I Will Hear You Call

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/50654122.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Categories: F/F, F/M, M/M
Fandoms: Batman - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Deadpool -
All Media Types, Daredevil (TV)
Relationships: Spiderman & Deadpool & Daredevil, Batfamily Members & Matt
Murdock & Peter Parker & Wade Wilson, Peter Parker & Harleen
Quinzel, Pamela Isley/Harleen Quinzel, Peter Parker/Jason Todd, Clark
Kent/Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake/Kon-El | Conner Kent, Barbara
Gordon/Dick Grayson, Tim Drake & Peter Parker
Characters: Batfamily Members, Peter Parker, Harleen Quinzel, Jason Todd, Pamela
Isley, Wade Wilson, Matt Murdock, Bruce Wayne, Rogues Gallery
(Batman)
Additional Tags: Dimension Travel, Alternate Universe, Team Red (Marvel), Tom
Holland Spiderman, Post-Movie: Spider-Man: No Way Home (2021),
Adult Peter Parker, Spiderman in Gotham, Peter Parker Needs a Hug,
Hurt/Comfort, Deadpool being Deadpool, Protective Matt Murdock,
Protective Batfamily (DCU), Jason Todd Has Issues, Jason Todd Needs
A Hug, Peter Parker is a Mess, Wade Wilson Knows this is Fanfiction,
Bruce Wayne Tries to Be a Good Parent, Bruce Wayne is Bad at
Feelings, Bruce Wayne is Brucie Wayne, Damian Wayne is a Little Shit,
Protective Tim Drake, BAMF Dick Grayson, no beta we die like jason,
Fluff and Angst, Slow Burn, Jason needs to visit his brothers more, Court
of Owls, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Author Is Sleep Deprived,
The Author Regrets Nothing, Author knows nothing about anything,
Peter Parker Has Panic Attacks, Dream Logic, DREAMS ARE WEIRD
OKAY, Lazarus Pit Mad Jason Todd, Villain Peter Parker, Unhealthy
Relationships, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Graphic Description of
Corpses, Peter Parker Needs Therapy, Peter Parker Needs a Break, It
Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Dissociative Identity Disorder
adjacent, Red flags through rose tinted glasses are just flags, Seriously
these relationships are not healthy
Language: English
Series: Part 1 of SpideyBatfam
Collections: Paporo, marvelous marvel, Bats Birds Bitches, spider-fics, ☆*: .｡.
o(≧▽≦)o .｡.:*☆, Yum yum yum peter (iTookYourGrass)
Stats: Published: 2023-10-07 Updated: 2024-03-14 Words: 69,327 Chapters:
29/?
 I Will Hear You Call
by UnderscoreIsCool

Summary

He didn’t know how he ended up in Gotham, but damn was he sure gonna try and make
things work. At least he was making friends?

Also known as:

How the fuck did Spiderman end up in Gotham in late November dressed in t-shirt and
shorts, and why are his dreams so weird?

(Fair warning, tags are liable to change every now and then. I have also upped the rating from
Mature to Explicit. This is not for sexual content, but for graphic depictions of gore and body
horror, and it’s always better to rate higher just in case.)

Notes

This one’s wayyyy shorter than normal chapters will be, so please don’t turn away just yet!
Updates will be sporadic at best, that’s just the way it goes with my stories I’m afraid, but I
hope you enjoy what I post regardless.

Inspired by Butler Spider by Danny_shells

Inspired by The Life, Death, and Recreation of Peter Parker by obliven
Inspired by Bus to Nowhere by foldingfacets
 Prologue

Waking up was painful. Being torn from a dream and forced headfirst into reality hurt
enough, but waking up to being kicked in the side?

Peter let out a strangled yelp as he lurched bolt upright. Immediately the cold struck him and
he realised he was shivering. Why was it so cold?

His sleep filled eyes darted around and took in the dark, dingy alleyway surrounding him
before landing on his assailant.

“Tch,” the man scoffed. “Not dead then.” He moved his arms and Peter’s skin tingled just as
the sound of a gun cocking struck through the air.

Peter scrambled back, staring wide-eyed at the shotgun in the man’s hands. It was aimed right
at him.

“This ain’t no soup kitchen,” the man gruffed as Peter raised his hands in surrender. “Get the
fuck away from my property.” He gestured the shotgun threateningly and Peter rushed to his
feet, darting down the alley with no hesitations.

What the fuck was that? What the fuck happened? Why did he wake up in an alley? Had he
got knocked out in a fight or something?

Alarmed, he reached for his face. No mask. No gloves.

Okay, no suit. Did he get mugged and he just couldn’t remember it?

Patting down his pockets, slowing to a walk as he attempted to out as much distance between
himself and shotgun man as he possibly could without drawing attention to himself, he felt
his wallet. That was a good sign. Probably not mugged.

He tried to think, the freezing cold air making it hard as his limbs and core shivered. If it
wasn’t so damn cold! Wait, why was it cold? It was summer.

Peter blinked, glancing at the sludgy puddles of melting snow in the street and the flickering
Christmas lights in shop windows.

He stopped walking, looking around more closely. He didn’t recognise any of these shops.

He wind blew strong for a few moments and something hit his ankle. It was a newspaper.

Taking it to nearby streetlight he read ‘Gotham Gazette’.

Where the fuck was Gotham?

 Chapter 1: What If I’m Far From Home

It had been a couple days since Peter had landed in Gotham, which, as it had turned out, was
apparently a city in New Jersey. Peter had managed to stumble across the city’s public library
and had spent almost an entire day researching. Well, he didn’t really get much research
done, he mostly basked in the warmth of the heater he had snagged a computer beneath. Even
so, it hadn’t been long before he realised that he was even further from home than just the
next state over.

He was in an entirely new world.

There were no Avengers. No 2011 alien invasion. No Stark Industries. No… no Thanos…

No Spider Man.

Peter had spent a lot of time just staring into space when he realised, so much so that one of
the library’s staff had come over to check on him. She smiled at him and offered him a drink,
but Peter had refused, standing and leaving the library to think.

He was trapped in a different universe.

It was easy enough to believe. Easier than some people might. Thoughts went to years ago,
back when Tony’s death had been fresh and he gotten caught up in the whole Mysterio affair,
and the Peter Parkers from other universes. Was that what was happening? Had someone
accidentally brought him here?

Despite him wanting to find answers, though, Peter had to focus on survival.

It had started snowing, replacing the half melted slush on the streets with a fresh carpet of
white. It could have been beautiful, except it was quick to turn to a dirty mess of footprints
and tire tracks.

Peter had slept the past two nights on a roof, curled up underneath a water tower beneath a
tarp he had found. He was freezing. He was dressed for sun, not snow. If he didn’t have a
healing factor, he would be scared of dying from hypothermia. He may very well have to be
scared of that soon if he couldn’t find anything to eat. Two days without food was near hell,
and he had resorted to walking around aimlessly to distract himself from his empty stomach.

“Oi, kid.”

Peter was snapped away from his thoughts by a gruff, leering tone. Just ahead of him had
appeared three men. Tall, angry, and each wielding some form of weapon.

The leader -Peter assumed he was the leader, him being the biggest of the three and the one
actually speaking to him- stepped closer, an ominous smirk on his grizzled face.
Peter stepped back, trembling from the cold and looking up at the man with caution. He
didn’t even pause to wonder why his spider sense hadn’t gone off, then again he couldn’t feel
anything but cold at that point so maybe it was. “I don’t have any money,” he said
preemptively.

“We’ll be the judge of that,” the man countered, pistol glinting in the flickering amber glow
of the street light. He had a a strange aura to him that Peter would have found almost
amusing if he wasn’t so cold and confused. He looked and sounded as though he had been
torn straight from some movie about 1920s gangsters. They weren’t the first people like that
he’d come across. The city seemed like a weird mismatch of past and present. Half retro, half
futuristic. It was strange to wrap his head around.

The man’s cronies tittered and laughed, they too inching closer to Peter.

“I swear,” Peter held up his hands in surrender. They shook hard, and in the light he could see
they were turning grey. Fuck, he didn’t wanna have to deal with frostbite too. “I haven’t got
anything.”

He was mentally preparing himself to fight these guys off, but he wasn’t sure his reaction
time would be any good considering how cold he was. He felt sluggish. Heavy. His entire
body ached.

The man before him jerked his head, causing his cronies to speed up in their advance and
practically leap at Peter. One of them had a crowbar. It swung at him, and he managed to
shield his face but the way it slammed into his arm sent painful vibrations along the limb, and
wrenched a strangled yell from his lungs.

The other lackey had a baseball bat and it was rammed into his side.

Peter groaned but stayed standing. His head was too fuzzy to properly coordinate himself, so
all he could do was stumble backwards and flail his arms, trying to push his attackers away.
He still had strength, though, despite his reaction time being stunted. Crowbar guy lumbered
into his boss, managing to trod on his toes and make him grunt more from irritation than
pain; and baseball bat veered off to the side, though he quickly recovered.

Peter felt his whole body fizz, before WHAM!

Baseball bat guy had hit him hard across the face.

Dropping like a sack of rocks, Peter hit the sidewalk below, head crashing down onto the
curb. His eyes went dark for only a second, stars flashing in his vision. His ears rang, a loud
droning that screamed at him.

He could see the blurry figures of his attackers nearing; felt their rough hands on him,
searching him; heard their muffled satisfaction amidst the ringing.

The ringing. It was almost painful in and of itself. It was high pitched and so loud.

It quickly turned to a rumble. Or… a revving?

His vision turned almost white.

Wait, that wasn’t because he hit his head, that was…

A motorbike?

Peter watched in a daze as a blurry figure arrived, hopping off his bike. He immediately
began to pummel Peter’s attackers, taking out Crowbar, than Baseball bat, then rounding on
Boss man; all in quick succession.

Boss man shot aimlessly at the figure, the shots making Peter’s head scream even louder than
before.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Miss. Miss.

Hit!

The figure stumbled, clutching his arm only for a moment, before he launched forward and
swung hard, uppercutting boss man and sending him crashing down.

There was silence for a moment as the figure caught his breath, basking in the victory.

Peter watched him with his addled brain filled with awe and terror. Was this guy helping
him? Or was he going to hurt him too, like everyone else he had met in this place.

The figure looked at him. His red helmet shone brightly under the streetlight. Red. Just like
the blood cascading down his arm. His poor jacket, was all Peter could think in that moment.
It was a cool jacket. Brown leather. Looked real. Oh, was he stepping closer?

Peter’s vision faded in and out, every slow, agonising blink revealing the man ever closer
until his eyes closed for the last time.

“Spidey,” a voice called, as if from the bottom of a pool. “Spidey,” Peter’s head spun, and the
darkness in his vision swirled in faded colours. “Spiderman!”

Deadpool flicked Peter’s forehead.

“Huh?” Peter blinked. He was sitting atop a skyscraper, looking over the New York City
skyline. “Uh, hey DP. What’s up?”

Deadpool dropped down next to him, legs swinging. “Brought you a hotdog,” he said
cheerfully, handing one over. Where had that come from? “Don’t worry, it’s turkey,” he
rocked his head from side to side in time to his swinging legs, in some sort of misguided
attempt at being adorable.

Peter took the hotdog. “Thanks.”

“No prhoblm,” Deadpool responded through a large bite of a hotdog of his own. It was
slathered in ketchup and mustard, piled high with sweet smelling onion than made Peter’s
stomach growl fiercely.

He tugged up his mask and bit down. It tasted heavenly. He hadn’t eaten anything in days.

Wait, days?

That wasn’t right, was it? He was with Wade and Matt for lunch just hours ago…

“Whatcha thinking, Spidey?”

Peter shook his head. “Nothing. How’d you get up here?”

Deadpool shrugged, “Plot convenience. Devil misses you. Want me to tell him hi?”

Rolling his eyes, Peter ate more of his hotdog. “You make no sense.”

“I never do,” Deadpool nudged his shoulder. “Besides, this is a dream. They’re not supposed
to make sense.”

“A dream? What are you on about?”

“You know, stories you tell in your head when you’re asleep. Come on, Spidey, I thought you
were smart,” Deadpool snickered.

Peter furrowed his brow, and suddenly his head began to ache. His eyes went fuzzy.

“Huh, thought we’d have longer. You’re waking up. Don’t worry, I’m coming for you buddy.
Just need to get round this pacing issue. Authors suck, you know that?”

“What are you talking about?” Peter grunted, clutching his head. Why did it hurt so much?

Deadpool patted his shoulder, “Don’t worry about it. You just stay safe. I’ll tell Matt you said
hi.”

But Peter didn’t hear him. His head was pounding. It was as if his brain had grown claws and
was tearing its way out of his skull. Stars flashed in the darkness that had become all he could
see, and he screamed.
 Chapter 2: Dancin’ Around The Lies We Tell

Peter woke with a scream on his lips, and the scent of the hotdogs and caramelised onion still
fresh on his mind. The taste still on his tongue. Oddly, he even felt fuller.

But his head was pure agony.

“Hey, hey,” a young voice spoke, cutting through Peter’s scream. Hands grasped at him,
gentle but frantic. “It’s okay.”

Peter looked around wildly. It was dark, but there was a faint glow of artificial blue light
coming from somewhere. He could hear the buzzing of fluorescent bulbs.

He felt warm, and he was on something soft. A bed? It creaked as he moved, springs
groaning. From the exposed brick and large, frosted glass windows that were partially
boarded up, he assumed he was in some sort of warehouse loft. There were a few other beds
in the room, all pretty rickety and threadbare.

Looking down at him, holding his arms, was a boy. He looked dishevelled. Homeless? He
looked young, maybe twelve? Thirteen? Something like that. There were other kids like him
around, though most of them were wrapped up in their own business, unfazed by the weirdo
who had been screaming his head off.

The boy turned away from him once he was satisfied Peter had calmed. The young adult was
panting, but no longer screaming. He still hurt, but it was bearable. Mostly.

“Tia, get Hood,” the boy instructed a little girl who was standing nearby. She scurried away.

“Hood?” Peter asked, voice hoarse. His throat was so dry, speaking was like inhaling a
cactus. He was worried. Something about the word ‘hood’ rang a bell, and not in a good way.
He couldn’t remember exactly what it meant though.

“It’s okay,” the boy said. “He’s friendly.”

Peter frowned, but tried not to worry too much. “Water?”

The boy smiled sheepishly, then stepped away. He returned quickly with a bottle of water.
Sealed. No tampering. That made Peter feel at least a little better.

“Here,” the boy helped him sit up and gave him the bottle.

Peter downed the water as if it was the last drink he’d ever consume. It was gone in seconds.
“Thanks.”

The boy grinned at him.

“Where am I?”
“Crime Alley,” came a new voice. “One of my safe-houses.”

It was the guy in the helmet!

Peter stared at him with wide eyes. “It’s you,” he sputtered. “You saved me.”

Helmet guy -it was a weird helmet. It was nothing like a motorcycle helmet, and looked more
like a face- nodded. “Are you okay?”

Peter blinked. “I’m alive,” he offered. “Who are you?”

Helmet guy seemed taken aback. So was the boy.

“You don’t know who I am?”

“Am I supposed to?”

“You’re not from around here, are you?”

Peter shook his head. “Queens,” he said.

Helmet guy nodded. “New York. Okay. I’m Red Hood. Welcome to Gotham.” He sounded
amused for some reason, but Peter wasn’t paying attention.

Red Hood. Now he remembered.

This guy was a murderer! A crime boss! Peter had read about him at the library.

He glanced around at all the kids. Some looked as young as six years old. The oldest was
maybe 19. Was this guy kidnapping kids or something? Was he trying to kidnap him too?

His concern must have been pretty apparent on his face, as Red Hood sighed.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” He looked to the boy who had given Peter the water bottle.
“Casey, could you clear this lot out. I’d rather talk to the new kid in private.”

The boy, Casey, nodded. “Okay Hood.” He whistled. It pierced Peter’s eardrums and made
him flinch. “Boss needs the room.” Casey didn’t shout, but he was loud, and everyone in the
room listened. They paused in their activities and left the room, Casey included.

Peter was starting to panic now.

“Those guys the other night did a real number on you,” Hood said. He stepped closer to Peter.
“You seem to have healed up pretty fast. Was pretty sure your cheek was fractured. Now it’s
just a bruise. It’s only been two days. You a meta, kid?”

Meta. Metahuman. This universe’s term for enhanced. From what he had read, Peter wasn’t
sure on the public’s stance on people like him. It seemed like the city’s hero, Batman, didn’t
like them though.

He narrowed his eyes, choosing not to answer. “I’m not a kid.”

“Look like one,” Hood said. He sounded conversational, but Peter saw through it. This man
was dangerous. “I checked out your ID. 26. No way you’re that old. Ran it against the
system. It’s fake.”

Yeah, in this universe. Besides, he’d lost five years thanks to being dead. Of course he wasn’t
going to look like his actual age. He was five years younger than he should be.

“I’m 21,” he said. His voice was cold. Wary.

“Your name really Peter, or is that fake too?”

“It’s real.”

“Okay, Peter.” Hood still sounded friendly. He reached into the pocket of his leather jacket
and tossed Peter’s wallet onto the bed. “You’re lucky I got to you before those guys did any
more harm. You’re embarrassingly new to the city. You have no idea how dangerous it is to
be out on the streets. Especially at night.”

Peter wished he would drop the act. He was tired, and his head hurt, and he was hungry. He
didn’t want to deal with fake niceties. Just act like a villain already, damn it.

“Not like I have much choice,” he said.

“Figured. Guessing you’ve got no choice in what you’re wearing either? It’s winter. How
haven’t you got frostbite yet?”

Peter bristled, “How do you think?”

Hood had the audacity to chuckle. “I would say relax, but I know you wont. It’s true what
they say about me. But I have my limits. I don’t hurt good people. Especially not kids.”

“I’m not a kid,” Peter bit out.

“Still younger than me,” Hood snickered. “So it counts. Besides, you’ve got this whole baby
face thing going on.”

Peter glared at him. “What do you want from me?” He asked. “Why’d you save me?”

“Told you,” Hood said. “I don’t like it when kids get hurt. I don’t want anything from you,
Peter.”

“Forgive me if I call you out on bullshit,” Peter retorted.

Hood laughed. It was loud and real. Muffled slightly for the helmet, and whatever voice
changing mechanism was built into it, but still loud and clear enough. “Look,” he said after
he stopped laughing. “It’s the truth. You’re free to leave whenever, I don’t want anything. I
just wanted to get you patched up and off the streets for at least a couple nights. It really isn’t
safe out. Riddler broke out a few days ago and Killer Croc has been giving the Bats the
runaround for weeks.”
Peter stared at him through narrowed eyes, but said nothing. Was he really telling the truth?

“Stick around just until you’re completely healed up. By the looks of that healing, you should
be out in a day or so. Have some food, I’ll get one of the kids to scrounge you up some new
clothes. Some boots while they’re at it. I’ve also got a list of Wayne Foundation shelters on
standby. Most of the kids avoid them ‘cause of CPS, but if you’re really 21 you should be
fine.”

Wrinkling his nose, Peter simply stared at the man. He was severely challenging his
preconceptions. His didn’t seem like some mass murdering crime boss. His spider sense was
also pretty quiet during the whole interaction, and it was usually on point when it came to
threats of all kind. He could usually tell if someone was untrustworthy. It had been playing up
lately though, so he wasn’t sure how much he trusted its silence.

“What is this, some Fagin bullshit? You take in homeless youth and pretend to care about
them so they do your bidding?”

Red Hood chuffed a laugh. It sounded stifled and robotic through his helmet. “If I’m Fagin,
does that make you Oliver Twist in this scenario?”

Peter let out a defeated sigh. He was too tired for this. “A day,” he said. “No strings
attached.“

“Deal,” Hood nodded. He held out a hand for Peter to shake.

Peter tentatively accepted the gesture, squeezing Hood’s hand just a little tighter than he
should just to send the message that Hood shouldn’t try anything funny. It was stupid. If
Hood really was some psycho mob boss with a child trafficking ring he could see it as the
threat it was and retaliate hard, but damn was it satisfying to see a flinch of surprise tense the
man’s shoulders.

Hood left shortly after, and Peter scooped up his wallet, shoving it in one of the pockets of his
cargo shorts. The kids returned pretty soon after Hood left, Casey immediately making a
beeline for Peter.

They engaged in smalltalk for a bit before Casey realised that Peter was not up for social
interaction.

“You’re cranky,” he said with the blunt wisdom of a preteen. “That means you’re hungry,
right? Most people are cranky when they need food. I think Lila is on kitchen duty today.
She’s good. She makes this thing called patatas bravas. It’s really nice.”

Casey seemed like a rambler. Peter normally would have liked to engage in conversation with
him, if it weren’t for the situation. He still wasn’t quite sure if Hood was lying or not. If he
could really just leave and forget this place even existed without paying him back in any way.

Casey had left and returned with a bowl of some sort of thick, chunky soup. It wasn’t patatas
bravas. Whatever it was, though, it smelled delicious. And spicy. Perfect to warm a person
up.
“How long have you been here, Casey?” Asked Peter, taking the offered bowl.

Casey shrugged. “Couple years. Hood found me and my sister dumpster diving. Abbey works
at one of the Wayne shelters. She got an apartment a few months ago. I live with her, but
most of the time I’m here. Keeps me out of the house so we don’t have to spend much on
electricity and stuff.”

“Don’t you go to school?”

Casey pulled a face. “They’d take me away from Abbey and get CPS involved. CPS isn’t
safe. They kidnap kids for bad guys. There’s a new scheme every couple years.”

Peter frowned. Was that true, or was Hood brainwashing kids into trusting him?

He took in a spoonful of soup and it was as if his brain melted away. It was incredible. He
wolfed down the rest of it, almost forgetting the conversation he had just had entirely. “This
is amazing,” he said.

“Told you Lila’s good,” Casey giggled.

A few hours later, an older teen set down a backpack and a pair of boots at the end of Peter’s
bed. They both looked new, which he found strange. He tried not to question it though.
Instead he thanked the teen, who smiled at him before walking away.

Taking inventory, Peter found the boots were just a size too big, but there were a few pairs of
thick socks in the bag which would help. There was a black raincoat with a soft fleece lining
that seemed like it would be a little baggy on Peter’s slender frame. There were two thermal
vests; a couple of baggy, grey t-shirts; and a pair of joggers and a pair of jeans that were a
touch on the short side, but it didn’t matter too much because he had the boots. There were
also a few tins of food at the bottom of the bag, a water bottle in a side pocket, and a small
first aid kit in the front pocket. Attached to a keychain was, according to Casey, a taser
disguised as a Pikachu figurine (they had Pokémon in this universe? Awesome), and there
was also a full face gas mask.

“Bad guys use gas a lot,” Casey explained. “Everyone has a mask when they go out. At least
here, anyway. The Bowery and the Narrows get attacked more than other places.”

That was concerning. How did a place get so bad that locals carried gas masks on them at all
times? Peter found it incredibly worrying, given how there were a dozen superheroes in the
city.

He voiced the concern to Casey.

“Well, Nightwing is actually Blüdhaven’s hero, and no-one’s ever actually seen Oracle so I
don’t think they really count. This is Red Hood’s territory anyway. The Bats don’t come here.
Hood says it’s ‘cause Batman thinks it’s a lost cause, so he lets Hood deal with bad guys
instead.”
Batman lets Red Hood run free? Was this a Mysterio convincing the world Spiderman is a
villain kind of thing then? Because everything he learned about the guy seemed to push back
against the whole crime boss thing.

But then, Hood himself had said everything was true. That he was a murderer.

Damn his head hurt. He just wanted to leave already. But he had made a deal. One day. Then
he would go.

Where to, he had no idea.

He looked over a map that had been in the bag. It had a bunch of notes pointing out where
homeless shelters were. Some said safe, others said avoid at all costs. Peter decided to trust
the notes. For now, at least. Until they were proven wrong.
Chapter 3: I’m Gonna Make It Through This Year If It Kills Me

The rest of the day at Red Hood’s safe-house was uneventful. Peter ended up sleeping for
most of it, embracing the warmth and comfort he hadn’t felt in days. He felt lighter. The
bruising on his cheek was a sickening yellow, but it was well on its way to fading fully. His
ribs didn’t hurt so much anymore, and neither did his head once he had downed nearly half a
dozen water bottles. He still didn’t trust Red Hood, but he hadn’t made an appearance since
Peter had first woken up, and Casey had nothing but good words to say about the man. Peter
decided to reserve his judgment. At least until he had definite proof that Hood was or wasn’t
a good guy.

It was late morning the next day when Peter decided to leave. He ducked into the bathroom to
change into the more weather appropriate clothes from the rucksack, pulling on two pairs of
socks before cramming his feet into the big boots he had been given. It felt nice to be warm.

“Here,” Casey smiled at him as he stood by his bed and packed up the bag. He was holding
out a small wad of red knitted yarn.

Peter blinked, puzzled, as he took the offered bundle. It was a pair of fingerless gloves that
looked just a little small.

“Abbey made me them last year. I have new ones now though,” explained Casey. “The bags
never have gloves, but it’s really cold so I thought you’d like some.”

Peter had been informed that ‘the bags’ were standard from Hood. Most kids were given
them whenever they turned up at Hood’s door. One point to the good guy tally.

He smiled back at Casey, “Thanks.” He put them on after he zipped up his bag.

“Oh, and give me your map.”

That one really stumped Peter, but he trusted Casey so he pulled out the map he had shoved
into one of the pockets of he new jacket.

Casey took it and searched for something specific. “Here,” he pointed to one of the ‘safe’
shelters. “That’s the one Abbey works at. I told her about you. Usually the shelters are really
full in winter, but she’ll be able to find you something.”

“Uh, thanks?” Peter laughed wryly. “I’ll check it out.”

Casey led him to the door. It was made of rusted metal, and slid open with a loud creaking
moan. They were buffeted suddenly with cold wind, but thankfully no snow. There was a thin
blanket on the ground, no more than half an inch thick, but it wouldn’t bother Peter. Not with
his new footwear.

He bid Casey goodbye, and headed on his way. Barely half way down the alley, his body felt
the familiar shiver of his spider-sense and he looked back the way he had came. In an upstairs
window of the building he had just left was Red Hood looking down at him. He didn’t even
move away when Peter noticed him.

With a furrowed brow, Peter continued walking, if a little faster than before. That was creepy.

Point one to the Bad Guy Tally.

Wandering the streets was enjoyable. There were people all around, holding their own
conversation as they carried steaming travel mugs and clutched onto scarves that were being
threatened by the wind. Christmas lights shone and blinked in store windows, and Peter even
saw a few references to Hanukkah here and there. That made him smile. He remembered
celebrating with his Aunt and Uncle, and his parents before that. Even Christmas, as what
Aunt May brought to the Parker family. A wave of nostalgia bathed over him. He hadn’t
celebrated either holiday in a long time. Matt was Christian, sure, but he didn’t really do
decorations. And neither he, nor Wade, were up for cooking Christmas dinner. Peter had
attempted once, but almost burned the building down.

Matt banned him from the kitchen after that.

Deciding that the cold had gotten to him, and definitely not his emotions, Peter pulled out his
map and set in mind to head for the shelter Casey had pointed out. It took a moment to orient
himself, but the map was easy enough to read and it ended up being only a fifteen minute
walk.

He wasn’t sure what to do, standing outside the building and staring at the Wayne Foundation
sign on the wall by the door. It was a pretty empty street, not like the high street he had been
walking earlier, but it wasn’t abandoned. A few people passed by, not really paying him any
attention. A couple times Peter made a step towards the door but stopped himself, still unsure
wether he really should go in or not. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Casey, he seemed like a
good kid, he just… didn’t feel like he deserved it?

He was Spiderman, he could survive longer than normal people. He couldn’t take a bed from
someone in need. Casey had said the shelters got full this time of year.

He had been standing, staring, for a solid few minutes deliberating when a woman opened the
door and gave him a look. It was the kind of look that May used to give him, asking him
“well?”.

“Are you going to stand there all day?” The woman asked. “You can come in, you know? Or
are you a vampire? Need to be invited,” she teased. She sounded Irish, if Peter were to guess.

Peter shook his head. “No,” he said. “Not a vampire. I just- is there space?”

The woman nodded. “Three beds opened up this morning. One of our families got rehoused.
Be expecting more of that in the next few weeks. Bruce Wayne finally opened up that new
apartment building last week. Could get you put on the rehousing list if you like. Come on
inside, lad.”
Still hesitant, Peter entered the building. It was warm inside. Warmer than Red Hood’s safe
house. It looked nicer too, with warm white walls and a few landscape photos up. He took a
closer look at one.

It was stunning. Black and white, of the city’s skyline. It must have been taken from a
helicopter or something, as it angled downwards at the city far below. The only colour was
the setting sun sinking below the horizon, casting a warm glow on the edges of buildings.

“Beautiful, right? It was donated by one of the Wayne kids.” The woman said as she closed
the door.

“Very,” Peter agreed. He missed his camera. After everyone forgot his existence and he had
to start life anew, Peter had started selling photos of Spiderman to newspapers. He had gotten
good at it, and even begun to enjoy it. He was by no means an artist, but he liked what he did.
He had started taking candid shots of everyday people. Just to remind himself of the beauty
and innocence of the people he spent his life saving. Not that he needed the reminder, though
some days it was nice to have.

He followed the woman through the short corridor to a front desk.

“This part is just a formality, so we know how many are in the building in case of a fire or
attack,” the woman said as she took a clipboard from the desk. There was no-one manning it,
though a security guard was lingering nearby, so Peter assumed that was her post before she
went out to entice him inside. “You don’t have to give your real name,” she continued to
speak. Peter wondered how many people gave their real names in this place. “But we need to
be able to call you somethin’.”

Peter took the clipboard and grabbed a pen from the pot on the desk. It sat by a small
computer monitor, and it was turned at enough of an angle that Peter could spy a hint of an
image from a security camera. It was showing the scene just outside the door. So that was
how the woman knew he was there.

He quickly moved to jot down his name, though paused. Did this universe have its own Peter
Parker? Not just a random guy with his name, both his first name and surname were pretty
common, but an honest double somewhere. He had managed some brief research into major
figures of his own universe, enough to know that there was no Stark Industries, no Avengers,
no Captain America or Iron Man or Thor.

He scribbled down a name and handed it back to the woman. She read it and smiled.

“Well then, Peter Stark, my name is Abby Collins. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

She held out her hand, and Peter accepted the gesture.

“Abbey? You don’t have a little brother called Casey, do you?”

Abby laughed. “No, that’s Abbey Dominguez you want. She’s actually who you need next.
Just through those doors,” Abby pointed to the double doors to the left. “That’s the cafeteria.
Sleeping hall is that way,” she pointed to the right. “You’ll get the proper tour soon though.
Abbey will be at the counter just as you step through.”

Peter nodded, “Okay, thank you.”

Abby smiled at him, sitting at her desk as he headed in the direction she had pointed.

Inside the cafeteria was fairly loud. There were dozens of people sitting and talking. A few
were eating, though most plates were empty. He guessed it must be the end of lunch. Near the
door was a long counter that displayed food, a few workers behind it serving the stragglers
that got to lunch late. Across the hall there was a basic lounge area with a decent sized TV, a
few computers, and a collection of simple toys that some young kids were arguing over.

Peter walked up to the only woman manning the counter.

“Er, hi,” he greeted.

The woman looked up, scrutinising his form for a minute before a spark of recognition lit up
her eyes. “You’re the kid Casey told me about,” she spoke matter-of-factly.

“I’m not a kid,” Peter frowned. “You’re his sister, right?”

Abbey nodded once. “Grab a tray. Eat, then come back to me. Be quick about it. My shift
ends soon.”

Doing as he was told, thankful for the opportunity to have something to eat, he joined the
short cue of people.

The food wasn’t as nice as what he had been given at the safe-house, but it was hot and it was
filling. It was a thick, meaty stew that clung to the walls of his stomach and made him feel
contented. It had been served to him by a very disgruntled looking teenager who looked very
much like he didn’t want to be there. He had glared at Peter as though he weren’t fit to even
be in the same room as him.

There was a young man, around Peter’s age, beside him, who batted at the teen with a roll of
his eyes and an easy grin. “Stop glaring, Damian. Give the guy his food already.”

“Tch,” the boy had scoffed, but he had served Peter anyway.

Returning to Abbey, she handed Peter a wash bag. It was black and had a Wayne Foundation
logo on it. “You get to keep that,” she said. “You can stay here for 72 hours, but then you
need to stay somewhere else for at least 24 before coming back. You can go to a different
shelter, you just can’t stay in this one,” she explained. “Computers are free to use for half an
hour per person per day, and the TV is turned on between 8am and 8pm. Breakfast is at 8:30,
lunch at 12, and dinner at 5:30. There are snacks out between meals if you miss one. This
room is locked after 9pm, and curfew is at 10. No fighting, no drinking, no smoking, no
drugs. You wanna do that shit, you take it outside.”

She walked while she talked, leading Peter through the doors, past the front desk, and into the
sleeping hall. Ever few sentences she looked at him to make sure he was following along.
She spoke fast and direct. Peter got the sense she was a very no-nonsense kind of person.

The sleeping hall wasn’t as full as the cafeteria, but there were a few people in there. It was a
room equal in size to the cafeteria, and held rows of bunk beds. Each had a locker at the head
and foot, one per person.

“Bedding is changed daily at breakfast, so you will be woken up if you aren’t out of bed
already. Showers are through that door there,” she gestured to the far end of the room. “There
will be a towel in your locker. It will get washed once you leave the shelter. This one is yours.
You’re lucky, you get to pick which bunk you want.”

Peter nodded his understanding just as a faint alarm sounded from Abbey’s wrist.

“And that’s my shift over,” she said, glancing at her watch and stopping the beeping. “I’ll
inform Casey you’re here. He hasn’t stopped texting me asking about you.”

“He seems like a nice kid,” Peter offered. “He gave me these.” He held up his hands, showing
off the red gloves. The were tight on him, but kept his hands warm enough. “He said you
made them.”

Abbey nodded. “I did,” she said bluntly. “Red suits you better than him. Goodbye.”

She turned and made her way out of the room. Peter wasn’t quite sure what to make of her,
but eventually he decided she liked her succinctness. She reminded him of MJ.

Picking the bottom bunk, simply for ease of access, Peter sat down.

Thinking of what to next, he settled on a shower. He felt unclean, it hadn’t bothered him
before he had the opportunity to shower, but now that he did he couldn’t help but feel gross.
His hair was greasy and heavy, and there was a layer of grime on his skin from sleeping on
rooftops and wearing the same T-shirt and shorts for days.

Choosing the locker at the foot of the bed, Peter found the aforementioned towel. It was
white, just large enough to be considered a proper body towel, and kind of scratchy. The kind
you often found in cheap hotels.

Taking the joggers and a fresh shirt from his bag, Peter scooped up the wash bag and towel.
He managed to stuff the rucksack into the locker, gently shutting the door and locking it with
a key that had been sitting atop the towel. It was attached to a plastic bracelet that he put on
as he headed for the showers.

Being lunchtime, the showers were pretty much empty, which put Peter at ease.

There were individual stalls, each, thankfully, with full length doors and walls. Inside a stall
was enough room for a section to store clothes, with a clear plastic divider to keep them from
getting wet. A full length mirror and a seat built into the wall were there too. The showers
themselves were simple. Only one button to push. There was a sign on the wall that read
‘Five minutes hot, ten minutes it stops’. It was direct, which Peter appreciated. He also
appreciated the showering bat cartoon on the sign. This city seemed to be obsessed with bats.
He had seen bat imagery all over the place.

Stripping down, he stared at himself in the mirror. There was a large bruise on his side that
looked a lot more concerning than the one on his face. He must have cracked his ribs. It
didn’t hurt, not when he moved, but touching it felt a little tender.

In the wash bag he had been given, there were small bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and
body wash. Peter used them sparingly, in the hopes of showering again soon. He may as well
while he had access to such facilities. He scrubbed at his skin, cleaning as thoroughly as he
could whilst trying to be mindful of his bruised torso. He spent as long as he could under the
weak spray of water before it got cold, and he quickly stepped away.

He made use of the cold water to brush his teeth, toothbrush and paste more gifts from the
wash bag. It felt good to have clean teeth again. It felt good to be clean in general again.

Peter spent the next half hour drying off, dressing, then organising his belongings back at his
locker.

Running through his mind were possibilities and questions that he had been putting off while
he was focusing on survival. Thoughts of what to do next, how he could get back home, why
he was even here in the first place.

He still couldn’t even remember what he had been doing before he woke up in that alley. Part
of him wondered if this was all just a dream. A weird, long, elaborate, and painful dream.

All he knew was that he was here now, and he had no way to get back home.

He had to figure out some way to get back, but to do that he needed time, money, and
equipment. Time, he had plenty of. Money and equipment? He was in need of.

His first priority was making money to get himself off the street and to keep himself fed. The
rest he could work on. He was used to working on limited funds. He didn’t need fancy tech to
get by. His first web shooters were made from scrap parts he’d fished from dumpsters. As
long as he had a place to work and food to eat, he could figure things out. He was sure of it.

There had been a pin board up on a wall by the food counter in the cafeteria full of job
listings. He could start there.
Chapter 4: Im Searching For The Problem, And Looking For
The Positive

Peter stared cautiously at the container yard, then at the scrap of paper in his hand that
displayed the scrawled out address he had copied. This was definitely the right place. It
seemed sketchy, but it had been the only job on the board back at the shelter that he could
actually do. The others were asking for proof of ID and qualifications and resumes. All this
one said was to show up, move some crates, then get paid. Simple as. It wasn’t a completely
nighttime gig, which made Peter at least a little bit comfortable. There were also security
guards that actually looked like security guards and not random thugs.

He walked up to one and mentioned the job listing, and he was pointed a direction to go. His
spidey-sense wasn’t going off during the interaction, so he trusted the situation enough to at
least give it a try.

He was greeted with the sight of around a dozen other workers. A few were around his age, a
couple he thought he recognised from Red Hood’s safe-house. The rest were older, one who
looked well into his seventies. He was old and grizzled, reminding Peter of a stereotypical
elderly fisherman. He was clearly still strong and able by the way he carried himself, and he
had a face set in a stoney half frown.

The foreman, or who Peter assumed was the foreman, was seated at a pop up desk by one of
the large metal shipping containers. He was talking with one of the young men, and Peter
went with his gut and stood in the short queue behind him.

He observed as the man received a set of baggy overalls and a shoddy looking respirator after
signing something. He then walked away and joined a small group of people off to the side.
Peter started worrying what exactly it was that they were going to be unloading. He assumed
some sort of chemical or fibrous substance.

The queue went down fairly quickly, and soon Peter was facing the foreman.

“Tch,” he huffed. “You’re a new one. Name?”

“Stark,” Peter said after a pause. “Peter Stark.”

“Ever done work like this before, Stark?”

Peter shook his head.

The man gave him a dismissive look. “Don’t look very strong,” he said. “Sure you can handle
heavy lifting?”

“Yes, sir,” said Peter.

The man gave a derisive hum. “We’ll see about that. You look like a small,” he grumbled,
then fished through a box on the table and shoved a set of overalls and mask towards Peter.
“Put those on. And put your name here,” he gestured to a list in front of him.

Peter scrawled out his name in the nearly empty biro and took the protective gear.

“Just do what that lot do,” the man nodded his head to the group of workers gathered a few
feet away. “I ain’t got time to train anyone today. Don’t drop anything and don’t dick around.
Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” Peter nodded.

It was a simple enough job. He had ended up partnering with the old man unloading large
sacks that erupted with some sort of dust when struck. They had a Lex Corp logo on them.
Peter had done some research on the Wayne Foundation back at the shelter, which had led
him down a rabbit hole of Wayne Enterprises and its rival companies. He found himself
thinking of Tony during his research. Bruce Wayne, whose name he had heard a few times
since arriving in Gotham, seemed to be some sort of screwed up version of his deceased
mentor. The term Brucie Wayne had popped up a lot. He seemed to be a himbo playboy pride
and joy of Gotham, secretly-not-so-secretly Batman’s boyfriend, father figure to a dozen
adopted children, media darling.

He hadn’t gotten much on Lex Corp as he went down his rabbit hole, only having half an
hour of computer time. Bruce Wayne had been far more interesting a topic.

“You work good, kid,” the old man praised once they stopped a while for a break. It had been
a couple hours and together they had unloaded nearly twice as much as other pairings.

“Thanks.” The praise had taken Peter off guard. The old man hadn’t said a single word to him
while they worked, and for some reason his praise felt more weighty than it would coming
from anyone else. “I, er, I’m stronger than I look,” Peter chuckled.

The old man gave him a strange look. He didn’t say anything, but he fished into his pocket
and tossed an energy bar to Peter before unwrapping one of his own.

Peter thanked him. He had eaten lunch at the shelter, but he didn’t think he’d get back in time
for dinner. The winter sun was quickly setting, and he was sure there would be a few more
hours left of unloading. The time passed fast enough and eventually Peter was heading over
to the foreman with the old man. They were each given an envelope and a gruff “Come back
tomorrow” as they handed over their equipment.

Peter stuffed his envelope in the inner pocket of his jacket.

“Need a ride, kid?” Asked the old man as they left the yard.

“Uh,” Peter hadn’t expected the offer. “Sure.”

He followed the man to a beaten up old car that Peter couldn’t quite identify the make of. He
was never really a car guy, despite Tony’s passion for them.

“Where to?”
Peter gave the address of the shelter and the old man hummed.

“Thought you’d be a Wayne Foundation kid, see a lot of them round here.” He switched on
the engine and pulled away from the curb. “You picked a nice one, I tell you that.”

That puzzled Peter. “What do you mean?”

“The shelter. That one you’re staying at’s new. Opened up just last year. Hasn’t been given up
on yet.”

“Oh.” It did seem like it was too nice to be a homeless shelter. Peter had volunteered at a few
with May and they all seemed kinda run down and forgotten. He had wondered if this
universe was just better at caring for the homeless, though he supposed that was wishful
thinking.

“How long you got left there?”

“Uh, two days?”

The old man gave a grunt of acknowledgement. “Check into the one over in Old Gotham by
the Natural History Museum. It’s a year older than your one in the East End. And avoid any
in the Bowery and Crime Alley, if you know what’s good for ya.”

“How do you know so much about the shelters?” Peter asked, curious.

“My wife’s been working on and off at the shelters ever since before Thomas and Martha
Wayne died. Gave her something to do while I was deployed. Nowadays it just keeps her
busy for the sake of being busy.”

“You’re a veteran?”

The old man nodded. “Aye. Gave up forty years of my life for this country.”

They fell into a comfortable silence after that, until the old man pulled up outside the shelter.

“‘M I going to be seeing you tomorrow, kid?”

Peter nodded. He had been invited back to work another day, and he was going to accept the
opportunity. He couldn’t exactly turn it down. It was easy enough work for him, he hadn’t
even worked up a sweat. Though, masking his strength was tedious.

“I’ll come by here at two. Don’t keep me waiting.”

A great grin pulled at Peter’s lips. “I won’t!” He declared.

The old man gave an approving grunt and a nod.

When Peter got back to his bed, the first thing he noticed was that someone was laying in the
top bunk. They were fast asleep. Opening his locker, trying not to make too much noise, Peter
was in good spirits as he took stock of his belongings. He had been anxious about leaving
them behind, but they appeared to be untouched. He thought on what the old man had said to
him. That this was one of the nicer shelters. He doubted he’d be able to leave his stuff like
this at a different location. Most of the people here were families with young kids, and the
elderly. They stuck to themselves but were generally friendly. It was a solemn realisation that
such people needed a place like this in the first place, and one that Peter didn’t want to dwell
on.

Fishing his wallet from deep in his bag, he made to move over his earning from the envelope.
He was alarmed, however, when he saw a handful of twenties already in there. Those hadn’t
been in there before. He would have known if he had $100. His mind drifted to the one and
only time someone else had been in possession of his wallet.

Red Hood.

“Damn,” he muttered, quickly shoving the $135 from the envelope inside. That marked
another tally on the Red Hood Good Guy list.

Peter had been right in the understanding that he would miss dinner. It was almost eight, an
hour before the cafeteria doors were locked for the night. There were a bunch of people
sitting in the lounge area watching TV, a few staff members and volunteers joining them.
They’re were easy to tell apart. Staff wore black polos with the foundation logo on the breast,
and volunteers wore lanyards.

On the food counter was a couple bowls of fruit and a platter of cookies, a drink station set up
close by. Peter made himself a cup of hot chocolate that he was positive was only available
because there were so many little kids around, and grabbed an apple.

Taking a seat at a table, he opened up a notebook he had found in one of the pockets of his
rucksack and began scribbling down the advice he had received. He was probably going to
need a new notebook soon, as he had filled almost half of it already with all the research
about this universe he had gathered over the past few days.

Eventually he moved on from writing down the old man’s advice, and had begun his musings
over ways to get back home. He had speculated about dimensional travel in the past, what
self respecting nerd hadn’t? But the practicalities of actually achieving such a thing were
insurmountable. It was clearly possible, from Peter’s experiences in the past, but that hadn’t
been science. It was magic. Peter wasn’t sure if magic worked the same way here, even if he
could find some way to perform it himself. No, if he had any hope at all it would be through
sciencing the hell out of the problem. Everything he could think of, though, would require
massive amounts of energy to even create the smallest of portals.

This universe was seemingly decades behind his own in terms of technological advancement.
The power an Arc Reactor could create would be only a fraction of what Peter would need,
but the key element needed to build one hadn’t even been discovered here. He had checked.

He supposed he could attempt to make Palladium Arc Reactors, which, while not as efficient
as Vibranium, were still powerful, he would still need dozens of them.
It was looking more and more like a lost cause to Peter. Even if he did figure out a way to
reliably make a way back home, it would no doubt cost a fortune, and he had only $235 to his
name.

He let out a low, exasperated groan and his head dropped down onto the table.

“Homework trouble?” A chipper voice asked.

“Huh?” Peter sat up, alarmed. It was one of the volunteers from yesterday, the one who
chastised the grouchy teenager. He frowned. “Why does everyone think I’m still a kid?”

“I was thinking college homework or something,” the volunteer defended.

Peter blushed. “Sorry,” he sighed.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m Tim,” the volunteer introduced.

“Peter,” said Peter. “Is, er, is it lock up time?”

Tim shook his head. “Not yet. 20 minutes to go. You’re good.” His glanced down at Peter’s
notebook. He whistled. “That looks complicated.”

Peter sighed. “It is. I’ve hit a dead end.”

“What is it?”

Not seeing the harm in telling the truth, he said, “I’m trying to figure out how a portal to
alternate universes could work. All theoretical, of course,” he added.

Tim looked impressed, and Peter allowed him to take a closer look at the notebook. “I wish
my brother was here,” he said. “He loves shit like this. I understand some of it,” his mused,
but then he pointed to a section curiously. “What’s this?”

It was a sketch of an Arc Reactor. “Uh, just something I’ve been working on. I call it an Arc
Reactor. If I were to actually build a portal, I’d need a bunch of them. Just one of these can
generate 3 gigajoules per second.”

“Does it work?”

Peter shrugged, “Yes. I have better designs though, but it means doing next to the
impossible,” he admitted.

“Huh,” Tim mused. “You should present this to Wayne Tech,” he said. “They do internships
every couple years. From what I can understand, your ‘arc reactors’ could be the next step
forward in clean energy production if they really do work.”

“I, er,” Peter frowned, suddenly uncomfortable. “I’ll look into it?” While the suggestion was
tempting, he didn’t have any proof he existed. Technically he supposed he didn’t. Not in this
universe.
“Please do,” Tim urged, seemingly not noticing Peter’s hesitance. “I can even put in a good
word for you.”

That took Peter aback. “You could?”

Tim laughed, “You sound unconvinced. I’m sorry, I should properly introduce myself. Tim
Drake,” he held out his hand for Peter to shake, and Peter’s eyes grew wide.

“You’re one of the Wayne kids,” he realised. “Uh, Peter Stark,” he shook Tim’s hand
awkwardly.

“Nice to meet you,” Tim beamed. He had a smile that could light up any room, and Peter
could now recognise it as one he had seen in many a paparazzi photo from his research.

Tim Drake, heir to Wayne Enterprises, was volunteering at a homeless shelter and had
offered to ‘put in a good word’ for Peter if he tried to apply for an internship at Wayne Tech.

Peter almost found it funny. He could just hear Wade in his head teasing him about being
‘billionaire bait’.

“You volunteer?” Peter asked after a moment of dumbfounded silence.

Tim nodded brightly. “All of my siblings do. Bruce thought it would be a good idea to get
Damian to interact with normal people. He has a touch of ‘stuck up brat’ syndrome. He was
worse when he was a little kid,” he admitted. “Sorry about yesterday,” he apologised. “If he
offended you, or anything.”

“You remember that?”

Tim shrugged. Then his watch gave off a few loud beeps. “Oh,” he said. “Now it’s time to
lock up,” he said. “Here, I’ll put your mug away. You head off. And, er, the internship thing.
Think about it, yeah?”

Peter stood from his seat and gathered his pen and notebook. “I will,” he said, though it was
an empty promise.

Laying in bed after having taken a quick shower, Peter found it easy to drift off to sleep with
thoughts of Arc Reactors and the laughter of Wade swimming through his mind.
 Chapter 5: The channel fades to snow, it’s off to work you go
Chapter Notes

Yes, I am evil 😈

“What’s put a stick up your ass, Petey?” Wade asked, collapsing into a sit beside Peter. They
were on the skyscraper in New York again, and Wade handed over a burrito.

Peter’s scowl deepened, “Leave me alone, D.” He accepted the burrito though.

Wade pouted, “Not happy to see me? Thought you missed me. That hurts.”

Peter rolled his eyes and took a bite out of his burrito. As he looked at his hands, his
Spiderman suit seemed to fade in and out of existence.

“Red’s been looking for you.”

“Why?” Peter asked, puzzled.

“You’ve been gone for weeks, baby boy. He’s worried. I keep telling him you’re okay. That
you’re living it up in a new city. I don’t think he believes me for some reason.”

Weeks? What did that mean? “I’m right here,” Peter said.

“No you’re not,” Wade argued. “Look,” he pointed to the setting sun and for a moment the
sky seemed to glitch. Smog darkened the sky and the buildings all changed. They looked
older. Pointier. But only for a split second.

“What the hell?” Peter nearly dropped his burrito.

“This isn’t New York, Spidey,” Wade said. “But don’t worry, we’ll find you. We’re making
progress. Well, I am. Red needs to believe I know what I’m doing first. He’ll get there. He
knows I’m not lying, he just thinks I’m insane.” Wade stood up. “I mean, how wrong is that?
I’m not insane. I’m in New York,” he grinned, then stepped off the building. Peter watched
him with wide eyes as he fell, plummeting down and down but never hitting the ground.

Peter leaned over, wanting a better view, but he leaded too far. Down he went, falling after
Wade, into a swirling void of colours.

Peter woke with a start, needing to take a moment to catch his breath as he gathered his
bearings.
Across the room he saw a few staff members stripping beds, and he realised he had slept
longer than he expected. He was set to move onto a different shelter today. He had gone back
to the container yard yesterday, earning another $135, so he would be set for a while if he
couldn’t find a place. The old man -why hadn’t Peter got his name yet? He couldn’t just keep
calling him ‘old man’- had been his partner again, and he had told him about the safest places
to camp out in the city if he got desperate. Told him all the places to avoid.

Peter was thankful for that.

Getting out of bed, Peter gathered his belongings from his locker, making sure everything fit
inside his rucksack, and made his way to the cafeteria. He ended up having breakfast and
researching on a computer before leaving. He filled up on as much food as he was allowed.
Tim wasn’t there, but Abbey was. She was heavy handed with the porridge ladle. Peter
smiled at her, and she gave a nod in return.

The other Abby was at the desk again when he signed out for good.

“Be careful out there, lad,” she smiled warmly, bidding him goodbye.

The shelter by the museum was smaller than the one he had just left, though it housed the
same amount of people. There were more people his age there, very few looked older than
30, and even fewer looked younger than 18. Instead of two distinct areas for eating and
sleeping, there was only one hall with a few dozen beds and a food counter along the back
wall. There weren’t any lockers, but there were large storage boxes at the end of each bed
that had flimsy looking locks to keep them shut. In the gaps between beds, there were
sleeping bags laid out, more than doubling how many people could stay in the shelter. Peter
didn’t think health and safety regulations were being followed quite to the letter here because
of that. There were also security guards around. There had been a couple at the other shelter,
they hung around near the computers and the front desk, but here there was about three times
as many.

Peter signed in and got the basic run down of how this place worked. Food was served at the
same time as the other shelter, and curfew was still ten o’clock; but when you missed a meal,
you missed a meal, and if you weren’t inside by curfew you were locked out and your bed, or
sleeping bag, wasn’t yours unless you signed back in the next morning. The maximum stay
was also two days, instead of three. Peter wasn’t too concerned by that though.

He had secured his place for now, and it wasn’t long before lunch was being served. In a few
hours he would head over to the container yard again.

Peter stood in the queue for lunch. It was fairly long, but quick to go down.

“Three options, dear,” an old woman said. She was wearing a volunteer lanyard, and had a
pleasant but stern look on her face. “Ham, cheese, or PB and J.” She gestured to the array of
brown paper bags on the counter, each labelled accordingly.

“Peanut butter, please,” Peter requested. When he held out his hand to accept the bag the
woman held out for him, she paused.
“Oh, you don’t happen to be the young man who started working at the containers a few days
ago, are you?”

Peter blinked, “Yes? Um, how..?”

“Your gloves, dear,” the woman said. She glanced at the line behind Peter. “But we can talk
later. I have more people to get to. Move along now.”

Puzzled, though not worried as his spidey-sense was calm, Peter moved to the next station at
the counter where he was handed a cup of vegetable soup, then he set off back to his sleeping
bag.

It wasn’t the best thing he had ever eaten, but it was decent. The sandwich was simple, and
the soup warmed him up. There was a banana and a bottle of water in the bag too, which he
decided to stash for later. As with the previous two days, he would miss dinner.

Once everyone had been fed, the woman from earlier made her way over to Peter.

She smiled at him. “I probably gave you a start, dear,” she spoke apologetically. “I just
recognised your description. It was the gloves, really. They’re bright red,” she chuckled. “My
husband told me about you. He works with you.”

“Oh!” Peter realised who she was now. “Hello,” he grinned. “You make amazing cookies,” he
said. Yesterday the old man had given him a few cookies during their break that he had said
his wife had made.

The woman blushed. “Thank you. I’m Maisie Packer, dear. You can call me May.”

Peter’s mouth went dry. “I’m, er, Peter Stark,” he said, trying to fight the sudden wave of
sadness he felt washing over him. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“And you, Peter. Would you like me to call Ben and ask him to pick you up later?”

“Ben?”

The woman tutted, sighing. “That man,” she huffed. “Always forgets his manners. My
husband, dear. I assume you’re going to be working today, I know he drove you yesterday.”

“I, er, I’d like that, ma’am. Thank you.”

“Of course, dear,” Maisie smiled at him fondly and Peter couldn’t help but see May’s eyes
shining in her sockets. “I’ll come and get you when he arrives.”

Peter’s mouth was too dry for him to say anything, so he just nodded. She walked away and
Peter had to stare up at the ceiling to avoid the tears that were threatening to roll down his
cheeks.

He thought of Ben and May often. How could he not? They had been such big figures in his
life. They had raised him. Being faced with the newly known Ben and Maisie Packer, though,
it brought up all kinds of emotions he hadn’t faced in years. The last time he had cried over
his aunt and uncle was when May was killed by Green Goblin all those years ago.

Flopping back, he clenched his eyes shut and tried not to sob. He didn’t need any attention
drawn to him. Not now.

Peter ended up falling asleep.

He was shaken awake by Maisie a couple hours later.

“Peter, time to wake up,” she spoke gently but urgently. “Ben’s waiting outside.”

“Hmm,” Peter opened his eyes groggily. He felt the dried crust of sleep in the corners of his
eyes and he rubbed it away, still half asleep. “M’kay Aunt May,” he murmured.

Maisie chuckled, “I haven’t had anyone call me that before. Come on, dear, get up.”

“Huh?” Peter sat up, mind catching up with him. He flushed, “Er, sorry, ma’am.”

Maisie waved it off, “Don’t be. We should get a move on. Benny doesn’t like to be kept
waiting.”

Peter nodded, hooking his bag over his shoulder -he didn’t trust leaving it behind- and
following Maisie to the sign in desk. She handed over her lanyard and Peter signed out for
the next few hours. The man at the desk gave him an irritated look and warned him to get
back before curfew.

Maisie tutted. “Some people are too hard hearted to work here,” she said to Peter as they
stepped out into the cold. It hadn’t snowed in days, which Peter was infinitely thankful for.
“They think it’s a waste of their precious time to show the barest hint of human kindness.”

“It’s okay,” Peter shrugged. “I don’t mind it.”

Maisie sighed, “Even so,” she said. “Ah, here’s Ben.”

Mr Packer was standing outside the car, waiting. “Kid,” he greeted with his usual gruff tone.
“Mais,” he kissed his wife on the cheek, then opened the passenger side door for her.

“Hello, sir,” Peter greeted back. “Thanks for driving me again.”

“Eh,” Mr Packer gruffed. “It’s nothing. If a man has what’s needed to help others, he should
help. It’s not like I’m going out of my way or anything.”

“Exactly,” Maisie agreed, buckling in. “Now, hop in, Peter. You’ll make yourselves late.” She
pulled her door shut, and Mr Packer rolled his eyes.

“You heard the woman, kid.”

They drove, first, to Mr and Mrs Packer’s home to drop off Maisie before making their way
to work.
The shift went as usual, Peter and Mr Packer getting through twice as much as the other
workers did. Peter had started to notice that the others weren’t taking too kindly to that, but
the foreman was pleased. He had even worn a smile when Peter and Mr Packer walked up to
his desk.

They had been offered overtime, which Peter agreed to after Mr Packer’s assurance that the
drive back wouldn’t be long and he would be able to get to the shelter in time. It would mean
extra money, which meant being able to afford a place to live sooner rather than later.

It was a little after nine thirty when Peter and Mr Packer headed back to the foreman for their
pay. They were in good spirits, despite the tiredness they both felt. Mr Packer was even
humming under his breath. Some old song Peter had never actively heard before, but vaguely
recognised.

Then all of a sudden a chill went down Peter’s spine.

He spun around abruptly, alarming Mr Packer, and was faced with five angry looking
workers.

“Er, hi,” Peter attempted to greet them, cautious, but he was punched square in the gut. Peter
had sensed it coming before he felt the blow, but he was used to downplaying his abilities and
let it hit. It was a far cry from the strongest punch he had ever been dealt, but it still knocked
the wind out of him.

“You and gramps are giving us a whole lot of bother,” one of the men snarled.

In Peter’s winded state he was open for two men to restrain him, forcing his arms behind his
back. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mr Packer being treated much the same. He had
been struck across the face, and his thin skin had torn, his cheek bloody.

“What the hell?” Mr Packer demanded. “Let go of us. Where the fuck is security?”

There weren’t any in this part of the yard, Peter knew. They were only on the gates.

If Peter were alone, he would take the beating these men wanted to give, but he couldn’t let
Mr Packer- he couldn’t let Ben get hurt.

Tearing his arms away from the men at his sides, he managed to elbow one in the solar
plexus. He stumbled back, landing on the ground with a thud, clutching at his chest and
trying to catch his breath. The other he rounded on and kneed below the belt. He, too, was
downed, curling in at the waist and crying out in pain.

Next, he grabbed one of the men restraining Ben and tore him away, getting him in a
headlock, his hold tight and unrelenting as the man squirmed and hit at him.

“Oi!” Came the angered yell of the foreman. “The fuck is this? Stark, let him go. You too,
Pullman. And you two idiots, get up.”

Peter let go of the man he had a hold on, and roughly shoved him away.
“Those punks better get whats coming to ‘em,” Ben gruffed as he was released. “Bastards,”
he spat.

The foreman didn’t look impressed. “For Christ’s sake, Ben. Why is it always you?”

“I didn’t do nothing, Jerry,” Ben defended. “It was those little shits. Pete, here, was just
defending us both. Moved real fast too,” he added, a musing look on his face.

“You know I can’t let this go, Ben.”

“I don’t expect you to. Those punks should be punished. I’ve got half a mind to call the cops
on ‘em, if they weren’t shit at their jobs.”

“They’ll get what’s coming to them, but I mean the kid.”

Peter frowned. What did that mean?

“Aw, come on Jerry. He only defended himself.”

“He still got hits in. Policy is policy. I don’t stand for fighting in the yard.” He sounded
regretful, and he looked it too as he faced Peter. “I’m sorry, kid.” He pulled out a familiar
envelope and handed it over. “Don’t come back here. That lot will be told the same, I’m not
stupid, but I can’t have you back.”

Oh.

Peter solemnly took the envelope. He shrugged off his overalls and handed them over. “I
understand.”

“Jerry, come on. He’s a good kid.”

“Sorry Ben. You’re in the clear, but Stark’s gotta go.”

The walk back to the car was a sorry trudge. Snow began to fall, settling on the cold stone of
the ground and dusted Peter and Ben’s hair.

“What a fucking shit show,” Ben grumbled.

“It’s okay, Mr Packer,” Peter smiled wryly. “I’m just glad you’re not hurt.”

Ben shook his head. “Ah, crap,” he swore, glancing down at his watch. “And after all that,
it’s nine forty seven.”

If the universe didn’t think Peter had had enough misfortune for one night. Even if Mr Packer
drove him, he wouldn’t get back to the shelter before curfew.

“Sorry, kid.”

Peter shook his head. “It’s okay. It’s not like my stuff was there or anything,” he nodded to
his bag, which sat on the back seat of the car. “I can figure something out.”
“Mais will kill me if she finds out I let you sleep outside in weather like this. It’s due to storm
soon. Get in, I’m taking you home.”

Peter flushed, “You don’t have to do that,” he insisted, but Mr Packer wasn’t having it.

“You saved me from one hell of a beating tonight, and because of that you lost your job and
your bed. It’s the least I can do. Get in the car, Peter.”

Peter sat in an awkward silence the whole drive, and even on the short walk from the garage
up to the front door of Mr and Mrs Packer’s house.

Inside was warm, and the smell of food filled Peter’s senses.

“You’ll need to set up an extra plate, Mais,” Mr Packer called out, shutting the door and
hanging up his coat. He pulled off his boots and shoved his feet into a pair of slippers.

Peter followed suit, removing his boots, and hanging his jacket and bag on one of the free
spaces on the coat rack as Maisie stepped into view. She was wearing a pale blue dressing
gown over a pair of pyjamas, and had curlers in her hair.

“What was that, dear? Oh my,” she gasped. “What on earth happen?”

“Tch, some punks tried to jump us,” Mr Packer gruffed, letting Maisie fuss over the cut on his
cheek. “Peter sorted them out like it was nothing.”

Maisie was quick to turn to Peter, looking over him with concern. “Are you alright, Peter?”
She asked.

Peter nodded. “I’m okay. They didn’t manage to hurt me.”

“I was thinking we would sort out the spare room for him,” Mr Packer suggested. “Damn
punks made him late.”

Maisie bore a pinched expression, and she stomped her foot in frustration. “That settles it,”
she huffed. “Peter, you’re staying. Now, I know you wont let me say you can stay for free,
and you’ll want some tiding over too, Benson Packer, I know how your brain works. You
men have way too much pride. You can pay us rent for the spare room, but you are not going
back out there. It’s far too dangerous, and it’s winter for goodness sake.”

“Really?” Peter tried not to gape. He looked to Mr Packer, who merely shrugged.

“Can’t argue with the woman when she sets her mind on something,” he said in a
conspiratorial tone.

Maisie sent him a look, before she soften and faced Peter. “You’re polite, you work hard, and
you saved my Benny from a night in the hospital,” Maisie listed matter-of-factly. “You’re
staying. Let’s say $50 a week and we’ll hear nothing more on the matter.”

“I, er, thank you, Mrs Packer. I promise, you won’t regret it. I’ll buy my own food, I don’t
want to leech off you. And I can give you the first month now, if you want. I’ve been saving
up to start renting anyway.” And a month gave Peter time to find a new job. Maybe he really
would look into that Wayne Tech internship…

The spare room, or rather his room, was apparently once owned by the couple’s daughter,
who was well into her forties by now and had moved away years ago. The room was now
used for guests and storage. The walls were a dusty lavender, with periwinkle blue accents.
The furniture was a dark wood, as were the curtains, and it felt cozy. The bed was a double,
which Peter hadn’t been privy to before in his life, being used to bunk beds growing up, and
twin sized in the apartment he shared with Matt and Wade. The mattress was soft, too. Much
softer than the ones in the shelters.

Peter helped Maisie, though she kept trying to refuse it, change the bedding before he let
himself eat. Maisie headed to bed shortly after Peter’s room was sorted, but Ben was wide
awake and tucking into a plate of roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and steamed veggies. He
had gestured to a plate across from him.

“I reheated it for you,” he said. He was almost finished with his own food, and he scraped the
plate, eating every last morsel. He sighed pleasantly. “If you’re ever the marrying type, kid,
marry someone who can cook.” He chuckled at the blush that formed on Peter’s cheeks. “The
airing cupboard has fresh towels if you want to shower. Tomorrow morning I’ll get a key cut
for you.”

He left the table with that, taking his plate to the sink and setting it inside.

There were a few pots needing to be washed, and once Peter had finished eating he decided
he would take on the task. He could at least wash and dry. He didn’t know the proper places
for anything so he couldn’t out them away, but he went to bed feeling accomplished. He was
determined to make himself useful.
 Chapter 6: Qu'est-ce que c'est? Fa-Fa-Fa Fa-Fa Fa-Fa-Fa Fa
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Mrs Packer wasn’t around when Peter woke up at eleven the next morning, but Mr Packer
was. The scent of bacon filled the house and drew Peter to the kitchen.

“Mornin’” Mr Packer grunted, looking at Peter over a cup of coffee. There was a plate in
front of him with half a sandwich on it and an empty pan cooling on the side.

“Good morning,” Peter returned.

“There’s coffee in the pot if you want a cup. Bacon in the fridge if you’re hungry.”

“Coffee sounds great,” Peter grinned, heading to the coffee pot and pouring himself a cup,
adding a sickening amount of sugar but no milk. “But I don’t eat bacon.”

“Eggs?” Mr Packer asked.

Peter nodded.

“Top shelf. Bread’s in the cupboard above you.”

“Thanks,” Peter smiled. He set about making himself eggs on toast. “Where’s Mrs Packer?”

Mr Packer took a long drink of his coffee. “Don’t let her catching you call her that. She don’t
like formalities. She’s at the shelter. Likes the morning shift.” He took a bite out of his
sandwich and Peter caught a whiff of something almost vinegary coming from it. It made his
nose wrinkle.

“What’s in that?” He asked curiously.

“Brown sauce,” Mr Packer said. He had said sauce lingering on his lips, which he wiped
away with a crumpled tissue he pulled from his shirt pocket. “An old pal of mine, he’s
English. Got me hooked. Brings over a bottle every few weeks with a bunch of other
favourites.” He smirked at the Peter’s expression at the smell. “It’s an acquired taste.”

A few hours later, Peter headed out. After paying the Packers, he had $259 to his name.
While he couldn’t go mad, having to make it last until he got a new job, he would be able to
pick up some essentials he was desperately missing. A change of underwear being integral.
He had been driven by Mr Packer into the city, he had gotten a key cut for Peter before he
headed to work. Peter attached his new key to the Pikachu taser from his backpack, shoving it
into one of his zipable pockets so he wouldn’t lose it.

After some time walking, he came across a dollar store where he was able to pick up some
cheap clothes, as well as soap, shampoo, and laundry detergent. He also picked up a sewing
kit. He figured he might as well start building up some supplies for his Spiderman suit while
he could. He didn’t get any fabric, unsure of where he could get anything decent that wasn’t
too expensive, but the sewing kit would be useful outside of its Spiderman purposes.

He knew that some day he would need to source a chemistry kit and the materials for his
webs, and he knew that those would end up being some of the more sketchy purchases. While
everything was, hopefully in this universe, perfectly legal, he didn’t want his new landlords
thinking he was making drugs or something like that.

While still at the dollar store, he was drawn to a battery powered radio in the electronics
section.

He could have made one from scratch if he wanted. One of his earliest memories was
building a radio with his father. It was one of the few memories he had of his parents. He
could have built one from scratch, yes, but he had another plan in mind.

He had stopped briefly at the library before he went shopping, and had done some research
on the Wayne Internship Scheme. There were internships for most areas of business the
Waynes had their toes dipped into, but the one that Peter was drawn to was Wayne Tech. He
still needed to figure out the very small problem of him not actually existing in this universe,
but everything else seemed fairly easy. He needed to build a prototype, or create blueprints
for, a piece of tech to present at an interview.

With the radio, and a few other bits and pieces that he was positive he could source from
somewhere -he had to source from somewhere- he could present a working arc reactor. He
had made dozens before with Tony when building and designing suits. Granted, those were
vibranium arc reactors, but the process was virtually identical, and he was well versed in the
theory of it all. He couldn’t make a super powerful one, it would be too expensive and he also
didn’t have the equipment or space, but he could make one that could be reasonably expected
to power a cheap little battery powered radio for a week of nonstop usage. It wouldn’t be the
most efficient, again for the reason of lack of proper equipment, but it would be more than
enough for a prototype.

Peter felt kinda bad about passing off an arc reactor as his own creation, but at the same time
he couldn’t afford to pay heed to copyright and trademarks -and whatever else legal jargon
was used- from a different universe. Besides, once he got his foot in the door, he had more
than enough genuine original ideas to keep him going. He got a scholarship into Empire State
University on his own merit, after all, and it had been while he was in a similar situation to
the one he was currently in. Building his life up from scratch wasn’t easy, but he had
experience. Then again, the last time he had Matt to help him. That man was a walking lie
detector with a law degree. He knew Peter was telling the truth, no matter how insane it
sounded, and knew all the legal hoops he had to jump through.

Rebuilding your life, proving your existence… back in New York that was the training
wheels. This time he was peddling uphill in a stow storm with weights on his back.

He had been going through a patch of suspiciously good luck lately, despite the occasional
pitfall, and he needed something definite he could fall back on should things fall apart. When
things fell apart.
He needed Spiderman.

When everything went to shit, he could always rely on Spiderman. On the mask. His mask.

To be Spiderman, he needed his web shooters and suit. To make his suit he needed money.
For money, he needed a job. A good one.

But before all of that, he needed proof he existed.

He could figure something out… right?

Peter’s next stop was a convenience store to pick up food. He stuck to things like pasta and
noodles. Things he could cook without burning the house down.

He paid for his items and turned to leave, making it down the aisle absentmindedly. He was
planning in his mind how he was going to go about finding the things he needed for his arc
reactor. Search thrift shop jewellery sections for palladium, maybe. If this universe was
similar to his own, there would have been a boom in palladium jewellery during the world
wars. He could salvage a microwave for the other components. He was sure he saw some
tools and machinery in the garage back at the Packers’ home…

Peter was so distracted in his planning that he didn’t notice the chill going down his spine or
the man about to walk into him.

They collided, and it felt as though Peter had crashed into a brick wall. He landed on the cold
linoleum floor with an “oof.”

Looking up at the man he had been knocked down by, the first thought that jumped into
Peter’s brain was ‘damn, he’s hot’. The second was noticing the low buzz of his spidey-sense
still going off.

“Crap,” the man frowned, dark hair falling into his chiselled face. It was black, with a white
streak through the front. “I didn’t see you.”

“Uh,” Peter’s brain lagged. “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it,” he stammered out.

“Here,” the man offered Peter a hand, pulling him up with ease. His cool, heterochromic eyes
bore into him, as if looking straight through him and into his soul. One was a pale, icy blue.
The other an almost unnatural green that almost glowed. It was honestly creepy. There was a
dower scowl on his lips that didn’t help matters, though his voice was oddly soothing and his
eyebrows knitted into concern. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

It was then that Peter clocked what he was wearing. Big black boots, and black biker pants
with dozens of zips and pockets; an off-white tank top emblazoned with the words ‘The book
was better’ in looping calligraphy; and a brown leather jacket with a poorly sewn up tear in
the sleeve. A motorcycle helmet was held under his arm, with which hand he held a bag of
doritos and a packet of sour gummies. He was taller than Peter by a good few inches, and had
broad shoulders. The tank top clung tightly to his chest, and Peter could see well defined
muscles.
Peter blushed. “I’m okay,” he insisted, brushing himself off. He hoped he hadn’t been staring
noticeably. And why was he still feeling like he was in danger? His spidey-sense wasn’t
easing up. It felt like his spine was humming.

“You sure? You look flushed. You didn’t hit your head, did you?” He sounded almost sincere,
though there was a teasing smirk pulling at the man’s scowl and playful lean to his tone.

That just made Peter blush deeper. “Yeah, yeah. I’m sure. Er, I, um, I gotta go… put these
away,” he lifted up his bags, but then he realised he wasn’t holding any. He looked down, and
there were his groceries. Strewn about the floor. “Oh.”

The man laughed, and an actual smile threatened his lips. “Here, I’ll help.”

“No, no,” Peter shook his head, stooping down to pick up his packets of noodles and soup
tins, shoving them back in their bags. “I got it.”

The man began to help anyway, taking charge of one of the bags. They both stood, and he
held out the one he had filled. “Here.”

“Thanks,” Peter managed, his face feeling hot. Their hands touched for a moment, and the
cool leather of the man’s gloves skimmed his bare fingers, sending s tingling chill across his
skin. “I, er, hope I didn’t hold you up or anything.”

Shaking his head, the man said he hadn’t. “Just grabbing some snacks and smokes,” he said.
He moved past Peter, setting back on his path towards the counter. He looked back after a
second and winked, an impish smirk on his face as he blatantly looked Peter over. “See you
round.”

Peter snapped his gaze away. Why did he feel dizzy all of a sudden? And would his spine
stop with the humming?!

He walked fast out of the store, face beet red. A silly grin managed to inch its way up his lips,
though he still felt panicked. He didn’t pay attention to where he was walking, just wanting to
get as far from the store as possible.

Eventually, he slowed and looked around. Where was he?

He was in an alley, that was obvious, but an alley where? How long had he been walking?

“Crap,” he muttered to himself.

“Move it or lose it, buster! Hey! I’m running here. Watch it!” A voice came yelling in the
distance, growing closer and closer. Howling laughs tore through it like punctuation, as did
shouts of alarm and surprise from others.

The low hum in Peter’s spine that had finally faded out suddenly snapped and crackled. He
turned in time to see a woman careening down the alley in heels and clothes that were way
too inappropriate for the weather.
“Hey, you,” she grinned madly. “Hold this.” She came to an abrupt halt beside Peter and
shoved a large duffel bag into his arms, then from out of nowhere she pulled out an old
school tommy gun and faced the way she had come from. Everything moved so fast that even
Peter’s enhanced reaction time was struggling to catch up.

The woman opened fire suddenly on a gang of men dressed as- were they wearing clown
masks?

She cackled madly as the men scattered to avoid the bullets, then grabbed Peter’s arm and
yanked him into a run as she set off again. She shot the gun again behind her, the recoil
sending her arm flying in all directions. One of the men got hit, letting out a pained cry.

They returned fire, those of them who had guns.

Unable to get his bearings until it was too late, all Peter could do was let the woman drag him
along, ducking occasionally as his spidey-sense warned him of a bullet aiming straight for
him from behind.

They ran through the alley and into the main street, knocking bystanders out of the way like
bowling pins. Peter nearly slipped on patches of ice, but the woman kept running, dragging
him along with her vice-like grip. She was laughing the whole time, whooping and hollering
excitedly, yelling at people to move out of the way, until suddenly she stopped laughing and
Peter was jerked to the side. If he wasn’t so used to his web shooters, he probably would have
ended up with his arm being dislocated at the force of it.

He was dragged somewhere dark, he couldn’t see a thing, and the woman had clamped a
hand over his mouth.

He struggled for a moment, but he couldn’t sense that he was in danger from the woman
herself as she hissed at him to stay quiet.

Footsteps sounded nearby.

“God fucking damn it! Where the fuck did she go?”

“Crazy bitch.”

“Get the fuck out here, Harley! We know you’re round here somewhere! You got something
that don’t belong to you!”

“You three , search over there. The rest of ya, with me. Damn whore won’t get away that
easily.”

The voices and footsteps faded away, and after a while the woman let Peter go.

It turned out that she had hidden them both behind a pair of dumpsters in an alley with walls
so high, the sun barely filtered down into it.

“Whew,” the woman, who Peter assumed to be called Harley, sighed. She stood so casually
for someone who had just been chased by an angry mob. One hand was on her hip, the other
 balanced her tommy gun over her shoulder.

Peter finally got a good look at her. She was blonde. Incredibly so, hair so pale it was almost
white. It was tied into two low ponytails, the ends dyed pink and blue. She wore a neon pink
crop top beneath a black and gold jumpsuit that had been crudely cut into shorts, the hems
jagged and frayed. Her legs were covered with pink and black thigh high stockings, one
striped, the other plain, and her gold high heeled boots stopped just below the knee.

“Glad I finally got rid of those guys.” Her accent was strong. Peter hadn’t heard a New York
accent, let alone such a thick Brooklyn accent, in a while, and it was almost refreshing to hear
after being surrounded by Gothamites. “Thanks for holding my bag for me, sugar,” she said,
a great beaming grin on her face. She held out her hand expectantly.

It took a minute for Peter to register what she meant. “Oh! Er,” he handed over the duffel bag
and watched as she slung it over her shoulder.

“Ain’t you a peach.” Harley unzipped it and shoved the gun inside. Peter was unsure of how
the hell it fit, but he had plenty of experience with Wade doing physics defying stunts that he
didn’t question it too much. “Here,” the woman tossed a little golden owl at him. “You can
keep whatever this is. As a thank you.”

Peter would have dropped his groceries when he went to catch it instinctively, but he
thankfully had them stuck to his palms. The bags swung harshly against his torso, the cans
getting him right above the belt, and he flinched from the pain.

The owl was heavy for something so small, and Peter could only assume it was made out of
real gold. He stared at it, dumbfounded, for a moment, only to look up and see Harley
halfway down the alley.

“Hey, wait! I can’t take this! Hey!” He called out, but Harley either didn’t hear him, or chose
to ignore him as she skipped away.

Frowning, Peter looked back down at the owl. His spidey-sense was practically screaming at
him that this thing was dangerous. That woman had stolen this thing. Those clown dudes
clearly wanted their stuff back. If he was found with it? That would be bad.

He shoved it into his pocket.

It took Peter ten minutes to figure out where he was, and another hour to get back home.
Once inside, he stuffed the owl figure into the back of his nightstand drawer and tried
everything he could to ignore it.

Chapter End Notes

Yay we finally see Harley! And awww, Peter’s got a crush.

Jason, no. Your first thought when you met him was that he must be a teenager. Stop
flirting. *beats with a rolled up newspaper*
 Chapter 7: Some Of Them Want To Use You

Peter hadn’t quite forgotten the golden owl in the next few days, but it was slowly being
pushed to the back of his mind. The low level hum it sent through him whenever he was in
the same room as it was background noise at most, just a part of Peter’s life now. He didn’t
know why he didn’t just get rid of the thing, part of him just felt like it would be even more
dangerous outside of his possession. Because of the owl, though, Peter tried to spend as much
time as he could away from his room.

Spending his days away from his room was easy for him. He often went on walks. The
December weather was more refreshing to him now that he had a permanent residence, and
the security and warmth it provided. He had probably walked every inch of Gotham. Or
maybe that was exaggerating. Regardless, Peter walked.

He was constantly keeping an eye out for jobs, and for things he could collect for his arc
reactor and his suit. He had managed to salvage quite a few things. From busted old
microwaves, to old car parts, he had amassed quite an array.

The job search was a lot slower than his collecting though.

He was down to his last 40 bucks, and it had only been four days.

He had said as much to Casey. He had run into the boy early one morning while exploring
Crime Alley and fishing through the least disgusting dumpsters for salvageable tech.

“Whatcha looking for?” Casey had appeared out of seemingly thing air, though Peter didn’t
startle.

He looked up, and fought off a blush. He had no reason to feel embarrassed about his
dumpster diving with him as a witness. Casey had admitted his participation in such activities
before.

Peter shrugged. “Anything interesting,” he said. “I managed to find a bunch of circuit boards
yesterday.”

“If it’s tech stuff you want,” Casey rocked on his heels, head cocked and a bright grin on his
lips. “Then you’ll want to go a few blocks down. There’s a computer shop that way,” he
pointed off in a random direction. “I once saw them throw out a flat screen TV. It worked too.
Just had a weird line through the middle.”

“Huh,” Peter mused. He climbed out of the dumpster, hopping down to the ground and
landing with catlike grace. “I’ll check it out. How’ve you been, Casey?”

Casey shrugged. “Okay. It’s kinda boring lately. Nothing much has been going on. The Bats
put the Riddler back in Arkham the day you left the safe-house and everything’s gone quiet.
And not the interesting quiet that means something big is gonna happen. The normal kind of
quiet. No-one big is stirring anything up, so Hood doesn’t have anything for us to do.”
“What exactly does Hood have you guys do when it isn’t quiet?” Peter frowned.

“We let him know if there’s anything going on that shouldn’t be in his territory,” Casey
explained. He had a bounce in his step as he led Peter to the computer shop. “Like spies,” he
grinned.

‘Okay,’ Peter thought. ‘That’s not the worst thing in the world to get a bunch of kids to do.’

“And he pays you to do that?”

Casey shrugged. “He gives us food and lets us use his safe-houses.”

Peter nodded in understanding. He was reminded of an old British show Aunt May used to
watch. A modern retelling of Sherlock Holmes. It was a recurring plot point that Sherlock
had a network of homeless people who fed him information. Peter figured having something
similar was neither good, nor bad. It was just smart. Peter used to have a good rapport with
the locals of Queens, and then Hell’s Kitchen, who would feed him useful information
sometimes. Being friends with gossiping old ladies came in handy. Although, he was never
much of a detective. He didn’t do sneaking around and gathering info. That was Daredevil’s
schtick. Peter was a ‘see bad guy, punch bad guy’ type of hero.

He followed Casey closely, a casual smile on his face. He was happy to see the kid again. He
hadn’t since leaving the safe-house. It was good to know he was okay. They chatted a bunch
as they walked, the conversation light and fun. When they got to the alley behind the
computer shop, Casey even helped Peter search through the trash. There was a mostly intact
laptop amongst mostly irreparable items, that Peter was positive he could fix up if he found
the right components. Casey had even found the charging cable for it. It was tangled up with
a bunch of other chords and wires, but Peter didn’t mind. He just shoved the mess of plastic
covered copper into his backpack with the laptop after wiping off some grease that had
transferred from an empty pizza box. He could untangle everything back at home.

He was helping Casey out of the dumpster after a good fifteen minutes of rummaging,
finding a few more good pieces in the mix, when his spidey-sense shot a warning down his
spine and he reacted just in time to knock Casey out of the way of a fast falling AC unit, and
punch it instinctively.

It cleared the entire length of the alley and slammed into the brick wall that made it a dead
end. It was crumpled and warped, bent impossibly out of shape like a crushed soda can.

Peter, not fully registering what he had just done, turned away from the unit and looked back
to Casey, hoping he was okay. That he wasn’t hurt. He had practically thrown the poor kid
across the alley.

His heart was racing from the adrenaline pumping through his system as he searched Casey’s
appearance with wild eyes.

“I knew it,” Casey muttered. He stared down the alley at the AC unit Peter had saved him
from.
“Knew what?” Peter shifted anxiously. He had just realised what exactly he had done,
revealing his strength like that. Then again, he was pretty sure. Casey already knew he had
abilities thanks to his stay at the safe-house.

“You’re meta!” Casey accused with a hiss. Peter couldn’t tell if the boy was angry or excited.

“Er, I mean, I guess? I thought it was common knowledge to you and your pals. Red Hood
caught onto it pretty fast, anyway.”

Casey shook his head. “I guessed it,” he admitted. “Bruises don’t usually fade so fast. I
thought it was just healing quicker. But you’re a strong meta. That changes things.” He
suddenly had a look of anxiety pulling at his features.

“What do you mean, ‘changes things’?” Peter’s brow furrowed. He still hadn’t managed to
get a good read on how people felt towards so called metahumans in this universe, and he
was increasingly concerned that Casey was about to shun him, or hand him over to some sort
of authority. “Case, you’re kinda freaking me out, kiddo.”

“They could notice you,” Casey said, voice low and panicked, hus eyes searching around as
if whoever he was talking about was going to emerge out of nowhere. “They always find the
strong ones. Or the interesting ones. They force you into a deal. They offer money to get you
to say yes. If you say no, they take you anyway. I’ve seen it. No-one I’ve known has ever
been seen since.”

“Who do? You’re not making much sense, buddy.”

“The fights,” said Casey. “Promise you won’t let anyone find out you’re meta. Especially
here.”

“What fights?” Peter asked, though he could make a guess. It wasn’t unheard of in his
universe for unsavoury characters to pit those with interesting mutations against one another
in cage matches. Team Red, as Deadpool had so delightfully decided to call their team up,
had taken down a few in their time together.

Casey wrinkled his nose. “Just promise.”

If it were the case that Casey was talking about underground metahuman cage matches, Peter
didn’t know how to feel. In his universe, there was a lot of money in it. Big bets were usually
placed, and some fighters even ended up with a good share of whatever was won. It could
solve his money problem. He knew that it would not likely be legal, he would have to look up
any laws surrounding such things, but it probably wouldn’t be dangerous for him -he had
faced so many strong opponents single handedly- and he wasn’t the sort to get caught up in
the spotlight and drag things out. He could leave it all once he had gotten what he needed to
sort out his life.

But at the same time, that was dangerous thinking. He had no clue what the people running
the fights were like, and if they would allow him to leave, or if they would pay him, or if he
could hide his identity. And that was even if he was thinking along the right lines. If he was
reading Casey properly.
“I’ll try,” he said carefully. It wasn’t a lie. He always tried to keep his abilities on the down
low as best as he could. He had a few slip ups over the years, but that was always accidental.
Beyond his control. But then… if he were to seek out these people, whoever they were… that
wouldn’t be an accident. He felt bad lying to Casey, but he honestly didn’t know what he was
going to do with this information. “Tell me where to avoid especially, okay?” He also felt bad
for tricking Casey into revealing more than he probably would if he knew Peter was
considering seeking out the fights.

Casey looked hesitant, but nodded. “I don’t know for sure,” he said. “But a lot of people go
missing a few blocks away from the free clinic. A lot of them are meta. Some show up again,
but most don’t.”

Peter frowned. That didn’t bode well. “Why doesn’t anyone do anything about it?”

“I told you, the Bats think Crime Alley is a lost cause.”

“What about Red Hood? Or the cops?”

Casey gave an exasperated look. “The cops are trash. Most of them are dirty, and the ones
who aren’t are idiots. Red Hood has tried to stop the disappearances, he’s been trying for
years to find out where the fights happen. Whenever he gets a location, everything’s gone by
the time he gets there. He’s kinda given up by now. He doesn’t ask us anything about the
disappearances anymore.”

Peter frowned, and didn’t know what to say. Instead he reached into his bag and pulled out a
Tupperware filled with cookies that Mrs Packer had made that morning. He shared a few with
Casey, hoping to cheer him up from the solemn mood that had overshadowed them both.

Casey left not long after, seemingly only slightly more cheerful after the snack, and Peter
made his way back home.

He spent the rest of the day ignoring the hum of the owl, and putting together a plan for his
arc reactor. When night fell, he donned a black hoodie, a lower face mask that he had picked
up purely because it had a spiderweb pattern on it, and combed his hair down into his eyes.
He always wore his hair pushed back, out of his face, and he hoped the change in style would
be enough to mask him just enough so that it would be at least difficult to identify him.

He snuck out of the window, aiming to not alert Mr and Mrs Packer that he was no longer in
the house. He hadn’t had to sneak out of a place he called his home in a long time, and it sent
waves of nostalgia through him as he crawled silently down the side of the building.

Part of him wished he had worn his gloves as he made the trek through the city to Crime
Alley. His hands were like blocks of ice and he tried futilely to keep them warm in the pocket
of his hoodie. His core was also cold, even though he was wearing a thermal vest and a long
sleeved t-shirt beneath his hoodie. Thankfully, it wasn’t snowing. He had left his gloves
behind because of how bright they were. They were the reason Mrs Packer had recognised
him before, and she had only had his description to go on.
The night was mostly quiet, which Peter found strange. It was like Casey had said. It wasn’t a
tense kind of quiet that suggested a big event in the making, but it was an oddly calm sort of
quiet that revealed nothing. It was weird, but he supposed that even villains sometimes had
holidays off.

Peter made it to Crime Alley in record time. He had utilised rooftops and parkour to cut down
his journey, and the exertion thankfully helped keep him warm. He wished desperately for his
web shooters, however. He missed swinging around a city, flying and flipping, cutting
through the air. The longing just solidified in his mind the reason he was doing what he was
doing.

Finding the fights.

He had roamed the areas surrounding the free clinic for a few hours, bemoaning the cold,
before he had found his in. He had stumbled across a few shady things in those hours,
managing to stop a few muggings, observing a handful of small time drug deals that he
admittedly overlooked as long as they stayed peaceful, and even stopped an attempted assault
on a poor woman who appeared to have been roofied. He had managed to knock the guy out
and call the cops, even sticking around to make sure they did their jobs right and help the
woman. Casey was right. They were idiots. It had taken forever for them to show up, and
they ended up fumbling on deciding what to do.

Peter watched from a nearby rooftop with a sigh. It was a feeling akin to the sort you’d get
from watching a toddler trying to solve a puzzle. All you wanted to do was step in an help as
they tried to jam a circle into a triangle hole. He let them be though, and eventually moved
on.

Until he felt something watching him, however.

He stopped. He was on a different roof, about to jump down and make his way onto the
ground, but his spine fizzed. “Who’s there?” He asked, voice calm and measured. It was
slightly muffled through his mask, but it still pierced through the still night air.

He heard whoever it was step closer. They were behind him. How?

He spun around. He couldn’t exactly make out the appearance of the man he was now
looking at. He wore black, and his face was hidden in the shadow of a large hood. A lit
cigarette was between his lips that he took a drag of before speaking. “I’ve been watching
you,” he said. He had a thick Gotham accent, with a strong flavour of the East End to it.
Clearly a local. Peter had gotten pretty good at identifying the accents of Gotham. Those
from this general area tended to have a faster, more concise pace to their words.

Peter narrowed his eye, his fringe falling just past his eyebrows. He wasn’t used to the
feeling, and he tried to ignore it. “Weird thing to say to someone you just met,” he said.
“Who are you?”

“Don’t matter who I am,” the man said. “Just matters what I can offer you. You ain’t from
round here, boy. I can tell.”
Peter puffed up a little. “So?”

The man made a chuffing sound. Almost like a laugh. “I also know you’re strong. I saw how
you’ve been taking guys down. No way a twig like you could do that shit so easily without
something to you.”

Peter dug deep into his inner New Yorker. He laid his accent on thick and snapped, “Yeah,
so? What the fuck do you want?”

“To make an offer,” the man said calmly. “You’re the type who needs cash. Lot of that sort
around here. Luckily for you, I know how you can make thousands.”

Peter scoffed. “Yeah right, buddy. Sounds like a scam to me.” He made to turn away.

The man stopped him, stepping closer and saying, “No lies. It’d be easy stuff for someone
like you.” He held out a small card with an address scribbled on it. “Take this.”

Peter gave a show of him eyeing the card sceptically before taking it. “What is it?”

The man took one last drag of his cigarette before tossing it to the ground. “Do yourself a
favour. Just show up there tonight.” He turned and walked away, making use of the rickety
fire escape.

Even though he had gone from view, however, Peter’s feeling of being watched didn’t ease
up. In fact, it seemed to have intensified.
 Chapter 8: Our Patience Is Waning, Is This Entertaining?
Chapter Summary

Setting up dominoes left right and centre. When they gonna fall? I don’t fucking know.

Chapter Notes

Why am I writing a superhero fic? I hate scripting fight scenes so much omg. Not my
cup of tea. At all.
I tried my best, so I hope you like it.
Also this is officially now my longest fic to date, so yay. Just hope I can keep it up and
continue to provide chapters.

Peter wasn’t sure where the feeling of being watched was coming from, but it seemed to
corral him in the direction of the address he was given. Every time he strayed from the
course, the sense of danger grew stronger.

He didn’t push his luck with it, though he didn’t exactly make a beeline for his destination.
He wasn’t completely unfamiliar with this part of Gotham thanks to his past few days of
exploring, but he still didn’t really know where exactly he was supposed to go. It was the
times he wasn’t quite sure of his direction that he was grateful for the feeling of danger as it
guided him, hopefully, the right way.

He ended up at a warehouse. Nothing out of the ordinary for this part of Gotham.

It was silent outside, and there was one very large man standing by a door that seemed
comically small compared to him.

Peter walked up to him.

The man eyed him wordlessly.

Peter was also silent as he handed over the address card he had been given.

The man took it and chuffed a half scoff, half amused laugh, sizing him up. “Yeah, we need
more cannon fodder. Hey M,” the man called through the slightly ajar door. “Got one more
for the tank.”
That didn’t sound promising, Peter had to admit, but he could take being underestimated. The
man looked back at him and stepped aside a ways to let him pass, pushing the door open
further.

“If you’re still breathing by the end, you get a thousand,” he said. He didn’t sound convinced
that Peter would survive, and even chuckled as he added, “Good luck.”

Peter didn’t say anything as he passed the man, and was directed through a dingy looking
corridor where he was pat down. When he was cleared for weapons, he was told to hand over
his mask.

“I can’t,” Peter said, playing up his accent as he had done before. He didn’t want any chance
of being recognised. He couldn’t afford that. The fights clearly weren’t legal. Not even a grey
area. He had chosen to go through with it though. He needed money and fast. It weighed on
his conscience, but he guessed he had spent too much time around Matt and Wade as he, with
difficulty, pushed those feelings aside. He couldn’t help people if he wasn’t Spiderman, and
Spiderman needed his secret identity to not let anyone get hurt.

“If you don’t take it off, we will, kid.”

“I mean, you can try, but it won’t budge,” Peter shrugged, opening himself up and allowing
anyone willing to attempt to pry his mask off.

A beefy looking guy, not as large as the man at the door, looked irritated as he reached out
and attempted to rip the mask off Peter’s face.

Peter’s sticking power could support his entire body weight and more. How much more he
wasn’t quite sure, he had never tested it, but he knew it was strong.

The mask didn’t move.

After a few more solid attempts, and getting another guy in to help, eventually they gave up.

“Screw it. It doesn’t fucking matter. Matchstick will be dead in seconds anyway. Who gives a
shit. Take him through, Bob,” beefy guy said with a slight pant.

Had these guys never heard of ‘don’t judge a book by its cover’ or something?

Peter was led then into a large room through a set of double doors. He was instantly hit by
sound. How he hadn’t heard it before he entered was beyond him. Must have been some
insane soundproofing efforts. There was a boxing ring almost in the centre of the room. It
was about twice the size if a regular ring, and it had large mesh walls surrounding it that
stood at least eight feet high. The room had an insanely high ceiling though, so the metal
barely graced it.

Around the ring were dozens of people. A crowd of criminals all waiting for a fight. Some
looked like generic lowlifes, barely stood out of the crowd. Others were dressed in weirdly
over the top outfits, and more still were dressed in suits and evening gowns with weird masks
on their faces. It was strange. They were all loud and rowdy though. There was a match in
progress at that moment, and one of the guys was losing bad as far as Peter could tell. So
many in the crowd were booing and jeering, some even throwing things that smashed against
the mesh.

Peter didn’t have much time to linger and take in the crowd or the fight though as he was
shoved into a holding cage with about half a dozen others. They all looked down on their
luck and rundown. A couple were crying, looking around, scared. Near the back, Peter’s eyes
grew wide as he spotted a kid younger than Casey being held by a fearful teenager. These
guys definitely weren’t here willingly.

It sent a rage through Peter.

Casey had told him that some people got taken for the fights against their will, but seeing it
was something different. He was here because he opted in. He could handle the risks that
fighting against enhanced people presented. He had fought aliens, he had fought
supervillains, hell he had even fought superheroes before. He was Spiderman, he could take
it. These people couldn’t.

One of the older people in the cage looked to him sadly. “Another one, huh? What’s your
name, kid?”

Peter faltered. “Parker,” he said.

The man nodded. “Sam,” he returned.

“What- er,” Peter wasn’t sure how to word his question. He wasn’t quite sure what he even
wanted to ask.

Sam interpreted the almost question pretty well though. “See that ring there? When one of
them loses, one of us goes out to fight the winner. It’s been the same guy for a few rounds
now. Guy’s gotta be meta. You see a lot of them here.”

Peter startled, glancing to the kid at the back of the cage.

Sam gave a sad nod. “Good thing is, at least for those two, they just grab who’s closest to the
door. Won’t save them for long though. Night goes until everyone’s through or the sun comes
up.”

Peter saw the child’s caretaker tighten their grip at that.

“Is it to the death?” Peter asked tentatively. The fight, from what he had caught a glimpse of,
looked like it was ruthless. The two men were going at each other hard, fists flying and blood
splattering. The tangy scent of copper and sweat filled the air.

Sam thankfully shook his head. “Knock out,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean you won’t get
killed. Sorry, kid.”

Peter shook his head. A plan was forming from the information. If he could win his fight, he
could make sure that any of his opponents wouldn’t get killed. “Have you been here before?”
“Once,” said Sam. “Got into debt with the damn Penguin the first time. Made it out with
broken ribs and nine fingers,” he held up his left hand, which was missing the pinky finger.
“Swore to never let it happen again, but here I am,” he grumbled. “Don’t worry, kid. The
crowd won’t like it if you just give up, so try get a few hits in, but then just take it and drop.
Best bet if you wanna make it out alive. You’ll get paid wether you win or not.”

“A thousand, right?” Peter asked, remembering what the guy on the door had said.

Sam nodded.

“What about if you win?”

“I wouldn’t recommend trying, kid,” Sam frowned. “That’s a one way ticket to getting your
skull smashed in. Or if you do win by whatever chance, the sharks out there will notice you
and keep you in this world. Young kid like you doesn’t deserve this crap.”

Peter looked away. That hadn’t been the answer he was necessarily looking for.

Suddenly, there was an enormous roar from the crowd and a loud bang of- was that a gong?

“And the challenger goes down,” an announcer declared with a sadistic edge to here voice.
“What do you say we up the stakes here? Our night’s champion against not one, not two, not
even three, but four opponents!”

The crowd erupted into applause. Peter could barely see the ring from the cage, but he caught
a glimpse of the downed fighter being dragged carelessly away -blood smearing across the
concrete- and the victor pacing the ring in an adrenaline fuelled high. He was a hulking man.
Shirtless, with far too many muscles. He was sweaty and bloody, but he didn’t look in any
way exhausted. He panted and snarled like an angered bear, glaring fiercely at anyone who
dared make eye contact with him.

“Are you ready for some bloodshed?” The announcer hyped the crowd, which went wild.

The cage door opened and Peter felt himself being dragged out by his hood, nearly being
strangled. Sam was also hauled out, along with a middle-aged woman, and a boy who look
around Peter’s age. They were all manhandled in the direction of the ring, shoved inside and
having to catch themselves before they fell to the blood stained concrete. The mesh door
slammed shut behind them as the crowd hollered and jeered and cheered in anticipation.

The champion, who Peter had unimaginatively dubbed ‘big guy’ in his mind, was still pacing
in his side of the ring, eying up his new foes with that wild glare. He breathed out heavy
breaths, lips twisted into a scowl.

One of Peter’s team, the boy, had a sadistic look on his face, puffed up with pride and
confidence. He jeered at Big Guy, laughing. He wrung his hands, itching for the fight.

Peter thought he was insane.

The gong sounded and the boy rushed at Big Guy, who barely even expended any energy in
catching the fists thrown at him. The boy’s arm was twisted behind his back effortlessly, and
the confidence and pride in his eyes quickly turned to pain. Bone cracked, sounding through
the air like a whip, and the boy cried out.

Peter shot into motion.

He launched forwards, managing to only just take Big Guy by surprise with his speed, and
swiped at his legs in the hopes of toppling the man. He looked very top heavy, and Peter had
hoped he would go down easily, but fate wasn’t on his side. Big Guy stumbled a moment,
letting go of the boy he was maiming in order to use his arms to balance, but he stayed
upright.

A shock traveled through Peter’s spine, and he spun out of the way of Big Guy’s oncoming
fist, dodging effortlessly. Big Guy might be strong, but his attacks came slow. Retreating,
Peter grabbed the boy with the broken arm and dragged him away. The boy was writhing
from the pain, clutching at his arm, howling. It looked dislocated too.

“Sorry pal, this is gonna hurt,” Peter apologised in advance before he shoved the boy’s arm
back into his shoulder. He had done that move so many times before, for his team mates and
on himself. The renewed cry of pain coming from the boy cut through him. He had to force
himself to ignore it though, as he caught Sam out of the corner of his eye.

Big Guy had rushed after Peter when he retreated, but Sam had stepped in. He was agile, but
still took heavy blow after heavy blow. He got a couple in on Big Guy, but they didn’t even
seem to phase him.

The boy before Peter had fallen silent, passing out from the pain, which relieved Peter. Now
the boy could get out of here.

Peter looked around for any ideas other than trying to go head to head with Big Guy. A stupid
idea flashed into his brain, but he didn’t have time to fully think anything through. Sam
wasn’t going to last long against Big Guy. Not on his own.

He made a small show of hooking his fingers through the large gaps on the mesh, though he
didn’t need to in order to climb up as he intended. He was in the corner, and he crawled up
the wall a good ways before pushing off and somersaulting through the air to land on Big
Guy’s shoulders. The man wasn’t expecting that, and he almost fell from the sudden weight.
Peter could hear the crowd going wild at the display, but he tuned them out. The sound was
almost like the ocean, waves crashing against rock on a stormy day.

He wrapped his legs tight around Big Guy’s neck, strangling him. Big Guy attempted to tear
him off his shoulders, but Sam and the woman grabbed at his meaty fists. Peter appreciated
their aid, though he cried out in worry as the woman was evaded, and picked up and thrown.
She slammed into the concrete head first. There was a loud crunch, and blood began to seep
out into a puddle.

Peter had to force himself to stay focused. His legs tightened and he began punching. His
blows, admittedly, were stronger than they should have been against a human, but he needed
to get this man down. With a fast and hard hit to the temple, Big Guy let out a snarled yell
and stumbled back. He was choking, gasping for air already thanks to his restricted oxygen
flow, and Peter could only imagine the pain and dizziness he was now feeling.

He let go of the man, jumping off him in a front flip. He landed semi-gracefully on the
ground before rounding on Big Guy and uppercutting him. He fell to the ground with a loud
thud and the crowd erupted.

Peter was panting, catching his breath and trying to steady himself. He shook slightly from
the adrenaline coursing through his body.

“What a turn of events, folks! Unexpected win from our challenger, taking down our five
time champion. Can he keep his title against his teammate?”

Peter frowned beneath his mask. He looked to Sam, the only one left standing in the ring
besides him.

“Remember kid,” Sam said as he neared Peter. “Gotta put on a show.”

“Don’t go easy on me,” Peter reluctantly nodded. “I can take it.”

“Go easy on me,” Sam laughed. “I can’t.”

Peter couldn’t help but feel his mood lighten at the small back and forth, and he stood his
ground as Sam ran at him. He dodged at the last second, catching Sam’s fist and spinning him
away. Sam stumbled into one of the mesh walls.

He had to shake his head to gather his bearings, but Sam quickly shed his surprise and and
ran at Peter again.

Peter let him strike this time, Sam’s fist landing squarely against his nose, but countered with
a sharp jab to his stomach. His face stung, Sam hadn’t held back. His nose had made a
crunching sound from the blow, and Peter could tell it was broken. Blood began to pour,
coating the inside of his mask. Peter ignored it.

He was the one to close the gap between him and Sam this time, as Sam had stumbled back
clutching his torso. Peter swiped his leg out, knocking Sam off his feet. Sam was able to
avoid his head slamming back against the concrete, but he fell hard nonetheless.

Peter straddled him. “Sorry,” he apologised, brow furrowed.

“Don’t be,” Sam chuffed out. He coughed. He put on a show of struggling against Peter, but
the younger man could feel that it wasn’t a true attempt to break free.

Peter searched his brain, going through what Matt had tried to teach him about hand to hand
combat. The lessons ultimately failed, Peter was too reliant on his instincts and didn’t take
the instruction well, but Matt had managed to teach him the fastest ways to knock someone
out. Peter gritted his teeth in reluctance as he measured his strength and sent a quick blow
down onto Sam’s neck. It was a bad angle, but Sam went limp.

Peter, thankfully, could feel him still breathing.

He stood, backing away from Sam and grounding himself by leaning against on of the mesh
walls. He barely heard the crowd, or took in the sight of the goons that removed the four
bodies from the ring. He barely even noticed when a bucket of water was thrown into the
ring, splashing against him and sending a chill through his body, to crudely clean away all the
blood that had accumulated.

He vaguely registered the sight of a young man being shoved through the door and into the
ring, and then the gong sounded and Peter moved again.

Peter fought three more times. Once against a tall man, who went down easily. Once against a
meta woman with razor sharp teeth that cut into his arm like it was made of butter. Then
finally against the kid and the teenager. Peter was extremely reluctant to hurt them. The
child’s eyes glowed an unnatural purple, clearly indicating she was meta, but otherwise she
was just a little kid. She clutched at her caretaker’s hand tightly, hiding behind their legs and
staring at Peter fearfully.

The teenager noticed Peter’s reluctance and matched it. They were frozen in place,
unmoving, just staring at one another.

The crowd didn’t like that.

All three in the ring had then suddenly spasmed, crying out in pain. Electricity coursed
through them, sent through water on the floor that had yet to completely dry.

Peter knew what it meant. Fight or fry.

The child looked in complete agony by the time the shock ceased, as did the teenager. The
eyes were glowing brighter than before, and somehow the floor and the walls seemed to be
vibrating.

Peter didn’t question it though as he launched forwards and ended the match.

He despised himself for it, but he knew that if it wasn’t him taking on the young pair, it
would have been the big guy. That wouldn’t have ended without bloodshed.

A haze passed over him for a short while after that. Why had he come here in the first place.
He should have found a way to get the location to Red Hood or the Bats or someone. He
should have come here to bust the place, not to participate. He wasn’t like this. He wasn’t
ruthless like Matt. He didn’t enjoy hurting people like Wade. He was friendly neighbourhood
Spiderman.

He couldn’t rationalise his way out of this. He had knocked out a little kid. And for what?
Money? He felt sick to his stomach. Completely and utterly sick.

His head spun as he was approached by the announcer and declared the winner of the night.
He was told he could stay and mingle, or go as he pleased.

Peter opted to leave.

He passed by the door guy, who thrust a large duffel bag into his arms, and made it halfway
down the street before throwing up.

“You okay, sugar?” Asked a familiar voice.

Peter spun around to see the woman from the other day. The one who had dragged him into a
gun fight and gave him the golden owl that was stuffed in the drawer of his nightstand.

“Huh,” Harley cocked her head. “I remember you,” she grinned.

Peter quickly turned back around. He had torn off his mask before emptying his guts. He was
an idiot for forgetting.

“Relax, I’m not gonna rat you out to anyone or something.” She sounded so… chipper.

“What do you want?” Peter asked with a slight croak, turning back to face the woman.

“I saw you get out of there pretty fast. I wanted to talk to ya,” Harley said, hopping onto the
closed lid of a dumpster and sitting on it with her legs crossed. “Lot of people do. They
wanna snatch you up quick.”

Peter grimaced. “What does that mean?”

Harley shrugged. “You barely got a scratch on ya. You could make them a lot of money.
Make yourself some too.”

Scowling, Peter got the gist of what she was saying. “No,” he spat. “I’m not doing that again.
I got what I came for. I’m not hurting kids again.” He made to leave, but Harley hopped off
the dumpster and stood in his way.

“That’s not what I mean,” she said. “I can get you into the big fights. That in there was the
small time. Randoms thrown against each other. What I’m talking about are the big guns
against the big guns.”

“Not interested.” Peter pushed past Harley and started walking. He had reaffixed his mask,
and pulled his hood up.

“If you change your mind,” Harley called after him, but Peter ignored her.

He arrived back home only a couple hours before the sun was due to rise. He silently crawled
up the side of the house and snuck into his room. He finally opened the duffel bag he had
been given, seeing it stuffed with cash.

Angrily, he shoved it under his bed before stripping down and planning to shower. Balled up
in the pocket of his hoodie, however, he found a piece of paper.

A name and a phone number was written on in. Harley’s.

It was thrown into his nightstand, joining the owl.

 Chapter 9: You Got A Friend In Me
Chapter Notes

Figured y’all deserve a bit of fluff after last chapter.

Peter didn’t sleep after his shower. He couldn’t. He still felt completely sickened by his
actions, and couldn’t get the images of everyone he had hurt out of his head. He knew that if
he fell asleep, he would relive everything over again. He couldn’t handle it.

Instead, he gathered his bloody and torn hoodie and went downstairs to work on patching it
up while he sorted out some breakfast. He didn’t have traditional breakfast foods, so he
simply heated up a cup of noodles and sat down at the kitchen table. He would need to buy
more substantial food if he wanted to heal as fast as possible, but noodles worked for now.

The left arm of his hoodie was badly damaged, cut up by the lady with razor sharp teeth. His
flesh was much the same, and he had bandaged himself up as best he could. It hurt to move
much though, which made his task of sewing pretty difficult. He had found that after he got
bitten by the spider that gave him powers, he had somehow gained impressive skills in things
like sewing and knitting -May had been pleasantly surprised by the change, knitting being
something they hand bonded over since Peter was young. Peter was never very good at it, but
he loved spending time with his aunt regardless- so he wasn’t exactly butchering the task. It
was still hard, however.

He realised that some areas would need patches, while the smaller cuts could just be whip
stitched together. A few tears he supposed he could darn, if he had the patience for it. He also
needed to actually wash the hoodie and get the blood stains out. He was thankful it was
black, but the fabric felt crunchy and stiff.

The sun began to rise and Maisie came downstairs in her dressing gown and slippers,
humming to herself. She nearly let out a shriek as she saw Peter.

“Peter, what happened to you?” She immediately rushed over and tried to fuss over him.

Peter ended up jabbing his finger with his needle, startling from his work. “Ow!”

Maisie backed away, “I’m sorry. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” Peter put down his sewing. “Really, Mrs Packer.”

Maisie gave him a look like she always did when Peter called her that, but didn’t correct him.
“You’re covered in bandages, and you have a black eye.”
Peter gave a wry smile, and rubbed at his neck. “I woke up early and was kinda restless. I
went for a walk so I wouldn’t wake you guys. I got mugged. But I’m okay,” Peter insisted
after Maisie opened her mouth to say something. “I got them with my taser and ran away. I’m
all good. Just a few scrapes.”

Maisie pursed her lips, but accepted what Peter said. “Do you need any help with that?” She
asked, nodding to Peter’s hoodie.

Peter was about to say no, but he nodded. “Do you have any scrap fabric I can use? Theses
bigger holes need patches.”

“Of course, dear. I’ll have a rummage through my collection. It’s a shame,” she patted Peter’s
shoulder. “You just bought that hoodie.”

Peter shrugged, trying not to flinch at the contact. He couldn’t stand anyone touching him
right now. “I’m not too upset,” he said. “It’s easy enough to fix.”

Maisie nodded with a smile, “I suppose,” she agreed, then set about making herself some
breakfast and a cup of coffee.

Peter debated whether or not to have a cup himself, but he would need it particularly strong
to in any way effect him. He had been similar before the spider bite, coffee tended to just put
him to sleep unless it was strong, but after the bite it had become near impossible. He had
similar luck with alcohol, which was fun when he went out drinking with Matt and Foggy. He
could drink them under the table. It had led him to winning quite a few bets when he first
went drinking with Foggy, who couldn’t believe that such a scrawny guy could drink so
much. It wasn’t that coffee or alcohol didn’t affect him at all, but the effects wore off so fast
that by the time he had finished one drink, he needed to move onto another as soon as it was
poured to maintain the effects.

Maybe he could go to a coffee shop. Order something with fifteen shots of espresso or
something. Give the barista a heart attack. Could be funny. The thought was amusing enough
to cheer him up out of his mood for a moment, and so he decided that he would, in fact, go to
a coffee shop. He had found a few decent looking small businesses in his explorations, so he
could try one of them out.

He bade Maisie goodbye, gathering up his belongings and heading upstairs to grab his red
hoodie and his jacket.

It had begun to snow again, which was really pissing Peter off. It felt as though winter was
lasting forever. Normally he liked snow, but Gotham snow felt different. Less beautiful and
more… hostile. It was weird.

It was a nice morning though, despite the weather. The low hanging sun filtered through the
clouds and smog and lay a warm amber glow over everything, and streets were calm as Peter
made his way into the city proper, deciding to head towards the university. The coffee near
campus should be good. Students practically lived off the dark nectar.
A little under an hour later, Peter took a long sip of his coffee as he left the coffee shop he
had chosen, not noticing the brick wall of a man who was making to enter at the same time.

They collided, and Peter’s drink went flying as he stumbled onto the sidewalk.

“Shit,” the man backed up.

Peter looked up at him, about to angrily snap at him, but he couldn’t help but immediately
flush instead. “It’s you,” he sputtered. Standing before him was the man from the
convenience store, biker gear, cold eyes, and all.

The man blinked, also recognising Peter, and gave him a smirk. “We read should stop
meeting like this,” he said. He held out a hand and pulled Peter up. “Sorry about your drink. I
can buy you another.”

Peter blushed deeply. “It’s okay,” he declined, but the man shook his head.

Picking up the spilled coffee, he read the cup. “Fifteen shots of espresso?” He scoffed,
“You’re as bad as my brother. Come on, princess.” He grabbed Peter’s hand and pulled him
back into the coffee shop.

“Princess?” Peter sputtered indignantly.

The man didn’t respond, simply walking up to the counter and reordering Peter’s drink before
ordering a large tea for himself. Peter stood awkwardly off to the side. The man was still
holding his hand, keeping him from running off. Peter wished he could run off. He felt
embarrassed by the entire situation, face red.

The drinks could not arrive fast enough, and Peter was relieved when the barista set down his
coffee on the counter. Before he could grab it, though, the man picked up both drinks and
made for a table.

“You’re not busy, are you?” He asked, sitting down and placing the drinks on the table. “I
figured you might actually be able to finish your drink if you were sitting, you being so prone
to bumping into people after all,” he teased.

Peter felt his face burning as he mumbled, “Not really,” before sitting across from his smooth
talking captor. “I, er, thanks. For the coffee,” he said.

The man flashed him a smile. Peter could tell it was a true, sincere smile as it reached his
eyes. His eyes… Hadn’t his eyes been odd colours before? Peter was almost certain they
were heterochromic back at the convenience store. Now they were both an icy shade of blue.
They were as captivating as Peter remembered, but the colour threw him for a moment.

Realising he had been staring, Peter quickly looked away and took a distracted sip of coffee
that nearly burned his tongue.

“So, what’s with your face?” The man asked bluntly.

“What?” Peter nearly choked on his drink. He saw the man blush. It gave him a weird sense
of satisfaction, making him blush. Payback for how flustered he made Peter.

“I mean, why do you look like you went ten rounds with Bane? That’s an impressive shiner,”
he elaborated.

“Oh,” Peter wiped his face with a napkin. “I, er, got mugged.”

The man winced. “Ouch. You okay? They take anything?”

Peter shook his head, “I’m fine. Got away with all my stuff. Just ended up with a few scrapes,
that’s all.”

The man nodded, a look of relief on his face. For some reason, though, Peter also saw guilt in
his eyes. “That’s good.”

The bell of the shop’s door opening sounded, and the man looked over, instantly recognising
whoever it was that had just entered. “Hey, Dickwing. Over here,” he called out, waving
them over.

Peter was confused, but he didn’t sense any danger as three people walked over. Two of them
he recognised.

“You’re Tim Drake,” he blinked, staring at the man. He was with the teenager, Damian, from
the homeless shelter, and a taller, older looking man in a police uniform.

Tim grinned, “You,” he countered. “Peter, right?”

Peter nodded.

“You know each other?” The man across from Peter asked.

“Yeah,” Tim nodded. “We met the other week when I was volunteering at one of the
shelters.”

“You volunteer?” The man in the uniform asked Peter, a friendly smile on his face.

Peter grew nervous. “Er, yeah,” he lied. He knew a lot of people weren’t keen on the
homeless, especially cops. He wasn’t homeless anymore, but he still felt uncomfortable
admitting it to this man. Thankfully, Tim nodded, deciding to back up his claim.

Damian gave a derisive scoff, but didn’t say anything to discredit the pair. “Are we not here
for drinks?” He asked instead, tone short and snappish. “Grayson, I demand hot chocolate.”

The cop rolled his eyes with a goodnatured sigh, “Sit down, brat. I’ll buy you your damn
drink.”

Tim opened his mouth, and Grayson punched his shoulder.

“Yeah, I know. I’ll get your unholy black sludge of death too. Want anything, J?” He looked
to the man across from Peter, who shook his head.

“Nah, I’m good. Still got plenty of tea.”

Grayson nodded. “Okay, back in a minute.”

Tim and Damian sat down, Tim beside Peter, and Damian beside Jay. Peter was thankful for
that. Damian made him uneasy. Then again, the teenager was able to glare daggers at him
sitting where he was.

“I, er, I hope I’m not throwing off any plans you guys have,” Peter said anxiously.

Damian looked as though he was about to say something along the lines of ‘Yes, now leave
us, peasant,’ but Tim shook his head.

“No. We do this every week,” he said. “Brotherly bonding time,” he added. “We bring plus
ones every once in a while,” he shrugged.

“You’re brothers?” Peter asked, looking to Jay. He knew Tim and Damian were, and he
finally put the pieces together that Grayson must be Richard Grayson, Bruce Wayne’s eldest
child, but he had never come across a Wayne kid called Jay in his research.

Jay just shrugged and drank his tea.

“How’d you know J, Peter?” Tim asked.

“Oh, I don’t,” Peter stated, impishly, “I’m being held hostage.”

Jay snickered. “Yeah, it’s the perfect plan. I distract you with him, then I can leave without
you noticing.”

Tim pouted, but played along. “Aw, you don’t wanna spend time with your family? That
hurts. You wound me, J.”

Peter noticed Damian roll his eyes, but his lips were ever so slightly twitched upwards into a
smile. He had, at some point, procured a small sketchbook and a pencil and was drawing.
Every now and then he would look up form his paper and tune into the conversation or glare
at Peter.

“Oat milk hot chocolate for the demon child,” Grayson had returned carrying a tray with
three drinks on it. He set one down in front of Damian. “Death sludge for the workaholic,” a
very large cup was set before Tim. “And normal person coffee for the best big brother in the
world,” Grayson sat down next to Damian and took a long, satisfied drink of his coffee.

Peter was half expecting Jay to jokingly try to claim Grayson’s coffee for himself with a
remark along the lines of ‘Must be mine then,’ but instead he rolled his eyes and simply
looked content at the declaration.
“Stop calling it death sludge,” Tim defended his drink. On the side of the cup, Peter saw that
it contained almost as many shots of espresso as his own, and Tim was in the process of
pouring in an incredible amount of sugar.

“I don’t know how those things haven’t given you a heart attack yet,” Grayson countered.
“There’s a reason Alfred doesn’t let you make them at the mansion anymore.”

“And yet you still buy them for me,” Tim shot back.

Peter watched the back and forth with mild amusement, easily reminded of Matt and Foggy.
He couldn’t help but laugh.

Grayson looked to him, momentarily alarmed. “Sorry,” he apologised. “I forgot you were
there for a moment. Dick Grayson,” he introduced himself, reaching out a hand across the
table.

Peter shook it. “Peter Stark,” he said.

“Nice to meet you,” Grayson -Peter couldn’t call him Dick. Not without laughing. Not even
in his mind- smiled.

“And you.”

“Peter,” Tim began, “Dick’s the brother I mentioned when we met. He’s big on gadgets and
tech and stuff. I’m more of a computer guy,” he admitted.

“Huh?” Peter had to think for a moment before he recalled what Tim was talking about. “Oh,
yeah. The arc reactors.”

“You’re the arc reactor guy?” Grayson cocked his head, intrigued. “Tim told me some kid
had come up with a device that could generate insane amounts of energy. That’s you?”

Peter chuckled wryly, rubbing his neck. “That’s me.”

“Does it work?”

Peter flushed. “Yes? I’ve made a bunch in the past, and they worked.” He was still only in the
planning phase of his prototype, and he hoped that the laws of physics were consistent in this
universe with those in his own. He was fairly certain they were, but he couldn’t be
completely sure.

Grayson had stars in his eyes. He engaged Peter in a back and forth, exploring the
engineering and science behind arc reactor. It went on for a while before they were
interrupted.

“Jeez,” Jay scoffed. “Chill with the nerd talk. Thanks a lot, replacement,” he sent Tim a look,
though there was a playful glint in his eyes.

Tim shrugged.
“Sorry,” Peter flushed, looking to J, who smirked back at him.

That just made him blush deeper.

“Tch,” Damian finally spoke. “Stop flirting. It’s disgusting.”

Jay swatted at him, “Shut up, brat. Just because you don’t like romance,” he rolled his eyes.

Peter blinked. Jay was flirting with him? He was just being friendly though. There was no
way the guy was actually flirting. All he had done was smile and Peter. It was all on Peter
how flustered he got when faced with the mysterious, friendly, hot guy he kept bumping into.

“Damn it, now look what you’ve done. You’ve broken him,” Jay gestured to the dumfounded
Peter.

Jay, Tim, and Grayson laughed in amusement, Damian merely sitting with a bored look on
his face. Peter broke into a grin too, despite his embarrassment, that he hid behind his hands
as he buried his face.

Tim nudged his arm playfully. “You good?” He asked quietly, mildly concerned.

Peter smiled at him and nodded.

“I have to ask,” Grayson piped up after the amusement sobered. “What happened to you?
You look pretty banged up.”

“He got mugged,” Jay answered, as Peter fumbled for a way to respond.

Grayson frowned, deeply concerned. “Are you okay? Did they take anything?” He pulled out
a notepad and pen.

Peter shifted uncomfortably. Great, now he was going to have to lie to a cop. “I’m fine,
honest. You don’t have to do anything,” he tried to insist.

“Even if you’re okay, I should still file a report,” Grayson said. “It will help if it happens
again. Where’d it happen?”

Peter frowned. He saw Damian eying him suspiciously. Did he know he was lying? He
sighed. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’m still new to Gotham. I can’t really remember the street
names and stuff yet. It was in the East End?” He offered vaguely.

“When did it happen?”

“Earlier today. Before sunrise?”

Grayson nodded. “Do you remember who mugged you? How many there were, what they
looked like?”

Peter furrowed his brow. “Er, not really? One of them had a knife?” He pushed up the sleeve
of his hoodie to show some of the bandages on his arm. He hoped that would be enough to
satisfy Grayson’s questioning. “She was a woman. I can’t remember anything else. It was
dark. It was really early in the morning.”

“I work in Blüdhaven,” Grayson nodded, writing down everything Peter had said, “But I’m
close with some of the cops in Gotham. I’ll get this to one of them.”

“Cool,” Peter mumbled. He was fully aware that such a bare bones report would not lead to
anything, and none of the lacklustre Gotham cops would actually look into it, but he still felt
anxious. Why did Grayson have to be the one good cop in this place?

Tim was staring at him worry in his eyes that made Peter uncomfortable. Damian was glaring
at him still, which was even more uncomfortable.

Thankfully Jay wasn’t looking at him in any particular way, though Peter could swear he saw
that flash of guilt in his eyes again for a moment. Or was it a flash of green?

Peter had to do a double take as his spine tingled. No, his eyes were definitely blue. Peter was
just going crazy. Sleep deprived.

He chugged the last of his coffee.

He felt too awkward to ask Tim to move so he could slide out of the booth and make his
disappearance, so he sat fiddling with his empty cup as the brothers engaged one another in
conversation.

It was mostly Tim and Grayson doing the talking, Damian sketching the whole time without
making a sound, and Jay only chipping in once in a while.

The conversation mainly revolved around Tim’s classes, he was a business major apparently,
and stuff Grayson had encountered while on duty in Blüdhaven.

Eventually, Grayson checked the time on his phone and stood. “I need to get Demon back to
B before my shift,” he said. “It was nice meeting you, Peter.”

He smiled warmly, and Peter couldn’t help but smile back.

“And you,” he said.

“I gotta head out too,” Jay stretched out his limbs, rolling his shoulders. “Got some things to
check on back home. We should do this again some time,” he winked at Peter as he stood.
“Bye little wing.”

“See you next week,” Tim grinned at his brothers, waving goodbye as they left. “And tell B I
have that assignment ready for him,” he called to Grayson.

“Will do.”

Tim turned to Peter, “Want anything to eat? I have some time before class.”
Peter shook his head, though his stomach betrayed him. It let out a low growl at the mere
thought of food.

He despised his metabolism.

“Uh huh, sure,” Tim snickered, raising a brow. “Come on, there’s a great sandwich truck
nearby. I’m paying.”

“You don’t have to.” Peter slid out of the booth after Tim.

“Dude, who’s the kid of a billionaire, and who isn’t?” Tim nudged his arm.

Peter let out a startled laugh. “The billionaire card? Really?”

Tim shrugged, “I have money to burn. Especially on small stuff for my friends like a
sandwich.”

Friends? Peter blinked. For some reason, that made him sad, and he looked away from Tim
with a frown.

“You okay?”

“Huh?” Peter glanced back up at Tim, who was looking at him with worry. “I, er, I’m fine.
Where’s this place again?” He asked, changing the subject and pulling a taught smile onto his
features.

Tim was skeptical, but he let it go and said, “Just this way. Their beef and cheese melt is to
die for.”

It was mid morning now, just a little under nine o’clock, and there were more people about on
the streets. The chill was still strong in the air, but the sun was slowly creeping higher into the
sky. Tim and Peter walked side by side, not really talking. They had fallen into a comfortable
silence.

“J doesn’t flirt with just anyone, by the way,” Tim said to him after a while.

“Huh?”

“He likes you,” Tim continued. “I can tell you like him too. It’s pretty obvious,” he grinned.

Peter groaned, “Is it really?”

Tim laughed. “Here,” he pulled out his phone. “This is his number,” he pulled up his contacts
and found ‘J-bird’.

Peter grimaced, “I don’t have a phone,” he admitted.

Tim flushed. “Oh, right. I don’t know why I assumed you would,” he said wryly. “Take this
anyway,” he pulled out a wad of postit notes from his jeans (why did he have postit notes just
on him?) and scribbled down Jay’s number as well as his own. “There’s payphones around,
and there’s the ones at the shelters.”

Peter smiled. Right, he hadn’t told him. “I got off the streets,” he said, accepting the numbers.
“This really sweet couple are letting me rent one of their bedrooms.”

Tim brightened immediately, “That’s great! I’m happy for you.”

“Thanks.” There was an absolutely delicious smell permeating through the air, and Peter’s
eyes settled on a food truck. It was parked on a paved area just outside the university
building. “This it?” He asked.

Tim nodded.

He had been right, the sandwiches were heavenly. Peter had ordered a turkey sandwich with
stuffing and gravy. It made a mess, but it was some of the best food he had eaten since
arriving in Gotham. He had reluctantly let Tim pay for him, but promised himself he would
pay him back at some point. Even if Tim didn’t realise it.
 Chapter 10: Oh I Must Be Good For Something
Chapter Summary

Peter is sleep deprived, I’m bad at chemistry, and Harley is the second coming of
Deadpool.

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

If Peter had a nickel for every time he secretly converted his bedroom into a laboratory, he’d
have two nickels. Which wasn’t a lot, but to be fair every cent counted right now. And, you
know, it was weird that it happened twice, or if that was how the joke went, anyway. Did this
universe have Phineas and Ferb?

Peter had to look it up. If he had to miss out on a new season of a beloved childhood cartoon
that had been dead for years, and that no-one was expecting to make a comeback, just
because he got mysteriously transported to a new universe, he was officially going to go
rogue. See how Batman dealt with spiders or whatever.

Wait, didn’t bats eat spiders? Birds too. Probably a bad idea then. What did spiders eat again?
Where there any fly based superheroes in this universe?

Unless Batman was a fruit bat. Now that could work in his favour.

“Damn,” Peter muttered to himself, completely and utterly bemused at where his brain had
taken him. “I really need to go to bed.”

He rubbed at his face and let out half groan half yawn, pushing off away from his desk and
sending his spinning desk chair across the room towards his bed. It wasn’t the most effective
mode of transportation, the floor being carpet, but Peter couldn’t resist rolling around.

With a slight wobbled, he stood and collapsed into bed, almost crushing his newly working
laptop in the process.

“Fuck,” he winced, examining the poor, battered thing. It hadn’t taken him long to fix, and he
had upgraded it as much as he could too. It helped that now he had some funds to play around
with. Of course, he tried to forget how he earned those funds, but he had them regardless. He
couldn’t let his actions have been performed in vain, so every single dollar was going
towards his goal of helping people.

With his laptop, and access to the Packer’s wifi, he was able to do all sorts of research, and
designing, and coding. The latter was not his strong suit, but he had a project in mind that he
was hoping to incorporate into his suit. Maybe not his first, that one was going to be pretty
basic compared to what he was used to. More like his original hoodie and goggles, though
actually not more like that.

He was still going to have armour to his suit, maybe kevlar. Only in the most vital areas, he
wasn’t made of money. Flexible, of course, probably mostly made of spandex. Not the best,
but easy enough to replace. Definitely keeping to the brand, he had an image and while this
universe wouldn’t recognise Spiderman to begin with, they soon would. All the best heroes
had good branding, conscious effort or not. It sent a warning to bad guys, and was a beacon
of hope to innocents. The bats had their branding down to a T, from what Peter had
researched. Even their gear was on brand.

Peter had stumbled across an website where people sold Bat related items they collected after
fights. The amount of so called ‘Batarangs’ floating around made Peter balk. They were
apparently so common that the highest price he had seen for one was fifty bucks.

A record breaking twenty second yawn tore its way past Peter’s lips as he checked his laptop
for any damage. It was thankfully intact, and he lay back in bed, resting it on his stomach and
turning it on.

With a little bit of effort, he was able to go into what he liked to call ‘sneaky spider’ mode.
Incognito browsing mode. For the more unsavoury research he needed to do.

Stuff like how to get fake identification documents, and where to get certain chemicals. Wait,
what were you thinking? Stop that. Mind out of the gutter.

Peter wrinkled his nose.

When he got back to his own universe, he needed to stop hanging out with Wade. The guy
was rubbing off on him, and not in the fun way (as Wade would say with a smirk and a
waggle of his eyebrows like some cartoon character). Hell, Peter was pretty certain he was
having dreams about Wade. He thought so, anyway. His dreams were weird. He could never
really remember them properly. He was almost positive Wade was in a lot of them though.
Always spouting some nonsense about authors and writer’s block and burnout and
foreshadowing.

Guy was weird. Even in dreams.

Peter shook his head. He needed sleep.

But first he needed to just do a little more searching. His recent efforts had been… not good.
He had found chemicals and equipment, that was easy. Was even legal too! Mostly.

Back in his universe, there was almost no way to get his hands on the main component that
made up his webs, at least not in its pure form. Back before Tony, and then before he had
Wade (who was more than willing to make sketchy deals with sketchy people, and pull five
finger discounts on unsuspecting corporations), he would have to isolate and refine it from
cleaning products. It never ended up perfect, and made the structural integrity of his webbing
less than ideal. They still worked, sure, but they could have been way better. Here though, all
he had to do was go to a hardware store. It wasn’t pure, but it was almost 80%. He could
work with that a lot easier than the 40% he was used to. Less range of contaminants too, so
hopefully he’d get a better yield for the fewer steps in the process. That was the hope anyway,
he had yet to actually synthesise his webs just yet, still missing a few components.

The search for how to sort out his ‘doesn’t actually exist’ problem was not as lucky as the
chemistry search. It was all so confusing and frustrating. All had had managed to actually
find so far was fake licenses, and they were super sketchy. Creepy guy in a back alley kind of
sketchy. Not to mention, a lot weren’t even in Gotham… you see the problem.

Damn, Peter hated how much he sounded like a villain lately.

All this dodgy behaviour?

Maybe he couldn’t quite justify it all with his promise of doing good as Spiderman…

Peter scowled at himself and closed the laptop.

No. Thinking like that would just make everything he had already done completely
redundant. All of this had to mean something. Ends justified the means, right?

Wait, that sounded even worse.

Fuck.

Peter felt himself spiralling, staring, brow furrow, at the closed laptop on his chest. He was
stuck in a loop of thoughts and contradictions and arguments with himself and justifications
and-

His phone rang.

They default ringtone pierced the air and startled Peter into motion. He had only gotten the
phone a day ago, and he wasn’t used to it yet. He had grown accustomed to face ID back
home, but here it seemed that not even fingerprint scanning to unlock a device was a thing.
Not to mention the interface was so counterintuitive.

He fumbled towards his nightstand and grabbed his phone. The caller ID read Mr Packer.

He accepted the call, after wasting time trying to remember how exactly to do that on this
phone (you had to press the off button, which was an honestly jarring idea to get used to).

“Hello Mr Packer,” Peter greeted.

“Kid,” came Mr Packer’s usual gruff tone. “Just checking in. Maisie says you haven’t been
downstairs at all today. You doing alright?”

Peter was surprised. Then again, maybe he shouldn’t be. Mr and Mrs Packer were way too
nice for their own goods. “I’m okay,” he said. “I’m just working on a project. I get a little too
focused sometimes.”
Mr Packer grunted. “Just make sure you eat something. My shift ends soon, I can pick
something up if need be.”

“No, I’ll get something,” Peter responded quickly. The Packers already did so much for him
already. He wasn’t going to let them feed him too. Not when he could afford it, at the very
least.

Another grunt, “Make sure you do.”

It made Peter smile. Mr and Mrs Packer had been a touch more… affectionate since he came
back home beaten up. Granted, Mr Packer made it out like he just didn’t want his wife to
worry, but Peter knew he did too. It stung a little that Peter caused the couple worry, but at
the same time it filled him with a hint of warmth. He wasn’t completely alone in this new
universe. He had people who cared about him.

Mr and Mrs Packer, Tim, Jay, Casey… hell, even Harley might make it onto the list.

Wait… Harley!

“I will,” Peter spoke into the phone with a start. “Sorry, I gotta go. Just had a breakthrough.
Bye Mr Packer!” He hastily hung up before Mr Packer could even wrap his head around a
response, and then launched at his nightstand, yanking open the draw.

He was hit with a strong wave of an almost nauseated feeling as the Golden owl rolled to the
front of the drawer, but he pushed past it and fished out the crumpled note Harley had given
him. The one with her phone number on it.

Surely Harley might know how to get what he needed. She seemed like the sort to know.
After all, she was a patron of underground fighting rings and stole creepy owl statues from
even creepier clown-mask-wearing crazies with guns.

It was a shot in the dark, he admitted to himself, calling at this time of night. Then again, it
was only eleven. The last time he had seen Harley it was near three o’clock in the morning. It
was a safe enough bet that she would be awake to pick up. Even still, he was kicking himself
for not thinking of her sooner.

The phone rang for quite some time before anyone picked up.

“What?” Came a snappish voice that definitely wasn’t Harley’s. She sounded annoyed and
borderline angry. There was a faint whining -or was that moaning?- in the background that
made Peter question what he might be interrupting.

“Uh, I’m Parker,” Peter said hesitantly. “Harley gave me this number. Can I speak to her?”

There was silence on the other end for a moment, save for a confused sounding whine, before
the woman spoke again. “We don’t know any Parkers.” Her voice was blunt and there was a
rustling sound that made Peter panic.

“Wait, don’t hang up! Tell her I’m the guy she gave a golden owl to.”
The woman gave a disgruntled sigh but didn’t hang up. There was another moment of
silence, allowing a muffled exclamation of excitement to be heard, and then, “Robinson park,
eastern reservoir entrance. Midnight.” And then there was the low beep of the end of the call.

Peter was left in a bemused silence for a minute before his mind lurched. Midnight? He
glanced at the time on his phone. He had an hour to figure out where Robinson park was and
get there.

It wasn’t the hardest place to find, but it was a pain trying to get there. He kept getting
distracted by small crimes he witnessed on the way. Every inch of him wanted to get involved
and stop people from getting hurt or causing damage, but the way the woman on the phone
had spoken to him had made it seem like if he didn’t show up on time, there would be serious
consequences. What consequences those could be, he didn’t know, but there definitely would
be consequences.

The eastern reservoir entrance to Robinson park was very overgrown. An odd sight against
the muddy, ice ridden sludge that near oozed over the concrete pathways like dirty white
slime.

Peter stood, shivering, for a good few minutes. It was a boon, though, in a way as the intense
chill made him feel more awake than before. A check of his phone read that it was just turned
midnight, and a sharp shiver down his spine made him spin around.

“Boo! Aw,” Harley pouted. “I wanted to scare you.”

Peter fought an eye roll. Harley reminded him way too much of Wade. “Hey Harley,” he
greeted.

“Hi cutie,” Harley beamed. She lashed out and trapped him in a tight hug that he didn’t fight.

“Er, can you put me down?” Peter had been lifted off the ground effortlessly. Harley was
stronger than she looked.

She set him down and looked him over. “You know you don’t have to wear that, right? I
already know what you look like.”

Peter was wearing his spiderweb mask and hoodie again. Mrs Packer had helped him patch
up said hoodie with cool looking spider themed fabric that he was certain she didn’t have
lying around like she had tried to suggest. He hadn’t argued with her though. “I know you
do,” he said. He just didn’t feel right going out without his disguise at night. Not to mention
the woman who had answered the phone. She didn’t know what he looked like, and he said as
much.

“Oh, right,” Harley mused. “Sorry ‘bout the call, by the way, hun,” Harley said. “Ivy can be a
little blunt. I woulda answered myself, but she had me pretty tied up.” She rubbed absently at
the corner of her mouth. “Those vines of hers squeeze a little tight sometimes.”

Peter was glad for the darkness and his mask, as he flushed a brilliant red. “Sorry I
interrupted,” he stammered out.
Harley shrugged. “So, you changed your mind, huh, sugar?”

“Er… kind of? If I say yes to fighting, you gotta help me with something. And I get to back
out at any time.”

Peter was half expecting Harley to be upset, but instead she beamed almost proudly.
“Standing up for yourself. I like it. What’s this thing you need help with?”

“I need identity documents. Good ones. Birth certificate, high school diploma, driving
license, everything. As legit as possible.”

Harley drew an odd look upon her face and looked Peter over again. “You running from
something? Sounds like a complete restart. I gotta ask, why Gotham of all places?”

Peter shook his head before he could stop himself. “Something like that? Or not really, I
guess. It’s hard to explain, and, no offence, I don’t trust you.”

Harley’s odd look turned to an almost manic grin, and she laughed. “Smart too! I think I’m
going to like you,” she declared, and pat Peter on the head. “Okay, I can speak to a pal of
mine. In return, I take a quarter of any money you get, and you gotta fight for me a dozen
times.” At Peter’s furrowed brow she added, “But you can back out of any fight beforehand if
you don’t like the look of the guy.”

“And no random people from the streets?”

“And no random people from the streets,” Harley nodded.

Peter mulled things over. It sounded alright to him, but he couldn’t help but second guess it
all. He wished he had Matt’s brain. The guy was a lawyer, and a damn good one at that. He
could sniff out loopholes from a mile away. Peter couldn’t see any holes in the agreement
right now, but he knew he would hate himself if anything came back to bite him later on.
Then again, it wasn’t like this agreement was legally binding. What was the worst that could
happen if he backed out of the deal completely? Harley didn’t seem like a threat. Or at least,
not a major one. But, then, there was that crazed glint in her eyes that popped up every now
and then. Peter wasn’t just going to underestimate her like that. He was pretty sure he had
read the name Harley a few times in his research on Gotham and it’s heroes and villains. He
wasn’t sure if this was the same Harley, or what exactly the Harley he had read about was
capable of, but he wasn’t going to chance it.

Twelve fights seemed doable, and being able to back out of any he didn’t like the looks of
was also a boon. A quarter of his earnings going to Harley also seemed fair. He had gotten
over three thousand from his first win, and that had, apparently, been the small games. The
big fights must pay better, surely. He could easily put away a good amount to go towards his
Spiderman activities, as well as pay for his documents and his rent. At least, he thought so.

He would be better off than before, at least.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

Harley let out an excited squeal of glee, and lashed out a hand. She grabbed Peter’s wrist and
dragged him through the park.

They ended up at a large, overgrown greenhouse that was covered in vines. The windows
were stained with the moss and grime of what must have been decades of neglect. Some were
even cracked. Barely any glass was left visible to the naked eye, and Peter had to wonder if it
even functioned as a greenhouse anymore.

He was pulled inside, where his first thought was of how warm it was compared to the chill
outside. In turn it made him question how there was so much greenery outside in the first
place, considering it was the middle of winter. There was even more greenery inside, though
less chaotic. Plants were growing along the glass walls, apparently thriving, framing furniture
that looked very cozy and inviting.

It was weirdly bright too, which was mostly odd because he hadn’t seen any light shining
through any of the windows that weren’t covered from the outside.

The air smelled richly of florals. Like standing in the middle of a forest. Though, it was
almost sickeningly sweet. Decomposing leaves in autumn. Peter’s nose wrinkled, and his
eyes threatened to water.

Reclining on a plush green sofa was a woman who eyed him with pure disdain.

She was stunningly beautiful, and Peter couldn’t help but stare back at her with awe and
alarm. He recognised her from his research. Poison Ivy. Eco terrorist, man hater, dangerous
psychopath. All words he had seen to describe her. Apparently she had disappeared from the
radar a few years ago after some sort of incident involving orphans? Peter couldn’t quite
remember.

“Ivy, this is Parker,” Harley introduced.

“Hi,” Peter managed to wave awkwardly.

Ivy gave a derisive scoff, and stood, leaving the room. As she went, Peter caught a strong
scent of roses that made him dizzy.

He shook his head and masked a cough.

“Oh, you get used to that,” Harley said. “Come on, follow me.”

She led him through the greenhouse to what looked like a new addition. It was a large
bedroom with wooden walls and a corrugated metal ceiling. It was decorated lavishly with
every soft thing imaginable, and in one corner lay two-

“Are those hyenas?” Peter near exclaimed.

Harley giggled and bounced over to the pair, who greeted her with excitement.

“These are my babies,” she declared. “Aren’t they cute? Hi buddies, have you been good for
Ivy? Yes, I bet you have! Who are my good boys?” She coddled them for a good long while
as Peter lingered tentatively in the doorway.

Eventually Harley turned her attention back to him. “Sit,” she insisted brightly, gesturing to
the unmade bed.

Peter was hesitant, the bed being so close to the hyenas, but he decided to at least trust that
Harley wouldn’t let them maul him. They seemed to act more like dogs than wild animals.

“What’s going on?” He asked.

“You gotta have a character,” Harley said, striding over to her dresser and pulling open
drawers. “It makes the ring more fun! Gets people invested. You never watch wrestling, kid?”

Peter blinked. “Not really.”

“It’s the story, the drama!” Harley declared. “Gets folks invested. The more invested they are,
the more money they spend, the money we make.”

She held up a sparkly pair of black and blue leggings against Peter, then pulled a face and
tossed them aside. They landed by the hyenas, one of which claimed them and started
chewing at the garment. The other snarled, and the pair began to fight over their new toy.

“I’m not doing anything without my mask,” Peter insisted sternly, not particularly concerned
about what Harley was going to stuff him into otherwise. He wore bright red spandex in the
middle of New York half the time. He could handle flashy and he could handle skin tight,
which seemed to make up eighty percent of Harley’s wardrobe.

“But you have such a cute face,” she whined.

“No,” Peter reiterated firmly.

“Fine,” Harley huffed. “I’ll find something that goes with the stupid mask.” She paused a
moment. “Should think of a name for ya too. Parker is so boring.”

Peter scowled. “What’s wrong with Parker?”

Harley raised a brow. “Hardly a stage name, now is it?”

“…” Peter decided not to argue.

“Maybe circus themed,” Harley mused. “Make it thematic. You know, cause I’m your
sponsor.”

Peter cocked his head. “Huh?”

That made Harley look to him, confused. “Don’t you know who I am?” She asked.

“Er, Harley?”
 Harley let out a loud, proper belly laugh. “Oh this is the best thing I’ve heard in weeks!
Hunny, I’m Harley Quinn! Ex girlfriend of the Joker himself,” she pulled a face at the name
‘Joker’. “Clown Queen of Gotham, or however it went.” She giggled. “Granted, I kicked him
to the curb years ago. He’s a proper jerk. So many red flags.”

All Peter could do was blink. He had heard of the Joker, of course. It was hard to research
Batman, or Gotham in general, without learning about the Joker. There had been a few
mentions of a woman named Harley Quinn, but nothing further than just a name drop here or
there.

Now it made sense, though. The aesthetic, the personality. Of course someone as chaotic as
Harley would attract a villain like the Joker.

“Your name is a pun?”

Harley could have just about died from laughter.

Chapter End Notes

If anyone is interested, here’s a playlist of all the songs that inspire the fic (or that I
chose just because the lyrics kinda work well for a chapter title, you’ll never know
which), in order of their appearance as chapter titles. A new song will be added with
every chapter.
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3IcsnymJgTBdTNXwZF8Mz6?si=rB8D8JdmSC-
5TkebPVEaHQ
 Chapter 11: Carry Me Home Tonight
Chapter Notes

Not my longest chapter, but my motivation has been at a low the past few weeks.
Thanks for being so patient y’all.
At the end of this one I have a gift for you guys to say sorry for the wait.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

“Petey Pie,” Wade sung, dropping down beside Peter, two cream cheese bagels in hand.

Peter glanced at him distractedly, “Uh, hi DP.”

“Whatcha thinking about?” Wade gave him a bagel.

Shrugging, Peter swung his legs, his heels lightly bouncing off the concrete of the skyscraper
he was perched on. He took a bite out of the bagel. “I dunno,” he said. “I feel… weird.”

“Weird?”

Peter let out a hum. He looked out at the glitching skyline, familiar New York buildings being
replaced by darker, more unfamiliar forms before returning back to normal. The sun was high
in the sky, noon, but the atmosphere was dark and gloomy. It was snowing, but but the snow
seemed to phase through whatever it touched, not sticking. “Something feels wrong. I don’t
know what.” His suit phased in and out of existence, his hands bearing a pair of brilliant red
fingerless gloves that were a touch too small for his spindly, boney hands.

Wade looked to Peter with a cheshire cat grin, eyes alight with humour at a joke only he
understood. “Things are crumbling, Petey. What you understand in there,” he poked Peter’s
forehead, “Is changing.”

“Changing?” Peter furrowed his brow. “What does that mean? Is that bad?”

Wade shrugged. “Could be. Might not be. But don’t worry. Me and Red, we’re on our way.
Just- maybe don’t change too much, yeah?”

When Peter woke the next day, he wasn’t sure where he was. The air was rich with a sickly
sweet aroma, and whatever he was resting on felt scratchy and lumpy. There was a faint
humming coming from somewhere nearby. Two voices in unison. One was beautiful, the
other was off key, but oddly charming for its energy.

Looking around through groggy eyes, he saw plants. Dozens of plants. He realised he was
even laying in a bed of plants. A literal bed made from plants. His mattress seemed to be
thick, woven vines with a thin carpet of moss; and his blanket was made of flowers.
He lay still, uneasy. He recognised the glass walls as a greenhouse. Harley’s greenhouse?

Had he… fallen asleep?

He shifted, sitting up and rubbing at his head. It was throbbing a mild headache as it tended
to after a food dream. He couldn’t remember what the dreams were, but for some reason he
always tasted food when he woke up from one.

“He’s awake,” the in-tune humming had stopped and was replaced by the words of Ivy.

How did she know that? Was it the plant powers? Poison Ivy had plant powers, right? Peter
was pretty sure he had read that somewhere.

“Oh! Good!” Harley exclaimed, excitedly.

She bounced into the room.

“Heya sugar!”

“Uh, good morning. Is it morning?” Peter asked tentatively. The glass walls were too covered
in plant life to see outside and accurately gauge the sun’s position.

Harley shook her head. “You slept past four. Boy, you must have been tired. Forget eye bags,
you have suitcases,” she snickered.

Peter stood, “Right,” he murmured. “Look, I gotta go. I shouldn’t have slept here.” Mr and
Mrs Packer were going to be worried. He checked his phone, and frowned upon finding out it
wasn’t turning on. It must have run out of power.

“I would’ve woke you, but you just looked so pooped,” Harley excused herself. “Want me to
see you out?”

Peter smiled wryly, and shook his head. “No. Thanks. I’ll see you Wednesday, right?”

Harley nodded, “Just come straight here, then we’ll head over to the ring together. Take care,
cutie.”

“Bye Harley. And could you thank Ivy for me? For the bed,” he gestured to the plants he had
gotten up from.

Leaving the greenhouse, he was attacked by fresh, cool air. He had gotten used to the near
suffocating fragrance of the greenhouse, and the crisp chill hit him like a ton of bricks.

It was a nice day.

His walk home led him through Gotham Proper, not too far from the university. His mind
drifted to Tim, and, in turn, Jay, as music drifted through the air. The smell of food filled his
lungs, and even more twinkling Christmas lights than usual lit up the early evening.
Despite his desire to get back home and reassure Mr and Mrs Packer that he was okay, he
decided to linger a while. Just to take in the sights.

There were market stalls set up and a large crowd was gathered. A handful of children’s rides
had been set up, and the sound of laughter permeated through the air. Food stalls and craft
stalls were selling all sorts of wonderful things, and Peter wished he had his wallet on him.
He could have picked up something for the Packers.

It was as he was looking over a display of handcrafted candles that he heard his name being
called. Turning around, he saw Tim, hand in hand with another young man, beaming at him
and waving.

“Tim?” He wandered over.

“Hey Peter,” Tim greeted, letting go of his partner and pulling Peter into a short, friendly hug.

Peter stiffened at the contact, but smiled regardless. “How are you?”

“Not bad,” said Tim, pulling away. “Doing some Christmas shopping?”

“Not really,” Peter shook his head. “Just been on a walk. Left my wallet at home.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Babe, you gonna introduce us?” Tim’s partner chimed in with a chuckle.

Tim flushed. “Oh, right. Yeah. Peter, this is my boyfriend, Conner. Conner, this is Peter.”

“Nice to meet you, man,” Conner grinned at Peter. He reminded him, in appearance, of Jay.
At least a little bit. He was tall and well muscled, with broad shoulders; his eyes were also
blue, though Jay’s were a colder hue; and he had black hair, but it was cropped short and
swept out of his face, unlike Jay’s fluffy mess. His style was also similar. Blacks and reds,
and a preference for leather jackets. Conner’s was black though. Not brown.

“And you,” Peter flushed slightly. “Are, er, you two here on a date?” He asked. “I hope I’m
not intruding,” he laughed softly.

Tim shook his head. “We’re here with our families. You’re welcome join us if you want,” he
added. “J’s been asking about you. You still haven’t called,” he smirked. There was a glint in
his eyes that Peter couldn’t read, but it made him blush.

“I’ve been busy,” Peter said. “Working on my prototype.”

“Oh, so you’re gonna apply?” Tim asked excitedly.

“Maybe.” There was still the matter of not existing, but hopefully that would be solved soon
enough.

Tim was beaming. “Come on,” he grabbed Peter’s wrist and tugged him along. What was it
with these guys and dragging?
Conner had an amused look on his face as he followed the pair towards the giant Christmas
tree that had been set up in the centre of the market. There were benches surrounding it, and
Tim manoeuvred them to one where about half a dozen people were congregated. One of
them being Jay.

“Look who I found,” Tim declared once they got close.

Heads turned to them, and Peter found himself feeling self conscious at the scrutiny.

“Peter!” Grayson grinned. He was standing beside the bench with his hand on the shoulder of
a ginger woman in a wheelchair.

“Hey,” Peter smiled back wryly.

“You’re looking all healed up. I hope you’re staying out of trouble,” Grayson gave a small
laugh. He was out of uniform, and wore a comfy, but expensive looking, jumper and trousers.
The colours matched the wine red and gold the woman in the wheelchair wore.

Peter rubbed the back of his neck, not trusting himself to answer.

“This is my fiancé,” Grayson continued.

“Barbara Gordon,” the woman introduced herself. She had a warm smile on her face.

“They’re the token straight couple,” Tim teased.

Barbara rolled her eyes.

“It’s true,” an older man chimed in. He was tall, with dark, wavy hair and a pair of thick
rimmed glasses on his face. “Clark Kent,” he said, holding out a hand.

Peter shook it tentatively, “Peter Stark.”

“Ah, so you’re the young man I’ve been hearing about?” Another dark haired man asked with
a warm smile, though Peter couldn’t help but look at him suspiciously.

His spider sense was humming, a low buzz that he could tune out if he wanted to, but it still
weirded him out. It was a kind of uncanny valley that made Peter feel incredibly
uncomfortable. This man was dangerous, but he looked so innocent. Charming. Friendly.
“Bruce Wayne,” he, too, held out a hand for Peter to shake.

“You’ve heard about me?” Asked Peter, not shaking the man’s hand. There was a mild wave
of awe that overrode his spider sense. Sure, he knew billionaires were people too, but, from
what he had researched, this man out Tony Stark to shame on the playboy philanthropist
front.

“Tim and Dick have been raving about you. Even J has mentioned you,” Bruce seemingly
didn’t recognise any discomfort and continued as he has been. He glanced at Jay with the
knowingly teasing glance that all parents must learn the moment they have kids.
Jay flushed. It was slight. Peter barely even caught it, but he was paying particularly keen
attention to the situation at that moment, still in a heightened state of unrest.

Peter was too tense to blush at the suggestion that Jay had spoken about him, but his mind did
spin a little. “He has?”

“All good things,” Bruce assured. “I hear you have quite the mind. It’s a valuable trait,
intellectually.”

“Uh, thanks,” Peter smiled anxiously.

“B, you’re making him nervous,” Jay grumbled. The way he looked at Bruce was strange.
There was a hint of rage in his eyes that made Peter’s spider sense heighten for only a
moment.

Bruce blinked, as though he hadn’t even considered that, and looked at Peter for a moment.
He cleared his throat, “I’m sorry, Peter. I didn’t realise.”

Peter swallowed, “It’s, er, it’s okay.”

Clark shook his head with a goodnatured sigh, and took Bruce’s hand. “Come on, Bruce,” he
drawled. He had a deep voice, with a southern twang that somehow put Peter at ease. “Let’s
go have a look at that stall over there. I still need to find something for Lois.”

Bruce was led away and Peter relaxed.

“He forgets how intimidating he can be,” Barbara said. “It’s not every day someone meets the
Bruce Wayne,” she rolled her eyes again.

“Remember when I brought home my first boyfriend?” Tim laughed.

“Poor kid nearly pissed himself. I think that was more Alfred’s doing though,” Jay snickered.

“At least Clark was here this time,” Grayson mused.

“Dad’s good with emotions,” chimed in Conner. “They balance each other out like that.”

Peter cocked his head, “That was your dad?”

Conner shrugged.

Peter got the inkling there was more to the story, but he didn’t push. It wasn’t his business.

“Where’d Duke and the others go?” Tim asked.

“Jon wanted to go on a few rides,” Jay said. “Damian too, but he’ll never admit it.”

Tim chuffed a laugh, “Checks out.”

Peter stood awkwardly for a moment before he gingerly asked for the time.
“Twenty past five,” Grayson offered.

Peter pulled a face. It would take him at least an hour to get back. Mrs Packer may, hopefully,
not be worried about Peter not being around in the morning, but if he was still gone by the
time she got back at seven then she’d panic. After the whole mugging that wasn’t a mugging
situation, she had gotten a little… protective.

“I gotta get going,” he said. “It was nice meeting you,” he smiled to Barbara and Conner.

“So soon?” Tim frowned.

“Mrs Packer’s gonna be home soon. She worries.”

“Can you call her?”

Peter shook his head. “Phone died.”

Jay frowned. “Mind if I join you? It’s not really safe to walk around Gotham by yourself,
especially if you can’t call for help.”

“As you should already know,” Grayson added, also worried.

Hesitant, Peter looked to Jay with half a mind to say no. “If you’re sure,” he said instead.
“It’s a bit of a long walk. The house is Gotham Village.”

“You walked all the way from Gotham Village?” Tim asked incredulously.

Peter shrugged.

“We can take my bike,” Jay offered. “I have a spare helmet.”

Peter had never been on a motorbike before.

Okay, that was a lie.

He had been on one once. It was during an (accidental) team-up with the X-men, and he had
run out of webs. Deadpool commandeered Wolverine’s bike and almost drove them off a
bridge.

Despite that experience, he found himself saying, “Okay.”

He was flushing a brilliant red that he was sure everyone could see, but he couldn’t help it.
He was imagining the close proximity to Jay that sitting behind him on a motorbike would
call for. Clinging to the man as wind buffeted them, the feel of his strong muscles through the
leather jacket…

“Cool,” Jay broke him out of the fantasy. “Bike’s parked over this way.”

Peter almost felt like a duckling as he followed Jay through the crowds. He felt so horribly
out of place next to him.
They headed about half a block away, and Peter could recognise the bike in the distance.

To reach it, they had to pass by a group of old men smoking at a bus stop. Jay’s nose
wrinkled at the smell, his fingers twitching. Peter started to feel a low buzz of energy in his
spine.

“You okay, Jay?” Peter asked, tentatively.

Jay looked at him and Peter held back alarm at seeing the man’s eyes had changed. Instead of
a brilliant blue, one was now almost glowing green. “I’m fine,” Jay assured him, as casually
as possible but Peter could tell he was filled with nervous energy. “Just really craving a
smoke. I don’t like to around my family,” he explained.

Ah, so that was the problem. They had walked a fair distance past the smokers by now and
the hum in Peter’s spine was fading out, as was the green in Jay’s iris.

Peter cocked his head, that was interesting. He debated internally whether to bring it up or
not.

“What?” Jay asked, catching Peter’s curiosity.

“Are you meta?” Peter spoke before his brain could catch up with him.

Jay nearly tripped over his own feet. “What?”

“Shit, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Jay gasped out. He coughed, doubling over, choking on air.

It took a while for him to catch his breath and calm down.

“I’m sorry,” Peter apologised. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

Jay shook his head, righting himself and taking a few deep breaths. “It’s okay. Just didn’t
expect it, that’s all.” He looked hesitant, and glanced around as if making sure no-one else
was listening. “I guess some people might say I’m meta?” He said. “Dick says my eyes are
like a fucked up mood ring.”

“What does that even mean?” Peter asked, bemused.

Jay rubbed his neck, smiling wryly. “When I’m upset or whatever, one of my eyes goes
green. But, it’s not really a meta thing? It’s not my DNA. I just had an… accident when I was
younger. There’s all sorts of toxic shit in this city. Some people tend to be affected more than
others,” he explained, though Peter could tell he wasn’t exactly telling the whole truth.

Not that he would push. It was none of his business.

They were still relative strangers.

 Jay looked worried about what he had revealed, looking to Peter with what Peter could only
assume was fear of rejection.

“I’m the same,” Peter decided to admit. “Something happened to me too, a long time ago.”
He wrinkled his nose at remembering the field trip that resulted in his powers. The fever, the
illness, the pain of his DNA mutating. “But hey,” he gave a terse laugh, “I heal faster than
normal people now.” That was an innocent enough offering.

Jay’s worry had turned to surprise, which Peter had expected, but his lips were also drawn
into a soft smile.

They had reached the bike.

Jay procured two helmets and gave one to Peter, helping him put it on. He stood close,
making sure it was secure. Peter could feel his warmth.

Jay’s eyes lingered for a moment longer on Peter than they maybe should have, and he tried
to hid a smile and a flush in his cheeks. Peter caught it though, which made his own face heat
up. He was thankful for the helmet.

The drive was over sooner than Peter would have liked.

Jay drove fast. Almost recklessly. He was nowhere near Deadpool levels of reckless, but he
got close, and Peter was clinging onto him for dear life. It was exhilarating though. It
reminded him of swinging through the skyline of New York.

He could feel every small movement Jay made, every muscle tensing and relaxing. He didn’t
want it to end.

Unfortunately, it had to.

Jay slowed as he got to the right street, and Peter tapped his shoulder once they got close to
the house. They parked up and the pair stepped onto the pavement.

Peter’s heart was pounding in his chest as Jay took off his helmet, and then helped with
Peter’s. He stood close again. Closer, even, than before. Peter looked up into his face, and
saw he was staring back intently.

Peter glanced at the time on Jay’s watch. Taking a risk, he said, “You know, we have about
forty minutes before Mrs Packer gets back.” His tone was hesitant, but his smirk was
suggestive.

Jay’s lips parted in mild alarm for only a moment before they stretched into a grin.

Chapter End Notes

I got a friend to make some art of Peter’s fight persona. I’ve been too excited about it to
keep it to myself, so as an apology for making y’all wait, here’s a sneak peek at what the
next chapter will contain.
https://www.tumblr.com/labyrinthprops/736571469080018944/a-commission-for-a-
buddy-of-mine-that-ive-finally?source=share

If anyone is interested, here’s a playlist of all the songs that inspire the fic (or that I
chose just because the lyrics kinda work well for a chapter title, you’ll never know
which), in order of their appearance as chapter titles. A new song will be added with
every chapter.
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3IcsnymJgTBdTNXwZF8Mz6?si=rB8D8JdmSC-
5TkebPVEaHQ
 Chapter 12: Erase Myself
Chapter Notes

I’m bad at fight scenes okay. Kinda dumb considering I’m writing a superhero fic but
whatever I guess. I make no promises what you are about to read is any good.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Jay smelled like gunpowder.

The scent of a burned out firework on the fourth of July, or the residual smoke after a gun
was fired.

It was warm and grounding, if a little dizzying.

It reminded Peter of home.

Of sitting on the sofa with Wade, watching Golden Girls reruns while he cleaned his
weapons. It reminded him of helping patch up Matt after he’d stuck his nose somewhere he
probably shouldn’t have. Daredevil was always getting shot at for some reason or another.

Peter couldn’t help but wonder why Jay smelled so strongly of gunpowder. In the back of his
mind, something was screaming at him to remember. Remember what, Peter didn’t know.

He was laying in bed, pale skin slick with sweat, and heart beating loud and fast in his chest.
Jay lay beside him, an easy grin on his face.

It had been a long time since Peter had fooled around with anyone. He had been in this world
for a solid few weeks at this point, and even beforehand he didn’t really get out much. At
least not in the sense that normal people did. He got plenty of time outside as Spiderman, but
he spent much of the rest of his life in his work for the Daily Bugle, or keeping the flat in
liveable condition.

Wade was not a tidy man.

“27 minutes,” Jay snickered, glancing at the obviously expensive watch on his wrist. He may
dress down, from what Peter had seen in their past interactions, but he was definitely used to
money. “Could go another round,” he smirked.

Peter chuffed a laugh, “You make it sound so enticing,” he drawled sarcastically.

“I wasn’t that bad, was I?”

He wasn’t. Far from it, really.

Laughing, Peter shoved him lightly.

Holding up his hands in mock surrender, Jay slid out from under the covers and set about
collecting his clothes. They were haphazardly strewn about the room, and Peter got a good
look at his form as he gathered.

He had insisted on keeping his chest covered, having been wearing a tight fitting black tank
top beneath his t-shirt. It hadn’t given Peter much to think about at first, he wondered maybe
if it was a body image thing, which was valid. Even the most gorgeous beings in the world
had insecurities. But then he had spied strange looking scars peeking out from beneath the
top, and Peter understood more. He, too, had scars he was ashamed or embarrassed by. Even
a small handful he was scared of.

Normally, he didn’t scar. His healing was truly remarkable in that way. Some of his larger
injuries hadn’t given him that kind of luck, though. There were some pretty bad scars across
his back and along his shoulders from when an entire building had crashed down on him.

Jay hadn’t commented on them, but Peter knew he had stared.

As he pulled on his pants, Jay lingered at Peter’s desk. He gently traced a finger along one of
the open pages in one of the notebook’s Peter had left out.

He was thankful for the fact that he had made it a habit to hide his web making equipment
and equations every time he left his room for long. He was in a near constant state of anxiety
that his landlords would find out and think the worst of him.

“I was told you were smart,” Jay said, tone light. “But this is kind of insane.”

Peter pushed himself up a ways to better face Jay, and he smiled bashfully. “It’s just a
prototype.” It wasn’t really. He had plenty of experience making arc reactors. He just needed
to figure out if it all worked in this universe.

“Some of this I think I understand?” Jay continued. “If you ever want advice, I’m no rocket
scientist, but I’m a pretty decent engineer.”

The offer, Peter could tell, was weak at best; but the suggestion meant clearly that Jay wanted
to see him again. Peter very much wanted that too. “I might take you up on that,” he said.

“You have my number, right?”

Peter nodded. He slid out of bed, and threw on his shirt and boxers, making his way over to
check how much charge his phone had managed to get in the half hour since he got back
home. “Yeah, Tim gave it to me. I hope that was alright? I didn’t ask him, he just… gave it.”
He smiled wryly. Twelve percent. A bunch of missed calls from Mr and Mrs Packer too.
Ouch.

“Yeah, it’s cool,” Jay shrugged. He was almost fully dressed now, having turned away from
the desk. “Where’d my jacket go?”
“Uh…” Peter glanced around, then spotted it by the laundry hamper next to the door. “Oh, I
got it.” He picked up the brown leather jacket, fingers tracing the torn sleeve lightly. It
reminded him of something, but he didn’t know what. “I can fix this, if you want. No offence,
but whoever sewed this up did a really bad job.”

Jay laughed, taking the jacket from Peter. “That was me. Don’t worry about it, though. I get a
new one every Christmas and birthday. Dick’s tradition. Ever since I got my bike. I end up
trashing so many of these.”

Peter wrinkled his nose at the waste. “It’s barely trashed. And if you ruin so many, you
should probably try find better quality.”

Jay rubbed his neck, suddenly ashamed. “That’s… a good point… I didn’t really think about
it. Fuck.” His eye flashed green for a long second, and Peter couldn’t help but wonder what
was going on inside his brain. But then the moment passed, and Jay looked at him with his
usual ice blue. “I know Dick’s already got me a new one. Christmas is only on Thursday, and
all. I’ll ask him to stop. It’s not good for the environment, is it. Maybe you can teach me how
to sew? You did your hoodie, right?”

Peter’s cheeks flushed. He hadn’t expected Jay to decide to make a change. He expected it to
be brushed off. It wasn’t the environmental impact Peter was necessarily even thinking about,
but it was a good point too. Too many clothes got thrown out and sent to landfills, even when
they were still perfectly wearable. “Er, sure,” he managed to stammer out.

“Brilliant,” Jay beamed. “Here,” he handed back the jacket to Peter. “Keep it. Kinda a jerk
move, giving you a jacket I was just gonna throw out, but something tells me you won’t
accept the brand new one.”

Jay was right, of course, but Peter was even hesitant to accept the torn jacket.

“Won’t you be cold? And don’t you need it for, like, protection or something while you’re on
your bike?”

Jay shrugged. “I’ve driven in worse conditions.”

Peter narrowed his eyes and tried to give the jacket back, but Jay was probably just as
stubborn as he was.

“Call it an early Christmas present,” Jay insisted.

Peter wrinkled his nose again, really wishing he hadn’t brought up the subject in the first
place. On the one hand, he didn’t need the jacket, and Jay would be out in the cold, riding a
motorbike for who knows how long without it. On the other hand, it would go to waste soon
enough otherwise, and it smelled of Jay. Peter didn’t think he could ever get enough of his
scent.

They went back and forth, pushing the jacket towards each other, before Peter’s attention
snapped to the door.
He had heard, in the distance, someone enter the house.

“Peter, dear? Are you home? The door was unlocked, so I hope that’s you!” Mrs Packer
called out.

“Yeah! It’s me!” Peter called back.

While he was distracted, Jay took the opportunity to let go of the jacket, scoop up his boots,
and make for the window before Peter even realised.

As soon as he did, Peter’s attention snapped back onto him and he pouted half playfully. “No
fair,” he grumbled, voice lowered to avoid carrying downstairs.

Jay smirked with a wink, “‘Til next time, princess,” he teased, effortlessly opening the
window and climbing out with almost practiced ease.

Peter couldn’t help it. He stood for a moment in sheer bewilderment before bursting into a
loud laugh.

Getting his amusement out of his system, he looked down at the jacket in his hands and a
small smile pulled at his lips. It smelled like gunpowder.

His good mood lasted only a day more, and then Wednesday rolled around. He had bid Mr
and Mrs Packer good night, having told them he was planning on staying with a friend for a
few days. To let them have Christmas without him underfoot. In reality he was going to the
underground meta fighting ring, and he’d need to stay away until he healed up from whatever
injuries he was about to get.

“How does this work anyway?” Peter found himself musing aloud, standing in the back of
the noisy warehouse. It was a touch quieter over here, other fighters and sponsors also talking
amongst themselves.

“What do you mean?” Harley asked, head cocked.

“Is it like the first time? Fight ‘til you lose?” He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t asked this before.
Maybe it was that he was trying not to think too much about it all. It was pretty stupid of him,
though. He could admit that.

“Oh!” Harley shook her had. “No. That was the Gladiator ring. It’s brutal,” she giggled.
“That’s for debtors and randoms.” She said it so casually, as if it wasn’t actually a horrific
bloodbath. “What you’re in now is the big time. You got one or two fights a night, and work
your way up to tougher opponents.” She nodded to the other fighters nearby. “All of them
have sponsors, like me. We basically let the guys who run the show know you can actually
fight and draw a crowd, and we tell the rest know how good you are and that they should bet
on you. The more bets made, the more money we make, and even if you lose we still get
paid.”

“How much do the winners get?”

Harley shrugged. “It’s different every fight. Bets are made with the bookie -usually some big
guy with a gun cause who would argue with someone like that- and they keep 20% of the bet.
The winner gets about 40% of that 20%. Loser gets 10.”

“And the house keeps 50,” Peter did the math.

“Well they gotta pay the goons somehow,” Harley shrugged. “Anyways, the bets tend to be
big. I know a guy who bet 40000, and lost hard. His guy was out in a minute.”

“40000?” Peter’s eyes were saucers, his jaw dropping. Doing the math, that meant the winner
got 3200 just from that single bettor alone. That was nearly the amount he got for winning in
the ‘Gladiator Ring’, as Harley had called it.

Harley laughed.

“How many fights do I have tonight?”

“Just the one,” said Harley. “First of the night. Figured I’d go easy on ya.”

Despite her words, Peter didn’t quite trust the weird, manic look in her eyes.

Instead of questioning her, though, he instead began to play with his outfit.

It was a suit, familiar to Peter in terms of the type of garment. Made of spandex, and fitting
tight. Colourfully jumbled diamonds of teal, gold, and two shades of red pied the suit.
Somehow, Peter had been roped into sewing a spider web patterned fabric to the lower legs,
that perfectly matched his mask.

“It’s called an accent, Parker.”

Whatever it was called, Harley had insisted. If he was going to wear his mask, then for gods
sake it was going to match the rest of the look.

Peter had suggested he get a new mask, but then Harley whined about brand synergy and
keeping things familiar to not confuse the readers. That confused him, but he wasn’t going to
question the woman. It was just like hanging out with Wade. Just nod and smile, and don’t
think too much about the crazy.

Overtop the suit, Peter wore a cropped, sleeveless, dark red hoodie. The hood had two large
protrusions like a jester’s hat, complete with golden pom-poms attached to the tips. The
offending pom-poms also lined the bottom edge of the hoodie and Peter bristled at the
absurdity. He didn’t raise any protest, though, when Harley first presented him with the
garment. As long as they, or the jester hood, didn’t get in the way when he was fighting, he
would wear it. It wasn’t as though anyone would recognise him, so he didn’t have much of an
argument against it.

He also kinda understood what Harley had said about keeping things familiar. In his first
fight he had worn a mask and a hoodie. He was now the mask and hoodie guy. That wasn’t to
say he understood the rest of what Harley had said on the topic though, but that was neither
here nor there.
His feet were wrapped in a pair of aerial boots, the heels and balls of his feet bare. He was
half thankful for that. The aerial boots were far more flexible than his actual boots. On the
other hand, however, it was still freezing and his bare toes were cold. As he stood on the cold
concrete of the warehouse, he tried to ignore the numbness he was beginning to experience.

Not just in his feet either. His mind felt numb. He was about to step into the ring.

He couldn’t ignore the memory of blood on concrete, the smell of sweat, the taste of copper,
the sound of screams, and thud after thud of flesh against flesh.

“I got Ivy to place a pretty big bet on you,” Harley’s voice cut through the remnants of
anguish playing through his mind. “You better prove me right,” she nudged his arm playfully.

Peter’s eyes snapped to her, and he flinched away. Harley frowned.

“You okay, hun?”

For a reason Peter couldn’t explain, his heart rate had skyrocketed and his breathing was
sharp and shallow. He blinked owlishly, pupils like pinpricks. “Yeah.” He soundded
incredibly tense, not fooling Harley one bit. “All good. Oh hey, I think it’s starting. I should
probably…” he trailed off and inched away from Harley to linger a touch closer to the ring,
having noticed the ringleader of this bloody circus beginning to announce.

“Ladies and gentlemen, are we ready for some bloodshed?” The announcer spoke, egging on
the already animated and eager crowd. It sickened Peter just how many people were here to
see two people fight so brutally.

“Only two rules,” Harley had explained to him. “No weapons, and once you step into the ring
you can’t step out ‘til you’re the only one standing. You can bite throats, gouge eyes, tear off
limbs. Kill if you wanna. It can get real bloody. I saw a guy bite off someone’s nose after he
was already down.”

It didn’t surprise Peter, but it did make him wonder just how badly he wanted to do this. He
could find another way to make money, right?

He could back out of any fight if he wanted to.

He could do this.

He could win without maiming or killing, without getting maimed or killed in the process.

He had this. He was Spiderman.

Or, rather, right now he wasn’t Spiderman. Not tonight.

“Fresh blood today, endorsed by the one and only Harley Quinn: Slackline!”
The crowd cheered. Or made some approximation of cheering. Peter couldn’t really hear
them instead, he was tuning them out and trying to focus on what he needed to do.

Harley had told him to make an impression . Today he was a novelty. True, some small
majority might recognise him from his last fight, but the biggest spenders didn’t bother with
the Gladiator ring. No, they only cared about the higher profile matches. They didn’t know
what Peter was capable of. They didn’t know if it was even worth betting on him. He was
only fighting once today. He had to prove he was at least interesting.

He entered the cage with a forced gait that expressed confidence. Arrogance, almost.
Ignoring the crowd, he waited for his opponent to be introduced.

Goliath, his name was. He was big and bulky, with muscles on muscles on muscles. If Peter
thought the first guy he had fought was big, then this guy was a giant.

The grey tinge to the man’s skin was almost shiny, like steel, and tattoos covered near every
inch of his flesh. A great, leering grin pulled at his lips as he looked down on Peter. True
arrogance.

The announcer left the cage and the door slammed shut with a wiry thunk that echoed in
Peter’s ears.

He didn’t stop to think.

He moved.

With a backflip, he jumped high and clutched onto one of the cage walls, out of reach of
Goliath, who sneered at him.

“Running away?” He grumbled in a low, prideful voice that made Peter think of earthquakes.

Peter didn’t speak. Instead, he jumped, launching to the other side of the cage, behind
Goliath. He was trying to figure out how he would do this. Down the guy without too much
trouble. His mind worked fast, and so did his body. Goliath could barely even turn to face
him before he had jumped again and landed on his broad shoulders.

It was the same tactic he had used with Big Guy, but, unlike Big Guy, Goliath was strong
enough to yank at his legs before he could get much time into strangling him.

His leg felt like it was trapped in a vice, stuck in Goliath’s meaty grasp, and he was torn off
his shoulders and flung down onto the ground.

Crack!

The concrete below them chipped, and Peter’s face crunched loudly. His nose was definitely
broken.

He fought the stars that had appeared in his vision, and quickly pushed to his hands and
knees, darting between Goliath’s legs and reappearing behind him once again.
Dancing it was, then, he thought to himself. If he could just keep moving. Tire Goliath out.

He had trained with the Hulk before, Peter could handle guys like this.

The pain in his face and calf was searing, but he pushed through it. Every single step as he
danced and weaved around Goliath felt like his bones were grinding together.

The dance lasted a solid few minutes, and Goliath looked to be getting dizzy.

Peter climbed up the wire mesh of the cage again, flipping onto his shoulders once more.

This time, he managed to get a solid grip around his meaty neck whilst yanking at his stringy,
greasy hair. He was pulling so hard, that he was tearing clumps out. His fingernails were
getting bloody as he ended up digging into the flesh of his scalp.

Goliath yowled in pain, trying to tear Peter’s hands away, but every time he reached for one,
Peter moved to a different spot.

His legs tightened around Goliath’s neck, and the man’s breaths were laboured and gasping.
The giant was staggering around, confused, dizzy, and in pain. Too focused on his head that
he had forgotten about the more dangerous threat crushing his windpipe.

He swayed heavily, and Peter made a judgment call else he would topple with him. He
jumped away, clinging to the cage wall, as Goliath stumbled to the ground, gasping on his
hands and knees, trying to regain his breath.

Peter dropped down, ready to finish things.

He sent a sharp kick to Goliath’s head, heel striking hard against his temple.

But then-

He was suddenly dragged to the floor by his ankle!

Goliath had managed to grab at him and now had him pinned!

Peter struggled, but Goliath reached a meaty hand around his throat and squeezed hard.

All Peter could see was the crazed anger in the man’s eyes, and he thrashed and squirmed.

His ankle felt as though it was on fire, but he kicked up. Hard. Square into Goliath’s
abdomen.

It was hard enough that Goliath’s eyes widened and he gagged, threatening to to evacuate his
stomach contents.

Peter kicked again, whilst clawing at Goliath’s hands. He managed to pry them away, and he
took in deep, gasping breaths as he kicked once more and sent Goliath away before the man
vomited onto the cracked concrete.
Dizzy and lightheaded, Peter scrambled to his feet and struck down hard, punching every part
of Goliath he could before the man could fight back. Skin tore, and Goliath groaned in agony.
Peter’s knuckles were bloody and raw, both his and Goliath’s blood staining his new suit.

The gong sounded as Goliath fell silent, and Peter stumbled away, slumping against the cage
wall with void-like eyes and laboured breaths.

He couldn’t remember what happened next.

It was all a blur.

He knew he had thrown up at some point. A few times, even. Bringing up nothing but bile.

He couldn’t feel anything but numb. Not his broken nose, not his shattered ankle. Not his
crushed leg. Not his bloody knuckles.

Someone had pulled him out of the cage and patched him up. Harley? Maybe…

He had changed out of his suit at some point too. He knew it took a while.

And then he was out in the cold, his backpack on his back and the pockets of his jacket filled
with cash.

What the fuck had he just done?

Wandering through alleys, dazed and confused, he simply walked. The sky was dark still,
moon high , and snow was falling fast.

“What the hell?” A voice Peter thought he recognised rang out.

There was a blur of red, and Peter could barely make out- was that a cape?

The snowfall was blurring his vision and he couldn’t see…

He stumbled, but strong arms caught him.

“Woah, it’s okay Pete,” came another voice.

“Wade?” Peter drawled, voice scratchy and weak. He must have gotten hurt again. DP and
Daredevil were here to bail him out after another stupid decision. He loved those guys. They
took care of Spiderman…

He threw up again.

“Gah,” the first voice sounded. Disgusted.

“It’s okay, let it out, Peter,” the voice belonging to the arms soothed, and he oat Peter’s back
gently. “Robin, call Hood, and get A to prep for a guest.”

“Tch,” the mean voice scoffed. “Fine.”

 “Wade, I don’t feel to great,” Peter drawled, head spinning. All he could see was snow.

“I got you, Pete. I got you.”

Chapter End Notes

If anyone is interested, here’s a playlist of all the songs that inspire the fic (or that I
chose just because the lyrics kinda work well for a chapter title, you’ll never know
which), in order of their appearance as chapter titles. A new song will be added with
every chapter.
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3IcsnymJgTBdTNXwZF8Mz6?si=rB8D8JdmSC-
5TkebPVEaHQ
 Chapter 13: Breathe, Keep Breathing
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Peter was sitting atop a skyscraper.

Everything was dark.

Chapter End Notes

Don’t hate me for this one I beg of you.

If anyone is interested, here’s a playlist of all the songs that inspire the fic (or that I
chose just because the lyrics kinda work well for a chapter title, you’ll never know
which), in order of their appearance as chapter titles. A new song will be added with
every chapter.
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3IcsnymJgTBdTNXwZF8Mz6?si=rB8D8JdmSC-
5TkebPVEaHQ
 Chapter 14: We’re Just Bored You’re Still Alive
Chapter Notes

I don’t care what anyone says, Alfred has a gruff, Brummie accent and no-one can
change my mind. By all means, give me RP Alfred, or do what Gotham did and make
him Cockney, but I personally like to imagine him as coming from Birmingham.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

“The fuck do you mean, ‘Peter is unconscious in the Bat Cave’?” Jason stressed. “What the
shit happened, Replacement?”

“J, calm down. He’s fine. Or, he will be. We have him, and he’s safe. I don’t know what
happened. Me and Damian just found him. When we were on patrol. But he’s okay now,”
Tim had tried to tell him, but Jason wasn’t listening.

He was scrambling for his keys.

“Why didn’t you fucking tell me sooner?” He snarled.

“We tried . Damian called three times. You didn’t pick up.”

Oh. Yeah. That… that was true.

Jason had been busy stalking some lowlife drug dealer who’d been lacing his products with
fuck knows what. Damn scum had downed four of Jason’s kids with his crap. J might not be
able to force his kids to get clean, but he could make sure whatever crap they were putting
into their bodies was at least somewhat safe.

He ran to his bike and started to drive, not caring to end the call himself. He vaguely
registered the low beep resonating in his helmet that signalled Tim hanging up after about a
minute or so.

He made it to the cave in near record time. Clark was waiting for him. Jason wasn’t surprised
to see him. Farm boy was soft as shit.

“Are you alright?” Clark asked gently, brows creased in concern.

“Where is he.” It wasn’t a question.

“This way,” Clark thankfully knew not to push, and Jason followed him through the cave
from the entrance bay, through the main atrium where he sighted Damian typing away on the
Bat Computer, and into the designated medical wing.
Tim, Dick, and Bruce were arguing in hushed tones a few feet away from the bed occupied
by Peter.

They paused in their disagreements as soon as the noticed Jason and Clark.

“Hood,” Batman gruffed in greeting. He sounded even more like he had a stick up his arse
than usual.

“Fuck off,” Jason ignored him and walked straight to Peter’s side.

He looked terrible.

There was a cast on his right leg, and bandages on his hands. His neck was red and bruised,
as was his nose. Darkness ringed his closed eyes. There was a slight rattling croak with every
breath he took, as if even in his sleep he was in pain.

Jason remembered the first time he met Peter. A sickening deja vu washed over him. He at
least looked better dressed for the weather this time…

The jacket J had given him lay on a chair to the side, draped carefully over a stuffed
backpack.

“What happened?”

“I told you, Hood,” Tim stressed. “I don’t know. He was just walking around Coventry like
that.”

“Why did you bring him here?”

“That’s what I said,” Dick piped up, but was ignored.

“I don’t know, it’s not like he’s some random civilian I could just drop off at a hospital. He’s,
you know…” Tim vaguely gestured to the jacket. “And he’s my friend .”

Jason was glaring at him, but the effect diminished thanks to Tim not actually being able to
see it through the Red Hood helmet. “What happens when he wakes up in the fucking Bat
Cave?”

“He doesn’t have to,” Tim damn near pouted. “We could move him upstairs. Right, B?”

“Oh sure, what a way to keep a secret identity. What, you gonna fucking gaslight him or
some shit?” Jason sneered before Bruce could say anything. He didn’t like this. Not one bit.
“He fucking saw Red Robin save him, and then he wakes up in Wayne Manor.”

“What’s your idea then, huh? Keep your boyfriend stuck in the cave?” Tim snapped back.

Jason’s eye twitched. Not my boyfriend, his brain childishly piped up. “I can take him to my
place,” he spoke instead. “Or I can take him home .”
“Where we should be taking him, is to a hospital,” Dick chimed in, but both Jason and Tim
immediately snapped at him to shut the fuck up.

Tim and Jason argued back and forth for what seemed like hours, before Batman had enough.

He cleared his throat. “He will be staying in the manor for observation,” he declared quite
frankly. “If he was as delirious as Red Robin says he was, he likely won’t remember what
happened. It’s common knowledge that we work with Law Enforcement to ensure the victims
of a crime end up safe when we must leave them. We will tell him, if he asks, that Dick
recognised him and brought him to the manor, not knowing his home address.”

Jason’s eye twitched again, and his ever present headache gave him a particularly violent stab
at his temple. He held his tongue, but stormed out of the room. The door slammed shut and
he let out a snarling half scream, turning fast at the waist and launching a fist into the jagged
rock of the cave walls.

Fucking Batman could go fuck himself!

“That’s an unfair battle,” came a voice. “The wall can’t punch back.”

The antechamber he had stormed into wasn’t quite as empty as Jason had hoped it was.

He locked his eyes onto whoever it was.

“Oh. It’s you,” he deflated slightly.

“Were you hoping for someone else, Master Jason?” Alfred asked with the gruff but calming
tone he always used.

Jason wrinkled his nose. “I was hoping to be alone.”

Alfred smiled a small, annoyingly omniscient smile. “You do remember where you are, don’t
you?”

Despite himself, Jason scoffed a laugh. Alfred, as usual, was right. You couldn’t go very far
on -or under, as this case may be- the grounds of Wayne manor without running into someone
at least.

“I understand you care about the young man that Master Tim and Master Damian returned
with.”

“I don’t want him here,” Jason scowled, snapping immediately. “I don’t want him caught up
in Batman’s bullshit.”

Alfred looked at him with that stupid, endlessly patient, ’well go on’ look of his.

“It’s his whole damn M.O.” Jason gruffed. “Finds unfortunate kid with a suspicious lack of
guardians, kid finds out about Batman, kid gets sucked into the fucking whirlwind of fighting
crime in the middle of the night wearing brightly coloured spandex and no body armour.”
Alfred hummed. “Yes, that does tend to be what happens, doesn’t it?”

“We all make fucking jokes about it, but I don’t want that to happen to Peter.”

“How do you know it will?”

Jason stared at the old man was irritated bewilderment. “It’s what always happens.” He took
a breath and let out a deep groan. “Urgh, look. I get it. Bruce doesn’t mean for it to happen.
But everyone who gets close to this fucking place ends up a Robin, or dead, or both. Case
and fucking point,” he gestured to himself. Sobering slightly he added, voice lowered and
eyes averted slightly, “It’s also embarrassing.” He kicked the ground, sending a loose stone
skittering across the floor. “I like him, Alfred.”

Alfred stepped forward and lightly placed a hand on his arm, a warm smile pulling at his lips.
“Come along, Master Jason. I have a batch of cookies due to be taken out of the oven.
Perhaps I’ll put on a brew as well, and you can ice that hand for a while.”

Jason looked to his hand. The one he had threw into the wall. It was bruising fast, and flakes
of rock clung to his grazed knuckles like dew on a spiderweb. Yeah, ice sounded like a good
idea.

Peter had been transferred from the cave to one of the spare rooms in the mansion.

He was still unconscious, but Alfred said his vital signs looked good, so that was something.
It had only been a few hours. It wasn’t even close to sunrise yet.

Jason hoped he’d wake up soon. Unconscious wasn’t a way to spend Christmas, after all.

The whole situation had put a damper on the day. No-one was particularly merry. At least, not
those who were awake, anyway. The only one who seemed to be somewhat jolly was Alfred,
but that was probably only because Jason was there.

Jason had sworn off family holidays.

Up until a year ago, he had sworn off family in general.

This Christmas would be the first Jason would spend at the mansion since before he died, and
he was only sticking around because of Peter. This year Alfred had all of his kids under one
roof.

Dick had time off from work; Tim, Cass, Steph, and Duke were on Winter break; and even
Barbara was going to be around seeing as though her dad was working on Christmas this
year.

Jason busied himself in the kitchen with Alfred. He and Clark were the only ones Alfred
allowed to do more than boil water, so they were helping prep Christmas dinner. If he didn’t
have vegetables to peel, he would just be pacing in Peter’s room, waiting for him to wake up.

He didn’t understand quite why he felt so attached to Peter. It wasn’t like they knew each
other very well. They hadn’t even been on a date or anything. Yeah, the guy was cute, and
they had some fun the other day, but that wasn’t it. Peter felt familiar. Weirdly familiar. Like
an old friend of a friend you only recognise by face. There was an energy about him that kept
him hooked, like a goddamn worm on a string. It was near infuriating.

Jason didn’t do relationships. Not romantically. At least, not anything more than the odd one
night stand. He didn’t wanna drag anyone into his life of crazy. The kids he helped out as Red
Hood, the other heroes and vigilantes, they were all already entrenched in some sort of
dangerous bullshit, and even then he kept his distance.

But then there was Peter. He had just been some new homeless kid who got in a bad situation
and needed help. But then he kept showing up.

Hours passed and it wasn’t long before it was actually a socially acceptable time to be awake.
Most of the prep work Alfred had Jason help with was done, and he had been shooed away
with a plate of chocolate chip cookies to share with the others. As if that was going to
happen.

Jason immediately beelined for Peter’s room, bypassing the living room completely, which
was where most of the mansion’s residents had congregated to kick off the holiday. He hadn’t
actually been shown which room was Peter’s, but he tried pretty much every guest room until
he found the one Peter was in. To be fair, though, he didn’t have to search very long as he
saw Tim sitting on a chair outside the guest room closest to his own. He should’ve known.

While Jason was still upset with the guy, he looked so worried, so pitiful, that he didn’t have
the heart in that moment to be snide.

“I take it he hasn’t woken up yet,” he said, stepping close and smiling wryly.

Tim looked up at him with stress clear in his eyes. Jason didn’t think he had ever seen him
so… frazzled?

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Jason grimaced. “Alfred made cookies,” he offered.

Tim took one but didn’t eat it. He held it in his hands and chewed on his lip.

He looked exactly how Jason felt.

Jason sighed. “He’ll be alright, you know? Pete bounces back fast. Remember the coffee
shop? He was all fine a few days later. And, er, I saw him in a similar state when I met him
the first time. He’ll be okay. He’s tough.” He was mostly trying to reassure himself. Peter had
told him. He heals fast. And Jason had seen it first hand before. It was hard to remember
though, in the situation he was in.

“I just wanna know what happened,” Tim grumbled. “He was completely out of it, J. He
thought I was a guy called Wade? And he threw up on Damian.”

Jason was about to attempt to console Tim again, but he couldn’t help the bark of surprise at
the last comment. “He what?”

The question lingered for a moment before he and Tim started to laugh.
 “It got all over his cape,” Tim said. “It was so gross.”

“Demon’s gonna hate Pete even more now.” Jason was howling.

“I know,” drawled out Tim, wiping tears from his eyes.

It took a long while for either of them to calm. As soon as there was even a moment of
silence, at least one of them started snickering again, which would set the other off.

Eventually, though, Jason found himself sitting next to Tim, cross legged on the floor as they
each stuffed their faces with the heavenly ambrosia that was Alfred’s chocolate chip cookies.

“Whoever it was that did that to Pete,” Jason spoke in between mouthfuls, “Is fucking dead.”

Tim nodded gravely. “Do you think it was anyone big? Has anyone slipped out of Arkham
without us realising, or something?”

Jason shrugged. Not that he knew of. “Not everything is the work of the rogues,” he
reminded Tim.

“I know that,” Tim defended. “It’s just, it doesn’t look like he got robbed. His bag is full. If
he was mugged, surely they would have taken his bag.”

“What if he was mugged, but he got away? Like last time.”

“Maybe. It doesn’t feel right though…” Tim took a bite of cookie sadly.

“What is it with Peter and getting mugged?” Jason forced a laugh.

“…Guy has shit luck.”

Chapter End Notes

If anyone is interested, here’s a playlist of all the songs that inspire the fic (or that I
chose just because the lyrics kinda work well for a chapter title, you’ll never know
which), in order of their appearance as chapter titles. A new song will be added with
every chapter.
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3IcsnymJgTBdTNXwZF8Mz6?si=rB8D8JdmSC-
5TkebPVEaHQ
 Chapter 15: I’m Alright If You’re Alright
Chapter Summary

Hope y’all are having a good winter. Perfect timing from me to have this chapter be out
on Christmas.

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Peter’s eyes snapped open and a rush of light and colour flooded into view. Panic set in.

Where was he?

What happened?

Why did everything hurt so much?

Carefully, he pushed himself into a seated position and looked around. When he moved, his
leg screamed at him to stop.

The room he was in was large, and richly decorated. Everything looked old, in a pristine
antique way, and everything looked far too expensive. So much so that Peter would be afraid
to damage things simply by observing.

He was laying in a bed that was way too soft, under sheets that had a thread count higher than
Wade on a Sunday afternoon, with pillows like clouds beneath him.

Early morning sun filtered in through a crack in intimidatingly tall velvet curtains, and lay a
golden beam across Peter’s lap. Cautious, he attempted to move again, pushing away the
covers.

Ah.

So that was why his leg hurt.

There was a cast on his right leg, from his ankle up to his knee. He then noticed the other
bandages. The ones on his hands.

With a confused grimace, he looked around the room again.

His bag, jacket, and boots were resting on a plush looking armchair nearby, and they looked
relatively untouched.
Pushing himself to a stand, ignoring the pain in his leg as best he could, he limped towards
the chair. He first checked his bag. Nothing seemed amiss. Everything looked right.

He then checked his jacket. He didn’t fail to hold it close first, and take in the lingering scent
of gunpowder that managed to calm his mind ever so. As he held it, though, he noticed
something odd. The pockets were zipped up, and they bulged out weirdly. Whatever was in
them was almost soft. Kind of crunchy, too, and a touch unyielding. Like rolled up paper.

Tentative, he unzipped the pockets and had a near heart attack when a rolled wad of twenties
fell out. There were around four others stuffed into the pocket, and Peter could only imagine
his other pocket contained similar.

He scooped it off the floor and shoved it back inside and zipped it closed. His heart raced,
and his eyes the door just in case as he tried to catch his breath.

He should not have that much money in his pockets.

Shaking from the adrenaline that was freshly coursing through his veins, he shoved his arms
into the jacket and made to try pull on his boots. He had to get out, wherever he was, things
weren’t right.

Trying to force a boot over a cast, in low light, while not even able to think straight… was
not a very good idea.

Peter came crashing down as his head spun, and he landed with a thud on the hardwood floor.

“Gah!” He didn’t exactly cry out. It was more of a pained gasp.

The door immediately opened and in dashed Tim and Jay.

They looked… scared? Worried? A strange mix of the two?

Jay rushed to Peter’s side, helping him up. Peter hadn’t quite processed it yet, and he simply
stared at him as though he had grown two new heads.

“Why are you here?”

His voice was croaky and barely audible. It felt like he had inhaled a bucket full of nails.

“Are you okay?” Jay asked.

Peter frowned. “I’m fine…” he wasn’t hurting too much. At least, not any much more than
before, he was just startled. “Jay, where are we? What’s going on?”

“We’re at Wayne Manor,” said Jay. “Come on, sit down. You shouldn’t be putting weight on
that leg.”

“I’m fine,” Peter repeated, though he let Jay manoeuvre him into the arm chair. “Wayne
Manor?” He looked across the room at Tim, who was lingering by the door.
Tim nodded. “Are you okay? What happened last night?”

“I,” Peter’s frown deepened. “I don’t… I don’t remember,” he said, trying to think. He knew
he had left to meet with Harley around nine, and he must have fought if the cash in his jacket
was any indication. Clearly that must be why he felt as though he had been hit by a truck. But
he couldn’t remember it. “Why don’t I remember?”

Jay and Tim looked at one another, sharing a concerned gaze.

“What’s the last thing you do remember?” Asked Tim, tentatively.

Peter thought back. “Um…” he said. “Leaving the house? I wanted to give Mr and Mrs
Packer some space over Christmas.”

Tim frowned. “Where were you going to go?”

Peter looked away. “I dunno,” he admitted. “Sleep on a roof or something? That’s what I did
before… um,” he didn’t know wether or not it was a good idea to mention he had
encountered Red Hood or not.

“You slept on roofs?” Jay asked, though it was more of a surprised demand.

Peter flushed, embarrassed. He hadn’t told Jay about him being homeless. Tim might have,
but he doubted it, considering he played cool when he lied about volunteering at the shelter
they met at. “No-one goes on roofs,” he said weakly.

“Dude, it’s fucking winter. It was snowing last night!”

Peter shrugged. He could admit that he didn’t have a plan when he left the house last night,
but he never had a plan and things tended to work out in the end. The only thing close to a
plan had been meet with Harley, fight, see what happens next. “How did I end up here?”

“Red Robin dropped you off with the cops in Blüdhaven. You were all beat up,” said Tim.
“Dick brought you back here. Our butler, Alfred, he was in the army as a medic. Figured
you’d prefer him to a hospital.”

Peter flushed. He very much did appreciate not having been taken to a hospital, but he felt
bad that they had to help him in the first place. He didn’t even know how he had ended up in
such a condition. Sure, he could make an educated guess, but he didn’t like guessing. He
liked facts. He liked knowing what the fuck happened to him.

The mention of Red Robin did bring a vague recollection of a cape in the snow, but it blurred
past all too quickly.

“So… you guys live here?” Peter asked. If this bedroom was anything to go by, he could only
imagine the rest of the place. He found it bizarre. He knew Tim and Jay were rich, but he had
never imagined them living in a place like this. He had originally pictured something like
what Tony had. Super modern and sleek. Not this old, gothic stuff. Then again, this was
Gotham. Everything felt a lot older and a lot darker than New York.
Jay scoffed. “Nah. I got my own place. So do most of the others. Dick’s got his apartment in
Blüdhaven, the nerds have their dorms.”

“Calling me a nerd when you read Pride and Prejudice for fun,” Tim sniffed, muttering under
his breath pettily.

“It’s only really Damian and Bruce who live here full time,” Jay continued, ignoring his
brother. “I come back here for Alfred’s cooking like, once a month?”

“You gotta come and meet Alfred,” Tim’s eyes lit up.

“I mean, he has to,” Jay said. He looked to Peter with complete seriousness. “Make sure you
didn’t hurt yourself more when you fell.”

Peter flushed from embarrassment.

He was carefully led through the manor, leaning on Jay to keep pressure off his bad leg. For
some reason, thankfully, there was an elevator near the stairs. Maybe because of Barbara,
Peter remembered the ginger woman from the Christmas market. The elevator looked a lot
newer than its surroundings, though on a surface level it looked to have been decorated to try
and match the theming. Peter just had a particularly keen eye.

Downstairs smelled divine, and Peter’s stomach grumbled loudly.

“Kitchen’s this way,” Tim led, directing them through a long corridor. They passed an open
door into what looked like a living room, where about a dozen people, some of whom Peter
recognised, were sitting and conversing, opening presents.

Peter furrowed his brows. “Shouldn’t they have waited for you?” He asked Jason, nodding to
the room they had waled away from.

Jason attempted to shrug, but it was hard to do while being used as a crutch. “Told them not
to. Didn’t really feel like celebrating with you knocked out upstairs.”

“Besides,” Tim piped up, “We always wait to do big stuff with Alfred.” He pushed open the
door to the kitchen. “Alfred!” He beamed, tone like singing.

There was an old man standing by the oven, stirring a pan on the hob. He wore a smart black
suit with a lacy pink apron over the top of it. “Master Tim, I hope you’re not planning on
getting in my way,” he warned lightly as Tim hopped up onto a free counter.

Alfred swatted him with the wooden spoon he was using.

“Ah, sorry.” Tim backed away.

Alfred hummed incredulously. He looked to Peter and Jay. “It’s good to see you awake,
Master Peter.”

Peter blushed. “Please just call me Peter,” he requested. Jay helped him further inside and he
settled on a chair in the corner.
Tim snickered, “Not a chance, man. He’s gonna call you that forever. Remember when he
met Duke?”

Jay had a blank look on his face. “No,” he said.

Tim shrugged, and stole a tart off a nearby tray.

Alfred whacked his hand with the spoon.

“You know the rules, Master Tim.” He walked over to Peter. “How are you feeling?”

Peter shifted. “I’m fine.”

“He fell,” Jason said.

Peter glared at him. “It wasn’t that bad. Really, I’m all good. Doesn’t even hurt that much
anymore.”

Jason raised a brow. “You have a broken leg.”

Peter shrugged. It really didn’t hurt all that much anymore. A mild ache at worst. “I told you.
I heal fast.”

“Well, the swelling in your face has gone down significantly,” Alfred mused. “May I see your
hands?”

Peter allowed the man to unwrap his bandaged hands. The insides of the bandages were
bloody, but there were virtually no wounds to be seen. Only faint scars on his knuckles.

Alfred hummed. “I suppose you can leave these off now. But do be careful on that leg.”

Peter nodded. Alfred had the kind of voice that you just had to listen to. That you couldn’t
say no to. “I will.”

“Good,” Alfred smiled. “Why don’t you all go through to the living room. There are snacks
laid out for everyone before dinner if you’re hungry.”

“Thanks, Alfred.”

Tim near ran out of the room at the mention of snacks. Jason and Peter followed behind at a
slower pace.

It seemed like Tim had warned those in the room that they were coming, as no-one stared
when they entered. That made Peter feel a lot more at ease.

Jason, on the other hand, had a present lobbed at him. He had to let go of Peter to catch it
before it hit him in the face.

“Oi! What the fuck, Dickwing?” Jason barked.

“Sorry,” Grayson cringed, noticing how Peter had stumbled a ways. “Merry Christmas?” He
offered.

Jason glared at him.

Peter looked around the room properly. He recognised Bruce and Clark, as well as Conner -
who had wrapped his arm about Tim- and Dick and Barbara. Damian, of course, was sitting
across the room glaring daggers that seemed even more threatening than the last time they
had met.

A small handful of others, Peter didn’t recognise. A tall, blonde woman around his age who
was sitting with a darker haired woman on her lap, sharing a plate of crackers. There was a
young boy, maybe a year or two younger than Damian, who looked a lot like Conner. He was
sitting by the large, lavishly decorated Christmas Tree, unwrapping a small present. And then
there was a dark skinned teenager standing by a table laden with snacks, picking at different
plates.

“Everyone, this is Peter. Peter, this is everyone,” Jason gruffed, clearly not happy to be here.
He tossed his present onto one of the sofas and helped Peter sit down. He reached into his
pocket and hurled whatever it was he pulled out at Grayson.

Somehow, the man caught it with a relaxed smile. “Thanks, man.” Apparently it was a
keyring. From where he was sitting, Peter saw a cute, festive Robin charm. “Hi Peter. You
doing alright?”

Peter smiled wryly, mentally preparing himself for an interrogation. “Yeah. They said you
brought me here from Blüdhaven. Thanks for that,” he said a touch pathetically. “Don’t really
wanna have to deal with medical bills right now,” he tried to joke, though it came out a little
forced.

“No trouble,” Grayson smiled. “You really gotta stop getting beaten up though.”

Peter did laugh at that. “I know. I don’t do it on purpose.” Lies.

“What happened to you, anyway?” Asked the blonde woman. “I’m Steph, by the way. This is
Cass,” she pecked Cass on the cheek fondly.

Cass eyed Peter with a similar expression to the one Damian was shooting his way. It was
uncomfortable, and made Peter shift in his seat. “I, er, don’t remember,” he said, trying to
ignore Cass’ gaze.

“Are you sure?” Bruce asked, tone calm but serious. The creepy vibe Peter had gotten from
him at the Christmas Market was back.

He shifted again.

“Me and Tim asked him all this earlier. Back off,” Jay scowled. “Oi, Duke,” he called to the
kid by the snack table. “Don’t go eating all the mince pies.”
Duke looked sheepishly at him, mouth full and crumbling pastry falling to the hard wood
floor. “They’re good though.”

That caused a round of laughs about the room, and Peter was able to relax as attention shifted
away from him.

“We can just bail, you know,” Jay muttered to Peter after a moment, clocking his anxiety.
“Say the word, and we’re out.”

“You’d do that?”

Jay shrugged. “I don’t do Christmas. I’m only around cause, you know, I was worried about
you.”

Peter blushed. Discreetly, he took Jay’s hand and gave it a small squeeze.

If Jay was alarmed by the action, he didn’t look it, and he squeezed back as a fond smile
graced his lips.

Twenty minutes later, after an attempt from Bruce to make small talk, Peter took Jay up on
his offer.

He really didn’t understand why he found the man so creepy, but he did. Not to mention
Damian was still staring at him as though he wished he would spontaneously combust. He
also just felt really weird to be intruding on the Wayne family Christmas.

They didn’t take a bike this time. Peter was glad. He didn’t think that would be too good for
his leg. Instead he had stood in mild horror as he watched Jay steal car keys from Grayson’s
pocket, the cop none the wiser. Jay had winked at him, and tugged him gently out of the room
when nobody was paying attention.

The only person they bid goodbye to was Alfred, who, somehow, had a bag filled with
Tupperwares of food prepped for them to take. He gave Jay a fond smile, and warned Peter
once again to be careful on his leg, and to come back in a few days for a checkup.

Peter sat patiently, nervously, in the passenger side of the about-to-be-stolen dark blue sports
car as Jay went back inside for his bag.

Jay’s flat was a lot more like what Peter had envisioned he would call home. It was small and
cozy. Lightly messy, but warm and inviting. An odd, but not completely surprising, sight was
seeing at least one book on every single surface; be it a desk, a coffee table, a kitchen counter.
There also wasn’t a bookcase anywhere that Peter could see, so stacks of books sat on the
floor, pushed up against walls to leave space to walk around.

The living room was cluttered but clean, and the sofa plush and soft. There were a few
crumpled T-shirts on it -and two unmatched socks- that Jay quickly cleared away before he
helped Peter sit down.

“I wasn’t really expecting to have anyone over,” he admitted. “So it’s a bit of a mess. You can
stay here as long as you want. Whenever you want, too,” he added after a pause. “Don’t want
 you sleeping on fucking roofs again.” He laughed, but Peter saw the concern in his eyes.
“Next time you need to give your landlords space, drop me a message, yeah?”

It wasn’t a suggestion.

Peter nodded, sheepishly.

Jay disappeared into a different room, then reappeared with an armful of very soft looking
blankets. He dropped down onto the sofa beside Peter, then draped the plush fabrics over
them both and switched on the T.V.

They ended up staying that way for the rest of the day, eating the food Alfred had given them,
and watching every Christmas Carol adaptation they could find.

“You know,” Jay said after they finished the Muppets version. “I think this is the best
Christmas I’ve had in a while.”

That caught Peter off guard, “What?”

Jay shrugged. “I usually spend it alone, but this is nice.”

Peter blushed. Despite his leg, and despite the day’s awkwardness, he had to agree that this
was nice.

It was a far cry to how he used to spend Christmas. Aunt May loved Christmas and always
made a big event of it, inviting their friends and neighbours round for a party in the evening.
With Wade and Matt, Matt would go to church in the morning, and Peter would hang out with
Wade. The they’d go out for drinks after patrol. Well, Matt and Wade would drink. Peter
would just bask in the atmosphere.

But this? Sitting with Jay, watching movies under cozy blankets? Yeah. This was nice.

He leaned into Jay with a smile.

Chapter End Notes

If anyone is interested, here’s a playlist of all the songs that inspire the fic (or that I
chose just because the lyrics kinda work well for a chapter title, you’ll never know
which), in order of their appearance as chapter titles. A new song will be added with
every chapter.
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3IcsnymJgTBdTNXwZF8Mz6?si=rB8D8JdmSC-
5TkebPVEaHQ
 Not A Chapter (I’m sorry)

Okay y’all, Imma say probably the worst thing an AO3 author can say.
I’m taking a little break from this fic. Don’t worry! I will come back!
This is just me having other projects to deal with that have a deadline to them, as well as the
fact that I’ve been severely neglecting my other fics.
In the meantime, those of you who want something a little spicy, shall we say, and were
curious as to what went down between Jason and Peter in the 27 minutes between chapter 11
and chapter 12, check out the oneshot collection I’ve started up in the Spidey Batfam series.
Who knows, maybe you’ll also get some more oneshots there (not necessarily smut) while
I’m on a break from this particular fic.
 Chapter 16: I Blinked And Suddenly
Chapter Summary

Relatively short, but here’s some sweet fluff and filler for you 😇
Slowly getting back into the story now my deadline’s come and gone. Project went well,
so the stress is over.
Was a shorter break than I expected thankfully. I was expecting to deal with creative
burnout for a while but I’m glad I don’t have to deal with that shit.

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

“Merry Christmas,” Jay presented a crudely wrapped parcel.

Peter cocked his head. He was sitting on the sofa in Jay’s living room, injured leg resting on a
pillow atop the coffee table as he had been since they fell asleep together the night before. He
had woken up around midday, Jay nowhere to be seen, though Peter had heard him clattering
about in the kitchen. He had been pleasantly surprised by a mug of coffee and a kiss to the
cheek when he came back into the room.

“What’s this?” Peter asked, taking the parcel from Jay and giving it a gentle squeeze as if he
could determine its secrets through touch alone. It was soft. Squishy.

“Open it,” Jay shrugged. There were deep bags under his eyes, and Peter assumed he didn’t
get much sleep. He wondered, ashamed, if it was because of him.

Pushing the thoughts aside, he unwrapped the a shiny paper carefully. He broke into a grin.
“This is so cute,” he declared at the newly revealed spider plushie. It was an opalescent
jumping spider with cartoon proportions. It was fuzzy, and the fake fur tickled Peter’s
sensitive skin.

Jay smiled.

“You know, I’m scared of spiders,” he admitted, “But this is adorable.”

Jay’s brows creased in alarm. “You’re scared of spiders?”

Peter shrugged.

“You draw webs over all your notes,” Jay accused.

Blushing at the hypocrisy that had been pointed out, Peter defended himself, “That’s cause
spiderwebs look cool. Spiders on the other hand,” he wrinkled his nose. “They freak me out. I
was bitten by a spider once. Worst week of my life,” he exaggerated. While it had been the
worst week of his life at the time, he had plenty since that topped it twenty times over.

Jay pulled a face. “I can return it,” he said. “I, er, kept the receipt.”

Peter hissed playfully, clutching his jumping spider plushie close to his chest. “Don’t you
dare touch Nedward.”

“Nedward?”

“Yes. His name is Nedward, and he is my son.”

Jay couldn’t fight the laughter that erupted past his lips. “You’re so weird.”

“Thank you,” preened Peter.

They ended up sitting for a while, Jason reading aloud from one of the many books dotted
around the apartment. It was relaxing, and Peter felt calm.

But then he felt antsy. He wasn’t used to staying in one place so long. At least not when he
didn’t have some project or other to occupy his brain or his hands.

Jason seemed to notice after a while of him fidgeting.

“Do you wanna go for a walk?” He asked, setting down his book.

“Fuck, yes,” Peter let out a loud affirmative. Realising his enthusiasm, he flushed. “I mean,
yeah. Sure, sounds good,” he amended.

Jason snickered. “No need to sound so excited, Princess,” he teased, poking his forehead.

“Shut up,” Peter huffed. “I wanna go shopping,” he said. “Places should be open, right?” He
asked.

Jason shrugged. “I guess.” His eyes lit up, “There’s a bakery not too far away that always has
a sale on the day after Christmas.”

Peter brightened, excited, “You had me at bakery.”

“He’s gotta be ‘round here somewhere,” Peter mused.

“Are you sure? Street kids don’t usually hang out during the day.”

Peter shook his head, “Not a street kid.” Technically speaking, Peter added in his head.
“Besides, I asked his sister. Ah! I see him!” Peter launched into motion, moving as fast as his
crutches would allow. He didn’t know exactly why Jason had had crutches just sitting,
gathering dust, in his apartment’s utility closet, but he had.

He near pranced into the alleyway he had spied Casey in.

“Hey Casey,” Peter greeted the boy, who startled away from the wall he had definitely not
been attacking with spray paint.

There were a handful of other kids there, who seemed to be around the same age as Casey,
and they all fled.

“Where the hell have you been?” Casey demanded in leu if a greeting, surprised, nearly
dropping his spray can. “What happened to your leg?”

“Got mugged. Not important. How you been?” Peter shrugged with a wide grin, though he
hated that he was lying to his first Gotham friend.

Casey looked at him sceptically, but answered, “Not bad. Abbey bought us a space heater for
Christmas.”

“That’s awesome!” Declared Peter, happy for the boy. “I’ve actually been looking for you,”
he said. “I got you a present. Jay,” he called out to the alley’s entrance where Jay was
lingering.

Casey tensed. “Who’s he?” He demanded, and Peter couldn’t help but imagine him as a
startled cat, hair on end and tail like a bottle brush.

“He’s chill,” Peter assured. “Jay, get your cute butt over here, please.”

Jay was tentative as he stepped forward. Peter could tell it wasn’t for nerves, but rather that
he didn’t want to upset Casey. He held the shopping bags loosely, and offered them to Peter.

With one hand, Peter rummaged through one then tossed Casey a ball of fabric.

Casey caught it, though he was still eying Jay cautiously. “I know you,” he mused tersely, not
bothering to look at his gift.

If Jay was affected in any way by the accusation, he didn’t show it. “Do you?”

“You knocked out a creep who was pestering Glimmer,” said Casey.

“Did I?” It was less of a question, and more of a statement.

Casey wrinkled his nose, but finally looked down at the bundle in his hands. He blinked,
unraveling it. “You got me a coat?” He looked to Peter, surprised.

Peter grinned. “I texted Abbey. Said your favourite colour was aquamarine. Didn’t know
what that meant, but Jay said it was kinda like turquoise. Do you like it?”

Casey observed the coat. It was lined with a fleece. “It’s nice,” he said.

“There’s something in the pocket for Abbey too,” Peter smiled. “Happy Christmas, bud.”

Casey looked only a touch uncomfortable, but he put on the coat. It fit on the most part,
though the arms were a little long. “I didn’t get you anything.”
Peter shrugged. “Didn’t need to. You’ve helped me out a bunch since I got here. ‘S all I
need.”

A small smile pulled at the tween’s lips.

“Stay safe, yeah?” Peter nudged Casey’s arm. “I’ll see you round. Come on, Jay, you
promised me cake.”

Jay rolled his eyes good-naturedly, “Yeah, okay Princess.”

Casey watched them as they left the alley. He zipped up the coat and buried his chin into the
collar with a blushing smile as his friends slowly reappeared.

“So that’s why we stopped at that shelter earlier?” Jay asked as he led the way to the bakery.

“Abbey works there,” Peter nodded. “She, er,” he pulled a face, contemplating his words.
“Has Tim told you about how he met me?”

Jay cocked his head. “You volunteered together, right?”

“I mean, not really,” Peter admitted. “I, er, we met at a shelter. That one,” he added, referring
to the one they had just been talking about. “I was staying there,” he said. “I mentioned
sleeping on rooftops, right?”

There was a silence as they walked that Peter couldn’t quantify. He had been looking away
from Jay as he spoke, but snuck a peek after a moment and saw an unreadable look on his
face.

“You do realise that I’m gonna spoil you more, right?” Jay finally said.

Peter flushed, pausing in his stride. “You really don’t-“

“I may not like B, but I still get an allowance from him,” Jay scoffed. “Rich as fuck,
remember?”

That made Peter flush harder. He grumbled to himself about ‘billionaire bait’ and ‘spending
too much time with stupid Wade’.

“Okay,” Jay mused, speaking through a mouthful of cake.

The bakery they had stopped at was small, and smelled amazing. They had cupcakes the size
of Peter’s head, and cakes even larger. Baguettes and all kinds of bread that looked and
smelled heavenly, and cookies that Peter was sure to give even the sweetest of sweet-tooths
the time of their lives. Jay had bought an assortment of sweet treats, and they were working
their way through them on a park bench. There was snow on the ground that glowed a faint
amber as the sun began its descent in the sky.

“What’s your favourite way to spend the holidays?”

Peter laughed at the antic, and he easily answered, “It’s been years, but, when I was little, my
uncle would let me light the last candle on our menorah. We had a beautiful silver one that
used to belong to my grandmother. I thought it was so pretty. Nothing I’ve ever done since
has come close.”

Jay blinked. “You’re Jewish?” He asked with curiosity.

“I mean, in theory, I guess,” Peter shrugged, taking a bite out of a cookie. “I’ve never been all
that religious, and after my uncle died I didn’t really keep up with all the traditions and stuff.”

Jay had a sad look in his eyes. It was clear to Peter that he wanted to ask certain questions,
but he was refraining.

“It’s okay,” Peter assured him. “You can ask. It was a long time ago.”

“What happened to him?” Was the first.

Peter expected as much. “A burglar,” he said. “Me and my aunt, we weren’t home. He was.”

“I’m sorry,” Jay furrowed his brow. “Were you close?”

Peter nodded. “He raised me. My parents were in a plane crash when I was six.”

Jay gave a wry smile. “That sucks.”

Peter nodded. “You were adopted, right? By Bruce?”

“Yeah,” Jay wrinkled his nose. “Don’t get me wrong, it was a good thing at the time. He
didn’t have to take me in. But I’m pretty sure you’ve noticed I can’t stand the guy.”

Shrugging, Peter said, “Every family has their dysfunctions. If yours were perfect I’d
probably wonder what sick, twisted shit goes on in the background.”

That made Jay laugh. “Yeah, probably.” In a calmer tone he continued, “Bruce is a good
guy,” he said. “He just goes about certain things all wrong. The accident I mentioned, that
made my eyes all weird?”

Peter acknowledged him with a hum.

“He did nothing to the bastard that caused it. Nothing lasting, anyway.”

“And you’ve held a grudge since?”

Jay shrugged. “I got over it on the most part,” he said. “But ever since then I realised his way
of thinking doesn’t cause actual, lasting change. He does all these things for the good of
Gotham, but nothing ever changes. It’s still a rotting pile of trash that calls itself a city.”

It seemed like a topic Jay was passionate about, if the gentle glow of green from his left eye
was any indication.
Peter nudged his shoulder lightly, and shot him a smile. “Hey, do you smell that?” He asked.

Jay seemed to physically shake, the green fading back to blue. “Chinese?” He sniffed the air.

“Chinese,” Peter confirmed. “Come on, let’s get lunch!”

“But we just had cake,” Jay called after Peter, who was speeding away on his crutches fast
enough that Jay had to catch up with a jog. He was laughing, as was Peter.

“So?” Peter countered. “I’m hungry.”

“What’s your favourite colour,” Peter asked as they waited for their food to arrive. The
Chinese restaurant was mostly empty, and wasn’t the best looking. Peter knew from
experience, though, that the worse the atmosphere, and the worse the hospitality, the better
the food. Judging by the smell, and the handful of other patrons who were digging into
amazing looking dishes, he was right about this place.

“Um, red,” Jay decided. “You?”

“Green.”

Jay cocked his head, looking Peter over. “I don’t see it.”

Peter shrugged. “I said it was my favourite, not that I look good in it.”

Jay chuffed, “Okay, fair. Favourite Justice League member,” he challenged.

Peter furrowed his brow. “Superman,” he said. Mostly because that’s the only member of the
Justice League he could remember the name of. He thought he had read somewhere that
Batman was part of the Justice League? Maybe. He couldn’t quite remember.

Jay nodded his head in thought. “Fair,” he mused. “Wonder Woman is way better though.”

Peter shrugged. He didn’t want to admit that he had no clue who Jay was talking about.
“Favourite book?”

Jay pulled a face. “Rude. That’s like asking for a favourite song. I can’t choose just one,” he
pouted.

Peter laughed. “Okay, fair. What about… oh! Favourite Bat.”

Jay scoffed, leaning back in his chair, “Oracle, obviously.”

“Aren’t they just an urban legend?” That’s what Casey had told him, anyway. No-one had
ever seen Oracle.

Jay shrugged. “All the bats were at some point,” he pointed out.
Peter hadn’t known that, but he supposed it made sense. From what he had read, all of
Gotham’s heroes were on the elusive side. “I have to go with whoever it was that saved me
the other day,” he admitted. “I think they had a cape?”

“Eh, a lot of them have capes,” said Jay. “But you’re talking about Red Robin and Robin,” he
continued. “Dick told me.”

“Doesn’t that get confusing?” Peter asked. “They both have Robin in their names.”

“I guess,” Jay admitted. “And then you add Red Hood to the mix,” he snickered.

“Isn’t Red Hood a crime boss?”

A flash of emotion flickered in Jay’s eyes that Peter couldn’t quite pin down. Hurt, maybe?
Guilt?

“Depends who you ask,” he said. “A few years ago, everyone would have said yes. He’s done
a lot of good since, though. Most people in Crime Alley like him. He keeps it safe. Safer than
it was, anyway.” Peter must have pulled a face, because Jay then added, “I grew up in Crime
Alley. Before I met Bruce. It used to be real bad. There’s a reason people call it that, and not
Park Row.”

And then their food arrived, and conversation shifted.

The next day went much the same. Falling asleep together on the sofa, waking up to a large
cup of coffee, and Jay reading to him before they went on a walk in the cool winter
afternoon.

Peter’s leg had stopped hurting after the second day.

He stopped using his crutches after the third. They made a quick trip to Wayne manor so
Alfred could remove the cast and Jay returned Grayson’s car. He ended up stealing one of
Bruce’s so they could get back home, but that wasn’t the point.

They listened to the radio on the way back, Jay and Peter singing loudly to classic rock
songs, doing bad impressions of musicians and radio hosts. And then there was an
interruption.

“Breaking news, Gothamites,” the host’s voice cut through the abrupt pause of Living On A
Prayer. “The Joker has escaped from Arkham Asylum. Please, return to your homes and lock
your doors and windows. Find shelter as soon as you can. Law enforcement are on the move
to apprehend the Joker, before he can cause any harm, however it is in your best interests to
stay off the streets and stay inside until further-“

Jay turned off the radio.

His eyes were glowing green.

Chapter End Notes

If anyone is interested, here’s a playlist of all the songs that inspire the fic (or that I
chose just because the lyrics kinda work well for a chapter title, you’ll never know
which), in order of their appearance as chapter titles. A new song will be added with
every chapter.
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3IcsnymJgTBdTNXwZF8Mz6?si=rB8D8JdmSC-
5TkebPVEaHQ
 Chapter 17: All I Saw Was Bloodless Ideology
Chapter Summary

Two in one day? I’m spoiling you all.

Enjoy 😘

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

“Jay?” Peter questioned, worried.

Jay’s knuckles were white as he gripped the steering wheel. He was staring, more like
glaring, through the windscreen at the road.

“Jay?” Peter asked again.

Jay suddenly turned the car to the right, the tires screeching as he sped up. It took a while for
Peter to realise what was going on, but eventually he recognised they were heading to the
Packer’s home.

The car halted and Peter was glad for his seatbelt, else he would have been thrown through
the glass.

“Get inside,” Jay gruffed, not looking at Peter.

“What?”

“Get inside, now. Stay inside.”

Peter blinked, mind reeling, trying to catch up. “What about you?” He unbuckled his seatbelt
and reached into the backseat for his backpack. Most of his stuff was still at Jay’s, but he had
dropped off a few presents for Tim and Alfred when they were at the manor earlier.

“I’ll be fine.” Jay’s voice was cold, his knuckles still white and both eyes glowing a sickly
green.

Peter was hesitant to leave him, but Jay didn’t sound like he could be argued with right now.
He bit his lip and got out of the car. The door was barely closed before Jay sped away.

Peter watched him make a U-turn and disappear down the street.

Rubber burned, and the scent lingered in the air.

Peter stood, completely and utterly stunned for a moment, before he steeled himself.
The Joker…

Peter silently crawled into his room through the window, hoping not to alert his landlords.

“Okay N.N.E.D,” he mused, hurriedly opening his laptop and typing. “Show me what you
got.”

It was rudimentary at best, he wasn’t a computer guy, but he had been working on the
N.N.E.D program -short for Neural Network for Efficient Do-goodery- since he fixed up the
laptop. Now was its time to shine.

He had designed it to quickly run checks on any rogues he asked it to. To let him know who,
or what, he would be facing. Eventually, it was going to be able to do even more, and Peter
would put it in his suit. Once he had a suit, that was.

He typed in Joker, and let it run in the background as he threw on the (terrible) Spiderman
outfit he had put together. It was barely any better than what he had worn back when he first
started out in Queens. Little more than a tracksuit. Well, this time he had body armour, but
still. He had come to find that, in Gotham, quite a few places sold body armour. It made
sense, in a sad sort of way. Like how it made sense for school bags to be bulletproof.

It was dark. Black and red. He had gotten his hands on some spray paint at some point thanks
to Casey, and so there was a large, stencilled on spider across his chest in white. The hoodie
was tight fitting as were his pants. He knew from experience that baggy clothing was a
hindrance to his agility. The pants were almost leggings, but he would never admit that, and
had thin layers of armour to protect his major arteries. Better than nothing.

His webs, too, were rudimentary. His shooters were far from finished, and he had only
managed to synthesise two cartridges of webbing. They would not last long. He hated how
long he had been away from his room, despite how enjoyable it was to spend time with Jay.

Once dressed, shooters on his wrists, he looked back to his computer.

The Joker. Clown Prince of Gotham. Famous for his rivalry with Batman, his use of airborne
toxins, and his complete disregard for human life. In other words, he was dangerous.

Peter didn’t waste any time. He retrieved the gas mask that had been sitting dormant in his
backpack for weeks now and put it on. He had originally planned on goggles and a surgical
mask, but this would work too. He couldn’t risk being affected by the so called ‘Joker
Venom’.

He wasn’t sure if and how it would affect him, but he didn’t want to find out. He was sure he
looked a sight, his hood cinched tight around his face, gas mask hiding his features. He
always found gas masks to be creepy. Especially the old kind, from the world wars. This one
was such a mask. A newer make, but the old style. Large, tinted glass eye holes, a dark, thick
rubber mask, and a protruding filter that made him look more like a fly than a spider.

He hated it. He knew he was unapproachable like this. Scary. He wasn’t scary. He was
friendly neighbourhood Spiderman!
But he didn’t have time to fix his image.

“Thanks buddy,” he murmured to his laptop, before flipping it closed and leaving through the
window. “Stay safe.” He gave a glimpse back to the house, his mind worrying for Mr and
Mrs Packer. He had heard them chatting to one another downstairs, their hushed tones serious
and concerned. His name had been brought up a few times, as they worried for his
whereabouts.

As he swung through Gotham, he quickly sent them a text saying he was safe. Just to
reassure them.

He zipped his phone into his pocket, and put the Packers out of his mind.

N.N.E.D had told him that the Joker was last seen in Amusement Mile, just north of Old
Gotham and near to the Narrows. Spiderman remembered Casey mentioning that the
Narrows got hit pretty bad by rogues. He could only assume because of its proximity to
Arkham Asylum.

He moved fast, but tried to limit his web usage. It didn’t help that he wasn’t completely
familiar with the area, or that his left shooter was slow in its responses. He hadn’t been able
to fine tune it. He knew that wasn’t going to be good.

Amusement mile was… odd. It reminded him, in a way, of Coney Island, only a lot more run
down and, frankly, creepy. It was as if someone had gathered all the worst rides from Disney
and stuck them in a salt water for thirty years, then planted them on a stretch of coast in the
north of Gotham. The place looked haunted, in every sense of the word. He would not be
surprised if there were literal ghosts in the place.

It was a large stretch of land, but mostly abandoned. Spiderman was thankful for that, as it
was easy to pin where he was going. He just had to follow the sound of music and the lights
in the distance.

He crawled silently on top of a carousel, flattening low to the rusted roof.

Joker was standing on a large wooden stage in front of a ferris wheel, hostages bound with
rope as a twisted audience. Each person had a clown mask on their head. They were all silent,
likely gagged, and far too still. Spiderman would have thought them oddly lifelike
mannequins if it weren’t for the fearful heartbeats he could hear.

Patrolling the edges of this outdoor auditorium were more clown masks. Burly men with
guns. Spiderman remembered his first encounter with gun wielding, mask wearing goons. He
wondered if these, too, had poor aim.

It seemed he had entered during a monologue. On the stage was a large, cloaked figure
wearing black. The Batman, Spiderman could only assume. He was tied up with what looked
like silly string, but by the way the vigilante was struggling against it, it was definitely not
silly string.
Spiderman didn’t pay attention to the Joker much more than just filing his appearance into
memory. He was a tall man, slender and boney, with pointed features and wild, beady eyes.
His face was white with makeup, and his hair was dyed an unnatural, vibrant green. A large,
painted red smile stretched across his face like a twisted clown. In one hand he held a remote
with a single red button.

How cliche.

Moving, creeping, Spiderman stuck to the shadows. The clown mask guards were patrolling
in single units, a good few feet apart from each other. None of them were paying much
attention to their surroundings, instead watching Batman and the Joker.

It wasn’t hard for Spiderman to web them up and knock them out.

As he worked, he caught sight of large gas canisters connected to wiring. If he was a betting
man, he would say that they were linked to the remote Joker was holding. He had caught,
from what little attention he was paying to the monologue, that the Joker had cooked up a
new batch of venom he wanted to trial run before releasing it onto Gotham at large.

Once he downed the last guard, and disabled the gas tanks, Spiderman flicked his wrist,
attaching a line to the ferris wheel. “Am I late?” He asked, voice loud to counteract the
muffling effect of his gas mask, and effortlessly landing onto the stage with a backflip as he
dropped mid swing. “Sorry to miss the show.”

Joker and the bat stared at him, taken aback.

“I’m sorry,” Joker crooned, eyes narrowed in anger. “This is a closed rehearsal. I’m afraid
you don’t have a ticket!” From nowhere, he pulled out a revolver and aimed it at Spiderman,
shooting.

Spiderman danced out of the way of the bullet before anyone had time to register what had
happened.

There was a groan from behind the young vigilante and his heart skipped as he realised that
the bullet meant for him had struck one of the hostages.

“Oh, boo,” Joker scowled. “Look what you made me do. She wasn’t meant to die yet,” he
spoke in a scolding tone.

“What?” Batman growled out, struggling against the silly string rope that bound him. “Who
are you? Get out of here.”

“No can do,” Spiderman said, trying not to mourn the loss of an innocent. “You seem a bit
tied up, Mr Batman, sir. Figured you could use some assistance.”

Joker let out a cackle, “Tied up! Hah!” He aimed his gun again, but Spiderman kicked it out
of his hand before he could pull the trigger.

“Okay, rude,” Spiderman pouted. “We were talking. Stop trying to shoot me.”
“Get out of here, kid,” Batman repeated, struggling against the hardened silly string.

“Not a kid,” Spiderman stated. “Need help with that?” He asked, looking to the Bat as he
casually shot a web at Joker.

Joker let out a struggled screech, “Gross! What is this? Did this come out of you?”

Spiderman shot another web, this one to cover Joker’s mouth. He tapped the silly string,
much to Batman’s displeasure. “Huh,” he mused. “Feels like concrete. Pretty cool. Did you
make this?” He looked to Joker, who was trying to speak against the webbing. “Oh, right.
Well, anyway,” he turned back to Batman.

“Who are you?” The Bat demanded.

“Oh, right. I haven’t said yet, have I?” Spiderman blushed. “Spiderman,” he said. “Nice to
meet you. I’d shake your hand, but, er, you can’t really move right now.”

Batman glared at him.

“I’m gonna take that as ‘nice to meet you too’,” Spiderman said brightly. “So, about getting
you out of this stuff,” he reached to tear away the silly string, but was interrupted by a chill
up his spine. “Oh crap,” he frowned. “I missed one,” he grumbled, dodging a flurry of
bullets. “Hold that thought, Mr Batman!” He called out to the caped hero as he swung into
the air and danced out of the way of the bullets. He had learned his lesson from earlier, and
made sure his path avoided the civilians.

In a moment of brief calm as the clown-masked goon stopped to reload, Spiderman shot out a
web that tore the gun from his hands. “You shouldn’t play with guns,” he chastised. “They’re
not good for your health.” He landed before the goon and swiped at his legs, sending him
crashing to the ground before he tied him up with webs.

Turning back to the stage, he jogged over. “Where were we?” He questioned. “Oh, yeah, here
you go Mr Batman.” He tore away at the silly string. It crumbled under his strength like
chalk, and Batman was able to move again.

He flipped away as soon as the man lunged for him.

“Ah, no, rude,” Spiderman had to keep dodging the disgruntled hero. “I just saved you.”

“Get back here,” Batman demanded.

“What? Make your mind up, Bats. First you want me to leave, now you want me to stay?”
Peter tutted. He cast out a web and pulled himself onto the ferris wheel, sticking to one of the
cars, out of Batman’s reach. “I’d love to stay and chat,” he called out. “But I’m pretty sure
you should deal with clown dude and everyone. The cops are almost here,” he could hear
sirens in the distance, nearing. “Don’t worry, those webs will last a couple hours before
dissolving on their own.” He gave a quick salute and swung away, leaving behind an angry
bat, confused civilians, and a muffled Joker.
He was panting as he left Amusement mile. He had been able to hide it, but his left web
shooter had stopped shooting webs halfway through taking out the clown guards. Thankfully,
he was able to discreetly swap cartridges, too, when the right had run out.

His leg, also, wasn’t doing so well. Every time he landed, he couldn’t fight the shooting pain
of his barely healed bones, and his mind reeled at the thought of the woman who was killed
in his place.

Finding a convenient rooftop, he caught his breath. Bracing himself against a wall, he fought
the wave of panic that was washing over him. Someone had died because of him.

He shouldn’t be out here. He shouldn’t be doing this.

Why was he doing this?

This was supposed to be what it was all for.

All the bad stuff.

All the…

All the pain.

All the blood.

He choked out a quivering gasp as he fought tears.

He pulled out a small screwdriver he had the foresight to grab before he left his room.

“Fuck,” he hissed as his web shooter sparked, fighting his emotions and instead focusing on
fixing what he could. “Fuck!” Field maintenance on his shooters was always a pain, but in
the dark it was worse. He was pretty sure it was clogged, but he couldn’t tell for sure. The
sparks when he tried to unscrew the baseplate were really not a good sign either.

“Trouble?” A voice asked from behind him.

Spiderman startled, spinning round.

Before him stood a woman. She had long, blonde hair that poured out of her purple hood. Her
neck and the lower half of her face was covered with black fabric, and there was a bat symbol
emblazoned across her chest.

Spiderman eyed her suspiciously, but he felt nothing from his Spidey sense.

“One of the bats, right?” He asked. “Which one are you?”

The woman raised a brow, “You’re not from round here,” she accused.

“That easy to tell?” Spiderman asked with an easy -forced- laugh, pocketing his screwdriver.
The woman gave a small laugh, before speaking, presumably into an earpiece, “Found the
Spider.”

“Batman tell you to find me?” Spiderman questioned, as he overheard a faint response
through the woman’s earpiece.

“On our way, Spoiler. Oracle, coordinates?”

“Of course he did,” the woman, Spoiler, said. “It isn’t every day a new wannabe hero turns
up. You do know we don’t allow metas in Gotham, don’t you?” She asked, tone almost
sweet.

“Sounds a little prejudiced to me,” Spiderman countered lightly. “What’s the deal with that,
huh? Besides, who says I’m meta?”

“Are you saying you’re not?” Asked Spoiler, ignoring the first half of Spiderman’s question.

“I’m not not saying that,” Spiderman snickered.

Spoiler furrowed her brow.

A chill went down Spiderman’s spine and he glanced to the side to see a blue streak fly
through the air not far away. “That’s my cue,” he commented, to Spoiler’s confusion. “So
long, Spoiler. It was nice meeting you.”

He jumped off the roof, swinging away just as another bat landed beside Spoiler.

“Damn it,” he heard them curse. “Red, he’s headed your way.”

“On it, Wing,” came Red’s reply, barely audible to Spiderman as he had swung a fair distance
away.

‘Okay, sure you are, Red,’ Spiderman thought to himself. ‘Believe what you want.’ As he
swung with his right shooter, his arm began to ache. He wasn’t unused to swinging with only
one arm, his shooters oftentimes had malfunctions he had to deal with, but he was out of
practice. He hadn’t been Spiderman in near to a whole month, and most of that he had spent
undernourished, borderline hypothermic, and in a near constant state of recovering from
some injury or another.

He was losing his touch.

“Sup, man?”

He was joined through the air by a man wearing a cape that looked like feathers.

It fluttered behind him in an almost hypnotic way.

Spiderman faltered.

A cape in the snow.

Pain.

Blood…

He was hit with the sudden urge to throw up.

He missed a shot, and plummeted.

The man in the cape gave a startled yell, and dove after him, catching him by the neck of his
hoodie before grappling onto another building and returning to their path through the air.

“Shit, dude, you okay?” The man called down to him.

Spiderman was struggling for breath, his hoodie strangling him for how the caped man was
holding him.

“Shit, fuck, uh,” the man in the cape panicked, landing them both harshly onto a rooftop.

Spiderman’s leg screamed at him as he crashed down, though he was able to breathe as his
hoodie was released. He managed to ease his landing somewhat with a roll.

He righted himself and grasped at his neck, trying to massage his throat in an attempt to
soothe it somewhat.

“Fuck, are you okay?” The man in the cape asked. He sounded worried. He wore a red suit, a
familiar bat symbol across his chest, and his eyes were covered with a pointy, black domino
mask.

“Fine,” Spiderman choked out with a harsh cough. “Which- which one are you?” He asked.

The man cocked his head, eying Spiderman with clear concern, but answered, “Red Robin.
You sure you’re okay? I can get you checked out, if you come with me,” he offered.

Spiderman gave a strangled huff of a laugh, “No thanks. I’m all good. I actually have
somewhere I need to be, so,” he shot a web at Red Robin’s feet, anchoring him in place.

“What?” Red Robin tried to move, nearly losing his balance. “Hey, not cool, man.”

“Sorry,” Spiderman shrugged.

“Look, come with us, Spider. I promise, you won’t be in trouble.”

Spiderman scoffed, “Sure, sure. I’m a supposed meta vigilante, and your boss hates metas,”
he rolled his eyes, though Red Robin couldn’t see it.

“He doesn’t hate metas,” Red Robin argued, though it was weak at best. He seemed to sense
Spiderman’s raised eyebrow. “Okay, he dislikes metas, but not because of what they are. He
just doesn’t want people to get hurt.”

“I don’t do this to hurt people,” Spiderman frowned.

“That’s not what I meant,” Red backtracked. “What I meant was- urgh, whatever. Just, come
on, unstick me.”

Spiderman hummed, as if thinking the request over, but then shook his head. “Nah, I’m
good.”

Once again he dove off the roof, trying not to think about that cape in the snow.

He was running low on webs as he swung his way through the Narrows, nearing the switch
from urban to suburban. It was good timing, as it was harder to use his webs to manoeuvre
through the widely spaced two storey buildings of suburbia. He didn’t quite know why he
was taking such a strange path back home, he was pretty sure he was no longer being
followed, but he trusted his gut. Trusted the lack of warning from his spidey sense. As long as
he had enough webs.

After a while, he ducked into an alley and took off his gas mask and flipped his hoodie inside
out.

It was the best he could do for now, before he continued the rest of his way home on foot.

Red Robin groaned, rubbing his forehead. “He got away,” he grumbled.

“Seriously?” Red was positive that on the other end of the call Nightwing was definitely
scowling.

“Not my fault,” Red pouted. “He stuck me to a roof with that sticky stuff B mentioned after I
maybe kinda accidentally choked him out.”

“Tch, nice going, failure,” Robin commented.

“Oh, as if you could do better.” Red shot back at him.

“Robin, focus on Hood,” Oracle’s voice came through the earpiece, reminding Robin of his
own mission. “Joker is still in transit.”

“I’m aware,” Robin huffed. “Black Bat has him in a headlock.”

“Keep it that way, then,” Nightwing ordered. “Oracle, what do you have on the Spider?”

“I’m checking the cameras in the area. He’s heading east. No, south,” Oracle corrected.
“Spoiler, Nightwing, can you-“ she paused. “Where’d he go?” She muttered.

“Oracle?” Spoiler questioned.

“I lost him. How did I lose him?”

Silence.
 “Uh,” Red piped up, “Can someone come get me unstuck?”

“Oh, yeah, back to that,” Spoiler said, “What do you mean you ‘kinda maybe accidentally
choked him out’? What did you do?”

Red grumbled to himself, arms crossed. “Just come help me already.”

Chapter End Notes

Everyone better appreciate N.N.E.D it took me forever to come up with that acronym.
Originally it was gonna be Totally Original Neural-Network Interface, but I thought
N.N.E.D was sweeter.

If anyone is interested, here’s a playlist of all the songs that inspire the fic (or that I
chose just because the lyrics kinda work well for a chapter title, you’ll never know
which), in order of their appearance as chapter titles. A new song will be added with
every chapter.
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3IcsnymJgTBdTNXwZF8Mz6?si=rB8D8JdmSC-
5TkebPVEaHQ
 Chapter 18: That Kid Is Never Coming Back
Chapter Summary

Peter, sweetie, you need a hug.

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Nightwing and Spoiler stood on the roof across from Red Robin, staring at him with unveiled
amusement.

“It’s not funny,” Red pouted.

“It really is,” Spoiler snickered.

“No it’s not,” Red insisted, trying to pull his legs free but failing miserably.

Nightwing chuffed. “You gotta admit it, baby bird,” he pulled out his phone and snapped a
picture. “It’s funny.”

Red growled, “It is not!”

“It isn’t funny,” Batman gruffed, landing on the roof with silent ease, startling the three
younger heroes.

“Uh, hey, B,” Nightwing greeted, squirrelling away his phone. “Joker sorted?”

“Locked up in holding,” Batman confirmed. He stepped forward and knelt down, getting a
closer look at the webbing around Red Robin’s feet. With a metal nail file he fished from one
of the pockets of his belt, he poked at it. It had some give to it, flexing from the touch. He
tried scraping at it, but it didn’t snap or flake or cut. He scowled. “The spider claimed this
substance will dissolve in a matter of hours,” he said, straightening. “We have no way of
knowing wether he was telling the truth or not until proven either way. Joker and his
accomplices are being monitored. They are all bound with it. So far, it has resisted any efforts
of removal by force.”

Red gaped, “Does that mean I’m stuck here?” He demanded.

“It appears that way, Red Robin,” Batman frowned.

“Did this stuff come from that guy?” Nightwing asked. “He was using it to swing around,
like our grapples.”
Batman produced a vial. Inside it was a long strand of the webbing, balled up to fit inside,
with a lump of concrete attached at one end. “I collected this on my way here,” he said. “I
am… unsure if it is natural or synthetic, but I will be running tests back at the cave.” It
looked as though it pained him to claim that he didn’t know something.

“It came from his wrists, right?” Spoiler asked, observing the vial.

Batman nodded.

“When I spoke to him, he was messing with something on his wrist. Some sort of device. He
had a screwdriver.”

Batman gave a hum of acknowledgment. He pocketed the vial and spoke into his earpiece,
“Robin, status on Red Hood?”

Over comms, the bats heard Robin’s blunt voice. “Incapacitated.”

“I can head over and talk him down,” Nightwing offered.

Batman gave an approving nod.

Nightwing asked Oracle for the coordinates, and grappled away.

“Spoiler, keep Red Robin company.”

Spoiler and Red each looked annoyed.

“What? No fair. I was supposed to have a girls night before all this started,” Spoiler whined.

Batman only gave her a look.

Rolling her eyes, Spoiler huffed. “Fine. But I’m ordering pizza.”

Batman’s face twitched in a way that was neither good, nor bad. He stepped off the roof,
gliding down to the street below.

Spoiler turned to Red. “Soooo,” she mused, “Say cheese!” In a fluid motion, she took a selfie
of her and the disgruntled Red Robin.

“Delete that,” Red grumbled. “I swear to fuck, Spoiler.” He was pouting deeply.

Spoiler snickered, texting. “No way. This is going in the group chat. You think Superboy
would appreciate this?”

“What? No!” Red tried to grab Spoiler’s phone, but she danced away, waving the device
mockingly.

“Already sent it,” she teased with a loud laugh.

Hours later, Red Robin trudged into the Batcave, a glum and irritated look on his face. “I hate
you all,” he declared loudly, though it lacked much of the desired effect as only Batman was
present.

“Red Robin, you’re back,” Batman noted, looking away from the screen of the Bat Computer
for only a moment. “Have a look at this.”

Eye twitching in silent protest, Red Robin made his way over and looked at the screen. He
furrowed his brow. “Nothing’s there,” he said.

Batman nodded. “The substance dissolved into H2O and sodium chloride.”

“But that’s just salt and water,” Red Robin frowned. “There is no way I was stuck to a roof
with salt and water.” He looked again at the screen, and pointed to the trace chemicals. The
stuff that was supposedly outliers. Contaminants. “What about them?”

“Mostly what was found in the concrete,” Batman explained. “Although, this,” he pointed to
the very bottom of the list, “Protein. I haven’t managed to identify it just yet.”

Red Robin hummed. “Let me have a look.” He gestured for Batman’s seat, but the man shook
his head.

“Debriefing first,” he said. “Go retrieve the others.”

Red looked annoyed, wanting to start on this new puzzle as soon as possible, but he said,
“Fine,” and walked away.

Ten minutes later, the rest of the Bat clan were situated in the cave. All except Signal, who
was sleeping upstairs in his room in the manor. He hadn’t been out for the night, being more
focused on the day shift.

Batman cleared his throat, “Nightwing,” he instructed.

Nightwing nodded. “Three attempted robberies, some minor rioting, and a three car pileup.
All pretty quiet for a Joker escape,” he said. “All perpetrators are in custody, and injured
parties are in hospital.”

“Myself and Black Bat apprehended Red Hood with ease,” Robin picked up the proverbial
baton. “He has been returned to one of the hovels he claims as his own, unconscious,” he
spoke derisively.

Black bat nodded in confirmation.

“Yeah, he wasn’t too happy,” Nightwing winced. “Had to get him with a tranquilliser,” he
frowned.

Batman nodded sadly. “Joker has now been returned to Arkham,” he said. “All hostages,
apart from one, were transferred safely to hospital, and all canisters of Joker Venom have
been secured.”

“Any luck on the Spider?” Spoiler asked. “What were those web things?”
“I’m gonna be working on that,” Red Robin piped up.

Batman hummed. “The spider,” he said gruffly, and brought up a photo on the Bat computer.
It was a still from a security camera of the spider swinging through mid air, attached to a fine,
white string. “I want you all to keep an eye out for him while on patrol. Capture him if you
are confident you can, but only if you are completely sure. Consider him skilled and
dangerous.”

“Tch,” Robin scoffed.

“I mean it, Robin,” Batman narrowed his eyes. “Do not approach him alone. He may not look
it, but he is clearly trained. He took down a dozen of Joker’s men without even alerting me to
his whereabouts.” He zoomed in on on of the spider’s wrists. “There is reason to believe he
fires his,” he wrinkled his nose, “webs, from these devices.” A glint of metal reflected from
the discrete cuffs about the spider’s wrist into the camera. It was blurry, but it did look like
the string he was swinging from was coming from the cuff. “Whatever those webs are,”
Batman continued, “They are clearly strong enough to hold his weight. Potentially more than
that. It is highly adhesive, and will break whatever it adheres to before it breaks itself. Do not
get hit by it. Red Robin and I will be working on a way to dissolve it faster than it does on its
own, but, until then, avoid it like your life depends on it. It very well might,” he said grimly.
“Red Robin was lucky tonight. If either of you get stuck in battle, you may not be as lucky,”
he warned.

“Okay, avoid the sticky stuff,” Spoiler wrinkled her nose, but her face was clearly amused at
the reminder of Red being stuck to the roof. “Any pointers in case we do run into him?”

“He likely will not try to fight,” Batman admitted tersely. “Merely evade. He seemed to want
to… help. As misguided as that was. His actions cost the life of a civilian.” He scowled.

Nightwing chose that moment to play devil’s advocate. “Are you sure it’s really fair to try
capture him? I mean, if he does want to help, and all,” he trailed off. “He didn’t seem violent,
or anything.”

“No meta’s in Gotham,” Batman reminded, sternly.

“Well, yeah, but, like, you made an exception for Signal. Besides, what if he’s not meta?”

“Yeah,” Spoiler piped up, musingly. “I mean, he has those wrist things. What if it’s just tech
and skill?”

Batman was scowling. “He is an unknown,” he said, tone short and unwavering.

Nightwing rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he sighed. “What if he does try to fight us? You saw how
easily he got away tonight. He’s not gonna come willingly.”

“Yeah,” said Red. “I asked nicely and all, but I ended up- you know,” he didn’t want to say
the words, embarrassed.

“Didn’t you strangle him?” Spoiler pointed out.

Red scowled. “That was an accident. I said sorry. I think,” he added with a pause. Had he
apologised? Shit, he probably should if he ever saw the guy again. Although, the guy had
stuck him to a roof for hours so… “He, like, freaked out or something? Failed a grapple. I
caught him, just… badly,” he admitted with a wince.

Batman gave a small grunt. “We will go over rescue training again,” he said.

Looking cowed, Red Robin nodded. “That’s fair,” he said.

“As for if you have to fight him,” Batman continued, “I had Oracle pull security footage from
the area.” He pulled up a video onto the screen. It was grainy footage, the cameras in
Amusement Mile were old and many were broken. It was difficult to see if you weren’t
paying attention, but after a while the Spider appeared on screen.

“That’s creepy,” Nightwing mused as they watched the spider crawl -not climb, crawl- up
onto the roof of a rusted and broken down carousel, then flatten his body almost completely.
He was watching something, by the way his head cocked. His gas mask hid his face, leaving
a blank stare through darkened glass windows. The flickering, glitching footage from the old
camera didn’t help matters.

It was like watching a horror movie.

The way the spider moved as he dropped down from the carousel and started taking out
guards was inhuman, almost. His movements were fluid, smooth yet powerful, and
somehow… restrained? Deeply controlled. It was as though he was holding back.

And yet, as soon as he was out of the shadows and in the presence of Batman and the Joker,
his demeanour was more human. He held himself with confidence. He was cocky. Not
arrogant, but clearly he knew what he was capable of.

And then came his reactions.

“How is he doing that?” Red Robin watched with awe as the spider danced and flipped and
twirled out of the path of every bullet aimed his way. How he reacted as if he was seeing the
world in slow motion as he evaded Batman once he was freed.

“He’s like big bird on steroids,” Spoiler tittered, though it was clear in her tone that she was
uncomfortable as she watched the spider.

“Hey,” Nightwing batted her lightly, but he, too, was fixated on the screen,

Batman paused the recording. “I want you all to study this footage, in case you encounter him
again.”

The young heroes nodded.

“I will brief Signal in the morning,” Batman continued. “For now, I want you all to get some
rest.”
Peter knocked on the door of the Packer residence.

Inside, he heard a confused murmur as footsteps made their way towards the door.

Mr Packer unlocked and opened the door. “Peter?”

“Hey,” Peter spoke weakly. “Sorry, I forgot my key at Jay’s.” He didn’t. He just didn’t want
to startle anyone by opening the door unannounced at who knows how long past midnight it
was.

Mr Packer blinked at him in surprise. “Come in, kid.”

Peter smiled at him with a tentative and almost trembling smile. He could tell Mr Packer
wanted to ask him where he had been the past week, and why he looked so… worn out? But
he kept his questions to himself. Mr Packer wasn’t one to interrogate.

“Where’s Mrs Packer?” Peter asked.

“In bed,” said Mr Packer.

Peter nodded. “Okay. Good night, Mr Packer,” he drawled, barely audible.

Mr Packer’s brows were furrowed as he watched Peter pull off his trainers and head upstairs,
swaying as he walked.

“Good night, kid,” he spoked back, bewildered.

Peter stumbled as he climbed, clinging onto the stair rail to keep himself up and moving. He
barely made it inside his room and closed the door before he sunk to the ground and curled
into a ball, shaking.

Trembling like a leaf in a hurricane, he clawed at his arms as he hugged them to his chest,
silently choking out sobs.

His knees dug into the floor, his legs felt numb. He leaned his forehead against the chest of
drawers, some semblance of support keeping him from sinking any further down, as he
mouthed out wordless cries. Hot, fat tears stung his eyes and poured down his cheeks like
waterfalls of acid.

He stayed that way for what felt like hours. Seconds slipped away as he took in his ragged
breaths and screamed his silent wails.

Panting, he rose and tore off his hoodie, his pants, his t-shirt, his socks. He threw it all aside.
He didn’t want to be touched. He couldn’t be touched. The clothes felt tight. Too tight against
his aching skin. Collapsing onto his bed, he let the cold cotton of his bedsheets cushion him
as he tightened into a ball on his side. Naked and trembling.

The corner of his laptop graced his shoulder, and he shoved it harshly aside. It teetered on the
edge of the bed, threatening to fall to the ground.
 His backpack brushed against his back, and Peter gave a half strangled yelp as he tore it
away, almost throwing it across the room before he had a moment of clarity. He ripped it
open, yanking out his plushie spider then letting the bag drop.

Clutching the spider to his chest, he began to cry all over again.

All the panic, all the pain, all the rage towards himself.

It flooded over him and he squeezed his plushie tight, the fake fur flattening in his grasp.

Spiderman was supposed to be his lifeline. Supposed to be his reason for all the bad shit. All
the stupid decisions.

But he had gotten someone killed.

He hadn’t been careful enough.

He had been cocky.

He had been stupid.

He had been impatient.

He hadn’t been ready.

He hadn’t been prepared.

Someone had died because of a bullet meant for him .

He wanted to scream.

He wanted to cry.

But he didn’t.

He didn’t want to worry anyone…

Chapter End Notes

If anyone is interested, here’s a playlist of all the songs that inspire the fic (or that I
chose just because the lyrics kinda work well for a chapter title, you’ll never know
which), in order of their appearance as chapter titles. A new song will be added with
every chapter.
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3IcsnymJgTBdTNXwZF8Mz6?si=rB8D8JdmSC-
5TkebPVEaHQ
 Chapter 19: What If All These Fantasies Come Flailing Around
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

He didn’t want to worry anyone.

He didn’t want to worry anymore.

Didn’t want to worry.

He didn’t want to.

Didn’t want.

Want.

Wake.

Didn’t want to wake.

Didn’t want to wake up.

Wake up…

Wake up!
“WAKE UP!”

“Gah!” Peter’s eyes tore open as he bolted upright, smacking Wade in the head with an
echoing CRACK.

Wade stumbled away as stars flashed in Peter’s vision, head screaming at him from the
collision.

“Geez, Petey pie, all I was trying to do was wake you up,” Wade pouted. “You slept through
your alarms. Matty was getting worried,” he accused the man beside him with a teasing lilt.

“Stop talking,” Matt drawled, unimpressed.

Peter groaned, rubbing his aching forehead. “What happened?”

Wade snickered. “Could ask you that, baby boy. I thought you said you couldn’t get
hungover. You drunk Matt and Foggy under the table. Even had me making a run for my
money.”

Letting out a confused, irritated moan, Peter fell back against his mattress. “What time is it?”

“Three o’clock,” informed Matt.

Peter shot up again. “What!?” He gave a strangled yelp and rushed to his feet. “I’m late! Why
didn’t you wake me sooner? Fuck, Jameson is gonna kill me!”

Stumbling around his room, Peter hurried to dress himself.

Wade and Matt glanced at one another incredulously.

“Er, Petey,” Wade piped up. “It’s Friday.”

Peter didn’t pause in his efforts to shove his legs into a pair of jeans. “So?”

Wade raised a brow, as if to ask “really?”

“You put them on backwards,” said Matt dryly.

Peter scowled. “How would you know that? You’re blind.”

“Am I wrong?” A smirk tugged at his lips.

Grumbling as he removed his jeans and put them on the correct way, he murmured, “No,”
irritably. “Where’s my phone?” He asked, patting down the pockets of the jeans, glancing
around his room. “I need my phone. I need to call in-“

Wade placed a gnarled finger against his lips, shushing him. “It’s your day off, Petey.
Birthday boy, remember? The whole reason we went drinking last night? Ring any bells?”

Peter blinked, finally noticing the novelty t-shirts Wade and Matt were wearing.
Matt’s read “Happy Birthday Weirdough” in melted looking lettering above an image of a
pineapple pizza slice. How had Wade managed that one? Matt never wore T-shirts unless he
was exercising or under duress.

Wade’s shirt had a picture of a pink pony wielding a cannon that shot confetti in the shape of
the words ‘Happy Birthday’. That was just typical Wade. The amount of times Peter had
entered the apartment to find him watching My Little Pony in his underwear was too many to
count.

He then looked down at his own shirt, only just now realising it bore the words “birthday
boy” on it.

He blinked slowly.

Huh.

It was his birthday.

How had he forgotten his birthday?

Wade hooked an arm loosely about his shoulders, “Alright, Petey pie, it’s party time!” He
gave a loud whoop and frog marched him out of the bedroom.

Bright lights flashed sporadically in the darkened room, and the scent of smoke filled the air
as the club’s smoke machine flooded the dance floor. It was enough to make Peter’s eyes
sting.

The music was loud, his ears rung, and it felt like his brain was trying to claw its way out of
his skull.

Peter downed another shot.

Dancing over, Wade was beaming from ear to ear. He had Matt in tow, dragging him through
the crowd to the bar by the wrist. The lawyer was grinning goofily, his glasses askew and his
hair ruffled. He laughed loudly, raising his glass to Peter in a wordless toast.

He was very clearly drunk.

Peter couldn’t remember seeing Matt this drunk before.

He seemed to be having a good time, at least.

“Having fun there, Pete?” Asked Wade, dropping onto the bar stool next to Peter’s.

“Ask me again in ten minutes,” the younger man grimaced, raising his voice to be heard over
the music.

The music was loud, and his ears rung.

He downed his shot.

Wade laughed and hooked his arm about Peter’s shoulders. He gave a loud whoop, clearly
enjoying himself.

The noise made Peter’s ears ring.

He downed the shot in front of him, the weight around his shoulders slipping away as he
turned away from the bar to look for Wade and Matt.

“Having fun there, Petey?” Asked Wade, dancing towards him, tugging Matt behind him by
the hand. The fluffy purple unicorn on his shirt had been stained by the drink in Matt’s free
hand as he stumbled drunkenly, beaming a bright grin and laughing heartily.

With a wide and sloppy motion, he raised a toast to Peter.

Peter grimaced. “Ask me again in ten minutes,” he said dryly, as Wade hooked an arm about
his shoulders with a laugh.

His ears were ringing, the music loud.

He downed his shot.

His ears were ringing.

The room spun.

Wade’s arm felt heavy, grew heavier.

It tightened and tightened around his throat!

He couldn’t breathe!

He couldn’t-

Why couldn’t he breathe?

With a strangled yell he bolted upright!

His head collided with Wade’s nose with a crunch.

“Fuck!” Cursed Wade, stumbling back. “Note to self, don’t wake you up when you’re black
out,” he bemoaned, nursing his bloody nose.
Peter groaned. Wade’s skull must be made out of cinder blocks or something, because his
head was pounding and he saw stars. “What happened?” He asked groggily, rubbing at his
aching head.

“You drunk Foggy under the table again, that’s what happened,” Matt sounded disapproving.
“I told you not to do that on a work night. You know he doesn’t back down from a
challenge.”

“It was funny though,” chimed in Wade. “Got it on camera,” he giggled.

Peter looked at the pair, “What time is it?”

Wade looked sad. Almost fearful. “Hold on, Spidey!” He called out.

Peter blanched. “Fuck,” he groaned, pushing out of bed and frantically searching for a clean
pair of pants. “Jameson is gonna kill me!”

“Calm down,” soothed Matt. “It’s your day off. New Years, remember?”

Peter blinked, finally noticing the glittery party hat and novelty glasses he was wearing. How
did Wade manage that one? Matt hated glitter. It sounded too crunchy.

Wade was wearing his Deadpool suit, brandishing his katanas as he stared at something in the
distance.

Peter laughed, rolling his eyes. “Nice shirt,” he commented. “A bit basic, don’t you think?”

Wade huffed, smoothing down his Dancin’ into 2028 glitter ball t-shirt. “My shirt may be
basic, but I make it work, thank you very much.” He hooked an arm about Peter’s shoulders.
“Now come on, Petey, it’s time to party!” He whooped.

The music was loud, and made Peter’s ears ring.

He downed the last of his beer.

Matt danced over, drink in one hand and Wade’s wrist in the other. He grinned a beaming,
goofy grin as he sloppily raised a toast.

“We’re coming for you,” called out Wade, tone urgent and reaching. He sounded as though
he was standing at the bottom of a well.

Peter grimaced. “Ask me again in ten minutes.”

Matt hooked an arm about his shoulders, laughing loudly.

The noise made his ears ring.

He downed the last of his beer.

 Wade gripped him by the wrists, eyes wide and searching, “Hold on, Spidey. We’re coming
for you.”

Peter’s head screamed at him.

Wade’s words melted into a loop. The grasp on his wrists felt tight.

Too tight.

“Hold on Spidey. We’re coming for you.”

Matt’s arm around his shoulders felt heavy.

“We’re coming for you.”

He couldn’t breathe.

“We’re coming.”

He couldn’t breathe!

“Hold on…”

Chapter End Notes

You ever get those dreams where you have a task, ad its easy to complete, like getting
dressed, but you end up repeating every action a hundred times over and it just feels so
natural at the time but then you wake up and realise, you never did finish getting
dressed.
Well, anyway, I like writing dreams.
If anyone is interested, here’s a playlist of all the songs that inspire the fic (or that I
chose just because the lyrics kinda work well for a chapter title, you’ll never know
which), in order of their appearance as chapter titles. A new song will be added with
every chapter.
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3IcsnymJgTBdTNXwZF8Mz6?si=rB8D8JdmSC-
5TkebPVEaHQ
 Chapter 20: Take All The Courage You Have Left
Chapter Notes

I have a list of minor differences between my takes on the Marvel and DC universes.
One being twitter is still twitter in DC, but the live action Percy Jackson movies don’t
exist in Marvel.
Also, this chapter was tricky. I’m not the best at slow paced, characters hanging out
together kind of stuff. 😅

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Peter woke with a strangled gasp, eyes opening to the dim light of dawn filtering through his
window. He panted, trying to catch his breath. His muscles were tight, constricted, as he
curled in a ball atop his bed. He felt cold. His bare skin bathed in the freezing chill of the late
December morning.

He shivered. Had he left his window open?

Flexing his stiffened muscles, he let out agonised gasps. How long had he been sleeping like
that?

A croaking cry pushed through his throat as he straightened his back and accomplished the
grand achievement of rolling over and looking up at the ceiling.

He wiped at his face, the crust of dried tears shedding away in brittle flakes.

Blinking heavily, he drifted in and out of consciousness. Half awake, half asleep. Shadows
danced on the ceiling.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“Peter?” Mrs Packer’s voice sounded. She knocked again. “Are you awake?”

Peter fought his immobile lips and called out a weak, “Yeah.”

“Are you decent?”

A pained groan as Peter reached for the corner of his duvet, rolling it over his naked body.
“Am now,” he replied.

Mrs Packer opened the door. “Benny said you got in late last night,” she said. She frowned at
the young man’s shivering form, buried beneath the duvet. “He also said you didn’t look too
good.”
“‘M fine.” Peter watched Mrs Packer through heavy eyes.

“You very clearly are not,” the woman determined. “I’m going to run you a nice hot bath,
then make soup,” she declared matter of factly.

Peter was too tired to argue. He nodded glumly.

“Try to get some more sleep,” Mrs Packer spoke more gently. “I’ll wake you when the bath is
ready.”

Peter nodded again, and Mrs Packer left.

He began to drift again, the sound of the bathtub filling in the other room lulling him.
Lavender soap made its way to his nose, soothing him even more.

Minutes stretched, and Peter was only half present when Mrs Packer came back to the room.

In her arms she had fresh, fluffy towels that smelled like orchids.

“Come along, dear,” she spoke softly, stepping forward and nudging Peter’s shoulder gently.

Peter hummed, and pushed himself up with trembling arms. His duvet fell away, but Mrs
Packer didn’t seem to care. Neither did he, he was so tired, as she helped him to his feet.

Mrs Packer didn’t ask questions as she supported Peter to the bathroom and helped him climb
into the tub, neither of caring about the underwear he was still wearing. All she did was set
down the towels on the counter and give him a warm smile.

“Is chicken soup okay?” She asked.

Peter nodded. “Thank you,” he managed to speak. The heat of the bath had been a shock to
his system.

His feet and hands felt like fire.

Mrs Packer smiled again, and left the room, closing the door behind her gently.

Peter sighed. It was more of a groan. The heat of the water was nice once he acclimated to it.
He sunk down into it, until only his face was above the surface. Bubbles tickled his nose.

His right leg felt numb, which was a lot better than the pain that had come with his freshly
healed bones taking the stress of his acrobatics, and his joints were starting to loosen.

He thought back to last night.

He couldn’t remember it fully.

He knew he had rescued the Batman. God, he was terrifying. He hadn’t had the time to think
about that when he met him, but the way he towered over Peter… how he had tried to grab
him. Bring him in for who knows what. To reprimand him? Lock him up? And then he had
sent his minions after him… it had all been okay on the most part until…

He clutched at his throat, the memory of that red cape. Missing the shot and plummeting…

Screwing up his face, he plunged himself down, startling those thoughts away.

The water enveloped him, surrounding him completely like a warm blanket. It was peace.

And then suddenly he was falling.

Falling through tar, thick and inky black. It coated his skin. Filled his lungs, his mouth, his
nose. He choked and gagged, trying desperately, painfully, to relieve his system of the pitch.
He couldn’t see for the substance, save for flashes of swirling cyan rainbows like an oil slick
in the sun.

“Spidey,” called a voice, echoing through the darkness. “Spidey, hold on!”

Two voices now. Three. Four. Six. A dozen!

All calling the same words. Over and over and over again!

“Spidey, hold on!”

With a loud cry, Peter wrenched himself up above the water, sending bubbles and bath water
into waves that splashed out onto the tiles.

“We’re coming for you,” echoed through his mind in a sharp whisper as he coughed and
retched.

He wanted to vomit.

The only thing that came up was water.

Every breath felt like scraping gravel. Shards of flint in his throat as his body tried to force
the water out of his lungs. He clung to the side of the tub, panting and heaving, dripping over
the edge and forming a flood on the bathroom floor.

It felt like hours later before he could move again.

The water had gone cold, and he was in danger of freezing all over again. A glance in the
mirror as he clambered out of the tub had him catching the blue tinge to his lips.

He had to do a double take at what he saw.

It was no wonder why Mrs Packer had reacted the way she did. His eye sockets were almost
hollow, cheeks gaunt. Dark circles ringed his eyes, his skin was taut against his bones, and
there was a fierce bruise around his throat. His collarbones protruded, as did his ribs, and
there were faint bruises all over him amongst old and faded scars.
He mopped up the floor with towels and unplugged the bath.

He watched the water drain, hypnotised by the whirlpool that formed above the plug hole, as
he drip dried. The bath mat was soft against his feet, despite how soggy it was. He couldn’t
bring himself to move.

Eventually, though, he wrapped a towel about himself and returned to his room.

It took him a long moment to realise there was a beautifully wrapped present on the end of
his bed. It was soft, squishy. Fairly large, too. He stared at it, mind running on slow as he
observed the neatly written cursive of his name on a holly themed label stuck to the paper.

He picked it up and unwrapped it, his arms slow and heavy, as if moving through molasses.

He was faced with a pair of very soft looking slippers and a set of fluffy pyjamas. They were
snow themed, decorated with icicles and snowflakes. The pants even had little snowmen
wearing ice blue scarves on them.

The blue reminded him of Jay’s eyes, and a smile manifested on his lips.

He dried off properly, and got dressed. The fabric was soft. Kind against his sensitive skin.

The pants, he found out, had pockets. In one he stashed away Nedward the jumping spider.
He ran his fingers against its fur comfortingly as he left the room.

Mr Packer was in the living room, the door open as he read the newspaper, reclining in his
favourite chair. He glanced up at Peter as he passed by on his way to the kitchen, and gave a
slight nod of greeting. Peter gave a small wave in return.

The kitchen smelled heavenly. Mrs Packer was stirring a pot of chicken soup, slices of thick
cut bread were buttered and stacked high on a plate nearby.

“Hello, dear,” the woman greeted warmly. She sized him up. “I got the right size, then,” she
determined.

Peter blushed.

“I’ve been waiting to give you them since before Christmas,” Mrs Packer continued, adding a
dash of salt and pepper to the soup. “I noticed you didn’t have any pyjamas.”

“Thanks,” Peter said, voice hoarse and cheeks still flushed. “They’re soft.”

Mrs Packer smiled. “Go ahead and sit down. Go on, sit,” she ushered him to the kitchen table
where a bowl and spoon had been set out. “Your timing is impeccable,” she said, and carried
the pot over.

Ladling in a hearty amount of soup into Peter’s bowl, she served herself some then went to
bring over the pile of buttered bread.

“Is Mr Packer having any?” Peter asked, not quite ready to dig in.
Mrs Packer shook her head, “Benny doesn’t like soup.”

Peter nodded in acknowledgment.

The soup was nice. Mrs Packer’s cooking always was. She mostly stuck to basic American
foods, but what she made always tasted great. She had offered, once, to teach Peter how to
cook. He might take her up on that.

He raised the subject after he had finished half of his bowl.

Mrs Packer’s eyes lit up like the twinkling fairy lights around the tree in the living room that
was still to be taken down now that Christmas was days past. “That’s wonderful, Peter,” she
beamed. “I was planning on baking bread today, we can start with that if you’d like.”

Peter gave an agreeable hum, continuing to eat. It wasn’t as if he had anything to do

otherwise. Maybe he could continue working on his arc reactor, but he usually did his best
work at night anyway.

Mrs Packer chatted away after that, having been sitting in silence before. She spoke of
Christmas, and the days after. How her daughter had come to visit with her husband. How her
daughter was expecting, and that she was excited to be a grandmother. That it was “About
time that girl of mine settled down. She’s an architect, you know.”

Peter could listen to her talk all day. She reminded him so much of- he saddened.

She reminded him so much of May.

“You know I’m here for you, don’t you, Peter?” Mrs Packer spoke softly after a moment. She
sounded concerned. She lay a wrinkled hand on Peter’s closed fist.

Peter tried to smile, forcing himself not to flinch at the contact. “Yeah,” he murmured.

“Was it that friend? The one you stayed with?” She asked, and it confused him. Where had
that come from?

His brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“You’re hurt,” Mrs Packer said, gesturing to his throat. Peter got the sense that she had been
wanting to ask since she knocked on his door hours earlier. “You were limping.”

Peter blinked in alarm, realising what she was asking. He shook his head. “I tripped getting
out of the car. Jay caught me by by hoodie so I wouldn’t, you know, hit the ground and break
my nose or something,” he attempted a laugh. “I’m way too clumsy for my own good.”

He cringed. He heard it as soon as he said it. He sounded like some… victim, or something.
That’s what the excuse was, right? I tripped. I’m clumsy.

It didn’t look like Mrs Parker was buying the lie. He wouldn’t either, if he were in her shoes.
It wasn’t even really much of a lie. He really had fallen and been caught by his hoodie.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”

Peter nodded, trying to look as honest as possible. He wasn’t okay. “I’m sure. Really, it’s not
what you think it is at all.” It really wasn’t, but he couldn’t exactly explain to her that he was
a secret vigilante who fought in underground fighting rings on the side.

Mrs Packer patted his hand mutely, not questioning further but, from the look in her eyes, not
fully believing him.

Peter supposed that was the best he could hope for.

He helped clean up the kitchen then went to sit with Mr Packer in the living room.

It was a comfortable silence. The radio was on in the background, and Mr Packer was
attempting the crossword in his newspaper.

Every now and then he would get stuck, and ask Peter for his input.

“Nine letters,” he said. “Meaning imperative or crucial.”

“Uh,” Peter thought fr a moment, counting out letters in his head. “Important?”

Mr Packer shook his head. “Nah, has a U in it.”

“Oh. Paramount?”

Mr Packer scribbled it down.

“And that was the Beatles with their 1970 classic, Let it be,” the man on the radio spoke in
the charismatic way all radio hosts did. “We’ll be back with more golden oldies tracks after
the news.” There was a jingle, and then a more serious sounding presenter took charge. “The
aftermath of the Joker’s escape and subsequent capture last night has law enforcement
searching for answers regarding a masked individual who apparently aided the Batman.”

Peter straightened.

“When asked by Commissioner Gordon if the individual was a new member of the so dubbed
‘Bat Clan’, the Batman neglected to comment,” the reporter continued. “Videos uploaded to
twitter and YouTube have already surfaced of a man wearing a gas mask and hoodie
grappling through the Narrows, followed by Red Robin.”

Mr Packer gave a grunt, rustling his newspaper. “Damn Bat,” he grumbled.

“Huh?”

“I have nothing against vigilantes,” Mr Packer said, “God knows this city needs them for all
the police are worth,” he scoffed derisively, “But half of those bats are kids. Or, were kids
when they started. I remember when that first Robin showed up. Tiny thing, he was. Didn’t
even wear pants. Stood out like a sore thumb.” His voice rumbled like thunder. “I don’t
appreciate putting kids in danger.”
Peter nodded wordlessly, half agreeing. He had started out young. He was only 14 when he
became Spiderman. Part of him knew, in hindsight, that he should have been stopped back
then. He had been too young. Too inexperienced. He had died only two years later.

At the same time, though, he also knew that if anyone had tried to stop him, he would have
found a way. Mr Stark had tried, and that ended up with him fighting Vulture without the
protection of a good suit and backup. He had just been in as much, if not more, danger when
he didn’t have support for his vigilantism.

He didn’t voice any of this to Mr Packer, though.

Mrs Packer came into the room with two cups of tea in hand. She gave one to her husband
then turned off the radio, switching on the TV. “I hope you don’t mind, dears, but my show is
on.”

The three of them sat in the living room together for a while. Peter was mostly just zoning in
and out whenever anything interesting happened.

Mr and Mrs Packer didn’t speak to one another except for random musings about the
crossword and the T.V. show, but when he went to the toilet he heard Mrs Packer sharing her
suspicions about Peter’s situation to her husband. That had made Peter frown. He was
warmed by their concern for him, but he was fine. He didn’t like the concept of someone
thinking Jay was a bad person. He wasn’t. He was safe. He was kind. He was… he was
wonderful.

He was also not responding to his texts, which was a little worrying after how he had driven
off last night. He had looked so… angry.

Peter tried to ignore the silence though. If anything bad had happened to Jay, he was certain
that Tim would let him know. He had probably just slept in, right? It had only just gone one
in the afternoon, after all.

A few hours later, he was in the kitchen with Mrs Packer, his sleeves rolled up, and wearing a
flour covered apron. He was also pretty sure he had flour in his hair. Mrs Packer had him on
kneading duty. She joked that the more upset a person was, the better bread they made,
thanks to the kneading process being such a good stress reliever.

There was a knock at the door.

Mr Packer got it.

“Is Peter here?” Came Jay’s voice, alarming Peter. He leaned away from the counter and was
able to catch a glimpse of Jay through the door. From what he could see, Jay looked
disheveled, and he had a helmet in one hand, and a large bag in the other.

“Depends who’s asking,” said Mr Packer.

“J,” said Jay.

Mr Packer grumbled, back straightening. “So you’re this Jay fella, eh?”
 Peter got the vague impression that he would not be averse to threatening Jay a shotgun like
in some cliche movie scene.

He hurried through to the corridor, ignoring the dough stuck to his fingers.

“I just came by to drop off the stuff Peter left at my place,” said Jay before he noticed Peter,
holding out the bag he was carrying.

Mr Packer took the bag, then shut the door on the man just as his heterochromic eyes settled
on Peter.

“What did you do that for?” Peter gawped, eyes wide.

Mr Packer just harrumphed and grumbled, “I don’t trust him.”

Peter fought a groan. He returned to the kitchen, Mr Packer following and setting down the
bag. Peter heard the rumble of Jay’s motorbike driving away.

Chapter End Notes

If anyone is interested, here’s a playlist of all the songs that inspire the fic (or that I
chose just because the lyrics kinda work well for a chapter title, you’ll never know
which), in order of their appearance as chapter titles. A new song will be added with
every chapter.
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3IcsnymJgTBdTNXwZF8Mz6?si=rB8D8JdmSC-
5TkebPVEaHQ
 Chapter 21: I’m No Good
Chapter Summary

This one is a rollercoaster. I’m not completely sure I got across what I wanted but I’m
rolling with it.

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Peter knocked on Jay’s door, clutching his side as he tried to breathe normally. Jay answered
almost immediately, and looked him over with furrowed brows.

He ushered him inside.

“It’s the third time this month,” he commented, tone serious.

Peter averted his gaze. It was February. He had taken Jay up on the offer of staying at his
apartment when ‘his landlords needed space’, and had done so a several times since
Christmas. He was just under halfway through his agreement with Harley. None of the fights
had been quite as bad as the first. At least, the aftermath anyway. For some reason, Peter
could never remember what happened when he wore his Slackline mask. All he knew was the
pain it resulted in, stumbling through the streets with broken limbs and bruises.

He had stopped trying to explain that he couldn’t remember to Jay, and Jay had stopped
asking.

“I know,” he mumbled.

Jay sighed and pulled him into a gentle hug. “What is it this time? Do we need Alfred?”

Peter shook his head. “I think it’s just a bruise,” he said. More like a fractured rib, but he’d be
fine.

Jay didn’t fully trust his answer, but led him to the sofa regardless. “I made hot chocolate,” he
said, indicating to a mug on the coffee table.

Peter smiled. Jay always did that. He’d send a text that he was on his way, and Jay would
have a hot drink, a first aid kit, and blankets on the sofa ready and waiting.

He let Jay treat the scrapes on his face and his grazed, bloody knuckles. The man worked
gently, as if afraid to hurt Peter. It was only half comforting. In another respect it was
frustrating. Peter wasn’t fragile. He wasn’t glass. He could take knocks and he always got
back up. A few stings of antiseptic was not going to shatter him.
He got enough mothering from Mrs Packer. It had been a boon the first few times. He had
needed the warmth and the attention. He was barely present enough in himself to attend to his
own needs. Every time he would go back home after spending nights with Jay, though, Mrs
Packer would descend on him like the smog that perpetually blanketed Gotham. She didn’t
trust Jay. Mr Packer didn’t either, but at least he didn’t constantly ask about “that boy”.

Peter was pulling himself back from the haze of fights faster now. He forced his mind not to
dwell on the pain and frustration.

In those times, he would focus on science instead. His projects. Upgrading his Spiderman
Suit, coding more complex systems for N.N.E.D, synthesising webs and designing different
types. He now had an arsenal of five web types, and N.N.E.D had been installed into his gas
mask. The suit was less joggers and a hoodie now, and more like what he was used to. He
still wore a hoodie, it was still cold after all, and he hadn’t figured out temperature regulation
in the suit yet, but at least he didn’t look like he didn’t know what he was doing anymore. A
good suit worked magic for how people perceived a person.

He didn’t go out as Spiderman as much as he did back in Queens. There had been one major
incident since Joker, and other than that Peter had just been swinging through the city,
helping out with petty thefts and minor incidents for a few hours, twice a week.

He had run into Batman twice. His minions more. The few times he went out during the day,
he had happened upon Signal, who he actually had a decent time with. Signal hadn’t tried
capturing him, unlike the other bats. The most he did in that respect was try convince him to
stop the vigilantism, or leave Gotham. Neither Peter would do, but at least Signal wasn’t
being a dick about things.

He had even encountered Red Hood as Spiderman once. The only time he had tried to help
out Crime Alley. Red Hood had shot him. His aim was impeccable. Even with his spider
sense and his agility, Peter had gotten caught in the arm. That had been a bitch while healing,
especially because the next day he had a fight lined up from Harley.

Jay had been deeply confused and worried by the weird looking scar that had manifested,
though by the time he saw it it was barely recognisable as a gunshot wound, so thankfully
Peter hadn’t had to try explain that away. He doubted he would be able to explain a gunshot
wound, even if Jay had become desensitised to his showing up at his door bloody and
bruised.

“I’m thinking Italian,” said Jay as he applied a sticky plaster to a small gash on Peter’s cheek.

Peter smiled. “Italian sounds good. I want spaghetti.”

Jay nodded profusely. “I haven’t had spaghetti in weeks. I’ll go grab my phone then we can
order.”

“Okay.” Peter pecked Jay’s cheek before he could leave.

As Jay left for the bedroom, Peter packed away the first aid kit and took a deep drink of hot
chocolate. He fished between sofa cushions for the T.V. remote, and switched it on. There
were adverts playing as Jay came back in and sat down, phone in hand.

“Prima?” Peter asked, glancing at the screen. Jay had brought up the delivery app, and was
scrolling through the menu of a restaurant.

He nodded. “They’re a few blocks down. A friend of mine knows the owner. She gets in
fresh ingredients every day.”

“Cool. Ooo, they do amatriciana,” Peter’s eyes lit up.

“I guess,” Jay shrugged, reading the description. “I’ve never tried it.”

“It’s really good. We should get some,” Peter praised the dish.

Nodding, Jay added it to the order.

“Definitely need garlic bread,” Peter added.

Jay nodded again, agreeing wholeheartedly. “Their garlic and rosemary focaccia is heavenly,”
he said.

“And now on Rogue Nightly,” came the T.V. “The notorious Harley Quinn was witnessed
tonight fleeing the Diamond District with an unidentified man.” Peter looked over at the
screen. If he were a dog, his ears would have perked up. There was a reporter sitting at a
news desk, looking seriously into the camera. “The pair have reportedly been seen together
multiple times over the last several weeks. A new flame, or a new lackey?” A grainy photo
appeared of two barely identifiable figures. The only marker that showed one of them to be
Harley was the two toned hair. “Either way, be on the lookout Gothamites. While the once
named ‘Clown Queen of Gotham’ has been laying low for months, she is still dangerous and
should not be approached. Her resurfacing has all the hallmarks of something big in the
works. Coming up, we have an interview with Arkham Corrections Officer Aaron Cash
talking all things Quinn, to remind you folks just what she is capable of, and why you should
not idolise her. We see what you post on twitter. The only ‘slaying’ Quinn is attributable to, is
that of the lives of innocents.”

Peter saw Jay roll his eyes.

“New flame,” he scoffed. “She’s shacking up with Poison Ivy. Everyone knows that.” Taking
the remote from Peter, he switched the channel.

Peter blinked. “They do?” Every time Harley had brought up her and Ivy’s relationship, Peter
had gotten the sense that they didn’t want anyone to know.

Jay shrugged. “Worst kept secret in Gotham. Only one who doesn’t know is probably the
Joker.” He snarled the name. “And those idiots, I guess.” He gestured vaguely at the screen,
which was now playing a movie Peter didn’t recognise. “They’re a bunch of borderline
conspiracy theorists. The only reason they get decent ratings is cause they do sometimes
manage to warn people before something big happens, so everyone watches just in case. This
city is paranoid as fuck.”
Peter gave a hum of acknowledgement. He had caught snippets of the Rogue Nightly
broadcast on the Packer’s T.V. every now and then. Mr Packer watched it almost religiously.

“Aren’t they right to be paranoid though?” Asked Peter. “Everything I learn about Gotham
makes it out that crime is just normal. That you can’t go two feet without being attacked.”

Jay scowled. “It wouldn’t be the norm if Batman and the damn cops actually did shit
properly.“

Peter got the sense that Jay cared deeply about the topic. Almost alarmingly so, as one of his
eyes had started to turn green. He voiced as much. For a brief moment, he was scared of Jay,
as his anger seemed to get the better of him.

Sometimes, when Peter stayed at Jay’s apartment, he would wake up in the middle of the
night in need of the bathroom, and notice Jay wasn’t there. Not beside him, not in the next
room, not even in the flat. He wouldn’t hear him at all.

It had worried Peter the first time. It made him uncomfortable to be alone in the other man’s
flat, but he had supposed that Jay he had nipped out to a 24 hour convenience store for snacks
or something. He had gone back to sleep after a while, and Jay had returned by the time he
woke up that morning. The second time, Peter had stayed awake. He had mooched around the
apartment for hours, unable to go back to sleep. He had read, made food, watched television,
then passed out on the sofa at around five in the morning. Jay got back just before noon.

Peter didn’t ask questions.

Jay had been so accommodating to him. Hadn’t asked too many questions of him.

He returned the favour. He didn’t have room to judge when it came to secret activities.

It was a stalemate. Peter had secrets, and Jay had his own. They worked well when the
secrets were left alone. Untouched.

But it was concerning.

Jay was always tired. The dark circles ringing his eyes proved that. His temper would also be
a force to reckon with for hours after he returned, and Peter was worried about whatever he
was doing that made him so upset.

Jay had never lashed out at Peter when his mood swung towards anger. Never yelled. Never
struck. But it was deeply unsettling nonetheless. It would make Peter’s spine prickle. The
sight of the glowing rage that swirled like vortexes in Jay’s eyes was so unnatural that it
struck such a fear in Peter that he had only felt before back on Titan when he knew he was
dying in Tony’s arms. A comparison he did not make lightly.

Grumbling, Jay forced a deep breath. He calmed himself. He looked to Peter more gently. “I
grew up here,” he said. “Gotham is my home. Park Row, the Bowery…” he sighed.
“Everyone thinks we’re a lost cause, but we’re not.”

Tentatively, fear washing away, Peter took Jay’s hand and gave it a small squeeze.
“I can see so much good in this city,” Jay continued more sadly. “There’s so much worth
saving. It can be saved. I know it.”

Peter leaned into Jay, resting his head on his shoulder. Jay seemed to relax at the prolonged
touch, and he leaned back against the younger man, wrapping an arm about him in a half hug.

Their food arrived an hour later. They ate, sitting on the sofa watching black and white horror
movies that Jay said he had borrowed (stolen) from Tim.

Halfway through the first Godzilla, Peter remembered something.

He looked to Jay, who had a fork in his mouth.

“It’s Valentine’s day,” he said, with the musing alarm of someone who was completely
unaware up until that point.

Jay blinked, swallowing the mouthful of pasta he had shovelled into his mouth. “No it’s not,”
he argued, furrowing his brow, but he glanced at his phone. It was one o’clock in the morning
on the 14th of February.

It was Valentine’s day.

“Huh,” he vocalised shortly. “Do you, er, wanna do something today?”

Peter raised a brow. For someone obsessed with literature, Jay wasn’t really a romantic
person. He rolled his eyes, and shoved him lightly.

Jay laughed. “What?”

“You’re bad at this,” Peter accused with a laugh of his own.

Jay pouted teasingly. “Okay then, you do better.”

Peter smirked, preening proudly with exaggerated confidence. “Okay I will.” He cleared his
throat, putting on a show of getting into character. “Jay,” he said, “Prince of my heart. Apple
of my eye. Would you do me the great honour of accompanying me on a date this
afternoon?”

Jay set down his fork and flipped imaginary hair over his shoulder, “Oh Peter,” he assumed a
falsetto and batted his eyelashes. “Such a beautiful way with words. Of course I will.”

The pair burst into laughter.

“But for real though,” Jay nudged Peters shoulder with his own, “Do you wanna do
something?”

Peter shrugged. “I dunno. I mean, we aren’t exactly dating so,” he trailed off, shoving a
forkful of pasta into his mouth and averting his gaze, a sudden flush to his cheeks.

Jay frowned. “Aren’t we?”

 Peter swallowed, but still didn’t meet Jay’s inquisitive gaze. “I mean, we hang out a lot, and
we have fun together, and you let me stay here all the time, but we’ve never really put a label
on things,” he said. His tone was as carefree as he could make it, but he had to admit to
himself that he was horrified by what he had said. Things with Jay were going well. Even
with its hiccups, his relationship with Jay was the best thing that had helped to him since
arriving in Gotham. What if he had just screwed it up?

Jay, though, looked thoughtful. “We haven’t, have we?” He gave a huff, then focused on
Peter intently.

Peter felt his gaze, and couldn’t fight the flush intensifying in his cheeks. He managed to
keep his eyes matched with Jay’s.

“Will you be my partner?” Jay asked completely seriously.

Peter was stunned for a moment. He honestly couldn’t say he expected that. At least not
wholeheartedly. Jay had seemed the friends with benefits, noncommittal type. Yeah, they had
soft, borderline romantic moments, but he had often doubted that Jay saw them that way.

His brain urged his mouth to move.

“Er,” he stammered. “Yes? I mean, yes.”

Jay grinned. “Will you go on a date with me this Valentine’s day?” He then asked.

Blinking, Peter repeated, “Yes.”

Jay kissed Peter’s temple, then stood abruptly. “I gotta make some calls,” he declared,
leaving the room.

“What? It’s nearly two in the morning!” Peter called out to him, still sitting, confused and a
little bewildered.

Jay didn’t respond though, and Peter sighed, eating the rest of his pasta.

Chapter End Notes

If anyone is interested, here’s a playlist of all the songs that inspire the fic (or that I
chose just because the lyrics kinda work well for a chapter title, you’ll never know
which), in order of their appearance as chapter titles. A new song will be added with
every chapter.
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3IcsnymJgTBdTNXwZF8Mz6?si=rB8D8JdmSC-
5TkebPVEaHQ
 Not A Chapter (I’m Sorry) 2
Chapter Notes

Please don’t hate me for the fake out, I hate it too, but I figured I’d give y’all a little treat
to enjoy while I struggle with the next chapter.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Okay, so, Chapter 22 (I mean, technically it’s 23 but I don’t count the prologue in my
numbering, and I guess archive says it will be 25 considering my author’s notes but whatever,
it’s 22 to me) is giving me the runaround, and because of how I am I need to constantly
engage in a fic otherwise I stop writing entirely and I don’t want to do that, so here are the
chapter titles for the next five chapters.

No spoilers, but the songs I took the lyrics from do have relevant themes and vibes for the
chapters so for those who actually care about that sort of thing, go mad with speculation I
guess.

I should hopefully have the next chapter up soon but I am not having a good time with it. It’s
the hardest chapter I’ve worked on yet.

A little bit of insight into how I write, I plan out the general storyline before anything, but it’s
vague at best. Then I start writing, just getting my ideas down without any nuance or artistry.
Just “i want this to happen, then this happens, and this character says this because funny.” I
let each chapter tell me where it wants to go, and don’t force things. Sometimes, this leads
me to writing only one chapter at a time, but other times it leads me to plotting out multiple
in sequence.

This is what happened here. I have plans for all the chapters, but 22 feels like a chore because
it’s not an idea I find very interesting, so I’m writing the 23, 24, etc. because they’re actually
interesting to me. I can’t cut 22, however, as pacing and coherent narrative requires it.
Meaning, 22 is hard for me to write.

Anyway, here’s the list.

Have fun.

Chapter 22: My Speed Goes In The Red (Play With Fire - Sam Tinnesz)

Chapter 23: Curled Up Died And Now It’s Rotten (I Cant Decide - Scissor Sisters)
 Chapter 24: I Like To Make Believe With you That We Always Speak The Truth (Secrets -
P!NK)

Chapter 25: It’s Hard To Be A Man When There’s A Gun In Your Hand (Head Over Heels -
Tears For Fears)

Chapter 26: Like I Don’t Mind If You Fuck Up My Life (Monsters- All Time Low)

I’ve also asked my buddy to do another piece of art for this fic, which I’m super excited
about and can’t wait to show off once it’s done. I am of the opinion that Spiderman could
easily be a horror character, and Labyrinth_Props seems to agree with me, so keep an eye out
for the end notes in the upcoming chapters for tumblr links.

Chapter End Notes

If anyone is interested, here’s a playlist of all the songs that inspire the fic (or that I
chose just because the lyrics kinda work well for a chapter title, you’ll never know
which), in order of their appearance as chapter titles. A new song will be added with
every chapter.
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3IcsnymJgTBdTNXwZF8Mz6?si=rB8D8JdmSC-
5TkebPVEaHQ
 Chapter 22: My Speed Goes In The Red
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Red Hood was a strange case.

He was possessive. Territorial. Weirdly enjoyed pineapple on pizza. As a New Yorker,

Spiderman couldn’t abide that affront to good food, but the vigilante was good at what he did
and seemed to help more people than he hurt, so Spiderman decided he could overlook that
particular slight.

He reminded him in some small way of Deadpool and Daredevil, if they had some freakish
love child together with an equal fetish for wearing red.

Spiderman was unusually comfortable in the man’s presence because of that, despite the
many times he had chased him out of Crime Alley, gunshots echoing.

He liked to believe he was warming up to him though.

“Seriously dude, this city may be trash but the public transport system is top tier,” Spiderman
shook his head disappointedly at the criminal he had just apprehended.

The would be car jacker struggled against the webs that restrained him, speaking in muffled
garbles through those over his mouth.

“You got a phone on you, man?” Asked Spidey, checking the man’s pockets. “Sweet.
Unlocked too. Bad practice,” he warned. “You really should fix that, but it makes my life
easier.” He dialled 911 and made the police aware of the situation before putting the phone
back into the criminal’s pockets. “You should also check for cameras next time, man.” He
pointed to a security camera across the street, above a run down looking dive bar. “Okay,
cops will be here soon, bud.”

Spiderman prepared himself for the wait, hopping onto the roof of the car and sitting, keeping
an eye on the man webbed up against the nearby lamppost.

Then something caught his eye.

He cocked his head. Was that Red Hood? This wasn’t Crime Alley.

Hood was creeping across a roof, making his way to an access door. He looked to be
attempting to pick a lock?

Spiderman flicked out a web and pulled himself up, landing behind the man with silent ease.

“Need help with that?” He asked casually.

To say Red Hood was startled, would be an understatement. He launched away from the door,
spinning wildly and whipping out a gun, training it on Spiderman.

“Ah, hey, just me,” Spiderman raised his hands in a show of surrender, prepared to dance out
of the way of any bullet. “No need to go all guns-a-blazing.”

Red Hood stood down, lowering the gun to his side. “What are you doing here?”

Spiderman shrugged, relaxing. “Was in the neighbourhood. Just dropped in to say hi. What
are you doing here? Aren’t you Park Row exclusive?”

Hood gave a short snarl. “Hostage situation,” he gruffed.

Spiderman frowned. “That’s not good.” He tilted his head slightly and listened close.
“There’s five guys in there,” he said with a hum.

“How do you know that?”

Spiderman smirked, tapping the side of his head. “I hear good.”

He imagined Red Hood was scowling underneath his helmet as he snappishly grunted out,
“What else can you hear?”

Taking a moment to listen closely, Spiderman then informed Hood of the “I mean, I’m no
Daredevil, but I can hear three guns, and one guy tied up. Gagged? Heart sounds really
nervous. No-one’s talking, except one guy on the phone to someone he keeps calling sir.”

Hood let out a low growl. “Can you pick locks ‘good’ too?” He asked rhetorically.

Spiderman shrugged. “Not really my deal. I could kick the door down if you want, but that
might be a bit loud.”

Hood grumbled, and returned to picking the lock himself.

“By the way,” Spiderman mused, “You might wanna hurry. I got the cops coming for a
dumbass down there who forgot busses exist. Sirens might upset those guys inside.”

“What?”

“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” Spiderman ignored the question. “I know you don’t like other
people messing with your stuff. Good luck. And, er, maybe don’t call anyone to chase after
me, yeah?”

He jumped off the roof with a small wave.

He didn’t leave completely, he still had cops to bring up to speed, and he kept an ear out for
Red Hood’s mission. Just in case.

The next time Spiderman saw Red Hood was a week later. He was swinging around
Robbinsville, familiarising himself with the area. He never really went to Robbinsville. He
ended up finding his way to an area of apartment blocks near where Robbinsville turned into
Park Row.

Red Hood was sitting on a roof with non other than Red Robin, eating pizza. Hood’s helmet
sat beside him, revealing chiselled features behind a domino mask, and dark hair tied back in
a tight braid. Smart, considering the helmet. Peter’s hair was getting long, and he thought
maybe he should start doing that. His hair always got caught in his mask and tugged
painfully.

Spiderman was fully intending to just continue swinging, realising his proximity to the
forbidden Crime Alley, but Red Robin spotted him and flagged him down.

Red Robin had stopped trying to capture him at some point over the past few weeks. Spidey
thought maybe it had something to do with the fact he accidentally strangled him that one
time, but he couldn’t be sure. Against his better judgement, he landed on the roof, showing
off an impressive backflip just for the fun of it. It had been a slow night. He could stick
around and chat.

“Sup?” He greeted jovially.

“Hey Spider,” Red Robin grinned at him. “Want pizza?”

Spiderman clocked the pineapple pizza in front of Hood and quirked his brow. There wasn’t
even ham or anything to redeem it. At least Red’s was more acceptable. Chicken and
mushroom. “Sure,” he shrugged.

Red Hood was glaring at him as he sat down across from them, tugging his gas mask up a
ways, just so that his mouth was uncovered. The thick rubber was unwieldy, but Spiderman
was strong enough to lift it with ease. The way it sat ended up obscuring one of his lenses.

“Are you guys just chilling?” He asked, taking a bite of pizza.

Red nodded. “It’s been a long night,” he said. As he leaned forward to scoop up a slice,
Spiderman caught him wince. It was slight, but Spidey frowned.

“Your ribs okay?”

Hood grimaced, and Red sighed.

“It was that new guy the other day,” he said. “The one who hangs around Harley. Got me
right in the chest then had me in a chokehold whilst also fighting off Robin,” he huffed. “B
wanted to make me sit out, but since Scarecrow last month, and the whole, er,” he glanced at
Spiderman briefly, “Spider business,” he gave a wry grin, “He’s been on high alert.“

Red Hood frowned, clearly not knowing that particular tidbit. “He’s giving you breaks,
right?”

Red Robin waved him off, “Yeah. We’re on shifts. Get at least 24 hours between. He’s not
fallen too far off the deep end just yet. Agent A and Superman are keeping an eye on him.”
“Am I really stressing him out that much?” Asked Spiderman, half amused, half worried.

“It’s not just you,” Red tried to backtrack. “I mean, it’s everything going on right now. Three
Arkham breaks in three months, a new rogue, Harley popping up again, plus the general
Gotham madness… a new meta vigilante kinda tops things off.”

“What’s up that new rogue anyway?” Asked Hood almost conversationally. His voice
sounded strange without the metallic distortion of his helmet. It was oddly familiar. His
features, too. “I haven’t come across him yet. Where is he on the scale of Condiment King to
Killer Croc?”

Red grimaced. “Considering he held his own against Robin, while keeping me in a fucking
chokehold,” he spat, clearly despising having to retell that particular part of the story, “He’s
higher up than Condiment King.”

Peter blinked. “There’s a rogue called Condiment King? What does he do? Throw mustard at
people?”

Silence.

Hood and Red looked at one another almost conspiratorially.

“…What, really? That was supposed to be a joke.”

“Oh, he is,” Hood said seriously.

“The only way that guy does any harm, is through slipping hazards and allergies,” Red Robin
added dryly.

“The thing I don’t get is the name. Condiment King,” continued Hood. “It’s not intimidating.
It’s not imaginative. It’s not even true alliteration.”

Spiderman rocked his head from side to side, running the name over his brain a few times.
“Well, at least it’s to the point,” he offered.

“What’s the new guy’s name?” Asked Hood. “Please tell me it’s better than Condiment
King.”

“Slackline,” answered Red. “He didn’t say much himself, but I heard Harley call him that.”

Spiderman fought his urge to snap his eyes onto Red, nearly choking on his pizza. Slackline?
Slackline was the guy running around causing trouble with Harley? Slackline damaged Red
Robin’s ribs and apparently fought Robin?

That couldn’t be right. All he was doing was fighting in secret cage matches against other
powered individuals…

Cage matches that he couldn’t remember…

“Slackline?” Hood asked.

“Yeah. Like one of those weird, springy tightrope things Spoiler got Nightwing for his
birthday once.”

Red Hood was silent for a moment before dryly snarling out, “I don’t think I was there for
that one.”

Red Robin looked abashed. “Oh. Right.” He rubbed his neck wryly. “Anyway, I guess it
makes sense if he’s going round with Harley. He looks like he’s walked straight out of a
circus, so.”

“Wonder how Nightwing feels about all the circus crap in Gotham,” Hood snickered
derisively.

They went back and forth for a few minutes, discussing Nightwing and circuses and things
Spiderman wasn’t paying attention to. He was staring blankly, musingly, at his hands. What
had he been doing as Slackline?

“Er, Spider, you okay?” Asked Red. “You zoned out on us.”

Spiderman blinked. “Huh?” He shook himself out of his stupor, and frowned. “Yeah, all
good. Just- just getting tired I guess.” He stood, tugging his mask back down and shot a line
out. “I, er, see ya round.” He gave a wave as he launched off the roof, swinging away without
letting the others get in any comments.

Not even a few days after that, Spiderman found his way into one of Red Hood’s safe houses.

He was definitely warming up to the man.

Spiderman was admittedly envious of Red Hood’s safe houses. He had seen two so far, and
each, while not the Ritz, were a lot better than the abandoned toilet block in Amusement Mile
that Spiderman had decided to claim. He started storing his chemistry equipment, costume,
and cash there after he had a scare with Mrs Packer attempting to help him put laundry away.
He had been hiding his stuff in his closet, but he knew that wasn’t the best way to keep his
secrets.

The toilet block was old, with no running water, and was covered in graffiti and foliage.
There was a faint stench of stale animal feed and dung, thanks to its proximity to the closed
down Zoo. From what he was aware, a new Zoo had opened up further east after one too
many Rogue attacks, with a lot higher security than the old one.

It was better than keeping potentially volatile chemicals in a cupboard, but Red Hood’s
hideaways were leagues more habitable than Spiderman’s.

How he had ended up there had been fun . Red Hood had actually asked Spiderman if he
wanted to help take down a trafficking ring with him, as they had bumped into each other at
the docks. Spiderman had, of course, accepted the invitation, and the operation ran smoothly.
It made Spiderman think back to similar situations with Daredevil. Well, despite the guns.
Quite a few guys ended up crippled in some way or another thanks to one of Hood’s bullets.
Thankfully, no-one was killed, but it had gotten Spiderman nervous for a hot minute. He
 supposed it was karma when Red Hood landed wrong when jumping down from a shipping
container and sprained his ankle.

Spiderman had to help him to one of his nearby safe houses. How did Hood have so many?

It was an apartment, unlike the large warehouse Spiderman had seen before. While not
exactly spacious, it was roomy. It was on the top floor of the building, and they had entered
through a frosted glass door on a skinny balcony that overlooked the many other apartment
buildings in the area. Stepping into the open plan studio, Spidey observed an untouched
double bed sitting against one wall, across from a small sitting area and kitchen. A large work
bench stood proudly in one corner, with all sorts of machine parts and and guns and
equipment. The air was cold, but heated up fast when a space heater by the coffee table was
switched on.

He had aided Hood to the sofa, but the man had resisted his attempts at helping with the first
aid kit he had been directed to in the bathroom.

Spiderman ended up sleeping at the safe house for a few hours, recovering from his own
minor injuries. Red Hood was either too out of it on painkillers to deny the other vigilante a
place to nap, or he really was warming up to him.

Yeah, they definitely were besties.

Chapter End Notes

If anyone is interested, here’s a playlist of all the songs that inspire the fic (or that I
chose just because the lyrics kinda work well for a chapter title, you’ll never know
which), in order of their appearance as chapter titles. A new song will be added with
every chapter.
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3IcsnymJgTBdTNXwZF8Mz6?si=rB8D8JdmSC-
5TkebPVEaHQ
 Chapter 23: Curled Up Died And Now It’s Rotten
Chapter Summary

⚠ Bit of a content warning for this one. ⚠

I actually decided to up the rating on the fic thanks to this chapter. There is explicit body
horror and gore in this chapter, even if only for a few paragraphs, so for those who
cannot stand such things, I suggest you stop reading now, or skip to the next chapter.

Chapter Notes

Y’all are either gonna love me or hate me for this one.

I have no regrets!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

“I’m back!” Peter called out as he closed the door, shrugging off his backpack and removing
his coat and shoes.

He had been at Jay’s for a few days, recovering from a particularly bad blackout. He had
turned up at Jay’s door physically shaking, remnants of badly washed away blood coating his
fingers, accumulated under his fingernails. Specks had spattered his cheeks, and his arm was
broken in two places, both eyes black and bruised.

Jay had wanted to seriously call the police that day. At least get Grayson involved. He had his
phone in hand, ready to make the call, but Peter had knocked it away in a panic.

“No!” He had yelled, startled and afraid.

Jay looked at him with a similar fear, green eyes flashing warily as the phone clattered onto
the floor a few feet away.

It had taken a lot for the both of them to calm down after that.

The following days were tumultuous and strained, despite the pair of them wanting to move
past it. Jay hadn’t gotten Grayson involved, as far as Peter knew, but he had called Alfred.
The butler arrived at the flat with a hefty med kit, patching Peter to the best of his abilities
while the young man fought off a panic attack, Jay stowing himself away in the kitchen,
stress cooking.
“Mrs Packer?” Peter called out again, upon receiving no response. She should have been
home by now. Her shift at the shelter ended hours ago. Mr Packer, Peter knew, would have
just left for work, his job being predominantly night shifts.

Maybe Mrs Packer had gone to bed early?

But… a strange scent drifted through Peter’s sinuses. It was a scent he was familiar to, but it
was unexpected here.

It was blood. Old blood.

Was Mrs Packer hurt? Had there been an accident?

Peter rushed throughout the house, checking rooms.

Downstairs was clear, but there was a bowl of bread dough left out to proof that was- was it
beginning to mould?

Peter ran up the stairs, taking it two steps at a time. The scent of blood grew heavier. Copper
stung his senses.

He met the door of Mr and Mrs Packer’s room.

There was blood, dried and crusted on the door handle. A smudge, barely even there, but it
scared him.

He opened the door.

He retched.

Vomit soaked into the plush carpet, and his hand clutched at his throat, coughing and
hacking. Tears pricked at his eyes, hot and wet and burning. The scent in the room was
overwhelming, the sight moreso.

Mr Packer lay on the bed. He could have looked as if he were sleeping, were it not for his
bloated, puffy skin and the foamy, bloody pus oozing from his nose, ears, mouth. Large black
bruises wrapped around his crushed throat, his bulging eyes were half lidded and glassy.
Fogged over like cloudy, curdled milk.

That in itself would have been more than Peter could handle, but Mrs Packer-

Mrs Packer was slumped against the dresser, abdomen torn open. Her guts were spilled onto
the floor, mangled and ripped to shreds. Blood pooled, flooded, around her, drenching her
night dress and a large chunk of carpet. Half dried, her rotting organs were slick with gunk.
What looked like her stomach was ruptured, the acid inside having sat long enough to
corrode through the carpet.

Flies were buzzing around their decaying meal, crawling on and around and inside both
bodies. Their hum assaulted Peter’s ears as loud as jackhammers.
Peter crashed to his knees, landing in his vomit. He barely noticed, staring widely at the
nightmare before him. He threatened to throw up again, and he clasped a trembling hand to
his mouth in shock and unbridled terror.

Near unconsciously, his other hand brought his phone to his ear.

It rang for an agonisingly long minute. The low chimes of the dial tone merged with the
buzzing flies.

“Hey Peter, what’s up?” Asked Tim brightly. Chipper.

Peter couldn’t work his mouth. He gave a choking croak, gaping like a fish.

“Peter?”

“Tim,” Peter finally managed. “Tim, they’re- I need- I don’t-“

“Peter? Peter, it’s okay. Just breathe for me, okay? What’s happened? What’s wrong? Is it J?
Did something-“

“Not Jay.” Peter’s words were strangled and half panted. “The Packers. Oh god, Tim,
they’re- they’re dead,” he gasped out.

“What?” Asked Tim. “I couldn’t- Peter, what happened?” His voice was demanding and
impatient.

A fly landed on Peter’s hand, and he jerked violently with a yell, scrambling back into the
corridor. A great sob tore past Peter’s trembling lips and he choked down a deep, aching
breath. “Dead, Tim. They’re dead!” He cried.

The phone fell from his hand as he sobbed freely, clutching at his face and crying loud.

Tim was still trying to talk to him, but eventually hung up.

Less than an half an hour later, sirens and flashing lights filled the air.

Peter didn’t register the police climbing the stairs. He didn’t move when they tried to bring
him to his feet and lead him away. He stayed sitting. Staring. Crying silent tears and choking
on his gasping breaths.

And then a gentle hand lay on his shoulder.

“Peter,” Grayson spoke gently. “I’m going to help you get cleaned up, okay?”

Peter blinked owlishly, head turning slowly to look into the officer’s familiar face. He let the
man help him up, supporting him down the stairs and towards the back of an ambulance.

Tim was waiting for them.

“Peter,” he ran up to the men, panic and worry clear in his eyes. “Peter, are you okay? I didn’t
know what to do, so I called Dick and got here as soon as I could. I called J. He’s on his way
too.”

“Give him some space, little wing,” Grayson placed himself between Tim and Peter as Peter
flinched, jerking away. “It’s alright, Peter. It’s okay.” After a moment, he lay a slow, gentle
hand on Peter’s arm again, and guided him to sit down.

“I don’t officially have jurisdiction in Gotham,” Grayson said, a couple hours later, taking a
seat across from Peter.

They were in an interview room, Peter dressed in clean clothes, having taken a shower. His
dirty clothes had been taken as evidence, and Peter had been poked and prodded by doctors
then forensics experts. He was silent throughout the whole process. Numb.

“But the commissioner gave me permission to help with this case, under the circumstances.”
Grayson gave a sad smile to Peter, who nodded weakly. “It’s not the best practice, potential
conflicting interests and biases and all of that, but I’m just an officer, not a detective. We
figured you probably wouldn’t want to talk to someone you don’t know.”

“Okay,” said Peter, voice soft and dry. He sounded numb.

“Do you want anyone else here for this? Tim and J are waiting outside, or I can get you a
lawyer if that would help you feel more comfortable.”

“A lawyer?” Peter asked, confused. He took another look around the interview room,
reminding himself that he wasn’t in an interrogation.

Grayson shook his head, “You’re not under arrest,” he cleared up. “You’re just here as a
witness.”

Peter looked down, and nodded. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Can I have Tim?”

Grayson smiled, “Of course.”

He signalled for the other officer in the room to bring Tim in. She left and returned not long
later, and Tim took a seat beside Peter.

“Alright. I’m going to be recording this conversation. Is that okay, Peter?”

Peter nodded.

Grayson switched on the recording device and cleared his throat. After speaking the
necessary admin phrases, he began to address Peter.

“Could to state your name, please?”

Peter gave a groggy, heavy blink. “Peter,” he said.

Grayson waited for a moment to allow him to add a surname, but it became clear that Peter
wasn’t going to say any more. It didn’t faze him, however, as he continued. “I’d like you to
tell me what happened earlier tonight. As much as you can remember.”

Frowning, Peter nodded. “I-” he croaked out before stopping, his mouth not wanting to voice
his words.

“It’s okay, take your time,” Grayson soothed.

Tim boldly dared to take Peter’s hand. This time, Peter didn’t flinch away from his touch.
Instead, it grounded him.

Peter took a steadying breath. “I was at my boyfriends house for a few days,” he started. “I
got the bus home. Mr and Mrs Packer don’t really like Jay, so he doesn’t drive me home
anymore,” he explained. “I got back pretty late. I thought Mrs Packer had gone to bed. Mr
Packer works nights, so,” he trailed off for a moment. “The door was locked,” he said. “Mr
Packer always locks it. Even when there’s people in the house. I forget to lock the door all the
time and he gets annoyed at me. Mrs Packer too, sometimes. He says a good lock is the first
defence. But the door was locked,” he frowned, falling silent, brows furrowed in quiet,
frustrated confusion.

It had been locked.

“What happened when you got inside?” Grayson asked, leading Peter back on track.

“It smelled weird. Like blood. I got worried. I thought Mrs Packer might have fallen and hurt
herself. When I went upstairs I-“ he choked. His stomach turned and he brought a hand to his
mouth.

“Peter?” Tim startled.

Grayson was quick to action, and brought out a large paper bag, opening it and handing it to
Peter just before he threw up.

It was a thin, searing bile that came up and burned his throat. Peter barely caught it in the
bag. Tim rubbed his back, and Grayson presented him with a cup of water, asking his fellow
officer to find mints.

“Let it out,” Tim soothed, brows creased in worry.

“Sorry,” croaked Peter.

“It’s okay,” Grayson insisted. “It happens more than you’d think.”

The other officer had come back, and offered Peter a pack of gum.

“Thank you.” The gum was refreshing, and made the water feel colder than it was.
“We can come back to what happened when you went upstairs,” suggested Grayson, and
Peter nodded in relief. “Could you tell me more about your relationship with the Packers?”

“I,” Peter shifted slightly. “I, erm, I was homeless,” he admitted . “I met Mr Packer at a job
on the docks. When my time was up at the homeless shelter I was staying at, he pointed me
towards the one where his wife volunteered. They were nice to me,” he said. “I, er, I saved
Mr Packer from getting beat up one night and missed the curfew at the shelter, and it started
snowing real bad, so he took me to his house. I think he was only planning on it being for just
a night or two, but Mrs Packer insisted that I rent their spare room. I didn’t really know them
very well, but they were kind, and I didn’t want to…” he flushed, ashamed, looking down.
“Sleep on roofs again,” he grumbled. He knew there was no shame in it. He had done what
he had to, but cops and the homeless did not have a very positive relationship.

“And how long had you been living with them?”

“Um,” Peter had to think a moment. He didn’t know the exact date. “Since before Christmas?
It was December, I know that.”

Grayson nodded. He was still smiling a gentle smile, and Peter relaxed at the lack of
judgment in his expression.

The questions went on for a while, and by the end of it all Peter just wanted to curl up in a
ball and sleep forever.

Tim invited him to the manor or even his dorm room after he declined staying with Jay, but
he turned that down too. He didn’t want to be around people. Couldn’t stand it. He murmured
that he’d get a hotel room or something, and walked off. Tim, Grayson, and Jay were too
stunned to go after him, instead looking to one another with concern and worry.

Peter ended up sleeping in the abandoned toilet block in Amusement Mile that he had taken
over. It had taken hours for him to trudge his way from the police station, but the walk was
exactly what he needed. Time alone. Time to breathe. Time away from thoughts. To just be
numb.

It felt like he slept for days, but his dreams were not the restful boon he was craving.

Nightmares of blood and flies echoed through his mind. The faces of Mr and Mrs Packer
shifted and warped into those of May and Ben and Tony and Ned and Matt and Wade and…
Jay… every time he woke, he woke in tears. Shaking and panting.

After the third day of nothing but sleep, he threw his backpack and phone into a river.

He couldn’t do that again. He never learned. Everyone he got close to ended up dead.

He couldn’t let Jay get hurt. Or Tim, or Casey, or anyone!

He donned his Spiderman suit.

“N.N.E.D, what are we looking at today?”

Chapter End Notes

If anyone is interested, here’s a playlist of all the songs that inspire the fic (or that I
chose just because the lyrics kinda work well for a chapter title, you’ll never know
which), in order of their appearance as chapter titles. A new song will be added with
every chapter.
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3IcsnymJgTBdTNXwZF8Mz6?si=rB8D8JdmSC-
5TkebPVEaHQ
 Chapter 24: I Like To Make Believe With you That We Always
Speak The Truth
Chapter Notes

I love seeing all your theories in the comments. I’m glad y’all are as invested as I am in
this story.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Nightwing snuck into the Packer house, carefully picking the back door lock. There were still
officers posted round front, just in case Peter turned up. Nobody was hopeful on that. He had
been missing for nearly a week.

That didn’t bode well.

There was a BOLO issued for him, but nothing had turned up so far, and Dick knew that it
wouldn’t be long before the police gave up. Leads were dry and their key person of interest
had up and disappeared.

Which was entirely why Dick was at the Packer house to begin with.

Jason and Tim had been going insane over Peter’s disappearance. Tim hadn’t slept, searching
security footage from every single camera he could hack into. Combing through photos
online, just in case Peter was in the background of any of them. Obsessing over any small
detail. He was prone to all nighters, but this was… this was different. Steph had told him he
hadn’t been going to classes all week, hiding himself away in his dorm room. Babs had tried
to hack his computer. To force him to get some rest. He just switched to a library computer
instead.

Jason was- well, Jason was scary. He was silent. That was the worst thing. He wasn’t one for
chatting. Not with Dick, anyway. He never messaged first. But he always responded within
minutes. Without fail. But he wasn’t responding at all anymore. There were reports of Red
Hood being even harder on criminals. Aiming to kill, not debilitate. No-one had died yet, that
they knew of. It was worrying. Jason had come a long way from how he had been in the
height of his pit rage years. He had been getting better. But now, Dick felt his brother was
starting to slip away again.

Bruce had asked him to do some digging of his own, to try end to suffering of Tim and Jason
one way or another. Dick didn’t have to be asked twice.

He wasn’t fully privy to the official police investigation, but people talked. The Packer case
wasn’t like other murders in Gotham. Usually they were working with guns or blades, but a
woman’s chest being torn open? Everyone wanted to know what was going on. It wasn’t hard
for Dick to get his coworkers gossiping.

It seemed like there were two camps of thought. A: the sweet elderly couple were too
generous for their own good and were brutally betrayed by the homeless man they had
invited into their home. Peter’s disappearance was simply him trying to escape the
consequences of his actions. Or B: the men who had tried to beat up Mr Packer held a
grudge, and Peter had either gone into hiding, scared they would kill him too, or he had
already been taken down.

Dick didn’t know what he believed, he didn’t know Peter well enough to pass judgement, but
Tim and Jason vehemently denied the possibility that Peter had killed his landlords. Tim and
Jason knew him, and they were insistent that he was not a killer. It also wasn’t physically
possible. Peter had been with Jason for days, for one thing, and the estimated time of death
had a wide margin for error. For another, Dick had snagged a copy of the autopsy report.
Both Mr and Mrs Packer had been attacked with such extreme strength, that it was near
impossible for someone like Peter to have managed it.

But at the same time, Dick knew Jason was holding something back. He was hiding
something about Peter, but he didn’t know what.

There were too many holes in the case. How had the killer gotten in and out? There had been
no evidence of the locks being picked; no windows had been broken. Was it someone the
Packers knew, had they let them into their home? Was it random? Why had Mr Packer died in
such a different way to his wife? Was Peter and his subsequent disappearance really
connected to any of this?

Dick made his way upstairs.

Passing by the Packer’s bedroom, it stunk of cleaning products. The crime scene cleaners had
worked wonders. Dick remembered the horror it had been that day… the sickening smell of
putrid flesh and blood. Now it was all gone. The only hint of the tragedy was the small patch
of carpet that had been burned through.

He kept walking.

Finding Peter’s bedroom, he entered. It looked untouched. As he passed over the threshold,
he felt a sense of foreboding he couldn’t quite explain. Something niggled in the back of his
brain. The energy felt… off, somehow. Something was wrong here.

He started searching.

He didn’t know what he was looking for necessarily. He just needed something. Anything
that might give a clue as to what was up with Peter. Where he might have gone.

His desk was cluttered with papers and tech, a half built contraption sticking out of the side
of a cheap old radio, cans of soda and packets of crisps. Dick flicked through one of the
notebooks. Peter had talked about his arc reactor project before. Mostly to Tim. Skimming
the text, it all looked to be equations and diagrams. He couldn’t understand much of it. He set
it back down.

The bed was roughly made, and the closet was fairly empty, only a handful of items hung up
or crumpled on the floor. That was understandable. He had spent time at Jason’s. He would
have taken clothes with him. Dick traced a hand over the arm of a brown leather jacket, one
of the ones he’d bought Jason. Jason had told him he gifted Peter one of them. There was a
tear in the sleeve that had been sewn up neatly. Dick remembered Jason cursing and ranting
about being shot in the arm, how he hated having to fix his jackets every time that happened.
He still insisted on wearing the damn things as Red Hood, so Dick kept buying him new
ones.

Moving across the room, he opened the drawer of the nightstand. His sense of foreboding
grew stronger, and even the beginnings of a headache struck behind his eyes. Something
golden rolled to the front. Curious, he picked it up. It felt warm, despite its metallic sheen. It
was heavy too, and if he payed close attention it felt like it was… humming? It sent an
unnatural panic through him. His grip tightened around it, as if afraid of letting it fall. Afraid
of letting it go.

He wanted to let it go.

Holding it up to eye level, it looked like an owl, which made him ever more cautious. Owls
in Gotham tended to mean one thing.

Was this the lead he was hoping for?

Breaking into Red Hood’s safe house wasn’t hard. The balcony door was unlocked. For a guy
as twitchy and paranoid as Red Hood, one would have thought he would have better security
on a door leading to the outside world. Granted, Spiderman had to scale the side of the
building of course, but he had encountered enough people in the city who used grappling
hooks to get around that it should at least be locked.

The building was only seven storeys. He had climbed taller. He was still exhausted by the
time he got inside though, and he collapsed onto the neatly made double bed with little
thought in his mind but sleep. And food. And hot running water.

Damn he missed showering.

He had been Spiderman full time for four weeks now.

He had been doing fine.

He slept in his hideout during the day, and swung around at night. He stuck to large, crowded
shops when he needed to pick up supplies because who would single him out among a sea of
many? He knew people were looking for him, but years of bullies had taught him how to hide
in plain sight. How to be overlooked. Forgotten. He had seen his face pop up on the news a
lot the first couple weeks. He didn’t panic though. His Spidey sense hummed every now and
then, steering him away from certain places that he soon heard sirens heading to.

His hadn’t been blacking out anymore either. That he noticed, anyway. There were no
mysterious lapses in memory, no unexplained injuries, no blood on his hands. Caked under
his finger nails. Spattered against his cheek. Blood. Crimson and warm, stomach churning
and so very red and- No!

He was fine.

Spiderman was fine.

He was existing just great as Spiderman after blocking out forgetting Peter and Slackline.

Sure his nightmares were still well and truly alive, sometimes creeping into his daydreams,
and he couldn’t forget the blood, but he was fine.

Everything was going fine.

Until it wasn’t.

He had returned to the graffiti ridden old toilet block one morning after a patrol of China
town. It was far south of Gotham, so a long way from where he had claimed as his home, but
he liked the trek. The adrenaline rush, the wind buffeting him, the freedom of swinging
around the city.

He usually felt fairly safe in his choices. His hideout was out of the way, unappealing, and
easy to overlook in favour of old amusement parks and animal pens. Who would rummage
around a dingy old toilet that was covered in broken glass, rusted metal, and smelled like dog
shit?

But when he returned that day, everything was gone. His cash. His food. His supplies. His
chemistry kit had been smashed to pieces, his sleeping bag shredded up and, by the smell of
it, pissed on. New graffiti had been erected on the stall he had artfully turned into a tent.
‘Filthy bum,’ and ‘trash,’ and ‘get a job’, and several orders to end his own life were defiling
his nest.

He had known of hostility towards the unhoused. He had seen it. He had rescued people from
it.

He hadn’t yet been on the receiving end, until then, and he was glad he hadn’t been sleeping
when whoever had destroyed his shelter did what they did. He had to stop a group of drunks
harassing a homeless man who was trying to sleep in the doorway of a boarded up hotel once.
One of them had kicked the man’s face so hard that his jaw had to be reconstructed.
Spiderman had helped him as best he could. Kept up with him after he was released from the
hospital as best he could. Bought him coffee every now and then.
Spiderman was devastated. Completely and utterly. Floundering for what to do. How to
rebuild. His money was gone. His webs were gone. Everything was gone.

He had tried his best. Spiderman was nothing if not resilient. He always got back up. He
could get back onto his feet.

He stuck to rooftops again like the first time he was homeless. He used his remaining webs as
little as possible. No more swinging through the city. He had legs, he could use them.

But he was hungry. Starving.

He wasn’t healing right anymore. He was slowing. Getting sluggish. His actions were sloppy,
his mood sour. His suit was torn and damaged and dirty, one of the lenses in his mask cracked
and hard to see through.

He needed somewhere warm. Somewhere safe and dry.

He needed a safe house.

He didn’t know how long he slept in Red Hood’s bed. It could have been hours. It could have
been days. His nightmares made it feel like years…

Spiderman shook his head. Autonomously, his body moved itself up and towards the kitchen.
He felt bad for it, but he raided the fridge. It was fully stocked with fresh food. It appeared
Red Hood maintained his safe houses well. After having made himself a grilled cheese
sandwich, Spiderman was in heaven. He showered, ridding himself of the grime of the past
month, and fixed up his suit as best he could with the rudimentary sewing kit in the
apartment. He wasn’t able to fix the lens in his mask but he could work around it for now.

He sat on the sofa, frowning down at the lens and shovelling crisps into his mouth. He
wondered if he should even bother trying to fix it, or if he should just try get a new mask
entirely. It would be a pain to reintegrate N.N.E.D, especially without his tools or a computer,
but N.N.E.D had powered down anyway days ago.

Then a chill went down his spine. He barely had time to throw on his mask before the front
door crashed open.

There was a tense pause as Spiderman stared at Red Hood, Red Hood staring back. Both fully
masked but their body language very visibly showing shock and alarm.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Hood demanded, pistol aimed at Spiderman’s head
within a spilt second.

Spiderman saw him barely even flinch at the gaping wound that he disturbed in his shoulder
by doing so. Blood was pouring down his arm, down his brown leather jacket, and Spiderman
felt sick.

He scrambled to his feet, arms high in the air. He swayed a little, losing his balance for a
mere moment. He had no words.
“Well?” Hood snarled. “Speak. I’m not in the fucking mood for games.”

“I- I’m sorry,” Spiderman managed to stammer. “I didn’t mean to- well, I did- I just-“ he
started to sway again. He had stood far too fast. His vision blurred and he stumbled, but
managed to catch himself.

Red Hood lowered his gun only slightly, and Spiderman got the sense he was eying him
closely. Inspecting him.

It was apparent that he was not okay.

“Fucking make me a sandwich and you can stay,” Hood growled. “But only for one night.
You got that bug?” He sounded like he was sneering, and he stomped towards the bathroom.
“One.”

Spiderman collapsed onto the sofa, heart beating fast in his chest. One night. Okay. Hood
wasn’t going to kill him. Awesome. He tried to calm his breathing.

In. Out.

Slow. Calm.

“Sandwich!” Hood yelled through the closed bathroom door, and Spiderman rushed to fulfil
the request.

Jason was pissed. Peter’s belongings had been found, washed up on a riverbank. Batman was
up his arse, sending Black bat and Spoiler to babysit him every night. Dick was blowing up
his phone trying to nose his way into his life. Investigating cold cases of missing people
fucking sucked ass. Some fucker he wasn’t even fighting had shot him in the shoulder. And,
to add insult to injury, a bastard Spider was sitting on his sofa eating his food.

At least the little shit made good sandwiches. Not too much mayo, but just enough so that it
wasn’t dry.

He looked like crap. Smelled it too. His costume looked like it hadn’t been washed in
months. Shaggy hair hung to his shoulders, unruly and stringy. It looked damp. Freshly
washed? Had he used his shower?

Jason fought a sneer.

“The fuck happened to you?” He asked, taking a large bite out of his sandwich. It hurt to
move his arm, but he kept any vocalisations to himself.

The Spider was making his way through another packet of crisps, two empty bags already
discarded to the left of him. His mask was pushed up just above his nose, obscuring his
cracked right lens. He turned his head away, frowning.

“Bad?”
 The Spider’s frown twitched.

Jason scoffed. “Tough shit. Life fucking sucks.” Shit hit the fan whether you were ready or
not. Parents fucked off, boyfriends went missing, sometimes you get killed in a horrific way.
He was glad he didn’t have to listen to the Spider’s sob story. He had enough of one to call
his own, to write a dozen novels twice over.

Spider took a moment, before he nodded in agreement; a dower, serious grimace playing his
lips. He ate another handful of crisps, then pointed to Jason.

“Got shot,” he said dryly. Obviously.

Spider pulled a face.

“I’m working on missing person cases,” Jason gruffed. He didn’t like the Spider. He didn’t
really like most other vigilantes. Not at this time, anyway. He might be useful to him though.
From the looks of him, the bastard was on the streets, or something adjacent to that. He might
have seen some things. Might have seen Peter.

Spider cocked his head.

“Old ones, mostly,” Jason elaborated. “Folks have been going missing near the free clinic for
years now. A disproportional amount.”

He saw Spider straighten.

“You know something about it?”

Spider pulled a face. “I know you stopped looking into them before,” he said, voice soft and
tentative. Completely unlike his usual endless string of confident quips and ramblings. Jason
wasn’t sure if his talking or his silence was more annoying. Maybe it was just the Spider in
general, getting on his nerves like bugs across his skin.

Jason glared. “Well I’m looking into them now,” he spat through gritted teeth. Yes, he had
stopped searching in the past. His investigations never amounted to anything. He knew they
were linked to underground fighting rings, but he didn’t know who run them or where. Any
lead he ever found ended up pointing to nothing and nowhere. “Just fucking-“ he forced a
breath. “Keep your fucking eye out. Let me know if there’s anything strange going on.“

God he wished he had just shot the fucking Spider. Then he could recuperate in peace. No
fucking rando watching him. Questioning his fucking decisions.

At least he was leaving tomorrow.

Chapter End Notes

If anyone is interested, here’s a playlist of all the songs that inspire the fic (or that I
chose just because the lyrics kinda work well for a chapter title, you’ll never know
which), in order of their appearance as chapter titles. A new song will be added with
every chapter.
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3IcsnymJgTBdTNXwZF8Mz6?si=rB8D8JdmSC-
5TkebPVEaHQ
 Chapter 25: It’s Hard To Be A Man When There’s A Gun In
Your Hand
Chapter Notes

I was originally going to do this next chapter, but I’m currently working through a
mental health crisis so my timeline has moved up a bit. Not everything is as resolved as
I’d hoped but I need time to work on my health and relationships.
We are about a third of the way through this fic. The first mini arc of the story has been
kinda resolved, with plenty more to come. I will be taking an official break for a few
weeks before continuing. Think of this as the end of season 1, I guess.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Spiderman- no, Peter slunk his way through Gotham, towards Robinson Park. His Spiderman
hoodie was flipped inside out, hiding the spray painted spider on the front, and his mask was
stuffed into the pocket. It bulged out strangely. His hood was up, and he walked fast, sticking
to the shadows. It was dark. The spring air was warm, and a light breeze tickled his face.

Making it to the greenhouse, plants and vines seemed to twitch and writhe at his presence.
Ivy knew he was here.

The door swung open, and Harley stared at him with wide eyes.

He hadn’t seen Harley in weeks. He didn’t see any point to continuing the fights after the
Packers’ deaths. He had scrapped his plan of belonging to society. He didn’t need to be Peter
anymore. Being Peter meant having people to lose. But he had no money. No tech. No webs.
His suit was falling to pieces, N.N.E.D had run out of power, and he couldn’t stay at Red
Hood’s safe house.

He was worried Harley would be upset.

He shouldn’t have been.

“Parker!” Harley bounded towards him. “Where have you been? I’ve seen you all over the
news. They said you were dead. Is that why you didn’t call? That was rude.” She bopped him
lightly on the head as if scolding an unruly pup.

Peter kicked at the ground. “Hi, Harley. Can I come in?”

“Sure!” Harley grabbed his hand and tugged him inside.

The greenhouse was perfectly warm, as it usually was, and Peter was consumed by the
overwhelming perfume of Ivy’s plants. It made him dizzy.
“Take a seat, sugar,” Harley bounced towards the sofa. Ivy was there, sipping tea in a fancy
cup. She was wearing pyjamas. She looked… cozy? Harley did too, for that matter. She wore
soft fleece shorts and a large fluffy jumper that had tickled Peter’s forehead when she patted
him. “Got popcorn if you’re hungry.”

The T.V. was on, showing an old horror movie. Peter recognised it as Little Shop of Horrors.

Peter tentatively sat down at the edge of the sofa, as far from Ivy as possible.

“Did you hear Eddie got out of Arkham?” Asked Harley brightly, curling up on the sofa and
hugging a giant batman plushie to here chest. “We should invite him for brunch.”

Ivy scowled. “God, if I have to hear Ed whine about Cobblepot one more time.” She rolled
her eyes.

Peter was lost. “Who?”

“Riddler,” Ivy stated. “He and Penguin are far too dysfunctional.”

“But they’re so cute together,” Harley pouted. “Besides, you love Eddie. You give him
gardening advice.”

Ivy’s nose twitched. “Why is the dead man here?” She asked, changing the subject and
looked pointedly at Peter. “He’s interrupting movie night.”

“I, er, didn’t have anywhere else to go,” Peter shifted.

“So you come crawling back here?”

Peter flinched. “I’m sorry,” he said meekly.

“Oh hush, Ivy,” Harley lightly batted Ivy’s arm. “We’ve seen this movie hundreds of times.
He’s fine. What’s the story sugar?” She asked, looking to Peter with a curious smile.

Frowning, Peter didn’t know quite how to start. He had made peace with Harley and Ivy
knowing his face, but now they knew who he had tried to be. They knew how he had failed to
keep that life safe.

“Did the cops think you did it?” Asked Harley, talking over his silence. “Did you do it?”

Peter flinched again. “No,” he said. But… had he done it? It was a question he had been
trying not to ask himself since it happened. He couldn’t see himself ever killing anyone.
Especially not Mr and Mrs Packer. But he remembered the blood that day he arrived at Jay’s.
Had he fought that day?

He wanted to ask Harley as such, but he didn’t think it would be smart for her to know about
his memory problems. If she didn’t already, his mind supplied pessimistically.

“Are,” he hesitated, changing the topic. “Are there any fights soon?” He asked.
Harley cocked her head, thinking. “How desperate are ya?” She asked brightly.

Peter wrinkled his nose and shifted in his seat. “Pretty desperate,” he admitted coarsely.

Harley nodded, musing. “Could get one Saturday. Goliath. You remember him, right? He’s
set to be going against these twins, but if you’re up for it we could probably convince him
and his sponsor to take you on again. If not, you’re gonna have to wait a while.”

Peter could not remember Goliath, though the name filled him with unease. It made his
stomach turn, and he didn’t know why, but he couldn’t decline the opportunity. Saturday was
three days away. He could make it to then. He could maybe sneak into Red Hood’s safe house
again. The likelihood of him finding him again was probably pretty low, right? How often did
Red Hood use that particular safe house?

Harley, though, had other ideas. “You shoulda came to me in the first place, Parker,” she had
admonished after Peter tried to leave the greenhouse. “I know Ivy comes off a little cold, but
we both like you enough not to leave you out on the streets when there’s a fucking manhunt
for you, dummy.”

The thought had admittedly crossed his mind of going to Harley after the Packers died, but he
couldn’t. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Harley. He actually didn’t remember too much about her
other than she sponsored his fights, and was kinda like a friend of his from back in New
York. It wasn’t for the fact he had decided the fights were a lost cause, seeing as he didn’t
want to rejoin society anymore. It wasn’t even for the fear of losing time again, as tended to
happen around Harley. Really, it was because he didn’t want her to find out about Spiderman.
It would be way harder to hide his superhero identity from Harley and Ivy than it had been
with the Packers.

Harley had set up a curtained off area in the living room, Ivy forming a makeshift bed out of
vines and plants for him that was surprisingly soft, and had told Peter in no uncertain terms to
make himself at home. Peter found it hard to do. Not only was he scared of blacking out, but
every time he caught a glimpse of Ivy she was glaring at him as if to say ‘You are a worthless
bug taking up space in my home.’ Harley’s hyenas were also borderline terrifying. They
would snarl and growl at Peter, demanding food or to be let out or for pets. They never bit or
clawed at a Peter, but they scared him regardless. Harley, though, was a sweetheart. She’d
drag Peter into watching T.V. with her, or she would rope him into her haphazard attempts at
baking or other kitchen endeavours. How the pair of them hadn’t blown up the kitchen during
the cookie disaster was beyond Peter. Harley would jump topics far too quickly, getting
caught up in a new wild idea at the drop of a hat, and drag Peter along for the ride. It was
chaos, but it reminded Peter of home in a small way. She reminded him of someone he once
knew, though he couldn’t put his finger on who exactly. Whenever he tried to properly think
about it, his head ached.

Most of the time while at the greenhouse, Peter would hang out with Harley and do his best
to avoid Ivy and the hyenas. When he had time to himself, though, he felt uneasy. Scared his
mind would rupture and his world would go black. That he would wake up and not know
what he had done. It plagued his mind whenever he gave himself longer than a second to
think. When he had nothing to do.
Now that he wasn’t trying to survive on the streets or protect the city as Spiderman, the time
he could spend just sitting and thinking had skyrocketed. Over the course of three days he
questioned himself more and more about what he could have been doing whenever he would
blackout, and why he blacked out in the first place.

“Harley?” Asked Peter, brow creased, looking down at his hands. He was sitting on her bed,
the Slackline hoodie crushed between his fingers. The bloodstained gold and teal mocked
him.

“Yeah, hun?”

“Have I hurt people?”

Harley cocked her head. “What do you mean?”

“Not in the cage,” Peter elaborated. “Outside. You’ve been dragging me around, doing all
sorts of stuff.” He recalled hearing from the news and from the bats that Slackline was
‘Harley’s new lackey’. “I- I don’t- I don’t hurt people, do I?” Self doubt was creeping
through his mind. Insidious and silent, as doubts tended to be.

“Sugar,” Harley cooed, “You get upset if I step on a fly. Of course you don’t hurt anyone.”

Peter bit his lip, and nodded in acknowledgment. It didn’t feel truly like an answer, more
something to placate him, but he clung to the hope of his innocence regardless. He pulled on
the hoodie. He was fighting tonight. The way Harley spoke about Goliath, he had some sort
of grudge against Peter. That he had jumped at the chance of a rematch. That he wanted to
‘pummel the little freak’ who had beat him before.

It was worrying. Deeply so.

Slackline entered the ring second, taking in the sight of the giant he was supposed to be
fighting. A wave of deja vu washed over him that sickened him to the core, but he couldn’t
linger. The cage door clattered closed and the fight had begun.

Slackline immediately tried to get the high ground, but Goliath was somehow waiting for
that.

He grabbed at Slackline and threw him down to the concrete like a rag doll. Slackline
shielded his face just in time to avoid his nose being crushed flat. His forearms took the brunt
of the collision and they sung from the pain, sending shockwaves through his limbs. Quickly
rolling onto his back, he made it just fast enough to catch the heavy boot that was making its
way straight for him. He caught it with relative ease, regardless of the tingling numbness he
was now feeling in his arms, and kicked out at Goliath. A blow landed against his other
ankle, sounding a crunch that nearly made Slackline wince.

Goliath let out an agonised roar. He dropped to his knees and began pummelling Slackline.
Striking at every area he could, the blows were erratic. Some even landed into the concrete,
cracking it and leaving small craters. Slackline caught and deflected what he could, the
punches came slow but heavy. He tried to find an opening to escape, but he was trapped
under Goliath’s great strength.

Then, a great echoing crash resonated throughout the building. The sound of glass shattering
and crashing to the ground made Goliath look away, startled, trying to find the source.
Slackline took that as advantage to fight back. To push Goliath away and spring into the air,
clinging onto the cage and climbing up out of the behemoth’s reach to reassess. No-one was
paying attention to him though, as pandemonium had broken out.

From his newfound height advantage, Slackline saw that the large, circular window in the
wall across from him had been shattered, and Batman, Nightwing, and Red Hood had
appeared. They were battling security goons who had rushed them, and guns were being fired
haphazardly. Stray bullets lodged into the crowd who were clambering towards the exit;
felling some, injuring others.

Slackline looked around for Harley, catching her eye. She waved at him frantically, making
strange, panicked motions that Slackline eventually realised meant that she wanted him to
climb out of the ring and join her. He did so, which was easier said than done. Barbed wire
topped the tall cage, and scratched at Slacklines skin as he hurried his way over. He made it
to the ground and joined Harley, who grabbed his wrist and pushed through the crowd with
him in tow.

“Batsy always knows how to make an entrance,” Harley commented as they ran.

Slackline scowled. Behind him the sound of the fight raged on. He and Harley squeezed their
way through the mass of bodies, making it past the bottleneck that was the exit. They
tumbled out onto the street amongst others who were scattering in all directions. Some were
being rounded up by more bats, others by the police.

Slackline took charge. He pulled Harley towards the building they had just left, swinging her
onto his back and climbing up the wall, disguising his abilities via a quickly located
drainpipe. He paused and ducked a few times when a cop decided it was a good idea to shoot
at him. He got hit in the foot, but otherwise scrambled up the wall in record time. He and
Harley ran across the roof, ignoring the searing pain in his foot, hopping to another building
before dropping down into an alleyway.

They caught their breath once they realised there were no cops or heroes around.

“Are you okay?” Slackline asked through gritted teeth.

Harley had a wild look in her eyes, and she was grinning from the adrenaline rush. Slipping
her phone into her pocket -when had she found time to go on her phone?- she declared, “I’m
doing great! I texted Ivy. She’s out too. Managed to get Red Robin with a new pollen.”

Slackline nodded.

“Your foot okay?”

Slackline looked down at his pained foot. Blood gushed onto the ground, and he swayed a
little, lightheaded. Scowling, he tore off part of his hoodie and roughly bound the wound. It
wasn’t pretty, but it would work for now.

As he rose, there was the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked.

At the entrance of the alley stood Red Hood. Tall and menacing, pistol in hand.

Slackline glared at him with measured rage. How dare these damn vigilantes mess everything
up!

Hood had his pistol trained on Harley. “Give up, Quinn.” His mechanical voice echoed in the
silent alleyway. “Are illegal fighting rings really something you wanna go down for? How
the mighty have fallen.” The pistol was aimed dangerously high. A deadly warning.

White hot fury coursed through Slackline’s veins. How dare he threaten Harley! Despite the
pain he was in, he launched at Hood.

He fought like a swarm of bees, sending flurry after flurry of punches and kicks. Hood fought
back just as hard. He wasn’t as fast as Slackline, but he could pack a punch. He also used
everything he had to his advantage. He slammed the butt of his pistol grip down on
Slackline’s collar, making him cry out in pain, before shooting him in the arm. Slackline
returned the favour with a swift uppercut and a knee to the groin.

Overhead, there was a faint slithering, writhing sound and perfume filled the air.

Slackline managed a heavy blow to the side of Hood’s skull, sending him stumbling back.
Glancing behind him, he saw Ivy, supported by a wave of vines, trying to get Harley to go
with her.

“Harley!” Ivy commanded sharply, her hand held out for the woman.

Harley looked between her and Slackline, indecision in her eyes. She met Slackline’s gaze
with fierce determination to protect, but her pause was enough for Ivy to scoop her up. “No!
Slackline!” Harley squirmed, but Ivy wasn’t listening. She shot away across the rooftops on
her vines, and Slackline was left in the alley, alone, with a man who wanted him dead.

“Fucking coward! Come back and fight me yourself, Quinn! Don’t just run away and send
your dog at me,” Hood snarled, still reeling from the strike. His voice sounded human now.
His helmet was cracked, half of it having fallen away. He shot wildly towards Ivy and Harley,
but every bullet missed.

Slackline backed up. The dead end of the alley could have been easy. He could have crawled
up the wall and made his escape. He could have.

But Slackline’s foot was throbbing and his head spun. Blood poured down his arm and was
getting dizzy from the blood loss. Red Hood was was coming back to his senses, and had him
cornered. The gun was aimed between his eyes. His Spidey sense screamed at him. He
couldn’t think straight. Not like this.
Slackline held up his hands.

“On your knees,” Red Hood ordered.

Slackline did as he was told. It was agonising. His head was searing and his foot burned.

Red Hood pulled the trigger.

Click

Nothing happened.

Slackline’s heart froze as ice flooded his veins. The pain in his mind that was his Spidey
sense screaming at him fell suddenly and immediately silent. It was a dizzying
overcorrection.

Red Hood stood above him, angry and still, pistol aiming at Slackline’s head, the trigger
pulled.
 “What?” Hood hissed. He tried one more time, but once again there was only a subtle click
and nothing more. He growled, reaching to his waist and pulling a new magazine from a
pouch on his belt.

Slackline’s heart began to race once again, and his spine fizzed and crackled.

He had to move now.

Act now!

While Red Hood was reloading.

The cracked helmet bared the left side of Hood’s face. Through the whiteout mesh of his
domino mask, there was a green glow. Neon. Unnatural. Angry. It reminded him of-

Slackline froze.

Something suddenly made sense.

The brown leather jacket… the green glow…

He slowly, cautiously, reached for his hood and tugged it down, then pulled off his mask.

Red Hood’s pistol fell to the ground.

“Peter?”

Chapter End Notes

I hate to leave you on a cliffhanger but I really am not okay right now. I’m starting
therapy soon thankfully, but it’s gonna be a long road ahead of me.

If anyone is interested, here’s a playlist of all the songs that inspire the fic (or that I
chose just because the lyrics kinda work well for a chapter title, you’ll never know
which), in order of their appearance as chapter titles. A new song will be added with
every chapter.
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3IcsnymJgTBdTNXwZF8Mz6?si=rB8D8JdmSC-
5TkebPVEaHQ
 Chapter 26: Like I Don’t Mind If You Fuck Up My Life
Chapter Notes

Guess who’s back.

This one isn’t very long, but I wanted to put something out. I haven’t had much
motivation to write lately. My current situation has spiralled out of control and I’m not
coping very well, but I love this fic and I love seeing all your wonderful comments so I
brought myself to produce a little something to tide us all over until I feel better. A small
ray of sunshine in the eye of the storm I have found myself in.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

It was Nightwing who found them. Red Hood, helmet split open and the man frozen in place
across from a kneeling young man who was all to familiar to his eyes.

“Holy shit,” Dick finally found the strength to speak. Peter’s gaze shifted to him, but Red
Hood didn’t stir.

“I surrender,” Peter spoke weakly. Dick could see tears beginning to form in his eyes.

What happened?

The next few hours was a blur.

Jason had finally come back to reality, but had run off before anyone could say anything.
Dick didn’t know what to do with Peter, until the poor guy passed out. Dick later found out
that was due to blood loss. He had carried his limp body to the batmobile, out of sight of any
officers still on the scene, and waited for Batman. The older vigilante decided that the best
course of action would be to take him to the cave and question him there. To keep him away
from the police for now until they had the bigger picture.

It had taken some time for Peter to regain consciousness, long enough for a debriefing from
Batman and a couple hours of rest, but it was still dark outside. Not that anyone could tell
that, from inside the cave.

Peter groaned as his eyes blinked open.

In the room with him was Batman, Dick, and Damian. Tim was in the next infirmary bed
over, hooked up to an oxygen tank after having been exposed to an unknown poison that had
been sent his way curtesy of Ivy. He wasn’t happy to be there, there being no obvious great
effects of the toxin, but he had resigned himself to his fate after a stern look from Batman.
And a few unsubtle threats from Robin.

“He’s awake,” Damian pointed out tersely.

Dick and Batman paused in their conversation to look at him.

“Peter Stark,” Batman spoke gruffly.

Peter regarded him for only a moment, before pushing himself up into a sitting position. He
looked nauseated by the motion, and confused as his left hand caught on something. It was a
cuff. He didn’t look upset at it, as Dick would have thought, though. He looked… relieved?

“Where’s Jay?” Were the only words that came out of his mouth.

Dick looked to Batman, who barely flinched.

“Jay?” The man asked back.

“Jay,” Peter frowned. “Red Hood, or whatever you guys call him,” he said. “Is he okay? I- I
need to talk to him.”

Dick noticed Batman’s perpetual scowl deepen ever so slightly in response.

“That dickhead’s fine. What about you, Peter?” Tim had pulled off his oxygen mask. Dick
could see it, but he knew his brother was glaring behind the white out of his domino mask. “I
was fucking worried about you. We were all fucking worried! What the hell happened?”

“Red Robin!” Batman barked. “Enough.”

“No,” Tim practically snarled, getting out of his bed and stepping towards Peter, who looked
confused. “You disappeared, Peter. I thought you were dead! How could you do that to me?
You were my friend!”

Suddenly it was as though a veil of clarity had waved over Peter.

“Tim,” he sighed.

Dick’s first thought was to look at Batman. The older vigilante was livid. The general
observer wouldn’t be able to tell, but Dick had made his dad mad enough times to be able to
recognise it.

Peter glanced at Damian and then Dick. “I guess you’re Damian and Grayson, then. And
you’re Bruce,” his gaze settled on Batman. “I guess that’s why I felt so uneasy around you,”
he murmured. Dick almost didn’t catch it, but he was standing closer to Peter than the others.

Damian sneered. “Way to go, disappointment,” he commented snidely, shooting a glare at

Tim.

“Who fucking cares?” Tim argued. “He already knows about Jason! Besides, he didn’t
answer me. What the hell happened, Peter? Or should I be calling you Slackline?” He added
harshly.

Dick had never seen Tim act this way. It was unnerving.
Peter flinched, averting his gaze. “I didn’t mean for it to get so out of hand,” he said, voice
thick with regret. “I never wanted to hurt anyone.”

“Well tough shit, cause you fucking did,” Tim spat, stepping closer to Peter’s side.

“Red Robin that is enough,” Batman barked. “Sit back down now, or I will ask Robin to
remove you from the room.”

Tim glowered, but recognised the threat and backed away, not quite sitting down but
lingering nearer to his own bed.

“Peter,” Dick spoke gently. “Can you tell us what happened to you? Why did you run away?”

It looked like Peter was about to cry. He looked stricken. As though Tim’s words has slapped
him across the face. “I had to,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t have another
choice.”

“If you were coerced,” Dick frowned. “We can help you. Was it Quinn?”

Peter shook his head. “I wasn’t,” he insisted. “It was for Spiderman,” Peter stressed.

“Spiderman?” Batman whipped his gaze back onto Peter. “He forced you to do this?”

“No,” Peter shook his head. “All of this- Slackline- it was just supposed to be… it was
supposed to be harmless. He doesn’t hurt people. Just-“

“Just people who sign up for it,” Damian assessed.

Peter nodded glumly. “I needed the money,” he said meekly.

Tim flew into a new rage. “What the hell, Peter? You should have told me if you needed
money! You didn’t have to become a fucking rogue! What the hell happened to the
internship! You said you would apply. Was that just a fucking lie too?”

“It wasn’t a lie,” Peter cried. “I want to- I wanted to,” he corrected himself. “I did! But I
couldn’t. It was- it was the only option I had! And now all of it was for nothing. Everything
that I did. Everyone that I hurt. All for nothing.” He was sobbing now. His entire body shook
with trembling gasps as fat tears rolled down his too-pale cheeks.

“The universe isn’t a set of scales! That’s not how this works. You did awful things, Peter.
You can’t come back from that. What Slackline has done, you can’t sweep it under the rug!
You stole! You maimed! I bet you even killed the Packers!”

“No!” Peter cried out.

“Slackline killed people,” Time continued, uncaring. He spat his words nastily. “You killed
people!”

“No,” Peter shook his head. His eyes were wide and searching. He sounded as though he
couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Dick couldn’t either. Why was Tim acting like this?
“He didn’t. He didn’t .”

“He is you , Peter. Slackline is you!”

Batman had apparently had enough. “That’s enough, Red Robin,” he intoned. He sounded
calm. Almost too calm. He placed a hand on Tim’s shoulder. “We don’t have any proof of
Peter-“

“Don’t touch me!” Tim pulled away. He looked manic. “Of course he did it. Who else is
there? They were living with a liar and criminal!”

“Chill out, replacement,” came a voice near the entrance. It was Jason. He was scowling.

He was wearing street clothes, and had a backpack slung over his shoulder. His long, messy
hair was still swept back in a braid to keep out of his face, but his helmet and even his
domino mask were nowhere to be seen. It was startling to Dick. His brother was so careful
with his identity. To see him in the Batcave without his masks, it felt wrong.

“Don’t tell me to chill out,” bit back Tim. “He lied to us! He lied to you! He’s a murderer,
Jason.”

“So am I,” countered Jason. “I was given a chance,” he snarled out. “Damian was given a
chance. We’ve both killed, and we were in our right minds while doing it. Peter wasn’t.”

“You can’t know that. He could be lying.”

“For fuck’s sake, Tim, just look at him,” Jason jabbed a finger at the quivering, snivelling,
babbling mess curled up on the bed that was Peter.

Tim glared.

“Robin,” Batman finally spoke again, “Take Red Robin to one of the holding rooms. He is
not himself.”

Dick’s brows creased at the order, but then it made sense. Ivy’s poison.

Tim struggled wildly as Damian carted him away, but the ex-assassin was more than a match
for a rage fuelled Tim Drake.

Jason walked towards the bed. Peter still hadn’t seemed to notice him, too trapped in his
panic attack.

“Are you okay, Hood?” Batman asked gently.

Jason was still scowling, and he ignored Batman’s question. Instead, he dropped the bag he
was carrying into Dick’s arms. “This is some of his stuff. Look after him, Dick.”

It wasn’t a request.
 He then stalked back out of the room, leaving stunned silence and a still crying Peter in his
wake.

Chapter End Notes

If anyone is interested, here’s a playlist of all the songs that inspire the fic (or that I
chose just because the lyrics kinda work well for a chapter title, you’ll never know
which), in order of their appearance as chapter titles. A new song will be added with
every chapter.https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3IcsnymJgTBdTNXwZF8Mz6?
si=rB8D8JdmSC-5TkebPVEaHQ
Works inspired by this one

The Strands Of This Web Connect Us All by w3bhead

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