Chapter Text
Rain drizzled down in sheets, slicking the cracked sidewalks of Gotham. Streetlamps flickered weakly, fighting to hold back the shadows.
Bucky Barnes walked with purpose, his coat pulled close, boots striking the ground in measured, soldier’s strides. His hair—dark, long, with a single white streak cutting through it—was plastered damp against his face. His green eyesscanned alleys, rooftops, every shadow.
“Enemy territory,” the voice in his head said. Deep, Russian, cold. “City is choke point. Too many vantage spots. We are exposed.”
Bucky didn’t flinch at the intrusion. He’d long since stopped trying to silence Winter. I know.
“Boy limps. Weak side is left. Keep him behind you.”
Bucky slowed just slightly. Behind him, Peter was struggling to keep pace, his hood drawn up against the rain. The fabric clung to his hair, and when a gust of wind pulled it back for a second, a flash of white streak cut through his brown curls.
Peter hunched it back into place quickly, muttering, “Seriously—did New York get a redesign while we weren’t looking? Because this place is…way too Batman-y.”
“Not New York,” Bucky said, voice flat.
“No kidding,” Peter said, half to himself. He shifted, wincing faintly at the bruises blooming under his hoodie. “So what’s the plan? We got no Stark, no Strange, no Avengers…just us. And, you know, a very questionable Uber service through reality.”
“Step one: identities,” Bucky said.
“Identities?”
“We don’t exist here without them.” His tone was clipped, like he was reciting a briefing. “No records means we don’t last a week.”
Winter’s voice hummed like steel against Bucky’s thoughts. “Library. Public systems. Easy to breach. From there, we build.”
Bucky adjusted course. “Library.”
Peter gave a small, humorless laugh. “Only you would treat a library like a tactical objective.”
The Gotham Public Library loomed out of the dark like an old sentinel, its stone steps slick with rain. Inside, the glow of warm lamps cut through the gloom.
The quiet smelled of paper, polish, and dust.
Behind the front desk sat a young woman in a wheelchair, red hair pulled neatly back, eyes sharp behind glasses. Barbara Gordon looked up as the two entered, cataloguing them instantly.
The man first: tall, scarred, posture military. His green eyes swept the room automatically, noting exits before even approaching the desk. His hair carried a streak of white.
Then the boy: slim, shoulders hunched under a hoodie. His hands were shoved into his pockets, knuckles bruised. His hood slipped slightly as he moved, just for an instant—enough for Barbara’s sharp eyes to catch it.
A streak of white, buried in brown curls.
Her stomach dropped.
The Lazarus Pit. She’d seen the signs before, in Jason and in Damian when the Shadows tried to reclaim him. That unnatural streak. Those haunted edges to a teenager’s eyes.
And the bruise darkening under his cheekbone.
Her chest tightened.
“Evening,” she said, voice steady, though her fingers twitched against the desk. “Can I help you two?”
The man answered immediately, tone clipped, commanding. “We need to use a computer.”
“You’ll need a library card for that.”
“Then we’ll make one,” Bucky said simply.
Barbara blinked at his bluntness. “Do you have ID?”
“No.”
Her eyes flicked between them—the soldier and the (assassin?!)boy. She kept her voice calm. “Then I’ll need names and an address.”
For a moment, silence. The boy shifted nervously.
Winter’s voice pressed sharp in Bucky’s mind. “Cover story. Immediate. Keep it simple. Do not hesitate.”
“James and Peter Beck,” Bucky said smoothly. “Relocated from Metropolis.”
Peter blinked at him, but nodded quickly. “Uh—yeah. Beck.”
Barbara typed it in, keeping her face neutral, though her thoughts spun. Beck. A name too normal , too quick.
And the boy. The streak. The bruise.
Under the desk, her fingers moved on her phone.
Iseeall: New problem. Kid + man. Kid’s bruised.
Iseeall: Both have pit streaks. The man reads military.
Iseeall: Feels wrong.
Replies came rapid.
Goldy: Want me to check it out?
Deadmanshooting: Pit streak?! I’m coming.
Bloodson: Tt. Handle it carefully.
BigB: Observe. Don’t engage.
Barbara slipped the phone away as she slid two fresh library cards across the desk. “Here you go. Computers are in the back.”
The boy—Peter—took his card carefully. His eyes lifted just enough to meet hers, shy, uncertain. Then he followed the man deeper into the library.
Barbara exhaled slowly, tension coiling in her chest.
Both of them. Streaks. Pit signs.
The kid looked fragile, bruised, and scared.
Her mind whispered the question she didn’t want to ask:
Is that man using the Pit to control him?
The library computers glowed pale blue in the dim light of the back row. Bucky sat down heavily at one, motioning Peter into the chair beside him. His green eyes swept the area again, noting the two exits, the placement of cameras, and the reflection of the room on the dark window behind them.
“Good. Always position back to wall. Full view of perimeter. Now move quickly.” Winter’s voice was precise, clinical. “You expose yourself too long, librarian will grow suspicious.”
Bucky’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, stiff, awkward.
Peter slid into the chair with a sigh. “Okay, grandpa, no offense, but you type like someone who still uses a typewriter.”
Bucky’s lips twitched. “And you think you can do better?”
Peter raised his brows. “Uh, yeah. I built my own web shooters at twelve. Fake identities? Easy.”
“Arrogant,” Winter cut in, voice edged with disapproval. “But efficient. Let him handle.”
Bucky gave a short nod. “Fine. You do it.”
Peter cracked his knuckles dramatically before starting to type, the rapid clicking of keys filling the silence. He muttered as he worked. “Okay…new residents of Gotham. Family unit. James Beck, age thirty-five…occupation…hm. Security consultant? That sounds boring enough to be believable.”
“Make it clean,” Bucky said quietly.
“Yeah, yeah. And Peter Beck, age sixteen, student.” He grinned faintly. “Guess I’m doomed to algebra no matter what dimension we’re in.”
Winter’s voice rumbled low in Bucky’s head. “Do not joke. File must match school records. Cross-check will expose us.”
“Right,” Bucky muttered.
Peter glanced at him sideways. “You’re not talking to me, are you?”
Bucky’s expression didn’t change. “Not exactly.”
Peter’s grin softened. He was used to it—the way Bucky went quiet, eyes flicking like he was listening to someone only he could hear. It didn’t scare him anymore.
He kept typing, pulling up public records, slipping false data into open fields with an ease that would have shocked anyone watching. “Okay. Got us in the system—enough to pass for temporary. If someone looks too close, we’re toast, but…” He leaned back, stretching. “It’ll do.”
Bucky scanned the screen critically. “Good enough for now. Tomorrow, we look for a permanent place.”
“Not tomorrow. Tonight,” Winter pressed. “Every hour without shelter is risk. Find cover. Establish safe house.”
“Tonight,” Bucky echoed aloud.
Peter groaned. “Right. Because sleep is overrated.”
Across the library, Barbara pretended to scan a catalog sheet, but her eyes stayed fixed on the pair at the computers.
She’d seen the way the boy deferred to the man. The way the man never truly relaxed, always on guard. And the way both of them had that mark—the streak of white in their hair.
Her stomach twisted.
Jason had come back from the Pit with that same mark. The streak, the rage simmering under the surface, the scars no one could see. And this boy—he was barely sixteen.
Her fingers itched toward her phone again.
Iseeall: kid’s definitely got pit signs. bruise on his cheek too.
Iseeall:the man’s controlling him. they’re making fake records right now.
Deadmanshooting: I knew it. Kid’s being used.
Goldy: Careful. We don’t know the full story.
Bloodson: Tt. You’re all too sentimental. If the Pit touched him, he’s dangerous.
Coffeislife: w h a t. pit streak?? hold on im in the middle of like…12 things but im coming.
Coffeislife: wait. where are you exactly?? library? which one?
oh no i just made coffee 6 minutes ago i cant leave.
Don’tspoil: …Tim are you okay??
Newkid: Dude. What are you even saying.
Coffeislife: im f i n e. totally functional. analyzing pit signs. the kid has them?? babs u sure??
kid is bruised. pit + bruises = bad combo. possibly unstable.
Goldy: Translation: Tim is running on no sleep again.
Deadmanshooting : He sounds worse than usual.
Don’tspoil: Worse?? He texted me “slepe iz for teh week” at 4am yesterday.
Bloodson: Hn. He’s always like this.
BigB: Focus. Kid is priority.
Coffeislife : i am focusing bruce thx. urgh.
Barbara slid the phone back into her lap and forced her expression calm as Peter got up from the computer.
He caught her eye for just a second. His hood slipped again as he tugged at the hem of his sweatshirt, and she saw the streak more clearly this time—startling against his dark curls.
His eyes looked tired. Younger than his bruises suggested.
He smiled faintly, like he was trying to reassure her.
Barbara’s chest ached.
He’s not okay.
Bucky rose smoothly from the chair, tucking the new library cards into his coat pocket. His hand rested briefly on Peter’s shoulder—not hard, but steady, guiding.
“Come on,” he said quietly. “We’ve got what we need.”
Peter gave Barbara a small nod as they passed. She returned it with a polite smile, though her thoughts screamed louder than her words:
If he’s being controlled, I won’t let it continue.