Chapter Text
It is sometimes said that if one possesses happiness then they possess no luck, for happiness is crafted by experience and shattered by coincidence. This is a statement one Peter Parker agrees with in full actuality, for every time he finds happiness Parker Luck™ (as the specific brand of luck that afflicts his family was once named by Peter’s grandfather, Thomas) breaks it into pieces. Vaguely Peter remembers his dad once joked that their family was cursed to ‘live in interesting times’, so perhaps that explains why the moment he tries to settle his life again the sidewalk under his feet started glowing. But our story is hardly the beginning of Peter Parker’s own story.
Okay, let’s begin. His name is Peter Benjamin Parker. He was bitten by a radioactive spider and for the last 9(ish) years, he thought he was the one and only Spider-Man. Pretty sure you know the rest. He met Iron Man, fought the Avengers, fought the Vulture, fought Thanos, died. And then his world collapsed around him. His identity was revealed, the UN was after him, he messed up Doctor Stranger's spell, the multiverse started collapsing, he met two other Peter Parkers and then May died. May died and he was consumed by revenge...
Anyway the other Peters stopped him from committing murder, were sent back to their universes and Peter Parker ceased to exist. That was another Dr Strange spell. It worked.
Peter, well he promised Ned and MJ he'd find them and remind them of him, of everything, but when he went to them- they were happy. Could he really justify ruining their lives again? No. (They'd have said yes.) So he turned, walked away and tried to think of what to do now that he no longer exists. That's where our story starts.
The magic wasn't amber like Dr Strange, or red like Miss Wanda, or even green like Loki. It was almost white, like crackling lightning skating across the New York street. Peter’s sixth sense (he refuses to call it a Peter Tingle again) goes off just as he notices the sidewalk glowing.
The floor falls from under his feet.
Have you ever fallen in a dream? Your stomach drops, your body jolts, your muscles tense with fear. Falling in reality, it is far, far worse.
Peter's arms reach above him, trying to activate his webshooters, trying to grab onto anything to break his fall. His fingers grip and claw at nothing as he plummets, down through the murky sky. Clouds surround him, dark like an awaiting storm. Panic sits in Peter's throat as he struggles to breath. It's like he's on Titan again, falling back against Mr Stark, dust. He's dust.
Blackness creeps at the edges of his vision. “Ka- Karen,” Peter croaks, his voice breaking, getting lost in the wind. “Karen!” He manages louder, his voice urgent and bordering desperation.
“Peter.” The soothing familiar lilt of Karen’s voice responds from his watch. “Your heartrate is elevated. Diagnosis of your persons shows symptoms in line with those of a panic attack.” Somehow the AIs voice softens, “Breathe, Peter, you need to breathe. There are buildings below you, once they appear you will need to swing. You are falling, you are not dead-”
Peter’s vision blurs. He knows Karen is speaking, know he needs to listen, but the world is fading. He’s dying, he's dust, he's dead-
“Breathe, Peter!” Karen blares her voice through the speaker, shocking Peter into taking a breath.
Buildings blur past him and it's half instinct that sends Peter's arm out, shooting webs and swinging. The momentum jerks his shoulder, a muffled cry escaping his lips as his arm is yanked from the socket. Still he sends the next web, then the next and the next, until he stumbles, crashes and rolls into a roof. The momentum rips through his jeans, hoodie and skin, bloodying the ground. Peter's breath is laboured as he stares at the smoggy sky.
“Fuck.” He gasps breathlessly.
“Indeed.” Karen’s voice comes out at a low volume, as if she doesn't want to disturb Peter but still wants to be heard.
Eventually Peter’s pounding heartbeat slows, the sound no longer ringing in his ears. Slowly he sits up, wincing as his arm dangles uselessly. Hand shaking he moves, bracing himself. Right, just like Ms Romanoff taught him. Pain sears through him as Peter forces his arm back in the socket.
“Fuck, shit, son of a bitch,” Peter's tirade of curses are impressive and various, shifting languages and creative in only a way pain can bring.
Peter stumbles to the edge of the building looking over the city. A frown creases his eyebrows, “Karen? Where are we?” Karen is silent. Worry pricks at Peter's mind as the silence continues. “Kar-”
“It seems I cannot connect to my servers, satellites or the internet. I will need to reboot processes.” Karen interrupts, a sharp edge to her voice before she falls silent again.
Dread pools in Peter's stomach. Something is very wrong, he's certain, but he's not sure what yet. “How long will the reboot take, Kare?”
“I don't know.”
A selfish part of Peter wants to beg her not to do it at that answer. He doesn't want her to go, for him to finally be alone. But she needs to. “Okay Karen. Reboot. I'll be here when you wake up again.”
“Be careful, Peter.” Is Karen's last caution before she switches off. The wind rattles his ears as Peter realises just how alone he is. He looks over the city with a small frown. The sun is starting to set and the streets have almost emptied. It feels desolate.
Peter shakes himself. He needs to find food, water, shelter. Not in that order. His memory flitters back to what Matt taught him, almost against Peter’s will:
“If you're in an unknown environment and you can't get home, you need to remember the Rule of Three,” Matt had said, voice as gravelly as the rooftop he and Peter sat on.
“What's that?” Alright, so perhaps Peter's manners slip around Matt, but honestly it's what the lawyer deserves.
“You can last about three minutes unconscious without air, three hours in an extreme environment without shelter, three days without drinkable water, and three weeks without food-”
“I'm not sure I want to know how you know that.” Concern had coloured Peter’s voice as he watched Matt.
Matt’s put upon sigh was both reassuring and concerning. “This means that in an emergency situation you need to find somewhere with breathable air first, and then find shelter second. Everyone always messes up and goes for water second. That's a good way to die. Water is third, after shelter. Then food is your last worry. Got it?”
Peter nodded enthusiastically, wishing he'd brought a notebook to make notes- this was way better than school.
“Repeat them back to me.” Matt had demanded.
“Air first, then shelter, then water, then food. You have 3 minutes, 3 hours, 3 days and 3 weeks!” Peter had tripped over his words with how quickly he'd answered. He fell into a ramble after that until Wade had crashed into the roof and interrupted.
Alright, Peter tells himself as he looks out at the buildings. He's got air, time to find shelter.
Slowly Peter swings off the building, grappling in the shadows and ducking to stay out of sight until his sneakers hit the ground. It's Ben’s voice that fills his thoughts with advice as he walks. The reminder fills his chest with a familiar dull ache- a nice contrast of pain in comparison to the sharp heart-wrenching loss he'd been feeling recently. If you're in a place you don't know and it's getting dark, always head to the areas with the most streetlights and avoid any areas with no lights at all. That had been Uncle Ben's instruction back when Peter was eight, and, well, it had yet to fail him.
It's odd, walking through the city. Not daunting, or terrifying- Peter has done far more scary things than walking alone in an unknown place- but it is odd. His spider sense stays at a low cautious thrum as he walks. It's not until he reaches a slightly more populated area- stores and restaurants every other step- that he realises what feels so wrong. The streets- while somewhat grimy and carrying the tension of confusion and anger most places had since the return of people from the Blip- lack the overcrowding, lack the territorial chill, and, possibly most damning, lack any advertisement of the Global Repatriation Council. You could barely turn a corner of New York City without seeing some.
Peter chews at his chapped lip. Has he time travelled? Or changed universes? Both options are pretty damning and leave him in a haze of dread. He needs more information, and quickly. Maybe- No. He needs to find shelter. Shelter, water, information, food. In that order.
It takes longer than Peter would like to find a shelter. Night had settled in by the time he found a building- peeling, grated letters proclaiming what the building is. Peter's practically eighteen, only a few months off, so he's not too worried about being called out as a minor. The building is unsettling inside. There are people milling about but not many.
“Do you need help?” A raspy voice calls from behind a barely lit desk.
Peter eyes the man sitting there. He’s grizzly looking, middle aged with a jagged scar running down his cheek. Peter squares his shoulders, trying to appear more confident than he is. “Just a bed.”
The man grunts, “Stairs on the left. Head up ‘til you find a free one.”
Peter nods sharply as he turns on his heel and walks to the stairs. He feels eyes on the back of his neck all the way until he turns the corner. It's unnerving. No, that's not fair, perhaps the man was just making sure he went the right way? Either way, his spider sense had gone from a low to medium hum the minute he entered the building. He steals himself to find a better shelt the next day, knowing that for now he'd simply have to be cautious.
Peter finds a bed in a corner against the wall. It's a rickety cot-like camp bed and the mattress is bare thread thin. But it's under a roof and the other beds in the room don't seem to be occupied so Peter would take it as a win. Back to the wall, he rests his head against the pillow. It takes Peter longer than he'd like to fall asleep.
*
Peter startles awake. His hair is on end and his heart is a banging drum, echoing in his ears. Instinct, rather than cognizance, makes him duck as his spider sense flares sharply. He winces as knuckles skim across the side of his face.
“-ery, bastard,” Voices filter past Peter’s half asleep haze.
Another angry voice joins the other, “Just grab him and-”
Nope. Not happening. Peter’s pinned in the corner with three men around him. One holding a bag and some zip ties, another a dirty rag, the last was the one who'd tried to punch him. Peter takes a breath and almost gags on the sharp chemical smell that fills his nose. His eyes zero in on the rag. Were they trying to drug him?
No time to think more, Peter dodges under another punch, and attempts to dip between the men.
“Not so fast, you little shit!” An arm hoops around his waist and drags him back, the rag is whacked into Peter's face so harshly that he thinks his nose might be bleeding. He could get out easily if he- no. Spider-Man could get out easily. Peter Parker can’t show abnormal strength, and he's running out of air.
Peter reaches up and digs his nails into the softer skin under the man's upper arm. MJ taught him that. The guy howls. Peter’s hand is sticky but he refuses to think of the blood coating it. The man’s grip loosens and Peter wrenches himself away. He may not be able to show he's strong but Peter can definitely be quick. Peter's out the door and through the building, ignoring the pounding feet following him.
It's still dark when Peter runs out into the street, the once bright street lights flickering. His head whips around looking for somewhere, anywhere to get away. A rusted fire escape calls to him. Going up is familiar, roofs are his domain after all.
The fire escape creaks and shakes once the men reach them, following Peter up. He doesn't stop running, even when he hits the roof. As he reaches the edge wall he pushes up and off. Flying through the air is familiar, calming and yet so very wrong. Peter tumbles and rolls on the next roof. His knees are scraped and he climbs to his feet.
“Fuck!” Peter mutters when he sees the men follow him. No time to stop. Peter continues running, jumping from roof to roof.
Something thumps against the ground behind him, making Peter stumble to a stop, almost careening over as he turns to look behind him. There, fighting the men, is a person. They're dressed in a brown leather jacket, what looks like kevlar, and a red helmet. That's not a Defender- well obviously not, Peter isn't in New York. Not an Avenger either. Different dimension or time travel?
“Woah, Woah, hey!” Peter's speaking before he can even process it at the sight of the gun. Maybe this person isn't a vigilante then? Unless he's like the Punisher? “Maybe- maybe let's not shoot anyone today, yeah?” The masked head tilts, glancing over their shoulder at Peter. The gun in their hand doesn't waver from where it's pointed at one of the downed men’s head. “I mean- like this sucked but nobody really needs to die, right?” Peter rambles, really hoping he wasn't about to have to fight the person who just saved him.
Peter doesn't relax even as the masked figure lowers the gun. He can't help but flinch slightly as they kick the man in the head instead. The man's eyes roll back and his head lolls limply to the side.
The masked figure starts stomping towards Peter. His spider sense is still humming, making Peter tense, ready for another fight.
“I ain't gonna hurt you, kid.” A deep modulated voice says behind the mask. They stop a few feet away from Peter.
“I'm an adult.” Is the first thing that escapes Peter's mouth. “ But thanks for the help- uh.”
“Red Hood.” The masked face tilts to the side. “What you doing in Crime Alley, kid?”
Peter's eyes narrow at being called a kid again. “Crime Alley? That can't be a real place.” He quips tiredly.
“You're not from Gotham, are you?” Red Hood- and really that's a terrible name, he's wearing a helmet not a hood- finally provides what Peter assumes is the name of the city. Peter shrugs. “Here's some advice then, get out and go home.”
Peter tries to look less tense than he feels, but he knows he's creeping towards the casual fighting stance Natasha taught him. “Okay. Well, thanks, Mr Hood, Sir.” Peter steps back.
Most people might not see it, most people probably wouldn't know, but Peter had gotten very familiar at Tony sighing at him when in the Iron Man suit, so he knows exactly when Red Hood sighs. “Look, your face is pretty bloody, your nose might be broken. There's a free clinic nearby. I can walk you there?”
Peter hesitates. He's avoided doctors and hospitals since the bite, worried about what they'd find. “Uh,” Peter reaches up and touches his nose. “It's not broken. Thanks, though, Mr Hood.”
Red Hood’s more tense, like Peter's denial is agitating him. “Kid-”
“Why are you called Red Hood anyway? You're wearing a helmet.” Peter quickly rambles to cut off any questioning. “Shouldn’t you be Red Helmet? Or something with more- more? Like Scarlet Helmet-” No that's too much like Miss Wanda, “or Crimson Helmet? Oh! The Crimson Helm, that would be-”
“Kid!” Red Hood snaps, the grainy modulation hiding his emotions. Or maybe it's just Red Hood doing that. “Sometimes I have a hood. It's red. Do you have somewhere to crash?”
“Uh- yes.” Peter must hesitate too long because Red Hood does not look convinced nor impressed. “You know, you're really expressive for a faceless guy?”
“Fuck, this kid is just like Dickwing.” Red Hood mutters under his breath, sounding more than slightly aggrieved. Peter doesn't show a reaction. A normal person wouldn't have been able to hear that. ‘Dickwing’? Really? “If I take you to a shelter will you actually stay the night?”
Considering people tried to abduct him at the last one, Peter is pretty solidly set on no when it comes to homeless shelters. Clearly he takes too long to answer.
“Of course not.” Red Hood crosses his arms over his chest. “Alright kid, if you won't go to a shelter I'm at least walking you somewhere that's not Crime Alley. Come on.” He tilts his head to becon Peter over.
“Is it really called Crime Alley, Mr Hood?” Peter doesn't move, not willing to get any closer yet. Maybe everything with Beck and Osborn left him a little jaded, but Peter thinks his new inclination to distrust isn't unfounded.
Red Hood sighs again, “It's Park Row, technically. Everyone just calls it Crime Alley.”
Peter wrinkles his nose, “That feels like it's just inviting bad things to happen.”
“Maybe.” Red Hood grunts, “But it's a pretty accurate descriptor. What's your plan, kid? Gonna stay on this roof all night?”
“Peter. Not kid,” Peter corrects. “And maybe I am. What's it to you, old man?” If Red Hood wants to play the age card then Peter will play it right back. He's tired, he's sore and he's really close to being passed caring. The universe- whether it's this universe or another one- keeps throwing shit at him and he's a minute away from saying fuck it and not caring anymore. He always did care too much.
“Hilarious.” Red Hood does not sound like he found it funny at all. It's his nonplussed tone more than anything that makes the corners of Peter's mouth quirk up. “Well, Peter, I suppose we should settle in.” Careful not to get closer to Peter, almost like someone trying not to spook an injured animal, Red Hood moves around Peter to the edge of the roof.
Peter blinks as the other man sits on the ground and leans against the short roof wall. “What?”
Red Hood leans his forearms on his knees. “Might as well get comfortable if we're staying on this roof.”
“ We?” Peter's not certain what he expected but it definitely wasn't that. “Uh- don't you have other stuff to be doing?” More important things than sitting with Peter all night.
“Nope.” Peter can imagine the grin the other man might have under his helmet. “Pretty set here, thanks.”
“What the fuck?” Peter blurts out, giving Red Hood an incredulous look. Peter shouldn't really be surprised. Sitting on a roof with people was something Peter had done more times than he'd like to count while patrolling, but those situations were very different from this. It's almost uncomfortable, being on the other side of it.
Red Hood chuckles at the profanity, “Seems you're already understanding Gotham's main motto.”
“I can feel you grinning.” Peter deadpans, his expression tugging flat. His eyebrows crease in judgement and frustration. He doesn't know what to do here, where to go. He has nobody left. Peter swallows back the lump in his throat. He locks the grief in a box and shoves it as deep inside himself as he can- he's healthy like that. Not getting any closer to Red Hood, Peter sits down. “Happy?”
“Ecstatic.” Red Hood intones in a way that Peter can't tell whether he's being sarcastic or not. “What's your favourite colour, Peter?”
Peter blinks slowly at the random question, “What?”
“What's your favourite colour?” Red Hood repeats, not showing any sign of emotion in his body language- or at least, as far as Peter can figure out he isn't.
Peter doesn't really want to answer, doesn't like that the colour now has a connection to the vigilante in front of him, “Red. Or at least it was. Why?”
“Hurtful kid,” Red Hood teases, not seeming hurt in the slightest. “Well, I'd like to know why you're here, when those guys started chasing you, why they were chasing you, if you're hiding any injuries, if you have access to shelter and water and food, but you ain't gonna tell me that. At least not honestly. So, favourite colour. It's better than silence, isn't it? Mine’s green, by the way.”
“Your name's Red Hood.” Peter gives Red Hood a look like he's stupid.
“Well I could hardly be Green Hood,” Peter gets the distinct feeling that Red Hood finds him funnier than Peter is. “People would think I was a Robin Hood rip off. Or worse, a Green Arrow copycat.” Red Hood mumbles under his breath, the sound not escaping his helmet, “Fuck doing the Robin thing again.” Peter was definitely not meant to hear that. Not that it was helpful. Robin thing? What does that even mean? A gang? A group? More vigilantes? A title? A fighting style? There's too many possibilities.
Green Arrow isn't a name Peter knows either, and that lonely feeling of not belonging grows in Peter's gut. Robin Hood, at least, is familiar. “What? Don't want to steal from the rich and give to the poor?”
“Never said that.” Red Hood’s modulated voice seems almost offended, despite its amusement.
“Well you were pretty offended at being compared to Robin Hood.” Peter shrugs. The teasing is almost familiar, a verbal spar, like the ones he used to have with Tony.
“Because I'm considerably more badass than Robin Hood.” Red Hood half shrugs.
Peter finds himself imagining what Red Hood looks like under the mask. Young, he thinks, not as young as Peter but definitely younger than Tony. He's possibly smirking- probably smirking- maybe his eyes crinkle. Peter thinks Red Hood's eyes might be amused but they almost certainly hold something underneath. A look Peter has seen in almost every hero’s or vigilante's gaze, like they've seen too much, done too much. Something dark and dangerous. Peter doesn't need the low thrum of his sixth sense to tell him that if Red Hood wanted to be he would be dangerous. The almost shooting someone made that clear enough.
Peter rolls his eyes, “Sure.” Badass was Natasha trying to learn to help rather than harm. Badass was Pepper making Stark Industries the most equitable company in the USA. It was May raising him alone despite her own grief. It was MJ fighting for people's rights at protests every weekend. Badass was Tony recovering from addiction despite everything that happened to him. Badass was Ned being unapologetically him despite the bullies. Badass isn't just being a vigilante, so Peter will reserve judgement until he sees something he actually considers badass.
“Not easily impressed, are you kid?” Red Hood sounds almost pleased at that observation. Peter scowls. “Maybe Gotham won't swallow you whole. You act like an Alley kid already.” Peter's scowl doesn't let up, he's not completely sure what Hood means so despite the words being posed like a compliment, Peter refuses to accept them as such. “You don't gotta talk, kid. But I will. You at least know the alarms? The rogues and gangs to avoid?”
Rogues? Peter feels a flicker of amusement at the word. Is that what they call bad guys here? What is this place? Nineteenth century England where all the bad guys are just people who sneak around? Peter shakes his head slightly, information is something he won't turn down.
Peter once again imagines Red Hood is sighing, but the man just nods like he expected it. “Right well, there's a few different alarms warning of different attacks but they'll probably be easier to explain once you've learnt about the most destructive rogues. So first and foremost, if you ever see a clown run in the opposite direction…”
There's a heaviness and an urgency in that instruction that tugs at the back of Peter’s mind. Red Hood talks well into the night, answering Peter's questions when he dares ask them. By the time the sun begins to rise that morning Peter feels far more informed than he had before. There's a lot he still needs to research, a lot he wants to do his own research on, but one thing is certain: Peter is definitely in a different dimension.