at the edges. He
stands in the living room.

He isn’t alone, of course. The room is full of gold tinged ghosts. All of the ones he’s carried with
him into this universe. They’re vague shapes, but he can pick out different heroes the more he
looks. Wanda and Dr. Strange look worse for wear, and stand separate from the others. Sam’s arm
is strange; faded, from the elbow down. The others look normal enough, probably mimicking how
they looked in life before they died.

“It’s time to get this started,” Loki says behind him. He already sounds bored. “We’ve put it off
long enough.”

Peter turns to face Loki. “So, this is one of those memory things, right? I relive a memory and get
better?”

“‘Better’ is very much subjective in your case. You’ll be less likely to go on a murderous rampage,
at least, and you’ll be less at risk of the stone turning against you. And let’s not forget. We’ll all
see this memory of yours,” Loki says.

Peter nods, looking at the array of heroes fading into view around him. Wanda, Dr. Strange, Hope
Van Dyne, Sam, Bucky, T’Challa, Shuri, Peter Quill---

“What the fuck,” he says. He jabs a finger at the the forms behind Quill and past Mantis who gives
him a cheerful, fond smile and wave. “Is that a tree?”

“I am Groot!”

“Oh, yeah,” Quill says. “That’s Groot. He had to sacrifice a part of himself to help Thor so he’s
kind of just chilling right now.” He pauses for a moment. “Also we weren’t really sure if you could
understand groot, and it’d be really weird to just hear ‘I am Groot’ out of context at random points
while you were doing all of your everything.”

“I am Groot,” Groot says again, nodding and shrugging.

Peter pauses, takes in a deep breath, and decides to deal with that later.

“Okay. Moving on,” he says, and turns to focus on Loki. “How do we start?”

“Simple,” Loki says.

He flicks Peter’s forehead. Hard.

Peter’s vision goes black.

***

He wakes up inside of a memory. It’s a bit like blinking: one moment he’s standing in the middle
of a group of heroes, the next he’s in a memory that feels as real as it did the first time he lived it.
Except this time, he’s surrounded by indistinct figures of gold. Most of them shuffle to the
periphery of his vision, doing their best to stay out of focus.

Peter is nervous as hell. Tony’s asked him to join him for some fundraising thing with Pepper,
Happy, and Rhodey. He agreed, was promptly swept away for a suit fitting with Tony’s private
tailor, and now he’s standing beside Tony in the kitchen of the of one of the event halls Stark
Industries has sprinkled across New York City. There’s a massive crowd of the wealthy elite on
the other side of the double doors leading into the hall, and Peter feels terribly out of place.

Tony notices. He steps up beside Peter and claps his hand on Peter’s shoulder. “You good, kid?”

Peter jumps, coughs, and then clears his throat. “Um. Yeah. Totally.” He pauses for a beat. "No,
absolutely not. How did you convince me to do this again?"

Tony grins, suave and self assured, spreading his arms. "By being me. And--" He points a finger at
Peter. "--by reminding you that if we're making this internship a thing, that means you have to
show up to Stark Industries events to sell the image. Quid pro quo, kiddo."

They had just finished taking pictures of Peter holding the Stark Internship certificate while
shaking Tony’s hand a few days earlier. Peter had been too overwhelmed and distracted to realize
what he was agreeing to. Which is something of a theme when it comes to their meetings, now that
Peter thinks of it.

"I didn't realize that meant I'd be sacrificing a Friday night to whatever this is."

"A fundraising gala," Tony says, adjusting his tie in the refrigerator's mirrored surface

"You have more money than god, just fundraise whatever it is yourself."

"But it's more fun putting on a show and convincing other rich bastards to do it. Assholes won't
give away money like that unless you bait them into it. They need a spectacle before they agree to
help society."

Peter goes quiet for a bit, and then says, "I think I hate every part of that sentence, especially the
sentiment. It kinda makes me sick."

"Smiling smothers your gag reflex, but if you have to hurl after talking to the elite members of
society, at least do it on Norman Osborn's shoes. You'd be carrying on my legacy, and it would be
absolutely hilarious to see him get pissy at you."

"I'm only staying for an hour," Peter says.

"Nope," Tony replies.

Peter stares at him. "What do you mean 'nope'?"

"You are my personal intern, kid. You're here for as long as I need you."

"You're hosting the gala, though,” Peter points out, frowning up at him.

"Exactly. I'll be here all night."

Peter stares at him. “You said I was only going to be here for the pictures.”

“Oh, yeah, I did,” Tony says. He smiles brightly. “I lied.”

Peter puts his head in his hands. "Oh my god, it's Germany all over again."

"You're still hung up about that, huh,” Tony says, adjusting his tie, and then his hair. “What's a
little human trafficking between heroes?"

"That's it, I'm selling this story to the Daily Bugle," Peter mutters, fidgeting in his suit. “Tony
Stark Kidnaps Innocent Child For The Second Time.”

"Nah, they don't pay enough. Sell it to the Times. They like pointing out all my flaws."

Before Peter can retort, Pepper Potts, dressed elegantly, pokes her head into the kitchen. "Tony, I
need you." She stops when she notices Peter, blinks, and then smiles. "Oh, Peter. I didn’t know you
were joining us tonight."

"Tony’s kidnapping me again,” Peter says, pointing an accusing finger at Tony.

"Didn't learn the first time, huh?" Pepper grins.

"You're marrying a child abductor,” Peter says.

"That's a step up from arms dealer," Pepper replies, checking her watch. "Tony--"

"Coming," Tony says. He grins at Peter. “You’ll do fine. Just imagine everyone’s in their
underwear when you talk to them.”

Peter stares at him. “How on earth does that help?”

“Well, they’ve all seen me in mine, and they don’t seem very intimidated. Moreso aroused,
actually--”

“Oh my god, please stop talking,” Peter mutters, mortified.

“See, you’re not nervous anymore,” Tony says, casually slinging an arm around Peter’s shoulders
and guiding him towards the doors. "Just take it slow, kid. Consider this a chance to work on your
schmoozing. You'll need that in college, trust me. And you’ll definitely need it afterward."

“Yeah. Got it. Thanks,” Peter says, wondering if he can leap out of the nearest window instead. He
won’t, but like, the idea is there. Just in case.

Tony smirks at him, slides on his sunglasses and pushes through the double doors, stepping over
the threshold and into the view of a crowd full of people who flash bright, empty smiles at him the
moment they lay eyes on him. Tony’s ‘showman’ persona comes out full force, and he saunters
over to the nearest crowd, arms wide.

“Norman! Glad you could make it. Hey, I like your shoes,” Tony calls out just as the doors swing
shut behind him.

Peter makes a face at the door, loitering for a bit longer. He regrets agreeing to this. He’s only here
because Ned’s out of town and completely out of reach. Peter can’t even send him plans for their
next Lego build. Ugh.

Worse: FRIDAY is probably watching him, and set to alert to Tony if Peter sneaks out. Maybe he
could sneak out through the kitchen--

“Oh, hello, Peter,” a kind voice says behind him. One of the golden shapes hovering at the edge of
his awareness lets out a quiet sound; something caught between grief and shock.

Peter turns around and finds himself face to face with Vision. He relaxes. “Oh, hey. I didn’t hear
you come in.”

“I phased through the wall,” Vision says helpfully.

He’s now extremely envious of that ability. “That’d explain it.”

“Don’t let Wanda know,” Vision adds, heading towards the kitchen. “I do my best to remember to
use doors these days, however it’s much more efficient to simply phase through the walls."

"Uh, well, that's not a problem," Peter says. “Since she’s kind of a fugitive at the moment. And
we’ve never talked.”

Which is understandable. He was technically trying to arrest her in Germany. At the very least, he
was meant to be an additional threat, something he’s still a little unsure of. Peter’s just glad he
didn’t run into her. She probably wouldn’t have hurt him, but he’s had enough experience to see
some truly desperate moves from people running from the law in his short time as a superhero.

“I wouldn’t have hurt you,” Wanda says gently, distracted. She’s focused utterly on Vision,
drifting close to him. The grief from her golden shadow is near palpable.

“A temporary state of affairs,” Vision says idly, and with so much conviction that Peter believes
him. The android idly searches through a few cabinets around the kitchen, outright phases his head
through one of the doors, and then finally finds what he’s looking for: a simple recipe book, bound
in red leather. He grabs it and turns to face Peter, setting the book down on the kitchen island
between them. One of the golden shapes hovers right beside him.

"Please tell your Aunt May that I’m thankful for her help with baking," Vision says, his tone polite
and fond. "And that I appreciate her taking the time to answer my emails when I have questions."
"Sure. Aunt May loves having someone to talk baking with. And she’s always happy when a hero
shows up at FEAST to help out." Peter pauses for a moment, thinking. "Hey, can you sneak me out
of here? I promise I’ll get her to teach you her wheat cake recipe."

"I'm afraid not. Mr. Stark asked me to be here so that I could stop you from leaving, in fact,"
Vision says politely.

Peter stops to consider that. He sighs. "God, he's such an ass sometimes."

That’s something he’d never say directly to Tony, of course. He’s pretty sure Tony wouldn’t be
offended by it, but he knows Tony would gladly snark at him for that kind of comment, happy to
enter a verbal slap fight with his young mentee. Peter doesn’t always have the patience for that
kind of back and forth, and he’s still a little wary of offending one of his heroes with a careless
word.

"Yes," Vision agrees.

That gets a snort of laughter from one of the golden shadows hovering nearby. It sounds
suspiciously like Sam.

“Good luck, Peter,” Vision says and smiles, warm and friendly, before he turns towards the wall,
phasing right through it.

Peter huffs, quietly regrets not charging his phone before coming to visit, and slips into the event
hall. Maybe this won't be so bad.

***

Two hours pass. The nearly empty event hall gradually begins to fill as the rich and famous
attempt to show up fashionably late, trying to outdo each other’s entrances. Every last one of them
stroll in with easy grace, brilliant smiles, and an almost manic kind of cheerfulness that comes from
people desperate to make good impressions on their peers. Or to show off in front of them.

Peter is bored out of his fucking mind. He’s wandered around the edge of the crowd, watching
curiously, but warily. It’s only now that he notices things that otherwise passed by his notice the
first time he lived through the Stark gala. Nick Fury makes a brief appearance, hidden among the
crowd despite his size and signature eye patch. Maria Hill is a much more subtle presence beside
him. Both briefly glance at Peter as he wanders past in search of something to do. The look is brief,
but Peter knows they were watching him from the corners of their eyes long after that brief glance.

"You guys knew him before?" Sam asks.

"We were aware of him," Fury says.

“We asked about him and Stark warned us off before using his AI to nuke all of the servers that had
Peter’s information on them. Including every backup,” Hill remarks. “It sent a pretty clear
message.”

"There he is, one second. Hey, kid! Come here!" Tony calls out, waving him over. He's standing
with two others: a middle aged man and a teenager who could be a carbon copy of the man beside
him. The older man has the most severe widow’s peak Peter’s ever seen, and the teen is already
starting to show a similar fate for his own hair.

“Peter, meet Norman Osborn and his son, Harry. Norman, Harry, meet Peter, my intern.”
Harry startles, clearly surprised that Tony remembered to include him in his introduction. Norman
regards Peter closely, almost coldly at first, and Peter’s senses twinge just a bit--and then he smiles,
and he’s no more dangerous than any other CEO sauntering through the room. He offers Peter his
hand.

“Peter, it’s good to meet you," he says, his voice carrying that fake tone of friendliness that seems
to be second nature for the very rich. "Tony talks about you a great deal. He’s a hard man to
impress, you should be honored.”

“He does?” Peter asks, taking the man’s hand. Another twinge of his senses makes his handshake
unsteady. Norman smirks at that, and Peter’s mild unsettlement shifts to instant dislike. Something
about Norman Osborn bothers him deeply.

“Of course I do,” Tony says, clapping his shoulder and grinning at him. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“You’re embarrassing,” Peter says after a moment, fighting back a smirk.

“I come by it honestly. Deal with it,” Tony retorts.

Peter rolls his eyes and offers his hand to Harry, smiling at him. Harry perks up and takes his hand,
smiling at Peter uncertainly, and a bit nervously. No twinge of his senses there, but that isn't
surprising. Norman is tall, with a swimmer's physique underneath his expensive suit. Harry is thin
and unremarkable, pale to the point where he seems to be on the verge of sickness. Peter could
sneeze and send this kid flying into the nearest wall.

“It’s nice to meet you, Peter,” Harry says, his tone perfectly polite, if a bit shy. That tone earns him
a sharp look from his father; it’s a momentary thing, there and gone in an instant, but Peter catches
it. “And it’s nice to meet someone my age at one of these things for once.”

Peter is seconds away from asking him something stupid. Something along the lines of, ‘seriously,
how do you deal with this’ or perhaps something even more ill advised. Fortunately, Tony picks up
on it and cuts in smoothly.

“Oscorp is working on some fancy new medical tech,” Tony tells Peter. Norman doesn’t quite
preen; his expression shifts from pleasant curiosity to smug pride. “I know you’ve got an interest in
bioengineering. You should check out some of the stuff they’re doing sometime.”

That catches Norman’s interest. His gaze sharpens for a moment. “Oh? I would have thought a
Stark intern would lean more towards engineering.”

“Kid’s a real science whiz,” Tony says. “He’s a polymath.”

That really catches Norman’s interest. “Is that so? Perhaps when you’ve finished your internship
with Mr. Stark, you could look into one of our programs, Mr. Parker. We’re always looking for
new talent, and while Mr. Stark is quite generous, I think we can make an acceptable
counteroffer.”

“Uh, sure, I’ll keep it in mind,” Peter says, unsure of how to respond exactly.

“Still chasing after impossible goals, Norman?” Tony says, amused.

“Always, Tony. I can’t let you have all the good toys,” Norman responds. There’s a bit more teeth
to his smile when he grins at Tony. “I shouldn’t hog all of your attention, Tony. Peter, it was nice
to meet you.”
“You too, Mr. Osborn,” Peter says. Once Norman and his oddly quiet son leave, Peter turns to look
at Tony. “Did you just try to get me an internship with Oscorp?”

“Nope. I put your name in Norman’s mind. That’s a bit more important than whatever internship or
job he’s planning on sliding your way,” Tony says. “Come on, walk with me.”

Peter manages to hide a slight wince, both from the interaction with Norman and the sudden
interest he’s gaining from the other individuals in the room. He hurries after Tony, idly wondering
if he should try to explain the whole Oscorp spider issue to him. They’ve never actually discussed
how he became Spider-Man.

“Okay, so, you engineered this whole kidnapping--” Peter starts.

“Bonding time.”

“--don’t make it weird,” Peter says, and then starts again. “You brought me here. Why? This really
isn't my scene, Mr. Stark. I have nothing in common with these people."

Tony scoffs. "It isn’t anyone’s scene, kid. Why do you think I used to come to these things drunk
out of my skull? And don’t worry. We'll build up your tolerance and make it your scene.”

Something like horrified panic rises in him after Tony says that, and Peter has to fight off the urge
to skitter up the nearest wall to hide in the ceiling corner. “Why would we want do that?”

“To make sure the right people have your name in their ears and in the back of their minds over
next few years,” Tony says easily. "Think of it this way: every opportunity has a door blocking
your way. All you need to do to reach that opportunity is open the door. And every person here
leads to an opportunity."

“In my experience you need keys to open up doors. And not every door has a key for people like
me,” Peter mutters, fidgeting in his suit.

“Then make one,” Tony says, shrugging easily. "Every door has a key, kid. If you can't find one,
make it."

That sticks with him, for some reason.

"So, open every door I find?"

"See, that's where smart money comes in. You need to know which doors to open and which ones
to close." He claps Peter’s shoulder. "And that’s why you have me."

“Right,” Peter says, letting his eyes roam over the crowd. His senses--still new and not entirely
honed--ping against one particular individual. He stiffens, frowning in the man’s direction. Tony
notices, of course, and looks over to the man Peter’s staring at.

"That’s Dr. Cross, current CEO of Pym Tech. I'm surprised he took me up on the invitation, to be
honest. He's never shown any interest in coming to these things before," Tony says, half curious,
and half wary. After a moment, he adds, "Take a look at the first door to keep shut. Stay away from
him."

"What? Why?"

Tony shrugs. “There’s some tension between Stark Industries and Pym Tech. At best, it’ll be
awkward.”
Hank Pym--a golden translucent shape hidden among the party’s crowd--scoffs.

“Really? Over what?” Peter asks, glancing at Tony.

"Old rich man bullshit, mostly. My dad pissed off Hank Pym a long time ago and, from what I
hear, Pym's not all that impressed with me either.” He drifts for a moment, then shrugs. “Anyway,
Dr. Cross used to be Pym's protege before they had some big falling out. I think it’s because Hank
figured out Cross is a little nuts, and he’s only gotten weirder lately. Just stick to the people I talk
to, okay?"

"Um, right. You don't think he's here to cause a scene? I'm getting a weird feeling about that guy,"
Peter says, not quite fidgeting. "Do you think Dr. Pym would send him here to cause trouble?"

Peter hears another distant scoff; Hank Pym apparently has an opinion or two on that particular
thought. Tony mirrors that scoff, which surprises Pym’s ghost.

"No. If Cross does cause trouble, it'll be his own. Dad always said Hank was a good man. And
from what I’ve seen, he's not someone who would dig up a decades old fight with someone else
and use it to stir up trouble.” Tony takes a second look at the current Pym CEO, and rolls his eyes.
“And you’re getting a ‘weird feeling’ off the guy because he’s drugged to his ears. See his eyes?
And how his hands are fidgeting? Dead giveaway. I don’t envy his assistant. He’d better be paying
her well.”

She's pretty, Peter thinks, looking at Hope Van Dyne. And she clearly knows how to fight, judging
by her walk and the way she looks over the crowd. Peter makes a mental note to avoid her, too.
She’s a little intimidating.

“Aw. You were afraid of me?” Hope asks in the distance, amused.

“Stark sounds frighteningly reasonable in this one,” Hank Pym mutters.

“He has his moments,” Nick Fury says, watching the memory. Most of the ghosts seem
uncomfortable floating around inside someone else’s memory. Fury is one of the few who hasn’t
looked away. He watches everything with deep interest, unblinking.

Tony nudges Peter’s shoulder. “I’ve gotta give a speech. Wanna help?”

“I would rather die.”

“Don’t do that, May would kill me,” Tony says absently, pulling out an index card with his speech
notes from one of the pockets in his suit jacket. “And I’m not entirely sure Happy would do
anything to stop her. Anyway, have fun, don’t get too drunk.”

“What do you think the legal drinking age is?” Peter asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Eighteen?” Tony ventures. At Peter’s incredulous look, he shrugs. “It was when I was your age.”

“Wow, you’re old.”

Tony rolls his eyes, smirks, and leaves for the podium. He starts his speech with the usual flair for
the dramatic, and Peter is glad he decided to stay hidden among the crowd. A server passes by,
carrying flutes of champagne on a silver platter. Peter grabs one; the man doesn’t even seem to
notice, and judging by his distant, bored stare, he probably wouldn’t have cared if he did. Score.

He’s about to drink when Happy stomps by and snatches it out of his hand with a firm, “No.”
He disappears into the crowd, leaving Peter empty-handed. Peter huffs. He’s not even sure alcohol
would work on him, and Happy just ruined a perfectly good experiment. He eyes the crowd, trying
to trace Happy’s movements.

"What are you doing here, Peter?" someone asks beside him.

Peter startles, turning around to face the voice, and finds himself face to face with Rhodey. He’s
wearing a clean, sharp suit, with his leg braces clicking and whirring quietly with each small
movement the man makes.

"Tony kidnapped me," Peter says.

Rhodey grins. "Again? What’s that old phrase? Fool me once..."

"You're all terrible people," Peter grumps.

“You’ll get used to it, kid. Just make the best of the gala. It might even be fun.”

“You don’t believe that.”

“No, not at all,” Rhodey says cheerfully. “I’m planning on ducking out early, actually.”

“Take me with you.”

“Nope.”

“You’re the worst.”

Rhodey laughs, clapping his shoulder briefly before slipping into the crowd. He glances over his
shoulder and says, “Just talk to a few people. It’ll make the night go by quicker, I promise.”

***

He does try. Honestly, he does. But he has as much in common with the men and women in this
room as a roadrunner does with a vulture. Same kind of creature, very different environment. It
doesn’t help that he’s just not that good at small talk. He doesn’t have Tony’s charm, Pepper’s
elegance, or Rhodey’s cool and calm presence. He feels like a toddler, and it frustrates him.

Most of his attempts at conversation end on a flat note. The only person who happens to be
vaguely nice to him is a dark haired woman in a sleek dress that’s nowhere near as gaudy or tailor
made as the rest of the crowd’s outfits. With the benefit of hindsight and exposure to the soul
stone, he realizes this is Maria Hill. The conversation is brief but pleasant, containing almost
nothing of substance.

“Nice of you to throw the kid a bone,” Sam remarks.

“She was just gathering intel,” Bucky says.

“Not entirely,” Hill says. “He really did look a little lost.”

Having successfully achieved a positive human interaction, Peter makes a silent retreat. He ends up
drifting into the far corner of the room, trying to figure out where, exactly, Happy is hiding, and
how a man so bulky can move that quickly in a crowded room. He bumps into someone and
startles.

“Oh, sorry--”
“It’s okay! I was kind of hidden over here,” Harry Osborn says. “Sorry.”

“What are you apologizing for?” Peter asks, frowning. “I was the one who bumped into you.”

Harry is quiet for a moment, considers, and shrugs. “Dunno. It’s just habit to say it. My father isn’t
really a fan of it.”

Peter’s starting to get the idea that Norman isn’t really a fan of a lot of things Harry does. “Oh.
Well, you don’t need to apologize to me, but thanks. What are you doing in the corner?”

“Thinking. My father tells me that I need to learn something from each of these gatherings. He
quizzes me on the limo ride home. I’m trying to think of something now so I can space off when
he starts up the lecture,” Harry says.

“That sounds intense,” Peter says, feeling justified by his initial wariness about Norman.

“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” Harry says, shrugging. “He’s just an intense guy. You get used to it.”

“Huh. Come up with anything yet?”

“Not at all,” Harry says glumly, idly swirling his drink in his hand. It’s an almost perfect mimicry
of his father’s movements, and Peter idly wonders if Harry even realizes he’s doing it. “I saw Mr.
Stark talking to you earlier. What was that about?”

“Also a ‘lesson’ but I’m not sure I got it.” Peter pauses and squints up into the air. “It was
something about doors.”

Harry gives him a politely befuddled look. “Doors?”

“Doors,” Peter says, trailing off. He blinks, checks the time, and scowls. He could be at the movies
with Ned, or patrolling, or doing half a dozen other much more interesting things. “Actually, a
better lesson would be ‘never do anyone a favor, ever.’”

“My father might like that one,” Harry remarks dryly.

They fall into silence. Peter doesn’t quite brood, slowly going over his options. Most of them are
boring and polite. He’s here until the gala ends, after all--

He stops.

Sure, he’s here until the gala ends. But what if it ends early?

“Hey, wanna help me slam shut as many doors as possible?” Peter asks Harry, grinning.

Harry eyes him warily, thrown off by the sudden shift in Peter’s mood. “Maybe. You’re not going
to go insane, are you?”

“Nah, I’m just going to prove a point to Mr. Stark. You’ll get an easy lesson to feed your dad when
I’m done. Promise.”

Now he has Harry’s curiosity. The other boy glances briefly at his father, and then back to Peter
before shrugging and offering the tiniest nod of ascent. “Okay. What do you need?”

“Who’s the biggest asshole here?” Peter asks.

Harry thinks for a moment, and then points to a blandly handsome man so generic that Peter would
struggle to pick him out of the crowd. The only thing that sets him apart from the others in the
room is the smug smirk plastered across his face.

“Roxxon’s newest CEO,” Harry says. “His company’s built a new kind of battery for electric cars.
He’s just become a multibillionaire and it’s kind of going to his head.”

“Perfect,” Peter says. “Watch this.”

Peter walks towards the man. After a few moments, Harry trails after him, curious.

Now that he’s not worried about making a good impression, his social anxiety drains away, and he
finds it easy to introduce himself and start up a conversation. Harry hangs out nearby, not quite
close enough to get involved in the conversation directly, but close enough to listen in.

The conversation starts normally enough. Peter simply says hello and expresses mild interest. The
CEO, with almost no prompting from Peter whatsoever, begins to preen from the attention.

“It’s a Solstar S,” the man says, smugly proud of his new car. And, in his defense, it does look
unbelievably cool; all sleek angles and polished steel, making it look like something caught
between a military jet and luxury sportscar. “It’s supposed to be better than a Tesla. More
exclusive, too. There are only two hundred in existence. I have the first.”

Peter frowns at the image on the man’s phone, feigning puzzlement before brightening up and
snapping his fingers. “Oh, so it’s a new kind of Prius! My friend’s grandma drives one of those.
She swears by it. Says it works surprisingly well in the snow.”

Behind him, Peter can hear Harry cough to cover a startled, disbelieving laugh. The man stares at
him in something close to open mouthed shock and horror. The blow to his ego, from such a naive
individual is almost more than the poor guy can take. He stares at Peter, mouth opening and
shutting, before stiffly walking away.

Peter’s accomplished his mission, so he’s already seeking out a new target. He doesn’t shift his
gaze from the milling millionaires even when Harry steps up beside him.

“So,” he says. “What was that about?”

“I’m proving a point to Mr. Stark,” Peter says. “Wanna help?”

“I think you’ve got this one handled,” Harry says, amused. “If you’re looking to really cause some
trouble, the guy over there in the corner is a reporter for Front Line. It’s a conspiracy paper and
rumor mill.”

“Wonder how he got in?” Peter asks.

“Tabloids always sneak someone inside,” Harry says. “It’s better to pretend to not notice them
rather than get rid of them. They’ll just get sneakier.”

“That makes sense,” Peter says. “Thanks, Harry.”

Harry blinks, but chances a small smile in return. “Sure. Uh, have fun? I’d rather not get too close
to that group.”

“Yeah, don’t blame you,” Peter says.

Peter makes the rounds again. The gala is still going strong, the party is going smoothly, and Peter
is causing an idle stir among the guests. Enough that Tony’s starting to eye him from across the
room. When Peter flashes Tony a brilliant smile, the man’s eyes narrow suspiciously.

The coup de grace doesn’t land until Peter pulls out the big guns. He tracks down one of the
journalists circling the gala crowd like a hawk. He singles out a plain looking man in a well fitted
but slightly worn suit and too quick eyes. Peter strikes up a conversation with him easily,
pretending to mistake him for one of the elite members of society.

“And, of course, it’s kind of an open secret who I am,” Peter says, pitching his voice just loud
enough to for the guy to hear.

“Oh?” the man asks, trying and failing to hide the eager excitement in his voice. “And who is that,
exactly?”

Peter grins. If Tony’s going to act like a parental figure, he might as well get the full experience.
“Well, we met when he just showed up at my apartment a couple of years ago--”

The memory fuzzes a bit. Peter honestly doesn’t remember the specifics of this conversation, but
he remembers the gist of it: falsely claiming Tony as his father, to the hungry excitement of the
tabloid reporter. Golden shapes drift around them, indistinct save for their voices.

“This kid is a menace,” Bucky says, amused.

“This is kinda great,” Quill says. “This party is boring as hell.”

“He is having fun,” Mantis adds. She sounds relieved, as if she’s able to stop carrying a heavy
burden for a short time. “It is nice to see.”

“--yes, Tony Stark is, in fact, my father--” Peter says, the memory coming back into focus. He sees
Tony walking towards him, eyes darting back and forth between the reporter and Peter. He almost
stumbles when he overhears Peter’s words.

“And you’re saying he abandoned you and your mother?”

“Oh, yeah. He just split entirely, until he found me a couple years ago. That was weird, by the way,
and remind me to tell you about the whole European incident--”

The reporter is still watching him, but his eyes snap to the side, and that eager excitement boils
over.

“Colonel Rhodes, would you like to comment on this?” the reporter asks, grabbing the sleeve of
Rhodey’s suit jacket as he passes by.

“What?” Rhodey asks, frowning.

“Is Tony Stark this boy’s deadbeat father?” The guy is practically salivating over this story.

Rhodey stares at the reporter, then at Peter, who smiles at him blandly.

Rhodey is Tony’s oldest and closest friend. His confidant, his brother in every way that matters.
Their friendship is at least as strong as Peter and Ned’s, but seasoned by decades and world ending
battles. He would take on an army by himself to save Tony from certain death.

He is also an asshole.

“Well, we all know how Stark men are,” Rhodey remarks before strolling off, ignoring Tony’s
exasperated look. “Daddy issues kind of run in the family, you know?”

Peter manages to not grin and maintain his innocent facade, but only just.

The tabloid reporter turns back to Peter. Before he can speak, Tony says, “What the hell is
happening here?”

Peter grins at him. “Just talking to people. Like you said.”

Tony stares at Peter, half in disbelief, half in exasperation. He pinches the bridge of his nose and
sighs. “Okay, let’s clear a few things up first--”

In the end, Tony manages to squash the tabloid reporter’s dreams (but probably not the story), and
smooth over a few other ripples Peter’s left behind himself. Once Tony manages to shoo off the
reporter, he turns to face Peter.

“Why are you the way that you are?” Tony asks. “Did tonight’s little pep talk mean nothing?”

“No, I got it,” Peter says, shrugging. “I’m just not a fan of it, that’s all. Besides, I’ve already kicked
open the door to you. Pretty sure I don’t need anything else.”

Tony regards him for a long moment, narrowing his eyes before letting out a scoffing laugh.
“Heartfelt and honest and with just the right amount of ass kissing to save my ego. You just might
learn something from me yet, Mr. Parker. Now get out of here, I have a few dozen bribes to throw
around.”

Peter is already sprinting for the door. “Thanks, Mr. Stark, this was fun, let’s not do it again!”

“No worries on that, kid!” Tony calls after him.

Peter winds his way through the crowd, pushes the kitchen door open--

***

--and snaps awake in his bed at the manor. After a few moments of fighting off a feeling as if he’s
just fallen into his own body somehow, he sits up. The wound in his side from the bullet wound
hitches for a moment, then settles into nothing. There’s a burning in his chest from the Joker
serum, but it’s less than what it was, and using his inhaler silences it completely. He stands up,
stretches, and his focus is drawn towards something on his desk. He steps over.

He finds a beautifully painted image on a small canvas, done in oil. It's a picture of a rabbit leaping
through the night sky, with ears made of stars. Damian’s name is scribbled in the corner, along a
date. A small note sits beside it: I'm keeping the rabbit book. -Damian

Peter, amused, scribbles out a note of his own: ask Alfred for a frame.

He feels good. Strong. Centered.

The storm outside is still raging. In the distance, he can hear last minute preparations for the gala
taking place later today.

Peter puts on his suit, and goes to meet it.

***

BATCHAT
 Dick (8:01am): What just happened to the sky?

Barbara (08:02am): Get out of there!

Barbara (08:03am): Nightwing?

Chapter End Notes

Setting the foundation for a plot point far into the future with this one. You can guess
which characters I need to be involved pretty easily.

Next chapters will include a lot of cliffhangers and action and will take some time to
complete.

Have a great weekend!

 Chapter 41
Chapter Notes

There is going to be a massive cliffhanger at the end of this one, take a break if you're
binge reading!

This one is also extra long and will contain one or two spelling mistakes. I had to
recover the doc from a computer that went bad.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

BATCHAT

Bruce (09:10am): Status report.

Barbara (09:12am): Jason, Dick, and Duke have gone dark. I can’t find any of them. Cass and
Steph are suiting up now.

Bruce (09:13am): The alley Jason disappeared in shows signs of fire. Not just ash; incendiary
weapons.

Barbara (09:14am): He did take a few grenades from the cave earlier.

Barbara (09:15am): More earthquakes centered around Crime Alley. As well as the sky thing that
I’m sure you can see from wherever you’re at.

Bruce (09:16am): They aren’t earthquakes. The buildings are being moved.

***

The manor is in a state of organized chaos. He grabs breakfast, but finds himself gently shoo’d
away while event workers bustle in and out of the kitchen, beginning food preparations.
Somewhere around lunchtime, Peter realizes that the gala isn’t actually going to happen until later
that night. Somehow, that never quite occurred to him, even though it should have. In what world
does a billionaire wake up at the same time as everyone else?

Somewhat at a loss of what to do, he wanders the manor, listening to the storm outside, and the
distant buzz of the staff downstairs. To his mild surprise, the floor where the majority of the family
sleeps is almost entirely empty. The door to Tim’s room is open, but Peter can hear the sound of
gentle snoring coming from inside and makes sure to pass by it as silently as he can. Duke’s room
is empty, so is Dick’s, even Damian’s. Bruce’s room is down the hall, the door locked shut; the
walls and door to that room are so thick that Peter can’t hear anything beyond them. He assumes
Bruce is still asleep.

Did they all sneak out so only the new kid ends up going? Peter wonders. A shadow of his earlier
annoyance from the previous day begins to rise, simmering and green. Thinking back to his last
experience with galas, he wouldn’t necessarily blame them, but c’mon. Throw the new guy a bone.

Just as he’s thinking that, a slim, dark form slips out of one of the rooms at the end of the hall. A
young woman dressed in sleek black clothes steps into the hallway, a battered gym bag slung over
one shoulder, and freezes when she sees Peter at the other end of it. The two stare at one another,
and Peter idly wonders where he recognizes her from. The portraits downstairs, yes, but--

The memory comes to him. “You’re the girl from Omar and Sophia’s restaurant. The one that left
the big tip after I threw out that drunk guy.”

She is. The still, confident girl that had left him a large enough tip to feed him for a week. The one
that had reminded him of Natasha. She tilts her head, giving him a gentle nod before raising her
hand to give him an easy, friendly wave before hesitating, as if trying to decide how to proceed.

“Thank you for that. You don’t know how much that helped me,” Peter says. He vaguely
remembers distant advice from Aunt May--talk to people at the level they’re comfortable talking to
you--and returns her wave. “What’s your name?”

She hesitates, clearly debating with herself, and then begins to sign at him, slowly and carefully.
That may not help. Peter knows a few basic signs, and only because Aunt May needed someone to
practice with for her work with FEAST. And there’s no promise that she’s using ASL or even that
his version of ASL matches this universe; there are plenty of common phrases in Gotham that
wouldn’t mean anything at all in his universe.

Fortunately, the alphabet seems to be the same. She spells out her name, then follows up with a
another sign, quick and easily done. Her name sign. He squints, mimics her sign, and doesn’t quite
make a mess of it.

Fortunately, she doesn’t seem offended, just amused. She pulls out her phone, waves it at him
briefly, and then taps out a quick message.

Cass: This might be easier

Peter: for now, yeah. Sorry if I messed up your name!

Cass: We’ll practice it later have fun at the gala!

Peter glances up from his phone, blinking at her. “You’re not staying?”

Cass shakes her head, looking vaguely amused. His disappointment must be blatantly obvious,
because she closes the distance between them and gently pats his shoulder as she moves past him
down the hall towards one of the stairwells leading to the kitchen. His phone lets out a gentle buzz
a few moments after she disappears from view.

Cass: you’ll be fine. Heading back to work. Talk soon!

Peter sighs, glances at his phone, and then heads back downstairs. Maybe there’s a side or back
entrance he missed earlier.

***

BATCHAT

Barbara (11:08am): The storm is clearing for now.

Barbara (11:09am): The buildings in the center of Crime Alley have been shifted around.

Barbara (11:09am): also the sky is bleeding, which is probably what Dick saw before he stopped
answering the radio.

Bruce (11:10am): The buildings are being shoved together to form a spire beneath the hole in the
sky.

Bruce (11:10am): Keep everyone away from Crime Alley. Perimeter work only. No exceptions.

Bruce (11:11am): I’m not losing anyone else.

***

Peter’s phone pings right around the time his senses rise from a steady hum to a sharp siren. He
flinches, his nerves suddenly raw and oversensitive, startling a few of the event workers. One of
the workers gives him a sympathetic look and moves away to give him some space. He manages a
weak, awkward grin as they leave and pours some distance between himself and the workers on his
own, pulling his phone out of his pocket as he moves.

Felicia: I am officially no longer asking

Felicia: you need to be in Crime Alley asap

Peter: i can't just disappear

Felicia: oh i can arrange for you to disappear

Peter: terrifying

Peter: how?

Felicia: Selina won’t notice her car going missing if I bring it back before she comes home

That will have to work. Peter lets out a low sigh, the tension in his shoulders easing as he finally
has a plan to get out of the manor and into the city.

A thought occurs to him.

Peter: you know how to drive?

Felicia: kinda. how hard can it be?

Before he can think of a way to reply to that, she follows up:

Felicia: i’ll come get you.

Felicia: be ready

Peter pockets his phone, half relieved, half stressed. Felicia’s going to help him, which is nice, but
her timing is a little off. The gala is supposed to start later. Can he really just disappear like that?
Won’t someone notice if the newest addition to the Wayne family has disappeared?

He considers his predicament, tugging on his tie as he slips around the various event workers
moving around the ballroom. There isn’t really a choice to be made here: he has to get to Crime
Alley, no matter what. Felicia wouldn’t steal a car just to--

He stops himself there and resets.

Felicia wouldn’t steal Selina’s car just to come get him if the situation wasn’t serious. She clearly
has a lot of respect for the woman who took her in, and even thieves have standards. Apparently.

Okay, that last part might’ve been a little unfair to Felicia. She has plenty of standards. They’re just
different from his. And maybe he’s still a little put out she took his anti-grav puck from him awhile
back.

Peter keeps to the edge of the ballroom and entrance hall, making sure to avoid the heavily
trafficked areas for now. He watches the main and side entrances, contemplating how best to sneak
out to meet Felicia when he notices a stranger standing to the side of the main entrances.

The man is bald, tall, slim, and dressed in a tailor made casual business suit. Dark tones cut from
the finest cloth, tailored to accentuate his shoulders and height; everything about the man is a
subtle show of power and confidence, and something about him reminds Peter of Norman Osborn.
The man has a phone in one hand, bulkier than the standard cell phone made today, with a
holoscreen projecting from it.

Curious, Peter wanders closer, peering at the phone and the holoscreen projecting from it. The
holoscreen is sleek, but the image flickers and rolls, and dims at random, as if struggling to
maintain the power necessary to keep a crisp image. Not really surprising; even Tony’s phone
struggles to do the same. This one isn’t quite as bright as Tony’s phone, but it also isn’t far off.
Pretty impressive for a piece of tech that isn’t running on a battery created by Stark Industries.

The man, whoever he is, is designing a suit. Similar to an Iron Man suit, but heavier, lined with
lead and powered by a crystal, rather than an Arc Reactor. The lead has him confused, but the
crystal power source--whatever it is--fascinates him. Peter peers over the man’s shoulder, briefly
overcoming his usual social awkwardness and the low hum of his danger sense to look at the
various formulas the man is running through over and over on the screen.

“Your suit is too top heavy. You need to boost the power by fifty percent,” Peter tells him after
watching four or five simulations fail. “It’ll stabilize the suit in flight.”

Well, mostly. The suit won’t win against gravity for very long; it’s almost as clunky as the
Hulkbuster suit Tony had shown him once. A lot of the armor has been replaced with repulsors, as
if the man intends to build a personal jet suit.

The man startles in place, as if suddenly aware of the fact that he’s not alone. A strange reaction
top have, considering the event staff moving around the manor. After a moment, the man says,
“You seem pretty confident.”

“I know what I’m doing," Peter says. "Run the simulation. Check the results."

“Hm.” The man gives him a cold, curious look with just a hint of challenge, and enters the
calculation. It works (no surprise there), and the man’s expression turns thoughtful, the challenge
draining away from his expression. “Well. Very good.”

He says that in a tone specifically reserved for very intelligent dogs, and Peter has the distinct
feeling that’s what the man thinks of him. Or maybe not; it isn’t like being filthy rich makes you
good at socializing, and this guy seems to lean more towards the ‘genius’ rich guy rather than
‘charming schmoozer’ side. More Norman Osbnorn than the Roxxon CEO he met at Tony’s gala.
The man closes down the holoscreen and gives Peter his full attention. Peter’s senses briefly spike,
and he has to fight against the urge to fidget. The guy is intense.

He offers Peter his hand. “I”m Lex Luthor.”

Ah. That explains a few things. Peter’s shoulders relax a bit. Lex Luthor is the guy obsessed with
alien invasions; it’s possible he’s building a suit as a preventative measure. A tall order for
someone who doesn’t have an arc reactor, but the crystals seemed to put out quite a bit of power
themselves.

He shakes Lex’s hand. “Peter Parker.”

Recognition flashes behind the man’s eyes as he shakes Peter’s hand and releases it. It’s a perfect
handshake. "I know most of the Wayne children tend to take after their father. I wondered if you’d
be the exception to the rule, and you seem to be so far.”

"Because I'm from Crime Alley?"

"Because you haven't been able to live up to your potential due to circumstances beyond your
control," Lex clarifies, a glint forming in his eye. He squares his shoulders. “Don’t waste the
opportunity Mr. Wayne has given you. Hopefully you’ll be less of a disappointment than the rest
of his brood.”

“Uh, right,” Peter says slowly, suddenly unsure of how to navigate this conversation. It feels like
he’s drifted into dangerous waters by sheer coincidence. He decides to try and pivot the
conversation to safer waters. “You’re here pretty early, Mr. Luthor. I don’t think the gala is
supposed to start for awhile.”

“Yes, I know. I decided to come in early and pay my respects before heading back to Metropolis,”
Lex says. “Unfortunately, I have too much on my plate to enjoy one of Mr. Wayne’s frivolous
parties.”

“Memorial, sir,” Alfred corrects politely, stepping past them. Peter can see the butler watching Lex
carefully from the corner of his eye as he directs a crew of contractors around the ballroom.

“Memorial party, then. Not that I’m personally inclined to donate much to Spider-Man’s memory
when he’s caused me so much trouble,” Lex says sourly. “My office building downtown is full of
bullet holes, which is to be expected in Gotham, but I never expect a crane to be tied to it in some
kind of rope.”

“Is that really so bad?” Peter asks. “I mean, it kept the crane from landing on people on the street-
-”

“Yes, yes, he saved lives, good for him,” Lex says, rolling his eyes. “Every cape in the country
does that. However, none of them have yet used some cheap biochemical glue to create a massive
web hammock anchored to my very expensive building. It froze in the blizzard and now I have to
pay a premium to get it removed and have the building inspected by city authorities, not including
the bribes necessary to get anything done in this city. Skyscrapers are an engineering balancing act
and they aren’t meant to catch several tons of machinery on a whim during a blizzard strong
enough to ground most flights in the state."

Okay, yeah, that’s a good point. Whoops.

“Which means I’m laying off the entire Gotham division,” Lex continues, his tone bored and dry.
“It’s not worth the hassle to keep them on when they can’t work, and there aren’t any other
buildings to move them to that meet my standards.”

“That seems pretty harsh,” Peter says, frowning at him. “Your employees didn’t do anything
wrong.”
“If they want gainful employment they can move somewhere else with the money I’ve already
paid them. We rehire laid off employees all the time,” Lex replies. “Gotham is a sinkhole. It’s
painful knowing how much of the taxes from my business have gone into this money pit. If Wayne
wants to throw his fortune away, he’s free to do it. But billionaires don’t stay that way bailing out a
sinking ship, and everyone knows Gotham’s eventual fate.”

“If you feel that way, then why did you come?” Peter asks, tilting his head. “I mean, this is a
memorial for Spider-Man.”

“Because every news rag in the nation will happily plaster the names and faces of everyone who
failed to show up to a Wayne fundraiser, and I don’t need that kind of attention,” Lex replies dryly.
“It’s easier to cut a check for good PR and skip the party altogether. I have much more important
things to do and Wayne gets his cash. It doesn’t hurt my company’s reputation, either. In fact, if the
donation is big enough, no one will pay any attention to the layoffs. The media loves to softball
people of a certain level of wealth.”

Peter can’t really think of anything to say to that. He’s suddenly glad that everyone thinks Spider-
Man is dead. Lex Luthor looks like the type of guy who would happily sue a superhero into the
ground. He’s about to say something when he notices a shadowed figure standing in the entrance
hallway.

Tim Drake isn’t really an imposing figure--he’s about equal to Peter’s height, but his build is more
of a marathon runner’s than anything else--but with the way he’s staring daggers at Lex, standing
half in shadow, sends a chill down Peter’s spine. Something sharp glints in his hand.

“He’s about to do something stupid,” Bucky says. “Steve’s had looks like that before.”

“Uh, right,” Peter says. “It was nice talking to you, but I’d better go finish a few things around the
manor for Alfred.”

“Yes, yes, be on your way,” Lex says, idly giving him a dismissive wave of his hand. “It was
interesting meeting you, Peter.”

“Yeah, you too,” Peter says, moving past Lex towards Tim.

Lex barely reacts as Peter passes him, which is good, or he’d see Tim half hidden in the shadows
behind him. There’s an intensity to Tim’s gaze that bothers Peter, and he briefly weighs his options
before reaching to grab TIm’s arm as he draws close.

“What are you doing--” Tim hisses, shifting in such a way that he almost slips out of Peter’s grip.
If Peter wasn’t naturally a touch more strong and significantly more sticky than the average
teenager, he would’ve slipped free easily. The fact that he doesn’t break free startles Tim, and he
pauses midword, confused.

“Keeping you from upsetting Alfred,” Peter says, herding him out of the entrance hall and back
towards the stairs. When they’re back in the bedroom hallway, Peter lets go of him. "What the hell
were you doing back there? It looked like you were about to jump the guy."

“Luthor is one of the top suspects for Conner’s disappearance. It’s the only thing that makes
sense,” Tim says.

“Him? Why? I thought you said Conner lives on some farm out in the middle of nowhere,” Peter
says, frowning. “How does someone our age end up making an enemy out of a multinational
corporation’s billionaire owner?”
Peter has some ideas how, personally, but unless Tim’s friend is capable of zipping across the
nation to go slap Lex Luthor in the face every other week, it really isn’t possible.

“Maybe he’s living there to stay hidden,” Bucky says.

True. Why else would someone choose to move to Kansas from Gotham? At least, Peter assumes
Conner’s from Gotham; it’s where Tim is from so--

“It’s complicated,” Tim says. He starts to say something, and his expression shifts, losing focus.
He shakes his head. “It’s just that his disappearance makes no sense. He was seen going into his
room, and then he wasn't seen again. The Kents went into his room and found ashes, but they
didn't smell anything burning--"

"Ashes?" Peter asks sharply.

“Yeah. Ashes,” Tim says. He pauses and focuses on Peter, and the intensity of his gaze could
match Batman’s for the intimidation factor alone. “Why?”

Peter’s stomach drops; he can feel his heart speed up, and his face grow cold. He feels sick. “I need
to go.”

“Why? What’s so significant about ashes?” Tim asks. He pauses and frowns. “Wait. You panicked
at school once. Because pieces of an eraser landed on your page. Is it because they looked like
ashes to you?”

“I can’t tell you,” Peter says, looking past Tim, his mind racing.

“Can’t or won’t?” Tim asks, stepping into Peter’s view. He’s starting to crowd Peter, shoulders
squared as if ready for a fight.

“It isn’t safe for you to know,” Peter retorts, steel in his voice. Tim blinks at the tone, taken off
guard by it. “I need to go.”

Tim is watching him steadily. “Are you in trouble?”

“Maybe. Look, I can’t tell you right now,” Peter says quickly. “I’d love to, Tim, really, but now
isn’t the best time. Just do me a favor and cover for me at the gala.”

“What?” Tim asks.

“I have to go. Cover for me with Alfred and Dick,” Peter says, pushing past him to head for his
bedroom. He keeps his pace brisk, hoping that Tim won’t follow him. He doesn’t hear any
footsteps behind him and counts it as a victory.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out as he moves.

Felicia: here

Peter: where?

Felicia: your room

Peter: terrifying, on my way

***
BATCHAT

Steph (01:00pm): Cass and I are officially done with the bombs. The tipster was legit. Where do
you need us? Since it looks like Crime Alley now has a giant tower made of most of the warehouse
district poking up.

Barbara (01:01pm): Perimeter control. Nightwing, Signal, and Red Hood have gone dark;
Batman doesn’t want to take any chances.

Steph (01:02pm): So he’s aware of Clayface, Bane, Electrocutioner, and about two dozen manbats
speeding towards the spire in a truck?

Barbara (01:03pm): Well, he is now. What do they have?

Steph (01:03pm): A weapon? A machine. They’re moving too fast for us to run and talk at the
same time. But whatever this is plus the spire, plus the portal, and the monsters is bad. That’s
usually more than B-man can handle on his own.

Barbara (01:04pm): Your call, Batman.

Bruce (01:07pm): Tail them. Stay in constant contact.

***

Peter ducks into his bedroom, shutting the door gently behind himself before tugging the tie off.
He glances around the room and finds Felicia standing on the balcony outside his window, dressed
comfortably. She opens the doors for him as he gets close.

He blinks. “I thought those were locked.”

“They were,” she says.

Right, cat burglar. Peter tosses his tie back onto the bed, taking a deep breath. The air smells...odd.
Thick and heavy, like a summer storm. The storm hasn’t left Gotham, even though the wind and
rain have stopped; ominous dark clouds hover above Gotham’s skyline, centered above Crime
Alley. He can’t make out the details from here, but Crime Alley’s skyline looks weird. Off.

And there’s a hole in the sky above it.

“What the fuck?” Peter says.

“Yeah, that wasn’t there until this morning,” Felicia tells him. “It looks like the portal from New
York but bigger. And it kind of bleeds off this weird red energy every now and then.”

It does look like the portal. The thought makes his stomach turn. Peter frowns at the sky above
Crime Alley. He turns to Felicia. “I’m guess you don’t have a suit or a mask or something I could
borrow when I get there?”

Felicia pulls out a brown paper grocery bag from her pocket. With eye holes cut out. She wiggles it
at him, and shrugs.

“Are you serious.”

“I broke my goggles during my last heist. And I don’t have a spare set or I’d let you borrow them,”
she admits. “I realized you needed a mask, but I didn’t have anything on hand except for this, so...”
Another wiggle of the bag. It crackles in the wind.

“Great. Your friendly neighborhood hero is swinging in to save the day,” Peter says dryly.
“Evildoers beware, the Bagman is coming for you.”

“We’ll call it dumpster chic. The tailored shirt and pants will make up for it. And I’ve got a sharpie
in the car. If you’d like, we can add angry eyebrows over the eye holes,” Felicia says helpfully.

One of the ghosts near Peter snorts back a laugh. Peter ignores it, glancing over Felicia’s shoulder
to the sky above Crime Alley. The storm is beginning to move; the clouds are swirling around the
portal, slowly, but gradually picking up speed. The movement is setting Peter’s teeth on edge. He
eyes the center of the swirling clouds, feeling his spider sense grow more and more tense with each
passing moment.

Peter shrugs off his suit jacket, and starts for the balcony ledge. His highly polished dress shoes
would normally have almost no traction on the smooth balcony, but his sticky powers counter that
easily. He really misses his suit, but he’ll just have to go without it for now. “We need to go now,”
Peter tells Felicia. “Before--”

“Before what?” Tim asks from his bedroom doorway.

Peter nearly jumps out of his skin, whirling around to face Tim. “What--when did you--”

“He came in a few seconds after you did,” Felicia says helpfully from her perch on the balcony
railing.

“And you didn’t say anything?” Peter asks her. She shrugs in reply and he sighs before turning
back to Tim. “This isn’t what it looks like.”

“Yes, it is,” Felicia says.

“Felicia--”

“I mean, it’s not like we can tell him we’re not sneaking you out of the manor,” she points out.
“He’s not stupid.”

“What are you hiding?” Tim asks Peter. There’s a steady intensity to his tone that Peter has never
heard before. In fact, it--

It almost sounds like Red Robin.

“I’m not--” Tim scoffs. Peter doesn’t blame him. He sounds anything but convincing. “I know you
probably have a few questions, but--”

“I thought Lex had something to do with Connor’s disappearance, but I actually think it’s you. I
just focused on Lex instead. Followed the wrong clues,” Tim says. “That happens, but it doesn’t
happen often. And it’s happened a lot more lately. Ever since we met, in fact.”

“I didn’t do anything to your friend, Tim,” Peter says.

“I know. And I know you’re in the middle of whatever this is, too. I know that they’re connected
somehow,” Tim says, pointing at the hole in the sky. He continues, his voice growing sharper,
flirting with the edge of fury. “I know that. I just don’t know how! Every time I start to piece things
together, one or two facts drift away from me. I literally forget the words midthought. Do you
know what that’s like for someone like me? To think they’re losing their mind? That isn’t allowed
to happen.”

Peter takes a step back from Tim, suddenly on edge for an entirely different reason than he was a
moment ago. Tim matches him step for step, not quite crowding, but sending a very clear message
all the same: you aren’t getting out of this. The thing is, Tim is probably right, but Peter has no idea
how to even begin to explain all of this without earning himself a one way trip to Arkham Asylum.
He opens his mouth--

Something in the sky above them screams. Peter’s head snaps up just as Felicia lets out a hissing
gasp and Tim curses. Six bat monsters have broken through the cloud cover above the manor.
These bat monsters aren’t like the ones he fought outside the bus with Lou months ago. They’re
much bigger, bristling with muscle, and covered in sleek black armor. All six of them are focused
on Peter.

Time takes on that weird, sluggish slowness when his senses spike. Peter thinks fast. He can’t fight
them in the manor. There are too many people inside who will get hurt. He can’t fight them on the
balcony; it’s too small, and Tim and Felicia can’t possibly run fast enough to avoid the monsters.
The only thing he can do is leap up and meet them head on. Given that there are six of them, he
doesn’t think the odds will be in his favor. It isn’t the most sound tactical decision, but it’s all he
has. Peter grits his teeth and prepares to leap directly into their claws.

And then Tim does something utterly unforgivable.

He saves Peter’s life.

Tim slams his shoulder against Peter’s, knocking him out of the way of the monster swooping
down from above. He moves so quickly that Peter doesn’t realize it’s happening until he’s knocked
into the balcony railing beside Felicia. The monsters are forced to abandon their deadly dive,
clumsily swooping left or right, a couple of them flying into each other and shrieking at one
another in frustration.

That doesn’t keep Tim safe, however. One of the monsters grabs him and lifts him up and off of
the balcony in one fell swoop. Peter hears Tim grunt in pain and curse quietly under his breath as
the monster sweeps back up into the sky. Peter steps on to the railing and leaps off of it, pressing
down hard enough to crack the iron railing of the balcony under his foot. He can jump pretty high
with his enhanced strength, but he barely makes it onto the monster’s back.

The monster isn’t prepared for Peter’s weight; it starts to fall, burdened by both Tim and Peter. If
Peter times this right, he can distract the thing enough that it drops Tim. Peter can dive off of its
back and catch him before he falls--

“Behind you!” Felicia shouts, just as his senses spike.

He dodges the first monster swooping towards him. He doesn’t quite make it out of range of the
second. It slams into his side, throwing him off balance and ultimately off of the first monster’s
back. He falls past Tim, who gives him a startled, open mouthed look of horror as he sails past.

Dammit, this would be so easy if he had his web shooters! Peter flips in midair, controlling his fall,
trying to think of a back up plan.

He doesn’t get the chance. One of the other monsters snatches him from the air, laboriously
beating its wings as it arcs back into the sky and takes its place between two others: one carrying
Tim to his left, and another carrying Felicia to his right. The whole flock is headed towards the
city, gaining both speed and height as they move. The thing’s hands are like steel vices clamped
around his shoulders, and the strength in those arms are more than evident. He manages to wrench
an arm free, reeling back to strike at the black steel armor. If he can get his hand on it, he might be
able to use his sticky powers to rip it off and give himself an opening--

The creature lets out a frustrated grunt, dips it’s flight a bit lower, and slams Peter’s head against
one of the cranes resting on top of one of Gotham’s skyscrapers. The metal dents from the impact
and lets out a resounding clong noise, disorienting Peter. He manages one clumsy, ineffective
swing before the monster backhands him with an armored fist, sending his vision into darkness.

***

BATCHAT

Barbara (01:19pm): Heads up, guys. The manor’s sensors just went off. Cameras show six of
those monsters.

Barbara (01:20pm): They’ve got Tim and Peter, and someone I don’t recognize.

Steph (01:21pm): When it rains, it pours.

Bruce (01:22pm): Where are they taking them?

Barbara (01:23pm): The spire beneath the portal.

Barbara (01:24pm): Tim has his tracer on him, but it isn’t active yet.

Barbara (01:25pm): Once he figures out a way to trigger it, we’ll get his location. And hear
everything he hears.

***

“Peter, wake up,” Sam says urgently. “Wake up!”

Peter’s vision returns gradually. His ears ring, and his head throbs with pain. Something warm and
sticky has trailed down the side of his head and along his neck; a shallow wound from when the
bat creature punched him. It’s already healed, but it fucking hurts. He’s hanging in mid air, and it
takes him a moment to realize he’s been practically cocooned in thick, rusty chains. Great.

“Peter?” Felicia whispers from somewhere nearby. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Kinda,” Peter mutters, keeping his voice as low as hers. He opens his eyes, taking in his
surroundings.

They’re inside what looks like a warehouse. Or what used to be a warehouse. The walls are tilted at
odd angles, meshing with cement foundations and ceiling supports in ways that make absolutely no
sense. It’s also much larger than any warehouse Peter has ever seen; it’s huge. Massive. Intersected
by steel catwalks, some leading to dead drops into what looks like the subway, with lights
haphazardly strung along the walls and ceiling. It’s as if someone has clumped a dozen buildings
together and then stretched them out into the shape of a spire like clay, paying no attention to what
parts of a particular building went where. Massive steel vats of something that smells like rotting
lavender and gasoline are slowly rising from the ground towards an opening at the top of the
building, their contents sloshing over the sides of a few. The opening leads to a portal, and
something else: a machine, half finished, pointing towards the clouds.
So they’re inside the weird thing in the middle of Crime Alley. Okay, not how he wanted to get
here, but he can work with that. Peter shifts, pressing against the chains with his strength. They
press back, twice as hard, and he lets out a quiet wheeze as they shift across him like pythons.

“Don’t struggle. They’re like fingertraps,” Felicia says. “You’ll just hurt yourself.”

“A binding spell,” Dr. Strange mutters. “Simple, but effective.”

Peter glances at Felicia. She’s just as trapped, suspended in the air nearby. Between them and a
little behind, Tim is also bound in chains. He’s still fighting against his, though it looks like he’s
puzzling out a weakness rather than blindly struggling like Peter. He also has several chains
wrapped tightly around his mouth.

“Why is Tim gagged?” Peter asks her quietly, keeping very still.

“He kept drawing the bad guys’ attention away from Signal. And us,” Felicia says, quietly. “They
had to zap him to get him to calm down and then they put that metal clamp over his mouth.”

Figures. Peter would’ve done the exact same thing, and apparently he and Tim have the same
chronic hero syndrome. That’s something he’s going to have to talk to the guy about if they get out
of this alive. It’s all well and good for Peter to fling himself into almost certain death, but it’s a
completely different matter if one of Bruce Wayne’s kids feels the need to do the same thing. He’s
the Avenger, Tim isn’t.

As if that matters anymore.

“Those bat things are way bigger than the ones I ran into before,” Peter says, eyeing the walls and
ceiling of the shifting building. There are dozens of them. Hundreds, maybe. And there’s room for
a lot more in the shadowy corners of the building.

“They look like Outriders,” Felicia says.

“How do you know what those are?” Peter asks.

“They invaded Wakanda after you got sucked into that weird ship,” Felicia says. “The Avengers
went to Wakanda and helped Black Panther and his army fight them off. The news showed Cap
and Black Panther charging into an army of them. These have wings though. Which is weird.”

“They hit like a truck,” Peter mutters.

“No shit,” Felicia says. “The whole world watched Cap and Black Panther get steamrolled by them
through illegal video streams. They could have torn us to shreds in a second.”

“But they didn’t. Which is probably bad,” Peter says, staring at the nearest group of the mutant
creatures.

“As if there’s anything worse than being torn apart by mutant Outriders,” Felicia mutters.

“There is,” Peter says grimly. She blinks at him, frowning.

Between them and a little behind them, Tim watches as they talk, eyes darting back and forth
between them, obviously soaking in every word they’re saying. Add another note to an
increasingly awkward future conversation they’re going to have at the manor later.

Peter looks around the room again, and pauses when he finally notices a cell settled on a black
steel platform above them. The cell looks like an oversized Lazarus machine he found in Red
Robin’s clock tower hide out weeks ago, but extra large. It would need to be: it’s holding both
Nightwing and a distinctly singed looking Red Hood inside of it. They’re both staring at Peter,
Felicia, and Tim, and it’s clear they can hear them. Great.

Directly below the opening is a cement floor, where Signal stands alone, surrounded by bat
monsters, and other dark figures Peter can’t quite make out from this distance. He recognizes the
Black Order. The weird Squidward looking guy that Tony fought on the ship, the big guy with the
chain hammer, and two others: a man holding a crescent shaped spear and a tall woman with horns
curled above her head.

This is bad.

Peter sends a desperate thought towards the ghosts: Can you help me?

A pause follows, and a feeling of frustration and fear rolls back towards him over their strange
connection.

“We aren’t back to full strength,” Wanda says quietly.

“At most, we can be a distraction. And only if we have a turn of good luck,” Dr. Strange says. He
emphasizes that last word, just a bit.

“Whatever happens next will fall to you,” T’Challa adds.

Figures. He’s rested, and healed, but that doesn’t mean the ghosts in the stone have had a chance to
fully recover, even after that little trip down memory lane. That’s fine. He can figure this out. Some
of his best thinking happens when he’s in a vague state of panic.

He keeps his eyes narrowed, listening and watching the world around him, thinking furiously and
doing his best to stay still and not draw attention to himself. He watches the aliens, the outriders,
and the bats.

Off to the side of signal, another platform floats in the air. Something dark and metallic rests on top
of it, half hidden by the shadows of the warped building. The horned woman, apparently growing
bored of whatever the others are discussing, wanders over towards it.

"You haven't yet opened this?" the woman asks. After a moment, her name comes to him from one
of the ghosts: Proxima Midnight.

"There is no need,” Squidward says. His name follows, likely from one of the Guardians: Ebony
Maw.

The big alien (Cull Obsidian, another ghost tells him) in back snarls and grumbles. The woman
turns to face him and then turns back to Ebony Maw, smirking at him.

"Ah. You can't open it. Stark has bested you again. Without even being present."

Ebony Maw snarls. "He has not beaten me. It is one little toybox full of childish traps. I have been
too busy to deal with it."

“I had thought you more clever than Tony Stark,” the goblin man remarks. Corvus.

“Enough,” Ebony Maw snaps. “Focus. The portal has gone dark. Something is wrong.”
Proxima Midnight rolls her eyes, but moves away from the pod. “It has gone dark before.”

“Not like this. Thanos should have passed through the portal by now,” Ebony Maw insists. He
turns to face Signal, who stares at him from behind his own chains with the steady, furious disdain
that only a Bat can properly show. “We will need to use this one’s eyes to peer into the other
dimension.”

Peter frowns at the pod. The metal object has the Avengers emblem across the side and 17-A
stenciled on top. A sleek Stark Industries is stenciled into the corner. That tugs at the back of his
mind. He’s seen this before. He recognizes it. But the memory is fuzzy, as if he last heard the
words 17-A while half conscious--

And then the memory strikes him.

The ship. The lack of oxygen. The fall.

Tony’s voice, steady, but with a thread of stress and panic poorly hidden beneath the surface, the
way he tends to get whenever Peter is in over his head. “Pete, I’m gonna catch you, just hang on.
FRIDAY, release 17-A!”

The suit catching him. His suit. 17-A. The Iron Spider.

His suit is here.

Peter grins.

"Why are you grinning like that?" Felicia asks.

Peter twists in his restraints, turning to face her, the grin still on his face. “Felicia, I’m going to do
something very stupid and I need your help.”

“Why?” she asks, drawing the word out.

“Because it’ll save us.” Probably. Maybe. “I need you to use your luck powers. Can you give me
good luck for, like, two seconds?”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Felicia whispers, keeping a wary eye on the aliens surrounding them.
None of them are paying them any kind of attention; their muted conversation is overshadowed by
the storm, the shifting walls, and whatever is happening between Signal and the Black Order.
Right now it sounds like Signal is mocking the Order. “I curse people with bad luck, I don’t give
them good luck. There isn't, like, a reverse switch for it. And your luck is so weird that I’m not
sure I want to use it on you at all. It could backfire and makes things worse.”

“Have you tried giving someone good luck before?” Peter asks.

She frowns. “I--well, no, I haven’t.”

“Reverse curse me for two seconds. That’s all I need,” Peter says.

Felicia stares at him, at the Bats trapped in their separate prisons, at the Black Order and their
mutant foot soldiers, and then at the giant machine. She sighs, and gives a shaky nod.

“Okay, I’ll try,” she says quietly. “Just give me a second. I need something to focus it on and I
need to make sure none of those guys notice I’m trying to do it.”

“I can do that,” Peter says brightly. From the corner of his eye, he sees Tim make a pained
expression. Judging by the equally pinched look on Nightwing’s face, he and Red Hood don’t
seem overly enthused by his plan either.

Whatever.

“Allow me the use of your eyes and your death will be quick and painless,” Ebony Maw tells
Signal. His tone is one of restrained fury. “Continue to defy me and I will--”

“What? Kill me?” Signal demands. He scoffs. “You’ve already kidnapped me. And you just said
you’d kill me anyway! You’re not very good at bargains, are you?”

"You will pay for your insolence in blood and pain," Ebony Maw hisses at Signal. Signal, for his
part, doesn’t seem all that impressed by the threat. "I will personally see to it that--"

"Man, did you really have to go and do this on a Friday?" Peter calls out, pitching his voice more
towards the center of the room rather than at Ebony Maw directly.

The Stark pod reacts; the edges flicker once, twice, and then gradually grow into the steady blue
light that marks every Stark suit. The same shade as Tony’s old Arc Reactor. It doesn’t last long.
Two seconds at most. The light races along the edges of the pod, focuses on Peter, and then
disappears. FRIDAY’s processing time is near instantaneous. She knows exactly what’s going on
right now. More importantly, she’s awake and able to respond to voice commands. Their odds of
survival just rose astronomically.

The room has gone utterly silent save for the storm. If looks could kill, Peter would be dead three
times over judging by the mirrored expressions of furious horror on Felicia, Tim, and Nightwing’s
faces. Even Red Hood looks pissed as hell, and his face is hidden behind his red helmet. Peter
ignores them all, adding a jaunty little swing in his restraints, jangling the chains as loudly and
obnoxiously as possible in order to maximize the attention drawn his way. It works: all of the
Black Order and even a few fo the mutated Outriders turn to give him an annoyed look.

“Come on, man,” Peter calls out, adding a whining lilt to his voice. “I had plans tonight!”

“I hope you know what you’re doing, kid,” Sam says quietly.

Ebony Maw turns to face Peter, his expression one of pure shock.

And recognition.

“You,” Ebony Maw breathes, his fury redirected and fully reignited. “You should be dead.”

Peter has just enough time to wonder if he’s tested his luck too much before the building shifts, the
bricks rippling like water. The floor Ebony Maw is standing on rises, then crosses the distance
between Signal and Peter in short order. Peter is yanked lower, the ceiling above him dropping
down to move him away from Tim and Felicia, until he’s dangling at head height to Ebony Maw.
The alien stares at him, an expression caught somewhere between fury and disbelief warring across
his features.

Felicia, I’m counting on you, Peter thinks.

“Hi, Squidward,” he says, grinning at Ebony Maw. There’s more teeth and challenge to his tone
than genuine pleasure, though he is hamming it up just a bit. Ebony Maw’s scowl grows just a bit
deeper. “Funny meeting you here, huh?”
Chapter End Notes

Remember: the time between universes isn't quite 1:1. The shield will show up soon.

Who's ready for a few identity reveals?

 Chapter 42
Chapter Notes

The missing scene from the past few chapters is just Jason and Dick snarking at each
other for allowing themselves to get captured and Signal kicking Ebony Maw in the
face a lot while verbally ripping him a new asshole.

Anyways, I’m going to beat Peter’s new found emotional well belling with a brick for
a little bit, enjoy!)

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The tension in the room, already running high, ratchets up another few notches. Ebony Maw stares
Peter down, his eyes cold and flat, as if examining a particularly unpleasant kind of bug.

From the corner of his eye, Peter sees Felicia watch him, visibly worried and upset. Tim, by
contrast, doesn’t seem rattled at all. He shifts around in his restraints, deliberately twisting in such
a way that the casual observer would mistake it for horror or discomfort. But Peter can hear his
heartbeat, and it’s as steady and calm as its ever been. Ebony Maw doesn’t scare Tim in the least.
In fact, nothing about this situation seems to be very concerning for him. What the hell is wrong
with him? Is he insane?

Peter also hears the distinctive click-beep of something small and electronic in Tim’s hand,
followed by a steady thrum.

Tim just called for help. Peter can’t even imagine what help he could hope to signal for up here, let
alone if the message can get past all of this shifting metal and concrete. He really hopes it isn’t
Alfred; there isn’t much an aging British man with a shotgun can do in this situation.

Signal, in contrast, looks terrified on Peter’s behalf. His head darts around not unlike Dr. Strange’s
back on Titan, almost too fast to track, trying to determine how, when, and where to help him. As
if it’s even possible for him to do so; he’s trapped inside the same shifting chains as Peter, Tim,
and Felicia. In fact, the chains around him seem tighter than the others; he’s been constantly
struggling against them to the point of near strangulation. Peter can half see a golden shadow near
Signal, slipping close to the hero.

"I recognize your voice," Ebony Maw says. "You're Stark’s ward. The sidekick."

"Why is everyone so hung up on this ‘ward’ thing?" Peter asks. He pauses and squints, utterly
offended. “Wait, did you just call me a sidekick?”

Ebony Maw doesn’t answer him right away. He’s busy staring at Peter again, as if puzzling out
how he came to be here. Peter matches his stare, itching to glance over at FRIDAY’s pod, but not
daring to risk it. He can’t give away the ace up his sleeve just yet. He has to be patient, something
he typically isn’t very good at. But he can manage. FRIDAY is active. Not only did Ebony Maw
steal the suit, he repaired it. Or left it alone long enough for FRIDAY to use the nanobots to fix it
herself. The result is the same: he has a suit within arms’ reach. It should have plenty of web fluid
inside it, plus all of the other tricks Tony built into it.
The hard part: getting to the suit when he’s suspended by chains in the middle of the room and also
getting stared at by the Black Order.

“Thanos chose to return you to ash,” Ebony Maw says, breaking the silence. “Yet you escaped your
fate. Interesting.”

“Guess he took offense when I kicked him in the face,” Peter says, shrugging. He tests his strength
against the chains when he does so. They shift, but don’t break. If he can manage that a few more
times, he might break just a few of the links on those chains--

“The fact that he did not have you tortured to death for daring to lay a hand on him speaks of his
infinite mercy.”

“Please. He wouldn’t have stood a chance against us without that gauntlet,” Peter retorts, shifting
hard in his restraints. He hears one of the chains creak ominously, and hopes the movement comes
across as idiotic bravado rather than a calculated escape attempt.

“If he had wished for the destruction of your Earth, there is nothing you or your Avengers could
have done to stop it,” Ebony Maw replies.

“Be ready, Signal,” Dr. Strange says quietly. Signal stills for a moment, then gives a barely
perceptible nod. He loses the near panicked expression and instead focuses on some point near
Peter, tensing himself and going utterly still.

"I must admit that you are resourceful. When my outriders had mentioned someone matching your
description, I had thought it a simple matter of universes matching one another. That happens, at
times. There are constants between each version of Earth, including some of Earth's defenders,"
Ebony Maw muses. "I ordered my puppets to hunt Nightwing because of the Avengers symbol on
his suit and it was you they were looking for. I had thought the situation was half resolved when
your doppelganger was shot in place of Nightwing."

Peter stares at Ebony Maw. He put the Avengers 'A' on Nightwing’s shoulder as a thoughtless goof
months back and apparently set off a line of dominos ending with an assassination attempt on
Nightwing--and Spider-Man’s own 'death.' If even one of the hundreds of outriders around the
room had seen Nightwing on his nightly patrol, they would have immediately recognized the
symbol for what it was: the calling card for one of the only groups to ever try and stop Thanos.
Peter’s vague hope of memorializing the Avengers in this universe ended up nearly getting himself
killed.

God, that is just his luck.

From the corner of his eye, Peter sees Nightwing go still and pale, as if the final pieces of a puzzle
have started to fall into place for him.

"I was told that you had died back on Titan," Ebony Maw muses, pacing circles around Peter. "In
fact, I know that my lord made sure to prolong your death. How did you survive?"

"I didn't,” Peter says with a shrug. More chains strain with the movement, and Peter hears a quiet
tink sound. One link inside the mass of chains is broken, and it gets a little easier for him to
breathe. “How did you survive Tony launching you into space?"

"I didn't," Ebony Maw returns, tone dry. "But Lord Thanos has the Time stone. He merely rolled
back the timeline of my death and revived me."

Peter frowns. "What? That isn’t possible--"

"Here. A demonstration."

The alien raises his arm, pointing to a spot in front of Peter. The air wavers, shifts, as if he’s staring
at a pool of water with an image inside of it. There’s a distinctly blue tinge to the edge of the
image, a kind of power that presses against Peter’s senses in waves. It’s both unnerving and oddly
familiar.

“He’s using a part of the Space Stone. All of the stones can use the same magic to some degree. I
used a portion of its magic to control Hawkeye’s mind once,” Loki remarks. “Maw’s power has
been enhanced by it. Tread carefully.”

The image clears. Peter recognizes Wakanda, even if he’s never set foot there in his waking life.
This isn’t Wakanda from T’Challa’s soul world; the sky is bright and blue beneath a shining sun,
the air is pierced with the sounds of distant battle, different but similar to the sounds Peter
remembers from the Battle of New York: screams of pain from fallen Wakandan warriors,
berserker screams from the four armed outriders charging across the plains, bone deep rumbling
from massive war machines. The sounds are overwhelming, the sights even more so.

This is the battle Felicia mentioned; the one where the Avengers fought Thanos’ army. And lost.

He feels the ghosts shift and react to the image of the battle; their reaction is strong, filling their
connection to Peter with an emotional spillover that he struggles to separate from his own thoughts:
worry from Sam, frustration from Bucky, fear from Groot, grim recollection from T’Challa and
Shuri.

From Wanda, he feels nothing. That absence of thought and feeling bothers him.

The image focuses on two figures: Vision and Wanda.

“If he gets the stone, half the universe dies,” Vision says urgently. He’s on his knees, struggling to
speak. A jagged wound down the length of his chest sparks and leaks, and he struggles to stay
upright, clutching Wanda’s hand in his own. “It’s not fair, it shouldn’t be you, but it is. It’s alright.
You could never hurt me.”

Wanda staggers back, holding her hand out towards Vision. Her movements are unsteady, as if
she’s just been dealt a deathblow. In a way, she has; Peter can feel her devastation and through the
soul stone. Ebony Maw has no idea who he’s hurting with this; he can’t possibly know that Peter is
reliving Wanda’s own memories while this plays out.

Wanda holds out her hand, gathering scarlet energy into her palm. She hesitates, then with a silent
sob, begins to kill the man she loves.

The Avengers try to stop Thanos in the background. The only one to last longer than a few
moments in a fight against him is Captain America. Thanos slams his fist down across Steve’s jaw
and sends him sprawling into the dirt a minute later. When he draws close to Wanda, she splits her
focus, aiming a second scarlet beam at the Titan.

Wanda is standing between Thanos and Vision, one hand facing each of them. Thanos is braced
against an onslaught of scarlet force, bent against it as if fighting through hurricane force winds.
He’s making headway through it, but only from behind the gauntlet, and only one step at a time.

Wanda destroys the stone, killing Vision. It costs her effort, and strength, and more grief than Peter
can possibly imagine. She fends off Thanos with one hand, and kills the love of her life with the
other.
And then Thanos simply rolls back time. A gesture of his hand, and the time stone flares to life
inside the Gauntlet. Vision snaps back together, confused and whole.

When Thanos rips the stone out of his head--wire thin lines of cables snapping like veins yanked
out of meat--Peter hears himself let out a weak, choking sound. The memory of Vision smiling at
him at the Stark gala is still fresh in his mind; seeing his teasing grin shift into the panic and
confusion shortly before his death--

All of Peter’s bravado disappears, and he simply stares at the image in front of him, almost slack
jawed from shock. Some part of him knew Vision was gone, sure, but he didn’t think Thanos caved
in his skull like a pie crust--

Ebony Maw simply closes his fist and ends the memory image.

"Oh god, Vision," Felicia says quietly behind him, horrified.

“Don’t let him rattle you, Spider-Man,” Fury says sharply. “If any of you are going to make it out
of this alive, you need to stay focused.”

Easier said than done. He takes a moment to draw back into himself, trying to steady his emotions.
He sees Signal staring at him in horror, sees mirrored expressions of shock and horror on
Nightwing and Tim’s faces, and tries not to think about how awkward their next conversations are
going to be once they get out of this. If they get out of this.

Suddenly, his shock disappears under a flood of furious grief so pure and thick that Peter can’t
think properly. His vision goes scarlet, the air grows heavy and thick, charged as if a storm is about
to break, and he can see sparks of red energy flash from the corner of his eye--

“Wanda, you need to regain control of yourself,” Dr. Strange says quietly. “You’re affecting him.”

Wanda says nothing. Gradually, her fury draws back, losing the white hot heat and shifting into
something much colder and sharper. Peter begins to think clearly, and he glares at Ebony Maw.
Peter isn’t sure what Ebony Maw sees in his expression, but it’s enough to make the alien pause
and draw back half a step. Signal himself looks shaken to his core; he saw more than whatever
Ebony Maw saw.

A machine on the platform near Signal and the rest of the Black Order makes a steady, piercing
noise that isn’t quite a beep. The big alien with the chain hammer glances at it and makes a
rumbling, growling sound, crossing his arms across his massive chest. Ebony’s Maw’s face shifts
into one of annoyance, and Proxima Midnight lets out a quiet scoff.

“The portal is activating, but it’s sending signals to the other gates, not this one,” she says. She
glances up at Ebony Maw, then briefly at Peter. “Save that one as a project to be studied later. We
have more important matters to tend to.”

“Agreed,” Ebony Maw says after a moment’s thought. He eyes Peter warily before stepping away.

He flicks his hand in Peter’s direction. Again, the ceiling above shifts in place, and Peter finds
himself being dragged along behind the alien as he crosses the steel platform to stand between
Signal and the machine, leaning over it. Whatever he sees displeases him.

"The portal is being tampered with,” Ebony Maw says shortly. “Our request for reinforcements has
gone unanswered. What is happening over there?”

“It’s obviously working if that one is here,” Corvus snarls. He jerks his head at Peter. “Which one
did he come from?"

"I am not sure. It should be impossible for anyone not attached to the spell to cross over,” Ebony
Maw says. “The portals haven’t been fully open since Thanos returned one of his projects here. We
can’t fully open the pathway to the other side, not without his help. And the Gauntlet has been
behaving oddly ever since he used its full power. If it were, we wouldn’t need to go to such trouble
to invade this universe.”

“All of this nonsense because of the Soul Stone,” Corvus says, disgusted.

Peter watches the Order speak to one another, his eyes darting from one to the other, piecing
together what’s being unspoken as he fights off the shock of Vision’s death. The image is there, as
is the horror and pain, but Fury is right. He can't let Ebony Maw get to him. Not right now. He can
grieve later.

“Holy shit,” Peter blurts out, the realization smacking him in the face. “You lost an Infinity Stone.”

And then the implication hits him.

He laughs. “Oh my god. You’re stuck. You’re stuck here! You tried to bring in an invasion force
and it failed. What, were you going to try and pull off a Battle of New York in Gotham? God, I
almost wish you would. Gothamites aren’t New Yorkers. They would’ve eaten your invaders
alive.”

Not entirely true. Most Gothamites know when to run the hell away when trouble comes for them.
But they’re also angrier than most New Yorkers Peter’s met, so he doesn’t doubt at least a quarter
of the population would see the invasion as a kind of free range anger therapy. And that doesn’t
take into account all of the run of the mill gangs running through Gotham’s streets who would take
a very dim view of inter dimensional invaders trying to muscle in on their turf.

“We are not missing a stone,” Ebony Maw snaps. “One of the stones is broken, the rest cannot
compensate for the missing piece. Thanos has found another way until he locates the missing part.
It will be found eventually.”

He holds up a massive hand, and a sliver of a blue stone flashes into sight. It hovers above Ebony
Maw’s palm, twisting gently. And then it stops. And twists to point directly at Peter.

“That’s not good,” Loki idly remarks.

“You’ve been near the missing stone,” Ebony Maw says, startled and annoyed.

“I have no idea what you’re--” Peter starts.

“Don’t insult me, I can sense it’s magic on you,” the alien snaps. “You’ve encountered the missing
piece of the Soul Stone. Where is it?”

He considers lying, saying he doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but ultimately decides against
it. Instead, he shrugs. “I dunno.”

“Do not test me. This is your one chance for a painless death. Where is it?”

“Seriously, I have no idea.” Which isn’t a lie. He really doesn’t know where it is. He can think it
into his hand in his dreams, but this is no dream. He knows it’s attached to him in some way, but
not where it is physically.
Actually, that’s kind of a problem, now that he thinks about it.

He sends a thought towards the ghosts: Can you guys destroy it if he tries to use me to find it?

Wanda’s revulsion and horror is the only immediate response. The thought of it doesn’t just offend
her: it wounds her, shattering her fury from earlier. Peter regrets thinking it almost immediately.

“That won’t help,” Shuri says. “Not if they can bring a portion of the Time Stone here. And we’re
still weak. Remember?”

Which--yeah, okay, that’s a good point. Guess he’s playing this by ear then.

“If you wish to play games with me--”

“I’m actually being completely honest with you, pal,” Peter says, shrugging in his chains. A near
silent click indicates another portion of the chains has failed.

The building continues to shift around them, raising an uneven portion of the floor to their level. A
glass tube, not unlike the one Nightwing and Red Hood are trapped inside, rests on it. It’s powered
by a green crystal glittering at the base of it, and view of it makes Peter sick. After a moment, Peter
recognizes it.

The machine. The one that he woke up in. The one that haunts his nightmares even now. The
Lazarus machine gleams in the dim light of the warehouse. As he watches, a toxic green sludge
begins to fill the glass tube. Ash follows, and a winged outrider pieces itself together inside the
machine, flailing and sloshing inside the liquid until it scrambles out of the top and flops onto the
ground, wet and retching, and trembling with madness. It shrieks and leaps for the Order. The big
alien absentmindedly backhands it across the warehouse. The strike seems to knock some sense
into it: the monster trembles and snarls, but skitters up along the wall to nurse itself back to health.
The other outriders draw back from it, visibly uncomfortable with its presence.

“They come out more broken with each resurrection,” Proxima Midnight says. “The machines here
are inferior to the ones on the Inevitable.”

“That is one of the sentries we placed outside,” Corvus says, annoyed. “We may have trouble.”

“Doubtful,” Proxima Midnight says. “More than one would have died. This one may just be
unlucky.”

Ebony Maw isn’t paying attention to his comrades. He’s watching Peter. Specifically, Peter's
reaction to the machine. A malicious glint forms in his eye. He gestures with his hand and the floor
shifts like water, reshaping itself so the glass tube’s open top is resting below Peter’s feet. True
panic begins to set in, and he tries to recoil from the machine and the liquid inside it, drawing back
from it as hard as he can.

“I believe we’ve solved the ‘how’ of this one’s arrival. That is an ugly way to travel between
universes,” Ebony Maw says. He stares at Peter hard. "You are at a crossroads. Tell me where the
stone is."

"You need the stone to bring your invasion here, right?" Peter says, half to himself, the realization
shining bright in his mind. The panic is still there, and he’s barely able to speak around it; it takes
an effort of will that he’s surprised to find inside himself. His voice doesn’t quite shake; the more
he speaks, the steadier it gets. "Without it, you can only sneak in a few at a time. Easy targets for
the Justice League and the Bats. And they know you’re here now, since you’ve torn that hole open
in the sky. They’re probably already on their way."
"The stone," Ebony Maw repeats.

Peter looks at him, grins, and says nothing. The panic thrums in the back of his mind, and it only
grows when the smell of the Lazarus machine's sludge hits him, but he can handle it.

He can handle it.

"I can kill you and bring you back, over and over, letting the machine chip away at your mind and
soul until you are nothing more than a drooling dullard barely capable of feeding yourself," Ebony
Maw snarls.

"And you'd be no closer to getting the stone if you did," Peter retorts. "I bet after the third or fourth
time, I wouldn't have enough of a mind left to tell you my name, let alone where your stupid rock
is."

"I would kill you as slowly and painfully as possible. Over and over. I will make sure you suffer."

"I mean, yeah, obviously. I got that part," Peter says, shrugging. "But fuck off."

"You'd suffer that pain for this world? After losing the war? Your life? These people mean nothing
to you! This world is nothing to you!” Ebony Maw snaps.

"Yes," Peter says simply. "There's still good here. It's worth dying for. And I’ve already done that
a few times. It’s not that scary. Kinda tingles, really."

That confuses Ebony Maw, startling him into brief silence. From the corner of his eye, Peter can
see Tim narrow his eyes. He shifts in his restraints, twisting so suddenly and violently that Peter is
terrified he’s broken free of them altogether. That wouldn’t be an issue for Peter, but it would be
for Tim: he’s dangling over a massive drop, with nothing to break his fall but the swirling ground
below, and the chunks of concrete and shattered brick. Peter would have to direct FRIDAY to catch
Tim, which would rob Peter of his suit and their only means of survival. He could probably still
get out of here, but--

Ebony Maw recovers from his confusion and shock and jerks his hand down. Peter drops halfway
into the machine, the tips of the fancy dress shoes dipping into the oily green liquid. He manages
to bite back a scream, but only barely, thrashing against the chains. The look of utter horror on
Signal, Nightwing, Tim, and Felicia’s faces is almost unbearable.

Red Hood’s expression is hidden behind his mask, but every line of him is etched in fury: from his
hunched shoulders and trembling, clenched fists. He charges the glass wall of the machine he and
Nightwing are trapped inside, slamming his shoulder against it hard enough to rock it on its
foundation. He follows up with powerful blows against the glass, and more shoulder tackles,
heedless of harming himself, rocking the cell further and threatening to tip it over and shatter it
completely. After a startled moment, Nightwing joins his fellow Bat, alternating their charges for
maximum effect.

“That one is going to be trouble,” Proxima Midnight says.

Ebony Maw makes a disgusted noise, and gestures with his free hand. A massive green crystal
flares to light above them. It’s huge, suspended by black steel, half embedded in the wall and a
strange dark machine. As it flares to life, tendrils of steel reach out and firmly wrap themselves
around the cell Red Hood and Nightwing are inside, wrenching it back onto the platform and
sealing it in place as if it’s been welded to the spot.

Peter stares at the Bats, then glances back at the center of the room.
The Stark pod is lit again: this time it’s flaring with a furious, sullen red light. FRIDAY is
watching. And she is not happy. But she can’t reach him; Signal, the Black Order, and a few dozen
mutant outriders are between them, and that doesn’t even take into account the chains wrapped
around Peter.

"He is right. We need his mind intact, and there’s no promise that the machine will bring him back.
It’s been less effective as of late," Proxima Midnight says. She gives Ebony Maw a meaningful
look. "We do not need him physically whole, however."

That doesn’t sound good.

Ebony Maw tilts his head in thought. “Point taken.”

The alien turns his attention back to Peter, walking close to him. The more Ebony Maw moves, the
closer he draws in Peter--and Signal. Peter doesn’t think the alien even realizes he’s doing it. Or
he’s just positive that Signal can’t break free or cause trouble. Either way, Signal is making sure to
not draw attention to himself. Probably a good thing; the last thing Peter needs is for Ebony Maw
to realize that he can just as easily torture Signal or one of the others nearby and get the results he’s
looking for. Peter’s tough, but he’s not so tough that he can watch someone else get hurt on his
behalf.

"Your stubbornness is admirable, but ultimately futile,” Ebony Maw says, idly raising Peter back
out of the Lazarus Machine. “Remember the good doctor?"

An image snaps into focus in front of Peter. A near lifelike copy of Stephen Strange appears in
front of Peter, looking as he did on the spaceship: suspended horizontally in the air, black shards of
metal sticking from his skin, screaming in pain. When the image of Dr. Strange starts to scream,
it’s almost deafening. Peter hears Felicia suck in a breath behind him. Signal looks sick. Tim and
Nightwing wear matching expressions of stoic fury.

Dr. Strange’s image disappears in a flash, but the floating knives remain. Ebony Maw “To his
credit, he managed to keep from screaming for three seconds. I’m curious to see how long you’ll
last--”

“Now, Signal!” Dr. Strange hisses.

Signal twists and bucks inside the chains that have him trapped. They’ve loosened since he stopped
constantly struggling against them, and he takes full advantage of their slackened hold, swinging
towards Ebony Maw’s back before snapping a leg up in a wide arc to drive the heel of his boot into
the back of Maw’s head. The alien’s balance is thrown, his aim going wide, and he sends black
shards in every direction.

Peter hears Felicia draw in a breath, and the air around him shifts ever so slightly. One of the
blades bounces off of the floor beneath Peter, ricocheting up to slice right through the chains
holding him prisoner. The chains shatter, and he falls from them with a bit less grace than he
intends, landing on the edge of the Lazarus machine, nearly slipping due to the green sludge
covering his shoes. It’s only by sheer fucking luck that Peter doesn’t fall face first into the Lazarus
machine. He comes close, wildly waving his arms until his balance snaps back into place, but even
that doesn’t account for--

Ah. Of course.

“Move!” Felicia shouts from behind him.

A moment later, she starts breaking free of her own chains; she shifts back and forth, slipping out
of the shifting chains like a cat, all lithe grace and concentration. One of the blades must have
reached her cocoon, too.

Utter chaos erupts around them. Outriders shriek in fury, diving for Peter and Felicia like a flock of
furious birds. The Black Order is briefly stunned, but snap into action. The big alien hefts his chain
axe above his head, prepared to bring it down on Signal’s head.

Peter dives between them, reaching out to catch the edge of the hammer with one hand. It stops
dead, and the alien stares at Peter in disbelief.

“Hey, man,” Peter says, grinning. “I’m getting a real sense of deja vu from this. How about you?”

He doesn’t wait for the big guy to answer. He yanks the hammer towards him, throwing the alien
off balance, and drives a fist into his jaw with an uppercut. He puts most of his strength behind it,
and it’s enough force to send him flying into the wall across the warehouse. The wall crumbles, a
spiderweb of cracks forming around the hole the monster went through. Peter casually tosses the
hammer into the nearest vat of fear liquid. It hisses, boiling and bubbling as it sinks below the
surface of the liquid.

“Should’ve done that the first time we met,” Peter mutters before turning back to Signal. He
reaches up and grabs the chains holding Signal. The metal twists in his hands like slippery eels,
fighting him.

“How?” Ebony Maw rages. “I have your suit.”

“The armor’s nice, but it’s not what makes me strong,” Peter says. In the back of his mind, he
hears Tony. If you’re nothing without the suit... He shakes his head, focuses, and snaps one of the
chains keeping Signal trapped.

“Behind you!” Signal shouts.

Peter’s senses flare at the same time, and he ducks under vicious swing of Corvus’ spear. The alien
snarls when Peter ducks away, shifting his balance and return swing, driving Peter back and away
from Signal. A second flash of his senses and Peter neatly sidesteps Proxima Midnight’s obsidian
sword, barely dodging out of the way. There are too many of them. Peter can’t risk staying to try
and break Signal free. The Order is already recovering, herding him against the wall, crowding him
with their weapons.

The best part about being stuck with his back against the wall is that he knows exactly where he
needs to go.

He ducks under the wide swing of Corvus’ spear, dropping to all fours and skittering under his arm
before leaping onto the wall and sprinting up the side of it. He doesn’t lose a bit of speed; trying to
pretend he’s fully human now will just get him killed. And he may not have his suit, but he still has
his powers, and he’s going to use them for all they’re worth.

Nightwing startles as Peter gets close to his and Red Hood’s glass cell. He recovers after a moment,
pointing at the massive green crystal pulsating with eerie light. Whatever that thing is, it’s
powering the metal tentacles around the cell, keeping Red Hood and Nightwing from shattering the
walls. Peter shoots him a quick thumbs up before leaping onto its platform.

He’s immediately hit with a wave of nausea. He cringes back, blinking his eyes rapidly. The
movement catches Nightwing’s attention and the man suddenly looks worried. Peter tries to shake
off the weird feeling and focuses. He has to get rid of this energy source. Whatever this weird rock
is. He pushes through his nausea and unease, and grabs the crystalline rock, hissing as his hands
burn from its touch. He sees Red Hood, Nightwing, and Signal stare at him in shock when he
touches the rock. Nightwing in particular tries to wave him off, as if he’s realized something vitally
important. Peter grits his teeth, grips the rock harder, and pulls.

It shifts in place, and an arc of energy catches him. For a moment, all he sees is white.

And then he’s falling. The further away he gets from that strange green rock, the better he feels,
but his arms are still rigid from pain and too weak to obey his commands. He’s falling face first
towards the ground, and he won’t save himself in time. All he can do is watch and panic---

A small red and blue puck with his spider emblem painted across it slides across the ground,
landing below him. Just as he’s about to hit the ground, a wave of pulsing blue light catches him,
dispersing the inertia of his fall, saving him from what would have been a cracked skull. Peter
moves through and out of the force field.

The nearest outriders snarl and leap for him. Felicia drops from above, kicking one to the side, and
driving her knee into the spine of the other. It crumples beneath her with a shriek, blindsided by her
attack. She managed a lucky hit that broke its spine; an impressive feat for someone who doesn’t
have super strength. She rolls over it, using it to balance her front flip over its shoulder and land on
her feet beside him.

Peter staggers up onto his feet, snatching up the force field puck and shoving it into his pocket as
he regains his senses. Felicia presses her back to his, arms out, crouched low. Peter glances at her
for a moment, then shifts to match her. The outriders are circling them, snarling.

“That’s two you owe me,” Felicia says primly. She glances up at the green rock. “What’s with the
rock?”

“It’s radioactive or something. Don’t get near it,” Peter says. His strength is back now that he isn’t
on top of the thing, but his teeth and skin are tingling from the shock the thing gave him. If it’s
doing that to him, it might kill her outright. Best to keep her away from it.

“Noted,” Felicia says, pulling out a set of gloves from her coat jacket and pulling them on. He
recognizes the claw gauntlets immediately.

“You brought your claws with you on our fake date-slash-kidnapping?” Peter asks.

“On our fake date, yes. I never leave home without ‘em,” Felicia says.

Three outriders charge them. She fights like the Bats, in some ways; her movements carry hints of
Red Hood’s brutal efficiency and Nightwing’s graceful near-dance. It’s easy to mesh fighting styles
with her. They’re able to keep the horde at bay for the moment. Tim is hanging in his chain cocoon
near them, and he struggles against his chains again, clearly frustrated beyond his limit, as if he
desperately wants to shout something at them. It’s an expression mirrored on Nightwing’s face.

“For the record, this is definitely not what I had in mind, but I promise I’ll make it up to you,”
Peter says.

“You aren’t allowed to choose our next fake date,” Felicia says dryly. “What’s the plan?”

Peter looks at the Bats--suspended in that damn cell, chained and gagged, watching them both with
startled, gobsmacked expressions--the outriders, and the Black Order and their machines. He needs
his suit, Felicia has her claws. They both need back up.
“You’re going to get out of here and find help,” he says.

He feels her give him a sharp glance. “What?”

“Go to Gotham Police headquarters. Find Commissioner Gordon. Tell him the Bats are in trouble.
He’ll know what to do. Or just turn on the spotlight and wait for Batman to appear,” Peter says. “I
can hold these guys off until help reaches us.”

“Are you sure?” she asks after a moment.

Not really, no, but this is so far out of Felicia’s league that it isn’t even funny. It’s almost certainly
out of Peter’s league, but he’s been fighting outside of his weight class ever since he snuck aboard
Ebony Maw’s ship back in New York.

In the back of his mind, Peter hears Tony’s voice: You’re an Avenger now, kid.

“Yes,” he says. “Go. I’ll handle it until help gets here. I’ve done it before.”

Of course, the Joker was beating him to death for a good chunk of that before help arrived, but
Felicia doesn’t know that.

She hesitates for a moment, then nods, pulling out a small grappling gun from her jacket pocket.
“Give me a distraction so I can get out of here.”

“Oh, I can do that,” Peter says.

He darts away from Felicia, grabbing an outrider lunging for her. He braces himself, and then
flings the monster straight into a pack of his friends, sending the whole crew stumbling over one
another. They rise in an instant, shrieking in fury, and leap for him. He’s already running away,
hoping they choose him instead of Felicia.

They do. Felicia slips into the shadows amidst the chaos, and none of the outriders spot her. Peter
eyes the Stark pod, sprinting away from the monsters chasing him. He’s moving away from it; he
needs to head towards the monsters.

He hears Uncle Ben in the back of his mind: Be clever and full of tricks.

An idea strikes him. He grabs the anti-grav puck, pops off the back of it and quickly adjusts some
of the wiring. It’s sloppy work, and it won’t last long, but he’s also dodging mutant monsters dead
set on eating his liver at the moment. Sloppy will just have to do. The puck clicks, whirs back to
life, and begins to rattle with suppressed energy. Peter grins. He stops, twists, and aims the puck at
the mob of monsters leaping for him. The moment they cluster together, he presses the button
along the side.

A wave of force erupts from the puck, blowing the monsters in every direction, clearing the path
he needs to take. The creatures fly away with startled, furious shrieks, claws scrabbling for
purchase as they try to regain their footing. Peter sprints right by them, pausing just long enough to
fling the now useless puck at one that gets too close. It plonks into the nose of one of the outriders
and the monster lets out an oddly offended squawk. Peter flips it off as he sprints past for good
measure.

Gonna have to tell Tony I just set the record on building a repulsor. What was that, four seconds?
Eat your heart out, Mr. Stark, he thinks, giddy with relief that it worked at all.

His joy is short lived; Peter feels his spidey sense go nuts behind and to his left. He barely has
enough time to leap sideways, kicking aside the very sharp sword Proxima Midnight had aimed
straight at his back. She recovers horribly fast and moves into a practiced, deadly dance, her sword
weaving, cutting, stabbing, and thrusting for him.

Peter stays one step ahead of her, but only by the barest of margins. It takes almost his full focus to
keep from turning into a very unappetizing spider kebab, which would very likely make his
introduction to his new Bat-friends slightly awkward. Hi, I’m Spider-Man, don’t mind the blood or
missing kidney. Those grow back, I’m pretty sure.

A rumbling roar directly behind him brings him out of his panicked stream of consciousness long
enough for him to realize the big guy, Cull Obsidian, is back and right behind him. His realization
is confirmed when a blindingly powerful blow to the side of his head sends him flying into a brick
wall yanked into place by Ebony Maw. He hits it hard enough to knock the bricks inward, and he
lands gracelessly on his hands and knees, trying to blink through the stars in his vision.

T’Challa speaks, practically on top of him. “Stand up. They’re coming for you. Fight through the
pain, or they’ll kill you.”

Peter nods, standing up on shaky legs, watching as the horned woman and big monster stalk
towards him. They’re both wearing equally cruel grins on their faces. His left eye is swollen and
bleeding; he can feel the warmth of his own blood flow down his face, and his head is splitting. It’s
throwing off his balance, and he staggers for a moment when he’s hit with a sudden wave of
nauseating vertigo. After a moment, he realizes why: Ebony Maw is shifting the playing field. The
wall he sent Peter flying into draws back with sudden speed, and the floor drops away, leaving him
standing on a slice of cement hovering high above the floor of the spire. He’s trapped, back to the
air, surrounded by outriders and the Black Order.

But he can see the Stark pod from here, clear as day. A flash of lightning from the storm above
illuminates it. The red light turns green. FRIDAY sees him. She has a clear shot. Peter grins. Peter
can’t fly, exactly, but he has one hell of a jump. He crouches, muscles tensing enough to strain
against his clothes and trembling with the effort. Cull Obsidian laughs, dropping his hammer,
mistaking his crouch for defeat. Proxima Midnight stops, holding her sword in a wary, defensive
stance.

Peter leaps, sailing above them. He jumps high enough that he almost reaches the ceiling. He shifts
his weight, going into a swan dive. He tries to remember how he fell from the ship, mimics it to
the best of his memory, and shouts:

“FRIDAY, catch!”

The pod suit snaps to life. It launches itself off of the platform, threading a neat trail through a
flock of outriders and the Black Order. It encases him within seconds, and a small, familiar HUD
appears as the helmet. He launches a web across the room and swings away from the aliens and
outriders altogether. Across the universe, spanning a distance of time and space Tony couldn’t have
ever dreamed of, the Iron Spider catches Peter and saves him from certain death for a second time.

“Web shooters engaged. Tanks resting at seventy percent,” FRIDAY reports.

Peter snaps his arms out and flicks his wrists. Thick ropes of web fluid shoot out. One reaches the
ceiling. The other splats across the horned woman’s eyes. She staggers back, cursing, reaching up
to cut the webbing with her weapon. Peter simultaneously yanks himself back onto the catwalk and
flings the horned woman over the side of it and onto the ground below. She falls, too startled by the
suit and Peter’s return to formulate a counterattack. She does call him quite a few names as she
falls.
 “Suit integrity at seventy-five percent. Some of your armor has been compromised, but the suit is
more than battle ready,” FRIDAY reports. His vision sharpens as FRIDAY adjusts the mask’s eyes
for him. She continues, her tone warm and welcoming, shifting just enough that he almost mistakes
her for Karen. “Hello, Peter. It’s good to see you again. Hostiles incoming.”

That’s all she says. Tony’s biggest hurdle with the Spider suits has always been working out Peter’s
danger sense and how to best support it. That particular sense has only started to grow stronger in
recent days. FRIDAY’s warning helps focus where the danger is. She doesn’t do more than
highlight where the threat is coming from; Tony can read five separate screens at once without
being overwhelmed with information, but Peter doesn’t have that particular gift.

FRIDAY alerts him to danger. Peter matches each threat with web or fist, and leaps towards one of
the larger dark machines.

“Oh my god, I have missed Stark tech!” Peter crows, dropping onto one of the alien computers and
crushing it beneath his feet. The suit isn’t as heavy as Tony’s, but nanite armor isn’t light either.
Peter rolls his shoulders, turning away from the crowd of broken outriders behind him and enters a
crouch, bracing himself for a leap. FRIDAY helpfully highlights the most dangerous looking
individuals and offers angles of attack. The eyes of his suit flash blue-white as FRIDAY finishes
booting up. “Spider-Man is back.”

“You ready for round two?” Peter calls out to the Black Order and their army of outriders.

***

BATCHAT

Barbara (06:07pm): Did you get all that?

Bruce (06:08pm): Yes.

Bruce (06:09pm): Have the others rendezvous at the spot I indicated earlier.

Barbara 06:10pm): Consider it done.

Chapter End Notes

Next update will happen in mid June!

 Chapter 43
Chapter Notes

hey, remember back in chapter 34 when I said we were drawing to a close in this
twelve chapter long fic I started during quarantine

BATCHAT

Barbara (06:08pm): Justice League network is quiet. I’m not getting anything from outside of the
city. That portal is causing a lot of interference.

Steph (06:10pm): Lots of green light coming out of that spire.

Bruce (06:11pm): Energized Kryptonite.

Barbara (06:12pm): It’s pretty unstable when it’s used as a battery, isn’t it?

Bruce (06:14pm): Extremely.

Bruce (06:15pm): Approaching the spire. Target spotted. Fall in.

***

Felicia’s grappling gun shatters the moment she clears the entrance to the spire. There’s always a
payoff to using her skill, which is why she doesn’t use it all the time. She’s certainly pushed it to
the limit now after using it to help Peter, and in a way she’s never used it before. Which means
she’s going to pay for it:

For example, having her grappling gun jam up and crack in the unluckiest way possible just as she
jumps up onto a platform at the top of the spire. A platform where Clayface, Bane, Scarecrow,
some weirdo in an electric suit, and a few lingering outriders are gathered around a complicated
machine made of black steel, humming with power.

They stare at her for a moment, clearly taken off guard by her sudden appearance, and she returns
the favor before turning around and sprinting for the edge of the platform. A moment later, she
hears Bane snap out ‘grab her!’ and the snarling pants of the outriders launching themselves into
the air to give chase. She leaps off of the spire.

She slides slides down the side of the shifting spire sprouting from the center of Crime Alley. Her
shoes jitter across the uneven brick and cement surface of the building, and she leans back, letting
luck guide her as much as skill. Her heart is pounding, her head is starting to throb with pain from
overexertion, and her hands tremble from the rush of adrenaline. She isn’t a fighter like Peter; she’s
used to tense games of hide and seek, not full on combat, and if she wasn’t able to use her special
skill during that escape, she would be dead three times over. She might still die, if the outriders
catch up.

Two dark shapes rise past her, moving too quickly for her to see clearly. The outriders behind her
suddenly scream in confusion and pain. Something--someone?--has met them head on. And it
sounds like they’re winning the fight. Felicia lets out a quiet breath of relief, and focuses on trying
to survive the next ten seconds. She needs to get the hell off of this thing and find a way to signal
Batman for help. After that, she’s going to go crawl into her bedroom closet in Selina’s apartment
and have a complete panic attack while the Bats help Peter.

The storm above rumbles threateningly. The building beneath her feet lets out an answering
grumble, shifting on its uneven foundation, leaning towards another building. When the building
shifts again, an intuition strikes her, and she leaps from the spire, landing on the edge of the other
building clumsily. She starts to slip, curses, instinctively reaching for her power. It comes up
empty, and she starts to panic--

A black gloved hand reaches down and grabs her arm, lifting her up easily and with a surprising
amount of gentleness. Felicia clings to the hand, half stumbling against whoever it is before she
catches her balance. When she looks up, she sucks in a breath.

Batman is every inch as intimidating as the stories say. Tall, imposing, and carrying an aura of
stoic threat, he watches her from behind his mask, his mouth set in a grim line. In the dim half light
of the storm, it looks as if he’s half hidden in shadow, occasionally lit by the flickering lightning
above. The growling thunder from the storm only adds to the image, and his cape flutters in the
wind.

She stares at him for a moment, and then re-engages her brain. Selina always told her that if
Batman tailed her, just give up the chase; Felicia might get away from the other Bats if she’s
lucky, but she won’t win against Batman. He knows all of Selina’s tricks, and Felicia hasn’t quite
matched Selina’s skill. Selina had said even her trick with changing someone’s luck probably
wouldn’t have much of an effect on him.

And he won’t hurt you, Selina had added after a moment. Just tell him to call me if you get in
trouble.

Well, she’s in trouble now, but not because she’s been breaking into WayneTech buildings.

“Peter needs your help!” she blurts out. “He’s fighting them alone and I think he’s going to try and
get Signal and Nightwing and Red Hood free but--”

“How do we get inside?” Batman asks, cutting off her ramble. His voice is deep, gravelly, and it
matches the blunt, almost rude tone perfectly. He lets go of her arm, pulling his hand back slowly
as if afraid she’ll topple off of the side of the building. Given how much she’s struggling to keep it
together, that’s probably wise of him. And unexpectedly kind, given his reputation for dangling
people over the side of buildings.

“There’s an opening at the top, but Bane and a few others are up there,” she says, turning to point
at the flat area near the tip of the spire. “They have a lot of vats of liquid and some kind of
machine. I think they’re going to spread it across the city while they pull in their invasion fleet
from the portal--”

“I know,” Batman says. He pulls out a small grappling gun and holds it out to Felicia. Felicia stares
at the grappling gun for a moment before the implication hits her.

“You want me to help?”

“Only if you want to. I know better than to force a cat to do anything,” Batman says, his tone
turning wry. He adds, not unkindly, “You can just as easily take it and go home.”
Felicia hesitates. She’s at a crossroads.

She can run, head for Selina’s apartment and beg the woman to flee Gotham City for her own
safety before the invasion comes. They could outrun whatever’s happening here, get ahead of the
terror and death. It’s tempting. The Invasion of New York is still fresh in Felicia’s mind, and she
doesn’t want to relive the horror of that day again, not in a city she’s slowly started to think of as
home.

Or she could stay. Help Peter. The only other person from her home that she’ll ever see again.
Stupid, brave Peter, facing an army of monsters alone after suffering more than he should have.

Her instincts tell her to run.

For the first time in her life, she ignores them. She takes the grappling gun Batman’s hand, steadies
her aim, and begins to swing after him. She catches up to him, swinging alongside him. She isn’t
surprised when Spoiler and a dark form in a Batgirl suit silently join them, falling in behind them.
She’s even less surprised when the hooded form of Robin appears from the shadows, swinging
alongside Batman with an eerie, silent grace, sword hidden within his cape.

“How do you know?” Felicia calls out to him.

“Killer Croc,” Batman replies. “I questioned him. He kept insisting he was being controlled, that
he couldn’t stop himself when he attacked Spider-Man. He kept forgetting details while in custody
here, and my line of questioning kept going in circles. I took him outside of the city. He was able to
think clearly there.”

“He could’ve been lying,” Felicia points out.

“He couldn’t fool me if he was,” Batman says, calm and confident in a way that would seem
arrogant on anyone else. “And he wasn’t lying.”

Another form falls in beside them. Batman glances over for a moment, then back to the spire.

“Cat,” he says.

“Bat,” Catwoman replies. She looks at Felicia and raises an eyebrow, a silent question. “Black
Cat?”

“I can explain,” Felicia says.

“Later. Stay close, and let the Bats take the lead,” Catwoman says. She pauses, and adds, quietly,
“If things get bad, run, grab the cats, and go to the manor.”

“I just got kidnapped from there,” Felicia says.

“Alfred will have the shotgun out by now,” Catwoman says, as if she’s personally familiar with the
Wayne family butler.

“Spoiler, Robin, focus on the machine at the top of the spire,” Batman orders. Robin lets out a
quiet tt in acknowledgement, while Spoiler responds with a salute that feels half sarcastic, half
sincere. “Black Bat, we’re going to help the others with the Black Order.”

The near silent form of Black Bat nods, shifting away from Robin and Spoiler. Batman glances at
Catwoman, clearly ready to give her orders and just as clearly aware that she probably doesn’t want
to hear them. She smirks at him briefly and glances at Felicia.
“We’ll help with the spire.”

Batman gives the briefest of nods to her before swinging ahead of the group, disappearing into the
storm just as a crack of thunder erupts from the portal.

Felicia swings alongside Catwoman and hopes that she’s making the smart decision.

***

As it turns out, they are very much ready for round two. Peter barely finishes his taunt when Ebony
Maw rips a car sized chunk of brick, steel, and concrete from the wall of the spire and flings it
directly at Peter’s head. He dodges it easily, leaping up and using the debris for a handspring
further up into the air before shooting out another length of web to swing through the air, flying
past rows of eerie green lights interspersed with more regular, normal halogens and fluorescents.
He instinctively keeps away from the green ones.

“I’m taking this as a yes!” Peter calls out, yanking himself out of the path of another massive
chunk of warped steel and jagged brick. It passes by in a whoosh of wind, smashing into a wall and
shattering, the pieces falling into the mess of dirt, cement, and brick below the platforms everyone
is standing on.

He sprints along the wall, trying to reach Signal. Ebony Maw yanks Signal out of his reach before
he can get close, shooting out spikes of cement at Peter. Peter curses, backflips off of the wall, and
swings away from Signal and Ebony Maw, avoiding the spikes and the outriders skittering up the
walls to try and ambush him. The spikes bounce off of the wall.

Ebony Maw isn’t trying to hit him; he’s distracting Peter. The Black Order is recovering from their
initial shock and Peter’s blitz through the outriders, regrouping. If they start to fight smart, he’s
going to be in a lot of trouble. Peter doesn’t have much time to even the odds. In a fair fight, he
could probably handle the Black Order, but he’s going to have trouble with the Black Order and
their outriders. He can’t reach Signal, and Tim isn’t going to be much help at all in this situation,
no matter how much he tries to wiggle free of his chain restraints. The guy looks half feral with
frustration at the moment, and Peter hopes the outriders and Black Order both continue to ignore
him.

“Attempting to connect to the Stark Industries satellite network,” FRIDAY reports, her tone even
and neutral. “Connection failed. I won’t be able to call the boss in on this one, I’m afraid.”

“Yeah, Tony’s out of reach,” Peter replies. An outrider dives towards him from above, letting out a
near deafening battle shriek. Peter catches it in a web and whips it away from him and into three of
its friends behind him. The whole group falls into a tumble of limbs, wings, and claws. He picks up
speed. “By a lot. Can you try to find Oracle’s network? She’s tapped into a lot of places around the
city. You’ll know her network when you see it.”

“Beginning search.”

He dodges a third swirling mass of broken concrete, kicks an outrider sweeping up from below into
the wall hard enough almost flatten it, and flings himself back up onto the platform with the
glowing green rock. He’s got his suit now, this should be fine--

Shockingly, it somehow feels worse: the suit suddenly feels five times heavier, the weight of it
dropping across his shoulders just as the air wheezes out of his lungs. The joints begin locking or
jittering in place, as if struggling to function at all. Even his mask begins to fuzz at the edges, the
clear image lagging and turning staticy in spots, artifacting in others, like a magnet being placed
near highly sensitive electronics. There’s less nausea this time, but not by much: he can feel every
weak spot in his suit. FRIDAY was right when she said it was only seventy five percent whole.

“What is this thing?” Peter mutters, staggering back from the rock again. “FRIDAY--”

“I don’t know. It’s emitting something that’s interfering with the Arc reactor tech powering your
armor,” FRIDAY responds. “Your suit isn’t airtight anymore and whatever it’s doing to your suit,
it’s doing to you. I recommend you keep away from it until I have a chance to analyze it.”

Dammit. Peter does as she suggests, slinging a web out and launching himself back into the air,
circling the interior of the spire while he tries to think. He leaps back towards Nightwing and Red
Hood’s cell, slamming both of his heels into glass. It cracks, but doesn’t shatter, and the metallic
reinforcement is keeping the cell firmly in place. He can break through the glass if he had enough
time, but time is a luxury in battle and he’s running out of it.

As evidenced by another round of cement spikes sent his way courtesy of Ebony Maw. Peter’s
senses ping against the incoming threat and he leaps back into the air half a second before the wave
of spikes reach him. They shatter against the cell, adding a few cracks but no closer to breaking
through than Peter had been. That’s probably a good thing; it’d be just his luck to get Red Hood
and Nightwing speared by magical spikes when he’s trying to rescue them. Red Hood would never
let him hear the end of it.

Peter swings away from the cell, making another circuit of the room. Tim tries to catch his eye, but
Peter ignores him, too focused on avoiding another swirling chunk of brick to chance helping him.
Tim’s still in danger, but none of the outriders or the Black Order are paying any attention to him
at the moment, and Peter can’t risk freeing him. There’s nothing beneath Tim’s feet but what used
to be a warehouse floor; Peter would have to carry Tim out of here and leave the Bats to their fate.
He can’t risk that.

He dives for Signal again. Signal is yanked out of his reach a second later. Peter curses, chasing
after his would-be ally, frustration beginning to simmer at the edge of his consciousness. He’s not
doing this smart, and he knows it, which is making things worse, but--

The Black Order keeps yanking Signal around, dangling him like a carrot in front of Peter, hoping
to lure him close so they can attack him. Peter swings for him, and then quickly adjusts his swing
just as Ebony Maw begins to pull Signal out of his reach again. He slams an armored fist across the
sorcerer’s face, staggering him and interrupting Ebony Maw’s magic. He draws back for another
punch when Ebony Maw recovers, flattening his palm and jerking his arm up. The platform they’re
standing on jerks upward, as does every other piece of the warehouse, throwing Peter off balance
just long enough for Ebony Maw to shove him into a pile of outriders.

For a brief moment, Peter’s vision is filled with images of claws, black steel armor, fangs, and
wings. He fights blind, dodging the heavier hits, bracing himself against the smaller, and ducking
out of the mass of outriders altogether a few moments later, barely escaping what would have been
a deadly dogpile.

“That was too risky,” Fury says. He can hear other distant grumblings, too.

Yeah, now isn’t time, thanks.

“You think one Avenger is enough to stop the tide?” Ebony Maw shouts, clearly furious by Peter’s
strike. And a little shaken; it’s clear the guy hasn’t been punched very much in his life.

“Depends on the Avenger,” Peter shouts back, ducking down and around the nearest monsters.
Every time he gets close to Signal, ten more appear and chase him off. If it comes to it, he could
fight through the crowd, but that’s a deathtrap. They’ll overwhelm him with numbers alone, drag
him down by weight and number before he manages to free him. Dammit, he needs to think of
something--

“There will be no fight,” Ebony Maw growls.

“Awesome!” Peter shouts, interrupting whatever the hell the alien is about to snarl at him with a
web bomb. The sticky fluid tangles up another wave of outriders, and his follow up shots of web
fluid slap across Ebony Maw’s face, blinding him just long enough for Peter to duck out of view.
“In that case, I accept your surrender! Call off your goons, let my friends go, and we’ll have you
arrested in no time!”

“Insolent child--”

“God, I hear that one a lot,” Peter mutters, sheltering himself behind Nightwing and Red Hood’s
prison pod while he checks his web fluid levels. Half a tank left. That’s not exactly ideal. He’s
going to have to be more sparing with this stuff. Nightwing watches him helplessly, clearly
frustrated. Peter idly knocks on his tank, scanning the warehouse-turned-alien invasion staging
point. “Hold that thought, Nightwing, I’ve got an alien invasion to fend off. You can yell at me for
accidentally stitching a giant bullseye on your suit once I kick this guy’s ass.”

Red Hood punches the glass near Peter’s head, hard. It doesn’t crack the thick glass, but it does get
Peter’s attention (and scares the hell out of him, good god does that man move fast). Peter startles
in place, looking at the other hero through the glass.

Red Hood points at the weird green rock again, mimics Peter’s web shooting motion, and then
leans back as if reeling in a fishing line. The message is pretty clear: throw something at it,
dumbass.

He isn’t spoiled for choice on that front: most of the stuff around here isn’t heavy enough to do any
damage to that thing. But the big alien, Cull Obsidian, who stands as tall as the Hulk with muscle
and thick armor to match, is. Or, at least, he will be. Right now, the big guy is hauling himself back
up onto the platform beside Ebony Maw, holding a dripping chain axe in one massive hand. He’s
moving stiffly, still shaking off the punch Peter gave him earlier. Peter swings over to the far wall,
planting himself against the brick where he’ll have a clear angle to hit the green crystal.

"Hey! Ugly!" Peter calls out, waving at him excitedly. “Over here! Bet you can’t reach me with
that stupid axe!”

The alien’s head snaps towards Peter, and he snarls at him. He winds up his chainaxe with a couple
of slow twirls before flinging it out towards Peter.

“Oh my god, I can’t believe you fell for that,” Peter says, impressed by his opponent’s stupidity.

The axe head flies towards Peter. He catches it with both hands, shifts his feet to engage his sticky
powers through the Iron Spider, twists his hips, and bodily flings the alien over his head and into
the green glowing crystal. The alien smashes into the crystal with a metallic ringing sound. It
cracks, sending sparks of sickly green energy flying in every direction. The sparks are startlingly
bright; they flash bright enough that FRIDAY slams a filter over his mask to protect his vision
from the sudden flare. For a moment, the crystal holds its shape. And then a single crack appears
on its surface.

The green crystal does more than break: it explodes. A second flash of blinding white light fills
Peter’s vision one moment, followed by a sense of nausea, and the next he’s falling, his skin on
fire, his suit half shattered. It takes his brain a moment to fill in the gaps.

The big alien shattered the crystal like Peter wanted. The crystal exploded, sending shrapnel and
arcs of energy everywhere. That shrapnel struck Peter, shredding half of his suit’s mask and tearing
searingly hot holes through other parts of his suit.

A shard of the green crystal is sticking from his shoulder. He can feel every part of the thing
pressing into the flesh on his shoulder, burning him from the inside out. He can’t move his arm;
it’s locked up, frozen in place from the pain. His malfunctioning suit keeps his free arm pinned, the
joints unable to bend correctly thanks to the still sparking crystal. The nausea isn’t helping his
predicament any. FRIDAY positively lights up what’s left of his HUD, struggling to function at all
with the crystal so close.

“I’ve got you!” a voice shouts above him, cutting through the pain.

Nightwing is diving headfirst towards him, arms tucked to his sides to build up enough speed to
catch up to Peter. When he reaches him, he flips in midair, grabbing Peter’s good arm with one
hand, and using the other to rip out the crystal and fling it into the distance before launching a
grappling hook from his escrima stick. It’s neatly done; all one smooth motion, as if he makes a
habit of catching people falling to their deaths.

The moment the crystal is gone, FRIDAY reboots his suit, and the pain drains away so quickly it’s
almost disorienting.

“Suit integrity is now at forty-five percent. There isn't enough power left to reform the broken
nanobots,” she reports, a hint of disapproval in her tone. “The boss isn’t going to be happy with
that, Peter.”

“Spider-Man, are you all right?” Nightwing asks. He’s swinging them away from the fight, back
towards the shadows, and managing to do it at a shockingly quick pace considering he’s only able
to use one arm to swing away. His voice is all business, but there’s a sharp thread of anger and
panic just under the surface. “If a piece of that got into your bloodstream--”

“I’m fine,” Peter gasps, shaking his head. He shifts in Nightwing’s grip, and the man catches the
hint. Nightwing flings Peter back into into the air, allowing him to use his webs again. They swing
side by side, but he can tell Nightwing is watching him closely. “Glad I had the suit for that. Looks
like I’m down to half of a suit for now though.”

“You’re lucky that shard didn’t catch your eye,” Nightwing says tightly. He starts to say something
else, and then thinks better of it, turning his attention to the Black Order. “What’s our game plan?”

“Get Signal free first, and then we focus on Ebony Maw,” Peter says, nodding towards the furious
alien. Red Hood is busy flinging outriders at the sorcerer, charging for Signal, shouting obscenities
and insults in equal measure. It’s more than effective; Ebony Maw seems both furious that he’s
free and baffled that he’s managing to fight his way through a horde of outriders with his bare
hands. “We need to stop him from fixing whatever’s wrong with the portals before the invasion
force comes through, and we need to keep Signal out of his reach.”

Nightwing nods. He glances at Peter. “We’re so having a long talk after this.”

“You’ll have to get in line,” Peter says. “I’m pretty sure Tim’s going to leap out of those chains and
strangle me the first chance he gets.”
“Only if Red Hood doesn’t reach you first,” Nightwing replies dryly.

“Yay,” Peter says. He adds, a little cheerfully, “On the bright side, I didn’t have to go to a fancy
dinner party at Wayne Manor tonight.”

Despite the tension in his shoulders and the strange tone to his words, Nightwing smirks. “Trust
me, you won’t escape them forever.” He says this with far more assurance and authority than Peter
expects; as if he’s been to more than his fair share of such occasions. “Red Hood needs help getting
Signal free. I’ll distract the bad guys, you help him with Signal. Got it?”

Peter shoots him a thumbs up and swings back towards the fight on the platform.

Red Hood cuts a bloody swath through the outriders. Ebony Maw’s annoyance quickly shifts into
confusion and then worried fury. Red Hood is on a warpath, bull rushing through every enemy that
gets close to him. The only thing that slows him down is Proxima Midnight, who steps out of a
pack of outriders on Red Hood’s flank, swinging her sword towards the back of his head. He ducks
it easily, grabbing hold of an outrider and shoving it onto her blade. It’s a smart tactic; her weapon
is now buried inside an ally, and essentially useless to her. She drops the sword with a curse,
leaping back into a pack of outriders. She fails to hurt him, but she does slow him down. Red Hood
loses his forward momentum, and the outriders sense an opportunity to swarm him.

Peter drops down from above, grabbing two of the monsters leaping for Red Hood and bodily
flinging them off into the distance before they get close to the Bat; the man startles, and gives him
a look that could peel paint. Some people are never happy, apparently.

“Cover me, I’m going for Signal!” Peter says to him. The man gives a terse nod, shifting his
attention to the rest of the outriders, shielding Peter from their attack.

"Gotta hand it to you, that was a pretty good entrance," Signal says when Peter closes in on him.

"Couldn't have done it without your help," Peter replies, doing his best to ignore the sounds of
combat behind him. Nightwing and Red Hood are clearly holding their own without him, but this
whole situation is from his universe. He feels responsible for handling it.

He clamps his hands around the chains, letting his sticky powers flow through completely before
ripping the chain links apart like fabric. Pieces of metal fall to the ground as the links snap apart.
He has to rip at the chains a few times; unlike his chain cocoon, Signal’s chains keep trying to
reform. Probably a side effect of his constant struggle earlier. Signal helps, shifting back and forth
in the chains until he manages to drop out of it completely, landing lightly beside Peter.

"You should thank Dr. Strange instead."

"I'd rather eat glass, thanks," Peter replies cheerfully.

Dr. Strange scoffs quietly somewhere behind him. Signal grins, falling into Peter’s left, covering
his flank the same way Red Hood is covering his right. Nightwing finishes with the pack of
outriders he’s been fighting, kicking one of the larger ones into a pack of its fellows before
gracefully backflipping into place with the others.

“Show off,” Peter says. Nightwing smirks and winks at him.

“Nothing wrong with a little style.”

“Nice to see you’re still alive, Spider-Man,” Red Hood says tightly.
“If it makes you feel better, I did almost die a couple of times before Tim found me,” Peter says
helpfully. "But hey, at least I came back in a sufficiently dramatic fashion to save your life, right?
For the second time, by the way."

“Yeah, thanks, asshole.”

“Sure, take that tone.”

“The important thing is that we’re all handling this so very well,” Signal says.

“They’re regrouping, get ready,” Nightwing shouts.

And the Black Order is doing just that. Ebony Maw flashes away from them, reaching out with one
hand and yanking it towards himself to create another platform, the cement and brick shooting out
to obey his silent command, twisting around to avoid one of the slowly rising vats of fear toxin. He
lands on it lightly, obviously annoyed, and makes another sharp gesture. The rest of the Black
Order and a swarm of outriders gather around him; the big alien with the chain axe is still half wet
from the liquid fear toxin Peter threw him into, and half charred after being flung into the green
crystal after. He twitches in place, gripping his chain axe tightly, gnashing his teeth in a way that
causes the others near him to shift away nervously.

“Bring me the spider, kill the rest,” Ebony Maw snarls. With another violent wrenching motion of
his hand, the platforms around the spire begin to rise, heading for the top of the spire. Tim is
dragged along for the ride, rising up alongside the platforms.

The Black Order and the outriders, whose number seems to grow by the moment as they clamber
inside the spire, come towards them in a wave. Peter and the Bats are forced off of the central
platform, swinging away with webs or grappling guns, covering one another as they move.

“I’m guessing he’s the one we need to take out?” Red Hood calls out.

“The portal is more important,” Peter says. “We need to cut it off.”

“How did you do that before?” Nightwing asks, swinging past him to take the lead and guide them
up towards the top of the spire.

“Tony flew a nuke through the portal and detonated it,” Peter says, twisting in midair to fire both
web shooters into three outriders diving for Nightwing, blinding and binding them at the same
time. They fall, tearing and ripping at one another in blind fury.

Actually, he’s not entirely sure about that. He always assumed Iron Man had caused the portal to
close, but he’s never asked. Tony always had a vaguely haunted look on his face whenever he
mentioned it, even in passing, and Peter instinctively steered away from the topic. That seems like
an oversight now.

“The Widow did it,” Loki says dryly. “I suppose there’s something poetic about spiders sealing off
invasion portals.”

“That explains your dramatics,” Red Hood swinging past him to kick an outrider diving for Peter’s
back.

“Man, you’re one to talk,” Signal says, using Red Hood’s shoulder as a springboard to launch
himself into another pack of outriders. Peter doesn’t see what he does, but half a second later most
of the outriders fall to the ground, sporting broken wings. “Too easy. Look for weak points on their
wings, where they meet their backs!”
Red Hood acts on this immediately, swinging past Nightwing to drive the heels of his boots into
the delicate spot between wing and shoulder on one of the more heavily armored outriders diving
for Nightwing, who ducks aside to give him room for the maneuver, seemingly on instinct. Peter’s
impressed; each Bat is moving in concert with one another like a well oiled machine, moving with
and around each other easily, and doing the same with him. Not even the Avengers work that
smoothly with one another.

The next few minutes play out like that: Nightwing and Peter switching off to take the lead,
dodging past Ebony Maw's platforms, debris balls, or spikes while Signal and Red Hood trade off
on covering their backs. The main platform with the portal’s controls, the smaller one Ebony Maw
has restricted himself to, and Tim rise quickly to the top, stopping near the opening in the spire’s
roof. A few of the lights shift up the wall, leaving pools of shadow between eerie green light. Peter
can hear outriders skittering across the brick and concrete wall in those shadows, and briefly
wonders where the rest of the Black Order have disappeared to.

He doesn’t have to wonder for long.

“Now!” Ebony Maw shouts.

The big alien, still twitching grinding his teeth from the fear toxin, launches himself out of the
darkness, grabbing Red Hood in a lightning fast tackle back into another pool of shadows. Corvus
and Proxima Midnight both leap for Signal, who manages to react in time to avoid Proxima’s
sword and Corvus’ spear by dropping from the sky to land somewhat gracelessly on the platform
below. They follow, clearly intent on finishing the hero off. A swarm of outriders follow both Red
Hood and Signal as they fall.

A flash of his senses warns Peter of incoming danger, and he looks up just in time to see Ebony
Maw fling another debris ball directly at Nightwing and Peter. Nightwing deftly swings around the
incoming projectile, avoiding it completely. Peter takes a different approach. He waits until
Nightwing is safely clear of the swirling mass of brick and steel before attaching a triple thick rope
of web to its surface. He lets go of the web he’s swinging from and grips the thicker rope. He’ll
need two hands for this, a bit of luck, and a lot of his strength. Fortunately, his frustration is giving
him plenty of fuel to work from.

He shifts in midair, changing the trajectory of Ebony Maw’s latest weapon, hauling against it with
all of his strength to fling it right back at the alien’s face, with the same speed and force behind it.
He even compensates for the rapidly rising platform, aiming it perfectly. There’s no way he can
avoid it--

Ebony Maw flings out a surge of energy, shattering the projectile. Shards of steel and brick fly in
every direction. Nightwing takes a hit on his shoulder, interrupting his swing. Red Hood’s helmet
catches a twisted piece of steel in his helmet, shattering it. He curses, staggering back to rip it off,
revealing a stream of blood and a smaller, fabric mask beneath his helmet. Signal manages to come
out of it unscathed, dodging the debris before it hits him. He snaps his head up and stares in open
mouthed horror.

At Tim.

Steel and brick fly into Tim’s chain cocoon, striking hard enough that Peter can hear a solid thumps
as the bricks and steel strike home. Worse: one of the sharp edged pieces of steel slices through the
chain that kept him suspended above the ground. Tim has just enough time to give Peter a startled,
confused look before he falls into the darkness of the spire below. Signal sprints and dives off of
the platform, clearly meaning to catch him, but Tim’s fall was so sudden and fast that it’s almost
definitely a lost cause.
That doesn’t mean he won’t try. Peter drops out of his swing, preparing to dive for Tim the way
Nightwing dove for him, readying the last of his dwindling web fluid fling himself down the side
of the spire--

A twisted piece of rebar strikes one of the fear toxin vats near Peter’s head, tearing through the
metal like paper. Peter is overwhelmed by the smell of diesel and rotting lavender, as well as
blinded by thick, blue liquid that seeps into the holes of his suit, running down his face, chin, and
neck in a sensation that feels both hot and cold at the same time, leaving his skin tingling and
painfully overstimulated. He jolts in place, coughing as the thick, syrupy liquid worms its way into
his mouth and up his nose. His mouth feels like it’s on fire, and his nose fills with the scent of the
toxin, burning the inside of it until his eyes begin to water.

Panic fills him, and his only thought is to get away, as fast as he can, this is worse than when he
was shot--

The moment he tries to move, he’s slammed back into place by twisted pieces of steel, brick, and
concrete. Every time he twists out of his makeshift restraints, more replace them, followed by
outriders who wrestle him back into place whenever he begins to break free of their hold. Ebony
Maw appears next to him, grabs him by the throat, and shoves him under the torrent of fear toxin.
Peter sputters, wrestling against the alien, unable to use his strength strategically in his panic.
Ebony Maw is strong, either through magic or by nature, but in a fair fight he wouldn’t be able to
withstand Peter’s strength.

Unfortunately, this isn’t a fair fight.

He yanks Peter’s head out of the torrent of fear toxin, locking eyes with him and raising his other
hand. Two small gems flash in the palm of his hand: blue and gold. Infinity stones. He knows that
on an instinctive level; these stones call out to something inside him, thrumming on the same
frequency as the soul stone. Ebony Maw presses the golden stone to Peter’s forehead.

“I was hoping to turn you slowly, like the others,” he says. “You have forced my hand, however.
Hold still.”

It isn’t so much a mind reading as it is a mind reaping. He uses the stone to tear through Peters
thoughts and memories, looking for something to use. He finds it, buried in the nightmares the
ghosts have struggled to protect him from.

“All of this is your fault,” Ebony Maw says. “You had the Gauntlet. You could have stopped it.
But you got distracted, and let go of the gauntlet. You’re strong, you could have held it if you had
been paying attention. Half your universe died. Because of you.”

An unseen chorus of furious denials follow that. The dusted Avengers shout and curse. Bucky
Barnes, who looks as though he’s reliving one of his own personal nightmares, wildly swings at
the back of Ebony’s Maw’s head. Peter can’t focus on his own Stone; Bucky’s hit is as immaterial
as his body.

“What?” Peter asks, turning to face him. Half his mask is gone; the suit runs on nanobots, but it
isn’t like Tony’s suit. It can’t repair itself on the fly like his can. His vision is going hazy, tinged
with blue, and he’s seeing things at the edges of his vision. Faces hidden in the shadows.

“Do you know what Thanos did when he finished with you Titan?”

Ebony draws back his hand and, as before, shows an image of the past. This time, it isn’t Wanda
and Vision.
Captain America is overrun by outriders that savage him like wolves, tossing him back and forth
between each other while they tear, rip, and bite his struggling form. Rhodey swoops down from
above, rescuing Wakandan warriors cut off from their troops and dropping them back into the
battle line until a chain hammer knocks him right out of the sky and into a pack of outriders. He
curses bitterly, firing every weapon his suit has into the monsters swarming over him.

Peter stares, horrified, unable to look away.

If Dr. Strange had kept the stone, Vision would be alive--

“You gave him the stone?” Wanda hisses.

“There was no other way,” Strange replies, distant, wary, and defeated.

Captain America appears. Then Thor. The fight is brutally short; Thanos has more than enough
power and strength to handle them. He’s simply giving them the appearance of a fair fight, not
quite toying with them.

And then Thanos snaps.

The first to die is Bucky, who only has enough time to let out a trembling, confused “Steve?”
before collapsing into dust.

The rest follow quickly.

T’Challa, running towards a fallen warrior, reaching down to help her up. He’s already flaking
apart, but he doesn't realize it. His concern is only for his fellow Wakandan. “Up, General, up!
This is no place to die!”

When he collapses in front of her, she screams in horror. T’Challa, the ghost, mutters a quiet curse
beneath his breath.

Sam cringes in the dirt, his expression a mask of agony as he flakes apart in the tall grass. Rhodey
limps past, and then through his ashes, damaged suit rattling as he walks. He’s wounded; he
shouldn’t be moving at all, but he’s too stubborn to stop. “Sam? Sam! Sam, where are you?”

Shuri stumbles towards her mother on shaking legs, nursing a head wound from the attack on her
lab. She collapses into a pile of ash and dust in front of her.

Janet, Hank, and Hope stand in a parking lot discussing something they call a quantum jump; the
three of them collapse at the same time, which is the most merciful thing to happen so far. They die
alongside one another, unaware that it’s happening at all.

Nick Fury and Maria Hill speed through a city falling apart around them, and Peter gets a glimpse
of the horror that must have followed Thanos’s snap on Earth. Cars careening into each other, into
pedestrians, into buildings, a chopper falling from the sky, trailing ashes that swirl among the
blades--

And then Titan. The Guardians. Drax staring at his own hand in confusion before aiming a
desperate look at Quill, before collapsing. Quill, at a loss, mutters a quiet oh man before falling
apart himself.

Peter fights back another wave of nausea. He doesn’t want to see this. He doesn’t--

“There was no other way,” Dr. Strange says to Tony, tired and defeated. He steels himself against
the pain and collapses. Tony stares at him in numb disbelief.

And then Peter hears his own voice. Sick. Scared. Dying.

“I don’t---I don’t feel so good--” He sounds so young.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Nightwing, swinging for him, shouting something. The
outriders holding Peter in place leap off of him and swarm Nightwing, forcing him away.
Nightwing curses, forced to retreat.

Peter snarls, furious and terrified and overwhelmed by seeing the Avengers, his heroes, die in front
of him. And desperate to not see his own death again. “None of that was my fault!”

In the image, Peter can hear himself stammering out a shaky, "I don't wanna go--"

Proxima Midnight’s sword sails through the air behind Ebony Maw, spearing two of the outriders
near Nightwing. Distantly, Red Hood shouts: “Help him, goddammit!”

“I can’t get through!” Nightwing shouts back.

“Wasn’t it?” Ebony Maw says.

He motions with a hand; the image zips back to the moment where Peter, the Guardians, Dr.
Strange, and Tony have Thanos immobilized. Tony wrenches Quill away from Thanos, doing his
best to shout sense into the grief stricken man. Thanos stirs.

Peter yanks the Gauntlet free off Thanos, stumbling backward from the force of his own pull. He
focuses on regaining his balance, clumsily fumbling with the Gauntlet.

“You stole a part of the soul stone and then you lost the one weapon that would have won the war.
You let yourself become distracted. And because of that, you made them lose the war,” Ebony
Maw says.

He’s right.

“And now, we’ll spread our crusade to this universe, too. Because of you.”

Something dark and sharp flies out of the shadows above them, stabbing deep into Ebony Maw’s
hand. He draws back, hissing like a snake, and pulls the batarang lodged deep into his skin out of
his arm with a furious growl. He looks up at the shadows above, distracted from maintaining the
debris ball keeping Peter trapped.

Peter doesn’t notice it. His mind is overwhelmed in a wave of blue, and he has a brief moment of
panic that quickly disappears under a numb blankness. The anguish from seeing the deaths of the
Avengers, the fuzzy headed panic from the fear toxin, the lingering effects of the Joker serum still
inside him, all of that disappears. And he almost welcomes the peace it brings, even though a small
part of him fights against it bitterly. He’s tired. Why not let someone else carry the burden for
awhile?

Still, a green spark of fury burns against the blue inside his mind.

***

“Mantis? Let him off his leash,” Nick Fury says.

“Okay.”
 ***

The blue disappears in a flash of green rage. Peter’s eyes narrow, a roaring noise fills his ears, and
a red haze settles over his vision. When the rage fully takes hold, he almost becomes calm. He
whips his head up and glares at Ebony Maw, breathing hard. Ebony Maw actually pauses at the
sight of it.

“My fault? We’ll see about that,” Peter says. He smashes through the debris keeping him
contained, shattering most of it into dust. He shoots out a web and yanks himself into the shadows
above.

Two eyes peer out from dark: one a pinpoint of red light, sullen and electronic. The other glittering
in the dark with a predator’s eyeshine, green and wholly unnatural for a human eye. Golden spider
legs begin to slowly erupt from the back of his suit, their needlepoints gleaming in the eerie green
light of the spire. Something clicks in the dark.

A cheery Irish voice, heard clearly in the sudden silence of the spire, says, “Instant Kill Mode
engaged.”

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Call For Aid by Jenniboo311

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