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Chapter Text

Peter G Wayne

Peter jolted awake, his eyes snapping open as pain shot through his body. His throat felt raw, like he’d been screaming for hours.

“What the-” he croaked, trying to sit up. The second he moved, a sharp pain ripped through his ribs, forcing him to collapse back onto the mattress. He groaned, rolling onto his side, nausea clawing at his stomach.

Ugh… What the hell happened?”

Every breath was shallow, his chest tight. Something was wrong. Something was really wrong.

A knock at the door pulled him from the haze.

“Master Peter, are you alright?” Alfred’s voice was calm, steady, and far too close for comfort.

Peter’s mind raced. Crap. What could he even say? “Yeah! Uh—” his voice cracked, and he coughed, wincing. “I’m fine, Alfred. Just… puberty stuff.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, he cringed

The silence on the other side of the door stretched uncomfortably long.

“Do you require assistance?” Alfred’s tone remained polite, but Peter could feel the suspicion in it.

“N-No, no! I’m good!” he stammered, trying to sound normal. “Totally fine. I’ll be down in a sec.”

Another pause.

“Very well,” Alfred said at last. “Breakfast is ready when you are.”

“Okay, cool. Thanks. See you there.” Peter listened as Alfred’s footsteps receded down the hall, then let out a long, shaky exhale.

Groaning, he swung his legs off the bed and staggered to the bathroom, each step sending a dull ache through his body. When he finally reached the mirror, he froze. His reflection hit him like a freight train.

Bruised, bloodied, and wrecked. His reflection didn’t even look like him. A split lip, dark circles under his eyes, and dirt smeared across his face like war paint. His shirt was torn, his ribs ached, and his knuckles were raw.

It all came rushing back in broken flashes—the dark alley, the sneering faces, the fists, and the pain. He’d been stupid, sneaking out to clear his head after school.

He’d wandered aimlessly, letting the streets of Gotham swallow him up. By the time he realized where he was—near Crime Alley—it had been too late.

The mugging. The shouting. The panic.

How he got back to Wayne Manor was a blank.

Peter touched his swollen lip, wincing as the sharp pain stung. He rested his weight on the sink, his head throbbing, and let out a shaky breath.

“What the hell am I even doing here?”

The words came out before he could think. He froze, staring at his reflection in the mirror. They sounded like his voice, but at the same time, they felt off—like a thought that wasn’t fully his.

He stayed there, trying to make sense of it, wondering why those words felt so loaded, so out of place.

For a moment, the idea of crawling back into bed and forgetting this whole mess was tempting. But he knew Alfred wouldn’t let him off that easy. If he didn’t show up for breakfast, the old man would come looking.

Peter cleaned himself up, scrubbing at his face and trying to make himself look at least somewhat presentable. When he checked the mirror again, his brown, curly hair dripped with water, strands falling into his eyes.

His face looked a little better, now that most of the dirt was gone. Maybe the grime had made things look worse, but when he looked closer, he knew the damage was still there.

He grabbed his glasses from the counter, tugged a hoodie over his uniform—the fabric scraping against his bruises—and headed toward the kitchen. The halls of the manor felt colder than they should, the shadows stretching longer, pressing in on him.

As he passed a long hallway lined with family portraits, his footsteps slowed. One caught his attention—him, Bruce, and Dick. A picture of the three of them when they were younger, smiling, carefree, full of hope. Peter stared at his own face, at the wide smile he barely recognized. It felt like a different life, a different person.

He exhaled slowly, the air shaky, and pulled his gaze away.

When he reached the kitchen, Alfred was waiting. Of course, he was.

Peter slouched into his seat, yanking the hood low over his face. He shoved a forkful of eggs into his mouth, ignoring the way his jaw ached with every bite.

“Rough morning, Master Peter?” Alfred’s tone was light, but Peter didn’t miss the glint of curiosity in his eyes.

Peter didn’t look up. “Uh, yeah. Just… puberty stuff. You know how it is.”

Alfred raised an eyebrow, but his expression remained neutral. “Indeed. I’m sure you’ll weather it admirably.”

Peter shoveled food into his mouth to avoid further conversation. The last thing he needed was Alfred digging any deeper.

But as Alfred turned back to the stove, Peter caught the briefest glance in his direction—a gentle, quiet hint of concern that made his chest tighten.

Peter took a deep breath and forced himself to focus on his food, trying to push away the weight of that look. He hoped it would pass, that Alfred wouldn’t say anything, that he could just move on.

Of course. As if he wasn’t already broken and worn down by the pain in his body, the last thing he needed was that look—soft, steady, and far too knowing.

—

A few minutes later, Damian and Tim walked into the kitchen, their usual teasing and banter filling the air.

Peter sank lower into his hoodie, gripping the fabric as though it could make him invisible. He couldn’t let them see—not today. Not with his face a patchwork of bruises and his mind spinning with half-formed excuses.

If they noticed, they’d ask questions. Damian’s piercing gaze and razor-sharp intuition would cut through any lie Peter threw at him. Tim, though gentler, wouldn’t back down either. And Alfred?

Alfred didn’t miss anything.

“Good morning, Master Tim, Master Damian,” Alfred greeted smoothly, as polite and calm as always.

“Morning, Alfred,” Tim said, grabbing his favorite mug from the cupboard.

“Morning,” Damian added flatly, pulling out a chair and sitting next to Peter. His gaze landed on him, sharp and piercing, and Peter instinctively tensed. “Peter.”

Peter flinched at the sound of his name, his throat tightening. Damian always managed to sound like he was about to challenge him to a fight—even when he wasn’t. Their relationship had always felt complicated.

They passed each other in the halls, exchanged the occasional casual word, but mostly Damian felt like a brick wall—distant, observant, and coldly confident someone who didn’t take Peter seriously Peter despised that, and Damien knew.

Peter tried to ignore him, mumbling a weak, “Hey,” and focusing on his breakfast.

Tim was busy pouring his third mug of coffee for the morning, the familiar clink of the spoon against ceramic filling the kitchen.

“Another cup? Aren’t you on your third?” Peter asked, trying to shift the attention from himself.

“Fourth, actually,” Tim said around a sip. He grinned, but it faltered when his eyes narrowed on Peter’s face. The mug froze midway to the counter. “Wait—” His tone shifted, sharp and accusing. “What the hell happened to you?”

Peter froze. No. Not now. Not here. His hands shot to his hoodie, tugging it lower, but Damian moved quicker. Peter barely registered the tug before the hood was off, exposing everything.

“Hey—!” Peter protested, His voice cracked as cold air hit his bruised skin. He tried to pull away, but the room felt smaller, the stares unbearable.

Tim’s expression went pale with disbelief. “Peter, who did this to you?”

“Master Peter—” Alfred started, stepping toward him, his voice steady but laced with worry.

Damian didn’t flinch. His voice was flat, his stare cutting. “This wasn’t an accident.”

“Yes, it was!” Peter’s voice broke, his panic spilling out. He forced a laugh that died the second it escaped. “I fell down the stairs. Really.”

Tim hesitated, his voice full of disbelief. “The stairs?”

“Yep!” Peter said too quickly, clapping his hands together like he was trying to make light of it. His voice cracked on the last syllable. “You should’ve seen it—it was kind of funny.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed. “Funny. I didn’t know stairs had fists.”

Before Peter could retort, Duke’s voice cut through the room. “What’s funny?” He entered with Cass and Steph trailing behind, their expressions darkening the moment they saw Peter.

Damian didn’t hesitate. His voice was cold, matter-of-fact: “Peter got beat up.”

“No, I didn’t!” Peter snapped, panic overtaking him. “I told you—it was the stairs.”

Steph raised an eyebrow, her expression sharp as she studied him. “That doesn’t look like a simple fall, Peter.”

Peter’s chest tightened. His throat felt raw. He could feel every pair of eyes on him—on his bruised face, his half-hearted smile, and his shaky, desperate attempt to explain.

“This has been happening more recently than normal,” Duke said, his tone quiet but firm. “How many times is this now?”

Peter froze. He opened his mouth to respond, to deny it, to say something, but nothing came out.

Four times in the last month, Cass signed, her movements deliberate and precise. Her gaze didn’t waver as she looked at him.

Four times?

His stomach turned at the realization, even though he knew she was right. It had been four.

Four times he’d come home looking like this.

Four times he’d stumbled through excuses, hoping they wouldn’t notice. Hoping they wouldn’t count.

“I’m fine,” he said again, his voice cracking. “Really. You’re all blowing this way out of proportion.”

“No, we’re not,” Tim shot back, his eyes narrowing. “You’re the one acting like this is normal. It’s not, Peter.”

Peter swallowed hard, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I told you. It was nothing—just accidents. It’s not a big deal.” His voice sounded small, even to himself.

Damian leaned forward, his words precise and cutting. “Stop lying. Do you really take us for fools” 

He looked around the room, at their faces—Tim’s frustration, Duke’s concern, Cass’s quiet intensity, Steph’s frown, and Damian’s cold, calculating stare.

It’s not like Peter G Wayne knew anything either only glimpses and images that he could not understand.

Nightmares.

The words hung heavy in the air, the silence pressing down on him like a weight. Peter’s fingers curled tightly around the inhaler buried deep in his pocket, the cool plastic grounding him as he fought to keep his breathing steady. His chest ached—not from the bruises, but from the rising panic that threatened to overwhelm him.

He knew they wanted him to say something, to offer more than the excuses he’d already given. But what was there to say? The truth wasn’t an option, and every lie he came up with felt weaker than the last.

Duke broke the silence again, his voice soft “Peter, we’re not trying to gang up on you. We just want to help. But you’ve got to tell us what’s going on.”

“Nothing’s going on,” he said, forcing the words out, though his voice wavered. He tightened his grip on the inhaler, feeling the tension in his shoulders rise. “I told you—it’s just clumsiness. I’m fine.”

Cass’s steady gaze didn’t falter as she signed again, her movements as calm as ever. Clumsy doesn’t explain that.

Peter’s breath hitched “It doesn’t matter, okay?” His voice cracked, and he hated how small it sounded. “It’s not a big deal. Can we please just drop it?”

Steph crossed her arms, her brow furrowed. “Peter, look, I get it—you don’t want to talk about it. But we can’t ignore this.”

“I want you to ignore it,” Peter said. He took a deep breath “Look guys, I’m fine. I don’t need a whole intervention. Just… let it go.”

The kitchen was thick with tension again, the kind that made Peter feel like he couldn’t breathe. He wanted to run, to escape their stares, their concern, their judgment.

Finally, Alfred’s calm voice broke through. “Perhaps we should respect Master Peter’s wishes, at least for now.” His gaze was kind but firm as it swept over the room. “Come along, Master Peter. Let’s tend to those injuries properly.”

Peter nodded, his heart pounding as he followed Alfred out. He could feel their gazes trailing after him—Tim’s worry, Steph’s skepticism, Cass’s quiet intensity Duke sadness. But Damian’s stare was the heaviest, like a spotlight Peter couldn’t escape.

Peter let out a long, shaky breath as he followed Alfred into the quiet of the living room. His hand lingered in his pocket, fingers still gripping the inhaler like a lifeline.

His heart was racing, his chest tight, but it wasn’t just from the confrontation—it was the realization that things were spiraling faster than he could control.

He sank into the armchair Alfred gestured to, his head dropping into his hands. For a moment, he just sat there, trying to steady his breathing, to calm the storm raging in his mind.

The bruises were bad enough, but the questions, the attention, were worse. He couldn’t keep deflecting forever, not when they were all so determined to dig deeper.

Peter let out another breath, longer this time, and leaned back in the chair, staring up at the ceiling. He really needed to get to the bottom of this—whatever this even was—before things got even further out of hand.

The problem was, he didn’t have all the answers. The memories of the fights, the bruises, the dizzying moments of confusion—everything was so scattered, so out of place.

It wasn’t just clumsiness, and it wasn’t just bad luck. He knew that much. But explaining it to anyone? He couldn’t even explain it to himself.

Alfred moved quietly, setting down a tray with a first aid kit and a glass of water. “May I?” he asked softly, gesturing to Peter’s face.

Peter nodded mutely, letting Alfred begin cleaning the cuts on his cheekbone and the bruise just under his jaw. The antiseptic stung, but Peter barely flinched. His mind was too busy spinning in circles.

“Master Peter,” Alfred said gently, his voice low but firm, “you don’t have to explain yourself now. But you should know that we are all here to help, should you ever need it.”

Peter swallowed hard, his throat tight. He nodded again, not trusting himself to speak. He wasn’t ready to open up—not yet. But as Alfred worked, Peter made a silent promise to himself: he’d figure it out.

He’d get to the root of what was happening. Because if he didn’t, he knew it wouldn’t just be bruises he’d have to worry about—it’d be the people around him, too.

And no matter how much they cared, Peter wasn’t ready to let them shoulder his mess. Not when he didn’t even understand it himself.

- See you next Chapter!!

Chapter Text

Peter: “Strange… make everyone forget me.”

Doctor Strange: “What? No… Peter, we—we don’t have to do this.”

Peter: “Yes, we do. It’s the only way to stop them… the only way to fix this.”

Doctor Strange: “If I do this… you’ll lose everything. Everyone. No one will remember Peter Parker—not MJ, not Ned. Are you sure about this?”

Peter : (nodding, his voice steady despite the heartbreak) “I know. I know… but it’s the only way.”

Doctor Strange: “You’re a brave kid, Peter. This is the right thing to do, but… it’s not easy.”

Peter: (hesitates, his voice breaking) “Can you tell them I love them? That I… that I’m sorry?”

——

Peter G Wayne

“Aunt May—no, no, please,” he choked, his voice breaking. “Stay with me, please!”

Peter was crying, his arms wrapped tightly around the woman, her blood pooling beneath them.

“A-Aunt May . . . ” His voice cracked as he clutched her frail body. She raised a trembling hand, smearing blood on his cheek as she cupped his face. “Peter…” she whispered, her voice barely audible. He felt her heartbeat weakening, the warmth draining from her touch.

“With great power… comes great responsibility”

Her arm slumped to the ground, her vision darkened and Peter heard her heart stop.

Just like that

The world seemed to still.

“No.” Peter said quietly like it was wrong. That seeing his aunt Dead should not make sense.

First his parents, then Uncle Ben, Tony… now Aunt May.

How many people have to die by his hands

He clutched her closer, his fingers digging into her as though if he could hold her soul in place.

It wasn’t supposed to end this way.

“Please, don’t leave me,” his voice cracked

“I can’t do this alone. Please!”

All Peter could let out was a soft whimper , not even screaming out loud can express the  pain pressed down on him like a vice, suffocating him. He wanted it to stop.

Just for a moment—he wanted it all to stop.

—-

Peter let out a sad whimper as he blinked his eyes open, the weight of his tears dragging him back into reality. The classroom lights overhead were too bright, too sharp, stabbing into his aching head. His cheek was pressed against the cold, hard surface of the desk, and for a moment, he couldn’t quite remember where he was.

Right. School.

Alfred had dropped him off this morning. It had been a normal day— and  He decided to take a short nap, just to shake the exhaustion weighing him down.

And now here he was, tears streaming down his face, his body trembling slightly from the intensity of the dream.

How many times had it been now? How many nights had he woken up like this, haunted by visions of her? Aunt May. Her voice, her smile, the way she’d called his name with so much love. He didn’t even know her.

What was wrong with him?

“Hey, you up?”

Peter startled, his head jerking up slightly. Tim Drake was sitting beside him now, leaning on the desk with a curious expression that teetered on concern.

“You’re supposed to be heading to your next class.”

Peter groaned internally, burying his face back into his arms. Right. The bell had rung. Tim must’ve noticed he hadn’t moved. No way was Peter lifting his head and letting Tim see his red, tear-streaked face.

“Uh—yup,” Peter mumbled, waving a hand without looking up. “Just… uh, give me a sec.”

Tim didn’t move. Peter could feel his gaze lingering.

“Y’know,” Tim said after a moment, his voice soft, “I could just call Alfred. You can leave early if you’re not feeling—”

“Nope!” Peter interrupted, forcing a laugh that sounded as strained as he felt. “I’m fine. Totally fine. Just needed a quick nap.”

He pushed himself up, tugging his hoodie over his head as a shield and slinging his bag over one shoulder. “See you at lunch!”

“Hey, wait—” Tim started, but Peter was already gone, slipping through the door before he could press further.

The walk to the bathroom was torture.

Peter could feel the stares as he moved through the crowded halls, the whispers brushing against his ears like tiny knives.

“Isn’t that the Wayne kid?”

“Hey that’s Dick Grayson’s little brother”

“Did he cry or something?”

Peter kept his head down, pulling the hoodie strings tighter. He hated this—hated the attention, the way every eye felt like it was dissecting him. Being a Wayne meant being under constant scrutiny, and Peter had never wanted that. He wasn’t Bruce, or Dick, or even Tim. He didn’t want to be in the spotlight.

He just wanted to disappear.

Finally, he reached the bathroom. The door creaked as he pushed it open, and the stale air inside made him wince. He moved quickly to the sink, twisting the faucet and splashing cold water onto his face.

The shock of it jolted him back to reality. He leaned on the edge of the sink, breathing heavily, and slowly raised his eyes to the mirror.

Huh.

His reflection stared back at him, but something was… different. His face was almost healed. The cut on his lip, which had been deep and painful yesterday, was now a faint line. The swelling around his eye was gone, and there were no dark circles under his brown eyes anymore.

Peter leaned in closer, inspecting his face. His freckles were still there, scattered like tiny constellations across his cheeks. But even his skin looked… brighter? Healthier?

And his body—yesterday, every movement had hurt. His muscles had screamed at him when he walked, a reminder of the bruises he couldn’t quite explain. But today? Nothing. No pain, no stiffness.

It was like he’d never been hurt at all.

It was almost like he was a—

Peter laughed, shaking his head. A meta? Yeah, right. In a million years.

—

By the time lunch rolled around, Peter was starving. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he stood in the cafeteria line, piling his plate with more food than usual. He didn’t care about the stares this time. His stomach was growling, and that was all that mattered.

Cass waved him over, and he made his way to their table. The only open seat was next to Damian. Fantastic.

Peter sat with a grunt, immediately digging into his food as Tim launched into a rant about the latest hero making waves in Gotham.

“—and he just swings in, does his thing, and then disappears. Do you know how enraging that is?” Tim said, his voice rising in frustration.

Duke chuckled. “Dude you’re obsessed with this guy it’s seriously becoming unhealthy have you slept?”

“No but I need to what kinda thing is running around my city And Spider-Man ? What kind of stupid name is that!”

“I kinda like it,” Peter said between bites, earning a pause from the table.

“What?” Tim asked, blinking at him.

“I think Spider-Man is a cool name,” Peter said with a shrug.

“I think it’s kind of cute,” Steph added, grinning.

Cass signed, I agree.

Peter smirked. “I wouldn’t call it cute, but it’s definitely… fitting. Spider-Man feels cool. ”

Damian scoffed. “The name is childish. Like a little kid trying to sound impressive.”

“Aren’t you a little kid?” Peter shot back, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m fourteen,” Damian said, his voice icy. “And if I fought him, he’d be dead.”

“Why would you even fight him?” Peter asked, incredulous. “What are you, Robin or something?”

Damian didn’t laugh. Instead, he crossed his arms and glared. “Good one.”

Peter chuckled nervously, shifting away slightly. Damian had that effect on people.

 Cass’s gaze lingered on Peter, her dark eyes thoughtful.

“What?” Peter asked, feeling self-conscious.

It’s just good to see you back to your normal self, she signed.

Peter frowned. “Really?”

Cass nodded. The last few days, you’ve been - different- distant It was like you weren’t even you.

Peter opened his mouth to respond, but the bell rang, cutting him off.

As he stood, Steph called out, “Don’t forget about tonight!”

“Tonight?” Peter asked, confused.

“Family night,” Steph said, grinning. “Bruce, Jason, and Dick are all gonna be there too.”

Peter frowned. “Isn’t that supposed to be on Fridays?”

“It is Friday,” Tim said, raising an eyebrow.

Peter froze.

No. No, it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. It was Wednesday.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, ignoring the worried looks from his siblings. The screen lit up.

Friday.

Shit.

“Peter?” Duke’s voice broke through the fog in his mind.

“Peter!”

He forced a shaky smile. “Yeah, just… nervous about tonight. See you later!”

Then he bolted from the cafeteria, his heart pounding.

The rest of the day blurred. Peter’s thoughts raced, trying desperately to piece together the missing time. What had happened over the last two days? He was sure it was Wednesday Why couldn’t he remember anything?

The ride home was silent. Peter barely heard Alfred’s reminder as he bolted upstairs to his room.

“Peter,” Alfred called, “it starts at 10:00 PM.”

Right. He had time.

Time to figure out what the hell was going on.

Peter Parker

8:00 PM – Wayne Manor

Peter Parker stirred awake to the muted hum of Wayne Manor, the silence pressing down on him like a weight. His room was bathed in the soft amber glow of the bedside lamp. He blinked slowly, the remnants of his nap fading away as the sheer size and grandeur of the room came into focus.

It wasn’t home.

No cluttered shelves filled with Aunt May’s old trinkets, no faint smell of burnt toast from breakfast. This was a different world—ornate, intimidating, and suffocatingly quiet. Peter sat up, running a hand through his messy hair. The clock on the wall read 8:00 PM .

He let out a sigh, pushing himself off the bed. The floor was too smooth, too cold against his bare feet. He crouched by the side of the bed, pulling out a small, sleek device tucked into the shadows beneath it. The watch was an odd comfort—familiar tech in a world that constantly reminded him he didn’t belong.

“Karen,” he muttered, strapping it around his wrist. His voice was hoarse, laced with exhaustion.

“Yes, Peter,” the AI chimed in, her tone crisp yet warm.

“Anything I need to know about tonight?” he asked as he got to his feet and padded toward the bathroom.

“Family Night is scheduled for 10:00 PM,” Karen replied. “Tonight’s activity is Game Night—a regular tradition within the Wayne family.”

Peter let out a short laugh, running a hand through his messy hair. “Game Night? Sounds… fun, I guess. What’s on the menu? High-stakes chess with Bruce? Damian flipping the Monopoly board?”

Karen didn’t respond, and Peter smirked at his own joke as he turned on the sink. Cold water splashed over his face, jolting him fully awake. He glanced at himself in the mirror, taking a moment to study his reflection.

The bruises that had marred his face earlier in the week were nearly gone, the faintest yellowish tinge all that remained. His split lip had sealed, leaving only a thin scar that would vanish in days. Even the dark circles under his brown eyes seemed lighter.

Peter paused, frowning. It wasn’t normal. Sure, he’d always healed quickly—thanks to the whole spider thing—but this felt different.

Faster. Cleaner. Maybe it had to do with Stephen sending him into a different dimension or even worse sharing a body with this world’s Peter. He pressed a hand against his chest, rolling his shoulder experimentally. No stiffness. No pain.

He dried his face and turned back toward his room, his mind running in circles.

“Great,” he muttered, “Add that to the list of things I don’t understand anymore.”

Karen’s voice cut through his thoughts. “There is another matter, Peter. Peter G. is becoming increasingly suspicious. His attempts to piece together the inconsistencies in his life are escalating.”

Peter stopped in his tracks, gripping the towel in his hand.

“What?” he whispered.

“His awareness is increasing,” Karen continued, her tone steady but unyielding. “His mental state suggests confusion and distress. I believe it is only a matter of time before he uncovers the truth.”

Peter closed his eyes, his chest tightening. This wasn’t part of the plan. He thought he’d have more time—time to figure things out, time to fix this.

“What about the others?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“The Wayne family has noticed changes in Peter G.’s behavior,” Karen said. “They have not addressed it openly, but their concern is evident. If the current trajectory continues, I estimate that both parties will discover the truth within days.”

Peter exhaled shakily, rubbing his temple. The weight of it all pressed down on him like a vice. Two lives. Two identities. And he was barely holding either of them together.

“So, what? You think I should just come clean?” he asked bitterly.

“To Peter G., yes. It would maintain balance and protect your identity as Spider-Man. Prolonging this risks everyone involved.”

Peter laughed without humor,

“Yeah, well, easier said than done, Karen. What do I even tell him? ‘Hey, guess what? I’m you, but from a totally different world. And I use your body to fight crime every night’ You think that’s gonna go over well?”

Karen was silent for a moment. “If you do not take action, Peter, I will be forced to intervene.”

“I know,” Peter interrupted, his voice low. He tossed the towel onto a nearby chair and walked toward the window, his hands shoved into his hoodie pocket. “I know, Karen. I just… I don’t know what to do.”

Karen was silent, letting the weight of his words hang in the air.

Peter pressed his forehead against the cold glass of the window, staring out into the Gotham night. The city lights flickered in the distance, a far cry from the chaotic but somehow comforting glow of Queens. He reached up and unlocked the window, letting the crisp evening air wash over him.

“I just need more time,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Time may not be on your side,” Karen replied, her tone softening.

Peter reached for his suit, the vibrant red and blue a stark contrast to the muted tones of the room. Pulling it on, he felt a familiar surge of purpose. He secured his mask and climbed onto the windowsill, the wind tugging at his suit.

“Right now,” he said, looking back at the room one last time, “I just want to feel like myself.”

And with that, he leapt into the night, trading the weight of his secrets for the fleeting freedom of the Gotham skyline.

Countdown  1hr : 45 min till Game Night 

-thanks for reading! ❤️

Chapter Text

Peter Parker

Peter remembered the day he woke up in Gotham. He’d expected to open his eyes in a bed—maybe the kind you’d find in a grand manor—but instead, he was jolted awake by the rank stench of garbage and the cold, hard surface of a dumpster pressing against his back.

He groaned, pushing off the pile of trash and looking down at himself. His school uniform was rumpled, stained with dirt and blood. His backpack hung loosely from his shoulder, the only thing he had left. His heart pounded as he staggered out of the alley, disoriented and shivering in the early morning chill. The towering, grimy buildings of Gotham loomed over him, casting long, oppressive shadows.

This wasn’t New York. This wasn’t home.

Peter wandered aimlessly down the unfamiliar streets, his mind racing. Did the spell go wrong? He’d asked Doctor Strange to make everyone forget him, but this… this felt like erasure. Like he’d been plucked out of his world and dropped into another entirely.

Desperate for answers, Peter approached a man on the street. “Excuse me, can you tell me where—”

Before he could finish, his Spider-Sense flared. The man whipped out a gun and aimed it at Peter without hesitation.

Peter froze, hands instinctively raised. “Whoa, whoa! Chill! I was just asking for directions!”

The man narrowed his eyes, muttering, “This is Gotham, kid. You’re lucky I didn’t pull the trigger first.”

Peter watched as the man tucked the gun back into his jacket and walked away without another word. His heart was pounding out of his chest.

Gotham? Peter repeated the name in his head. What city is Gotham?

Days passed in a blur of chaos. Gotham was nothing like New York. It was darker, meaner, and more dangerous. Within a week, Peter had been mugged, attacked, and even punched in the face—by a kid, no less. The only thing keeping him alive was his Spider-Sense and his powers, but even those felt like they were being tested at every turn.

He needed answers.

Peter eventually found his way to a library, hoping it might provide some clarity. He tugged a hoodie over his head to avoid drawing attention, but in Gotham, anonymity was a myth. The library was large and quiet, save for a faint voice coming from another room.

“…still no sign of him. We’ve looked everywhere—”

Peter ignored the voice and focused on the task at hand. He slipped into the computer lab, sat down, and began typing:

“Spider-Man.”

No results found.

“Avengers.”

No results found.

“Tony Stark.”

No results found.

“Doctor Strange.”

No results found.

Peter groaned, his frustration boiling over. He tried one last search: “New York.”

This time, results popped up. New York existed, but there was no mention of Spider-Man, no Avengers, no heroes he knew. A chilling realization crept over him.

This is a different universe.

Peter leaned back in his chair, running a hand down his face. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. He’d wanted people to forget him, not erase him entirely. He thought of MJ and Ned, the only two people left in his world who’d meant anything to him—and now they didn’t even remember him.

A lump formed in his throat, but he swallowed it down. Maybe this was for the best. Maybe he didn’t have to be Spider-Man anymore. Gotham had its own heroes—Batman, Robin, the Justice League. He could just go to New York in this world, start over, and leave this nightmare behind.

His thoughts were interrupted by a soft chime from his pocket. He pulled out a phone he didn’t recognize and glanced down at a watch that had been tucked away in his backpack.

“Karen?” he whispered.

“Hello, Peter,” the AI responded, her voice calm and familiar.

Relief washed over him. At least he still had this—something to remind him of who he was, where he came from.

Before he could respond, a sharp voice cut through the quiet.

“Peter?”

Peter looked up to see a woman with red hair wheeling herself into the room, her wide eyes locking onto him.

He froze.

“You’ve got a lot of explaining to do,” she said sternly, rolling closer. “Where have you been? We’ve been worried sick!”

Her name tag caught his eye: Barbara.

Peter scrambled for an answer, his heart racing. “Uh… New York?”

Barbara’s eyes narrowed. “New York? What were you doing in New York? And why do you look like that?”

Before Peter could come up with another excuse, a tall man with dark hair burst into the room. Without hesitation, he pulled Peter into a tight hug.

“Thank god you’re okay,” the man said, his voice trembling with relief. “I came as soon as Babs called.”

Peter stiffened, completely lost. This had to be Dick, the person Barbara had mentioned earlier.

“Are you hurt? You look awful.” Dick’s concern was genuine, his hands hovering as if unsure whether to let go or keep holding Peter.

Peter blinked, the exhaustion of the past few days crashing over him like a tidal wave. He didn’t know these people. He didn’t know this world. But for the first time since he woke up in that dumpster, someone cared. Someone had asked if he was okay.

For a fleeting moment, Peter considered running. He could still catch a bus to New York and start over. But the weight of loneliness pressed down on him, anchoring him in place. Maybe, just maybe, he didn’t want to be alone anymore.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Peter lied, his voice shaky. “Sorry, I just… needed some time away.”

Dick frowned, but nodded. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

Home.

Peter tightened his grip on his backpack and followed the strangers out of the library, his mind racing. He didn’t know what this world had in store for him, but for now, he’d play along. He’d pretend to be this version of Peter —just until he figured out what to do next.

—-

And that’s how I got here,”

Peter Parker  muttered, perched atop one of the abandoned buildings in Crime Alley. The occasional squawk of a bird echoed across the city, as if it was the only one still awake in this dark, dreary place.

“Hey, don’t judge me. You’d have done the same thing if you were in my position,” he added, tossing a biscuit into his mouth, his words muffled by the crunch.

Peter thought today would be a tough lookout, filled with crime and chaos. But so far, it had been surprisingly calm. Just a few people needing help to get home safe, rescuing cats from trees, saving little girls who’d wandered off.

“I mean, they actually believed the whole New York accent thing,” he chuckled to himself.

But now, with Peter G. Wayne aware of him, it was starting to get harder.

Peter first realized that the other Peter—the one whose body he was in—hadn’t vanished at all. He was still there, inside him. He began noticing it when he’d wake up at night. At first, Peter thought it was just some dimensional time zone thing. But then, things got stranger—he’d start waking up during the day too. He went to school as Peter G. Wayne (which, by the way, he learned was his name).

He tried to keep his distance, not speak too much. He wanted to slip through the cracks, pretend he didn’t even exist. And yeah, he seriously considered not being Spider-Man anymore. But when he only woke up at night, it got boring fast. He wanted to swing through the city again, not necessarily fight crime, but just… swing . His last words to Aunt May still weighed on him, and that made it hard to stay away from being Spider-Man entirely.

Sigh.

Now instead of swinging across the city, helping people, and fighting crime, he was busy trying to outmaneuver Batman and his bat family .

“Spider-Man,” a young voice called out, sharp and direct.

Peter didn’t turn around right away. He knew who it was. “That’s my name. Don’t wear it out,” he replied, standing up and stretching his arms.

“Which one is it today? Nightwing? Batman? Red Hood?” Peter asked, rolling his neck lazily.

He turned to see Robin standing at the edge of the roof, his green mask shadowed under his hood.

“Robin,” the boy said firmly, stepping forward.

“Oh, right. The little one,” Peter muttered.

“I challenge you to a duel,” Robin declared, raising his chin.

Peter blinked. “A duel?”

“To the death,” Robin clarified, his tone ice-cold.

Peter groaned, rubbing his mask. “Yeah, no. I don’t fight kids.”

“I’m not a kid,” Robin snapped, lunging forward.

Peter barely dodged the first punch, flipping back. “You’re literally a kid,” he muttered, ducking as Robin spun and aimed a kick at his ribs.

“You’re an intruder in Gotham!” Robin said, landing on his feet and rushing forward again.

Peter caught his fist mid-swing. “Whoa! Chill! I’m not here to steal your Bat-signal or whatever.” He pushed Robin back lightly. “Can’t we just talk like normal people?”

Robin didn’t answer, leaping at him with a flurry of strikes. Peter dodged, twisting and flipping to stay ahead of the boy’s rapid movements. It wasn’t hard to avoid getting hit—Robin was fast, but Peter was faster.

“Okay, this is getting old,” Peter said, webbing Robin’s foot to the rooftop. “Time out.”

But before Robin could respond, an explosion rocked the street below.

Peter spun around. “What the—”

Robin ripped free of the webbing, his attention snapping to the scene below. “Deathstroke,” he growled, already running toward the edge of the roof.

“Deathstroke?” Peter echoed, following him.

The mercenary was in the street, towering over a group of terrified civilians. His blade glinted under the streetlights as he advanced on a young woman cowering against a wall.

Peter’s Spider-Sense flared. “He’s hurting civilians! Robin, I’ve got to—”

“I’ll handle him!” Robin snapped, leaping from the rooftop toward Deathstroke.

“Great teamwork,” Peter muttered, dropping down after him.

Peter hit the ground running, ignoring the fight as Robin clashed with Deathstroke. His focus was on the civilians. He grabbed the young woman and swung her to safety, then doubled back to pull an older man out of the line of fire.

“Everyone clear out!” he shouted, waving the remaining people toward an alley.

Robin’s grunts and Deathstroke’s mocking laughter echoed behind him. Peter glanced back to see Robin holding his own but struggling to keep up with Deathstroke’s brute strength and precision.

“Focus, Peter,” he whispered to himself, hoisting another injured civilian out of harm’s way.

Finally, with the civilians safe, Peter turned back toward the fight just in time to see Deathstroke land a brutal blow that sent Robin sprawling.

Robin hit the ground hard, dazed. Deathstroke raised his blade, aiming to finish him off.

“No, you don’t!” Peter yelled, shooting a web at the blade and yanking it from Deathstroke’s grasp. He swung in, delivering a solid kick to Deathstroke’s chest that sent him stumbling back.

Robin groaned, trying to stand. Peter landed beside him, extending a hand. “You okay, kid?”

Robin scowled but took the hand, pulling himself up. “I had it under control.”

“Sure you did,” Peter said, turning back to Deathstroke. But the mercenary was already gone, disappearing into the shadows.

Peter sighed. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Robin glared at him. “This isn’t over, Spider-Man.” With that, he melted into the shadows, disappearing as swiftly as he’d come.

Peter sighed, leaning against the edge of the rooftop. “Kids these days,” he muttered.

Karen’s familiar voice chimed in through his watch. “Peter, you have 20 minutes until family night.”

“Right,” Peter groaned, straightening up. “Can’t wait for that.”

He leapt off the building, swinging through the city toward the Wayne manor. He slipped through an open window, expertly dodging the security cameras he’d mapped out weeks ago. Landing softly in his room, he quickly changed out of his Spider-Man suit.

With five minutes to spare, he stashed the suit and backpack in a makeshift hole he’d carved into the ceiling, then slid his watch under the seat of his desk chair. His phone, modified to include Karen, was tucked into his pocket. She was his only lifeline to tracking Peter G. Wayne’s movements and staying ahead of the game.

Peter sat on the bed, waiting for the switch. He stared at his hands, willing whatever strange force that let Peter G. take over to kick in.

Any moment now…

Nothing.

“Come on,” Peter muttered.

Still nothing.

He tapped his head lightly. “Hello? Peter G.? Billionaire Boy Wonder? Time to shine, my dude.”

…

“Great,” he sighed. “How the hell does this even work?”

“I suspect it’s due to Peter G. Not fully knowing your existence” Karen chimed in on his phone

“Great” Peter slumped “Just Great”  Peter couldn’t wait any longer, if the switch now has to happen for Peter G. to be aware then he has to tell him, before he looses complete control. 

A knock on the door paused his thoughts  him.

“Peter,” Alfred called, his voice calm but insistent. “Everyone’s waiting for you downstairs.”

Peter froze. “Uh, sure! I’m on my way!” he replied, quickly trying to mimic Peter G. Wayne’s tone based on recordings he’d listened to over the last month

He paced the room, muttering to himself. “It’s fine. It’s just game night. How hard can it be to play along?”

Taking a deep breath, Peter squared his shoulders. He’s faced Green Goblin. He’s faced Vulture. This is just… family game night. 

He opened the door with a forced smile. “Okay, Peter G. Wayne,” he whispered under his breath, stepping into the hallway. “Let’s do this.”

Chapter Text

Tim Drake 

Two months ago, Peter stormed out of the manor after a brutal argument with Bruce and Dick. Fights weren’t unusual in this house—too many strong personalities under one roof—but this one cut deeper than most.

“You don’t get it!” Peter had yelled, his voice raw and shaking. His hands were balled into fists at his sides, his face flushed with frustration.

“Maybe because you refuse to explain yourself!” Dick shot back, his tone sharper than he intended. He stood with his arms crossed, the concern behind his words buried beneath a layer of anger.

Bruce’s words, however, were colder—clinical. They cut through Peter’s defenses like a blade. “Maybe because there’s nothing to explain,” he said, his tone flat, detached. “You need to accept your limits.”

Peter froze, his breath catching. For a moment, no one moved.

“My limits?” he echoed, his voice hollow.

Then he laughed bitterly, a harsh, humorless sound that made everyone in the room flinch.

He turned toward Dick, his expression pained, as though he wanted to say more. But the words didn’t come. Instead, he bit his lip, spun on his heel, and headed toward the door. His footsteps echoed through the manor like a gavel falling, marking the end of the argument.

At first, no one thought much of it. Peter had walked out before—he just needed time to cool off, maybe a night or two at a friend’s place. But when three days passed without a word, Dick’s usual optimism began to falter. By the end of the first week, even Bruce looked worried.

By the second week, it became clear:

Peter was gone.

Bruce threw himself into the search, combing through surveillance footage, dispatching agents, and calling in every favor he was owed. Tim hardly left his computer, dark circles growing under his eyes as he scoured social media, traffic cams, and even the most obscure digital clues. Dick and Steph pounded the streets night after night, questioning informants and chasing down dead ends. Even Alfred, usually the calm eye of the storm, made discreet inquiries through his vast network.

But nothing turned up. Not a single lead. It was as if Peter had vanished off the face of the earth.

Then, a month later, everything changed.

It was late. Tim sat perched on a rooftop, overlooking the quiet streets below, his comms crackling softly. Barbara’s voice was steady in his ear, a lifeline of normalcy in the chaos of their search.

“Nothing turned up in the Lower East Side,” she said. “I’ll keep cross-referencing the—”

She stopped mid-sentence.

“Babs?” Tim sat up straighter, his heart skipping a beat. “What is it?”

There was silence, and then Barbara’s voice returned, trembling. “Peter?”

Tim froze, his mind racing.

“Peter, is that you?” Barbara’s voice cracked, disbelief woven into every word.

Tim fumbled with his comms, urgency clawing at his chest. “Wait—Peter’s there?” His voice was louder than he intended, panic slipping through the cracks.

“I’m on my way,” Dick’s voice cut through the comms, clipped and tense.

Barbara’s voice dropped to a whisper, almost like she’d forgotten the comms were still on. “You have so much explaining to do, mister. Where the hell have you been?”

There was a pause, then a voice that sent a shock through Tim’s system:

“Uh… New York.”

Tim froze, his brow furrowing. New York? And why did Peter sound so… different?

“What happened to you—” Barbara started, but the line abruptly cut off.

Bruce’s voice broke through the silence, calm and commanding. “Everyone. Home. Now.”

No one hesitated.

The living room felt heavier than usual, the silence thick and oppressive as they waited.

Steph paced back and forth, her arms crossed tightly, her frustration radiating with every step. “He has so much explaining to do,” she muttered under her breath, her voice sharp with anger.

Damian was sprawled across the couch, lazily flipping a knife between his fingers. “What’s there to explain?” he said, his tone indifferent. “He’s not a baby. Stop treating him like one.”

Steph froze, rounding on him with an incredulous glare. “You’re unbelievable,” she snapped. “Maybe if you weren’t such a little brat all the time, if you didn’t make everything worse—”

Damian finally looked up, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. “What Bruce said wasn’t wrong,” he said flatly. “Peter’s just too much of a coward to take it.”

Steph’s hands curled into fists as she took a step forward. “You little—”

“Guys.” Duke stepped between them, his hands raised in frustration. “Seriously, can we not do this right now?”

Damian leaned back, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I’m just saying what you’re all thinking,” he said. “That’s why we didn’t tell him. Let’s not pretend it was for his own good.”

Steph’s glare deepened. “We didn’t tell him because we wanted to—”

To protect him  Cass signed, her movements deliberate and calm.

Damian snorted, his laugh sharp and derisive. “Protect him? Really? If that were true, none of us would be here. And you all know it.”

The room went silent, Damian’s words cutting through the tension like a knife.

Tim stared at the floor, guilt twisting in his gut. Damian wasn’t wrong. They hadn’t told Peter about their lives as vigilantes, not because they wanted to protect him, but because they didn’t believe he could handle it.

Peter wasn’t like them. He wasn’t trained, wasn’t hardened.

He wasn’t strong.

He wasn’t capable of anything.

He wasn’t broken.

Steph’s voice broke the silence, shaking with anger. “You don’t think he deserves to know the truth? You don’t think he deserves a chance ?”

Damian shrugged. “I think he can’t handle it,” he said simply. “And I think you all agree with me. You just don’t want to say it out loud.”

“Shut up,” Tim muttered, his voice low and strained.

Damian turned his smirk on Tim now, leaning forward slightly. “Why? Because I’m right?”

“Stop,” Duke said, his voice sharper this time. “We have bigger things to deal with.”

Damian leaned back again, clearly unconcerned. “I’m not the problem,” he said lightly. “You all are. Hypocrites.”

Tim’s jaw clenched, the weight of Damian’s words settling deep in his chest.

Because no matter how much they hated hearing it, they all knew he wasn’t wrong.

Alfred clasped his hands together, the soft gesture enough to command the room’s attention. The family, tense and on edge, turned toward him.

“I know everyone is tense right now,” Alfred began, his voice calm yet firm. “With Master Peter’s return, it’s best we put this conversation on hold—at least until we get some answers.”

Though no one looked entirely satisfied, murmurs of agreement passed through the room. Alfred’s ability to steady the storm of personalities was unmatched, even now.

The sound of heavy footsteps broke the moment as Jason entered the room. His hands were shoved into his jacket pockets, his gaze scanning the faces around him with detached curiosity.

“What’d I miss?” he asked, his tone casual but undercut by tension.

Cass stepped forward, her movements sharp and deliberate. What are you doing here? she signed, her expression direct 

Jason gave her a faint smirk, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Same as the rest of you,” he said. “I just want to see how he’s doing. After that, I’m gone.”

Tim eyed Jason, his thoughts swirling. He knew Jason cared more about Peter than he let on. During the month Peter had been missing, Jason had been relentless, searching just as hard as Dick. For all his bravado, Jason wasn’t as indifferent as he wanted them to believe.

A faint rumble of tires in the driveway cut through the tension like a knife.

“They’re here,” Tim said quietly, his heart sinking into his stomach.

The family instinctively moved toward the front door, a mixture of hope and dread pulling them forward. Dick was the first to step inside, his face pale and drawn with worry.

“Guys,” Dick started, his voice hesitant.

“Where’s Peter?” Tim interrupted, his words sharp, anxiety bleeding into his tone.

Dick sighed heavily, running a hand over his face, clearly struggling with what to say.

But before he could answer, Peter stepped into the doorway behind him.

The room collectively froze.

An audible gasp escaped from Steph as everyone took in the sight of him.

Peter looked nothing like the boy who had left. His clothes were filthy and torn, smeared with dirt and dried blood. The stench hit them almost immediately—sweat, grime, and something faintly metallic.

Bruises marred his face, and an angry gash stretched across his cheek. His posture was defensive, his shoulders hunched, as if bracing for another fight.

But it was his eyes that struck them the hardest.

They weren’t Peter’s eyes anymore. They were hollow, haunted, filled with a mix of sadness, rage, and exhaustion. Whatever had happened this past month had broken something in him.

Questions were forming, in Tim’s mind.

What happened?

Where has he been?

Why are you injured?

Why did you appear in the Bab’s library after a month?

Are you still the same?

“Peter,” Steph whispered, her voice trembling as she took a tentative step forward. She reached out slightly, as if to hug him, but froze when Peter flinched back.

He took a step away, his body tensing like a cornered animal.

“It’s okay,” Steph said softly, lowering her arms, but her voice cracked under the weight of her heartbreak.

Peter’s gaze darted around the room, lingering on each face like he didn’t quite recognize them. Or maybe like he didn’t trust them anymore.

“If any asks” Peter started “I don’t remember anything”

There it was again, the New Yorker accent. Thick rich like as if it was part of his existence, like he never knew any other.

“I’m sorry” He said as he slightly adverted his eyes.

“It’s cool ” Dick said “no rush” he patted Peter’s shoulder which led Peter to tense but not move at all, like he was calculating if what he was doing was right.

“I’m just glad your home”

“Master Peter,” Alfred said gently, His voice was calm, but his eyes betrayed the sadness and concern he felt.

Peter turned toward him, his expression guarded but not hostile.

“I’m so very glad you’re home,” Alfred said, taking a cautious step forward. “I can’t imagine what you’ve been through.”

Peter didn’t respond, but his gaze lingered on Alfred for a beat longer than anyone else.

“I’d like to help treat your wounds,” Alfred continued softly, his tone unyielding in its care.

Peter hesitated for a moment before giving a small nod. He shrugged off his tattered jacket, handing it to Alfred.

Then Alfred started reaching to take the backpack slung over Peter’s shoulder. Before his hand could touch it, Peter’s shot out, gripping the strap tightly and stopping him.

“No, I got it,” Peter said quickly, his voice sharp and uneasy.

“Are you sure?” Alfred asked, his tone gentle, but there was a trace of concern beneath it.

Peter held the bag closer to his chest, like he was shielding something inside. “Yeah,” he muttered, his eyes darting to the others in the room before settling back on Alfred.

Tim’s thoughts started racing. The way Peter clung to that bag—it wasn’t normal. He wasn’t just protective. He was defensive. What was he hiding?

“Okay then,” Alfred said softly, straightening. “Right this way, Master Peter.”

Peter hesitated for a split second, his grip tightening even further, before giving a final glance around the room. His gaze lingered on each of them, unreadable, before he turned and followed Alfred out.

The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating.

“So… about the accent,” Duke said finally, breaking the quiet. His voice was cautious, like he wasn’t sure if he should even bring it up.

Tim exhaled slowly. At least he wasn’t the only one who’d noticed. Peter had always spoken like any other Gothamite. But now? His words had been thick, rich, and formal—an accent that sounded like it had years of practice behind it, not just one month away.

“Yeah,” Dick said, his voice low. “I’m suspicious too.” He rubbed a hand over his face, and Tim caught the dark shadows under his brother’s eyes. “But right now? I think I’m just glad he’s safe.”

Tim frowned. Safe wasn’t the word he would’ve used.

“He could be a clone,” Damian said flatly, his words cutting through the room like a knife.

The others turned to stare at him.

“What?” Jason said, his voice tinged with exasperation. “No. We’re not doing this. Don’t even start with that.”

“I’m serious,” Damian said, crossing his arms. “It’s not impossible. Maybe the real Peter died, and this one is some kind of replacement.”

Cass tilted her head, her expression You’re always reaching for the extreme.

“Because the extreme makes sense, ” Damian shot back. “The bag. The accent. The way he looked at us—like we were strangers. What else explains it?”

Jason groaned, rubbing his temples. “Anything but that. God, I don’t even want to think about that.”

“Well, I’m thinking about it,” Damian snapped.

“Maybe you shouldn’t,” Steph said, cutting him off with a glare. “I mean, did it ever occur to you that maybe he’s traumatized ?”

Damian scoffed. “Trauma doesn’t change your entire personality.”

“Enough,” Dick said quietly, his voice carrying a weight that silenced the room. “Let’s not do this. Not yet. Peter’s home now. Whatever happened to him out there… when he’s ready, he’ll tell us. He always does.”

Tim wanted to believe that. He needed to believe that. But something felt wrong— off.

“He might tell us,” Duke said carefully, “but the question is, will it be the Peter we remember? Because if he’s not the same… we have to be ready for that.”

Tim felt his chest tighten. Duke wasn’t wrong. Peter was back, but he wasn’t the same. The bag. The accent. The distant look in his eyes. It wasn’t just time or distance that had changed him. It was something worse.

Tim clenched his fists, his mind spiraling. If Peter had been hurt, why hadn’t he called? Why hadn’t he trusted them ? They would’ve dropped everything to help him. So why did it feel like he didn’t want their help at all?

Dick’s voice broke the silence, soft and strained. “I just want to give him time. We owe him that much.”

Jason scoffed, leaning back against the wall. “Yeah, but what if time isn’t enough? He’s not talking. Not yet. And until he does, we’re flying blind.”

Tim swallowed hard, unable to shake the thought clawing at the back of his mind: What if Peter’s still out there? What if this isn’t him at all?

For now, none of them had answers. Only questions—and a sinking feeling that they might not like what they found.

Chapter Text

Peter Parker 

Peter walked down the quiet, halls of Wayne Manor, The place was massive, too big for any single person to feel at home. It had been a month since he found himself here, trying to fit into a life that wasn’t his. He hadn’t had time—or maybe the courage—to explore it before now.

With his super hearing, Peter could tell the house was nearly empty, save for Alfred moving around somewhere downstairs. It made the place feel even lonelier, hollow in a way that reminded him of empty rooms and memories he’d rather not dig up. He sighed, wandering deeper into the mansion.

As he moved through the halls, he passed room after room of cold grandeur, the kind of wealth that only made him feel more out of place. Then he reached a gallery—a corridor lined with photos framed in gold and mahogany, His eyes darted over images Peter G’s family and they all had something in common: they belonged here.

And then he stopped.

There, hanging prominently on the wall, was a photo of Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, and—himself. Or rather, Peter G.

Peter stared, his heart stuttering in his chest. It was like looking into a warped mirror. Peter G.’s smile was soft, a little awkward, the same dorky grin Peter had seen reflected in his own face a thousand times. The resemblance was perfect, down to the way the corners of his eyes crinkled. He could be me, Peter thought. Or maybe I’m him.

“That was the day before your first day of school. You wanted to remember this day so you insisted that Dick and I take a family photo”

The voice made Peter freeze, his whole body tensing on instinct. He hadn’t even heard Bruce coming. Not a single sound. That should have been impossible.

Bruce Wayne. The man himself. Peter turned his head slightly, just enough to see the imposing figure standing behind him. It was surreal—like standing in front of a shadow that could swallow you whole.

Peter didn’t know how to react. He’d done his homework the moment he landed here—he knew Bruce Wayne was the billionaire with a reputation for adopting struggling kids. He’d studied everything he could, trying to piece together who he was supposed to be here. But Bruce was the one person he hadn’t spent much time with. Did Peter G. call him Dad ? Or just Bruce ? Were they close? Did they even talk?

Peter’s mind spun, searching for something— anything —to say that wouldn’t blow his cover. His heart pounded in his chest.

All his mind could be doing at this moment was think of a way to get out of this. A way to survive another day and these next words we’re gonna decided wither he sleeps on the streets or sleeps in his bed. He gulped.  Karen isn’t in his ear to tell him anything.

“Peter?”

Right before Peter could make the first move, his body moved on its own. He turned and looked at Bruce, then gently averted his eyes.

Bruce’s presence was overwhelming, and what Peter was feeling wasn’t from his spider sense, but from Peter G. himself. It was as if his emotions were seeping out of him.

There was a sense of admiration, but also fear—fear that he couldn’t live up to Bruce’s expectations. It was similar to how his relationship with Tony had been when they first met. Peter G. had a strong desire to prove that he was more than capable in front of this man.

Tony.

Peter’s chest tightened as images of Tony Stark flashed through his mind—Tony grinning, Tony lecturing him, Tony making his final sacrifice. It hit him like a punch to the gut, and Peter had to force himself not to cry

“Peter?” Bruce’s voice pulled him back to the present. It was quiet, steady, but tinged with something Peter didn’t recognize. Worry.

Peter blinked, clearing his throat. “When did you come home?”

“Just now.”

Peter nodded, his voice coming out small.

“I see”

He turned away, heading down the hall toward the living room. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to have this conversation. If he could just get out of the room, maybe this feeling would fade—this emotion, that wasn’t even his.

“Peter, wait,” Bruce called, his voice following him like a shadow. “Please. We need to talk about it.”

Peter kept walking, ignoring him.

He did not want to talk.

Then Bruce’s hand landed on his shoulder—not rough, not firm, but enough to stop him. “It’s been a month since you came back,” Bruce said softly. “I think I deserve an explanation.”

Peter shrugged his hand off, his voice sharper than he meant it to be. “I told you. I went New York.”

It was a lie, Peter didn’t know where Peter G. went. In fact he should be answering this question not him. But it was something that could possibly help him live another day.

“You came back bruised and battered,” Bruce pressed, his words careful. “That’s not something you just walk away from.”

Peter sighed, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “I went to hang out with some friends in New York, okay? My phone got stolen, I tried to get it back, got beat up, lost my wallet. I had to figure out how to get home.”

“ You should’ve asked for help, let us handle it. Even if they stole your phone you could call anyone and we would’ve been there ” Bruce’s said with a firm voice,

Peter looked at him then, just for a moment, his chest aching. “Maybe I didn’t want help,” he breathed. “Maybe I wanted to prove something—to show you what I could do.”

Bruce’s expression shifted, his mask cracking ever so slightly, but Peter didn’t stop. The words tumbled out of him, unfiltered, like they weren’t even his own. “And you know what? After all that, I came back and realized you were right. About what you said back then.”

Peter didn’t even know why he said it. He wasn’t sure what Bruce had said back then, or what he was supposed to be talking about. All he knew was that his chest felt tight, his head felt heavy, and something deep inside him— Peter G. or maybe himself—was desperate to prove something to this man.

Bruce’s expression didn’t change, and that cut deeper than Peter expected. It made him feel like a failure, like Bruce had already given up on him without a fight. And the worst part? Peter couldn’t shake the sickening feeling that this was what Bruce had wanted all along—like he’d been waiting for this moment.

“Looks like you got what you wanted,” Peter said softly, his voice laced with bitterness and hurt he couldn’t hide.

Bruce stopped, his tone low, “Peter—”

But before he could finish, voices echoed from the hallway. Peter didn’t wait. He turned and slipped away, the words lingering in the air behind him.

Peter closed himself in the bathroom and leaned against the wall, his breath shaky as he tried to calm the rising tension inside.

Before he met the family—before he had to put on this role—he needed to get himself together.

He took multiple deep breaths, one after another, until the tightness in his chest began to loosen. Slowly, whatever emotions Peter G. had been stirring inside him faded into the background.

He turned to the mirror, his reflection staring back at him with vacant eyes.

“No wonder why you won’t wake up,” he muttered, his voice low and filled with exhaustion. “You’re too much of a wimp to deal with your problems. I’m here to be your shadow at night. Fight crime, wake up, and fight crime again. Not deal with your family trauma.”

No response.

Peter groaned, frustration tugging at him. He didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to reveal himself to Peter G., but if he didn’t let him know—if he didn’t confront him—then Peter would be exposed. And that couldn’t happen.

Peter splashed water in his face. The cold water against his skin. He had no choice.

Tonight.

Peter thought, his mind settling on the thought.

He’ll tell him tonight. 

He doesn’t want to be involved with the Wayne family, anymore than he needs to, and if that means revealing himself as Spider-Man to Peter G, then so be it. He’ll stick with the night, and Peter G. will stick with the day.

He wasn’t sure how—maybe he’d leave a note, or even ask Karen to help deliver the message—but it needed to happen. After tonight, Peter G. Would know his existence He just hoped he would be okay with it.

There is only one Spider-Man, and he’s okay with being Spider-Man, not Peter G. Wayne and certainly not Peter Parker.

Not yet at least. 

Chapter Text

Friday, 11:30 PM.

Breaking News: Chaos erupted tonight in Gotham as the Joker launched a brutal attack on the city. The aftermath is devastating—streets in ruins, lives shattered. But the Bat family is moving in, tracking down the criminals and bringing them back to prison. Over to you, Alice.

Alice: “As you can see, Robin and Nightwing are rounding up the criminals, working fast. The Bat family is here, but the damage… it’s catastrophic.”

Alice: “The attack has left hundreds, maybe thousands, injured. Buildings are crumbling, fires are raging. Gotham is on the edge. What’s that?” crackle crackle

Alice: “It looks like Spider-Man has arrived. Gasps Wait—he just stopped a building from collapsing on innocent people! He’s saving lives!”

Alice: “The Bat family is securing the city, but—wait, what’s this? Another explosion! It looks like it was set up by the Joker.”

Alice: “And now—Spider-Man is heading straight for the Joker! He’s going right into the heart of it!”

BOOM!

Alice: The feed crackles with static. “I can’t see anything—coughs—the smoke is thick. But it seems like—“

The smoke clears.

Alice: “The Joker has been stopped. But Spider-Man… Spider-Man is gone.” Her voice falters Where is he?” 

Alice: “It looks like Batman is heading to the scene now. He’s there, but— voice shaking —where is Spider-Man? What happened?”

Two weeks later

Alice:  “It’s been two weeks  since the devastating events that shattered Gotham, leaving a city in mourning. Families are still grieving, while the villains are slowly rounded up and taken back to prison.”

“-But amidst the chaos and loss, one question lingers in the air—what happened to Spider-Man? The Joker managed to slip away, disappearing without a trace.”

“There’s still no word from Batman or his team about the situation, leaving us in the dark. As Gotham begins to rebuild, piece by piece, we can only hope and pray that our friendly neighborhood hero is out there safe.”

Alice: “ Stay safe, everyone. I’ll keep you posted.”

Breaking News:

Alice: “ We’ve just received devastating news—Spider-Man is no longer with us.”

“We now turn to Bruce Wayne, who has a message for Gotham.”

Bruce Wayne: Voice filled with grief “Citizens of Gotham, it is with a heavy heart that I confirm the tragic loss of a hero who gave everything to protect this city.”

“Spider-Man wasn’t just a hero—he was a symbol of hope, courage, and sacrifice. He came to Gotham in its darkest hour, and without hesitation, he put himself in harm’s way to save countless lives.”

Pause - “Spider-Man never asked for recognition. He simply did what needed to be done, because that’s the kind of person he was. A hero in every sense of the word.”

“We owe him a debt we can never repay. In honor of his bravery and sacrifice, I will be holding a memorial for him, to ensure his legacy lives on.”

Pause, voice softens “We will also continue our fight to bring the Joker to justice. The pain he caused that day will not be forgotten, and the battle isn’t over.

Thank you”

Broadcaster: Alice, back to you.

Alice: Voice trembling “Thank you, Mr. Wayne. It’s hard to find the words in a moment like this. Less than a month ago, Spider-Man arrived in Gotham, and in that short time, he became a hero we all depended on. And now, we’ve lost him.

Our hearts are heavy, and the city feels emptier without him. We can only hope he knew how much he meant to all of us. Rest in peace, Spider-Man.”

“You will never be forgotten.”

Peter G. Wayne

Peter G. Wayne turned off the TV screen, his eyes fixed on the blank display, as if it could somehow offer him answers.

“Are you sure about this?” Peter G. asked, his voice low and uncertain. “I can’t believe I’m about to attend your own memorial.”

Peter Parker leaned back on the couch, a tired shrug escaping him, but there was something distant in his eyes. 

In just two weeks—no, even three months—his entire world had been ripped apart. And Turned upside down He was still struggling to process everything, the weight of it all pressing on him like a thousand pounds.

Everyone thought Spider-Man was dead. But here he was—the ghost of Peter Parker, inside him, and sitting right next to him.

Chapter Text

Peter G. Wayne 

One week after the fight

Peter G. blinked back tears as he lay on the cold, grimy floor of a building that was definitely not Wayne Manor. The ceiling above him leaked, and the walls were falling apart. The stench in the air was suffocating, a sickly smell that made his stomach turn.

Where was he? He didn’t know. The blackouts, the disappearances. He thought he could find a way out, that he could figure it out. But here he was, lost, and in pain again.

Questions swept over his mind

Where is he?

How long has he been here?

Are they looking for him? 

Three hours had passed since he woke up.

He tried to move, to get up, but his body refused to listen. Pain shot through him, sharp and unforgiving, and he collapsed again, gasping for breath. When was the last time he felt okay? When was the last time he wasn’t lost in this spiral of confusion and agony?

He could barely focus on anything other than the pain, but his eyes caught something that made his stomach turn.

Blood.

Streaks of it smeared across the floor and walls, fresh and Dry patches of blood against the crumbling surfaces. His heart pounded. Nausea rose in his chest. He couldn’t stop himself.

He leaned forward and threw up

Tears blurred his vision. He knelt, clutching his stomach, trembling from head to toe. What had happened? Whose blood was it? Was it his? His mind screamed for answers, but there was nothing. Only silence. Only pain.

“I just want to go home,” he whispered, his voice barely a breath. He didn’t care anymore—he just wanted the pain to stop. The fear to fade. But there was no one. No one coming for him.

He was alone.

His groan of pain filled the room, a quiet, helpless sound that echoed in his chest. It was all too much, and yet somehow, he found the strength to push himself to his feet. It took everything in him to climb, his body screaming with each painful motion. After 30 agonizing minutes, he finally reached the roof, he saw Gotham spread out before him. And right in front of him—

Crime Alley.

Damn.

He had tried to avoid this place. Tried to stay far from it, like Bruce and Dick always told him to. But here he was, staring at the one part of Gotham that scared him the most. The distant sirens, the hum of traffic, the sound of chaos that never stopped.The streets below, the ones he knew all too little.

Peter’s legs buckled, and he crumpled at the edge of the rooftop, too weak to stay upright. He closed his eyes, but even that hurt too. His face twisted in pain—it was too much to cry, too much to even hope for relief.

The breeze touched his face, cold against his skin, but it didn’t comfort him. Peter’s thoughts spun as he looked down at the streets below, the alleys filled with shadows and danger. He knew he had to find a way out, to get help.

—-

The streets of Crime Alley were a maze of chaos, a place where the air was thick with tension and danger lurked around every corner. Peter thought he could make it through the back alleys, staying out of sight, keeping his distance from the madness. But not even an hour into the alleyway, it was clear he was wrong.

He didn’t even hear them at first—just a creeping sense of eyes on him. -Almost like tingle-

Then, out of nowhere, a group of alley kids emerged from the shadows, surrounding him like wolves closing in on their prey. His heart raced, and he took a nervous step back, trying to keep his cool.

“I know you,” one of the kids said, his eyes narrowing, scanning Peter.

Peter let out a shaky laugh, trying to sound confident. “You must be mistaken.”

But the kids didn’t buy it. They continued to close in, their eyes fixed on him.

“Yeah, you’re that Wayne kid,” another one sneered.

“Which one?” a third kid asked, a mocking tone in his voice.

“The one who hides behind his money and his daddy’s name. The coward,” the first kid replied, grinning wickedly.

Peter’s stomach twisted. “I’m not a coward,” he muttered, but it came out as more of a half-hearted whisper.

One of the kids barked out a laugh. “Hey, if we grab him, we could get a ransom. Bet his dad would pay anything to get him back.”

“Yeah, Daddy will come running to clean up your mess,” another one chimed in, all of them snickering.

Peter felt his face flush. Their words were like punches, each one landing harder than the last. He wanted to fight back, but he felt completely out of his depth. He wasn’t built for this world—this world of grit and grime and desperation. This wasn’t his fight.

Then, one of the kids pulled out a knife, the blade catching the dim light of the streetlamp.

Peter’s breath caught in his throat. “Guys, please, don’t do this,” he stammered.

“It’s people like you—rich, spoiled, who don’t give a crap about any of us. So why should we care about you?” the kid hissed, waving the knife menacingly.

And for once, a small part of him thought, maybe… maybe his dad would swoop in like he always did. Maybe his brother, too. The thought disgusted him—it was weak. Pathetic, even. He balled his hands into a fist thinking about the night of argument. What Bruce and Dick said to him. Instantly a glimpse memory of him speaking talking to Bruce -which he doesn’t remember- flash his mind. 

“ You should’ve asked for help, let us handle it. Even if they stole your phone you could call anyone and we would’ve been there ” 

Peter couldn’t tell where it came from, but it offered the no shred of comfort. Maybe he was losing his mind, or perhaps his sanity had finally shattered, but he clenched his fist and raised it to his face. Whether it was the sting of pain or a desperate need to prove he wasn’t a coward who calls Bruce or Dick whenever shit hits the fan, he didn’t know. A surge of confidence—or was it adrenaline?—rushed through him, electrifying his nerves.

”Aw look little rich birdie thinks he’s a big boy now,” One kid mocked the rest laughed ” Don’t need daddy?” 

A small smirk spread on Peter’s face “HA! and what makes you so special, you can’t even fight me yourself, What too scared?” Peter mocked back

What was he doing? This isn’t something Peter G. would do, but his words continued to spill out of his mouth so confident and unforgiving like he enjoyed taunting them. 

“Scaredy scaredy cat” Peter sang “he can’t even bit a little Wayne rich kid like me” 

How many were these guys anyway? Like what? three. He just had to make sure he didn’t kill them

wait what? why would he even think that 

The kids face turned Red with and with a roar, he raised his knife high and lunged at Peter. 

SHIT!

SHIT!

In an instant, Peter dodged. His body moved before his mind could catch up. He barely had time to process it.

“What the fuck ?” the kid gasped, stunned, as Peter slipped past him like he was a shadow.

“Really, dude?” one of the other kids laughed. “You’re gonna lose to a rich kid?”

Peter was just as surprised as the alley kid was.

This was impossible. 

“No!” the first kid shouted again, fury flashing in his eyes. He lunged at Peter once more, this time faster, angrier.

Peter’s body responded on its own. It was like the world slowed around him.

Left,

right,

two steps forward 

back,

behind

—his every move was instinctive, like his body knew exactly where to go, how to avoid the knife, and where to put himself to stay safe. It wasn’t just dodging anymore. It was… controlled. The alley kid’s frustration was building as he swung again. This time, Peter reached out, grabbed his arm, twisted it, and with a sharp snap, the knife was gone, broken, the kid howling in pain as he dropped to the ground.

“You! Meta!” the kid screamed, tears rolling dow. the kids face clutching his wrist.

“W-wait! No, it was an accident!” Peter stammered, his hands shaking. “I didn’t mean to…”

The other two kids exchanged a look, their eyes widening with realization. Then, without hesitation, they both lunged at him. One with a bat, the other with a fist raised to strike.

Without thinking, Peter grabbed the kid on the right, trapping him in a chokehold -with strength he knew he didn’t have- until he passed out. It was swift. Efficient. Like it was something he’d done a thousand times.

Then the one with the bat came at him, swinging wildly. Peter snatched it out of the air like it was nothing, his fingers gripping the handle with unnatural strength. The kid tried to pull it back, but it didn’t move. It was like Peter’s grip was glued to the bat, and the more the kid struggled, the tighter it seemed to get.

“Let go!” the kid screamed, panicking.

“I’m not doing anything,” Peter panicked tears forming in his eyes. It was like the bat was stuck in his hand. He tried pulling it off but with no luck

“Stop it! Stop sticking!” Peter pleaded

Suddenly. with one sharp motion, Peter yanked the bat, slamming it right into the kid’s face. The sound was sickening—like the crack of a melon—and the kid crumpled to the ground, out cold.

Peter stood frozen, his chest heaving, his mind reeling. He looked down at the three kids sprawled out in front of him, all unconscious. It felt unreal, impossible.

“W-What just happened?” Peter whispered, his voice trembling . His hands were still shaking, his heart racing as confusion and fear gripped him.

And before he could even think, his legs started moving, faster than he’d ever run before. His body seemed to know what to do, pulling him away from the scene, urging him forward.

Run.

Peter had to get to safety to be safe. Why? Was he feeling this way. 

As he rounded a corner, he collided with someone.

“Sorry!” Peter gasped, too frantic to even register who it was. His breath was ragged, his mind in a blur.

“Peter?” The voice was deep, familiar, but… off. It sent a jolt through him. He looked up, and his heart skipped a beat.

A man stood before him, his face worn with age but kind, his eyes narrowing in recognition. “It’s been a while since I last saw you,” he said. “How are you?”

Run.

Peter froze, his blood running cold. “Y-you know me?” His voice cracked, and his vision blurred. He didn’t recognize this man. He’d never stepped foot into Crime Alley, let alone lived here.

Run.

“Peter?” The man’s voice softened, a hint of concern threading through it. “Are you okay?”

Peter barely heard him. His mind was racing, spinning. Without thinking, he shoved past the man and ran. He needed answers. Needed to understand what was happening to him.

He didn’t care about the pain, the confusion, or the terror.

He ran, heart pounding, until he reached back to the place he was before Something deep within him urged him forward.

Safe 

He made his way into the abandoned building, and looked around. His breath slow and calm. How was this place safe. A reached for a light. It flickered on. The place was habitable something he didn’t notice earlier maybe because of the fact that he was in so much pain. 

Safe 

Peter slowly walked around.

There was a bed in the corner, its sheets rumpled and stained with an unsettling, faded color. Strange devices were scattered across the floor, their blinking lights casting erratic shadows against the walls. The air was thick with the scent of antiseptic, an unfamiliar, metallic tang that gnawed at Peter’s senses.

Then, he saw it.

A flash of red.

His breath hitched as he stepped closer, his heart pounding his pulse rising in his ears. It couldn’t be real. It couldn’t.

But there it was, unmistakable.

A Spider suit. The Spider-Man suit.

Wait. What was it doing here?

Did Spider-Man save him? But why leave the suit behind? Why leave him behind? Unless—

No

Peter’s stomach twisted, a cold wave of dread washing over him. His throat tightened, his lungs fighting for air.

No.

Before he could process the flood of questions crashing over him, the suit suddenly… flashed to life.

“Hello, Peter, G.” a voice—calm, smooth, almost soothing—spoke. It was mechanical, but warm, like a lie dressed in kindness.

Peter yelped, jumped back, and tripped himself hitting the ground with a thud, his hands scraping against the cold surface as he scrambled backward.

“A talking suit?” His words barely formed, thick with disbelief and confusion. “This is… this is insane.”

His eyes flicked to the watch on his wrist. His wrist. He hadn’t even realized it was there, but now he saw the flashing lights, the strange, glowing interface.

“I am Karen,” the voice continued, its tone unnervingly calm and efficient. “I assist Spider-Man.”

“Spider-Man?” Peter whispered, his voice catching in his throat. The room felt smaller now, the air suffocating, his gears started turning, every missing piece of the puzzle started making sense.

“It’s good to see you’re finally awake after a week. We had quite the time making sure you wouldn’t die.”

“We?”

And then— then —he felt it. A presence. Something behind him, not quite there but undeniably real. A strange, invisible weight pressing on him from all sides, as though the very walls were closing in. The sensation was familiar, but… alien. Like his body was remembering something it had forgotten.

“Karen,” Peter asked, his voice trembling, barely above a whisper,

There was a long pause. Too long.

Peter’s blood ran cold. He could hear the rush of it, though his body felt numb. His heart skipped, the beat painfully missing, as his mind struggled to catch up. Slowly, painfully, he turned around.

And there—standing in the dim light of the corner, hidden in the shadows, was a figure.

A boy.

A boy who looked exactly like him.

The same brown eyes, the same wild, curly hair. Freckles dusting his cheeks, the way his jawline was still soft but starting to harden with age. But there was something different about him. Something more. He looked older—stronger, like he had lived a life Peter hadn’t yet touched. And the suit… it clung to him like a second skin. The red and black fabric shimmering as if alive, pulsing with a dark, unspoken energy.

Everything stopped. The sound of his own heartbeat, the labored rhythm of his breath, the frantic noise in his head—all of it froze, standing in time.

He was staring at himself.

His reflection… but twisted, warped. A version of him that didn’t belong in this reality. A version of him who had become someone else.

Spider-Man.

And Peter… wasn’t sure he knew who he was anymore.

Chapter Text

Peter G Wayne

Peter stood frozen across the room, his breath caught in his throat as he stared at the boy. Shadows draped across the figure’s face, but Peter didn’t need to see him clearly. His chest tightened, his pulse quickening with a certainty he couldn’t explain.

It was him.

Or it looked like him.

A fresh wave of pain tore through Peter’s body, pulling him back to reality. He winced, his hand pressing against his ribs. There was no way this was a hallucination. Right? Unless the pain was starting to mess with his head.

He forced himself upright, his legs trembling under his weight. Each step was a battle, every movement a painful reminder of the fight he could barely recall. Across the room, the boy stood perfectly still, his gaze locked onto Peter. No reaction. No words. Just the kind of silence that gnawed at the edges of Peter’s sanity.

The closer Peter got, the more the shadows fell away. And then—

He stopped only a few feet away from each other.

It wasn’t just a resemblance. It wasn’t a trick of the light.

It was him.

The boy was eyeing Peter expectingly as if he was waiting for him to make the first move. Afraid of scaring him, but looking at the boy it all made sense to Peter, his un answered questions that were tormenting him for the last two months.

The blackouts.

The bruises he couldn’t explain.

The endless holes in his memory.

God, it was so obvious now.

Peter let out a surprised; laugh, the sound hollow in the quiet room. “A split personality,” he muttered, the words foreign and jagged in his mouth.

The boy tilted his head, he lifted his brow as if he was surprised by the conclusion that Peter came up with.

Peter took another shaky step forward, his voice rising as desperation clawed at his chest.

“That’s what this is, isn’t it? My mind… created you-like some kind of trauma response right? You go out there, fight people, do… whatever it is you do while I sit here losing chunks of my life.”

His voice cracked. “Tell me I’m wrong. Please.”

He paused debating how to  answer after a brief moment he slowly said with a low voice

“You’re not wrong.”

Peter stumbled back, his legs finally giving out as he collapsed onto the makeshift bed behind him.

“Of course I’m not,” he whispered, staring up at the ceiling.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Peter sat up, dragging his hands through his hair. “So… what do I call you? You’ve got a name, right? Or should I name you?”

The boy sat down casually next to Peter . “I’m Peter Parker. But you can call me Parker.”

Peter blinked, the name catching in his throat. “Parker,” he repeated slowly.

“I’m Peter G. Wayne,” Peter said finally, the words spilling out before he could stop them.

Parker arched a brow. “What’s the G stand for?”

“Grayson.”

Parker nodded thoughtfully. “Alright, I call you Grayson. Makes sense. Keeps things less confusing.”

Peter nodded too, though his mind was anything but settled. Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. Peter took the moment to study Parker closer.

The resemblance was uncanny. But something was different. Parker looked… worn out exhausted. Dark circles around his eyes, and his body was much more stronger; still he looked like Peter.

Peter’s gaze drifted to the desk, where the remnants of a spider suit lay in tatters. His stomach twisted.

A ridiculous thought crept into his mind, slipping out before he could stop it. “Am I… Spider-Man?”

The question hung in the air for a beat. Then Parker burst into laughter, his voice breaking the tension in the room.

Peter flushed. “What? Why is that funny?”

“You.” Parker struggled to catch his breath, wiping tears from his eyes. “Out of all the things you could ask, that’s what you go with?”

“It’s a valid question!” Peter snapped, his cheeks burning.

Karen, the AI embedded in his watch, chimed in. “Peter, you appear to be speaking to yourself. I recommend seeking medical attention immediately.”

Parker glanced at the watch, his expression sharpening with curiosity. “Karen? She can’t hear me?”

Peter frowned, inspecting the watch. “I don’t think so. You’re probably, like… a ghost or something.”

Parker reached out, resting a hand on Peter’s shoulder.

“Not a ghost,” Parker said, his tone almost clinical. “I can touch you. That’s something.”

Peter’s breath hitched, his mind racing. “Maybe… a spirit?”

“No,” Parker said. “Doesn’t feel right.” He leaned back, his gaze narrowing. “So what am I, Grayson?”

“I… I don’t know,” Peter admitted, his voice barely a whisper.

The weight of it all pressed down on him. If he was a meta, what would that mean? What would Bruce and the others do? His family wasn’t exactly known for handling surprises well.

His vision blurred, the adrenaline finally wearing off. He swayed, his body screaming for rest. The pain that he tried to forget came rushing back at him. He collapsed back on the bed. Breathing heavily.

“Grayson?” Parker’s voice softened, the sharpness replaced with concern. “Hey. Are you okay?”

Peter’s body sagged against the bed. “I… I think I need to sleep.”

“And here I think you were taking all this pretty well”  he Parker said cockily 

Peter chuckled a bit “I still think that this is a dream, maybe I’ll wake up and be in Wayne manner with the smell Alfred’s cookies . . .”

The room faded into darkness as Peter’s eyes slid shut. Whatever this was—whoever Parker really was—it would have to wait until morning.

Jason

It had been a week since Peter disappeared. Again.

Jason couldn’t get his mind to stop running in circles. The family reunion played on a loop in his head—Peter standing off to the side, his eyes darting around like he wanted to be anywhere else. Jason knew something had been wrong, but he didn’t press.

Didn’t push.

And now Peter was gone. Again. 

Jason groaned, the frustration boiling over. “When I find him… when I find him…” His voice cracked, the words breaking apart like brittle glass. He couldn’t even finish the thought.

He shook it off as his boots scuffed against the rooftop gravel. This wasn’t about him, or his guilt. It wasn’t even about Peter—not directly.

It was about Dick.

Jason spotted him sitting at the edge of the roof, dressed in his Nightwing suit, his legs dangling into the void. From a distance, Dick looked like he always did—calm, composed, unshakable. But as Jason got closer, he noticed the cracks. The way his shoulders slumped, the way his head hung slightly forward, as if he couldn’t hold himself up anymore.

Dick wasn’t okay.

Jason walked up slowly, hesitant. “Dick,” he called, his voice softer than usual. Dick didn’t move. Didn’t even glance over his shoulder.

“He always liked the edges,” he said quietly, his voice distant and hollow.

Jason frowned, stopping just a few steps behind him. “What do you mean?”

“Peter,” Dick said, letting the name linger in the cold Gotham air. “The first time I found him, after that month he was gone… it was a night like this. Dark, quiet. He was on the roof of Wayne Manor, sitting right at the edge. Just like this.”

Jason’s chest tightened, but he didn’t interrupt.

“He didn’t even know I was there at first,” Dick continued, his tone heavy. “He just sat there, staring at the sky. At nothing. I called out to him, told him to step back, but he didn’t move.”

Jason forced himself to step closer, his throat tight. “What did he say?”

Dick was silent for a long moment, debating whether or not to continue with the story.

When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. “I keep thinking about that night, over and over. What if I just… listened to him? What if I stopped him from walking through that door?” He sighed, his shoulders shaking slightly. “Maybe Peter was trying to call, and I didn’t answer. His own brother.”

Jason watched as Dick stared down at his hands, taking a series of slow, shaky breaths.

“Look,” Jason said, his voice more deliberate now,

“Peter’s not as weak as we act like he is. Maybe it’s time we stopped hiding this part of our world from him. Maybe he already knows we’re keeping something from him. Maybe that’s what’s eating at him.”

Dick shook his head, his expression tight. “I don’t know if I’d want this life for him. After everything I’ve been through—after everything you’ve been through—tell me you’d want him to know about what happened to you.”

Jason froze. He looked down, his jaw clenching. Could he do it? Could Peter handle the truth about him—the pit, the Joker, the war he fought every single day against the monster clawing at the edges of his mind? Jason’s stomach churned at the thought.

“No,” Jason admitted, his voice quieter. “You’re right. I’m not ready.”

But then he turned, grabbing Dick by the shoulder and forcing him to look at him. “But when will we be ready? When he’s gone?”

Dick opened his mouth to argue, but Jason cut him off.

“At the end of the day, we’re his family,” Jason said firmly. “And right now, the only person who understands why we don’t tell him anything is Damian.”

Dick blinked, and for the first time that night, he let out a quiet laugh. “You know, you’re not as bad at comforting people as you think you are.”

Jason pulled his hand back, rolling his eyes. “Don’t pull that crap.”

Dick chuckled again, the sound lighter now, less raw.

Jason straightened, his voice softening. “We’re not losing him, Dick. You hear me? We’re going to find him, and when we do, we’re going to remind him why he matters. Why he still matters.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, they both laughed—just a little.

“I’m worried about him,” Dick admitted, “but you’re right. If we’re going to find him, we need to bring our A-game. And once we do…” He exhaled. “We’ll sit him down and make him tell us everything.”

Jason nodded, his resolve hardening. As he turned to look back at the city, he felt the familiar fire ignite in his chest. Wherever Peter was, he wasn’t going to let him slip away.

Not this time.

—

Jason made it his mission to look out for the kids in Crime Alley. He’d seen too many lives destroyed here and wasn’t about to let more slip through the cracks. Sometimes, he’d guide a group to one of his safe houses, a refuge for kids who needed it most.

Today was supposed to be routine. Just another patrol. But then he heard the call.

“Mr. Red Hood!”

Jason glanced up sharply. A kid was leaning out of a shattered window, his face pale with panic.

“What’s wrong, kid?” Jason called back, already moving.

The boy scrambled down, his voice trembling. “It’s the others… they’re hurt. Bad.”

Jason’s stomach dropped. He crouched to the boy’s level, his tone steady but urgent. “How bad?”

The kid’s hands fidgeted, his voice barely a whisper. “I… I don’t know. You need to come. Please.”

Jason didn’t need to hear more. “Lead the way.”

The kid bolted, and Jason followed, every step tightening the knot in his gut. This was his turf. Whoever did this was about to regret it.

When they turned the corner, Jason stopped cold.

Two kids lay sprawled on the ground, unconscious. One of them was bleeding from a deep gash on his temple. Another kid was sitting upright, cradling a broken arm, his face streaked with tears. The sound of his sobs echoed in the alley.

Jason dropped to one knee, checking the pulse of one of the unconscious kids. Still alive. Barely.

“What happened?” Jason’s voice was low, controlled.

The conscious boy sniffled. “I-I don’t know. He just… he came outta nowhere. We didn’t stand a chance.”

Jason’s jaw clenched. “Who?”

The kid shook his head. “Didn’t see him. But it wasn’t normal. He wasn’t normal.”

Jason stood, muttering under his breath. “A meta. Great.”

The boy tugged on Jason’s sleeve. “Are they gonna be okay?”

Jason crouched back down, resting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Yeah, kid. They’ll be fine. You did good. I’ll take it from here.”

It wasn’t easy, but Jason managed to get the injured kids to Leslie’s clinic. She didn’t ask questions—she never did—but the concern in her eyes was clear.

“This wasn’t a regular fight, was it?” she asked as she cleaned a nasty gash.

“No.” Jason leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “You think it’s a meta?”

Leslie nodded, her expression grim. “Most definitely. Whoever did this wasn’t holding back. If you don’t find them soon, more kids are going to get hurt.”

Jason sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. His list of problems just kept getting longer.

Hours later, the kids began to wake. Jason wasted no time, guiding them to one of his safe houses. They needed somewhere secure, and he needed answers.

As they walked, the story spilled out in fragments.

“It was stupid to go against him,” one boy muttered. “If I’d known he was a meta, I wouldn’t have even tried.”

Then another chimed in. “We know who he is. When people find out that Wayne kid’s a meta… imagine the headlines.”

Jason’s ears perked up. “What did you say?”

Jason stopped in his tracks, his chest tightening.

His voice was sharp. “Who are you talking about?”

The two kids eyed each other before speaking.

“Y’know, Richard Grayson’s little brother,” one of them said casually. “What’s his name again?”

The safe house came into view, and the kid finally answered. “Peter G. Wayne.”

Jason’s heart skipped a beat. Impossible. It had to be impossible.

Peter?

A Meta?

Fuck No.

Jason didn’t have time to process the boy’s words. As they stepped into the safe house, his world came to a grinding halt. There, standing in the shadowed corner of the room, was Peter.

Jason froze, his breath catching in his throat. His little brother—alive. His face was bruised, a jagged cut ran along his cheekbone, and makeshift bandages wrapped his arms and hands. He looked battered, like someone who’d barely survived a fight. But he was alive .

For a moment, Jason felt a surge of relief, an almost overwhelming desire to rush over, to check him for injuries, to grab him and make sure this wasn’t some cruel illusion.

But then Peter moved.

His gaze lifted and locked onto Jason, and in that single moment, the fragile hope Jason felt shattered. Peter didn’t look at him like a brother might. His expression faltered—not with recognition, but with something colder. His eyes, once warm and full of life, were distant, sharp, and unyielding.

Jason’s throat tightened. He took a step forward, his voice a low, cautious whisper. “Peter?”  Almost forgetting that he was in is suit. He had to stop himself.  He wanted to run and take Peter back to Alfred and figure what was actually going on.

Then a heavy question weighed on his mind

Was he really a Meta?

Peter’s head tilted slightly, his lips curling into the faintest smile—a tired, hollow expression that didn’t reach his eyes. It wasn’t relief or recognition, just a flicker of something that Jason couldn’t place.

Then Peter started moving. His steps were slow, uneven, his body swaying slightly with each limp. Jason watched, his chest tightening as his little brother dragged himself closer, every movement radiating pain and exhaustion.

They were only a few feet apart when Peter’s voice broke the silence. It was low, hoarse, barely above a whisper.

“I heard… there’s a clinic around here,” he rasped, his words labored but calm, as if they weren’t standing in the middle of a storm neither could fully name.

Jason’s heart ached. The boy in front of him looked like Peter—hurt, beaten, but alive—but something felt off. Jason couldn’t shake the gnawing sensation that the little brother he once knew wasn’t the one standing before him.

Peter stopped, his dark eyes meeting Jason’s as he added, almost matter-of-factly, “Can you take me?”

Chapter Text

Jason Todd

Out of nowhere, the three alley kids surged toward Peter, their faces twisted with fury. He barely had time to brace before the first boy slammed into him, driving him to the ground with a resounding thud.

“You see this?!” one of them shouted, voice trembling with raw anger as he jabbed a finger at Peter. His hand shook, but his glare was steady, blazing. “This freak—this meta —did this to my friend’s arm!”

Peter opened his mouth to protest, but the first punch landed before he could speak. Pain burst across his cheekbone like fireworks, sharp and searing. Another fist followed, then another. His head snapped to the side with each blow, the taste of copper flooding his mouth.

“Stop!” Peter choked out, trying to twist free, his voice cracking with desperation. “I didn’t—”

“Shut up!” snarled the boy pinning his wrists. He slammed them down hard enough to make Peter’s shoulders burn. Another knee drove into his ribs, forcing a ragged gasp from his lungs.

Peter writhed beneath them, his body arching in agony. “Get off me!” he growled, his voice breaking as he thrashed. But his strength was failing. His limbs felt leaden, every movement sluggish and weak.

“Enough!”

Jason’s voice ripped through the chaos, freezing the boys mid-swing. His presence was commanding, undeniable. He grabbed one kid by the collar and yanked him backward with ease, his glare sharp enough to cut through steel.

The boys recoiled, but one of them, still trembling with adrenaline, gestured toward Peter. “But he’s the one! He’s the one who did it!”

Peter coughed, each breath dragging shards of pain through his chest. Blood dripped from his split lip, his face pale and streaked with grime. He struggled to push himself up on one elbow, his body shaking with the effort.

“I didn’t… I didn’t do anything,” he rasped, the words barely audible. His voice cracked, raw and broken. “I came here for help. I need—medical attention.”

“Liar!” another boy spat, his fists trembling with suppressed rage. “I saw you there! You think you can just pretend you’re innocent?”

Peter turned his head toward Jason, his bruised eyes heavy with exhaustion but still pleading. “Look at me,” he said hoarsely, his breath hitching. “Do I… Do I look like someone who could hurt anyone?” He let out a shaky laugh, grim and bitter. “I can’t even stand up straight.”

Jason’s eyes scanned Peter’s battered frame, the blood smearing his face, the faint tremor in his fingers. The kid looked like a ghost—fragile, broken.

“That’s because he’s a meta!” one of the boys yelled, his voice venomous.

The room went still.

Peter let out a small cough “A meta?” he croaked, dragging his forearm across his bleeding lip. “Me?” His smirk was weak but defiant. “Yeah, sure. A meta who can barely breathe. You’ve got the wrong guy.”

“You lying—”

“I said enough!” Jason’s voice boomed, silencing the boy mid-sentence. His glare was sharp, unyielding, sweeping over the group. “You want to fight? Fine. But not here. Not like this.”

The boys shifted uneasily, their anger simmering but held in check by Jason’s authority.

“You three,” Jason said, his voice cold. “Go. Rest.”

“But—”

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” Jason snapped, his tone sharp enough to cut glass.

Reluctantly, the boys backed off, muttering curses under their breath as they left the room. Their eyes lingered on Peter, their hatred burning in the shadows.

Jason turned back to Peter, who was still lying on the ground, his chest heaving as he clutched his ribs.

“And you,” Jason said, his voice quieter now, but still firm. “ Let’s Go. You’re coming with me.”

Peter hesitated for a moment, eyeing Jason as if deciding wither or not to follow him.

“You said you needed medical attention,” Jason reminded him.

Jason turned without another word, his shoulders stiff as he headed toward the hallway. “Follow me,” he called over his shoulder, his tone clipped and indifferent, as if he didn’t care whether Peter obeyed or not.

Peter trailed behind, his labored breaths echoing faintly in the empty space. Each step seemed harder than the last, and Jason didn’t need to turn around to know Peter was struggling—he could hear it. Still, he occasionally glanced back, watching Peter falter, his face pale and glistening with sweat.

Jason knowing Peter, there was no way that Peter could handle all this pain. He would’ve passed out in tears long before he made it to the safe house, let alone survive crime alley.

Was Peter here the whole time? 

What was he doing in crime alley?

Why won’t he go home?

Jason’s mind kept running, he even began to wonder if maybe, Damien’s theory of Peter being a clone was true. After all Peter was gone for a month and if the person next to him isn’t Peter then who is the person.

His thoughts were interrupted by Peter tripping on himself and falling flat on his face.

“Need me to carry you?” Jason asked for the third time, his patience starting to thin.

“I’m fine,” Peter muttered, as he picked himself up; though his legs trembled with every step.

Jason sighed, his jaw tightening as Peter stumbled again, catching himself against the wall with a grunt. That was it. Jason stopped abruptly, dropping to one knee in a swift, practiced motion.

“Alright, kid,” he said, his voice firm as he gestured. “Get on.”

“I-I told you, I’m fine,” Peter wheezed, his stubbornness clinging to him like the sweat on his brow.

Jason’s eyes narrowed, his tone dropping into something cold and unyielding. “Listen, there are two ways this happens. One, you get on my back, and I carry you. Two, I knock you out, then I carry you. Your choice.”

Peter blinked, stunned for a moment, before managing a weak laugh. “Really? Those are my only options?”

“Yes,” Jason replied without hesitation. “So, what’s it gonna be?”

With a heavy sigh of defeat, Peter mumbled, “Fine,” and reluctantly climbed onto Jason’s back, his arms draping weakly over Jason’s shoulders.

Jason rose smoothly, his strength effortless as he adjusted Peter’s weight. The silence between them thickened, broken only by the rhythm of Jason’s boots against the floor. For a while, neither spoke.

Jason wondered maybe this was a way for him to find out why Peter was hurt, and what he was doing in crime alley. After all, Peter doesn’t know that it is Jason under the mask.

“What’s your name?” Jason asked suddenly. His voice was calm, but the question carried weight.

Peter tensed, the pause before his answer stretching uncomfortably long. Why’s he hesitating? Jason thought.

“Do you know who I am?” Peter finally asked, his voice quiet.

Jason lifted his brow beneath the mask. “Why?” he replied. “Am I supposed to?”

Peter shifted slightly, his head dipping. “I just wanted to make sure.”

Jason’s tone turned colder. “Well, if it makes you feel better, I don’t know you,” he lied easily. It was better this way. Jason needed to understand what Peter was hiding

“So,” Jason said after a moment, adjusting Peter’s weight again, “are you gonna tell me your name, or should I just make one up?”

Peter hesitated again before muttering, “Parker.”

Jason frowned behind the mask. Parker? The name felt off, Maybe he didn’t want to Jason to find out that he was a Wayne in crime alley so he made up that name, but Jason didn’t press.

  “Alright, Parker,” he said evenly. “No last name?”

Peter gave a weak, tired smirk “ nope stranger danger” 

Jason chuckled “alright alright I’ll let slide” 

As they neared the edge of the alley, Jason glanced down at Peter. His face was pale, his breathing too shallow. He was lighter than Jason expected, and the bruises on his face and arms told a story.

“I haven’t seen you around here before, You’ve got a lot of nerve coming down here in crime alley.” Jason said quietly.

Peter’s eyes fluttered open briefly, unfocused. “Didn’t have a choice,” he murmured, his voice faint. “Had to—”

“Save it,” Jason cut him off, sharper than he intended. “We’ll talk later.”

Peter didn’t argue. His head slumped against Jason’s chest, his breathing steadying slightly. Jason’s jaw tightened as he carried him forward.

—

Jason pushed open the door to Leslie’s clinic, the faint smell of antiseptic and clean linens greeting them. Peter stirred slightly in his arms, his breathing uneven. Leslie turned, her eyes narrowing with concern as she took in the scene.

“My God,” she said, her voice soft but heavy with worry. “Another kid got hurt?”

Jason nodded, his expression unreadable beneath the mask. “Yeah.”

Leslie’s sharp gaze flickered to Peter and then back to Jason. She caught the subtle tension in his posture, the way his words were clipped. It was enough to tell her he didn’t want Peter to know they recognized him. She gave a small nod of understanding.

“Follow me,” she said, leading them down the hall to a small room. Jason placed Peter gently onto the bed, his movements careful despite the weight of his frustration.

Peter’s eyes fluttered open briefly as Jason stepped back. “Thanks for your help, Red Hood,” he mumbled, his voice weak. Then, just like that, he was out cold again.

Leslie worked quickly, her practiced hands moving with precision as she treated Peter’s injuries. Jason stood silently in the corner, arms crossed, his eyes never leaving Peter. Once she finished, Leslie stepped into the hallway, motioning for Jason to follow.

“You found him like this?” she asked, her voice quiet but firm.

Jason sighed, the sound low and guttural. “Yeah. It was bad. Really bad.” His voice carried a growl, anger barely restrained.

Leslie studied him for a moment. “Have you told anyone yet?”

“No,” Jason said flatly. “Not yet.”

Leslie folded her arms, leaning against the wall. “You should. Something’s going on with Peter—” She paused, her expression tightening as if she were choosing her words carefully.

Jason’s gaze hardened. “You’re right,” he admitted, his tone begrudging. “And on top of that, he might be a meta.” He looked back toward the room where Peter lay unconscious. “He might be the one who did that to those kids.”

They sat in silence. Jason didn’t want to do this, but he wanted make sure that he was wrong

“I want to check if Peter is a clone” Jason said flatly

“What?”Leslie asked “why even go that far”

“Peter disappeared for a month, then came back and everything changed-he changed. And if that’s not Peter,” Jason paused and closed his eyes “Then I need to know”

Leslie frowned, the weight of his words settling heavily between them. “If that’s true, Jason, then this is bigger than either of us. You can’t handle this alone.”

Leslie stared at Jason and then sighed “fine I think it would put both of us at ease, I’ll draw his blood and see if there is anything weird”

Leslie nodded slowly, though the concern in her eyes didn’t fade. “Be careful, Jason. If you’re right, then Peter’s in more danger than he even realizes.”

Jason stared at Leslie his voice not wavering “Then let’s hope I’m wrong”

—

A few hours later, Jason’s thoughts were interrupted by the faint sound of crying. It was muffled, almost drowned out by the hum of the clinic, but it cut through the quiet like a knife. He froze for a moment, his chest tightening. Then, instinct kicked in, and he bolted toward Peter’s room.

The door creaked open, and Jason’s stomach dropped. Peter lay tangled in the sheets, his face damp with tears, his chest heaving with ragged breaths.

“Please… Aunt May,” Peter groaned, his voice cracked and trembling. “Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me here!”

Jason moved quickly, crossing the room in long strides. He dropped to his knees beside the bed and gripped Peter’s shoulder, shaking him gently but firmly.

“Hey, Parker,” Jason said, his voice sharp with urgency. “Wake up. Are you okay?”

Peter’s eyes snapped open, wide and glassy with panic. For a second, there was no recognition in them—just raw fear. Then, with a burst of surprising strength, he shoved Jason away, scrambling back against the headboard.

“Who are you? Where am I?” Peter’s voice shook, but there was an edge to it, a forcefulness Jason hadn’t heard before.

Jason raised his hands, palms open, trying to steady the situation. “You’re safe. You’re at a hospital. Hey, I need you to calm down, alright?”

Peter’s breathing slowed slightly, but Jason didn’t miss the way his hands trembled or the way his eyes darted around the room,

Something about him felt… wrong.

Jason narrowed his eyes, his mind racing. A few hours ago, Peter had been guarded, cold, and distant. Now, there was something deliberate about his movements, something precise in the way he spoke. His entire demeanor had shifted, and Jason couldn’t shake the eerie familiarity.

The realization hit Jason like a punch to the gut.

He swallowed hard, his voice lowering. “Hey, kid,” he started carefully, testing the waters. “What’s your name?”

Peter flinched at the question, his gaze dropping to the floor. Earlier, he had no problem meeting Jason’s eyes—even if it was with defiance. Now, he seemed almost… fragile.

“P-Peter G. Wayne,” he stammered, barely getting the words out.

Jason froze. His stomach churned, his thoughts spiraling as he stared at the boy.

Well, shit.

A soft beep echoed from the corner, snapping Jason out of his thoughts. The blood results were ready. He glanced at the machine, but his eyes quickly returned to Peter.

Jason stood slowly, his mind racing. The blood test was irrelevant now. Whatever the result was, the truth was already there, staring back at him.

Chapter Text

Jason Todd

Jason thought back to the night of game night. Normally, he avoided it whenever possible, but tonight attendance was mandatory. He decided he might as well make the best of it. Arriving late, he hoped to shorten the ordeal.

The moment he walked into the room, he spotted Peter.

Peter, his younger brother, was someone Jason fiercely cared about. He had always wanted to protect him, though he sometimes wondered if Peter even noticed; Quiet, observant, and often underestimated. 

Peter constantly seemed like he was trying to prove something—especially to Bruce. But their relationship wasn’t what Jason wished it could be. Conversations were always one-sided, initiated by Jason while Peter kept his distance.

So when Jason sat down at the table and Peter chose the seat right next to him, Jason should have taken it as a sign.

“Hey… Jason,” Peter said, breaking the awkward silence.

Jason blinked, caught off guard. “Hi… Peter. What are you doing here?”

Peter’s eyes darted nervously around the room, like he’d just been caught red-handed. “Shit, was I not supposed to sit here?” he mumbled, grabbing his plate like he was ready to bolt.

Jason’s hand shot out, stopping him. “No, it’s fine. Sit.”

Peter hesitated before sinking back into the chair. “Oh. Okay.”

Jason studied him for a moment, frowning slightly. “It’s just… you usually keep your distance from me, so…” He scratched the back of his neck.

“Oh.” Peter paused, shifting uncomfortably. “I guess I had a change of heart and decided you’re not that bad.”

Jason raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “Dude. You’re making eye contact with me. And we’re having a conversation—like, an actual conversation that’s longer than thirty seconds.”

Peter’s nervous laugh slipped out as he shrugged. “Is that… a good thing?”

Jason leaned back, his expression unreadable. “Depends. What’s your motive?”

Peter pursed his lips and lowered his gaze, the faintest hint of unease flickering in his eyes. “Maybe I’m just trying to avoid sitting next to Bruce.”

Jason froze mid-reach for his drink. Bruce?

Peter never called him by his first name— never.  That— that should have been the second sign.

“What happened?” Jason asked, leaning forward, his elbows propped on the table. His curiosity burned now, laced with a hint of concern.

Peter’s fingers tightened around his fork, his knuckles whitening. “We had an encounter earlier…” He trailed off, biting his lower lip as his gaze dropped to his plate. “It kinda ruined my mood.”

Jason caught the waver in Peter’s voice, the slight tremor he was trying to mask. “What kind of encounter?”

Peter exhaled sharply, setting his fork down with a soft clink. “One where he does that thing—y’know, where he tries to act like he’s helping but just makes everything worse.” His voice cracked slightly, and he swallowed hard, visibly working to steady himself. “Now I’m just gonna avoid him all night.”

Jason studied Peter carefully. He’d seen him upset before, but this felt different. The usual bravado wasn’t there. Instead, Peter looked… worn down.

“I get it,” Jason said finally, his voice soft but firm. “Bruce can be one cold bastard sometimes. Whatever he said to you, don’t take it seriously. He’s just like that.”

Peter gave a weak nod, his focus still fixed on his plate.

Jason hesitated, then asked, “What did he say to you?”

Peter’s grip on his fork slackened, and he let it drop. His shoulders sagged slightly as he finally spoke, voice low and hollow. “He told me to let him know when I was in danger… so he could come help. Said he didn’t want what happened last time to happen again.”

Jason blinked, caught off guard. “That’s it?”

Jason snorted, leaning back in his chair. “Okay, for once, I gotta agree with the old man on that one. He’s not wrong, Pete. You’ve gotten pretty hurt recently and you won’t tell us anything”

“You need help, ask for it” Jason said firmly.

“I don’t need help,” Peter muttered, his voice so quiet Jason almost missed it. Then came the whispered words, slipping out like a secret: “Peter Parker doesn’t need help.”

Jason’s brows furrowed. “Parker?”

Peter’s head snapped up, panic flashing across his face; surprised Jason heard him  “Th-th-that’s a character!” His voice rose slightly, too quick, too rehearsed. “Yeah, uh, one of my friends is working on a comic. Parker’s their main character.”

Jason crossed his arms, his skepticism growing. “In the middle of our conversation?”

Peter nodded furiously, the words tumbling out of him like water from a broken dam. “Yeah! It’s like a line of dialogue from their story, and it just popped into my head because it felt relevant. So I thought I’d… y’know, reference it to lighten my mood” He gave a shaky laugh that fell flat.

Jason didn’t say anything for a long moment, his gaze locked on Peter. A guarded look that didn’t belong. And that— that should have been the final sign.

The slip of an uncanny name.

The hurried excuse.

The mask that was starting to fray.

The proof that had been staring Jason in the face all along, waiting for him to connect the dots.

——

Back at the clinic, Jason sank heavily into the chair beside Peter, who had collapsed after his panic attack. The room was quiet now, except for the soft hum of the overhead lights and Peter’s shallow, rhythmic breathing.

Jason’s gaze drifted to him, sprawled on the cot, his face slack and peaceful in a way that felt almost wrong. Peter, who always carried a spark of humor, a sharpness in his words, was now reduced to this—a fragile figure taking slow, labored breaths. A faint snore escaped him, breaking the silence.

Fuck.

Jason scrubbed his hands over his face, the weight of realization pressing down.

A split personality.

The words echoed in his head, unfamiliar and impossible to ignore. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his mind racing. How the hell was that even possible? Peter’s life wasn’t perfect, sure—but this? This wasn’t the kind of thing that just happened.

Jason swallowed hard, his thoughts unraveling. Apart from his parents’ deaths and the cracks in his family dynamic, Peter’s life wasn’t that bad, was it? Certainly not bad enough to split him in two. And Peter— Peter. He was the steady one, the one who had kept them all sane when everything else was falling apart.

Jason stared at him, studying the faint bruise on his temple, the way his fingers twitched even in sleep. The memories came flooding back, unbidden.

The bruises. The blackouts. The inconsistencies in personality. Peter brushed off with a laugh that didn’t quite meet his eyes. Jason had let it go then, chalking it up to stress. But now? Now it all lined up in a way that made his stomach churn.

Jason chuckled bitterly “he fooled us”

That Parker kid. That was the name Peter had used, wasn’t it? Like this… other side of him was a separate person entirely. He never wanted us to know that Peter was two.

Does Peter even know?

Jason’s fists clenched at the thought. Whoever Parker was, he wasn’t just some harmless alter. He could feel it in his gut. Parker wasn’t there to protect Peter. If anything, Parker might be the one tearing him apart.

He grit his teeth, frustration bubbling under his skin. He should’ve seen this coming. Should’ve done something sooner.

Peter stirred slightly in his sleep, his face twitching as though caught in some dream—or nightmare. Jason’s heart twisted, a strange mix of anger and guilt pooling in his chest.

Jason pulled out his phone, his hand trembling as he stared at the Bat Chat group. The screen glowed back at him, mocking him with its simplicit y ready to let everyone know what was going on with Peter .

He couldn’t.

His thumb hovered over the screen, frozen.

His chest felt tight, What was he supposed to say? How was he supposed to explain this?

Peter having a split personality. Or that he might be a meta.

He spun the phone around in his hand, the movement frantic, restless. Every time he tried to string the words together in his head, they fell apart before he could grasp them.

Would Bruce see Peter differently if he knew? Jason’s stomach twisted at the thought. The kid cared so damn much about what Bruce thought of him.

Jason had been there once, years ago, desperate for that approval. Desperate for Bruce to look at him like he belonged. Instead, he’d gotten cold stares and silence when it mattered most.

Would Peter get the same? Would Bruce push him away, treat him like some problem to be solved?

Jason clenched his jaw, his fingers gripping the phone so tight his knuckles turned white. It wasn’t just Peter he was thinking about—it was himself. He could still remember how Bruce looked at him after the Pit. That cold, calculating look, like Jason was something broken, something he didn’t know how to deal with.

“Damn it, Bruce,” Jason muttered under his breath, his voice shaking. “You’re still screwing me over.”

Jasons mind shifted to Dick.

what about Dick?

If Jason told him, it’d be a disaster. Dick would find a way to blame himself—because of course he would. That was what Dick did. Always trying to carry the weight of the world, always trying to fix things that couldn’t be fixed. Jason hated the thought of that look on Dick’s face, the guilt that would eat at him, the way it always did.

He sucked in a sharp breath, trying to steady himself, but his thoughts wouldn’t stop. If Peter really was a meta, what did that mean for him? For the family? Will Bruce turn Peter into another robin?

Then their’s this Parker kid. Jason doesn’t know his intentions. Or even who he is. Is it safe to reveal everything when he knows too little?

Jason shoved his phone back into his pocket, his fingers shaking as he did. He couldn’t tell them. Not yet. Maybe not ever. He’d keep an eye on Peter himself, watch his back, make sure Parker didn’t drag him into anything worse.

And if it came to it—if Peter’s life was on the line—Jason would do what he always did. He’d handle it.

Alone.

For now.

Bruce might hate him for it. Dick might never forgive him. Jason didn’t care. Not this time. Peter wasn’t going to fall apart on his watch. Not like Jason had.

Not again.

Peter G. Wayne

Peter’s eyes fluttered open, only to find Parker hovering above him. The sudden sight made Peter jump back, his heart racing.

“Gah! What the hell are you doing?” he blurted, his voice rough with confusion.

Parker casually plopped down onto the bed next to Peter, a slight grin tugging at his lips. “It’s a good thing you’re not dead,” he said, his tone laced with relief. “I was starting to worry about when you’d wake up.”

Peter’s gaze darted around the unfamiliar room. The sterile white walls, the soft hum of the equipment—it was a clinic, he realized. He looked down and saw that his arms were tightly bandaged. His muscles ached as he slowly pushed himself up, stumbling toward the bathroom.

The mirror reflected a pale, unfamiliar face staring back at him. “How long have I been here?” Peter muttered to his reflection, still disoriented.

“A couple of days,” Parker called from behind him.

Peter’s body felt different—less pain, the bandages felt pristine and carefully wrapped. His fingers hesitated as he unwound them, only to find something astonishing: his skin was nearly flawless. The wounds had closed, as though they’d never existed.

“Impossible,” Peter breathed in disbelief, his voice rising with excitement. “Super healing…”

His heart raced, the idea almost too exhilarating to grasp. He had always dreamt of having powers, of being something more than just ordinary. And now, it was real. He could barely contain his amazement.

Parker chuckled, leaning back casually. “Hey, if you think that’s cool, wait ‘til you test out your super strength.”

Peter’s excitement faltered, a sudden heaviness settling in his chest. His mind flashed back to the alley, the reckless power he’d unleashed on those kids when he’d been lost and panicked. His throat tightened as the guilt crept in.

“Right…” His voice trailed off, head lowering slightly. “I… I hurt some alley kids,” he muttered, his eyes flicking to Parker, searching for understanding.

“I didn’t know what was happening,” Peter added quickly, his words tumbling out in a rush of nervous energy. “I swear, I didn’t mean to.”

Parker gave Peter a reassuring smile, his eyes softening with a hint of understanding. “No need to worry. The issue’s been taken care of.”

Peter blinked, his confusion still fresh. “Really?” His grin spread slowly, the edges of his lips curling with cautious hope.

“Kinda,” Parker replied with a half-smirk, the humor in his tone evident.

Peter’s face fell slightly. “Great.” His voice was laced with dry sarcasm, but it was clear the weight of the situation was still settling in.

Parker pushed himself off the bed and stood with a casual confidence. “Look, we should get out of here. I’m pretty sure you’ve got a million questions.”

Peter nodded slowly. Parker was right. His mind buzzed with a whirlwind of thoughts, and now that his body was no longer aching and his mind was clearer, he was desperate for answers.

Before Peter could even think about getting dressed, Parker spoke up again.

“You should put your bandages back on,” Parker said, his tone serious. “No one should know you’re a meta.”

Peter’s brow furrowed, confusion knitting his face. “Right.” He glanced down at his bandaged arms and felt the sudden weight of Parker’s words.

He wasn’t just some ordinary guy anymore. He was different. A meta. And the world couldn’t know.

He quickly wrapped himself back up in the bandages, trying to ignore the unease settling deep in his chest.

Once they were both dressed, Parker gave a subtle nod toward the door. Peter followed him out of the room, feeling a strange sense of normalcy returning to him with every step.

But as they walked down the hall and into the common area, the sound of a news broadcast filled the air, and Peter froze mid-step. The familiar voice of his father, Bruce Wayne, echoed from the TV screen.

“We owe him a debt we can never repay,” Bruce’s voice was steady, but there was a weight to it, a solemn respect. “In honor of his bravery and sacrifice, I will be holding a memorial for him, to ensure his legacy lives on.”

Peter felt his breath hitch, his heart pounding in his chest. He didn’t have to ask who Bruce was talking about. He already knew. Spiderman. The boy who had used Peter’s own body to save Gotham.

Peter’s eyes flicked to Parker, and for the first time, he really saw the person beside him. The figure of Spiderman, not just some heroic symbol, but someone who had done things Peter couldn’t quite process. He was standing right next to him.

Peter swallowed hard. If his dad knew… He could already imagine the conversation—maybe, just maybe, his father would finally see him for who he really was. A hero, just like the man on the screen. Maybe, he’d finally be proud of him.

“We should go to the memorial,” Peter said, his voice soft but resolute, a sense of finality in his words.

Parker turned to him, a confused frown crossing his face. “What? Why?”

“Why not?” Peter countered, his eyes glued to the screen. “Besides, my dad and family are probably worried about me.”

Before Parker could respond, a female doctor walked into the room, a cheerful smile lighting up her face as she approached them.

“Parker! It’s so good to see you’re finally awake again!” she said, her voice warm and genuine.

Peter turned to her, still caught up in the weight of the situation. He opened his mouth to respond, but his words got stuck.

“Yes, that’s me,” he said, blinking as he realized just how much was happening at once. His gaze shifted to Parker, a flicker of uncertainty passing over his face.

Parker, unfazed, leaned against the wall with a grin. “Hey, I didn’t want your family to know you were in Crime Alley,” he said with an almost playful tone. “You’re welcome.”

 “Parker? Are you okay?” The doctor asked, clearly noticing Peter’s hesitance to speak.

Peter blinked and quickly snapped out of his daze. “Oh, I’m fine,” he said with a sheepish smile. “Thank you for all your help, Dr…” he trailed off, trying to recall her name.

“Leslie,” she said with a soft smile. “You can just call me Leslie.”

Peter nodded, his mind still racing. “Right,” he muttered, his thoughts scattered. “Is there anywhere I can pay?”

Leslie shook her head, the kindness in her eyes unwavering. “No, it’s all free. You don’t need to pay anything.”

Peter blinked, a little taken aback by the generosity. “Well, thank you so much for everything.” His voice held a mix of gratitude and disbelief. He wasn’t used to people offering help without asking for anything in return.

As Peter started to turn and walk toward the door, Leslie’s voice stopped him. “Aren’t you going to wait for Red Hood? He told me to let him know when you were awake so he could take you home.”

Peter hesitated, his hand on the door handle. He looked at Parker, who gave him a subtle shake of his head.

“It’s best if we leave now,” Parker said quietly, his voice laced with an edge of urgency. “It’d be harder for us to lose him if he’s with us.”

Peter nodded, a quiet resolve settling in. He turned back to Leslie, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I think I can find my way home.”

Before Leslie could respond, Peter stepped past her, his movements quick and sure. He was used to moving fast, but the exhilaration that surged through him now felt different—raw, powerful.

As he stepped outside, the world felt sharper. The air was fresher. His mind was clear. For the first time in what felt like forever, he didn’t feel a knot of anxiety in his chest.

No pain, just nervousness Something he couldn’t quite describe but knew was a part of him now. Like he was becoming someone different someone he wasn’t ready to change into. 

Then, as if without thinking, he ran.

His legs moved faster than he ever thought possible. He felt the wind whip through his hair, his heart thumping in his chest with wild excitement. Whoa, Peter thought, breathless, his grin spreading wider. This wasn’t just running. This was something else entirely.

He didn’t stop. Without warning, he leaped upward, his hands grabbing the side of a building, fingers digging into the stone as he pulled himself up.

The building loomed above him, but it was nothing now. He was nothing like the person who had been afraid to even walk down the street.

Once on the rooftop, Peter sat at the edge, feeling the world beneath him, the city sprawling out in every direction.

Parker appeared beside him, his movements smooth, like he had always belonged there. Peter glanced over at him, noticing a quiet intensity in the other’s eyes. Maybe there was more to Parker than met the eye. Maybe Parker wasn’t just another split personality. Maybe…

Peter quickly pushed the thought away. He’d think about it later.

The nervousness lingered, pressing against Peter’s chest, like it was trying to crawl under his skin. He couldn’t tell if it was his own unease or if it was something left over from Parker, something that had settled into him.

It didn’t consume him like it usually did, but it was there, just enough to make him feel off-balance. The strange thing was, it didn’t tear at him. It wasn’t suffocating. Maybe it was a sign, something he needed to face.

Maybe he needs to change, Peter thought, the idea sitting heavy but oddly comforting at the same time.

He broke the silence, his voice quieter than usual but with a thread of determination running through it. “So, about that memorial?”

Something was changing, something he wasn’t entirely ready to face, but it was happening, maybe even for the better.

Chapter Text

Dick Grayson 

Dick remembered the day he found Peter.

He played that night over and over in his mind—how he left Wayne Manor after the argument with Bruce. The look of disappointment and sadness on their faces as he walked away lingered with him.

The next morning, he woke up determined to apologize, but when he went to Peter’s room, it was empty. Peter was gone.

Still, Dick left for Blüdhaven that day, convincing himself he’d return on Saturday to finish the conversation.

Saturday came—Peter Didn’t

“What do you mean he’s gone?” Dick’s voice cracked as he gripped the kitchen counter, his knuckles going white.

“I mean what I said, Dick.” Jason’s voice on the other end of the line was steady, but it carried an edge of tension. “Peter’s gone. No one’s seen him. No one knows where he is.”

“Why the hell am I just finding this out now?” Dick’s voice rose, sharp and frantic.

“Bruce didn’t want you to freak out, all right? I’m telling you because someone had to,” Jason shot back

Dick didn’t bother responding. He grabbed his keys and bolted for the door, heart pounding as his mind raced with every worst-case scenario imaginable.

When he arrived at Wayne Manor, Alfred met him at the door, his expression unusually strained.

“Please, Alfred,” Dick blurted, his voice rough with desperation. He grabbed the older man’s shoulders, his grip trembling. “Tell me you’ve seen him. Tell me he’s here.”

Alfred shook his head, his usual composure faltering. “I’m sorry, Master Dick,” he said softly, the weight of the words visible in the way his shoulders drooped.

Dick stepped back, his arms falling to his sides, the hollow ache in his chest deepening.

From that day on, Dick moved back to the Manor, dedicating himself to the search for his little brother. Days turned into weeks, and weeks stretched a month, every lead turned into a dead end and every night was a battle against Dick’s own thoughts. Guilt ate at him leaving him with sleepless nights.

One day, while Dick, Bruce, Damian, Alfred, and Duke were in the Bat-cave.

“Dick you need to sleep” Duke said concerned “your eye bags are becoming much darker than Tim’s and that’s concerning”

“Hey” Tim voice chimed in through the intercoms. Tim, Jason, Cass and Steph were out on patrol  “My eye bags aren’t that dark”

“Sleep doesn’t really help with finding Peter faster” Dick said as he rubbed his eyes

“And lack of sleep doesn’t increase the chance of him being found Master Dick”  Alfred added.

“Tell me Alfred, Tell me you can sleep in this situation” Dick said exasperated.

Alfred looked at Dick his eye not wavering

“I admit it is quiet difficult in a serious time like this ” Alfred started “but, I have to sleep so that I can do my very best for master when he comes back home”

Dick bit inside his lip. He understood what Alfred meant. Peter was a little like him. If he knew that Dick hadn’t been sleeping because of his disappearance Peter would feel guilty about it.

Maybe he should.

Suddenly Oracle’s voice broke through the intercom.

“I’ve think I’ve found something ” she announced.

Dick sat up straight, his pulse quickening. “What is it? Did you find him?”

“Well, I’ve got good news—and not-so-good news,” she said.

“Lay it on us,” Damian said, leaning forward. Dick was surprised by Damian’s concern—he hadn’t thought Peter and Damian got along.

Barbara sighed. “I widened the search. Thought if he wasn’t in Gotham, maybe…” She trailed off, then clicked a button. The screen lit up with grainy footage of a boy stepping off a bus.

The hoodie obscured his face, but Dick knew. The way the kid stood, the backpack slung low on his shoulder—it was Peter.

“That’s him,” Dick said quietly, leaning forward, his heart thundering.

“This was taken in New York,” Barbara continued, “about a month ago.”

“New York?” Jason’s voice came through the comms, sharp with disbelief. “Why the hell would Peter go there? He’s never even left Gotham.”

Suddenly Dick remembered the argument. Peter’s sudden desire to go to Midtown High School of Science and Technology. His desperation to leave Gotham, to attend a school in a different city.

Dick had shot it down, saying it was too far from home. Bruce had agreed, insisting Peter wasn’t ready. Voices had clashed, emotions had boiled over, and then Peter had walked out.

Of course. How had Dick not thought of this sooner?

“Do we know where he went after that?” Dick asked, leaning closer to the screen.

“That’s what’s strange,” Oracle said with a sigh. “I checked for any activity—bank cards, phone records, anything—but there’s nothing. The only record we have is when he left Gotham.”

“It’s like he vanished off the face of the Earth,” Tim muttered.

“That’s weird,” Duke said, frowning. “Really weird.”

Dick gripped the edge of the table, anger simmering beneath his guilt the only lead they had felt like a dead end.

“Hey, Dick,” Duke asked cautiously. “Are you okay?”

Dick’s frustration boiled over. “Am I okay?” he snapped. “My little brother is missing—or worse probably dead—. The only lead we have is useless. I haven’t slept in weeks. And when I do sleep, I dream of the day he left, of the way he looked at me before he walked out.“

He took a shaky breath before continuing. “And now he’s gone. Maybe kidnapped and alone Struggling. And I couldn’t stop it. I can’t help but blame myself”

For the first time, Bruce spoke. His voice was calm, deliberate.

“Dick.” Bruce’s voice cut through Dick’s chaos, low and steady. “Losing control won’t help us find him.”

Dick spun around, his eyes blazing. “Then what the hell are you doing, Bruce? Huh? Sitting here, waiting?”

Bruce held his gaze, unflinching. “The same thing you’re doing. Looking.”

Before Dick could respond, Barbara’s voice broke through the comms.

“Peter?”

Peter, is that you?” Barbara’s voice cracked, disbelief woven into every word.

Dick turned away from Bruce

“You found him- Peter?” Dick’s voice bagan to rise

“I’m on my way” Dick said as he got up from his seat.

Bruce’s voice followed him as Dick headed for the door. “Everyone—home. Now.” Then he drove to the library. On the drive there, Dick wondered how Peter was doing.

Where he was.

who he was with.

Why was he in New York

Why do something so scary, so out of character.

Finally Dick made it to the library and pushed the door open.

“Thank God you’re okay,” Dick said, his voice trembling with relief. “I came as soon as Babs called.”

When Dick met Peter at the library, his heart dropped at the sight of his brother. He felt his breath stop, and each step he took felt heavier than the last. Scars on his face, blood on his uniform from the night he left Wayne Manor in a fit of rage.

Then they made eye contact. Dick had expected that Peter might’ve jumped into his arms and cried, but it was the opposite. He just stared at Dick.

His eyes analyzed him as if he was trying to figure out who he was. His eyes dark with very little light in them.

“Are you hurt? You look awful.” Dick’s concern was genuine, his hands hovering as he reached for Peter’s shoulder. He saw how Peter flinched so gently with his touch.

Then tucked something that looked like a watch into his uniform hoodie and gripped his backpack that was hung on the side of his shoulder.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Peter spoke, his voice shaky. “Sorry, I just… needed some time away.”

A New York accent?

He really was in New York. But if for a month, why was the accent so thick and rich? Dick wondered.

He could tell that Peter was tired. He could barely keep himself from standing. Dick breathed in. He could ask questions later. Right now, he needed to get Peter home.

“Come on, let’s get you home.”

—

Ever since then, Dick had made a promise: he wouldn’t let Peter slip away again. He even moved back to Wayne manner (temporarily) to keep an eye on Peter he didn’t want anything to happen again not like before. Not when the guilt of that first disappearance still weighed on him every single day.

But then Peter disappeared again.

After a long battle with Joker after game night Dick came back home to Peter gone.

The usual noise, the bustle of the family, the steady hum of Alfred’s routines—it was all gone. In its place was a suffocating silence. It had been like this ever since Spider-Man died. That loss wasn’t just a headline; it was a black cloud hanging over them all, a reminder of how fragile everything could be.

This morning was no different. It was the day of Spider-Man’s memorial, and everyone in the family was expected to attend. The thought pressed heavily on Dick’s chest as he got out of bed.

He moved downstairs slowly, expecting the same gloomy stillness. But something unfamiliar stopped him: the smell of food.

For weeks, no one had bothered with real meals. The Manor’s kitchen had been lifeless, like everything else. But now… now there was laughter.

Dick walked into the kitchen, and his breath caught in his throat.

Peter.

He was sitting at the table like nothing had happened, chatting with Alfred and Cass. His voice carried a lightness that felt entirely out of place.

“And I said to him, ‘That’s not really a good idea,’” Peter said with a grin, his laughter trailing after his words.

Dick froze in the doorway, his mind struggling to catch up with what he was seeing.

Then Peter turned, his gaze locking onto Dick. His face lit up with an all-too-cheerful smile, and his eyes—bright, cherry-red—seemed innocent and familiar.

“Hey, Dick! You’re up,” Peter said, his tone chipper, like nothing had happened. Like the last two weeks hadn’t been hell for everyone else.

How long had it been since he’d seen Peter this happy?

“Yeah,” Dick said slowly, his voice caught somewhere between relief and suspicion. “I’m up.”

Alfred looked at him. “He came in this morning.”

“Where have you been all this time?” Dick asked, his tone sharp, tinged with irritation and barely concealed stress. “Do you know how worried we were?”

Peter looked down, guilt flickering across his face. “I know. I’m sorry. I don’t really have an excuse.”

“Then tell me,” Dick pressed, his eyes narrowing. “Where were you?”

Peter hesitated, his gaze drifting, as if staring off into space.

“Crime Alley,” he said finally, the words slow and deliberate.

“Crime Alley?” Dick repeated, his tone hardening. “Didn’t I tell you to stay away from there? Do you know how dangerous it is?”

Dick rubbed his temples, visibly trying to steady his emotions.

“I know,” Peter mumbled, his eyes averting again. “I just… I just wanted to check on a friend. He asked me to stay with him—he was pretty shaken up after the fight two weeks ago and I forgot my phone.”

Peter’s eyes darted to the side again, focusing on nothing.

Why do you keep doing that? Cass signed, her eyes narrowing.

Peter jolted. “Doing what?” As he Darted his eyes to the right 

“You’re doing it again,” Dick cut in, his voice edged with suspicion. He’d noticed the pattern. Peter kept looking away, always to his right, just before he spoke.

“You keep staring into space,” Dick said, his tone sharper now.

Peter’s lips parted like he might speak, but he stayed silent, his gaze flicking away again, as though there was something—or someone—just out of sight.

A  nervous laugh crawled up Peter’s throat. Dick knew that laugh—it always came when Peter was lying.

Or had something to hide.

Chapter Text

Peter Parker 

It had been a long day.

Peter sat in Grayson’s room, surrounded by tools, his fingers moving mechanically as he tried to patch up the suit. Grayson had asked Alfred for them before deciding to take a nap, leaving Peter alone with his thoughts. The weight of Spider Man—His Memorial hung heavily over him.

He wasn’t sure what bothered him more—the fact that his death was being turned into some kind of rich people networking event, or the sickening thought that Bruce would somehow find a way to profit from it.

What made it worse was the uncertainty of where that money would go, and the nagging feeling that he didn’t know Bruce well enough.

Then again his kids were different, though. They were… real. Maybe . . . Bruce wasn’t the playboy billionaire the media loved to paint him as. Maybe he wasn’t some spoiled, entitled rich guy, hoarding wealth for himself. But Peter hadn’t spent enough time with him to know.

Then, there was Grayson. A terrible liar. Peter chuckled to himself, shaking his head. Sure, Peter wasn’t exactly an expert at lying either, but he could hold his own a lot better than Grayson. It had almost gotten them caught earlier, and Peter wasn’t sure how Grayson kept a straight face while trying to dodge Dick’s questions.

Fortunately for the both of them Damien had walked in at the right moment, giving Grayson just enough of an opening to slip by Dick without saying a word about why he’d been staring off into space like he had something to hide.

The needle his was using pricked his finger

“Ack” Peter flinched his hand back, as blood trickled down his finger from the small wound. Then he watched his wound began to close and the blood stopped dripping.

His thoughts drifted back to the conversation he with Grayson—the one they had left unfinished before making their way back to Wayne Manor.

That conversation, the weight of it still hung in the air between them. Neither of them had wanted to continue it, but there was no denying it had to be addressed sooner or later.

—

Peter sat at the edge of the rooftop, following Grayson with a nervousness that clawed up his throat. They had just left the clinic, and over the last few days, Peter had time to think.

Now that Grayson was aware of Peter’s presence—mistaking him for a split personality. Which was way better than Peter having to explain the whole world travel dimension conversation that he had written down in a pack of flash cards. 

it made even more sense for Grayson to think that way, and there was no reason for Peter to correct him. It was safer that way. 

At first, when Peter entered Grayson’s body, he had little to no power, Grayson was an average kid, and it took Peter a while to adjust to being a normal human being.

As the months passed, his powers started returning—or, at least, growing stronger. The only ability he had initially was his spider-sense.

But now that Grayson was aware of him, what did it mean for their arrangement? For one, Peter knew that when Grayson was asleep or unconscious, he automatically took over the body.

When Grayson was awake, Peter was there, watching and waiting. Another thing Peter noticed was that he can touch Grayson, however he doesn’t know if it would work the other way around.  

Still, he needed to talk to Karen about this. Tonight, when Grayson fell asleep, he’d take action.

“So, about that memorial,” Grayson said, turning to Peter.

Peter looked at him again. He was still afraid, but a flicker of confidence was starting to show.

Peter glanced back down at the crime alley. “I don’t see the point in going,” he said, watching a group of kids playing down the street.

“To announce that Spider-Man isn’t dead, obviously,” Grayson turned to Peter, his eyes alight with determination.

“Lucky me,” Peter muttered sarcastically, the word leaving his lips like a curse. His chest tightened as the thought sat heavy in the air. He didn’t want to explain it—how survival felt more like punishment than relief.

Why was he still here? Why him, when everyone else was gone? His gaze dropped to his hands, trembling faintly, and he remembered Aunt May’s final words, and the way her voice had softened as her breath faded.

“Gotham doesn’t need Spider-Man,” Peter said quietly, the words barely holding together. He glanced up at Grayson

“Maybe it’s better that way.”

Grayson blinked, startled by the rawness in Peter’s tone. “You don’t want to be a hero?” he asked, his voice sharper than he intended. “You’ve been doing this behind my back for how long? And now you want to just… stop?”

Peter exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. “It’s not that simple Grayson, Spider-Man is more than just playing hero, okay? It’s not like I wanted you to find out—I had to.”

“Why?” Grayson shot back, his voice breaking slightly. “Why did you have to? You’re not even real, Parker You’re—” he faltered, “you’re basically a figment of my imagination.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. Even if Peter knew it was a lie. There was still some truth in what Grayson said. 

His world gone and had forgotten him and this world, well . . . his existence is nothing.  Peter’s heart ached, his hands loose at his sides as he stood up abruptly turning away from Grayson.

“Why do you even want to do this?” Peter asked in frustration. 

Grayson stood too, his shoulders squaring as if bracing for impact. “To prove to my dad that I can be great!” The words erupted from him, raw and unfiltered. “So he can finally be proud of me.”

Peter froze, his expression shifting to something colder, harder. “What?” he said, his voice laced with disbelief. He turned sharply, his words cutting. “So you’re going to reveal your identity? Risk everything for what? Some shallow peace of approval?”

Grayson flinched but didn’t back down. “N-No,” he stammered, his voice cracking. “He won’t care about that. My dad will be fine with it—I’m sure.”

“Are you?” Peter challenged, stepping closer. His eyes burned with something Grayson couldn’t quite name. “Are you sure ?”

“Why wouldn’t he?” Grayson shot back, his voice rising with desperation. “He’s my dad.”

Peter scoffs and rolls his eyes “you think he’ll  respect you once he finds out what you’ve turned into?”

Peter stepped even closer his voice low and tense “cause last time I check metas aren’t exactly welcome here”

Peter waited, the silence between them heavy with unspoken words. After a beat, he finally broke it.

“Do you seriously think Bruce can protect you from Batman and his entire team of psychos?” 

“Hey” Grayson growled his voice low and on edge  “You don’t know him”

“What’s he gonna do Grayson wave a check at Batman? I don’t need to know him to know that’s it’s dumb to risk your life and mine for a simple ‘I’m proud of you son’” Peter responded in a mocking voice 

“and if that’s your reason? Then being Spiderman is something you can’t handle” 

Grayson’s grabbed the collar of Peter’s shirt his voice cracking “I’m sick and tired of people telling me what I can and can’t handle, You came into my life, turned me into this mess! And now you want to lecture me about consequences?”

”Then what about you? What makes you so different from me that you can be Spiderman and I can’t” 

Their was a short pause

“Tell me Parker!” Grayson Growled 

Peter’s didn’t have an answer. He didn’t want to be Spider-Man, not after he lost everything-Tony, Aunt May, Ned, MJ and his home.

The mask had become a cage, something he wore out of habit rather than purpose.

The truth was, Peter had only picked up the mantle again because it kept him from falling apart. It gave him something to focus on when the pain became unbearable.

Even when he fought with joker he didn’t try to fight at all.

That night he was ready to die.

Peter had a theory—a cruel, selfish theory. Maybe if he died, his soul would pass on, and Grayson’s wouldn’t. Grayson has something Peter doesn’t—a future, friends, a chance at happiness.

His heart ached and a huge lump reached his throat. An overwhelming wave of sadness and frustration followed as well.

Peter — Peter had nothing. No one, and no home.

Peter felt heat rising from his chest as it began to tighten. Images of Tony’s death and and the last words of his of aunt echoed in his mind-

“PARKER!”

Grayson’s voice broke through the haze, pulling Peter back to the present. His tone wavered slightly, his breath shallow and uneven.

It hit Peter like a punch—Grayson was feeling it too. The suffocating weight of Peter’s emotions. That dark pit of sadness and sorrow that Peter couldn’t escape was bleeding into him, like an open wound they were both trying to cover.

Quickly Peter inhaled deeply, forcing himself to breathe slower, trying to steady the storm raging between them. He’d noticed it before—the way their emotions fed into each other, intensifying every feeling until they were tangled up in something they couldn’t control. The more intense the emotion, the more they synced. It was obvious now.

He watched as Grayson pulled out his inhaler taking quick breaths then expression softened, his breathing evening out. Slowly, his body relaxed.

“Sorry,” Peter said nervously, rubbing the back of his neck.

Grayson put the inhaler back in his pocket, his lips twitching into a wry smile. “We seriously need to get our emotions sorted out,” he said, chuckling softly.

“You noticed it too” Peter asked

“Yeah . . .” Grayson trailed off

It wasn’t until the tension between them finally eased that Peter realized Grayson was holding his hands.

The warmth of the touch sent a jolt through him, and his gaze dropped, only to see Grayson quickly pulling his hands back embarrassed 

“Sorry,” Grayson mumbled, his voice soft and unsure. “I just thought… I don’t know… maybe it would help calm you down.”

Peter cleared his throat, the awkwardness thick in the air as he looked away. “Uh, yeah. Thanks,” he muttered. “It… it helped.”

A small smile spread across Grayson’s face. Peter stared at him, unable to stop himself from noticing the way Grayson’s smile still held a kind of innocence—a lightness Peter couldn’t remember feeling in a while.

It made something ache in his chest. Was he ruining that? His presence here, this connection… Was it going to change Grayson? Break him the way Peter was already broken?

The thought clawed at him, but Peter forced it down, shutting it away before it could grow into something worse.

He hadn’t had time to grieve—not properly. And now, with this connection, this body-sharing,  he doubted he’d ever truly be able to. Every time the memories rose to the surface, Grayson felt them too, and Peter couldn’t bear to do that to him.

Grayson glanced at Peter, his voice lighter than it felt. “So… uh, you wanna head home? I could really go for my bed right about now.”

It was clear the conversation wasn’t finished, but neither of them wanted to dive back into it. At least not yet and even though Grayson had been resting and recovering, Peter could still see the eye-bags under his eyes.

“Yeah.” Peter nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. “ I miss your bed too —and Alfred’s cooking.”

Grayson chuckled, the sound tired but genuine. “Right? Alfred’s cooking is the best!” 

Peter grinned and, with a quick leap, Grayson jumped down from the ledge, already heading home.

Chapter Text

Peter Parker

Grayson didn’t wake up.

Peter groaned as he climbed into the limo, dragging his feet like they weighed a thousand pounds.

He slumped into his seat, surrounded by Tim, Duke, Steph, Cass, and Damian. Everyone had their usual spots, as if they’d been riding together for years. It was unsettling how natural it all felt—like Peter fit here. But he didn’t.

He’d been in a limo before—Tony had taken him to one of those extravagant galas—but this was different. He wasn’t looking forward to this ride. At all. The reason? He wasn’t even supposed to be awake.

That was Grayson’s job.

Hours ago, they’d been testing the limits of this ridiculous body-sharing situation, trying to figure out how it worked and how to live with it. After hours of trial and error this was what they came up with : 

1. When one of them was active, the other existed in a “shadow” state—a kind of invisible background presence.

2. Staying in shadow form was exhausting and drained energy fast.

3. The shadow could communicate as a voice or thought in the other’s head.

4. Switching control required consent—or happened automatically when one of them fell asleep and the other had more energy.

5. They could communicate telepathically, no talking required.

6. Their emotions bled into each other. The stronger the emotion, the more it affected the body.

7. Control was shared equally—50/50.

So why the hell wasn’t Grayson waking up?

Peter clenched his fists, frustration bubbling beneath his skin. Was it because Grayson was tired? Had Peter pushed him too far earlier? It wasn’t like Peter had gotten any rest, either. He’d been working on his suit until Grayson took over, and when Grayson fell asleep again, Peter had kept going.

He was running on fumes, and now he had to act like Grayson? 

Peter, are you good?: Cass signed as she slipped into the limo, her expression unreadable.

Peter adjusted his glasses, grateful for Karen’s modifications. The glasses weren’t just an accessory anymore—they were a lifeline. Karen translated Cass’s signs directly into his ears, sparing him from the embarrassment of fumbling through his limited ASL.

He forced a smile. “Yeah, I’m just tired.”

“Didn’t you sleep for hours?” Steph asked, leaning forward. Her concern felt genuine, and Peter could tell she cared about Grayson more than the others. It was in the way she looked at him, like she was trying to figure out what was wrong without prying too much.

“Ha…” Peter sighed, rubbing his neck. “Guess I need more.”

“You could just sleep during the ride,” Duke offered, nudging him lightly. “I’ll wake you up when we get there.”

Peter thought about it. If he slept again, maybe Grayson would take over like they planned. It was worth a shot.

“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” Peter said, leaning back in his seat.

He let his gaze wander, finally landing on Damian. The kid was hunched over a sketchbook, completely absorbed in whatever he was drawing. Peter hadn’t spent much time with Damian yet, and he couldn’t figure out what kind of relationship he and Grayson had. Was it good? Tense? Complicated?

Curiosity got the better of him. Peter scooted closer and peeked over Damian’s shoulder. “Wow,” he said, genuinely impressed. “That’s really good.”

Damian froze, then snapped his sketchbook shut, glaring at Peter like he’d committed a crime. “What are you doing?”

“Uh… complimenting you?” Peter said, confused by the hostility.

“Why?” Damian’s tone was sharp, his words dripping with irritation. “Why are you even talking to me?”

“Geez, man, I’m just trying to make conversation.”

“Well, your conversation isn’t needed. Now move back. Your presence is unnecessary.”

Peter blinked, taken aback. What was this kid’s deal? Did Bruce not teach him basic manners?

“Well?” Damian pressed, his voice sharper this time. “Aren’t you going to move?”

Peter smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching. “No.”

The air in the limo grew heavy. Everyone turned to look at him—even Tim, who had been busy minding his own business.

“Excuse me?” Damian’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Didn’t you hear me?”

“Oh, I heard you,” Peter said, leaning closer until their shoulders touched.

Damian flinched, his scowl deepening. “Ask nicely, and I’ll move,” Peter added, his tone calm but firm.

Damian’s face twisted in a mixture of shock and indignation. “N-no! Why would I do that?”

“It’s called basic manners,” Peter replied, shrugging. “I’m older than you. You should show a little respect.”

Damian scoffed, shoving Peter back. “Respect is earned, not given. And a coward like you doesn’t deserve any.”

Peter froze, It wasn’t just what Damian said—it was the way he said it, like Peter was beneath him. Like he didn’t matter.

This kid thought he was better than him, and he didn’t even try to hide it. Then it made Peter wonder was this what Grayson was dealing with when all this time? Well it’s about time something changed

Peter’s leaned back with a sharp grin. “Well, kid, you’re just going to have to deal with my presence a little while longer.”

The tension in the limo was thick enough to cut, but Peter didn’t care. Damian Wayne could glare all he wanted. Peter wasn’t backing down.

—

An hour later, Peter was woken up by a rough shove.

“Wha—”

“We’re here,” Damian grumbled, sounding as irritated as ever.

Peter blinked groggily, realizing with a mix of embarrassment and amusement that he’d fallen asleep on Damian’s shoulder. Neither of them had wanted to move earlier, so this was the inevitable result.

He sat up quickly, straightening his wrinkled shirt. “Y’know, if you’d just asked me to move nicely,” Peter said with a lazy grin as they all began climbing out of the limo, “you wouldn’t have gotten drooled on.”

Damian froze, his hand darting to his shoulder as he inspected it frantically.

Peter chuckled, slapping him on the back. “Just kidding.”

Damian turned sharply, his face twisting into a storm of irritation. “Why, you—”

Before he could finish his threat, their attention was drawn to Bruce, Dick, and Jason, who were approaching them.

Dick led the group with his usual easygoing energy, while Jason hung back, his sharp gaze locked on Peter. It wasn’t just casual curiosity—it was the kind of look that made Peter’s skin crawl, like Jason was dissecting him, trying to figure out his angle.

“Hey, guys! Did you have a nice ride?” Dick asked, his voice cheerful and oblivious to the tension radiating from the group.

Tim snickered. “Oh, it was great. I even got some pictures.”

Dick’s eyes flicked between Peter and Damian, taking in the obvious hostility between them. “Yeah?” he asked with a raised brow.

Peter plastered on a bright smile. “It was fantastic. I bonded really well with Damian, isn’t that right?”

Damian shot him a glare that could’ve burned a hole through steel, then turned on his heel, straightening his coat as he walked past Peter without a word.

“What was that about?” Jason asked, stepping closer to Peter, his voice low and suspicious.

Peter shrugged, his grin tightening. “Rich kids, am I right?”

Jason didn’t look convinced, but Peter didn’t stick around long enough to find out what he was thinking. Instead, he hurried to catch up with the others.

When they reached the venue, Peter’s breath hitched. It was massive. The event was set up outdoors on an expansive field, with a large podium dominating the center of the stage.

Rows of long, ornate tables were draped in expensive cloth, glinting under the soft light of chandeliers hanging above.

Hundreds of waiters in perfectly tailored suits moved seamlessly through the crowd, balancing trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres.

Guests arrived in waves, dressed to the nines in designer gowns and custom-fitted suits. Everywhere Peter looked, people were talking and laughing, exchanging stories about their accomplishments, their wealth, and the ever-growing empires they commanded.

And then Peter saw it.

At the back of the stage was a massive banner with bold, gleaming letters that read:

In Memory of Spider-Man.

Peter froze.

In memory of Spider-Man?

He stared at the words, his stomach twisting into knots. You’ve got to be kidding me.

He had been trying— really trying—to give Bruce the benefit of the doubt. Maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t as entitled as Peter had initially assumed. But this? This felt like confirmation.

This wasn’t a memorial. This was a networking event, plain and simple. Another excuse for Gotham’s elite to pat themselves on the back while pretending they cared about something bigger than their bank accounts.

The banner might as well have read,

  “Congratulations , You’re Rich!”

Peter clenched his fists, forcing himself to keep his face neutral as he followed the others inside.

As Peter slumped into one of the tables, his mind was a jumbled mess. Grayson still hadn’t woken up. The silence in his head was starting to feel suffocating.

Suddenly A waiter’s voice cut through the fog of his thoughts.

“Sir, would you be interested in a beverage?”

Peter looked up, about to answer, when his gaze landed on the waiter. He froze.

“Wait a second… it’s you?”

It was the same kid. The one who’d been in that chaotic mess a week ago —the one who’d rushed in and punched him in the face. Peter’s heart skipped a beat, and his eyes automatically scanned the kid’s name tag.

“John.”

John’s face went pale when their eyes met. He stammered, his voice a little shaky. “H-Hey… you’re that meta kid.”

Peter shot up from his seat, quickly grabbing John’s arm and pulling him in close. His voice was low, intense. “Hey, I told you before—you’ve got the wrong person. I’m not a meta.”

John’s eyes darted nervously around them. “Yeah, well, you can say that to my friend whose arm is still broken, by the way,” he scoffed, clearly holding onto some kind of grudge.

Peter’s patience was wearing thin, but he kept his tone calm. “You don’t have to be a meta to break someone’s arm.”

John’s expression twisted into something between disbelief and disdain. “Look at you,” he sneered. “My friend was three times bigger than you. You’re a twig.”

Peter let out a frustrated sigh. He hadn’t expected this to get any easier. The fatigue and a headache was hitting him harder than he realized, but now wasn’t the time to lose it. He just wanted to go home, crawl into bed, and sleep for days.

At that moment, Tim slid into the seat next to him, his eyes sharp as he took in the tension. “Is there a problem here?”

Peter let go of John’s arm, forcing a casual smile. “Nope. No problem at all. I was just asking him about his drink recommendations.”

He nudged John, a wicked grin tugging at his lips. “Right, John?”

John swallowed hard, his nerves clearly frayed. “I-Uh… yeah, I suggest you try the strawberry lemonade.”

Peter moved closer to John. He leaned in just enough so only John could hear him, his voice low and dangerous. “Listen, John. I’m not in the mood right now. So if you ever mention anything about us meeting before—or even that you know me—”

Peter’s gaze hardened. “Then you’ll meet the same fate as your friend.”

John’s face paled, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled for words, but Peter didn’t give him a chance. He pulled back and smiled, his voice now smooth and polite.

“By the way, you had a leaf on your shoulder.” Peter reached out, gently removing it and placing it in John’s arm. “Thanks for your hard work.”

John didn’t say a word. He turned and hurried away, almost tripping over his own feet in his rush to get as far away from Peter as possible.

Peter sank back into his chair, his chest still tight, his pulse still racing. His eyes drifted around the room, and for a moment, everything felt distant, like he wasn’t really there.

That was when he noticed Jason. He was watching Peter, eyes locked on him, intense and unreadable.

Peter shifted uncomfortably under Jason’s gaze, but before he could figure out how to react, Tim leaned in, his voice soft but filled with concern. “Peter… you don’t look good.”

Peter rubbed his eyes, the weariness settling deep in his bones. No kidding, he thought. He didn’t look good—he didn’t feel good, either. When he was a shadow, he couldn’t sleep.

When he was in control of the body, sleep was a luxury he didn’t have. Add to that the emotional drain of Grayson being silent, the physical pain from pushing himself too hard, and the overwhelming sense of isolation…

“I’m fine,” Peter said, his voice hoarse, the lie tasting bitter on his tongue. “Really.”

A few minutes passed before another waiter brought Peter his drink. It wasn’t John this time, which was a relief.

He took a sip, his mind wandering to the thought that maybe he should’ve just asked for coffee instead.

Chapter Text

Peter G. Wayne

A man was standing over Parker’s body. He wore a cape, and though Peter couldn’t hear him, it looked like he was casting a spell. Peter stood nearby, watching. But he knew that wasn’t him lying on the ground.

That was Parker. Peter could feel it—Parker’s presence was different from his own. He face was bruised his suit was torn as, Peter could see the large gashes of wounds that filled his body.

The place he was in felt surreal, a strange atmosphere bathed in bright yellow light. Peter could see his own body lying still, eyes closed, as the man worked over it.

He didn’t know where he was or how he had gotten here. Was this a dream?

He tried to get the magician’s attention, but nothing happened. The man continued focusing on Parker, whose body remained motionless, his face pale like a shell. Peter wasn’t even sure if Parker was breathing.

Desperate, Peter tried to wake Parker up, but his hands passed right through him. He couldn’t touch Parker—or the man Peter tried to speak but he couldn’t hear his own voice.

Suddenly, glowing circles began to form in the air, spinning around the magician’s hands. He placed one hand over Parker’s head, and a bright light emanated from his palm. Parker’s body started to glow faintly in response.

“This wasn’t how it was supposed to go,” the man muttered, his voice heavy with regret as he addressed the unconscious Parker. “But it’s the only way.”

The glow faded as the man let go. Parker’s faint glow disappeared, and his chest began to rise and fall—he was breathing again.

Then, without warning, the man turned and looked directly at Peter. His movements were slow and uncertain, each step deliberate, as if he was approaching something fragile.

Peter instinctively stepped back, confusion and unease twisting inside him. How could this man, who only moments ago seemed unaware of his existence, suddenly see him so clearly? The intensity in his eyes only made Peter’s unease worse.

He tried to take another step back, to put space between himself and the man, but the moment he moved, his body froze. He couldn’t lift a foot, couldn’t even turn his head. Panic hit him like a tidal wave, crashing through him as Peter strained against whatever was holding him in place.

He couldn’t run.

“I’m sorry,” the man said softly, the words heavy, as though they carried more than an apology.

Peter’s heart hammered in his chest, his mind racing for an answer, for anything that made sense. But before he could speak, before he could demand an explanation, the man raised his hand.

A shimmering light appeared above Peter’s head, its glow unnatural, almost alive, casting fleeting patterns of shadows on the walls. Peter could only watch, helpless, as the man whispered one final command:

“Go to Midtown High.”

The yellow haze shattered, and the scene shifted.

Peter was suddenly in the living room at Wayne Manor, caught in the middle of an argument. He was yelling at Bruce and Dick, his sudden desire to go to New York sparking tension. Bruce’s voice was sharp, Dick’s tone frustrated but Peter didn’t care. His frustration boiled over, and the argument ended with him storming out of the room.

Peter watched himself storming out of the house  later that night. Leaving the Manor,  as he walked through the quiet streets to the bus station, ticket in hand.

Now Peter was on the bus, headphones on, staring down at a pamphlet for Midtown High. He sat quietly, lost in thought, his fingers nervously gripping the edges of the pamphlet.

The bus finally rolled into the city, and Peter stepped out into the bustling streets. The noise, the lights, the chaos—it all hit him at once.

The Scene shattered and Peter found himself falling.

 The air tore past him as he plummeted into a suffocating blackness, his body weightless and out of control. He hit the ground hard, the impact jarring every bone in his body. He grunted loudly in pain. 

Then for a moment, he lay there, stunned, as darkness swallowed everything around him. The air was thick and cold, pressing down on him like a suffocating blanket. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t tell where he was.

“Hello?” Peter called out, his voice trembling as it echoed into the void. “Is anyone there?”

Silence stretched for a moment, so heavy it made his skin crawl. Then, a sound—sharp, high-pitched, and grating—sliced through the air like nails on a chalkboard.

Peter spun around, and his breath caught in his throat. Looming above him was a giant spider, its massive form casting a grotesque shadow.

”NoT pEtEr!!” It screeched 

It towered over him, its body glistening like black oil. He could see its razor-sharp claws and all eight of its legs, twitching as it screeched again.

Peter yelled, panic surging through him as he turned and ran. He didn’t know where he was going; everything was too dark, too disorienting. A red glow began to radiate from behind him, illuminating the space in eerie, flickering pulses.

The spider followed, its screeches echoing through the void as it charged after him. Peter could hear the pounding of its legs, the sound growing louder with each step. It was relentless, the ground shaking beneath its weight as it tried to squash him like a bug.

Peter dodged, his movements frantic. But his foot caught on something, and he tripped, falling hard onto the ground. He barely had time to process the pain before the spider was above him again, its massive frame blotting out the dim red light.

Webs shot out from beneath it, sticky and suffocating, wrapping around Peter’s arms and legs.

He thrashed desperately, but the webbing only tightened, pinning him in place. Soon, he couldn’t move at all. Only his eyes were free, darting wildly as he struggled to breathe.

”ToO WeAk!!” 

The spider hissed, leaning closer, its fangs glinting in the dim glow. From the shadows, tiny spiders began crawling onto Peter’s body.

First a few, then dozens, then hundreds, their legs skittering over him. He shook his head violently, trying to dislodge them, but they were everywhere, covering him completely.

Peter’s screams filled the air, raw and desperate. The giant spider reared back, its movements slow and deliberate, and let out an ear-piercing screech that sent chills down Peter’s spine.

He wanted to go home. He wanted this to stop. His heart raced, his mind teetering on the edge of collapse as the spider lunged forward and sank its fangs into him.

Pain tore through his body, fiery and unbearable. He screamed again as the smaller spiders began biting him all at once. Each bite felt like fire beneath his skin, the agony overwhelming. He thought he was going to die.

“PrOtEcT pEtEr!!!” the spider screeched, its distorted voice cutting through the chaos.

Peter’s body convulsed violently, his screams fading into silence. The world around him dissolved into darkness.

——

Peter’s vision blurred as he struggled to piece together where he was. Blinking rapidly, his sight finally began to clear, revealing the living room. He was standing at the center, everyone’s eyes locked on him.

Muffled voices filled the room like an oppressive hum. Slowly, the haze lifted just enough for Peter to notice Bruce. He stood rigid, his jaw clenched and his glare piercing. Bruce looked furious.

Peter frowned, confused, his chest tightening. What had he done?

Then, suddenly, it hit him—a flood of noise, a wave of voices crashing into his mind all at once.

Bruce’s voice cut sharply through the chaos. “I can’t believe you would do something like that. I expected better from you, Peter—much better.”

Damian sneered. “It was pathetic. Embarrassing.”

Dick interjected, his tone softer but strained. “Guys, Peter must’ve had a reason—”

“Why do you keep defending him?” Damian snapped, his voice sharp enough to slice through steel. “He humiliated Father, and I won’t allow it!”

Peter opened his mouth to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. He didn’t know what was happening. He couldn’t focus. He knew he was supposed to get ready to the memorial. 

What was he doing here?

Suddenly the argument in front of him was drowned out by something louder—something overwhelming.

Wind howling.

The faint drip of a sink.

Dogs barking in the distance.

It was everywhere, surrounding him.

Karen’s voice—calm but concerned—in his ear. “Peter, your heart rate is stabilizing. I suggest you retreat.”

He tried to listen, but the noise only grew louder.

Footsteps.

Gears turning.

Metal clanking.

Dogs barking again.

And then, cutting through it all like a blade:

Not HOME

Dogs barking.

Bruce’s voice snapped him back. “Peter, do you have anything to say for yourself?”

Want to go home.

HOME

His heart thudded in his chest, each beat echoing like a drum.

Karen spoke again, her voice strained this time. “Peter, your heart rate is rising  uncontrollably.”

NOT HOME.

Go.

“Stop!” Peter blurted out, his voice trembling.

“Peter.” Steph’s voice sounded distant, like it was coming through water.

Home.

People talking.

Heartbeats pounding.

Rising. RIsInG

“Peter!”

Wind howling.

Peter started looking around frantically, wondering where all this noise was coming, So close yet far at the same time.

“Peter look at me!!”

Glass breaking.

Cars honking.

NOT HOME.

Peter clenched his head with both hands, his fingers digging into his scalp. His eyes squeezed shut, trying to block it all out.

“JUST SHUT UP!” he screamed, his voice cracking as it tore through the room.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Peter’s breathing was ragged, his chest heaving as he fought to calm down. His hands dropped to his sides, trembling. The noise hadn’t stopped, but it was quieter now. Distant, like the volume had been turned down.

Dick stepped forward, gripping Peter’s shoulder firmly. “Peter!”

The touch grounded him, like a tether pulling him back to reality. Peter blinked, his vision clearing enough to see everyone staring at him. Concern. Confusion. Fear.

Dick’s voice softened. “Peter, are you okay?”

Peter’s breath hitched as he met Dick’s eyes, but he couldn’t speak.

“Something’s wrong,” Dick pressed gently. “Please, just tell us. Tell us what’s going on.”

Peter looked down at the floor, his chest still rising and falling rapidly.

This was it. His chance. The perfect moment to tell them everything—about Parker, about the truth, about being a Meta.

But then, the fear surged.

NO.

DANGEROUS.

GO HOME.

Peter’s senses were spiraling, his heart pounding in his chest like it was trying to escape. The walls felt closer, the air heavier. He didn’t feel safe—not here, not with them. He needed to leave. He needed to get out of the manor now.

“Peter.” Dick’s voice was soft but urgent. “Please, just talk to us.”

Peter opened his mouth to speak, but the words caught in his throat.

NO.

NO.

NO.

DANGEROUS.

“You’re all dangerous,” Peter whispered, the words slipping out before he could stop them. His voice cracked, trembling with fear. “Not safe…”

The room fell deathly silent.

“Master Peter?” Alfred’s voice broke through the quiet, tinged with disbelief.

Peter’s gaze darted to each of them. Their faces were a mix of shock and confusion. Even Damian—usually composed and quick to retort—was speechless, his brow furrowed as he stared at Peter like he was seeing a stranger.

Peter took a step back. The fear clawed at his chest, growing heavier, tighter. He didn’t know if it was his own terror or something else entirely, but it was controlling him now.

Bruce took a step forward, his movements slow, calculated. But something was different. His eyes were cold, detached. It wasn’t the gaze of a father—it was the gaze of someone assessing a threat.

Peter’s breath hitched.

RUN.

RUN.

RUN.

The memory of Parker’s voice echoed in his mind, a warning he couldn’t shake: Would Bruce really accept you? Or would he see you as an enemy?

Looking at Bruce now, Peter had his answer.

RUN.

RUN.

RUN.

RUN.

RUN.

The tension broke when Jason stepped forward, placing himself firmly between Bruce and Peter. His glare was sharp, his body language protective in a way Peter had never seen before. Dick turned and stood next to Jason as if he was stopping him as well.

“Peter,” Jason said, his voice steady but commanding. “Go to your room.”

“What—” Peter started, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Jason snapped, cutting him off. “Go.”

Peter froze, stunned. Jason had never defended him before. Never taken his side. It made no sense, and yet, for the first time, Peter felt a strange flicker of safety. Why now? Why him?

Peter’s eyes shifted back to Bruce, who hadn’t moved. But his presence loomed, heavy and suffocating. The overwhelming sense of dread returned, sharp and unrelenting, wrapping itself around Peter like a vice.

Without another word, Peter turned and ran, his footsteps echoing through the hall as he disappeared.

Behind him, the room remained tense, the silence broken only by Jason’s voice.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Bruce?” he asked, his tone low and cutting.

Bruce didn’t respond. His eyes lingered on the door Peter had just fled through, his expression unreadable. But the coldness hadn’t left, and Peter didn’t miss it.

Peter closed the door to his room, pressing his back against it as if that alone could block out the rising tide of chaos in his mind. The voices from downstairs—Jason’s sharp tone, Dick’s calming attempts—were drowned out by the storm inside him.

HOME.

DANGEROUS.

LEAVE.

GO.

GO.

GO.

The words pounded in his head, relentless and loud.

Peter groaned, his hands tangling in his hair. “What do I do?” he whispered to himself. This was supposed to be home. Where else was he supposed to go?

Then it hit him.

The warehouse.

The memory of that space—quiet, isolated, safe—flashed in his mind. It was the only place he’d felt any sense of control recently. He didn’t know why, but it was enough.

Peter sprang into action, grabbing a bag and hastily stuffing it with clothes and anything else he could reach. His head pounded with every movement, but he ignored it, scribbling a quick note and placing it on his desk. His eyes darted to the window.

He slid it open, the cold night air rushing in and brushing against his flushed face. The height made his stomach twist, but he didn’t have time to hesitate. Looking down, he scanned the wall outside, his mind sparking with a reckless idea.

He’d seen videos of Spider-Man scaling walls. He’d even tried it himself once— when he found out he was Spiderman, but he wasn’t able to it at that time.

Now he had no choice.

Peter took a deep breath and climbed onto the windowsill, his legs trembling. “Okay,” he muttered, “you can do this.”

He reached out, pressing his palms flat against the cold surface of the wall. The texture felt rough under his fingers. He shifted his weight and slowly leaned forward.

One hand.

Then the other.

Then his foot.

Peter held his breath as he clung to the wall, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest. He dared to open one eye.

He was sticking.

“Whoa,” Peter breathed, the disbelief and relief flooding him in equal measure. “It worked.”

Slowly, he inched his way down the manor wall. The world around him spun with every step, his ears ringing with the noise he couldn’t escape. By the time he hit the ground, his knees buckled, and he stumbled forward with a thud.

The noises surged again, louder, more chaotic. His senses felt like they were being torn apart. He squeezed his eyes shut, clutching his head.

“Karen,” Peter rasped, his voice cracking.

“Yes, Peter,” the AI responded, calm as always.

“How do I stop the noise?” he gasped.

“The earbuds have a soundproofing system. Would you like me to activate it?”

“Yes,” Peter choked out, desperate.

“Activating soundproof system.”

And then, like a switch had been flipped, the world fell silent.

Peter inhaled deeply, the quiet wrapping around him like a protective shield. His breathing slowed, his pulse steadying. He opened his eyes, looking back up at the window he’d just climbed from. The faint glow from inside the manor cast long shadows against the walls.

HOME.

The word lingered in his mind, but it didn’t feel right.

Not anymore.

Peter sighed, tightening his grip on his bag. “Karen,” he said, his voice steadier now.

“Yes, Peter?”

“Give me directions to the warehouse in Crime Alley.”

“Of course,” Karen replied. “Plotting the safest route now.”

Peter glanced back one last time, his chest tightening as he stared at the place he was leaving behind.

Then, without another thought, he turned and disappeared into the night.

Chapter Text

Peter G. Wayne

The last time Peter had been in Crime Alley was the night his entire life changed. Since then he had made a silent promise to himself never to come back here. Yet here he was, walking down the same streets.

The air reeked of a thick, acrid stench that clung to the pavement and lingered in the air Peter covered his mouth to stop himself from gagging

Learning from his past mistakes, Peter decided it was best to avoid the alleyways. Of course, that didn’t mean the streets were safe either. But with Karen guiding him, he was at least able to navigate better than before.

“So…” Peter began, his voice low as he tried to fill the silence. “Where did you come from, Karen?”

“I am not authorized to answer that,” Karen replied, her tone polite but clipped, as if she’d rehearsed the line.

“Right . . . ” Peter said suspiciously “ then… who made you?”

“I’m not authorized to answer that either,” Karen answered again.

“What? Why?” he protested, his voice rising slightly before he caught himself. He glanced around nervously, hoping he hadn’t drawn any unwanted attention.

“I am only authorized to respond to Peter Parker,” Karen said, her tone clipped and matter-of-fact.

Peter stopped walking for a moment, furrowing his brow. “Why Parker?” His tinged with confusion.

“I suggest you ask him yourself,” Karen answered, her tone carrying the faintest hint of sass.

Peter narrowed his eyes. “You think you’re funny, don’t you?”

Karen didn’t respond.

Peter sighed as he weaved his way through the crowed. There was no way Karen wants to talk to him, and it made Peter wonder . . . Why Parker?

Wasn’t he supposed to be some kind of alternate version of himself? A split personality formed by trauma? And if that were true, where did Karen fit into all of this?

A sudden realization hit him, Peter was the one who made the assumption that Parker was a split personality, if the roles were reversed, would Peter even tell him the truth? Or just agree with whatever he says.

“Take a left. In ten minutes, you’ll reach your destination,” Karen said cutting through his thoughts.

Peter turned into the alley, the dim light from the streetlamp barely making it past the entrance. The darkness  felt alive, shadows creeping in. Rats darted across the cracked pavement, as their tiny claws scratched against the concrete.

“Seriously? Out of all the places, he had to pick here?” Peter gulped hesitating before entering. He waited for the tingling of his so-called spider-sense, —which Karen had explained to him.

Apparently his ‘spider sense’ senses danger. So what Peter was feeling in the manner made him want to leave so badly, that if he stayed any longer he was going to be in danger.

For the first time since being in Wayne manner his home was now dangerous? Either His spider Sense was wrong or his family is hiding something.

Still his spider sense didn’t react to the alleyway in front of him.

“Okay then” Peter inhaled sharply

Cautiously, Peter moved forward, keeping his head down as he the only steps he heard were his own. He glanced at one of the men slumped against the wall, his body so still it was hard to tell if he was breathing.

Just when Peter was about to walk past him, the man lunged at him and gabbed his left leg stopping Peter from moving.

“F-food… please… need food,” the man rasped, his voice broken and desperate.

Peter jerked back with a yelp startled as his steps faltered, debating whether or not he should just go back Wayne manner.

Then the man grabbed his foot again and this time he dug his nails into Peter’s ankle,

“FOOOOD!!”

“I-I’m sorry!!” Peter said quickly pulling away  frantically from the man’s grip, his heart pounding from his chest as he picked up his pace. Not wanting the same thing to happen again

The deeper he went, the more homeless people he encountered. Some glared at him, and others tried to reach for him. Peter started to run, his breath heavy as he made it out of the alley and into a street filled with a bunch of run down buildings.

He could tell that people lived in this there even though he questioned how people could live in such conditions like this, then again he wasn’t one to complain.

It made Peter realize that Crime Alley was a harsh reminder of how lucky he was to have a roof over his head and money to his name. To have home cooked meals and fresh clothes every day, and a bed that he can wake up from, and a hot shower.

Some of these kids probably wouldn’t survive the winter, or know when their next meal is gonna be, or even wonder if they are gonna make it home at night or be dead in a ditch.

The thought made his stomach churn as a wave of sadness filled his heart.

Why won’t anyone do anything about it?

Why won’t Dad do anything about it?

Peter stopped himself. Bruce had done something about it—hadn’t he?

After all the world can’t be saved just by one person. Just because his dad happens to be rich doesn’t mean cure world hunger.

Peter tried to convince himself, but for some reason it didn’t change the unsettling feeling that he had.

Peter’s senses rose as a group of kids watched him from the shadows. He suddenly felt out of place as the kids around him kept staring. He could feel their eyes on him, and the weight of his backpack felt heavier with each passing moment.

“Five minutes, and you’ll arrive,” Karen’s voice echoed in his ear. Peter gulped, trying to shake the unease building in his stomach.

Still, Peter was surprised that, even after an hour of wandering through the alleys, no one had stolen anything from him. Not his shoes, not his tailored suit, not even his watch.

Now he wondered if he would even be able to make it to the warehouse safely.

His Spider-sense flared again making his pulse spike. He turned to leave realizing too late that the kids had moved in, blocking his path.

Maybe this was when his luck was about run out.

“Hey,” one of the boys said, stepping in front of Peter.

“Uh…” Peter hesitated, his words almost stuck in his throat. “Hey?”

A few more kids began to circle him, and Peter’s stomach dropped. He recognized one of them— the guy whose arm he’d broken a while back. His heart raced.

Did he recognize him? Was he coming back for revenge?

“What’s a fancy kid like you doing in these alleys?” The tall boy in front of him, wearing a ripped long-sleeve and jeans, sneered.

“Uh,” Peter stammered. “I live here?”

The boy stepped closer, eyeing him up and down. “You don’t seem so confident.”

Peter’s mind raced. Was he ready for this? How many of them were there? Ten? Twenty? It didn’t matter—he wasn’t winning this fight.

He dropped into a fighting stance, even though he knew he wouldn’t last. He’d have to rely on his instincts and speed, maybe take a hit or two, but…

Shit, maybe he should just turn around and go home, Apologize for whatever Parker had done, then possibly wouldn’t have to end up in these streets or even worse dead.

“I don’t want any trouble,” Peter muttered, clenching his fists.

“Looks like we’re on the same page then,” the boy said, cracking his knuckles. “Give me everything you’ve got, and I’ll let you go home in your underwear.”

The others burst into laughter. “Good one, David!”

Peter scoffed, keeping his cool. “Was that supposed to be funny? Try again.”

David’s face twisted into a snarl. “I was letting you off easy, but since you’ve got a mouth on you, you might need a little… education.”

“How would you know about education when you can’t afford one?” Peter shot back in a sarcastic tone, his eyes scanning for a way out. “Maybe I’ll be generous and pay for a class or two.”

David stepped closer, his large body towering over Peter. “You think you’re funny?”

“I wonder how you came to that conclusion,” Peter smirked, relaxing his posture. He didn’t know much about the alleys or the kids here, but he had a hunch—a gamble, an idea that was starting to form in his mind.

“You won’t be smiling when I beat the pulp out of you,” David growled, pulling out a pocketknife before lunging at Peter.

With the help of his Spider-Sense, Peter managed to dodge all the attacks—just barely, though.

“Looks like you’re all talk and no Bark” Peter mocked as sweat trickled down his brow. He eyed one of the small kids who was blocking his way and a small smile formed on lips. This might actually work

When David lunged forward again, Peter ducked under him and maneuvered to the right, positioning himself behind David. Seizing his chance, Peter blurted out:

“OH MY GOSH, RED HOOD! Is that you?”

David’s head snapped around, along with the heads of the other kids. Peter used the distraction and ran toward the smaller kid then he used his whole body to shove one of the smaller kids out of the way. Peter landed on the ground with a grunt-

Almost forgetting his strength, the kid flew backward five feet, hitting the wall and slumping to the ground.

There was an audible gasp, but Peter didn’t stick around to see their reaction. He stood and ran as fast as he could, the sound of pounding feet and angry shouts echoing behind him.

Peter tripped and fell, his knees scraping against the gravel as the voices grew closer.

“FIND THAT FREAK!” David yelled.

Peter’s enhanced hearing picked up the rage in David’s voice, and fear gripped him harder than he expected.

RUN.

RUN.

RUN.

“ DAMNIT!! I know!” Peter grunted in frustration, forcing himself back to his feet. He ran, taking a sharp turn into a dead end.

Shit.

It was too late. The voices were louder now, the pounding of their footsteps drawing closer. Any second, they’d grab him, and it would all be over.

Out of options, Peter dove into a large dumpster and buried himself under the trash. The darkness gave him a sliver of hope; he prayed they wouldn’t think to look inside.

The footsteps arrived near his hiding spot.

“Where did he go?”

“Looks like we lost him,” David growled, frustration dripping from his voice.

Peter held his breath, his heart pounding so hard he thought they’d hear it. Just as he began to relax, a rat scurried over his clothes. Peter flinched, letting out a small sound before quickly slapping his hand over his mouth.

The lid of the dumpster creaked open. Peter pushed himself deeper into the garbage, holding his breath as his chest tightened and the stench burned his nose. He was scared what if they caught him what would they do to him? 

“What’s up, David?” one of the kids called out.

“Odd… I thought I heard something,” David muttered. On cue, the rat scurried out of the dumpster.

“Oh, it was just a rat,” David said, shutting the lid.

“Lucky bastard. When I find him, he’ll wish he was dead,” David spat, his voice trailing off as the group’s footsteps faded into the distance.

Peter still didn’t move and he waited, even as his Spider-Sense quieted. His heart pounding out of his chest He waited until he was sure they were gone.

After what felt like thirty minutes, Peter clawed his way out of the dumpster. Once he reached the top, he leaned against it and threw up, his stomach churning violently. He gagged and vomited again, the sour taste lingering in his mouth.

Then he climbed out of the dumpster, Peter’s legs buckled as he fell to his knees. Tears forming in his eyes as the air around him began to tighten, his chest rising uncontrollably his vision blurring.

Quickly he pulled out his bag and rummaged through his belongings until he felt a thick plastic object.

As Peter’s breath was getting un even. He yanked his inhaler out and gasped as he used it. Then after the air came back from his lungs.

He started coughing and wheezing uncontrollably he took a few more breaths slowly his breath started evening out until they became slow and controlled—That was a close Call, who knows what would’ve happened if he passed out.

Never in his life did he think he’d owe his survival to a pile of trash

Wiping the saliva from his lips, Peter stumbled to his feet grabbing backpack and slipped in into his arm.

Groggily he made his way towards the warehouse. The looming building towers of him as he approached, with exhaustion weighing down his every step

A tired frown spread across his face as he muttered “Home sweet home I . . Guess”

with a sigh he headed inside.

—

Peter was a mess—his clothes were grimy, his face smeared with dirt, and the stench of sweat clung to him like a second skin. He hated it. He hated how far he’d let himself go, how much of a wreck he’d become.

Normally, he’d never allow himself to crawl into bed like this. Cleaning up was his one unshakable rule. But tonight? Tonight, he didn’t care.

He stumbled toward the makeshift mattress, barely conscious of his movements, and let himself fall onto it.

The springs creaked under his weight, and the moonlight that streamed through a cracked window painted his exhausted form in pale silver.

How did it come to this? After everything that happened today, he didn’t even recognize himself anymore.

He’d thought—no, hoped —he could at least stay in his own bed for more than a single night. Just one night. But, like clockwork, he’d ended up leaving again, running from… everyone.

He closed his eyes, but the images didn’t leave him. The dream—no, the nightmare—was still fresh in his mind. The man with the cape. The spider sinking its fangs into him.

Peter’s chest tightened as he ran his fingers over the spot where the spider had bitten him. The pain still lingered, sharp and all too real. This couldn’t have been a dream.

Could it? His fingertips hovered there, as though some part of him was desperate to confirm, to know whether  it had been real or not.

And then came the magician’s face—etched into his mind like a scar. Peter could still see his guilt-ridden expression as he gave that command: Go to New York.

A low growl of frustration escaped Peter’s throat. He pressed his palms into his eyes, his head pounding as he tried to remember. He had gone to New York, hadn’t he?

But what had he done there? His mind was blank, save for the memory of arriving in the city. It was as though someone had scrubbed the rest away. Was this all the magician’s doing, too?

Peter groaned, louder this time, as if the sound could drown out the thoughts clawing at his skull. He didn’t want to think about it anymore. He couldn’t. Not tonight. Reaching for his phone, he swiped through the flood of notifications.

Family. Again. Messages from every sibling, popping up one after the other.

Are you okay?

Where are you?

Call me back.

He ignored them all. They already knew where he was—or at least they thought they did. He couldn’t handle them right now.

One message, however, caught his attention.

‘DUUUUUUDE!!!! is this you?’

Peter’s brows furrowed as he opened it. Right before he could reply, another message arrived—a link.

Curiosity prickled at him as he clicked it.

{WAYNE’S KID PUTS THE RICH IN THEIR PLACE AT SPIDERMAN’S MEMORIAL!! }

“What the . . .” he muttered in disbelief, his heart pounding as he stared at the screen.

The view counter ticked up rapidly, already at 500,000.

Peter’s stomach dropped.

“Parker…” His voice was low, trembling with frustration. “What the heck did you do?”

Dread churned in his gut as Peter pressed play .

Chapter Text

Peter Parker 

Peter’s mood was ruined. He thought maybe, just maybe, he could make the best of tonight, but things only got worse. Even after everything, nothing felt right. Just thirty more minutes, and it would all be over. But the question gnawed at him—was any of this worth it?

The food was good, sure. The decorations were extravagant, and the atmosphere reeked of wealth and influence. But no one talked about Spider-Man. No one talked about what he had done, what he had sacrificed.

It wasn’t about wanting the applause. It wasn’t about the recognition or the headline. Peter didn’t care about any of that. What infuriated him was how hollow it all felt—how Spider-Man’s sacrifice had been twisted into a cheap, attention-grabbing spectacle. A headline. A ploy to rake in donations and stroke egos.

It wasn’t genuine.

And Peter hated that.

All they cared about were photo ops, mingling with guests, and indulging in the lavish spread. Peter had had enough.

He told himself he was gonna behave for the sake of Grayson but making a stunt out of Spiderman—Out of him?

He pushed back his chair and made his way toward the stage, his mind racing. The large banner for the event loomed above, bright and bold.

The podium and microphone stood waiting at the center of attention. Bruce had already taken his seat, a subtle nod signaling the event was winding down. The night would soon end, but not like this. Peter wouldn’t let it.

He tapped the microphone, the sound echoing through the room. Conversations hushed, heads turned, and confusion filled the air.

“Excuse me, may I have your attention, please?” Peter’s voice, steady but firm, carried through the hall.

All eyes were on him now, puzzled, some even annoyed. A teenager commanding the stage at an event like this?

“Thank you all for attending tonight. I want to begin by expressing my gratitude to the amazing people who made this event possible—the chefs, the organizers, everyone who worked tirelessly behind the scenes.”

He paused, glancing toward Bruce. “And, of course, my father, Bruce Wayne. Without his generosity and commitment to Gotham, this event wouldn’t exist. Let’s give him a round of applause.”

The audience clapped politely, a few murmurs of approval rippling through the crowd. Bruce gave Peter a small, hesitant nod, but his face betrayed concern. Peter waited for the applause to die down before continuing.

“As you all know, tonight is about remembering the sacrifice of our brave hero, Spider-Man.” His voice faltered for a moment, but he pressed on.

“That day, when the Joker unleashed chaos on the city, Spider-Man stood alongside Batman and his team. Together, they fought to protect Gotham. And Spider-Man—” Peter’s voice caught, he had to make sure his acting was on point— “he gave everything.”

A heavy silence settled over the room. Peter’s grip on the podium tightened as his voice dropped, laced with frustration.

“But here’s what I don’t understand. Where are those heroes now? The ones who fought beside him that day?” His eyes scanned the crowd, his gaze sharp and accusing.  “Isn’t it ironic? Spider-Man’s the only one who didn’t walk away, and yet none of them are here tonight. Not Batman, not Red Hood, not Robin—not one of them.”

Murmurs spread through the audience, some shifting uncomfortably in their seats. Peter’s family sat frozen at their table, their mouths slightly open, stunned into silence.

“Spider-Man gave his life for Gotham, and what does he get in return? A dinner? A few kind words? From a room full of people who’ve probably never struggled for anything in their damn lives.” Peter’s growled angrily as he leaned closer to the mic.

“The GREAT HEROS of Gotham who he fought with couldn’t even be bothered to show up and say thank you. Can you EVEN believe that”  Peter laughed a bitter laugh as he pulled the mic away from the podium.

He gestured toward the cameras stationed at the event. “Hey Batman, if you’re watching this, I hope you and your precious Bat-Family feel ashamed, you have all those cars and fancy gadgets and for what? You’re not even worth my time—On second thought don’t even think about showing your stupid face!”

The air in the room felt suffocating, the weight of Peter’s words pressing down on every person there. His next words were quieter but no less cutting. Then he turned back to the audience his face burning with fury

“You all disgust me! You sit here laughing, eating, pretending this is some noble gesture while people outside these walls are dying. Struggling. And what do you do? Throw a fancy party. For what? To make yourselves feel better?”

Then he turned to Bruce now, his voice burning with anger. “You think this is enough? That Spider-Man would’ve wanted this? The money you wasted on this gala could’ve actually helped someone. It could’ve saved lives. But no—why do that when you can dress up and drink wine that is wit worth someone’s three months of rent”

Peter pointed at the table his family was sitting on, at the wine that was place on the table.

Bruce’s face was unreadable, but the tension radiating from him was palpable. Around the room, whispers grew into a low roar of discomfort, anger, and shock. Peter met Bruce’s gaze, unwavering. 

“I hope you’re ashamed, Bruce. Because I sure as hell am.”

—-

“What the hell were you thinking?” Bruce’s voice thundered through the room, sharp and unforgiving. They were in the living room of Wayne manner and Peter standing at the center. 

“What I said was true,” Peter retorted, his voice fierce, his fists clenched at his sides.

Bruce’s face tightened, his jaw set in that familiar “You really outdid yourself this time.”

Damian scoffed from the side, crossing his arms with a sneer. “You know, Peter, you’ve got a real talent for making things worse than they need to be.”

“Oh, shut up, Damian,” Peter spat, cutting him off. “No one asked for your opinion. You’re not even old enough to know what’s going on.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed, his fists clenched at his sides. “What did you say?”

Peter stood taller, leaning in toward Damian. “You heard me, brat.”

“Enough, both of you,” Dick intervened, his tone steady, though his gaze was hard. “Peter, I understand you’re angry, but the way you went about this—this isn’t the right time to air your grievances. This could hurt Bruce’s reputation—our family’s reputation.”

Peter’s face twisted in frustration. “Is that all you care about, Dick? Reputation ? Spider-Man died, and all you’re worried about is how this looks to them ? To the people who’ve never struggled a day in their life?”

Dick’s expression faltered for a moment, but Bruce’s voice was cold when he spoke.

“Peter, the point of the memorial was to raise funds for the city’s recovery. The damage from the recent events won’t repair itself. The people there were the ones who could help us make that happen.”

Peter’s eyes flared with rage. “You’re a billionaire, Bruce! You can stop the hunger! You can stop the crime, the corruption! Hell, you could fix this entire city if you wanted to, but instead, you stand there and act like this charity gala is going to make a difference?” His voice shook with raw fury as he pointed an accusing finger.

Bruce stood frozen for a moment, his face unreadable, but Peter’s anger only grew.

“Fighting crime is for Batman and the heroes,” Bruce said, his voice tight, but Peter was too far gone to care.

“And who do you think funds Batman, huh? Who do you think funds all his cars and gadgets and his team huh!?, you think I didn’t know?” Peter argued back his voice echoing in the hall.

“If Batman truly gave a damn, if he even cared about the people Spider-Man died to protect, he would’ve been there. His team would’ve been there. But no—they all disappear when it’s convenient. And here I am, stuck with all your damn excuses!”

The room was suffocating now, thick with the weight of Peter’s fury. His words hung in the air, crackling with the tension of everything he couldn’t say, everything he was holding in.

“You don’t know anything,” Bruce said finally, his voice low but lethal. “You have no right to talk about things you don’t understand.”

Peter’s rolled his eyes as he said sarcastically

“Gee, I wonder why, Bruce. Maybe because no one ever bothers to tell me what’s really going on. Maybe because I’m just a kid to all of you, huh? I don’t have the right to be angry when the whole damn city’s falling apart, and all you do is pretend to care!”

Peter’s breath came in ragged gasps, his words barely controlled as he stared down Bruce. The anger was all-consuming now, but the anger was for Grayson towards his family and the crap that he had to deal with all this time-

“You’ve done nothing but make him feel like a burden for his entire life, And you know what? I’m sick of it.”

Peter didn’t understand what Grayson saw in them, but one thing was clear: he didn’t want to be anywhere near them anymore. The tension, the anger—it was all too much, and he was suffocating under it.

Suddenly, his vision started to blur. The edges of the room seemed to melt away, and his body felt light, like it wasn’t fully his own anymore. The voices around him faded, their words growing distant and harder to make out. He tried to blink, to focus, but it was like his brain wasn’t responding.

Was all this anger really making him so tired?

Before he could even think about it, the world went completely dark.

Chapter Text

Peter Parker

The smell of Aunt May’s cooking woke Peter up—but not in the way he would have liked. It wasn’t the warm, inviting aroma of pancakes or fresh coffee that roused him. It was the yelps, the frantic clatter of utensils, and the unmistakable hiss of something burning.

“Argh, not again,” Peter groaned, pushing off his covers.

His feet hit the cold floor, and he stumbled half-asleep through the narrow hallway of his tiny apartment, bumping into the doorframe on his way to the kitchen. The scent of smoke and overcooked batter grew stronger.

There, in the middle of the chaos, stood Aunt May. Her long brown hair was pulled into a tight bun, though a few strands had escaped in the heat of battle.

Her apron—clean when she first put it on—was now streaked with flour and batter. Her brown eyes were wide with alarm as she desperately tried to salvage the pancakes before the smoke alarm betrayed her efforts.

She turned quickly when she saw Peter standing there, guilt flashing across her face.

“Oh… Peter, did I wake you up again?”

Peter sighed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes before offering a tired smile.

“It’s alright. I like the smell of burnt pancakes in the morning,” he teased, stepping forward to help her clean up the mess.

May let out a breathy laugh, shaking her head.

“I really need to stop doing this.”

“Don’t worry about it, Aunt May. I’ll make breakfast.”

Though still looking apologetic, May leaned in and kissed Peter’s forehead.

“What would I do without you, Peter?”

Peter smirked as he grabbed the spatula from her hands.

“Well, definitely everything except cook.”

Aunt May laughed, swatting his arm lightly before retreating to her room to change.

With her out of the kitchen, Peter took over. He cracked eggs, flipped pancakes (ones that weren’t charred beyond recognition), and made coffee while the apartment filled with the warm, comforting smell of properly cooked food.

By the time May returned, dressed for the day, the table was neatly set, the kitchen was spotless, and Peter was placing the last dish on the table.

He called her over, and they both sat down, Peter ate as he talked.

Peter recounted his night, how he and Ned had pulled an all-nighter cramming for a brutal exam, and how he was planning to take MJ out that weekend.

May listened, nodding along as she sipped her coffee while he rambled on about nothing in particular.

Peter knew it wasn’t real—how could it be? It was just a construct, a safe space he had built in his mind on nights when despair threatened to consume him. Every morning, he envisioned himself here, in his aunt’s apartment, wrapped in its familiar warmth.

Call him crazy—maybe he was—but it was better than the nightmares. Better than the exhaustion of endless, sleepless nights. And eventually over time, it became second nature, an unspoken refuge he slipped into without effort.

A place where, if only for a little while, he could pretend the world hadn’t fallen apart.

There was a short pause before May spoke again, her voice softer this time.

“And how’s Gotham?”

Peter exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair.

“Tiring,” he admitted.

“How so?”

Peter ran a hand through his hair, trying to put his frustration into words.

“Gotham’s a mess. It’s every man for himself, the police are corrupt, people die, children starve, and the rich… they just ignore everything.”

He hadn’t even realized how much it weighed on him until he said it out loud. Even after months of living there, he still wasn’t used to it.

“And you’re not doing anything about it?” May questioned

“I did” Peter started “then I died” he finished with finger quotes at the end.

May’s brows furrowed but she didn’t press any further. “Okay then What about the Wayne family? Tell me about them.”

Peter hesitated, his fork poking absentmindedly at his food as he thought about it.

“They’re… not that bad, I guess . . .” he said finally. He went on a rant about each member of the and how most of them were adopted by Bruce except for Damien.

The dynamic and what he had observed. The bond that he Peter had been a little bit jealous about. For Peter he felt like he was stranger invading in someone home—he was but.

He wished he wasn’t.

“But I have this friend—well, I don’t even know if we’re friends. We share a body. Or maybe we are the same person? I don’t know. It’s kind of confusing to explain.”

He glanced at May, as if waiting for her reaction.

She gave him a patient look, silently encouraging him to continue.

“He’s Dick’s younger brother and he kind of reminds me of me” he said his hands clasped together sadly

“How” May  asked

“I’m not saying because he looks like me or has the same name, but he reminds me of myself before I got bit by the spider, before I became—spiderman”

Peter never thought he would miss the days when he wasn’t spider-man but seeing Grayson and how innocent he was— will he ruin that?

“But He’s treated differently in the family” Peter murmured. “And I just don’t like it at all”

“You must really care about this boy.”

“I don’t know,” Peter admitted. “To be honest, we kind of just met a few days ago, so…” He shrugged.

“But you called him a friend” May added “that should mean something right”

Peter paused for a moment wondering did he really care about Grayson? Or was it the fact that they were sharing a body that made him want to care.

“Anyway, you should meet Alfred. He knows how to make the best pancakes.” He changed the subject

“Oh?” Aunt May’s eyes widened. “So that’s where you learned to make these amazing pancakes?”

“Yeah!” Peter said, his face lighting up. “When I had them for the first time in Gotham, I knew I had to learn how to make them. I begged him to he was reluctant at first but then Alfred finally gave in. And I wanted you to be the first to try them.”

May gave a soft chuckle. “Well, I’m sure they taste lovely.”

But Peter noticed something—her plate was still untouched. She hadn’t taken a single bite. Peter eyed the kitchen as he noticed his space glitching in and out.

“You know,” May continued, as if drawing his attention back to her, May’s voice gentler now, “you should give this family a chance. After all, they don’t seem like bad people. Maybe the’ll except you too”

Peter’s smile faltered. If Peter revealed himself would they accept him— as Peter Parker? He closed his eyes, inhaling slowly before exhaling. He didn’t want it to end. He didn’t want to wake up to his reality

“I don’t want to go back.” Peter murmured

May tilted her head, concern etched across her face. “Peter you can’t stay here forever. Running away from grief isn’t the answer”

“Can’t I though? I want to be with you, MJ, Ned?” Peter pleaded. His voice cracked slightly. “I want to come home. I’m tired of fighting. I’m tired of pretending. ”

Aunt May reached out, cupping his cheek. Her touch was warm, soft—comforting. But at the same time he couldn’t hear her heart beat. The chest was hollow and empty like a shell. she said nothing, after all—

May was dead.

Gone.

Peter could feel her fade and disappear

“Peter,” she finally spoke, her voice an echo, distant yet firm. “ With great power comes great responsibility. ”

The last words that were said to her as she died in his arms, Peter reached out and tried to grab aunt May again, only to pass right through her.

“I—I…” Peter’s voice broke. As he tried to reach for her again“I don’t want it. I don’t want this anymore. ”

“This is a burden only you can carry,” May whispered.

“The burden of being sPiDeR MaN”

Then a giant spider came into view and

swallowed Peter whole shattering his dreamscape as it left him in complete darkness.

Peter’s eyes shot open.

Grayson’s voice pulled him back to reality. “Parker!”

He blinked, dazed, before realizing he was no longer sitting at the kitchen table. The comforting warmth of home was gone. Instead, he found himself in the dimly lit warehouse—the one he had been using as his hideout in Crime Alley

“Hey! Parker! ”

Peter turned up toward the voice, Grayson was stuck to the ceiling’s his legs dangling as he swung helplessly back and forth. His face was scrunched in frustration, his cheeks burning red.

“Help me” Grayson cried. Peter couldn’t help but burst out into laughter. As he remembers his first time dealing with his sticky power.  This situation almost made him forget about the pain of the dream that he had moments ago.

“Man” Peter started “looks like your in a sticky situation”

“It’s not funny,” Grayson’s voice cracked struggling against the sticky mess. “C’mon, Parker, help me out here! ”

“Please” He pleaded.

Peter wiped a tear from his eye, grinning. “Yeah, yeah, hold on,” he said, stepping forward.

“You need to relax your fingers a bit,” Peter instructed, watching Grayson struggle.

“What do you mean? I am relaxed!” Grayson snapped, his body rigid as he hung suspended in the air.

Peter sighed. “No, no—you’re not. You gotta think of what makes you calm.”

With ease, Peter scaled the wall, moving effortlessly as if gravity had no hold on him. His movements were fluid, natural.

“Go to your happy place,” Peter continued, now crouching upside-down on the ceiling. “Think of the good things in your life.”

Grayson shot him a glare. “ Oh, that’s a little difficult when you just embarrassed my entire family on live television! ”

Peter frowned. “They had it coming.”

Grayson gritted his teeth, frustration boiling over. He swung his legs up, using them as leverage to push his hands free—but the second he did, his feet stuck to the wall instead.

His arms flailed for balance, and for a brief second, he looked absolutely ridiculous. Peter snorted.

“You,” Grayson grunted, twisting his body to try and get loose, “went on national television using my face —and dragged my entire family through the mud.”

“Hey, it’s my face too,” Peter shot back, folding his arms as he dangled from the ceiling. “They used Spiderman to raise money for some stupid gala.”

Grayson clenched his jaw, his expression darkening. “That ‘stupid gala’ was supposed to help thousands of people.”

Peter’s smirk faltered slightly, but he kept his voice even. “Yeah? And how much of that money do you really think was going to the people who needed it?”

Grayson didn’t answer right away.

Peter tilted his head. “Exactly.”

Peter, still upside-down, watched him struggle. He could’ve easily just asked Grayson to switch and he would jump down but he needed to learn how to control his power or he can say goodbye to having an easy life.

“Relax your whole body,” Peter said, his voice soft but steady. “Think of it like a pillow. Or a feather, and you’re falling into a cloud.”

Grayson shot him a glare, skepticism written all over his face. Peter could practically hear the argument forming in his head Still,  The sharpness in his expression dulled, just a little. He let out a slow breath, his shoulders loosening—barely, but it was a start.

For a second, nothing happened. Then—Grayson’s foot peeled away from the wall.

Peter grinned. “ There we go.”

Grayson’s eyes snapped open, startled by the sudden shift in balance. He wobbled, his muscles twitching like he was ready to fight against gravity again.

Peter raised a hand before he could panic. “Nope—stay loose. You got this.”

Grayson hesitated, his entire body caught in the battle between instinct and trust.

Peter could see it—the way his muscles twitched, screaming at him to resist, to fight for control. But then, finally, he let out a slow breath. His fingers adjusted, just barely gripping the wall.

And then—he slipped.

Gravity took over in an instant.

With a startled grunt, Grayson dropped from the ceiling, arms flailing for something— anything —to grab onto. But there was nothing. Just open air and the inevitable—

Thud.

He landed flat on his stomach, the impact echoing through the warehouse. A muffled groan followed.

Peter blinked.

“ Well —” he dragged the word out, tilting his head “That’s one way to get unstuck.”

Grayson’s fingers twitched against the concrete. Slowly, he lifted his head, his face contorted into something between a grimace and a glare. His hair was a mess, his pride even more so.

Peter rested his chin on his palm. “ Technically, that was progress,” he said, his tone way too casual.

Grayson groaned, rolling onto his back. “I hate you.”

Peter jumped down landing on his two feet effortlessly then reached down, offering a hand, but Grayson swatted it away as he stood up, his movements stiff with anger and frustration.

“You have no right to judge my family. You don’t even know them,” Grayson said angrily his words cutting through the tension between them.

Peter’s jaw tightened, his response bitter. “I don’t need to know them to know that people like them—rich people—they don’t give a damn about anyone but themselves.” His voice wavered slightly, the words like acid on his tongue.

Grayson’s eyes darkened, his expression shifting to something more guarded. “Then what about Tony, huh?” His voice was sharp, accusing. “What about him?”

Peter’s heart lurched, caught off guard. “ How—“

Grayson pointed to his head, his gaze unwavering. “I’ve been having dreams of him. Or should I say… memories. Since the way you reacted tells me so”

Peter’s breath hitched, panic creeping into his chest. No, he couldn’t have—

“Which means you’re not even who you say you are,” Grayson’s voice lowered, almost a whisper, but the weight of the words hung heavy in the air. “You lied to me, didn’t you?”

Peter was frozen, unable to find the right words.

He’s thought he would ride out this lie for a little bit but to be revealed so soon?

Grayson stepped closer, his eyes piercing. “So who’s Tony then, huh? Your dad? A mentor?” His tone was bitter, almost cruel. “I’ve seen his personality. And for the kind of rich people you blame? His personality fits them perfectly.”

Peter felt the sting in his chest, the words like a slap. “Don’t,” he choked out. “You don’t know him.”

But as the words left his mouth, something clicked inside Peter—a realization so sharp it hurt. He had been so quick to judge, so focused on his own anger, that he had failed to see what was really happening. And Grayson—Grayson was doing the exact same thing.

Grayson’s voice softened, though there was no warmth in it. “Now you see what I mean. My family’s not perfect, Peter. Sure, they’re far from it. Sometimes they’re cruel.”

“But they give more to this city than all the people you’ve grouped them with. You can’t just throw them into one box because you think you know them.”

Peter felt a tightness in his chest.

“You might not like the way Bruce does things, but he’s no Spider-Man. Or Batman. And if you’d taken the time to listen—if you’d asked, or even involved yourself in the way they do things—you might have seen it differently.”

Grayson stepped closer to Peter as his frustration boiled over

“They are tons of foundations like orphanages and free clinics, that are free because my Dad pays for them! Did you know that Parker?”

There was a long silence between them. The weight of Grayson’s words hung heavy in the air, and Peter felt a twist in his gut.

He didn’t agree with everything Grayson said, but there was doubt now, creeping in, gnawing at him. Had he been too quick to judge? Had he been wrong?

Grayson’s voice broke the silence again, his words sharper now. “The real person you should be mad at is Batman. Him and his team fight crime every damn night, and yet the crime rate’s still sky-high!”

Peter looked at Grayson, his expression hardening as he spoke. “Okay then we’ll agree to disagree.”

Grayson stared at him, disbelief flashing across his face. “What? Didn’t you hear what I just said?”

Peter’s voice softened, the weight of his words heavy in the air. “I did. And you’re right. I shouldn’t have judged Bruce. Heck, I still do, but… you wouldn’t understand unless you’ve lived it,”

Peter walked away from Grayson making his way toward the broken window as Crime Alley came to his view.

He could hear the screams of people in the streets. Gunshots, kids crying for their mother everywhere. He closed his eyes as drowned out the noise

“ imagine wondering everyday if you’re gonna die, or what when your next meal is gonna be and a spoiled brat like you or Bruce wouldn’t understand”

He stopped , glancing down for a moment as the memories of Gotham, the endless cycle of death and despair, flickered through his mind.

“Being surrounded by people who struggle every day makes me wonder— with all that power and all that money, no one should be suffering. You’d think someone would’ve done something by now.” His voice wavered slightly, the frustration and helplessness surfacing.

He exhaled sharply  his hands shoved deep in his pockets. “Don’t you think so, too?”

If money wasn’t gonna save this city does it mean that he would have to put the suit on. Was Peter ready to be Spiderman again. To wear the mask? Bear the responsibility?

But if Bruce doesn’t do it and Batman is failing at keeping the city safe, then who will stop this. Peter couldn’t just watch this city die right? Could he?

Grayson watched him closely, his lips tight, eyes flicking with something Peter couldn’t quite place. “You know,” he said, his voice low but firm, “I really don’t like you.”

“How so?” Peter asked

“I thought I would but-” Grayson said, “I just don’t like you making my life a mess”

Peter met his gaze without flinching, a small, wry smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll grow on you.”

And just like that, it was over—another conversation cut short, unfinished yet complete in its silence. Neither of them wanted to pick it back up.

It was only then that Peter really looked at Grayson. His clothes were rumpled, his face smeared with dirt, and something about him seemed… off. A realization settled in Peter’s chest, heavy and unshakable.

What had happened to him?

The question formed before he could stop it.

“Hey… what are we doing here, anyway?”

—

Duke Thomas

Peter’s last message had been sent two days ago:

“Crashing at my friend’s house till everything calms down, luv you 😘 .”

Since then, the phone had been blowing up with messages—Tim asking who these friends were, Cass and Steph wondering when Peter would be back, even Alfred had texted him.

But all they received in return was Peter’s “seen” notification. No answers. No explanation. Just silence.

Alfred had dropped everyone off at the front of the school, and as they made their way inside, Duke could feel the tension in the air. Peter hadn’t been to school in a while, but today was different.

The whole school knew about the broadcast. Snickers followed them through the halls, whispers fluttering behind their backs like a shadow.

“I’ll give it a week,” Tim muttered as they walked. “After all, their families were called out too.”

But Duke wasn’t sure it would blow over that quickly. This felt different. More personal. People were taking Peter’s actions in all kinds of ways.

Steph and Cass seemed more stunned than angry. They were trying to wrap their heads around it, struggling to understand why Peter would do something like that.

Tim was focused on figuring out why Peter had done it, analyzing the motives, the consequences. Damien, of course, was furious. That wasn’t surprising. And then there was Duke.

Duke wasn’t angry, nor was he confused. He was upset. Not because of the call-out or the public mess. He could handle the fallout. But there was something deeper here.

Peter had done that for a reason, and no one knew why. The more Duke thought about it, the more he realized there something they didn’t fully understand.

What bothered him most wasn’t the broadcast or even the way the school was reacting. It was the way Peter had acted—how his demeanor had shifted in the middle of their conversation. That change, that sudden shift, didn’t sit right with Duke. He couldn’t help but wonder if there was more going on than anyone was letting on.

After breakfast Duke separated from his family to head to his first-period chemistry class, the one he used to share with Peter. But Peter wasn’t there. It seemed like he wasn’t coming to school today either.

The teacher started calling roll, each student responding with their name. When it came to Peter’s turn, the room fell into an uneasy silence. The teacher continued calling out names until the last student had responded.

“Alright, students, I know the past few days have been… unusual, given the recent news and broadcasts, but I trust it won’t disrupt class or affect anyone too much,” the teacher said, offering a reassuring smile.

A few students chuckled under their breath, glancing over at Duke. Duke rolled his eyes.

“Now, where did we leave off yesterday? Ah, yes, the periodic table…”

The door creaked open, and Peter walked in. His breath was labored, his uniform wrinkled, and his backpack was hanging loosely over one shoulder. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, which was odd—Peter needed them to see clearly—and there were black earbuds stuffed into his ears.

“Sorry I’m late,” Peter panted, looking like he had sprinted through the halls.

The room fell into silence. Peter locked eyes with Duke and offered a nervous smile, the kind of smile that silently begged Duke not to bring up whatever had just happened.

“Mr. Wayne, I’m impressed you showed up at all today, considering everything that’s been going on,” the teacher remarked with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh, yeah, that’s on me. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again,” Peter mumbled, shuffling quickly to his seat.

Some kids watched and chuckled as Peter pulled out his notebook and pencils

“Uh Mr Wayne, headphones off please”  the teacher asked

“Uh sure of course”

Peter looked nervous as he -with shaky hands took his headphone off, Duke could feel the how nervous Peter was as he closed his eyes and gripped the edge of his desk. Then Duke watched as Peter took three quick breaths and opened his eyes as sweat trickling down his brow.

Duke narrowed his eyes at him as he pulled his phone out.

Batchat:

Duke: Guys, Peter made it to school.

Steph: Wait, really?

Duke: Yeah, he came running in.

Bruce: How is he… acting?

Duke: As normal as he can, I guess.

Dick: Does he look okay? Hurt?

Duke: His clothes are wrinkled, but he looks fine.

Damien: Unfortunately 😡 

Cass: Damien, please. That’s not nice.

Damien: Doesn’t matter to me.

Alfred: I’m glad Master Peter is safe.

Jason: Yeah, who do you think brought him in?

Tim: YOU? Where did you find him?!

Tim: Jason.

Tim: JASON.

Jason has left the chat

Tim: Damn HIM.

Alfred: language.

Dick: Just let me know if he’s okay.

Duke: Sure, I’ll keep an eye on him.

Duke glanced up and saw something he wasn’t expecting. There were two Peters. One was sitting casually next to Peter, talking to him. (Parker)

The first Peter(Grayson) wasn’t responding but he could tell that Peter was listening to him, however Duke couldn’t hear their conversation.

It looked like the ghost(Parker) was guiding him or teaching him something because Peter began to relax and let go of the desk.

Duke blinked again certain he was seeing things. But no—there it was, two Peters sitting side by side.

He needed to tell the others.

His fingers fumbled for his phone to text the group chat but the screen remained black

Shit—his phone died.

Duke’s heart pounded as he recalled the times Peter had seemingly switched personalities. How had they even met the first time? Was Peter a meta? What was really going on? His mind spun as he frantically tried to piece everything together.

The injuries, the sudden disappearances, the outburst at the memorial—of course! That wasn’t his Peter. It had never been.

Duke couldn’t resist looking up again—a mistake he immediately wished he could take back as the boy’s intense brown eyes locked onto his.

Chapter Text

Duke Thomas

In the classroom, while Mr. Martin was lecturing, and the students were taking notes, the small voices that whispered in the room paid no attention at all to the boy, but the boy’s presence was so intense he was wondering why he wasn’t being noticed. Duke almost forgot that he was seeing a ghost.

He looked exactly like Peter, but a little bit broader in the shoulders and his hair a mess. The only difference was this boy didn’t have glasses on.

And his eyes—his eyes were so familiar Duke could point them out when he saw them, like on the day Peter came back from New York, the family reunion, at the memorial, and… at this moment.

Now that same boy was looking right at him.

Empty, tired, and… curious.

Duke’s seen ghosts for most of his life, learned how to ignore, maneuver around them. Avoid their gaze and eye contact, look straight through. What worried him was if this version of Peter had noticed his fault in the beginning—his shock of surprise.

Duke had hoped he would have missed his expression. The boy circled around Duke slowly, each step slower than the last, as if he were waiting for him to make a mistake to prove his theory.

Duke had to act quickly . He picked up his pencil and began to write, focusing on anything besides him. He felt sweat trickle down his brow as the boy stopped behind him and his heart rising. Louder and Louder.

And for a single moment, the boy didn’t move.

He stood there for what felt like an eternity—which was probably about thirty seconds—then slowly walked back to Peter, shaking his head.

He wasn’t caught.

Duke breathed a small sigh of relief as his jaw relaxed. He tried to turn his phone on, forgetting that it was already dead.

He looked forward, his pencil resting against his chin, Peter seated right in front of him, his back facing towards Duke —and the ghost boy nowhere to be seen.

Where did he go? Did Peter know about this boy? What was his name? His motive? Was he the reason why Peter was disappearing all the time and constantly getting hurt?

All these questions ran through his mind. Duke wasn’t even able to focus.

“Mr. Thomas,” Mr. Martin called, grabbing his attention.

“Y-Yes?” Duke straightened.

“Would you like to answer the question?” Mr. Martin asked.

“Uhhhhh…” Duke paused as eyes turned to him. He had been so lost in his thoughts he wasn’t paying attention.

“The mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell?” Duke not sure he got the answer right.

The class started to chuckle as Mr. Martin lifted his brow. Peter turned to look at Duke, and they made eye contact, a small smile spreading on Peter’s face.

“Interesting, Mr. Thomas,” Mr. Martin said, “but we’re talking about the periodic table. It seems your mind is somewhere else to be paying attention.”

Duke’s eyes quietly darted back to Peter, then back to Mr. Martin

“Uh, no. I had a long week,” Duke said softly.

“Hmmm.” Mr. Martin eyed Duke, unimpressed, as his gaze lingered towards Peter. “I hope your personal matters won’t keep you from paying attention in my class.”

“Yes,” Duke said, straightening himself. “I’m sorry.”

Mr. Martin took one last long look and turned back to the board.

“Now, our lesson—” Mr. Martin started as his voice faded out again.

—

Duke got up from his seat and packed his things as soon as the bell rang. The sound of chairs scraping against the floor and people’s voices filled the room.

Just as he headed to the door, Peter, who was also trying to leave, bumped into him. They both stopped, and Peter stepped back.

“Sorry, Duke. You go first,” Peter said.

Duke smiled nervously. “Uh, yeah,” he said, stepping forward but then pausing. “You okay?”

Duke eyed Peter’s mannerisms—how he awkwardly looked down, how his fingers fidgeted with the strap of his bag, and the way he bit his lip nervously like he was trying to put the words together. It almost made Duke feel relaxed, like he knew he was talking to the real Peter.

“Look,” Peter sighed, “I’m sorry about the whole running-out-of-the-house thing—”

“Yeah,” Duke said, cutting him off. “You scared the shit out of us.”

“I sent y’all a text,” Peter replied quickly, his voice a little defensive. “You didn’t need to worry.”

Right before Duke could respond, his eyes caught Tim walking past the classroom, earbuds in, completely zoned out.

“Look, Peter, let’s talk later, alright?” Duke said as he brushed past him. “Just make sure you come home after school.”

But Duke couldn’t help but notice how Peter’s eyes lingered on him, in a way that made him uncomfortable as he walked off.

Duke made his way toward Tim, and without thinking, he grabbed Tim’s shoulders, stopping him mid-step.

“Whoa, dude,” Tim said, jerking one of his earbuds out. “You look spooked.”

Duke’s eyes widened slightly. “It’s about Peter,” he said quietly,

Tim’s face shifted from casual to serious real quick. “What about him?”

Duke opened his mouth to speak, but then the warning bell rang, snapping him out of it. Both he and Tim looked up.

“I’ll tell you at lunch. Just make sure to let the others know,” Duke said.

Tim hesitated like he wanted to ask more, but instead, he sighed. “Fine. You could’ve just texted the group chat, you know.”

Duke let out a breath. “Yeah, but my phone’s dead,” he mumbled, reaching into his back pocket out of habit. His hand froze.

His phone was gone.

“What’s wrong?” Tim asked, noticing the stressed expression on Duke’s face.

“I think I left my phone in Mr. Martin’s class,” Duke groaned, running a hand down his face in frustration.

“Look, just stop by before lunch and get your phone,” Tim said, shrugging it off like it was no big deal. “I texted the group chat about meeting at lunch, so we’ll see you there, okay?”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Duke muttered, nodding as they both headed off in different directions, disappearing into the crowded hallway.

Duke knew Tim had sent the message to the group chat they’d created called Bat Kids , which included Steph, Damian, Tim, Cass, and himself.

It was Tim’s idea. He thought it would be a good way for them to work together better as teammates, to stay connected when things got chaotic—which was basically all the time.

The day dragged on, every class feeling longer than the last. Duke kept glancing at the clock, tapping his pencil against his desk, his mind stuck on his missing phone.

And the ghost boy, By the time the bell finally rang for lunch, he shot out of his seat and made his way toward Mr. Martin’s classroom.

“Your phone?” Mr. Martin repeated when Duke asked. He glanced around his desk for a brief second before shaking his head. “I haven’t seen it at all today.”

Duke’s stomach sank.

“Oh… okay. Thanks anyway,” he mumbled, forcing a polite smile before leaving the room.

As he headed toward the lunchroom.

How did he lose my phone?

If not in the classroom… then where?

As Duke was about to reach the lunchroom, he spotted Damian down the hall. He was about to call out to him when suddenly a hand shot out, grabbing his arm and yanking him into a janitor’s closet. The door slammed shut behind him.

Duke’s breathing quickened. His back hit the wall, pressed against a mess of brooms and mops. The sharp edge of a mop handle dug into his spine as he stumbled backward, his foot knocking against an empty plastic bin, sending it rattling across the floor.

It was dark.

The person who’d pulled him in stood by the door, blocking any chance of escape. For a moment, they didn’t say anything—just stood there in complete silence. Then, with a quick flick, the overhead light snapped on, casting a dim, flickering glow over the small space.

Duke’s eyes adjusted, and that’s when he saw him.

Peter.

He almost jumped at the sight of him.

Peter was standing right in front of him, staring at him with an unreadable expression. But then—Duke’s heart skipped—standing next to Peter was… Peter?

No.

Duke’s eyes darted between them. He thought The second boy looked almost identical—same hair, same face—but his eyes weren’t Peter’s. They were different. Empty.

And then it hit him.

It was already too late.

Peter was standing next to the boy as a ghost, his form faint, like smoke fading in the air. A small, satisfied smile crept across the other boy’s face.

“I guess I was right, Grayson,” the boy said out loud, his voice calm and casual like they weren’t standing in a creepy janitor’s closet. “He can see us.”

Duke’s eyes snapped between the two of them, his chest tightening. He looked at Peter— the real Peter —who looked just as shocked. His mouth moved to saying something to the boy, but Duke couldn’t hear him.

“Who are you?” Duke managed to choke out, trying to regain his composure even though his heart was racing.

The boy took a small step back, tilting his head slightly. “Parker,” he replied, as his smile fell “You were pretty smart. I almost didn’t think you could actually see me, but…” He tapped his chest lightly “Your heart gave it away.”

What did he mean by that?

Duke could tell—this kid, Parker , is not someone to mess with. Then again for the last three months he’s been living under their noses and making a mess of everything around him.

“So…” Duke breathed, his chest tightening. “What do you want?”

Parker’s face darkened, the smug grin fading into something colder he put his hands in his jacket  “What else?” he said smoothly. “For you to keep your mouth shut.”

Duke narrowed his eyes. “And if I don’t?”

Duke shifted his stance slightly, squaring his shoulders like he was ready for a fight, he didn’t want to be intimidated by some ghost kid that’s taking over his brother’s body.

Parker’s smile crept back as he leaned in closer, lowering his voice so Peter couldn’t hear. “Then…” His eyes flicked toward Peter standing beside him. “It’d be a lot of trouble for both of us.”

Duke scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Is that a threat?”

It made sense, Parker’s identity has been revealed and Duke was about to expose him, he’d probably do anything to keep that from happening. Even if it meant trapping him in a janitor’s closet or using his brother as leverage.

Parker shrugged, stepping back just enough to give Duke room to breathe—but the tension didn’t leave the space between them. “Well, if you want it to be.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying Duke with eyes that seemed to look right through him. “You’re a meta, after all. I’m sure you’d understand… right?”

Duke clenched his jaw, holding Parker’s gaze.

Parker didn’t know the truth—that everyone already knew about Duke. That he wasn’t hiding from his family. And maybe that was a good thing. It’d make it easier to get closer, to figure out what Parker really wanted… maybe even protect Peter from him.

But does Peter even want to be protected?

Duke glanced at Peter, who stood silently off to the side, his eyes locked on Duke. He didn’t say anything. Just stared .

Duke could see it in his face—Peter was hurt. Not just because Duke was a meta, but because Duke hadn’t told him.

And Duke couldn’t help but wonder—what would happen if Peter found out everything ? If he found out about Bruce, about the family, about the life they were all living behind the masks?

Duke sighed, the weight of it heavy in his chest. He’d have to ask Peter later—when Parker wasn’t around. His eyes shifted back to Parker, studying him carefully.

“So… you’ll keep my secret about me being a meta,” Duke said slowly, “and I’ll keep yours about there being two of you. That right?”

“Exactly,” Parker replied, his voice smooth and casual, like they were just discussing homework instead of blackmail. “So, do we have a deal?”

Duke hesitated for a second before reaching out. Their hands met in a quick, tense handshake. Parker’s grip was firm, but Duke could feel the slight shift in his body—the way his shoulders relaxed, like he’d finally gotten what he wanted.

But when Duke glanced over to where Peter had been standing, he was gone. Just— gone.

“So… are you gonna let me go, or…?” Duke asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

“Oh, right,” Parker said like he’d forgotten, stepping aside and pulling the door open.

Duke moved to leave, but before he could get too far, Parker’s voice called out behind him.

“Hey.”

Duke turned around. Parker tossed Duke’s phone the screen reflecting the dim light as Duke caught it.

“You should be more careful where you leave your phone,” Parker said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Might get stolen.”

Then, just like that, Parker brushed past him, walking straight down the hall, past the cafeteria doors, and out of view.

Duke stared at the phone in his hand, his chest tightening. He turned it on. The screen lit up instantly, battery at 100%. Fully charged.

His fingers clenched around the phone, knuckles going white before he stuffed it deep into his front pocket. Then he made his way into the cafeteria, his stomach twisting. He didn’t even have the appetite to eat.

Tim spotted him first, his face twisted with impatience.

“Dude, where were you?” Tim blurted out, leaning forward.

“Uh… getting my phone,” Duke replied, forcing his voice to sound casual.

“For twenty minutes?” Steph asked, raising a brow.

“Yeah,” Duke mumbled, sliding into the seat across from them. “I had to… look around a bit.”

The table fell into an awkward silence. Duke could see they were almost done with their food—half-empty trays and crumpled napkins scattered around.

Tim broke the quiet. “So… you said you had something to tell us about Peter?”

“Uh, yeah,” Duke started, then hesitated.

The words felt heavy in his throat. He wanted to tell them. He should tell them. But what would Parker do if he did? And honestly, Duke didn’t even have the full picture yet.

But with his ability he might be able to keep an eye on them both.

“I just… he said he’s coming home after school with us,” Duke said finally.

He glanced over at Tim; The weight of his stare—sharp, piercing, Duke knew Tim didn’t believe a single word he’d said.

Chapter Text

Peter G Wayne 

Duke was a meta. When Peter first heard that from Parker, he thought he was pulling something out of his ass. But when it was revealed—well, aside from the initial disappointment of not being told—he was fascinated by the fact that Duke could see ghosts.

Now, Peter sat alone in the car with Alfred. It was the usual routine. None of his siblings ever came home with him—not until well into the night.

Streets and buildings blurred past as Peter stared out the window, his head resting against the windowsill.

It had been a long time since he’d slept properly, let alone in his own bed. Over the last two days, Parker had been teaching him how to control his new powers, like super hearing.

“Think of it like a volume button,” Parker had explained, sitting across from him, arms stuffed into his hoodie as he slouched in his seat. “You need to turn it down when it gets too loud—drown out the noise.”

Peter closed his eyes and removed his soundproof earbuds—enhanced by Karen an AI from Parker’s world. Which made sense, considering how advanced she was.

A wave of overwhelming noise crashed into him. Peter’s heart pounded as he clenched his eyes shut tighter.

People talking.

Dogs barking.

Street noise.

Car engines.

Radios.

Static.

The urge to shove the earbuds back in hit him instantly, but before he could, Parker stopped him.

“Remember what we practiced,” Peter barely heard him say.

“Right,” Peter exhaled as he responded to Parker in his mind , steadying his breath. “Focus on one sound.”

He imagined himself gripping a giant volume knob and slowly turning it down. His breaths came quick as he tried to hone in on one sound—just one. It took a few minutes.

Dogs barking.

People yelling.

A ball bouncing.

A radio—

Alfred’s Radio 

Peter focused on the radio.

“It looks like Gotham’s gonna be in chaos due to the increase in crimes—”

Static.

His focus wavered, and the pressure intensified. He could barely hear Parker anymore, but he pushed through, forcing himself to block out the rest.

”—As villains take to the streets, Batman and his team are working to capture as many as possible to keep the city safe—”

Suddenly, the radio became clear.

”—but we still have no word on the Joker’s whereabouts—”

Peter opened his eyes. The overwhelming flood of noise had dulled to a manageable hum. He glanced at Parker, who was grinning beside him.

“There you go,” Parker said. “Way better than yesterday.”

“Thanks,” Peter replied in his mind, a little awkwardly. Despite how rocky their relationship had been, he wouldn’t have made it this far without Parker’s help.

Peter had looked at Parker differently ever since he learned he was from another universe. Parker had admitted it two days ago, explaining how he was Spider-Man in his own world and how he’d ended up here.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Parker had said, voice laced with regret.

He went on to explain the plan—how his identity had been revealed, how he’d asked Doctor Strange-the caped man from his dream— to erase everyone’s memory. The spell was supposed to work, but instead, Parker had ended up in Gotham. Worse, he’d ended up in Peter’s body.

Peter wanted to be angry about that—about having his body involuntarily shared by an alternate version of himself.

But if he had been in Parker’s position, he probably would have done the same thing. It wasn’t the situation itself that annoyed him the most. It was the fact that Parker had lied.

The car neared Wayne Manor, rolling up to the front gate when something clicked in Peter’s mind.

“Hey,” Peter started, turning toward Parker. “If the spell didn’t work the way it was supposed to, what if it didn’t erase everyone’s memories completely?”

Parker leaned forward, brows furrowed. “What are you saying?”

Peter met his gaze. “What if . . .” He but his lip and  hesitating for a moment “the people you love… still remember you?”

Peter watched as Parker’s expression shifted, the weight of the idea sinking in. He could feel it too—the quickening pulse of his heart, the sudden rush of excitement. For a brief moment, a flicker of hope lit up Parker’s eyes.

Peter already knew what he was thinking. If—if there was a chance he could go back, if his family still remembered him, then maybe…

But just as quickly as it came, the hope faded. Reality settled in. They both knew the truth, even if they were a sliver of hope, a possibility.

There was no way for him to get back home.

——

“I don’t think I can do it,” Peter panicked, his heart racing, every instinct in his body screaming at him to stop.

“Come on, Grayson, just do it,” Parker huffed impatiently.

Alfred had dropped him off over half an hour ago, yet he was still standing outside the front door, unable to step inside.

What should have been a simple task had turned into a battle of willpower. Along with his super-hearing lessons, Parker had decided now was the perfect time to train his spider-sense.

The only problem? His spider-sense was actively stopping him from going in. Every time he tried, his whole body seized up, his nerves screaming danger.

Parker rolled his eyes and leaned against the doorframe.

“You know,” Peter started, exasperated, “we could just switch, and you could do the walking.”

“True,” Parker shrugged. “But I don’t want you exposing my identity just because you’re going through puberty.”

“This is not puberty,” Peter shot back.

Parker smirked. “Your body’s going through physical changes, right?”

Peter narrowed his eyes. “Yes”

“Then it’s puberty,” Parker finished. “Just… with superpowers.”

Peter groaned. He just wanted to go to bed. He could already picture himself under the sheets, finally getting some sleep.

“Look, man,” Parker sighed. “Unless you want to spend another night in Crime Alley—which, for the record, I don’t have a problem with—”

“Okay okay” Peter interrupted “I’ll do it”

Peter focused, trying to recall what Parker had taught him. He had to think of his spider-sense as another person—someone whose sole purpose was to protect him.

The key to controlling it was finding the root of the problem. At first, he thought it was the people inside, but no one was home.

That meant the issue wasn’t who was there—it was the house itself . If he wanted to sleep in his own bed tonight, he needed to figure out why his spider-sense was going off.

Gritting his teeth, Peter forced himself to step inside. The manor was silent, empty as always. Just him and the vast, hollow halls.

Yet every fiber of his being screamed at him to run . If Parker hadn’t been blocking the doorway, he might’ve bolted already.

Still, in a way, it was a good thing no one was home. He wouldn’t be able to do this if they were.

Taking a deep breath, Peter started moving through Wayne Manor, forcing himself to walk. He passed through the empty living room, then into the kitchen, his spider-sense flaring with every step. But as soon as he entered the kitchen, it toned down.

It was like a game of hot and cold.

Peter smiled slightly at the thought. He used to play that game with Dick when they were first adopted—along with hide-and-seek and tag—anything to keep his mind off losing his parents.

Now, he was playing it with the spider that had bitten him in his dream.

Peter lingered in the halls a little longer, letting himself adjust to the constant flare of his spider-sense. Even with its intensity, he was starting to feel more comfortable.

Parker walked beside him, hands in his hoodie pocket. “See? Would you look at that?” he said with a smirk. “Easy, right?”

Peter couldn’t help but smile slightly.

Noticing how drained Peter looked, Parker knew why. Staying in his physical form for too long took a toll on both of them, so they usually tried to limit it the time,Yet Peter was pushing himself. Maybe he was trying to distract himself from what they had talked about in the car.

It was a good theory. But in the end, it was still depressing to linger on—like finding a door with no key.

“Hey, Parker—” Peter started, but before he could finish, his spider-sense flared.

DANGER

DANGER

LEAVE.

Peter froze, his breath caught in his throat. His spider-sense had been loud before, but this—this was different. This was pure terror.

LEAVE.

NOT SAFE.

DANGER.

“What’s wrong?” Parker asked.

Peter barely heard him. They were standing in front of the main study’s door. His heart pounded against his ribs, his spider-sense screaming at him to turn back.

Parker followed his gaze to the door. His voice faded into the background. “Looks like we found our root cause.”

Peter couldn’t hear anything else. The intensity of his spider-sense made him want to run, but something held him in place.

It wasn’t his the need of sleeping in his bed driving him forward anymore.

It was something more.

What if his family was hiding something? What if there was something in that room he wasn’t supposed to know? He had been in there countless times before, yet suddenly, standing here now, nervous .

Like he was about to uncover a truth no one ever wanted him to find.

The answer to a question that had lingered in his mind his entire life.

Why did he always feel like an outsider in his own family?

Parker could tell how nervous Peter was. As Peter reached for the door, Parker stepped in front of him.

“Peter, if it’s too much for you, we can switch.”

Peter shook his head, his gaze never leaving the door.

“No,” he said, voice firm. “I need to know.”

The weight of dread settled in Peter’s chest as he unlocked the door, the creak of the hinges sounding louder than usual. He flicked the light switch, and the dim orange glow of the room filled the air.

It was cozy—warm. Bookshelves lined the walls, a small desk tucked in the corner—but despite the familiar, comforting surroundings, Peter felt an icy chill.

His spider-sense hummed louder than ever, drowning out everything else. He forced himself to keep moving, scanning the study. It felt like the end of the game, but he wasn’t sure if he was winning or losing.

His feet stopped in front of the grandfather clock. It had always seemed like it belonged here, yet now, in this moment, it felt completely out of place.

NO

NOT SAFE

GO

Peter’s spider-sense flared with intensity as he reached out, hand trembling. He hesitated for a moment, but then his palm slid across the surface of the clock, almost as if it were guiding him.

“Peter? What are you doing here?”

A calm, low voice made him freeze. Peter turned to see his dad in the room

Peter’s spider-sense screamed as his eyes flicked back to the grandfather clock.

“Peter,” Bruce repeated, stepping forward.

Peter could hear his heartbeat—thudding fast, like he had sprinted to get here.

Another step, and Peter’s spider-sense spiked again.

For a moment, he wondered if something in the room was causing the flare. But then it hit him.

It was Bruce.

The root cause of his spider sense. The reason he can’t sleep in his own damn bed.

Even though Peter thought he had figured it out, his spider-sense kept flaring to the point where he thought he might lose control. He couldn’t stay here anymore. He needed to leave. He needed to run.

Peter could see the stress on Bruce’s face, his concerned eyes flicking over to him.

Bruce was speaking, his hand on Peter’s shoulder, but the words were lost. His spider-sense was so loud, so deafening, that he couldn’t hear anything but the pounding in his ears.

It wasn’t until Parker gripped Peter’s shoulder that things shifted.

“Switch with me,” Parker said, his tone commanding. Without a word, they swapped places. The moment Parker took control, Peter’s spider-sense vanished, and he felt himself drop out of his body.

He collapsed to the ground on his knees, taking shallow, steadying breaths. While Parker was now talking to Bruce, his voice perfectly mimicking Peter’s, Peter realized he wasn’t the only one who pushed himself too far.

There was still a faint hum in his head, but after a few seconds, his heart slowed. His breath steady then  He stood up, relieved to be out of that body.

“If you’re gonna ask me to apologize…” Parker continued his voice poster and demeanor mimicking Peter’s it made Peter wonder how much he had to study to not get caught

Bruce shook his head. “No. You were right, Peter.”

“Uh… What?” Parker replied. Even Peter was stunned by the response.

“Even though the way you went about it was…” Bruce paused, “interesting, I understand what you mean. Sometimes it’s best to do more than just throw charity galas.”

There was a brief silence.

“Uh, yeah…” Parker stammered, equally speechless.

“So,” Bruce said, breaking the quiet, “I was thinking maybe you should volunteer at one of our new homeless shelters.”

“Tell him no,” Peter muttered, his frustration clear. He was already juggling too many things. The last thing he needed was to be roped into charity work—at least, not now.

“Sure,” Parker replied, unfazed. “Why not?”

“What?!” Peter shot back,

Bruce sighed as his hand landed on his hips . “Great. Since the last fight with the Joker, there’ve been more homeless people, especially children. They’ve been looking for volunteers.”

He placed a hand on Parker’s shoulder.

“I really appreciate that you’re doing this,” Bruce said, a sincere smile spreading across his face.

Peter watched, feeling like a spectator in his own life. Bruce’s smile, the way he led Parker out of the room—it was like watching someone else take what was rightfully his. As they reached the door, Bruce paused.

“You know, Peter,” Bruce started, his tone shifting to something more thoughtful, “what you did at the gala was crazy.”

Parker opened his mouth to respond, but Bruce cut him off.

“And stupid, but it was also great to see you stand up for what you believe in and I’m proud of you.”

Peter’s chest tightened. He’d heard those words before, but never like this. Not for him.

Then Parker walked out. The door closed softly behind them, and Peter was left standing in the silence, the weight of Bruce’s words still hanging in the air.

Parker headed toward Peter’s room, but Peter trailed behind, seething.

“Why did you say yes?” Peter asked, frustration bubbling up.

“Why not?” Parker shrugged, nonchalant.

“We have a lot of shit going on right now,” Peter snapped, his voice sharp. “The last thing we need is more unnecessary things.” He walked up to Parker, practically fuming.

“Volunteering isn’t unnecessary,” Parker replied, meeting Peter’s glare.

“It is to me,” Peter countered, his voice cold.

Parker scoffed. “Of course it is. You wouldn’t understand. Besides, why are you so upset? Your dad finally said he was proud of you.”

Peter froze, the words hitting him like a punch to the gut. He didn’t speak for a moment, the silence stretching between them. He didn’t have to speak because Parker could feel exactly how he felt.

“No,” Peter said, his voice low and deadly, his eyes narrowing as he glared at Parker. “He said he was proud of you .”

Chapter Text

Peter G. Wayne

Peter stood at the entrance of the homeless shelter, his backpack slipping off his shoulder. He just came from school.

He took a deep breath. If it weren’t for Parker, he wouldn’t even be here. But Parker was the one who agreed—Peter was the one who had to do it.

“Not ready?” Nightwing called from behind.

It was his dad’s idea for him to have company, since the shelter was deeper in Crime Alley, which meant more danger. But what Bruce didn’t know was that Peter had been here more times this month than he had in the past year.

Nightwing must have taken Peter’s silence the wrong way because he said, “We can come back another day if you’re not up for it.”

Nightwing, one of the vigilantes, had offered to take him through Crime Alley. There was a gentleness in the way he spoke, his firm hand resting on Peter’s shoulder. He made it feel okay —like leaving wouldn’t be a failure, like he could always come back another day. Peter wondered why a super hero would take his time out of his busy day to company him.

Peter shook his head

“Nah I’m alright” As he pushed the door open. He had already spent too long avoiding this place. After all It had been a month since the shelter opened.

Peter would constantly come up with any excuse to not go and it would work most of time until Parker threatened to do the volunteering himself, and the thought of Parker getting more recognition from his dad. Was what led him to come here.

As Peter stepped inside, the place was alive with movement. People rushed back and forth, carrying boxes and calling out to each other. Kids ran around him and around he had to stand still so he the kids wouldn’t get hurt.  A small smile grew on his face.

“Hey Get back here”

Some volunteers in purple shirts called out while being apologetic towards Peter. The kids ran around the corner and the volunteers followed.

Peter looked around in awe

From the outside, the building looked like nothing more than an three story old warehouse—meant to blend into Crime Alley and avoid drawing the wrong kind of attention; but inside, it was nothing like he expected.

It was clean, bright, huge . Marble floors stretched beneath his feet, and beige walls lined the hall, extending far beyond what he could see.

White lights glowed from every room, and a cool breeze drifted in through an open window. Peter was so caught off guard that he didn’t even realize his mouth was hanging open until Nightwing chuckled beside him.

Flushing, Peter snapped his mouth shut. “It’s just— it looks so nice.”

Nightwing smirked. “You do know this is just the entrance, right?”

But before Peter could answer, someone bumped into him, sending everything she was holding tumbling to the ground.

“Sorry!” the girl said, flustered as she scrambled to gather the scattered sheets. Peter started to move, but Nightwing was quicker, already crouching down to help.

“Hey, Mel, you good?” he asked, handing her a few papers.

“Oh, Nightwing! It’s so good to see you,” Mel responded, grinning. “I’m fine just- a little busy is all”

“You must be” Nightwing added “since your running this place”

“and it’s all thanks to you and Redhood for recommending me” Mel added as she pushed her hair behind her ear.

Peter stood there awkwardly as they talked for a few more minutes, feeling like an outsider to their easy conversation. When Mel finally straightened up, he got a better look at her.

She was about his height slightly taller, had long black hair that just brushed her shoulders, with fluffy bangs that rested on her forehead. Her lips tinted with a light pink lipstick and beautiful freckles spread all over her face.

Melanie’s hazel eyes flicked up and down, studying him.

Man she’s pretty.

She looked Peter studying him with a look that almost seemed… disappointed. They stood there awkwardly for a moment, the weight of her silence pressing down on him.

Until Nightwing finally broke it. “Uh—Melanie, this is Peter. Peter, Melanie.”

Peter awkwardly raised a hand in some half-wave and muttered, “Hi” His voice came out drier than he intended.

Melanie studied him again, this time with a frown. Peter didn’t need super senses to tell—she did not like him. Her nose scrunched in open disapproval as she spoke

“I know who you are,” she said coldly. “You finally decided to show your face?”

“Uh . . .” Peter hesitated, shifting uncomfortably. Something about Melanie made him want to stay on her good side—if that was even possible. “Yeah.”

Another awkward silence.

Nightwing cleared his throat. “Sorry about Peter, he—”

“Clearly can’t speak for himself?” Melanie cut in, folding her arms.

Way to go Peter forget about getting on her good side. That ship had already sunk.

“Uh—I think I can,” Peter shot back, heat rising to his face as he fought to keep his cool.

“You think?” Melanie raised a brow.

She exhaled sharply pointing at him. “Look, Mr. Wayne, I don’t want people who think they can do shit.”

“This isn’t a daycare for rich kids like you. It’s best if you just left.”

Peter’s eyes went with widened, as he looked at Nightwing, this girl did a whole 180 personality flip. One second she supper nice and the next she’s rude? Why?

Sure, Peter hadn’t done anything yet. And, this might be his first time working—his first time doing any real physical labor, but to be treated like this during their first meeting just because he came from a rich family?

Parker and Melanie would be best friends.  Peter rolled his eyes at the thought.

“You haven’t even given me a chance,” he said, trying to keep his voice casual while stepping forward.

Melanie scoffed. “A chance? Your chance left a month ago when you decided not to show up.”

“Well, I’m here now.” Peter shrugged. “ why make it such a big deal?”

“I mean—how hard can it be?” Peter said, arms crossing as he held his ground.

Melanie’s sharp eyes flickered with something—annoyance—but she didn’t bother responding.

Instead, she let the silence stretch, daring him to squirm under her gaze. Peter surprisingly didn’t as he glared back; was it because Parker was rubbing off on him? or was it because he didn’t like being looked down on?

Nightwing, watching the tension build, finally sighed and stepped between them, raising a hand.

“How about this,” he said, glancing between them. “Mel, you give Peter a trial run. If he doesn’t meet your standards, he’s out. Simple.”

Melanie’s expression didn’t change.

“It could be, like, a week,” Nightwing added, hoping to make the offer sound reasonable.

She let out a sharp exhale, finally breaking eye contact with Peter. Straightening up, she planted her hands on her hips, her fingers drumming lightly against her belt as she mulled it over. After a moment, she tilted her head, giving Peter a slow once-over.

“Fine,” she said at last. “Since you think it’s so easy, I guess people like you will just have to learn the hard way.”

Peter barely had time to process his so-called victory before she added, “But you start tomorrow .” Her voice was firm, dismissive, like she’d already written him off. Then, with a scoff, she turned away. “I’m not in the mood to see your face today, Wayne .”

Then Melanie smiled kindly at Nightwing.

Without another word, she grabbed the supplies she had set down earlier, and strode off in the opposite direction, not sparing him another glance.

Peter felt a surge of irritation as he stared at the way he was being portrayed. He knew he’d make her regret those words.

Just as the frustration started to settle in, his watch beeped, pulling him back to reality. He scowled, realizing how much time he’d already wasted.

—-

“Did the two of you fight?” Duke asked, leaning toward Peter, who was halfway through his lunch.

It was the next day, and Peter was at school, sitting at his usual spot in the cafeteria. Normally, he’d eat with his siblings, but ever since Duke had found out his secret, he’d been relentless with questions about Parker.

Like when he first appeared? Or is he dangerous? Or why he eats so much? It had been a month now, and the curiosity hadn’t died down.

“No.” Peter shook his head, mid-bite. “Why?” Then he rubbed his eyes as a yawn escaped his mouth

Duke shrugged. “I just haven’t seen you two in the same place for, like, a month.”

Peter paused, chewing over his next words. Duke wasn’t wrong. He and Parker barely talked anymore. It made sense, considering everything that had happened, but surprisingly, the distance had been Parker’s idea.

The whole reason Parker had revealed himself in the first place was to stay hidden—to work in the shadows without drawing attention. Live a quiet life, so when Parker made the offer, Peter had been pissed off enough to just go along with it.

Now, they had a system. Peter was active during the day, Parker at night. Aside from the occasional note or update, they barely communicated. They’d even set rules. Parker would start at 8 p.m. and be back home by 3 a.m. at the latest to make sure the body got enough rest.

Peter glanced up from his tray. “How’s he at night?” he asked, lowering his voice. “Does anyone suspect anything?”

Duke scoffed. “I’m surprised he’s lasted this long. He’s a terrible liar—not as bad as you, but still.”

He paused for a moment, tapping his fingers against the table. “I guess everyone’s just so busy these days that they haven’t really noticed.”

Duke paused for a second and Peter noticed the eye bags under his eyes, they were way deeper than his and he could see the exhaustion in his eyes. Why in the world is he so tired?

“Well, except—” Duke said

Peter followed Duke’s gaze and immediately regretted it. Across the cafeteria, Tim was staring at them, eyes sharp, calculating.

Peter turned away just as quickly, exhaling through his nose. He’s onto him. If Tim figured it out, the whole family would know. And once Tim had a hunch, he never let it go.

“You should go,” Peter muttered. “You’ve already spent more time here than you should. I don’t want to draw unnecessary attention.”

Duke raised a brow. “Wouldn’t it be more suspicious if you don’t come with me?”

Peter glanced back. He saw how they laughed and chatted, and it felt like Peter would intrude He knew it was better if he stayed away. There was always this feeling—like they were all hiding something from him, keeping him at arm’s length.

And it made him feel like an outsider.

“It’s fine” Peter added “besides I have something I need to do”

Peter yawned again regretting staying up late last night, wishing he’d just left everything to Parker instead.

Out of nowhere everyone’s phone chimed at once, followed by excited squeals. A group of kids huddled around a phone, eyes wide with anticipation. Excitement buzzed through the cafeteria.

“It’s finally here!” one kid practically shouted.

All around him, students were pulling out their phones—including Peter. He tapped the notification, which led to a news article.

{Red Robin, Spoiler, and Batgirl—Fail at Taking Down Metas}

Peter scrolled down and high-quality images filled his screen.

One showed Red Robin mid-fight against a Meta with wind powers, another captured Spoiler trying to keep track of the second Meta, and a still shot froze the moment she managed to pin them down.

As more students scrolled, the cafeteria filled with gasps and excited whispers. Then came the inevitable Oooohs as a video link popped up, showcasing the full fight.

Screens lit up across the room as students hunched over their phones, eyes glued to the footage. It played out in sharp, high-definition detail—Red Robin locked in a fierce struggle with a Meta who manipulated wind.

Spoiler darting across the battlefield, trying to keep track of the second Meta, and Batgirl diving in to assist.

The fight was chaotic, drawn-out, and far from the effortless victories Gotham’s heroes were known for.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, they managed to subdue the metas and take them into custody. But the damage had already been done. The crowd watching the footage knew what they were seeing—Gotham’s heroes struggling. Almost Losing, even.

Peter scrolled further, his brows furrowing as he read the attached message beneath the video:

-Over the past month, dangerous metas have been terrorizing the city—robbing banks, harming innocent people. Yet, despite having some of the greatest heroes, Gotham’s vigilante’s still can’t seem to keep its people safe.  
Do better. - 

— CA Inc.

A wave of voices filled the room

“Yoooo! That fight was crazy!”

“I honestly feel bad for those hero’s being caught in 4k”

“Man I can’t wait to see Batman fight villains”

“Do you think he win?”

“What about Nightwing and RedHood?”

Chuckles and laughs filled the room.

As Peter watched the room erupt into a heated conversation.

Suddenly a loud slam echoed through the cafeteria, making Peter and half the room flinch. Heads whipped around just in time to see Tim pushing back his chair with enough force to rattle the table.

His jaw was clenched, his expression unreadable as he grabbed his things and stormed out.

His siblings exchanged glances before quickly following him, their movements sharp with unspoken tension.

Peter watched them go noticing how Steph was limping out of the cafeteria , his brows knitting together. “What’s up with Steph?” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

His gaze lingered on the cafeteria doors as they swung shut behind them. He knew Tim admired Gotham’s vigilantes, but this reaction felt personal . Had the post hit a nerve?

Duke hesitated before sighing. “I better go check on them.” He shot Peter a quick glance, something unreadable in his expression, before jogging after the others.

As Peter watched Duke leave, he felt it again, a pang of envy in heart as he realized how far he actually was from his siblings, his phone vibrated, he pushed the feelings away and looked down at his phone to see dozens of messages under the article, but one private message made him smile.

CA Inc. : Loved the article. Keep up the good work.

Chapter Text

Peter Parker

Peter sighed impatiently, leaning on the edge of the building, his camera resting in his arms.

He adjusted the lens, trying to get a closer view while keeping himself out of sight—not difficult, considering he was dressed head to toe in black. A jumpsuit, a hoodie pulled low over his face, and a mask ensured he blended into the shadows.

After the last Article it had garnered a lot of viewers and Peter, it made him eager to come out and do it again, for a higher price of course.

His employer, CA Inc., had tipped him off that one of the vigilantes might show up here tonight. He peered through the camera. Nothing. Peter waited another thirty minutes before deciding this tip was a bust.

With a quiet sigh, he adjusted the camera bag strapped across his chest and tightened the straps of his backpack. Standing on the ledge, he closed his eyes as if trying to hear something—anything.

The cool wind brushed against his skin, and for a moment, Peter just stood there, taking it all in. It had been a while since he’d done this—been alone with just himself and the city. Strange, considering he’d been at it for a month now.

It was one uneventful day that Peter realized he needed money. Sure, he was living in a mansion with an alternate version of himself, but it still wasn’t his.

Grayson eagerly agreed, seeing as he didn’t really want Peter involved in his personal life. And Peter felt the same, so it worked for both of them.

Of course, taking pictures of superheroes wasn’t his first option, but he eventually found out it brought in more money.

After all, part of Peter felt that sooner or later he would get found out, and when that happened it would be much better if he wasn’t broke.

Peter tightened his grip on his camera as a troubling thought crossed his mind. If he was found out, then what? His original plan after arriving in this world had been to go to New York and start over but was that even an option anymore?

He shook his head. Not with Grayson. Leaving would be almost impossible—Grayson wouldn’t just abandon his entire family because of him . But if Peter could get him to trust him more, maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t be as difficult.

He pushed the thought aside. He’d cross that bridge when he got there.

—

After an hour of searching for anything, Peter was growing tired. It was almost his cutoff time—he had to head back to Wayne Manor soon when he heard something.

Quietly, he followed the sound he jumped over buildings trying to stay in the shadows then he made his way through underground tunnels, crawling along the sewer walls.

The stench was unbearable, and he had to fight the urge to gag. When he finally emerged, he found himself inside an underground warehouse.

Peering over the edge, he scanned the space. Large metal tanks were scattered across the warehouse, their cold surfaces gleaming under the dim lighting.

The place was eerily empty, the only sound coming from the occasional rodents the scurried between the pipes

“Okay? creepy underground lair” Peter said slowly

His spider-sense tingled.

Still clinging to the wall, he pulled out his camera and snapped a few shots. Vigilantes weren’t the only thing he photographed—if something posed a threat to the city, he made sure people knew about it.

“Karen?” Peter started  “Is it safe to go down?”

“I don’t detect any outside radiation but I suggest you go with caution” Karen responded

Peter dropped down from the ceiling, landing effortlessly, and moved closer to take more detailed shots.

“This might not make as much as the fights, but money’s money, I guess,” Peter muttered, glancing around.

He adjusted his camera a bit as he looked around. Aside from the smell this place was kept very well. In front of him were large grey tanks about 6ft tall.

“Peter,” Karen chimed in, her voice sharp with urgency. “I’m detecting high levels of toxin in these tanks.”

Peter shifted his focus, now filming a video of the tanks. “Yeah I don’t think your saying that as a good thing Karen”

“Because it’s not” Karen responded

“Mm-hmm” Peter replied back focused as he zoomed the camera

His lens panned across the metal structures until his eyes landed onto bold red letters printed on one of the tanks:

WARNING: FEAR TOXIN – DO NOT TOUCH

Peter’s brow furrowed. “Fear toxin?” He stepped forward. “What the heck is fear toxin?”

Karen responded instantly. “A chemical drug that induces extreme fear and hallucinations, created by a villain known as Scarecrow.”

Peter moved cautiously between the massive tanks, his fingers tightening around his camera.

“It’s highly dangerous,” Karen continued. “With this amount, it could terrorize the entire city.”

“That’s not good,” Peter muttered, placing a hand on the cold metal. A stockpile of terror-inducing gas, just sitting here, ready to be unleashed on the public—it made his stomach churn.

He stepped back, snapping a wide-angle shot of the entire warehouse.

“Looks like I’ve got all the the footage I need” Peter said satisfied

“Peter, I suggest we leave,” Karen urged. “We’ll inform the vigilantes about this place and—”

Suddenly, a voice echoed from behind Peter. His spider-sense spiked, sending a sharp jolt down his spine as he whirled around.

“Well, well, well,” the voice drawled, dripping with amusement. “Looks like a little rat has stumbled into the wrong nest.”

A figure emerged from the shadows, the dim light barely illuminating his skeletal face. His teeth, jagged and uneven, caught the glow in a way that made them seem sharper, more predatory.

A tattered hood draped over his head, casting deep shadows over his sunken eyes, and strapped across his worn, frayed cape were tubes filled with an ominous, murky substance.

He took a step forward, his movements slow, deliberate—like a spider closing in on trapped prey.

Peter instinctively stepped back, muscles tensing.

“And I’m guessing you’re Scarecrow,” he said, keeping his voice even.

The figure grinned wider, the stitches along his burlap mask pulling tight.

“The one and only.”

“Ew,” Peter responded in digust“Please don’t ever smile again.”

Scarecrow let out a low growl. “Oh, look at this cheeky little rat,” he sneered. “Shame you won’t be laughing when you’re choking on your own nightmares.”

Without warning, he hurled one of the tubes toward Peter. Peter dodged, flipping effortlessly over it, but the second the vial shattered against the ground, a thick red gas hissed out, spreading fast.

Peter sprang toward the wall, clinging to it as he yanked his hoodie up over his nose.

“Oooh, a meta ,” Scarecrow snickered, eyes gleaming with twisted amusement. “How fun.”

In an instant, he raised his gun and fired. A canister shot forward, spewing another wave of toxin straight in Peter’s direction.

“Shit,” Peter hissed, launching himself off the wall just as the gas billowed toward him. He hit the ground running, weaving through the room, every muscle in his body coiled with tension.

The gas was spreading fast. Too fast. If he didn’t figure out a way to get close, he was screwed.

Scarecrow’s laughter echoed through the warehouse. “You can run, but not forever.”

“I think I’ll take my chances,” Peter called back, trying to keep his breathing steady.

He cursed under his breath. If only he had his webs—this would be damn easier.

Peter flipped through the air, landing atop one of the massive tanks. Without hesitation, he tore off a jagged piece of metal and hurled it at Scarecrow.

“Catch!” he shouted, immediately grabbing another and launching it.

Scarecrow flinched as the metal clattered around him, momentarily distracted. That was all Peter needed.

He sprang off the tank, flipping over Scarecrow’s head, and landed behind him. Before the villain could react, Peter tackled him to the ground, ripping the gun from his grasp and tossing it aside.

Breathing hard, Peter tightened his grip, pinning Scarecrow down. “You lost,” he panted between breaths.

A soft cackle left Scarecrow’s mouth “no” he grinned widely “you lost”

Then—pain. A sharp sting at the side of his neck. A needle?

Shit.

Peter’s spider-sense screamed too late.

His body jerked as a cold, burning sensation spread through his veins. He shoved himself backward, stumbling, his vision swimming. The room blurred, the dim warehouse lights smearing into streaks of red mist.

A voice—low, taunting—whispered in his ear, curling around his thoughts like a vice.

“It’s all your fault.”

The air grew heavier, suffocating. Peter’s breath hitched.

“Thousands are going to die because of you.”

“No” Peter said quietly

“If only you had just minded your own businesses but you wanted to play hero?”

Scarecrow laughed again

Peter’s stomach twisted. Suddenly, the warehouse was gone, swallowed by the darkness, and when the world sharpened again, he was no longer standing in the middle of a fight.

He was on a sidewalk. His hands trembled, outstretched, reaching for a figure collapsing in slow motion.

A gunshot rang in his ears.

Uncle Ben hit the pavement.

“No—no, no, no!” Peter choked, his feet moving before he could think. He sprinted forward, dropping to his knees, shaking his uncle’s lifeless body.

“Somebody call 911!” he screamed, his voice breaking.

But the street was silent. No one moved, or responded they just watched as his uncle was dying

“Please!” Peter begged “please!”

And the blood wouldn’t stop pooling.

Uncle Ben’s eyes locked onto Peter’s, filled with something far worse than pain—disappointment. His lips trembled as he spoke, voice weak, yet cutting deeper than any wound ever could.

“You could’ve stopped him.”

Peter’s breath hitched. His hands, stained with blood that wasn’t his, trembled as they hovered over Ben’s chest.

Then, with a sudden burst of fading strength, Ben’s fingers curled into Peter’s collar, yanking him closer.

“Why didn’t you STOP HIM?!”

Peter flinched. “I—I didn’t know,” he stammered, panic rising. “If I had, then—”

“Why did you leave me to DIE?!”

His voice rang in Peter’s ears like a gunshot, louder than the one that had torn Uncle Ben from him in the first place.

“N-no,” Peter whispered, his throat closing up. “I didn’t mean to—I swear, I didn’t—”

But before he could finish, the world around him cracked.

Suddenly, he wasn’t kneeling in blood anymore.

He was standing.

Ned and MJ stood just a few feet away.

For a moment, the weight crushing his chest lifted. He almost sobbed in relief. They were here. He wasn’t alone.

“Guys!” His voice wavered, desperate, but hopeful. “It’s me!”

MJ’s expression hardened. She took a slow step back.

“Who are you?”

The words hit him like a punch to the gut.

Peter let out a shaky laugh, one that died the second he saw the look on Ned’s face. His best friend—his brother—looked at him like he was a stranger. No, worse. Like he was nothing .

“What?” Peter whispered, his heart pounding. “It’s me. It’s Peter .”

MJ curled her lip in disgust. “I don’t know you.”

Peter turned to Ned, eyes pleading. “Ned, come on. It’s me! We’ve been best friends since—since forever! You have to remember me!”

For a second, Ned hesitated. He took a step forward, reaching out, as if to comfort him.

Peter’s breath caught in his throat—only for Ned to shove him back.

“You left us,” Ned hissed. “Why would we ever want you back?”

Peter stumbled, his lungs squeezing like he couldn’t breathe. “No—I did it to protect you.”

MJ scoffed.

“Protect us?” she echoed, shaking her head. “You abandoned us. You don’t exist to us anymore.”

Peter’s vision blurred. “No. No, that’s not—”

Before he could say anything else, Ned shoved him again. This time, Peter didn’t fight it. He just fell.

“Peter.”

Aunt May’s voice was soft, warm—just like he remembered. When he opened his eyes, she was smiling down at him, her fingers brushing through his hair, gentle and comforting.

Peter’s breath caught in his throat. “Aunt May,” he croaked, reaching for her, desperate to hold on to this moment.

But before he could touch her—before he could breathe —her hands wrapped around his throat.

Tight. Unyielding.

Peter’s eyes widened in horror as her grip tightened, her soft expression twisting into something wrong .

He clawed at her hands, choking, gasping, but she didn’t let go. She didn’t budge .

“You should’ve died instead,” she spat, her voice filled with venom.

Peter’s chest burned. His fingers dug into her wrists, but he was too weak—too powerless to stop it.

“First my husband—then me !” she screamed, her grip crushing. “Why did you have to live?!”

Tears spilled down Peter’s cheeks, mixing with the gasps and strangled sobs that barely escaped his lips.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I—I didn’t—”

His vision blurred. His lungs screamed for air that wouldn’t come.

He wanted it to stop.

Please.

“You should’ve been the one to die” Aunt May growled

Was this the fear toxin?

Or was it the truth he had always been too afraid to face?

Then, the world around him dissolved into pitch-black nothingness. His body felt like lead—numb, paralyzed, trapped in the choas of his own mind. He didn’t need to see to know the voice.

“Kid.”

Tony’s voice, weary and laced with something Peter couldn’t quite place. A sigh.

The words that followed cut through him like a knife. “You’ll always be alone, no matter where you go or who you’re with. You’ll always be alone, and no one will ever really want you.”

Peter’s breath hitched in his throat, his chest tightening as if a weight had been dropped there. “T-that’s not true,” he gasped, desperation lining his voice, but it came out weak, fragile.

Tony’s figure materialized, crouching down in front of him, just close enough for Peter to feel the sting of the words before they hit.

Tony’s eyes—eyes that had once looked at him with pride, with warmth—now held something cold and distant, like he was looking at a stranger.

“You of all people should know,” Tony muttered, his voice filled with disappointment.

Peter tried to move, to reach for him, but his limbs wouldn’t cooperate. He wanted to beg—to scream for him not to leave, for him not to turn away. But Tony stood, slowly, and walked away. His back turned, fading into the darkness.

And there was nothing but darkness.

Was this it? Was this how it ended? Alone in the dark with no family, no home, just the remnants of a life that never got the chance to be whole. Fuck. If hadn’t given up being spiderman  have been in this situation. 

After what felt like forever A faint voice, distant but urgent, echoed through his broken thoughts.

“Parker.”

It was soft, almost a whisper at first, but then louder, more frantic.

“Get up!”

The voice—someone was fighting for him. But who? Who was it?

Grayson?

“How are you still standing?” Scarecrow’s voice rang out, filled with confusion, anger. “How are you not down from the toxins?”

Peter’s vision blurred, a fog creeping into his mind. His body shook, as if fighting against the pressure building in his chest.

“Dammit, Parker!” Grayson’s voice cracked with desperation, each word soaked with fear. “GET UP!! I need you!”

Peter’s eyes snapped open, heart hammering in his chest. Dammit —Grayson was fighting that madman, wasn’t he? Peter’s breath hitched, his body aching with every movement as he gritted his teeth, fighting against the waves of dizziness and pain.

The red mist clung to him like a suffocating weight, but he wasn’t going to give in. Not now. Not when Grayson needed him.

He hadn’t taught Grayson how to fight— God , he must be struggling out there. The thought of Grayson alone, vulnerable, facing that monster—it made Peter’s blood boil. He can’t do this alone .

Peter groaned, trying to shake the toxins from his mind, forcing himself to think clearly. He couldn’t let Grayson die. He couldn’t.

“PARKER!” Grayson’s voice echoed through the fog, sharp and desperate.

Peter’s heart twisted. No… He was coming. He had to be. He had to push through.

With every ounce of strength he could muster, Peter shoved himself toward the darkness. The red gas swarmed around him, pulling at his limbs, trying to hold him down like chains. No!

He screamed, struggling against the toxins, the voices twisting in his mind. But then, as if from nowhere, the gas was sucked away by an ear-piercing screech.

The pressure lifted. The weight on his chest was gone. The voices faded, leaving him with his own breath, his own thoughts.

He spun around, the darkness parting in front of him, and froze.

A massive spider stood before him, its eyes glowing in the dark, its form towering and menacing. But strangely, Peter didn’t feel fear. There was only a sense of calm that washed over him.

“PrOtECT!”

Peter stood still his heart pounding not from fear but from awe as the creature ,its voice now tinged with a protective growl.

“pRoteCT PeTeR!!”

In an instant, Peter was back in the warehouse. His heart sank as he watched Grayson dodge Scarecrow’s attacks, barely holding on.

“Grayson!” Peter croaked, his voice hoarse. “Switch with me!”

Grayson, his face drawn with fatigue, gave Peter a tired smile. “You’re so dead after this.”

And with that, they switched. Peter wasted no time. As soon as he was in control, he sprang into action. Scarecrow, now visibly nervous, began to release more of the gas, but Peter dove through the mist with precision and speed.

“How—Impossible! Only Batman—”

Before Scarecrow could finish, Peter’s fist collided with his face, the impact sending the villain flying backward, crashing into the wall with a deafening crack.

Peter didn’t pause for a second. He jumped toward him, grabbed him by the collar, and slammed him back down into the cold floor.

Every ounce of anger Peter had been holding onto exploded in that moment.

“You bastard!” Peter growled, his voice low and threatening.

Scarecrow tried to scramble away, his movements desperate, like a trapped animal. Peter stalked him, a predator watching as Scarecrow squirmed beneath his gaze.

“Please…” Scarecrow’s voice trembled as he raised his hands in surrender. “I surrender…”

Peter snarled, grabbing Scarecrow by the collar and lifting him off the ground with ease, his eyes blazing. “Surrender my ass.”

He tossed Scarecrow aside, the force of it enough to send him skidding across the floor.

“You threaten to kill innocent people, then drug me, make me relive my worst memories, and hurt my friend?” Peter’s voice was like ice. He walked toward Scarecrow, his steps deliberate and filled with fury. He rolled up his sleeves, his muscles tense.

He knelt down, grabbing Scarecrow’s collar again, his rage burning brighter than ever. “I’m gonna make you regret messing with me, asshole.”

He reared back his hand, his fist coming down with unrelenting force. “You’re lucky I don’t kill you, because this is a day you’ll fear for the rest of your fucking life.”

Peter saw the terror in Scarecrows eyes but he didn’t care with each punch, Peter’s anger fueled him, his fists connecting with Scarecrow’s face over and over, each hit more brutal than the last. Scarecrow’s screams grew quieter, his body limp under the onslaught.

The memories that flooded his mind, the deaths, his home, his mentor. it was like something that he was holding on since he came here exploded right at this very moment. Peter yelled out in anger with each punch. 

Even as Grayson tried to intervene, Peter didn’t stop. He kept going, the sound of his fists meeting Scarecrow’s flesh echoing in the warehouse, until all that remained was the sound of the villain’s heart desperately thumping in his chest.

Finally, Peter stopped. 

His breathing was heavy, his knuckles bruised and bloodied. He looked down at Scarecrow’s unmoving form, the fight draining out of him. He spat blood out of his mouth.

Peter looked at Grayson “are you okay?” He asked

“Well aside from waking up in an abandoned warehouse at the mercy of one of Gothams worst villains. I’m good” Grayson said trying to lighten the mood although he couldn’t stop looking at Peter’s bloodied knuckles. 

Peter try to smile but the pain in his face hurt, Grayson looked concerned as he hesitated for a moment he walked closer to Peter “are you okay?”

Peter could tell Grayson wasn’t asking about the injuries. He must have felt it too-

The pain. The Rage. The despair. 

”I thought you didn’t want anything to do with me?” Peter said sarcastically “I didn’t think you cared” 

“I-I don’t” Peter responded quickly but they both knew he was lying  “it’s just it’s your fault I’m in this mess so . . . ” 

Then they fell into silence

Peter bit his lip nervously, he had promised himself that he wouldn’t allow Grayson to feel his emotions ever again. He turned away not wanting to answer, feeling guilty.

Damn

This wasn’t how he wanted the day to end.

Peter leaned against the wall, trying to steady himself, as the pain and exhausted began to wear him down 

“Karen,” he rasped, his voice barely a whisper, “Send a message to the bats. They can deal with the rest of this crap”

“I already did, as per Grayson’s request,” Karen replied, her tone calm despite the tension. “They’ll be here in three minutes. It’s best if you leave as soon as possible.”

Peter stumbled forward but before he could move another step, his vision blurred; his knees buckled, and he collapsed to the floor, unconscious before he hit the ground.

Chapter Text

“The itsy bitsy spider went up the water spout…”

“Down came the rain and washed the spider out.”

A young boy sat on the doorstep of a large mansion, his knees pulled to his chest. How long had he been waiting? He wasn’t sure. He could have asked the butler, but the man was nowhere to be seen.

“Out came the sun and dried up all the rain—”

The only light on was the dim porch lamp above him, casting long shadows across the marble steps.

The only sound was his own voice, quietly singing the nursery rhyme in an attempt to stay awake. It was well past his bedtime, but sleep was the last thing on his mind. He was waiting.

He always waited.

Ever since he had come to this house—since his parents had died A year ago—this had become a routine. Every night, he sat on these steps, humming softly, waiting for his brother to come home.

“—And the itsy bitsy spider went up the spout again.”

He sighed lowering his head to his knees, his voice trailing off into a soft hum. He was exhausted. And tomorrow… tomorrow, he had school. His first day, The thought made his stomach twist.

His eyelids grew heavy, his breathing slowed. No—he couldn’t sleep yet. He had to stay awake. He had to see him.

And then, right on cue, the gate opened

His head snapped up. Excitement jolted through him like a spark. A car pulled into the driveway, its headlights cutting through the darkness.

It was him. He was finally home.

The boy jumped to his feet, his tiredness forgotten, and ran as fast as his short legs could carry him.

His brother was finnaly home.

The car stopped shortly in front of him, the engine shutting off as the headlights dimmed. The door opened, and his brother stepped out. His black hair fell over his face, and his dark blue eyes were filled with exhaustion.

But the child was too excited to notice his brother’s pain.

“What took you so long?” the boy asked, worried.

His brother sighed. “Not now.”

The boy pouted as he followed behind, trying to match his brother’s steps. Something was wrong—he looked hurt.

“What happened?” the boy asked, worriedly “Why are you hurt?”

He heard someone else getting out of the car, but he was too focused on his brother to care.

“Dick!”

The boy picked up the pace then he reached for his arm.

“Why aren’t you talking to me?”

No response.

“Dick, c’mon,” the boy pleaded, tugging at his shirt. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Dick swatted his hand away angrily “Not now, Peter.”

Peter stumbled back, surprised. The shock on his face made Dick’s expression shift from irritation to guilt.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Dick muttered with a sigh. “I—I’m just tired.” He rubbed a hand over his face. Peter watched as Dick stopped himself from stumbling backwards.

Then he glanced around before narrowing his eyes at Peter. “What are you even doing up? It’s like one in the morning.”

Peter swallowed hard, holding back tears. “I—I was waiting for you.”

“Peter…” Dick started, almost biting his lip, but before he could say anything else, Bruce stepped into view. Peter stepped back nervous this man his adoptive father Bruce Wayne always made him nervous.

Bruce didn’t say anything to Peter he just looked at him, no expression on his face. It made Peter want to run away.

Bruce placed a firm hand on Dick’s shoulder, glancing at Peter before looking over at Alfred, who had just come outside.

“Alfred, take care of the child” Bruce sighed, pushing Dick toward the house.

“You need to get checked out,” Bruce said to Dick as they walked away.

Alfred placed a gentle hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s get you inside, Master Peter.”

A lump formed in his throat. Peter clenched his fists, biting his lip as a heavy, unshakable feeling settled in his chest—one he couldn’t quite name while watching them disappear into the house, leaving him behind.

Jason Todd

Jason never thought he’d end up spending his birthday in an abandoned warehouse a hundred feet underground.

He had even made sure to wrap up crime-fighting early, thinking he could finally have a day to himself—watch some movies, clean his bike, maybe even sleep for once.

Not the best plan, maybe, but after the chaos of the past few months—with Peter and his whole split personality situation. . . He really needed a break.

Over the last couple of months, Jason took it upon himself to watch Peter and his split personality. It was a heavy task, but since he was the only one who knew, he had to keep an eye on them.

Soon, he could easily tell the difference between the two. Parker was impulsive, brash, reckless—like a younger, less refined version of himself. And then there was Peter… well, Peter was Peter. 

Even at the memorial, Jason could already tell Parker was about to stir up trouble, and sure enough, the guy delivered. That reckless bastard. Just thinking about it made Jason wonder if he would’ve done the same thing too.

But Aside from that, Parker was actually harmless, and didn’t seem to be someone dangerous or harmful to anyone or Peter—probably 

So just for today, he was going to let everything go. He was going to do absolutely nothing and let the whatever chaos unfold around him without getting involved at all.

After all he deserved it. 

Anonymous: Dangerous toxins at: XXXX-XXXX Underground warehouse.

It had been thirty minutes since Jason and his siblings received the message at 3:30am. -the message that ruined his morning-

Jason, unsurprisingly, was the last to arrive. He took in the scene, his eyes widening at the sheer amount of toxin stored in the tanks—more than enough to poison the entire city.

“Yeah, no shit,” Red Robin muttered beside him.

“We really dodged a bullet with this one,” Red Robin added as he made his way toward the nearest computer to gather more information. 

“Hey, check this out,” Robin called from the far end of the warehouse.

A tired yawn slipped from Jason’s lips as he followed Nightwing, who had only just arrived. But as they reached the scene, Jason’s steps faltered.

Spoiler gasped sharply, her hand flying to her mouth in shock. Jason, however, couldn’t help but let out a short, amused laugh.

Scarecrow was sprawled on the ground, battered and broken. His body was wrecked, his face so disfigured that even Jason—who wasn’t known for his empathy—felt a flicker of sympathy.

“Whoever did this was a lunatic” Jason said amused

Robin crouched down, staring at Scarecrow’s mangled face. “A pity he’s not dead.”

“Robin!” Spoiler snapped.

“What?” Robin shrugged. “After what he was about to do to the city, I might as well kill him right now.”

Nightwing stepped beside him. “Well, it’s a good thing we’re not killers, right?”

Robin glanced back at Scarecrow’s slumped body, then stood up  “For him maybe”  he mutters to himself

Jason, made his way toward the computer where Red Robin was working.

“Did you find anything?”

Red Robin let out a sigh. “Well, I did find some footage, but whoever was here did a good job of wiping it. We can’t watch it right away.”

“Meaning?” Jason leaned forward.

“It means, I’ll send it to Oracle and hope she can recover something—if there’s anything left to salvage.”

Jason couldn’t help but feel intrigued by whoever had done this. The sheer force used—the deep dents in the walls, the wreckage left behind—made it clear. This wasn’t just anyone,

This was a meta.

Jason turned to see Batman looking around he didn’t say anything, but Jason could tell he was thinking the exact same thing.

Batman didn’t like metas in his city. And with the sudden spike in meta-related attacks, the last thing they needed was a rogue one running around unchecked.

“We need to gather as much evidence as possible,” Batman finally said. “Figure out who this person is and whether they’re a threat.”

“I sent everything over to Oracle”  Red Robin responded

Nightwing crossed his arms. “Well, considering they took down Scarecrow and stopped a city-wide catastrophe, doesn’t that say something?”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Batman responded, already walking away.

Jason slumped onto the couch in one of his safe houses, letting out a long, exhausted groan.

“Fuuuuck.”

The night had dragged on way longer than he expected and by the time he’d finally made it back, it was already 10 a.m. His body felt like lead, his eyes heavy. He hadn’t even bothered to take off his suit—he just didn’t care. Sleep took him almost instantly.

BANG.

BANG.

BANG.

Jason stirred, groggy and irritated. The loud knocking had yanked him out of much-needed rest.

BANG.

BANG.

BANG.

He groaned, rubbing his face before checking the clock. 2 p.m. He hadn’t even been out that long, and someone was already ruining his day.

He pushed himself up with a grunt, rolling his shoulders as he stomped toward the door. He stopped and realized he was still in his suit

“Shit” Jason rushed and changed out of it quickly, there was another bang at the door.

“I’m coming!” he barked, grabbing his shirt and yanking open the door, fully prepared to tell whoever it was to fuck off.

Instead, he was met with a kid.

Brown hair. Brown eyes. Fidgety as hell.

Jason stared at him blankly.

The kid swallowed. “Hi, uh… do you remember me?”

Jason narrowed his eyes, scanning the kid’s face. He looked familiar, but Jason couldn’t be bothered to dig through his sleep-deprived memory. Instead, he sighed

“Look, kid, if you’re here for money, you’ve come to the wrong place”

He was already moving to shut the door when the kid suddenly lurched forward, sticking his foot out to stop it.

“Wait! I’m from the Spider-Man Memorial,” he blurted.

That made Jason pause. His brows furrowed slightly. The Spider-Man Memorial?

“The waiter?” The kid said slowly

Jason squinted, then it clicked. He’d been at the memorial a while back, talking to one of the waiters who had an encounter with Parker—as he was trying to fish for any info on him.

“Oh.” Jason straightened slightly. “Jerry, right?”

“Uh… no, it’s John,” the kid corrected awkwardly.

Jason leaned against the doorframe, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Alright, John. What the hell are you doing here?”

—

It wasn’t often that Jason felt uneasy, but something about this didn’t sit right with him. Maybe it was the way John had insisted on showing him rather than explaining.

Or maybe it was the fact that he had to drag himself out of bed for this. Either way, he had a bad feeling.

They had been riding for thirty minutes in silence.

“Take a left up there—into the alleyway,” John instructed, pointing ahead.

Jason didn’t hesitate, turning sharply into the narrow path. The deeper they went, the rougher the area became.

“Stop here,” John said. “We’ll have to walk the rest of the way.”

Jason killed the engine and got off the bike, following the kid’s lead.

“It was earlier this morning,” John started as they walked. “I was taking my siblings to school. And On the way back, I took a different route than usual cause I was running late for work.”

They kept moving, the streets growing more hostile the further they went. Jason noticed the way people watched them from the shadows—hungry, cautious. But no one dared to make a move. Not with him there. Even though he wasn’t in his suit.

John seemed relieved by his presence, and Jason couldn’t help but wonder how the hell this kid managed to get his siblings to school every day in a place like this.

“That’s when I found him,” John continued. “Lying in an alleyway.”

Jason frowned. “So you brought him here.”

John nodded as they approached a run-down apartment complex. He led Jason inside to a cramped unit on the first floor.

”looks like a bunch of Alley Kids attacked him and left him to die” John said casually “I was lucky to even find him alive—barely”’

The place was barely livable—one bedroom, peeling walls, a small table with a few mismatched bowls—but despite its condition, it still felt like a home.

Drawings were taped up along the walls, small signs of warmth in an otherwise cold space.

“Sorry for the mess,” John mumbled. As he took his shoes off, he headed into the kitchen

“Would you like something to drink” John asked

“No thanks” Jason responded, John served himself something to drink, then took a sip of it. 

“He looked really bad. I wanted to take him to a doctor, but he begged me not to.“ John said sadly as if remembering how the boy looked when he first found him. 

Jason looked at John suspiciously as he led him towards the small living room. In crime Alley Jason cared about alley kids and stood up for them, protected them even;but John asked for Jason not Redhood.

Did he want him to fight the kids who attached his friend? Or call Redhood because he thinks he might have a connection? Or Did John know that Jason was apart of the Wayne family and just wanted some money for his siblings?

”cut to the chase” Jason said impatiently “why did you bring me here

John shrugged “well . . I figured… since you were asking about him at the memorial—”

“Where is he?”Jason cut him off. John didn’t have to finish to know who he was talking about.

John hesitated looking away as he gripped his mug. “It’s… it’s really bad.”

“Where?” Jason pressed.

John swallowed, then pointed toward a door at the end of the hall. 

Jason didn’t wait. He bolted forward, pushing the door open. The sunlight  inside barely reached the floor, where a frail figure lay curled beneath a pile of thin blankets.

Jason cursed under his breath, kneeling beside the broken figure.

“Hey . . .” he called softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Peter?” Gently, he reached out, his fingers brushing against Peter’s shoulder as he turned him to face him.

His breath hitched in his throat as his gaze swept the room, the weight of the moment sinking in.

And there, lying motionless on the floor, his face bruised, dried blood all over his body, knife cuts that slashed across his chest lay a fragile shadow of the person Jason once knew.

Chapter Text

It was at night when Crime Alley became dangerous—the streets, the people. Even with all the work Red Hood put in, it was never enough to keep every corner safe.

That’s why the curfew was set. No later than midnight. By 10:00 PM, everyone was home. By 11:30, lights were out. Simple.

That night it was way past curfew.

Red Hood wasn’t patrolling. The city was quiet. It was the perfect time for the rats to come out and play.

David was one of those rats. He leaned against a wall, cigarette dangling between his fingers, the smoke curling in the cool night air. His friend beside him took slow drags of his own.

David hated this damn city. Hated being poor. Hated the cracked roads, the so-called vigilantes, the rich bastards who never had to live like this. And when that hate built up, he let it out the only way he knew how—on someone weaker.

A dull thud echoed through the alley as Gary, one of his guys, drove a fist into the kid’s stomach. The boy collapsed, gasping, but Gary didn’t stop. Another kick. A punch, Then another. Then a boot pressed down hard on his chest.

“Hey.” David exhaled smoke. “Go easy on the kid. We don’t want him dying on us.”

Gary scoffed but took a step back, throwing in one punch to the gut  “this is for my arm asshole” the punch landed so hard it pushed the boy back.  Gary’s arm had only just healed after this brat broke it, and he was itching to use it.

The kid on the ground wheezed, blinking away tears. His eyes blazing with furry  “Do you know who I am?” he spat in between gasps  “You won’t get away with this.”

David exhaled, the cigarette burning low between his fingers. Then, with a sigh, he flicked it to the ground, grinding it beneath his boot.

“Well, shit.”

He walked over slowly, watching the kid’s face tighten with fear. Then he knelt down, grabbed a fistful of his brown curly hair, and yanked him close.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just watched stared at him, his hazel eyes glaring back at him.

Without warning, he slapped him.

Once.

Twice.

Again and again, until the boy’s cheeks were red, his nose bleeding, and his breath coming out in soft, muffled sobs. He really hated the look on his eyes. How this brat looked down on him and thought he was better than him.

David tilted his head. “Shhh.” He gently held the boys cheeks and forced him to look up

“Do you hear that?”

The boy probably couldn’t see anything between his tears, but still tried to look up. As if seeing would allow him to hear something anything.

There was only silence.

David smiled a small bitter smiled as he grabbed the boy’s collar, pulled him closer.

“Nothing,” he murmured. “I hear nothing. No Red Hood coming to save you, no rich dad, no cops.”

“ it’s Just you and me.” He pulled out a switchblade, flicking it open with a slow, deliberate click . “And my friends, of course.”

The group tightened around the boy, circling him like a pack of hungry dogs, cracking their knuckles. He was trapped.

“I told you I’d find you, didn’t I?” David said. “Or rather, you found me. But whatever, same thing, right?”

The kid’s breath hitched, his eyes darting around. Then, out of nowhere, he shoved David back and swung. A punch connected square against his jaw, knocking him off balance. David stumbled, landing on his ass.

For a second, there was only silence.

The kid tried to use the moment to run, but he was too slow. Before he could take more than a step, one of the guys slammed him back down. Two more pinned him in place.

“Careful,” Gary said, stepping forward. “He’s a meta.”

David sat there, touching his lip where the punch had landed. Then, suddenly, he started laughing. A crazed, breathless sound that echoed down the empty alley.

He laughed until his chest ached, until his ribs hurt. Laughed like no one could stop him. And the truth was, no one would. No one dared step outside, even if they knew what was happening.

Then, just as suddenly as it started, the laughter stopped.

David grabbed the kid by the collar, and spat blood in his face yanking him forward. He shook his head, exhaling a long, dramatic sigh. Then, with slow precision, he pressed the tip of the blade against the boy’s throat.

“A rich kid like you should’ve stayed home.”

—-

Damian Wayne

“Oh, you’re awake,” Peter said as Damian walked into the kitchen. It was unusual to see Peter up at this hour—let alone wearing an apron.

Damian didn’t say anything, just stared at him in confusion. Peter must have noticed because he gestured toward the apron.

“This?” Peter said. “I’m making ramen noodles. You want some?”

He was hungry, and rejecting the offer felt pointless, so he pulled out a chair at the counter, sat down, and watched Peter cook.

Damian had come back from patrol earlier than the others—being the youngest, he was often alone in Wayne Manor at this hour.

But seeing Peter, of all people, whistling and singing while cooking a sunny-side-up egg?

It was not something he expected to come home to.

Especially at 1:00 a.m.

It was strange seeing him like this—so relaxed, so casual. Usually, Peter kept to himself, shoulders hunched, as if trying to take up as little space as possible. But now? Now he wasn’t doing any of that.

After thirty minutes, Peter placed two bowls of steaming noodles on the counter.

“Ta-da!” he announced. “Tomato-egg ramen noodles with diced bacon and—” He pulled something from the fridge. “Orange juice.”

Grabbing two cups from the counter, he set them in front of them, took off his apron, and sat down.

Damian stared at the meal. The rich aroma filled the kitchen, and for the first time all night, After a long patrol, this was something he needed.

Peter didn’t hesitate, immediately digging into his food. Damian watched as he nodded in approval.

“Now this ,” Peter said between slurps, “came out way better than I expected.”

Damian looked down at the steaming noodles and picked up a fork. The only meals he’d ever had were made by Alfred.

He took a bite. The noodles were good—really good. Damian wasn’t the type to be picky with food, but he ate every last bite.

The flavor was rich, the noodles perfectly cooked, and the tomatoes— man , the tomatoes were delicious. He was so caught up in eating that he didn’t notice Peter watching him, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Damian’s face heated with embarrassment. He quickly cleared his throat. “It’s salty.”

A quiet laugh escaped Peter. “Sure it is.”

Damian grabbed the orange juice and poured it into both their cups.

“So,” Peter leaned on the counter, “what’s a kid like you doing up at this hour?”

“Nothing much.” Damian shrugged. “What about you? You’re usually asleep by now.”

Peter shrugged back. “Nothing much. I was just bored.”

After finishing, Damian watched as Peter got up and started cleaning. He hesitated for a moment before standing too, brushing himself off.

Clearing his throat, he muttered, “Thank you.”

Peter turned, grinning. “What was that? I couldn’t quite hear you.”

Damian’s face flushed as he repeated, a little louder this time, “I said thank you.”

Peter let out a dramatic gasp. “Wow.” He clasped his hands in his mouth“You’re thanking me!? I’m so honored”

“Shut up,” Damian muttered, embarrassed. “Whatever. I’m going to bed.”

He turned on his heel, ready to leave, but just before he stepped out, Peter called after him.

“Hey, Damian—let’s do this again sometime.”

Damian didn’t respond, just walked off to his room. But, just like Peter predicted, it became a routine.

Every night, Damian would leave patrol early and come home to find Peter awake. Each time, Peter was making something different—sometimes simple, like fries and eggs on toast. Once, he even made pancakes at two in the morning.

One night, Peter showed up at Damian’s room, knocking lightly before peeking inside.

“Hey, wanna watch TV together?”

Damian, sitting on his bed, shot him an unimpressed look. “Why would I wanna do that?”

Peter smirked, then dramatically revealed a bowl filled with popcorn. “Because why not? We’re the only ones awake plus …” He shook the bowl slightly. “ I made sweetened popcorn. ”

Damian narrowed his eyes. “You made it?”

“Uh, yeah. Duh.” Peter didn’t wait for an invitation—he just made his way inside.

“Uh, hey!” Damian protested. “I never let you in!”

Peter ignored him, setting the bowl on the table before looking around the room. His eyes widened slightly at the sight of the weapons displayed on the walls—knives, swords, all meticulously arranged.

“Shit, dude,” Peter muttered in amusement.

Damian raised a brow. He wasn’t used to Peter swearing.

“This is so cool.” Peter wandered the room, stopping in front of a katana. He traced a finger along the edge, eyes gleaming. “If Wade could see this, man, he’d freak .”

“Wade?” Damian asked, stepping up beside him.

“Oh, yeah,” Peter said absentmindedly. “He was a friend.”

Damian frowned for all the years he’d known Peter? He didn’t know he had friends, but then again did he even take that time to get to know Peter?

“What happened to him?”

“Huh?” Peter blinked, as if snapped out of a thought.

“You said was . Past tense. What happened to him?”

For a moment, Peter’s eyes grew distant, like he wanted to say something. Damian could tell he was holding something back, was it sadness? Or Longing? but then—just as quickly—it was gone.

“Who knows?” Peter shrugged, forcing a grin. “He’s probably out there somewhere causing a ruckus.”

There was a slight pause in his voice, something almost unspoken—like he knew he’d never see Wade again.

But before Damian could press further, Peter clapped his hands together. “Anyway!” He pointed at another blade. “What kinda sword is this?”

—

By the end of the second week, Damian found himself looking forward to his late-night talks and meals with Peter. It had become part of his routine, something steady, something his .

When his watch beeped, his heart kicked up slightly. 11:30.

“Guys, I’m done for the night,” Damian said through the comms.

“What?” Steph’s voice crackled through. “It’s not even midnight. Seriously, Damian, what’s gotten into you these days?”

“Leave him be, Steph,” Tim chimed in. “Honestly, I’m just glad I don’t have to fight him to go home anymore. This works better for everyone.”

Damian didn’t bother responding. He was already making his way back to the Batcave. The second he arrived, he changed out of his suit and headed upstairs to Wayne Manor.

The halls were dimly lit, quiet except for the faint sound of the TV coming from the living room. As he stepped in, he found Peter sitting on the couch, watching tv.

“Oh, you’re up early ” Peter said, glancing up.

“Yeah . . .” Damian replied, taking a seat at the far end of the couch. “Had trouble sleeping.”

Between them, a plate of peanut butter sandwiches on the couch The TV flickered, casting soft light across the room. But unlike their usual nights, Peter wasn’t talking much.  He looked sadder and tired, as if he’d been awake this whole time.

Damien wanted to ask what was wrong but he didn’t even know where to start, instead they sat in comfortable silence, watching whatever show was playing.

After a long silence, Peter finally spoke. “You know, at first, I thought you were an asshole.”

Damian raised a brow. “ Me?”

Peter snorted. “Yeah, but I thought you were one of those assholes.”

Damian took a bite of his sandwich. “What does that mean?”

Peter leaned back against the couch. “The kind of guy who looks down on people. The untouchable, better-than-everyone-else type.”

He let out a sigh. “I mean you are; but after hanging out with you, I realized, huh—you’re not  that bad.”

Damian swallowed. “Yeah?”

“Yeah…” Peter said slowly. Then his expression shifted, his voice quieter. “But that just made me wonder—if you’re not that bad?”

“then why are you so mean to me?” Peter turned to Damien

Damian froze mid-bite, looking over at Peter. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even annoyed. The look on his face was something else—something closer to disappointment.

Damian blinked. Why? Was he mean to Peter?

The answer was simple—he just didn’t care. He had always viewed Peter as nothing more than another occupant in the Manor, a background presence. Sure, he was family in a technical sense, but Damian had never bothered to see him. He had dismissed him as weak, a coward. Someone unworthy of his attention.

But now, looking at Peter… if this was who he really was, open minded, talkative, and half decent cook had he been wrong?

“Damian,” Peter said quietly, “be nice to me.”

Damian frowned. “What?”

“You should know what I like to eat, what I’m interested in, if I have a crush on someone, what I want for my birthday—even my favorite color.”

Peter leaned forward. “Ask me how my day was. Invite me into your room so we can watch movies, do homework together or even talk about dump crap that doesn’t even make sense”

Damian’s brows furrowed. “Why are you telling me all this?” His voice was sharper than he intended.

Peter exhaled, leaning back as if carefully choosing his next words. “Because . . . I’m giving you a chance.” He paused for a second as if trying to find the right words “-A chance to make things right.”

Damian stared at him, a strange, unfamiliar feeling settling in his chest.

Peter stood, his hands on his hip as he looked at the TV,  “ You know people change. And sometimes, they decide to leave.” Then Peter  placed a hand on Damian’s shoulder facing him , his grip light but firm.

“And if that day comes—if I ever I decide to let go of everything and everyone—I . . . won’t be coming back.” Peter let those words settle in for a second his voice was quiet and steady. “But know this Damian, I gave you a chance to make things right with me”

Damian’s breath caught in his throat. What did he mean by that?

But before he could ask, Peter pulled away, a yawn escaping his mouth. “Goodnight, Damian.”

And just like that, he was gone, leaving Damian alone with his thoughts. He leaned back against the couch, exhaling slowly as Peter’s words echoed in his mind.

He’s changed. Peter was different now—different from how Damian had always seen him. Or… had Peter always been this way, and he had just never bothered to notice?

“Damn.”

Damian glanced at the half-eaten sandwich Peter had made for him, then sighed, placing it back on the tray.

“I’m not even hungry anymore.”

After that night, Damian and Peter’s late-night meetings stopped, leaving the manor halls  quiet. Something Damien thought he was used to again, but he found himself missing Peter’s company.

One time stood at the front door of Peters’s room working up the courage to talk to him, but he found himself leaving without even trying.

And During the day, Peter seemed to avoid Damian, Peter actually became more distant as if something else was distracting him and though Peter’s words occasionally echoed in Damian’s mind, he dismissed them as mere ramblings.

Life returned to its usual rhythm until a rise in meta-human activity disrupted the norm. One morning, Damian through his window, watched Peter sneaking out of this—a behavior that had become frequent last two weeks

Aware of the dangers, Damian chose to silently watch Peter leave and return hours later, but he never said anything to anyone and Damien didn’t care what Peter did a night.

On that particular morning , an anonymous tip about toxins led Damian to a warehouse. A gnawing unease settled in his stomach as he glanced at his watch:

3:45 AM.

Peter would typically be home and asleep by now, Damien told himself, but that didn’t take away the sense of dread he was feeling.

Was he worried about Peter?

—

It was late afternoon that day and everyone sat in the living room, Tim was glued to his laptop, trying to focus on the growing meta crisis.

Steph was chilling chatting with Cass and Duke was out on Portal while Dick was at one of the new homeless shelters.  It was a school day, but they’d all taken the day off to focus on the more immediate problem at hand.

Bruce was out of town for business, leaving them to handle things themselves. Damien sat on the couch, his blade flicking through his fingers, mind restless.

Peter still hadn’t come down for breakfast, which was odd. He never missed breakfast.

Damien tried not to think too much about it, but the knot in his stomach grew tighter. Should he have checked on him when he got back this morning? He shook his head. No , Peter was probably just sick or something. It’s fine.

Suddenly, the front door slammed open, and the sound of heavy boots echoed through the hall.

Everyone jumped to their feet, tensing. Damien’s stomach sank as Jason stormed into the living room, carrying Peter on his back, his breath ragged. He stopped short, his eyes wide.

“Alfred!” Jason gasped, voice strained. “Someone go get Alfred now!”

Without a second thought, Damien bolted out of the room, heart racing.

The image of Peter’s bruised face flashed in his mind, but he couldn’t push it away. He had to focus.

Damien’s chest tightened. Peter’s hurt… Was this his fault? He cursed himself.

If he had stopped him, Even if he didn’t give a damn about Peter he should‘ve warned him about the dangers, then he wouldn’t have gone out.

His heart hammered louder as he rounded the corner, nearly colliding with Alfred.

“Whoa, Master Damien, what’s wrong?” Alfred asked, his concern immediate.

Damien’s voice caught in his throat.

“It’s Peter,” he said, his voice cracking. “He needs help.”

Chapter Text

Peter Parker 

Five times—that’s how many times Peter woke up after being brought back to Wayne Manor. The first time was when he was being carried into the house.

Someone had him in their arms, but Peter couldn’t tell who. The pain was too much, clouding his senses. Muffled voices filled the room, making his headache worse. He wanted to yell at them to shut up, but he didn’t know if his mouth could even move.

Hearing his family’s reactions however made him wonder—what excuse could he give to explain this? Could he get away with it? He needed to talk to Grayson, come up with a plan.

The second time was in the middle of the night. He woke up from a nightmare—a kid, a bunch of them beating him up and hurting him one kid was laughing while dragging a knife through his chest.

He remembered waking up in pain,—was he screaming? He didn’t know, but all he knew was someone had burst into the room to inject him with something that made him fall back into a deep sleep.

That night Peter had a dream.

He was at the circus, his small body leaning at the edge of the balcony. He was young, humming a tune— The Itsy Bitsy Spider.

He watched as people of all ages filed into the tent. Laughter filled the air, kids grabbing their parents and pulling them toward their favorite seats.

He always liked being in this spot. From the balcony, he could watch his parents enter to perform. Then, he would watch them fly.

It made Peter proud to be a part of the circus. He was too young to do all the theatrics, but knowing that his family was the main event of the show always filled him with pride.

A hand yanked him back.

“Stop. You’re gonna fall if you keep leaning forward.”

It was his older brother, Dick. He stood with his hands on his hips, his slicked-back hair neatly in place, blue eyes fixed on Peter with an annoyed look.

“Am not!” Peter pouted, crossing his arms.

“Are too.” Dick leaned over, peering down.

“If you fall, you could die,” he added as Peter hesitantly glanced over the ledge, suddenly aware of just how high up they were. “And it’s a long way down.”

Peter gulped and shuffled away from the edge. Peter looked at Dick with slight nervousness,

“But don’t worry—I’d catch you,” Dick said confidently a small smile tugged at his lips.

“Would you?” Peter asked, skeptical.

Dick raised an eyebrow. “What’s that look for? You don’t think I’d catch you?”

Peter knew Dick was training to perform, just like their mom and dad. He had watched him practice before—he was decent. But was he good enough to catch him?

That, Peter wasn’t so sure about.

“I’ll stay away from the ledge,” Peter muttered as he slipped past Dick. “I wouldn’t want to test that theory.”

“Hey! Where do you think you’re going?” Dick called after him as Peter walked away.

“To the bathroom,” Peter replied.

“Just make sure you come back! We’re about to start soon!”

Peter nodded and broke into a jog.

He spent more time in the restroom than he expected, losing track of the minutes. By the time he realized how long he’d been gone, the events already started and panic set in. He didn’t want to miss his parents’ performance.

He took off running.

Not paying attention, he crashed into someone, falling back and landing hard on his butt.

“Ow,” Peter groaned.

“Whoa, kid,” a gruff voice said. “You need to watch where you’re going.”

“Sorry, sir,” Peter mumbled as the man helped him up. He winced, rubbing the back of his elbow where he’d bruised himself.

“Hey, Zucco,” one of the men beside him said. “We gotta go. The show’s about to start.”

“Oh, right.” Zucco reached into his pocket, pulling out a lollipop and handing it to Peter.

Peter hesitated for a second before taking it, offering a small smile.

“Enjoy the show,” Zucco said, ruffling Peter’s hair. “It’s gonna a night you’re gonna remember.”

An eerie grin spread across his face as he

“That’ll teach that bastard Haly not to refuse my offer again,” Zucco cackled as his frame disappeared from Peter’s view.

Peter turned and walked away his gripped the lollipop as sinking feeling settling in his gut.

As he made his way back, he spotted his parents.

His mom waved blowing a kiss and his Dad winked at him. Peter waved back and headed to the balcony. His head rested against the ledge

Dread curled in his stomach.

Ever since he was little, he had this sense—the unshakable feeling that something was about to go wrong, but he didn’t know why, not until it was too late.

The event had been going on for thirty minutes. And Normally, Peter would be screaming, jumping up and down with excitement for each performance.

But tonight, something felt wrong. The uneasy feeling hadn’t faded. If anything, it had only gotten worse.

“Didn’t I tell you not to lean on the ledge?” Dick said again.

Peter didn’t answer. He was no longer paying attention to any of the performances

“Hey? Why are you ignoring me?” Dick asked, nudging him.

Without looking up, Peter mumbled, “Who’s Haly?”

Dick blinked, clearly caught off guard. “C.C. Haly? He’s the ringmaster. You’ve met him like a million times. How could you not remember his name”

“Oh.” Peter buried his face into his arms. He’s met the guy but Peter was always bad at remembering names.

Then, more hesitantly, Dick asked, “Why are you asking that?”

His mind kept replaying what that man— Zucco —had said.

Peter swallowed hard. “‘That’ll teach that bastard Haly not to refuse my offer again,’” he whispered, repeating the words exactly as he had heard them.

Dick’s face paled.

“A man said that earlier on my way back here” Peter added.

Dread settled in Dick’s expression as the realization hit him. “Peter… the only ones allowed up here are you and me.”

Before Peter could respond—

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! THE MOMENT YOU’VE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR!”

Loud music blasted through the tent as C.C. Haly stepped into the center of the stage, his voice booming over the speakers. The crowd erupted into cheers.

Dick met Peter’s eyes for half a second before taking off in a sprint.

“THE AMAZING DUO!” Haly announced.

Peter’s head snapped toward the stage, his breath catching.

It’s finally starting. His eyes lit up.

Peter watched from the balcony across leaning forward in excitement His parents stood across from each other, stretching, preparing. They shared a quick hug, a kiss, then separated, stepping into position.

“THE FLYING GRAYSONS!”

Thunderous applause filled the circus tent. The performance began.

His mom soared through the air, flipping into his dad’s waiting arms.

Nothing’s going to happen.

Another flip.

Nothing’s going to happen.

A perfect swing—

Peter’s stomach twisted. The feeling in his gut only got worse.

Maybe he was wrong this in time.

His eyes naturally darted around, searching. For what was causing him to feel this way

Where?

Below, he spotted Dick moving through the crowd in a panic.

Peter kept darting from his parents performance to looking for the problem

He looked around again

Where is it?

Where?

He eyes landed on it

The rope.

The one his parents were hanging from—

It was thinning.

It was too late

The crowd was deafening, cheers and applause echoing through the massive tent. But in that moment, all Peter could hear was the sharp, sickening snap of the rope as it tore apart.

His eyes didn’t follow his parents as they fell.  Or when he heard the thud as they hit the ground, not even when there a collective gasp that rippled through the audience led by silence after.

No, Instead his eyes remained locked on the frayed ends of the rope, swinging back and forth—empty.

Peter trembled, his eyes blinking back tears, his heart drumming out of his chest it was the only thing he could hear. He couldn’t bring himself to look down. He couldn’t bring himself to make a sound like as if his ability to speak was stuck in his throat.

He didn’t have to.

Dick’s scream.

Worse than anything Peter has ever heard filled the room.

Raw.

Agonized.

Tore through the tent,drowning out everything else.

Peter’s eyes shot open, his chest rising and falling in heavy breaths. Was this the third time he’d woken up?

He turned his head to the right. Dick was beside him, slumped back in his chair, fast asleep.

Peter gripped his head. It wasn’t a dream.

It was a memory.

Was it Grayson’s?

This was the first time he’d ever experience it. Peter knew that Grayson had been seeing his memory’s. But He didn’t know the after effect would be this bad. Let alone affect him.

The emotions crashed into him like a tidal wave—guilt, sorrow, anger—all at once, suffocating. Tears streaked down his face as the ache in his chest deepened. The memory was so vivid it hurt.

“I-I should’ve done something.” Peter bit back.

The words slipped from his lips before he could stop them. He knew they weren’t his, but the pain was just so freaking overwhelming.

Maybe—just maybe—he was feeling the same way he did when he lost his parents. His aunt. His uncle. Tony. The helplessness from watching someone you love die and you having survived.

It was the first time Peter realized that maybe Him and Grayson weren’t so different after all.

“We should’ve done something” Peter muttered to himself as he drifted back into sleep once again.

—

When Peter woke up again, he felt much better—still exhausted, but far better than he had four days ago. He sat up on his bed, his back leaning against the headboard.

Alfred was sitting beside him, placing a tray of food in front of him. With quiet efficiency, he scooped a spoonful of porridge and directed it toward Peter’s mouth.

Awkwardly, Peter spoke. “You know I can feed myself, right?” he said, pulling the spoon away from Alfred’s hand. With shaky fingers, Peter tried to lift it to his mouth, but it slipped, spilling the porridge down his chest.

He tried again, but the same thing happened. Frustrated, he sighed. For a moment, he almost forgot he was supposed to be pretending to be Grayson.

Alfred raised an eyebrow at Peter’s failed attempt. “You’ve never had an issue with me feeding you when you’ve been sick,” he said. “Today is no different Master Peter”!

Peter didn’t know how to respond. Of course, Grayson wouldn’t have an issue, But he himself did.

When Alfred held out his hand for the spoon, Peter reluctantly gave it back.

Alfred continued feeding him, the warm food easing Peter’s discomfort. The porridge was comforting, making him feel sleepy again. He looked at Alfred, and for the first time, he realized it was the first time he’d been alone with him.

He expected Alfred to ask questions, force him to spill everything but Alfred simply continued feeding him. There was something about it that made Peter feel at ease. After all Peter didn’t know what to say, or how to get out of this situation.

Well at least not yet.

After ten minutes, Peter found having a hard time staying awake he heard Alfred stand up and walk out of the room, with unfinished bowl of porridge.

“Master Peter just fell asleep” Alfred spoke in a hushed manner from the other side the door “It’s if you come back later”

Damien huffed“Alright, but let me know when he’s up I-“ he paused for a second

“I need to tell him something—”

There voices faded away as Peter drifted back to sleep.

As the day wore on, more people started to filter in, each coming in different rotations.

Peter saw Cass and Steph first. Steph did most of the talking, while Cass would sit quietly, studying Peter with a gaze that felt almost like an analysis. It made Peter really uneasy.

Damien started coming in more frequently. He never said much, just came, sat for a while, and then left after about ten minutes.

It made Peter wonder if him hearing Damien earlier was just a dream he had.

Tim was another frequent visitor. He’d come in, talking about the latest news on CA INC.

The publishing company that was tarnishing superheroes’ reputations.

“Aren’t they just showing the truth?” Peter asked, genuinely curious.

Tim frowned deeply. “If they wanted the truth, they could just ask instead of sensationalizing it like this!”

Although Peter didn’t feel guilty about what he was doing, it made him wonder if asking for an interview with any of the bats would make him more money.

Then there was Dick. He came in regularly, checking on Peter and making sure he had everything he needed.

Dick spent the most time with him, but he always seemed exhausted, like he hadn’t slept in days. His bruises gave him away.

Peter couldn’t help but wonder if Dick was the one who had carried him in, even though Peter been trying to distance himself. The affection he received in Grayson’s body only deepened the guilt Peter felt.

After all he shouldn’t be the one getting all this. He was pretty sure Grayson did as well, since they would switch throughout the recovery but it still didn’t feel right to him.

The only ones Peter hadn’t seen were Jason, Bruce, and Duke. He was honestly relieved he hadn’t seen Duke yet; he knew Duke would ask all the questions Peter wasn’t ready to answer.

Later that day, Alfred came in to redo Peter’s bandages. Peter had been reluctant about it, knowing his healing ability should have taken care of most of it, but Alfred insisted.

Peter begged him to let him do it himself, and thankfully , Alfred agreed. He already had one thing he had to talk his way out of. He didn’t need another.

Once Alfred left, Peter sighed and headed for the bathroom.  He looked in the Mirror and saw Grayson’s reflection.

Sure Peter looked like Grayson, but the person in front of him was a stranger. Peter unwrapped his bandages.

Most of the bruises were fading, almost gone. The cuts on his chest were closing but it would  look like they would turn into scars.

Peter touched one of scars on the side of his chest. Grayson went through all that pain. He but his lip. If he wasn’t so damn reckless Peter would’ve been the one to beat those damn kids.

He sighed. Grayson must be mad at him.

After Peter was done showering, he headed into the closet to grab a change of clothes. Surprisingly, the closet was of average size.

He picked out an oversized hoodie and pants. He wasn’t planning on going anywhere tonight—not until he spoke to Grayson. They hadn’t talked yet, but in case he needed to, Peter wanted to be prepared.

As he was about to leave, something caught his eye from the corner of the closet. He pushed aside some clothes hanging nearby and revealed an electric guitar.

“Whoa,” Peter whispered, pulling it out. It was red and black with a gold stripe that ran across the entire guitar.

In all the months Peter had been in Gotham, he’d never noticed it before.

“Who knew he played,” Peter muttered to himself.

Grayson’s room had always been empty, almost sterile. It looked like a regular room—nothing like Peter’s old one, which had science and tech posters on the walls. Grayson’s room had only a desk and a bunch of books. The guitar was a surprise.

Peter fiddled with the strings, faints sounds ringing by his touch, he noticed the dust that had settled on it.

It must have been a while since Grayson had touched it—probably since Peter arrived. He probably didn’t have the time or energy to play anymore.

Peter blew the dust off the guitar before taking it with him.

“Maybe it’s time to change that,” he said, a quiet determination in his voice.

As Peter stepped out of the bathroom, he froze when he saw Jason leaning against the doorframe. Jason stared back at him.

Peter hadn’t expected to see him at all, and he certainly didn’t know how Grayson would react to Jason being here.

“Uh, hi,” Peter said, trying to imitate Grayson’s usual reaction.

There was an awkward pause before Jason huffed and marched up to Peter.

“You know, I was gonna keep my distance and let this whole thing play out,” Jason said, his voice sharp.

Peter didn’t move.

“But I’m done playing your games,” Jason continued, his expression hardening.

“Pretending.” His eyes darkened. “You crossed the line by putting him in danger. I’m not gonna stand for that. We’ve fought too damn hard to keep his life safe, and you’re throwing it back in our faces.”

Peter’s heart thudded in his chest as Jason towered over him, a fear unlike any he’d ever felt before sinking into his bones.

“I ain’t for that shit,” Jason growled.

“What… what are you talking about?” Peter asked, his voice trembling as he leaned further into Grayson’s persona. He took a step back, hunching his shoulders.

“Cut the crap,” Jason snapped. “You’re lucky you’re injured, or I’d beat the shit out of you right here.”

“Parker,” Jason spat the name as if it were a curse.

Peter froze. Panic building up in his chest. How did he know? Did Duke tell him? His mind spun in panic, his heart racing. Had he given himself away? No, he couldn’t have. But still-

Peter paused, a thought hitting him. Why hadn’t Jason told anyone? If he had even the slightest suspicion, why didn’t he reveal it?

If Duke told Jason he would be here right? Unlike Duke, who Peter could tell was on the verge of exposing his secret,

Jason had kept quiet but For how long? Since the beginning?

It could be a trap and revealing himself now could throw off everything Peter had planned for the future. Leaving Gotham, working with CA inc. to earning a living, having a quiet life-

But then again, He wasn’t observing Grayson, but him . This guy had been watching Peter from afar—

And didn’t say anything ?

Peter couldn’t help himself. A soft scoff escaped his lips. He might be crazy doing this, he could deny at this very moment; and get away with it, but Peter wants to know what Jason wants. He clearly chose not to say anything for a reason , and Peter wants to know why.

Peter straightens his back, relaxed his shoulders and placed his hands on his hips, amusement dancing in his eyes as he stared at Jason.

“What gave me away?” Peter asked, his voice tinged with curiosity and disbelief.

Jason leaned back, his body relaxed, as he folded his arms a small smirk tugging at the side of his mouth as if he’d been waiting for this moment all along.

Wayne’Shadow Spider’s Web’s Tiktok

Chapter Text

Peter Parker 

It was the first time since Peter had been bedridden that he was finally able to step outside.

He’d tried before—multiple times, actually—only to be stopped at the front door every single time. Damian wouldn’t let him go anywhere unless he came along, which wasn’t an option. Duke was nowhere to be seen—a fact that actually worried Peter a little. Meanwhile, Cass and Steph wouldn’t even let him leave his room. 

Tim didn’t really care that much.

And sneaking out at night? Impossible. Someone was always with him.

“Come on,” Jason drawled, leaning against the counter. “The kid needs fresh air.”

“He can just open a window,” Dick shot back from the kitchen, barely looking up from what he was doing.

Out of everyone, Dick was the hardest to get past. Mainly because he was still waiting for Peter to explain why the hell he’d been in Crime Alley in the first place

Jason tried again. “He needs a good meal.”

“Well, it’s a good thing Alfred makes great dinner,” Dick replied, finally turning to face them. “Right, Alfred?”

“Absolutely,” Alfred confirmed without missing a beat.

Jason sighed. “Okay, maybe not good food. I mean, like, greasy, unhealthy, fast food.”

Dick gave him a flat look.

Jason crossed his arms. “What’s it gonna take to let Peter leave the house with me?”

Dick, who had been chopping vegetables, suddenly froze mid-slice. His grip on the knife tightened

“Well,” he said, voice eerily calm, “if Peter here is willing to tell us why he was in Crime Alley and how he got injured, he’s free to go.”

Dick stared at Peter.  The tension between the two of them rising That he darted his eyes away.

What was he supposed to say? Hey, Dick, so your little brother and I run a side hustle where we snap pictures of vigilante’s and sell them to a news company.

Yeah. No. He’d be grounded for life. And that was the last thing he needed.

Peter could feel Dick’s patience wearing thin. He’d dodged this conversation so many times—faking a sore throat, claiming he had a headache- which for most time he did, and It just happened convenient.

And now Dick was expecting it.

“What’s it gonna be this time?” Dick asked, exasperation creeping into his tone. “Pretend you lost your voice? Pass out in the middle of the conversation? Lock yourself in the bathroom untill I leave again?”

Damn. Had Grayson really done all that? He was more dedicated than Parker was that’s for sure.

Jason, Alfred, and Dick all turned to him, waiting. All eyes were on him,

Peter could be honest right now—lay it all out.

His gaze flickered to Jason for just a second, and in that moment, it felt like Jason knew exactly what was running through his head. Should he just say it? Tell Dick that the Peter he was talking to wasn’t his Peter, but a different version entirely?

It was the perfect opportunity. And with him already injured, maybe—just maybe—he wouldn’t face too much backlash for keeping it a secret.

Then, like a warning, Uncle Ben’s words echoed in his mind:

“Listen, Peter” Uncle Ben started his voice filled with concern “It’d be a hell of a lot better if you told me yourself rather than me finding out on my own.”

Uncle Ben paused, letting the weight of his words settle. “And I will find out.”

Peter remembered the way Uncle Ben’s soft but stern gaze had locked onto his,

“And when I do,” he had added, “which, mind you, isn’t that difficult… you’ll wish you had just told me.”

Peter had taken those words to heart. Uncle Ben was worried about him and he didn’t want Peter getting hurt.

And right now, all Dick wanted was to know how his brother had gotten hurt. Which, in all honesty, was mostly Peter’s fault. The dark circles under Dick’s eyes made Peter almost feel bad for him.

But was Peter really willing to risk everything?

He took a breath. Then, with as much confidence as he could muster, he said—

“I… plead the Fifth.”

Dick inhaled sharply through his nose. “You plead the Fifth? ” His grip on the knife tightened further.

Peter suddenly remembered he was very much within stabbing distance.

“Uh, yeah,” he said, clearing his throat and puffing out his chest in a weak attempt to look braver. “I know my rights.”

Dick’s eye twitched.

“And technically,” Peter continued, pointing at him, “you can’t hold me here against my will. That’s, like, illegal.”

The silence that followed was heavy.

Jason bit back a grin. Alfred lifted his brow in amazement And Dick?

Dick looked one second away from committing a crime himself.

“My answer is no” Dick said quietly 

“but-“ 

“you can have your rights back once you tell me the truth” Dick interrupted Peter 

“Hey, hey,” Jason said, throwing an arm around Dick’s shoulders. “How about this?”

Peter watched as Jason pulled Dick aside, their backs turned to him. He couldn’t help but feel a flicker of irritation at how close they were—how casual, how easy it all seemed.

He cringed when he saw Jason actually managed to make Dick smile, the effortless way they bonded.

It made Peter wonder if he could a strong bond with his brothe—Dick as they did with Jason.

“Okay,” Dick sighed, relenting. “But you’re taking my car, got it?”

Jason clapped him on the back. “Don’t worry. And we’ll be back by six.”

The feeling—whatever it was— lingered when Jason turned and placed a hand on Peter’s shoulder. He wanted to swat his hand away in annoyance but stopped himself, and instead he dug his fingers into his palm.

“Come on,” Jason said, steering him toward the door. “Let’s get you out of here. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

—

They arrived at the burger Diner around 4 PM. Peter, still exhausted, had slept through the entire ride and by the time they got there, they had to wait thirty minutes just to find a seat.

When their food finally arrived, Peter and Jason sat across from each other.

A cup of iced lemonade and a glass of water were placed on the table. Peter, who had ordered the lemonade, took a sip, letting the cold drink wake him up a little.

For a while, they sat in silence, giving Peter the chance to really look at Jason who was already eating his burger.

His features were uncanny —the streak of white in his otherwise dark hair, the sharp green eyes, his skin slightly paler than the others in the manor. But his build was solid, strong.

Peter tilted his head. “So… you just dye that one streak of hair, or what?”

Jason swallowed grabbing and balking cleaning his mouth “Nah, it’s permanent.”

Peter nodded. “And your eyes? I’m guessing those aren’t contacts, are they?”

Jason smirked. “Right again.” He studied Peter for a moment before adding, “Aren’t you scared?”

“No,” Peter said simply as he picked up one of the fries and put it in his mouth meeting his gaze. “Was Grayson scared?”

Jason frowned. “Grayson?”

“Oh,” Peter said, stirring his drink. “I call Peter ‘Grayson.’”

Jason leaned in slightly. “Lemme guess—your full name is Peter Parker, right?”

Peter glanced up, unsurprised. “Yeah.”

Jason took a slow sip of his water, eyes fixed on Peter. He studied Peter for a moment, his gaze sharp, scanning him like he was trying to see straight through him.

Peter frowned. “You clearly have something you want to say.”

“I’m just deciding,” Jason finally said.

“Deciding what ?”

“Whether or not I should tell everyone about you”

The air between them shifted. It was the main reason why Jason got Peter out of the house, the main reason why they both sat at a dinner eating burgers instead of Peter figuring out what reason to give to get these guys off his back.

Jason’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes darkened, watching Peter carefully.

“See, Parker,” Jason said, voice even, “I’ve been watching you for a while. Months, actually.”

Peter stiffened slightly He was sure he’d covered his tracks. He’d made damn sure he wouldn’t get caught. Duke had figured it out, but that made sense—he was meta. But Jason? How? He barely hang out with him.

“How did you even know about me?”

Jason idly picked at his fries, eating them one by one, completely unbothered.

“I just know,” he said.

Of course. Peter should have expected that Jason wouldn’t give him a straight answer. He clenched his fists under the table, forcing himself to lean back, to stay calm. He’d already chosen to play this game the moment he revealed himself.

“Aside from the fact that you’re impulsive and outspoken, you seemed pretty harmless,” Jason said. “But when I saw you—” he stopped, correcting himself. “ When I saw Peter —half beaten to death in some abandoned house almost an hour away from home—it made me wonder.”

Then Jason’s gaze darkened, his voice turning cold.

“What kind of Person you are.”

Peter’s eyes flicked down as Jason’s hand clenched into a fist, crushing the fries beneath his palm.

“Since when do you care about Grayson?” Peter shot back. “Don’t act like you’re worried about him when you don’t give a shit.”

Jason’s jaw tightened,“You’re just a damned personality . What would you know?”

Peter leaned back, crossing his arms. “I know enough,” he said coolly. “Maybe that’s exactly why I exist—because you all screwed him up so badly he had to create a whole other version of himself just to deal with all your shit.”

“Then you wouldn’t mind if the whole family knew, right?” Jason’s voice was low, deliberate. “We could get him some help .”

Peter pressed his lips together, biting back a response. Help was the last thing Peter needed t right now.

Jason smirked, watching him like a predator who had just cornered his prey. “What got nothing to say?”

Right now, Jason had the upper hand, and the last thing Peter needed was for him to expose him. Pissing him off? Not an option.

Peter sighed “what do you want”

“Three rules,” Jason said, holding up his fingers. “Follow them, and your secret’s safe with me.”

Peter eyed him warily.

“First rule,” Jason started, lowering one finger, “if you ever plan on stepping foot in Crime Alley, you contact Red Hood . ”

Jason slid a flip phone toward Peter, “You’ve already met him twice.”

“I already have a phone,” Peter muttered, flipping it open as the screen lit up with a soft chime.

“It’s a burner,” Jason said. “You use it only to call or text Red Hood.”

Peter stared at the number displayed on the screen. “Is Red Hood even okay with this?”

“Yeah. He’s the one who suggested it. Which means that he’ll know if you are in Crime Alley by yourself and if he does catch you in there alone, I’ll expose you. ”

Peter’s stomach twisted slightly. So Red Hood was the one who ratted him out. He knew the Waynes funded vigilantes, but he didn’t know they had them on speed dial too.

Jason raised his second finger. “Second rule—if I see so much as a scratch on Peter’s body, if he’s injured in any way —I expose you.”

Peter sighed, it wasn’t him who got Grayson hurt but those bastards, when he gets his hands on them— Peter gripped his cup tight anger rising in his chest. 

“Okay, what’s your third rule?” Peter asked forcing himself to drink to calm himself down. 

Jason rested his chin on his hand, studying him as if he had noticed how Peter’s demeanor had changed so quickly.

“The only reason I got you out of there was because I promised Dick you’d tell me what happened.” He tilted his head slightly. “So, Parker—” his tone sharpened—“if you don’t tell me how you got my brother injured in the next-”

Jason examined his watched “thirty minutes, I’ll expose you .”

“What?” Peter’s eyes widened. “Right now?”

”yes” Jason nodded 

“Why don’t I just tell everyone all at once?” Peter asked panicked 

“if you wanted to” Jason said pointing a fry at Peter before tossing it into his mouth “you would’ve done so hours ago” 

Peter grit his teeth; this guy is smarter than he thought was. 

“ besides I told Dick we’d be back by six.” Jason said casually “It’s five now. We leave by five-thirty.”

Peter’s heart pounded. He had no plan, no idea what he was going to say. Claiming he had memory loss might have worked—if Jason didn’t already know exactly who he was.

And Jason? Jason could see straight through a lie.

Gosh why did he ever think to expose himself and for what? A simple curiosity?  

“Clock’s ticking,” Jason teased, drumming his fingers on the table. “C’mon, Parker. It’s not that hard. Just tell me, and your secret’s safe.”

Peter said nothing.

“Parker,” Jason called again.

Still nothing. It had been ten minutes, and Peter still hadn’t spoken. Not answering would only make Jason more distrustful. He looked down at his barely eaten food fries. He didn’t have an appetite anymore. 

Fuck.

“Parker.”

“Bathroom,” Peter muttered.

Jason frowned. “What?”

“I’m going to the bathroom.” Peter stood abruptly, the movement making his vision blur. For a second, he thought he might topple over. He grabbed the edge of the table to steady himself.

Jason leaned back. “Take your time,” he called. “You’ve only got, what—twenty minutes?”

Peter walked toward the restroom, but the moment he was out of Jason’s line of sight, he kept going.

Every restaurant has a back exit. If he could slip out, he’d buy himself time—maybe even come up with an alibi.

But as he reached the back, his steps slowed to a stop.

Except for this one, apparently.

There was no back door.

Peter clenched his jaw. What kind of diner doesn’t have a fucking back door? Did Jason know he’d try to bail?

He had no choice but to go into the restroom. Locking himself in a stall, he slid down against the door, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

He checked his watch.

5:25 PM.

Shit.

He was out of time. He couldn’t tell Jason the truth—but he couldn’t stay silent, either.

That left only one option.

His Camera job.

If he told Jason about him taking pictures of vigilante’s it would be much harder since he’s practically best friends with Redhood but still that would be enough to keep Jason from exposing him.

Peter clenched his fists. “Damn it.”

He would probably have to find another job. Or be jobless for the rest of his non existence life. 

Still Peter had no choice.

Just as he was about to stand, his watch chimed.

An unknown message.

Peter clicked it open. A small holographic projection flickered to life.

Grayson?

“Hey, Parker,” Grayson greeted. His face was bruised—this must’ve been recorded three days ago. His image flickered as he hesitated for a moment before speaking. 

“I’ve been busy trying to fix this issue on my own,” Grayson said “Trying to solve the problem you put me in.”

Peter’s stomach twisted. Is that why Grayson was almost no where to be seen, because while he was asleep he had Been going out of his way to not get him caught. 

Then how the heck did he manage to get a out of the house when he tried so many times to.

Grayson exhaled sharply. “Today, by the time this message reaches you, I will have created an alibi.”

The projection flickered. Peter watched as Grayson’s eyelids grew heavy then as a yawn escaped his mouth 

“Meet Melani at the homeless shelter by 6:30 PM. She doesn’t like it when people are late” 

A small smile formed at the corner of Graysons lips “so don’t be late”

”also if you are late then your screwed” Peter said quickly “bye” 

Then the message ended.

Peter stared at the empty screen. His mouth open. A scoff his lips 

What the fuck. 

Grayson had been working on this the entire time and hadn’t said a word to him?

Peter clenched his jaw, he didn’t know either or not to be upset or impressed about what Grayson had just done. he didn’t have time to dwell on it. He stood up and quickly exited the bathroom, already running through his next move.

Karen had sent the instructions after the video message ended which he skimmed through.

The only issue was how he was going to get out of here without Jason. 

It was past 5:30 when he made his way back to the front the urgency of the situation crashing over him, his eyes landing on the door that was 50 feet away from him.

The good thing about the diner was how pact it was people filing in and out of through the front door created a shield for him. 

Peter steadily weaved his way through a group of people trying keep himself from getting noticed by Jason; who at the corner of his eyes was talking to one of the waitresses. 

probably asking where he was. 

As Peter was about 30 feet away from the door. 

“Hey Peter ” Jason called from his seat, eyes sharp with amusement. “Where you running off too?” 

Peter cursed under his breath and sighed. How did he get caught this quickly?

Jason stood, stretching lazily and made his way towards him with that same infuriating smirk on his face.

A message popped up on his phone pulling his attention away for a moment:

Melani: Hey Peter are we still meeting up?

peter who was still waiting for Jason typed 

Peter: Yup at the homeless shelter right 

Melani: typing . . . 
 
Melani: Yeah, just don’t forget to bring my flowers 😉

Flowers? Peter didn’t know what was going on but he still responded 

Peter: Yeah. Sure I’ll bring them 

Melani: Great!! See you soon!!

Melani: don’t be late

Peter sighed whatever plan Grayson had cooked up better be good. Jason was only a couple feet when Peter looked at the clock. 5:45

He couldn’t wait any longer

“So, you finally decided to spill?” Jason said his hands on his hips. Peter looked and at the door that began to get more crowded then back a Jason who now stood in front of him. 

Peter’s fingers relaxed a bit then he inhaled slowly , Peter wanted to wipe that smirk off Jason’s face—but he didn’t have time for this. Not yet at least but he’ll get his chance. 

Peter without hesitation side stepped Jason slipping past him, then made his way towards the door weaving through the crowed that was filing in. 

“…Hey! Parker.” Jason asked surprised “what are you doing”

“Answering your stupid question” Peter rolled his eyes, as he pushed the door open, stepping out of the diner then a cool breeze brushed his face.

Through the glass he watched as Jason tried to make his way through the crowd but his strong build only slowed him down. When they made eyes contact—

Jason mouthed angrily at Peter “Don’t move” 

Peter cupped his ears as he mouthed back “I can’t hear you” 

A smirk formed on Peter’s lips as he and started making his way into the streets disappearing into the crowd

Jason cursed under his breath calling out to him.  
 
Peter on the hand he didn’t stop instead he began to run. 

Chapter Text

Peter G. Wayne

It wasn’t every day Peter woke up in an abandoned warehouse, half beaten to death.

Well… since Parker came into his life, it had already been the third time—but this time, when he did, the first thing he felt was rage.

Not just because he was in some isolated, crumbling building, in pain and probably close to death again (he might be exaggerating), but also because—one of the worst villains in Gotham attacking him was none other than Scarecrow.

Scarecrow!!!

The guy he saw on TV fighting Batman, and here he was—towering over him, ready to attack.

Peter forced himself up off the ground, staggering as he tried to put some distance between them, his body ached, and Scarecrow only stood there, amused. His stitched mouth twisted into a crooked, unsettling grin.

To think that he is standing face to face with Scarecrow, knock that off the last of things Peter never thought he would do.

“Interesting,” Scarecrow rasped. “To think you could push through my fear gas that quickly.”

Then, like a shadow breaking loose, he lunged. “You’re even faster than Batman!!” His clawed hand swiped through the air, aimed straight at Peter.

Peter dodged instantly—then another slash came. He barely sidestepped it, his spider-sense flaring, saving him over and over. It was the only reason he was still breathing. But fighting? Actually fighting back?

Peter had never fought a real battle in his life. Well—except for when those meta kids jumped him. But was that even him? Or was that Parker… or the spider-sense?

Still, Peter’s best chance was to maneuver. He weaved between the rusted tanks scattered around the warehouse, keeping distance, making Scarecrow work for it.

“Parker!” Peter called out, breathless. “Get up.”

Scarecrow stalked closer, that smug grin never leaving his face. “Stop talking to yourself and fight me.”

“You were so eager before. Why stop now?” Scarecrow added.

Peter, on the other hand, wasn’t fast enough. This time, Scarecrow’s claws slashed deep across his skin and Peter hit the ground hard, a sharp cry tearing from his throat.

He lay there sprawled on the ground to afraid to see his own blood if he did he might pass as well past out.

Warmth bloomed across his side as his vision blurred, he couldn’t stay in the spot  Peter’s movements were sluggish as he tried to rise, stumbling. Scarecrow watched, entertained, waiting for him to get back up.

Black and yellow spots began to fill Peter’s vision as he swayed.

“The walls,” Karen’s voice buzzed faintly in his ear. Damn! He could barely hear anything. “Stick to the walls. Keep your distance.”

“You’re telling me this now, Karen?” Peter said groggily and annoyed at the same time.

The only issue with this plan was that Peter had to find a way to slow him down just enough so he could get there—but how?

Tiredly, his gaze dropped to what was hanging around his neck. Parker’s camera, the front completely wrecked and shards of glass split apart, gave Peter an idea. It would cost the camera’s life, and he would’ve felt bad about it—if Parker hadn’t put him in this damn situation.

It was Parker’s idea. One day he came to him and said that he would stay out of his life if Peter let him take pictures.

Peter wasn’t sure at first why he wanted to do it. But all Peter responded was,

“It was something I used to do a lot back at home.”

Peter, who at the time was still pretty annoyed at the fact that something Parker did—something embarrassing to the family—had gotten him the recognition he’d been yearning for all his life.

But then again, maybe he should rebel more and do stupid things to get recognition from his dad, since that’s what’s getting his attention. But alas, Peter agreed, and when he found out Parker was taking pictures of vigilantes, Peter became interested, and they decided to send it to a company.

And now, here he was—suffering for it. 

he couldn’t believe he was doing this all for free. 

As if Parker was the camera itself.

Peter yanked the camera from his neck, pulling the SD card free and sliding it into his pocket. He watched as Scarecrow moved in fast, but Peter was surprisingly faster—maybe it was because he was imagining Parker instead.

Wrapping the camera’s leather strap around his fist, Peter inhaled and braced himself for the moment when Scarecrow was just a few feet away, swinging hard.

The camera cracked against Scarecrow’s face with a sickening crunch. Scarecrow staggered back, hitting the ground with a thud.

“Ha!” Peter let out a short and surprised laugh. “I can’t believe I just did that.”

“Karen, did you see that?” Peter asked in amusement.

“Yes, I did see that,” Karen said, her tone surprised. “It was impressive”

Peter surprised by Karen’s praise blushed 

“It’s a shame Dad didn’t see that… or even Dick. Imagine what they would have said,” Peter said as a small smile spread across his face.

“Peter,” Karen reminded, “the wall?”

“Oh right! ” Peter said.

Peter didn’t waste another second—he bolted, sprinting to the walls (well, trying at least). His breath came in heavy gasps, his body screaming in protest.

Peter had grown to hate pain—it wasn’t something he encountered every day until the day Parker came into his life. Now, he wasn’t sure what he hated more.

He tried to look around for the exit to get out of this damn place, the camera still swaying in his arm.

Karen’s voice crackled in his ear: “The upper vent at the top left corner.” As if she could read his mind.

For a moment, Peter felt a spark of relief as he caught sight of the exit out of the corner of his eye. The issue was—it lay past where he’d left Scarecrow on the ground.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Peter muttered. He skidded to a stop and turned, sprinting back toward where he’d abandoned Scarecrow. As he neared, he watched Scarecrow struggling to regain his balance.

Seizing the opportunity, Peter swung the camera toward Scarecrow’s face once more. It didn’t hit as hard as before, but it was enough to give him the gap he needed.

There, just a few feet away, he saw the vents. At the far corner of the ceiling, his heart skipped a beat as he picked up the pace. He was almost there!!

But in a split second before he could reach the wall, a hand gripped his collar.

“Nice try, kid.”

Peter barely gasped before he was yanked back with such force that his body slammed against the ground.

The impact knocked the air out of him. Blood filled his mouth as he coughed, spitting red onto the floor. It was stupid—stupid to run back. Why didn’t he just scale the walls?

He could’ve escaped.

Scarecrow pulled out a syringe filled with what looked like the fear toxin. He flicked his finger against the tube— clink —as a thin mist seeped through.

It made him think about the day he watched his parents die, and how he knew but didn’t do anything at all. Now here he was, helpless.

And he hated it.

“I’ll make sure you stay down this time,” Scarecrow snickered.

This time, Peter tried—he really tried—to push himself up. He gritted his teeth every ounce of strength he had left. But his body wouldn’t move.

Peter didn’t like to rely on Parker but at this moment he can’t do anything and the only person who got him into the mess in the first place, is the only one who can get him out of it.

“Wake UP!!” Peter yelled.

“Damn IT!! Parker, get UP!!”

Suddenly Parker appeared before him, his eyes watery as if he’d been crying. Tears streamed down his face. Yet he didn’t move. He was there, but still in a complete daze—as if he was replaying his worst moments.

“I need you!!” Peter called desperately

Not even a second later, Parker blinked back the tears, his vision focusing on Peter as he examined his injuries. And then, his face twisted into an anger he couldn’t quite express.

“Switch with me,” Parker growled, low.

In an instant, Peter was on the ground. The pain he felt seconds ago disappeared, and relief washed over him. He felt like he could breathe.

As he sat there, all Peter could do was watch as Parker beat Scarecrow down. Each fist landing with every word that left Parker’s mouth. Peter could say he was paying attention to whatever Parker was saying, but he wasn’t.

It was the first time Peter had seen Parker fight. And it wasn’t from some blurry video on YouTube or even the news—no, it was right in front of him. Brutal, bloody, and graphic. They really kept this scene out of the news for a good reason if people saw this they would be afraid.

Yet to his surprise Peter wasn’t

“Hey,” Peter said as he stood up, “Parker, you should stop.”

Peter didn’t even believe the words he was saying at that moment. And, to be honest, a part of Peter didn’t want him to stop either.

He could feel the rage building in Parker’s chest with each blow. Anger. Sadness. And an emotion he knew all too well.

Grief.

Peter didn’t think he’d ever need his inhaler again—he hadn’t since becoming a meta. But in this moment, he found himself struggling to breathe.

His breath caught in his throat.

His chest tight.

But he didn’t stop himself from looking.

And for a moment, he wondered if what he was feeling—the anger, the guilt and the satisfaction watching Scarecrow get beat up—was Parker’s… or his.

Chapter Text

Bruce Wayne

-Two Days after Peter got hurt-

His fingers drummed against the wheel as cars passed him by. Bruce was stuck in traffic. He could’ve taken his private jet to Central City, but instead, here he was, sitting in his car.

Still, he found comfort in driving. It was something he did when he needed to think, when his mind felt too full.

And right now, there was a lot on his mind.

The traffic light turned red and Bruce as he slowed to a stop, he rolled down the window. Let the breeze in.

Classical music was playing softly in the background, He like it, the sound of music without words; it would give him a sense of peace in city full of chaos— it was supposed to distract him from his thoughts but it didn’t really help much

Instead Bruce found himself drifting back to that day, the day he got the call that Peter was hurt.

Bruce remembered how fast he drove back to Wayne Manor. How his heart pounded as he made his way to Peter’s room, only to stop at the doorway.

There he saw him—Peter lay there, his body wrapped in bandages, chest rising and falling shallowly. An IV dripped steadily at his side, the monitor beside him filling the room with its cold, steady rhythm.

Beep… beep… beep… beep…

His eyes scanned the room.

Unlike Damien’s, with his collection of swords, weapons and art, filling every space, Peter’s room was large—yet for some reason, there was nothing that reflected his character.

Not even posters like as if he was a guest in his own house.

The only difference now was that Peter’s room had turned into a hospital. Yet even with the medical equipment, the monitors, and the quiet hum of machines, Bruce couldn’t shake how empty it felt.

Leslie was there, sitting beside him, checking his vitals. She didn’t even have to look to know Bruce had stepped in.

“He’s finally calming down now,” she said quietly. “I gave him anesthesia to keep him from waking up.”

“How much?” Bruce asked, leaning against the foot of the bed, his eyes locked on Peter’s pale  bruised face.

“More than he needed,” Leslie admitted with a sigh as she leaned back. “I was worried… but if I hadn’t increased the dosage, it would’ve been harder to stabilize him.”

Silence stretched between them.

Leslie was exhausted he could see dark circles under her eyes.

Dick had called her on her day off to treat Peter, and when she had come over which happened to be hours ago Leslie had been working on stabilizing Peter since then;

A strand of her hair fell to the side of her face. Leslie tucked the hair behind her ear—

“You know,” Leslie started, breaking the quiet, “this isn’t the first time I’ve treated Peter.” She exhaled slowly. “Compared to his other injuries… this one’s worse.”

Bruce frowned, confusion flashing across his face. “You’ve treated him recently?”

Leslie glanced at him, just as puzzled. “Yeah… it wasn’t that long ago, actually. He came in bloody — got into a fight with the Alley kids.” She paused, then added, “Didn’t Jason tell you?”

“Jason?” Bruce asked, his brow furrowing.

“Yeah,” Leslie nodded as she turned to toward Bruce. “He was the one who brought Peter that day . . . I thought he told you.”

Bruce didn’t answer, Lately, Jason had been lingering around Peter more than usual… coming to the Manor more often too. He also remembered how Jason stood up for Peter after the memorial.

It was odd since Jason and Peter rarely talked but this sudden discovery made wonder why Jason never told him; and it’s not like they were on bad terms either.

Was he hiding something?

“Bruce?” Leslie called, pulling him from his thoughts. “Didn’t Jason tell you?” she asked again.

“…No,” Bruce finally answered, his voice low. “He didn’t.”

HOONK!!!

His thoughts were interpreted by the cars behind him, the light had turned green and without hesitation he pressed down on the accelerator, the car surging forward. The breeze hit his face, cool against his skin.

He wore sunglasses that shielded his eyes from the harsh sun. His hair whipped back and his right arm resting on the window seal.

Then he exited the ramp, leaving Gotham City behind him.

Bruce knew he should be home with Peter, figuring out why he was injured. But with the increase in criminal metas, his mind was elsewhere—he needed to get this under control.

He gripped the wheel as his jaw tightened angrily; disappointed at himself this was his city, but he was failing to protect it.

And right now at this moment he was on his way to central city.

Barry Allen had offered to help by giving him resources that can help ‘contain’ Metas that break the law. Intrigued he decided to meet with him tonight.

Still Bruce couldn’t help but sigh as a  wave of guilt hitting him. After all he should be with Peter-

Suddenly, the memory of Peter as a little kid flashed into his mind—the day Peter’s parents died. Dick cried, but Peter didn’t. He just looked at his parents’ still bodies as they lay in their caskets.

Bruce had stood beside Dick to comfort him, while Peter stood away, his expression saying nothing at all. He probably doesn’t know what’s going on right now, Bruce thought to himself.

Still, he couldn’t turn away as Peter’s gaze met his. But why was he thinking about it now?

Bruce shook his head as if he was shaking away his guilt and pressed on the escalator increasing the speed.

Crimes were already bad enough when he didn’t have to deal with super humans now they were running rampant and messing with Gotham?

No.

He needed to focus on the task at hand

It was selfish of him, he knew that.  But Right now, his city was his priority.

And Peter . . . would just have to wait.

Peter Parker

It didn’t take long for Peter to find a shop selling flowers. Surprisingly, it was in one of the nicer parts of Crime Alley.

Karen had sent him the coordinates ones Grayson had obviously given her earlier ,what worried Peter was that it was in the opposite direction of where he needed to be . . . the homeless shelter

It was already getting late, and since he had to try to get Jason off his back it took longer than expected; Still he managed to make it with 45 minutes untill the time they were supposed to meet.

Peter pushed open the door and as soon as he entered he felt like he was transported into another world. The shop was overflowing with flowers and plants of all kinds.

Some plants were taller than him, there weee vines creeping along the walls and dangling from the ceiling. Peter had to push a few aside just to reach the counter.

The tables were covered in moss, and the air smelled murky yet sweet. It was warm in here, almost too warm. It was very color full in the shop and surprisingly crowded.

As he approached the counter, an old lady greeted him with a peachy smile.

“Welcome to Flowers Flower Shop,” she said slowly. “How can I help you?”

Peter shuffled his feet.

“Um, hi,” he started. “I’m here for an order for—”

He glanced down at the instructions Karen had sent him.

“Melani.” He looked up again. “I’m here to pick up flowers.”

The old lady studied him, her expression shifting into something almost disappointed. Peter suddenly became hyper-aware of how much of a mess he must have looked—bruised, scuffed up, and far from presentable.

“Just you?” she asked.

Peter replied slowly, “Yeah… it’s just me.”

“Hmmm.” The old lady placed a hand on her chin, still eyeing him.

“What?” Peter asked curiously. “What’s wrong with just me?”

With one last glance, she gestured for him to follow. Leading him past baskets of roses, sunflowers, and countless other flowers, she guided him deeper into the shop.

Then she led him even further.

“It’s just…” she started, stopping at an outer door. “This order is quite a lot, you see…”

Peter peered through the door—and froze, his mouth hanging open.

“What the—”

Heaps of baskets of flowers were stacked on top of each other—probably 10 or 15 different kinds, all plastic-wrapped in and stacked on top of each other. This wouldn’t be an issue if it was one but to carry all this by himself.

How was he supposed to get all of this by 6:30?

Subtle panic began to build in his chest. How the heck was he supposed to get these there?

“Karen,” Peter said between his teeth, “did you know about this?”

Without hesitation , “Yes.”

“Why?” Peter asked. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“Peter,” Karen said, “you were the one who ordered the flowers.”

“No, it wasn’t me,” Peter said, frustrated.

“It’s quite difficult for someone like me to tell the difference between the two of you. You both sound and look the same, Peter,” Karen said. “Unless I’m told who is who, I have no way of knowing.”

Peter sighed in frustration.

Should he just leave figure out a way out of this situation on his own? No it was already too late anyway, Jason told him not to be here alone and yet here he was.

He’ll just have to deal with it and trust Grayson.

Thankfully the old lady had an old shopping cart that  he could use to move the baskets.

They were pretty some were roses and hyacinths, while others were tulips. And many more that Peter didn’t have the knowledge to name.

Still after five minutes he was able to get everything in saying good bye to the old lady Peter looked at his watches - it was 6:00 pm  without wasting anymore time he headed out the back of the store making his towards the homeless shelter.

-

It had already been 20 minutes since Peter made his way towards the homeless shelter.  He was almost there and to be honest Peter had expected to be attacked on the way, but no one bothered him, and when they did try, someone one or maybe multiple individuals prevented that from happening

Whenever someone looked at him—or even came in his direction—they would instantly turn and flee. On the rare occasions when Peter stopped to catch his breath (because damn, he was exhausted), he would glance behind him, only to find no one there.

It was already getting late and the streets became less crowded as Peter made his way through, still the crowd couldn’t hide the whispers and the jumps from building to building as they were following him from behind

Even if they had tried He could hear them a mile away. And based on what he was hearing, it was…

Robin, Red Robin, and Spoiler.

The vigilantes. Who knew that had so much time in their hands to pay attention to someone like him. Then again they probably knew that he was a ‘Wayne’

Still it was comforting to know that he didn’t have to go through any trouble to make it to the homeless shelter.

“Should we help him?” Red Robin asked.

Peter would appreciate the help. Greatly.

Peter grunted pushing the cart upward and even though the sun was about to set he felt sweat bead down his face.

“We should,” Spoiler said. “It hurts to see him struggle.”

Yes help this poor unfortunate soul

Peter wondered why they hadn’t even thought of helping him earlier, were they just enjoying him suffer. Still it’s not like he can do this without them and calling them out would only raise suspicion on he knew there whereabouts

Suddenly a plan formed in his mind as he noticed the ground scattered with large rocks and pebbles; a small smile growing on his face Peter walked for a few more minutes, waiting for the perfect moment—

Then, with an exaggerated yelp, Peter “accidentally” slipped on a pebble. He flailed, trying to regain his balance by using the weight of the cart to catch himself, but the momentum sent him stumbling backward—

“Dai—Robin, what are you doing?!” Red Robin called out.

Instantly Robin dropped down in front of Peter just in time, stopping the cart before it could shove him any further. He held it steady, giving Peter a chance to regain his footing.

Peter tried to hide his smile as he let out an exaggerated breath.

“Maaaan… that was close,” he sighed with relief

“I would’ve died if it weren’t for you,” he added, throwing in just the right amount of dramatic flair.

Robin raised an eyebrow as Red Robin landed beside him.

“Hey, are you alright?” Red Robin asked.

Peter hunched forward, heavily leaning on the cart to sell the act even more. Although it didn’t really take that much acting.

“No,” he sighed dramatically, “it’s been a really long day”

Robin and Red Robin eyed him, clearly surprised by his honesty. Normally, he’d brush things off, say he was fine, but right now? He’d rather do anything than push this stupid cart up a hill.

“What are you doing here?” Robin asked, stepping closer, his hands tightening on the cart. His eyes narrowed as he gave Peter a once-over.

“Running an errand,” Peter said impatiently. “What are you doing here” Peter asked back looking between the two of them

“Patrolling” Robin answered indifferently,

“In that condition?” Spoiler, who had just appeared beside him, cut peter flinched back as he  pretend to be surprised to see her.

Peter hesitated for a moment as they waited for his response . “Well…” He glanced at the cart, then sighed. “I promised someone I’d deliver these flowers.”

He showed them the flowers “ and I needed to do it today so . . . “

He checked his watch before weakly pushing the cart forward, “I gotta meet her soon,” he added. “But, uh… thanks for your help.”

Before Peter could take another step, Red Robin moved in, gently pushing him aside and grabbing hold of the cart. Peter was shocked at how willing they were to help.

“If we help you, you’ll go home after this, right?” Red Robin asked, fixing him with a look.

Peter said without hesitation “Straight home.”

Red Robin started pushing the cart forward

“Where are we going?”

Following from behind Peter answered trying to keep his voice from sounding to excited “The new homeless shelter. Just up the hill— I think.”

It didn’t take long to reach the hill. Now that Peter wasn’t the one pushing the cart, the journey was easier—but that didn’t stop the exhaustion from creeping in. With every step, he felt himself growing weaker.

“Peter,” Karen’s voice chimed in his ear. “Based on your temperature and overall condition, I strongly advise seeking medical attention.”

Peter didn’t respond. He knew she was right—he felt worse than before. His body had been shutting down ever since Grayson and him hadn’t switched days ago.

By the time they reached the shelter, he was completely out of breath. Hands on his knees, he checked his watch. 6:32 PM. The sun had set, but at least he was here.

Only then did he realize how silent the others had gotten. When he looked up, he saw them all watching him, concern written across their faces.

“I’m fine,” Peter muttered, waving off their worry. He forced himself to stand upright, willing his body to cooperate as he took a step toward the door.

“Peter, you should really sit down,” Spoiler said, her voice tight with concern.

He shook his head and knocked. His body felt weak for no reason. If only Grayson were here—if only they could switch—because right now, Peter desperately needed it.

The door creaked open, revealing a girl with dark hair and brown eyes. Her face lit up the moment she saw him.

“You’re here.”

Peter didn’t recognize her at first—Melani? Her dark eyes flicked past him, taking in Red Robin, Robin, and Spoiler standing behind him.

Peter shifted slightly, clearing his throat. “They helped me get the rest of the way.”

Melani looked back at him, her lips curving into a small smile. “Y’know, Peter, I didn’t think you’d actually do it—”

She hesitated, biting her lip as if choosing her next words carefully. “When you came to me that morning… asking for another chance, I wasn’t really sure you even cared. But after today—”

Peter’s brows knitted together. He had no idea what she was talking about.

“After today?” he echoed, trying to pull more out of her.

Melani nodded. “I guess I’ll give you one more chance.”

Peter felt his stomach drop. One more chance? His thoughts scrambled for meaning, but for a moment, all he could focus on was the shock pulsing through him. Was she saying that Grayson, was in a relationship with this girl? Didn’t they just meet not to long ago.

No it must be something else

A quiet scoff came from Red Robin, and Peter barely had time to register it before he let out a breath, dragging his hands down his face. “I’m sorry—uh, a chance at what?”

Melani’s smile faltered. “What do you mean? You’re the one who asked for another chance at volunteering here—Peter, are you okay?”

And just like that, everything clicked.

The alibi. The one Grayson had spun together so seamlessly.

Relief crashed over Peter, leaving him momentarily frozen.

Why?

Why would Grayson go this far for him?

For a long, silent moment, Peter just stood there, letting the weight of it settle in his chest. Then, without warning, laughter burst out of him, raw and sudden.

He has a reason why he was away that night. Suddenly he felt glad the he ditched Jason and went through all the trouble.

To the others, it might have seemed odd—maybe even unhinged—but to him, it was the best thing that had happened all day.

“Peter?” Melani asked, concern creeping into her voice.

Still grinning, he reached out and clasped her hands, his grip firm with gratitude. “Yes, yes—thank you for this opportunity. I promise you won’t regret it.”

Melani pulled her hands away from Peter’s grasp, her expression softening.

“Okay then, I’ll see you Monday, 6:30,” she said, her voice light yet firm as she pushed the cart ahead. “Don’t be late.”

With that, she turned and walked inside, leaving Peter and the others standing in the dimming light of the evening.

Without hesitation, Peter’s legs gave out beneath him. As if the weight of the last few days came off him. He was safe.  He crumpled to the floor, his body feeling like it was made of lead.

For a moment, he simply stared at the ground, disoriented, wondering how the hell he was going to get home.

Robin knelt beside him, his voice concerned. “Hey, Peter, you okay?”

Peter swayed slightly, trying to gather himself. “I’m fine… I just… think I overexerted myself too much.”

But exhaustion was already sinking deep into his bones, forcing him to lie flat on the cold ground. His body felt like it was betraying him.

Spoiler knelt next to him, her expression tight with worry. “He’s running a fever. We should get him home.”

Peter’s vision was fading at the edges, his awareness slipping. The voices around him became muffled, their words blurred like static on a broken radio.

“Call Alfred to come pick us up,” Red Robin said, his tone all business, but Peter couldn’t fully grasp the words. Peter wanted to know how close they were for them to call Alfred.

Pete’s vision blurred and he could not longer stay awake but from corner of his eyes he noticed Grayson leaning watching him. He wanted to call out to thank him heck maybe he did.

But before he could get a response everything went black.

—

Peter had woken up to find himself in an abandoned alleyway

It was eerily similar to the day Peter first arrived in Gotham—except for the rain. He remembered that day so clearly, and it hadn’t been raining then.

Now, he stood there, watching as Grayson lay motionless on the cold ground of an empty alleyway. His body ached, his uniform was torn—the same uniform Peter had worn on his first day in Gotham.

Grayson didn’t move, but Peter could feel everything coursing through him. Anger. Regret. Betrayal. Grief. It all bled into Peter’s heart, seeping into him like the rain soaking through his clothes.

He’d run out of Wayne Manner out of anger, and frustration with argument Grayson had with Bruce and Dick and yet in this moment he wished he would go back.

Still Peter came to the conclusion that he was experiencing Grayson’s memory.

Probably before he came to his body.

It felt like hours had passed by but Peter didn’t know.

How long had Grayson been lying there? And how long had Peter been standing, watching, unable to do anything? He was a ghost on the sidelines, powerless.

Thunder boomed overhead, as if mocking them. Peter’s chest tightened. He wanted to take Grayson’s pain away, but no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t speak. But then again it didn’t matter because no one would hear him.

Still he found himself sitting next to Grayson beside him. Peter tried to touch him but his hand passed right through him.

Suddenly thoughts flooded Grayson’s mind; visions of Dick finding his body, of how it would break him loosing another family member.

Peter watched as tears welled in Grayson’s eyes, his quiet cries swallowed by the rain

“Fuck,” Grayson laughed his voice weak, trembling and pained.

He could barely see through the rain and his shattered glasses made it worse.

He let out another chuckle that died as quickly as it came.

This was it.

This was how he was going to die.

Then, suddenly, a glowing gold circle flickered into existence before him. It was Dr. Strange power. Peter’s heart skipped a bit.

Grayson squinted against the rain, trying to make out the figure stepping through. But Peter recognized it instantly. His breath caught. The man who walked out of the portal wasn’t Stephen no it was someone he didn’t even expect to be here at all.

“Ugh,” the man groaned as he stepped onto the wet pavement. “Of all the miserable days, that magician had to send me here it had to be on this day”

His British accent lingered through the air

With a snap of his fingers, a shimmering shield formed above him, deflecting the rain.

Grayson swallowed hard, his voice barely a rasp. “Are you… God?”

The stranger rolled his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. I am a god. Not God .”

His emerald-green horns gleamed under the dim city lights, his cape swaying as he took another step forward. And with it came a weight—an invisible force that crashed down on them like a tidal wave, thick and suffocating.

Then—Peter couldn’t move.

His breath caught in his throat, his limbs locking in place. Panic flared in his chest. His body wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t even twitch. He was frozen.

How?

How was he here?

Why?

Why was he here?

Across from him, Grayson was still. Not just from fear—he couldn’t move either. Was this that man’s  doing? It had to be.

More questions swarmed Peter’s mind, erratic, desperate. He wanted to call out, to demand answers, but the words wouldn’t come. Even if they could, he doubted the god would acknowledge him.

“Interesting, you look exactly like him” Loki said playfully“you know it was really hard to find someone who him, yet here you are”

Loki took another step forward, slow, deliberate. 

“W-what , what do you want from me” Grayson shivered his voice rasp.

The god’s eyes shimmered with amusement

The weight in the air thickened as he walked through Peter his eyes only focused on Grayson.

And all Peter could do was watch.

Chapter Text

Peter G. Wayne 

Alfred was supposed to pick him up, but when Peter took back control of his body after Parker passed out, he was greeted by none other than his brother.

Dick’s car slid to a stop at the top of the hill, the engine cutting off with a low hum. Peter, still struggling to sit upright, raised a hand to shield his eyes from the headlights.

Just minutes ago, Parker had been gasping in pain, unable to move. But the moment Peter took over, the pain vanished—completely, instantly. It was so abrupt that even Red Robin, standing nearby, eyed him with open curiosity.

Dick stepped out of the car, shutting the door behind him, and strode toward Peter. Peter, now fully upright, hurried to his feet, bracing himself.

“I know you’re mad,” Peter said, cutting straight to the point. “But I had a good reason.”

Dick’s lips moved slowly, his gaze unreadable. “Did you now?”

“Yeah,” Peter replied, a little too quickly.

Dick, now aware of the vigilantes standing behind him, simply said, “Let’s talk in the car.” He grabbed Peter by the arm, pulling him along. Peter glanced back at the others, who were still watching him in silence.

“Take care of yourself” Spoiler said to Peter as they walked away

The ride back to Wayne Manor was uncomfortably  and quiet. Peter watched Dick drive, his grip firm on the wheel, eyes locked on the road. Not once did he glance Peter’s way.

“What you did,” Dick finally said, voice calm but heavy, “going into Crime Alley alone and unarmed—then getting hurt…”

Peter had expected him to yell, to be furious. The restrained tone somehow made it worse.

“I’m sorry,” Peter said, glancing down. “I didn’t mean to make everyone worry.”

“Yeah, well, you did.” Dick sighed, frustration creeping into his voice.

There was another long pause as Dick continued driving.

Dick was right to be frustrated.

The silence felt heavier than before, stretching between them like an invisible wall.

Dick sighed, as if rehearsing what to say.  “Peter I need you to tell me everything”

Peter had been waiting for this moment, Parker had already done the hard part; now it was Peter’s turn to seal it in the coffin.

“That day,” Peter started, his voice steady despite the weight in his chest, “I was supposed to meet Mel so we could volunteer. She gave me a chance to prove that I could manage on my own—but…”

He hesitated.

“I didn’t go. I lost track of time and forgot. So I left early in the morning to go see her and ask for another chance.”

It was actually the day Parker had to leave extra early just for him to take photos 

Dick’s fingers tapped against the steering wheel. “Why didn’t you tell anyone you left the house?”

“I didn’t want to wake anyone,” Peter answered. “Besides, it was supposed to be a short trip.”

Dick didn’t say anything, so Peter continued.

“Anyway, when I got there, I asked her to give me another chance so I chose to help her with flowers ”

“Flowers? ” Dick said.

Peter nodded. “Yeah. Mel wanted to brighten up the place, make people feel at home. She thought adding flowers would help. So I figured if I could help fund them, it would prove I was dedicated to working with her.”

All of what Peter said was true—the conversation had happened. Just not on the day he got hurt.

He closed his eyes. Almost done. Just had to get through the hard part.

“On the way back, I got jumped by a bunch of kids, and they attacked me,” Peter said, gripping his pants.

His heart pounded as flashes of what happened surged in his mind. The feeling of hands grabbing him, fists landing, voices jeering—it all came back too fast, too vividly.

Dick must’ve noticed the long pause because his hand suddenly landed on Peter’s shoulder, grounding him.

“Peter,” Dick said softly.

Peter’s throat tightened. His fingers curled into his jeans, but he forced himself to swallow it all down.

“Anyway,” Peter cleared his throat “luckily, I was saved by someone and brought home.”

As they turned into the driveway of Wayne Manor, Dick asked, “Then why didn’t you just tell that to Jason instead of running out of the diner?”

“The diner?”

Peter froze. He didn’t know about this. He had assumed Parker was home when he got the message—but apparently, he wasn’t. What was Parker even doing with Jason? Peter never really hung out with him.

“Yes, the diner,” Dick said, his tone firm. “You could’ve just explained everything, and he would have gone with you.”

Shoot.

What was he supposed to say to that?

“Peter” Dick asked again “you left Jason do you know how worried he was—“

“I was scared,” Peter blurted out before he could stop himself. “I was scared you wouldn’t let me go.”

The car slowed to a stop in front of the mansion. Peter stared out the window as silence settled between them.

Peter turned to see Dick staring at him, his eyes examining if Peter was telling the truth. He was. Just not it the time that it happened.

“I’m sorry,” he said, quieter this time. “I know I’ve been giving you trouble. And I know I made everyone worry.”

Dick sighed as his expression softening before he let out a small smile.

“Just… don’t do that again, okay?” he said. “I can’t lose another family member.”

Peter smiled softly . “Don’t worry. You won’t.”

The tension that was there before seemed to disappear as Dick leaned back breathing out

“Okay” Dick said relived.

In this moment.  Peter found himself wondering—when was the last time they had spent time together, just the two of them? Amidst all the chaos, all the pretending, all the lies… he just wanted to be with his brother.

And with everything that was going on with him Peter  wasn’t sure he’d get any sleep tonight.  Actually Peter hasn’t been getting sleep at all only nightmares.

“You know…” he started, hesitating his nerves  crept in. He wasn’t sure why he was suddenly nervous. “I was wondering if maybe you’d want to watch a movie with me—”

Before he could finish, a call popped up on the screen.

Oracle.

Dick’s expression shifted as he glanced at the name. “ oh shoot. I’m sorry, Peter . . . it’s work—”

A lump formed in Peter’s throat. He noticed the way Dick was waiting for him to leave.

“Yeah, no, it’s fine. You’re busy—” he said quickly, as Peter pushed the car door open before he could embarrass himself further, slipping “—and I’m tired”

“Yeah?” Dick asked worried

“Yeah! It was such a long day, literally took the wind out of me”’Peter chuckled at the end “ I don’t even think I’ll make it to my bed”

Dick chuckled a bit “don’t collapse on the floor”

Peter forced himself to smile “I’m 30% positive I’ll make it”

Then he shut the door facing Dick as the window slid open, concerned eyes met with Peter’s gaze and all Peter could do was give small smile.

But inside he felt a little bit hurt.

“I’m sorry, Pete,” Dick called after him, his voice tinged with guilt. “I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

Peter said quietly “it’s not big deal anyway”

There was another short pause, Peter turned to walked away not wanting to stay there any longer

“Good night” Dick called.

But he didn’t wait for Peter to answer because the call rang again, instead he heard the engine turn on and the car back away

Peter turned as he watched his brother drive off leaving him behind.

“Yeah you too”  Peter mumbled to himself.

When Peter stepped into his home his was greeted with a familiar silence. The empty halls of the large mansion always looked scary at night and he hated being alone. Then again he was always alone at this time.

Heck he didn’t even know when they got home.

He’d learned that pretty quickly when he was younger that his family never came home early. They were always busy doing something important.

Peter could understand Bruce and Alfred and Dick even Jason. But everyone else it just never made sense to him they went to school together but even they never came home with him after school.

He started to feel left out, started asking questions but they all soon became excuses and eventually Peter gave up asking and got used to it

He wished he didn’t,

but what was he supposed to do.

Actually he’d forgotten about the quiet halls ever since Parker came into his life, Peter was so busy trying to stay alive this silence made him wish Parker was awake right now.

He made way through the kitchen opening the fridge door to find food made for him. Then he headed over to the dining room a large room with a large round table.

Peter flicked the light switch on. And sat down the food that was prepared was rice with pork soup and a piece of stake.

The other plates clanked together as he ate silently as he always did this was normal, this was something he should’ve already been so used to.

It was stupid of Peter to think otherwise.

He shouldn’t have asked in the first place or even suspected anything would change just because he got a little bit of attention.

“Ha” Peter scoffed jokingly“maybe I should get hurt more”

Tears began to well up in his ears but he forced himself not to cry. No he wasn’t gonna cry to something as pathetic as this

—

Just like Peter had predicted, he had been sucked into another nightmare of that night. Every night, he relived that moment—the pain, the screams, the anger, the begging.

He couldn’t breathe. If he had been stronger, like Parker, he wouldn’t have gotten hurt. David, the larger one, would order his henchmen to beat the crap out of him. Each would take turns swinging a weapon, then they would snicker at him.

“Hey, hey, hey,” David said jokingly “Don’t kill him. If he dies, our lives would be ruined.”

“I’ll kill you,” Peter seethed through his teeth. “I’ll make you all suffer.”

David stepped on his face, forcing him to the ground. The previous fight had already drained Peter, and he had no strength to defend himself.

“Aw,” David smirked. “Look at him, acting all tough.”

Then he turned and instructed them to beat the crap out of him again. After what felt like forever, David grabbed Peter by the hair, yanking his head up and pulling him close Peter was struggling to breathe.

“Beg, and I’ll let you go.” 

Peter could feel his stinky breath on his face. He wanted to turn away

“Beg?” Peter breathed. He couldn’t see through his right eye; blood was seeping down to his lips, where he could taste it.

“Yes,” David said, smiling wickedly. “Beg, and I’ll stop right now. I’ll let you go.”

Peter pondered for a moment, his mind screaming, his spider sense begging him to leave—to run.

He should do it.

He should.

Instead, he spat in David’s face, blood mixing with his saliva. There was an audible gasp in the room, but Peter only laughed, unhinged.

“Over my dead body.”

David yelped and shoved him back, kicking him angrily. He was bigger, stronger, and all Peter could do with his nimble arms was try to protect himself.

How.

How.

Could he let this person do this to him!

How.

Could he be so weak!!

How!!!

Could he keep getting hurt!!!

How!!

Could he let anyone hurt him!! 

HOW?

All Peter ever did was take blow after blow after blow, and cower in the face of danger Peter gritted his teeth, rage flaring through his chest as he screamed out in furry, then everything went black.

—

Peter’s eyes shot open. He was gripping someone—holding onto them so tightly his hands were trembling. His body was shaking, his breaths coming out in heavy gasps.

At first, he thought it was Parker. No one else was at home, so it was the only thing that made sense.

“Peter,” a familiar voice called. Someone he didn’t expect.

“Damien,” Peter croaked. “What are you doing here?”

Damien didn’t respond. Peter couldn’t even see his expression; he was still too deep in the nightmare he had just had.

The door to his room was slightly open, light spilling in from the hallway. Without another word, Damien grabbed Peter’s arm and pulled him out of the room.

“Hey—” Peter protested, startled. “What are you doing?”

Soon, they were in front of Damien’s room. That was when Peter noticed Damien was wearing blue pajamas and had a bruise on his face.

“What…” Peter croaked. “What happened to your face?”

Damien looked at him, and for a moment, Peter thought he wasn’t going to answer. But then—

“I got punched in the face,” Damien said as he stepped inside his room.

Peter hesitated in the doorway. Should he go in?

“What are you doing?” Damien asked. “It’s not like it’s your first time here anyway.”

Parker.

Peter hesitated for a moment before stepping inside. The room was different from his—far different—but what caught his attention were the weapons mounted on the walls.

Impatiently, Damien grabbed Peter’s arm and pushed him onto a human-sized bean bag. Peter fell with an “oof,” and just as he was about to protest—

Damien tossed a pillow and some blankets at him.

“I don’t know how many you want, so here you go.”

Peter looked at Damien, surprised. Then he asked cautiously,

“Why are you doing this? Have I…?” His voice dropped. “Have I slept here before?”

Damien, already getting into his bed, frowned. “Stop asking stupid questions and go to sleep.”

Then he turned away.

Peter, feeling awkward, shuffled between the blankets and adjusted the pillow. He shifted around on the bean bag until he found a comfortable spot, then pulled the blanket up to his neck, hugging himself.

He didn’t know why Damien was doing this. Maybe it was because of Parker. Or because he was making much noise be he didn’t mind.

Still, he wasn’t sure if he could fall back asleep after that dream.

Damien switched off the light.

“Wait,” Peter shot up, panicked. “Can you keep the light on?”

“No,” Damien said as he slumped back down

Peter slumped back down. “Okay,” he mumbled quietly.

He didn’t think he could sleep in the dark—not after what had happened. He thought he could, but maybe he was wrong. Still, he had already inconvenienced Damien. He should be fine, right?

Then, soft LED lights flickered on. Tiny stars projected onto the ceiling in different colors, shifting across the room.

Peter couldn’t help but gasp

Peter stared, surprised. The beauty. The stars. The peace.

Tears welled in his eyes again. He buried his face in the sheets, trying to stay quiet. But he couldn’t.

He sniffled, apologizing to Damien. Since that day, Peter hadn’t had the chance to process what he had been through. But now, in the stillness, he couldn’t hold it in anymore.

His whole body shivered under the warmth of the blankets as he continued to cry, his nose running, his eyes swelling.

“I’m sorry,” Peter whispered to Damien again. Over and over. He couldn’t stop. He the sheets to wipe off his tears.

Damien didn’t say anything.

That made Peter feel relieved. He was probably embarrassed of him right now, probably regretting bringing him into this room but Peter was so grateful.

Eventually, after what felt like a long time, Peter’s cries died down. His whimpers faded. He stopped shaking, stopped trembling and for the first time since he’d gotten injured he drifted off into something that didn’t quite feel like sleep.

Chapter Text

Dick Grayson 

The door beeped as the massive prison gates rumbled open, heavy metal grinding against the floor. Nightwing and Signal stepped inside, their boots echoing in the cold, sterile air. It was past 8 PM when Oracle had sent out the call—Scarecrow had woken up.

With Nightwing being the most available and Signal deciding to join him, the two navigated through the dimly lit halls of Gotham State Penitentiary.

At the entrance, a guard stepped forward, raising a hand to stop them. “Weapons,” he said flatly, nodding toward their utility belts.

It was always an uncomfortable rule to follow, but they had no choice. Wordlessly, Nightwing and Signal removed their weapons, setting them on the designated tray. The guard scanned them both with a metal detector, double-checking for anything they might have “accidentally” kept.

Nightwing passed through the door first, followed closely by Signal.

Inside, the prison felt like any other high-security facility in Gotham—cold, oppressive, and filled with some of the worst criminals they’d ever faced. Cells lined both sides of the corridor, their occupants either asleep, staring blankly at the ceiling, or watching the two heroes with unsettling smiles.

As they walked deeper in, Nightwing’s attention drifted to something new—construction. Workers were installing reinforced cell bars, testing them with brief, flickering pulses of electricity.

The moment a worker’s gloved hand brushed against one, a sharp zap cracked through the air.

So this was what Batman had been working on. This was what he meant by taking initiative.

“Meta cells,” Signal murmured, almost reading his mind. “Batman’s been having them installed. He figured out pretty quick there’s no point in catching these guys if they’re just gonna break out again.”

Nightwing slowed his pace, watching the workers continue their task. The bright blue sparks reflected in his mask. He wondered…

Signal stood beside Nightwing, both watching as the workers secured the last of the new cell bars.

The sharp crackle of electricity hummed through the air as one of them tested the charge. Nightwing stole a glance at Signal, wondering how he really felt about all this.

There was already discrimination against Metas in Gotham. The fear, the restrictions, the way people looked at them. Now, with these new cells—specifically designed to hold them—he couldn’t help but wonder if Signal was truly okay with it.

“And you’re okay with this?” Nightwing asked hesitantly.

Signal turned to him, expression unreadable. “Well, it’s a good thing I’m not a criminal.”

Then, without missing a beat, he glanced back at the cell before starting forward again. “Besides, it was my idea.”

Nightwing blinked but didn’t press further. Instead, they kept walking, the air between them thick with unspoken thoughts as they made their way to the end of the corridor.

“Do you believe what Peter told you?” Duke asked

Nightwing hesitated. When Peter had told him everything he let  everyone know in the group chat. Peter’s explanation had been… detailed, almost too much so. But the pieces fit. Everything made sense.

“Yeah” Nightwing  said

“You shouldn’t” Signal Said

“Why” Nightwing asked, they kept walking longer but Signal didn’t respond

“Signal” Nightwing eyed him suspiciously, his tone slightly serious it almost made Signal tense

“what do you know?”

Signal bit his lip as if thinking of what to say or how to say; Nightwing stopped him from walking his hand on his shoulder making Signal face him

“What do you know?” Nightwing pressed

“That’s the thing” Signal said slightly annoyed at himself “I don’t know anything”

Nightwing studied him,his instincts kicking in. And for a moment they didn’t say anything; Signal was holding something back. Maybe he didn’t have the full picture, but he knew more than he was letting on.

“Just” Signal said a sigh“don’t let him out of your sight”

Before Nightwing could respond, a heavy metal door loomed ahead. A prison guard stood beside it, acknowledging them with a curt nod before stepping aside. With a deep mechanical groan, the door slid open.

Nightwing and Signal stepped inside.

If Nightwing hadn’t known exactly who and what Scarecrow was, he might’ve felt a sliver of pity.

Jonathan Crane was still a mess—just not as much of one as before. His hair clung to his forehead in damp strands, his stitched-up mask barely holding together.

Even after all this time, he still looked like a walking disaster. Too much of one for Nightwing to put into words.

Scarecrow lifted his head, bloodshot eyes meeting theirs. For a moment, there was silence, then—

“Loo…k who it issss,” he slurred, voice cracked and ragged, the stitches along his face tugging as he tried for a half-hearted smile. “My favorite heroesss.”

His fingers flexed against the cold metal of his cuffs, the chains rattling as he lifted his hands just slightly before letting them fall back onto the table.

“Come. Ssssit,” he rasped, gesturing lazily toward the two chairs across from him.

Nightwing and Signal exchanged a glance, then looked down at the chairs but made no move to sit.

“We won’t be here long,” Nightwing said.

Scarecrow cackled at the response, his laughter dry and rasping. It broke off into a fit of coughing, his whole body shuddering with the effort.

Duke set a thin folder down on the table with a deliberate thud, catching Scarecrow’s attention. Without a word, he slid it toward him.

Scarecrow’s hollow, bloodshot eyes flicked between them before hesitantly pulling the folder closer. His fingers, thin and bony, trembled slightly as he flipped it open.

“Last week, you were about to expose the entire city to fear gas,” Signal began, his voice steady. “Thankfully, you were stopped.”

“Unfortunately,” Scarecrow muttered, rolling his eyes as he skimmed the pages inside. The photos were sharp, detailed—images of the tanks he had set up in their warehouse ,

“Well…” Signal continued, leaning in slightly. “Turns out CA Inc. managed to get images of the building and posted them online.” He let that sink in before adding, “But here’s the thing—when we found you, you were half dead. Care to explain why?”

Scarecrow’s fingers stilled over one of the photos. His lips pressed into a thin, bitter line. For a moment, he just sat there, silent, as if reliving the moment. Then, slowly, he leaned back in his chair with a low, irritated grunt.

“I seeee,” he drawled, voice rasping like dry leaves. “Isss that whaaat you’re here for?” His gaze flickered between them, his stitched smile widening. “Ask away.”

“Was he a Meta?” Nightwing stepped in, cutting straight to the point.

Scarecrow let out a slow, humorless chuckle. “Yesss,” he hissed. “Seeing as how I’m barely alive and how he overcame my fear gas far quicker than even Batman.”

Nightwing’s eyes narrowed. “You injected him with fear gas?”

A wicked grin spread across Scarecrow’s face, his stitches stretching with the movement.

“Oh, yesss,” he whispered, his voice dripping with twisted delight. “I did. And it was beautiful” 

He tilted his head, eyes gleaming with twisted satisfaction. “My best formula yet—direct injection into the bloodstream.” He raised his shackled hands as if to gesture to his own veins, but the restraints halted him mid-motion.

“I was testing how long the effects would linger. Even without continued exposure, just one dose lasts a week—sometimes two. Nightmares, blurring the line between real and unreal… Ha! Ahaha!”

His laughter was hollow, almost giddy. “But the best part?” He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to something almost conspiratorial. “Even if you manage to overcome the fear—the gas remains in your system and comes out based on intense emotions!!”

He threw his hands up in mock celebration, only to be yanked back by the chains. He exhaled in mild disappointment. “Aside from myself, he was my only test subject.”

Scarecrow slumped back against his seat, sighing dramatically. “It’s a shame, really,” he murmured. “I would’ve loved to share it with the world.”

Nightwing and Signal exchanged a look, their unspoken thoughts racing between them. If something like this had been unleashed on Gotham—if it had spread beyond a single victim—the chaos would have been unimaginable.

They continued the interrogation, which went surprisingly smoother than expected. Nightwing had anticipated resistance, maybe even some smug defiance, but Scarecrow was almost… cooperative. It was unsettling.

After an hour, Nightwing finally asked, “Why are you so compliant? So willing to help?”

A small, knowing smile crept onto Scarecrow’s lips.

“I’ll tell you something, my dear heroes,” he began, his voice laced with amusement.

Nightwing and Signal watched him carefully as he leaned forward, chains clinking softly against the metal table.

“I know what he looks like.”

Both of them froze.

“What?”

“That Meta. I saw his face,” Scarecrow continued, his tone almost casual. “Only for a brief moment. It was dark—too dark to make out his full features, but—”

“How does he look?” Signal interrupted impatiently.

Scarecrow’s posture shifted as he reached for the scattered photos on the table, his fingers gliding over the glossy surface as if caressing them. His gaze lingered, thoughtful.

“I won’t know until I see him again,” he admitted, staring down at the images before him. “But when I do… I’ll recognize him.”

Nightwing narrowed his eyes. “How?”

Scarecrow’s fingers slowly reached out pointing directly at Nightwing’s eyes, his fingers lingering for a moment.

“His eyes,” he whispered, a shiver of something unspoken lacing his voice. “The eyes of a monster are something you never forget.”

He put his hand down looking at them again, as he crumbled the paper of his photos. His eyes blazing with anger.

“So please, dear heroes,” Scarecrow said slowly as his anger was placed with a sky smile “capture him. Bring him here. And let me make him suffer .”

Signal stepped forward, his expression unwavering. “We only bring criminals here,” he stated firmly, eyes locked onto Scarecrow’s. “And seeing how he stopped you from contaminating the whole city-the guy you want? He doesn’t sound like one.”

There was a short pause their eyes locked on each other

Without another word, Signal turned and strode out of the interrogation room, his boots echoing against the cold floor.

“We’re done here” Signal said to the card outside

Nightwing lingered for a moment, picking up the folder from the table. Leaving the crumbled papers

“You can keep the trash”  he said as he moved toward the door.

Just as he was about to step out, a voice slithered behind him.

“You”Scarecrow murmured. “Remind me of someone”

Nightwing paused for the briefest second, but he didn’t turn back. Instead, he shut the door behind him with a quiet finality, leaving Scarecrow alone in the dimly lit room, his eerie smile never fading.

As they made their way back Nightwing and Signal walked in silence, their boots echoing against the pavement.  The construction of the new cells being made

“I just hope I’m doing the right thing,” Signal murmured as he turned to looked the cells again “You know?”

Nightwing glanced at him, waiting for signal to finish what he was sayjngv

“These criminals are giving metas a bad for people who aren’t doing anything wrong and Just trying to live their lives.”

Nightwing placed a reassuring hand on Signal’s shoulder. “You’re doing what’s best for the city. And I think this will help. A lot.”

Signal gave Nightwing and assures nod. And a smile

As they approached the gates, a new group of prisoners was being led inside. Their heads were bowed, their wrists bound in cuffs.

They wore the standard orange jumpsuits, but what set some of them apart were the metal collars locked around their necks. A faint green light pulsed from each one.

Signal’s eyes narrowed as he took them in.

Before he could say anything, movement from the line caught his attention. One of the prisoners lifted his head, and the moment his gaze locked onto them, his face twisted with fury. Without warning, he lunged.

Nightwing recognized him immediately—he was the meta who had attacked Robin a few hours ago punching Robin in the face 

“This is all your fault!! You damn vigilantes!!!” he roared.

Objects around them trembled before ripping free from the ground, levitating as if drawn by invisible strings. In an instant, they were hurtling toward Nightwing and Signal.

Nightwing’s muscles tensed, his instincts kicking in—but before he could react, the prisoner’s body jerked violently. He screamed, gripping his collar as electricity surged through it, his limbs convulsing. The color now flashing red The air filled with the sharp scent of burning metal.

He gasped for breath as the current finally ceased, collapsing onto his knees. Around him, the other collared prisoners squeezed their eyes shut, turning their heads away as if pretending not to see.

A guard rushed over. “I’m so sorry, sir!” he said quickly. “This was our first batch of metas—it won’t happen again.”

Nightwing and Signal said nothing as a pair of officers seized the prisoner, dragging him away as he continued shouting curses.

For a long moment, the two vigilantes stood there, unmoving. The distant sound of cell doors slamming echoed through the prison walls.

“So,” Nightwing said finally, glancing at Duke. “I guess this was your idea too?”

Signal didn’t answer right away. His hands had curled into fists, his nails pressing into his palms. His glare was fixed in the direction the meta had been taken.

“No,” he said at last, his voice tight. “It wasn’t.”

Chapter Text

Peter G. Wayne 

Peter shuffled in his seat uncomfortably, his hands clasped together and his body hunched over in a tense position. Across from him was the Principal of Gotham Prep, Mr. Ronald.

He had a large build and wore a suit that looked quite similar in color to Peter’s own. His grey hair was slicked back, and his brown eyes scanned over a stack of papers that Peter assumed were his.

Mr. Ronald looked up at Peter, then back down at the papers in front of him. The disapproval on his face was clear—and it seemed to deepen the more he shuffled through the stack.

Peter had been called into the office the moment he stepped into school. Not that he was unfamiliar with Mr. Ronald. He’d had multiple run-ins with him throughout the year—mostly because his dad funded Gotham Prep.

Mr. Ronald often took it upon himself to check in with Peter, ask about his well being and try to stay on Bruce Wayne’s good side; and since the rest of his siblings didn’t care or were too busy to talk to Mr. Ronald Peter happened to be his next best option

But ever since Peter came back from New York( which he has no recollection of) he hadn’t had the time, the energy, or frankly, the interest to meet with Mr. Ronald once a week to discuss political or economic crises—or whatever it was he wanted to talk about.

“Hmm.”

Mr. Ronald set the papers down on his desk and stared at Peter, Peter glanced down, already guessing what he’d see. And he was right. It was his grades—a long list of all his classes.

Math: 45

English 70

At least his passing English

Chemistry: 35

History: 50

Physical Education: 0

Wow these-these are embarrassing, he’s wondered if Bruce had seen these already. Hopefully not.

“You know, Peter,” Mr. Ronald began, “seeing as you’ve been busy doing everything besides coming to school, it’s a shame that it’s come to this.”

He flipped through the stack again, then pulled open a drawer and placed an envelope in front of Peter.

Peter looked at it nervously, then back up at Mr. Ronald, who slid the envelope closer, gesturing for him to open it.

“Read it out loud, please.”

Peter hesitantly reached for the envelope, his heart racing as he picked it up and gently pulled it open. With two fingers, he drew out the folded paper. On the front, it read:

“To Peter G. Wayne”

He looked up at Mr. Ronald, who just stared at him. Behind him stood the Vice Principal, Mr. Willam who was wearing a pitiful expression.

Peter who didn’t like that look that he was always to familiar with glanced back down at the folded paper his fingers tracing this edges.

For such a light paper at this moment it felt heavy at his finger tips.

Peter flipped the paper open and began to read aloud.

“‘Peter, a student who, even though struggled in my class, was attentive and willing to learn. But with the recent events and lack of attendance, we, the teachers, have come to the conclusion that he should Repeat the grade—’”

“Repeat the grade?!” Peter shot up from his seat. “I can’t do that!”

Mr. Ronald looked up at him, his eyes sharp, signaling for him to sit back down. Peter did, slowly, half embarrassed, half baffled by the information he’d just been given.

“I can’t repeat the grade,” Peter said again, this time quieter, looking directly at Mr. Ronald—who simply stared back at him. His hands were clasped together, resting against his chin.

“Sixty days,” Mr. Ronald said.

“What?”

“That’s how long you’ve been absent for—sixty days in total,” Mr. Ronald repeated. “And in a private school such as this, that’s clearly inexcusable. You should have been suspended.”

Peter’s breath hitched at the word. Suspended?

Mr. Ronald stood up and walked around his desk, making his way toward Peter.

“Thankfully, your father happens to fund this school—which means you’ve been given a privilege no other student would ever be given.”

“To redo the grade,” Peter muttered, head down in dissatisfaction.

“Exactly,” Mr. Ronald said, stopping at the door. He opened it with a slow creak.

Peter didn’t move. Didn’t turn. He just sat there, mind reeling.

This wasn’t how he expected his return to school to go. No chance to breathe. No warning. Just a bomb dropped in his lap.

If he had to restart the grade, what would that mean for him? How would Bruce take it? Or Dick? The entire school would know. And after everything that happened with the broadcast—well, Parker did that, but still—

“What if,” Peter said suddenly, turning to face Mr. Ronald, “I passed the finals?”

Mr. Ronald, who had just opened the door, paused. He closed it slowly, curiosity flickering across his face.

“The finals that start in a week?” he asked.

“Exactly,” Peter said, the spark returning to his voice. “If I pass those, it proves I don’t need to retake any classes.”

He stepped forward with more confidence. “And for the attendance,” he added, holding up an index finger, “give me one month. If I don’t miss a single day of class for the next month, I stay in my grade.”

Mr. Ronald opened his mouth, but Peter pushed ahead.

“And if I don’t get my grades up by the end of next semester, I’ll repeat it. No questions.”

Mr. Ronald stared at him, surprised.

He had  expected Peter say nothing at all and  maybe walked out accepting his fate but no not anymore. It was much better if he tried and failed than failed without trying.

Besides Peter wasn’t the one who was gonna lift a single finger.

Peter, catching himself in his own momentum, softened a little embarrassed but he straightened himself out.

“So?” he said, with a hopeful shrug. “How about it?”

Mr. Ronald stepped closer, a small smile forming at the corner of his mouth—and that alone was enough to make Peter nervous.

“Since you’re so eager to prove yourself,” he said slowly, “I don’t think it would be wrong to give you a shot.”

Peter’s face lit up, a wave of excitement rushing through him.

“Thank you so much—”

“However,” Mr. Ronald cut in sharply, raising a hand, “if you fail, you’ll be suspended instead.”

Peter froze, the words hitting harder than expected. He took a step back, staring at Mr. Ronald in disbelief.

“It would prove,” Mr. Ronald continued, “that there was no point in giving you a second chance to begin with. No make-up classes. No do-overs. That way, we can follow proper procedure without interference from your family.”

Peter swallowed, hard.

“And I will also inform your family immediately of your expulsion,” Mr. Ronald added, his tone matter-of-fact, almost casual—but with a weight behind every word.

He was only a few feet away now, that unsettling smile still on his face, as if he was waiting for this moment. It suddenly reminded him of what Damien always said to Peter ‘In Gotham every man only is after for themselves”

And for some reason Mr. Ronald will get the satisfaction of one of the son’s of Bruce Wayne get Suspended from this school.

“So, Peter,” he said, voice calm and steady, “do we have a deal?”

—-

“Where’s Parker?” Duke asked, leaning in close like he didn’t want anyone else to hear.

Peter had just left the office and found himself in P.E.—one of the only classes he shared with all his siblings. He and Duke were sitting on the bleachers while the rest of them were on the track with the rest of the students.

“Peter,” Duke called again.

“Hm?” Peter turned, lost in thought. He was wearing his gym clothes: a white T-shirt, navy blue gym shorts, and sneakers with the Gotham Prep logo stitched on the side.

“Parker?” Duke repeated.

“Oh.” Peter looked down. “I don’t know. . . He hasn’t been up.”

It had been a week since Peter had seen Parker—or even heard from him. At first, the silence felt like a gift. He woke up in his own bed. No pain, no bruises, no late-night whispers. Just peace.

He had actually jumped for joy.

But as the days dragged on, the silence began to worry him. Something didn’t feel right.

He lightly touched his chest, closed his eyes, and focused. If he tried hard enough, he could still hear faint breathing. So Parker was still alive. Just… maybe in a coma?

Does a week even count as a coma? he wondered.

“Is he…?” Duke leaned in again, trying to get Peter to finish the sentence.

Peter shook his head.

“He’s just asleep,” he said.

Duke leaned back, turning his attention away. Peter glanced at him again and noticed the dark bags under his eyes. He looked exhausted.

Peter figured it probably had to do with the news.

A few days ago, reports started circulating about a new type of tech—equipment designed to hunt and contain metahumans.

Still it didn’t change the fact that Duke was a Meta and even though he wasn’t a criminal knowing that Meta’s Pose a threat probably makes Duke feel really cautious.

Peter hesitated, Wasn’t he one too? A Meta. If he got caught… what then? Peter shook his head no he wasn’t a criminal and he didn’t hurt—kill anyone

He just happened to be a meta whose powers are from another universe, and  that didn’t make him dangerous… right?

Still, there was something comforting in knowing he wasn’t alone. Duke was a meta too and If Duke could hide his powers from everyone in the family all these years… maybe Peter could too.

He glanced sideways, studying Duke’s profile—the tight jaw, the distant look in his eyes.

“It must’ve been hard,” Peter said softly.

A whistle split the air. The coach bellowed at the students to start running. Cass darted forward like a bullet, Damian close on her heels. Steph and Tim weren’t far behind. Then the rest of the students behind

Duke didn’t respond right away. His tone, when he finally did, was curious“What do you mean?”

Peter leaned back against the cool metal bleacher, arms folded. “Hiding your powers from everyone. That kind of secret… it must’ve felt lonely. And scary.”

Duke’s expression didn’t change, but something in the space between them shifted.

Peter sighed. “When I first found out about Parker, I freaked out. Like, full-on panic. I didn’t know who to talk to, or what it meant for me.” He paused, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “But knowing I’m not the only one going through this… I don’t know. It helps.”

He let out a breathy laugh. “Even if I found out because Parker had you threatened you in a closet. I’m still kind of glad it happened.”

“You’re not mad?” Duke looked at him, finally, brows slightly raised. “I kept this from you for years.”

Peter hesitated, the question settling heavy on his tongue before he answered. “Yeah… I was upset. A little. . .But it’s not like you just kept it from me; You kept it from everyone else too”

Duke opened his mouth like he might say something, then closed it again. His gaze lowering.

Before Duke turned back to Peter again, “You shouldn’t trust Parker.”

“HEY, THOMAS!” the coach roared interrupting their conversation, their heads turned towards the coach “Last time I checked Peter’s the only one sitting out today. Get your ass down here!”

“Coming, Coach!” Duke called back. He stood, brushing the dust off his pants.

Peter caught his sleeve before he could go. “Wait,” he said. “Why shouldn’t I trust him?”

Duke paused on the steps. Just turned his head enough for Peter to see the tension in his jaw.

“Because he hurt you,” Duke said his expression softening “And I don’t trust people who hurt my family.”

Peter stayed where he was, alone on the bleachers, the hot wind brushing across his face as he watched everyone play. The silence around him felt heavier now.

He watched as Duke joined the coach—who was yelling at him—and apologized, while Cass and Damien raced each other, a bunch of kids giving up trying to catch up with them.

Their expressions made Peter smile. He watched as Tim was talking to Duke then how Tim shifted his gaze to Peter.

Peter waved at Tim smiling and Tim waved back, before the coach yelled at the both of them to stop talking and start running.

Suddenly his mind drifted to the deal he had made with Mr. Ronald, which he didn’t doubt Parker would fail—but what made him weary was whether Parker would be up in time for the final exam.

Then he thought of what Duke had said and how Peter wants to tell Duke Parker wasn’t the one who hurt him. But then that would lead to more questions and Peter didn’t want that;

And In all honesty if Duke had told him all this half a month ago, he would’ve agreed without question.

—

By the time school was over, Peter had one last thing left to do—volunteer at what was now called Gotham Shelter. Generic, right?

Peter made his way to the Gotham Public Library, his backpack slung over one shoulder.

he was supposed to meet Nightwing, who was meant to accompany him to Crime Alley; He had promised Dick that he wouldn’t go there alone so Nightwing offered to take him.

Peter had also promised Alfred that he’d be fine, and with Bruce installing a tracker on Peter’s phone, he’d managed to convince them that he could handle this on his own.

He stayed near the center of the sidewalk, sticking close to other pedestrians. He avoided quiet intersections, the kind that felt like they held their breath when you passed.

The city around him pulsed with life—traffic rumbling, people chatting, vendors yelling. But none of it could drown out the pounding in his chest.

His heart thumped violently,  His breathing was tight, uneven. The further he walked, the harder it became to keep calm.

This isn’t Crime Alley, he told himself.

No one’s gonna jump you. You’re not alone. You’re not bleeding. This isn’t then. It’s now.

It’s not night

It’s not Crime Alley.

You’re in public.

You’re okay.

Breathe. Just breathe.

His legs felt shaky under him, knees almost buckling. Sweat dripped down the back of his neck and clung to his hairline. The warmth of the Gotham afternoon was suffocating. It clung to his skin like heat from a fever.

Breathe.

But the noise around him—the cars, the footsteps, the voices—it all started to blur together. Static. Chaos. His senses kicked into overdrive.

He closed his eyes and let his enhanced hearing stretch outward. He could hear a dog barking three blocks away. Someone fumbling with their car keys. Music from a store radio. He tried to focus on those things.

Anything but that night

But it wasn’t working.

His panic began to claw its way up from his stomach to his throat, wrapping around his chest

He picked up his pace. Faster. Just a few more blocks.

His spider senses wasn’t reacting

He kept repeating that.

It’s not going off. That means you’re safe.

But what if it was wrong?

No.

Parker always said his spider-sense was never wrong. That he had to trust it. And right now, it wasn’t warning him.

It made Peter slow his pace a little. The tension in his shoulders didn’t vanish, but it softened. He was still on edge, but at least that internal alarm wasn’t ringing.

Finally The library finally came into view, Peter smiled in relief as he made his way—Just a few yards ahead.

Peter stopped dead in his tracks.

His eyes locked on an alleyway just off the sidewalk. Narrow. Shadowed. One old dumpster shoved against the brick wall

This place was empty but familiar.

And Even with the library just ahead, Peter found himself turning into the alley. His spider-sense remaining silent.

His chest tightened again.

He’d been here before.

Then He looked at the ground beside the dumpster—and in an instant, His head throbbed, as sharp jolt hit his head forcing Peter to fall down on his knees gripping his temple as a sudden Memory flashed into his mind

He was there , lying on the cold ground next to the dumpster Blood mixing with rainwater around him. And and agonizing pain that spread his whole body

Yet for some reason his trembling arm was reaching out to someone as if this person was his last-only hope

“Save… me…” he had whispered.

The words felt raw in his throat even now. Tears blurred his vision—rain pouring too hard to see through. The streetlamp flickered, dim and dying. A shadow knelt over him, blocking out the little light left.

He couldn’t see a face. But there was a hand reaching for him.

”Let’s Go” The voice— relaxed British responded

“W-Where… where are we going?” Peter shivered his voice trembling,

The voice was play-fully as if he had found some amusement in peter’s suffering. “Where else?”

Then the figure pulled him up his hand gripping Peter’s as a power surged through him and the rain that was once pouring on him gone.

Peter couldn’t make out a face only horns and a cape as he slumped against the figure’s body limply. The man pushed Peter’s wet hair out of his face and examined him

“Fascinating” the man said as he used his hand to move Peter’s head around“You really do look exactly like him”

“Who”  Peter crocked as his vision darkened

“Peter Parker”

Peter’s eyes snapped open with a gasp, like someone surfacing from underwater.

And Nightwing was right there—kneeling beside him, gripping his shoulders, his face worried and filled with panic in his eyes 

Peter shot up, his chest tight breathing heavy each breathe louder than the last

“Hey. Hey—Peter. I got you.” Nightwing voice was low, steady, but shaking underneath. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

“You’re okay,” he repeated.

For a moment, Peter didn’t know where he was. The library was only a few minutes away, and yet here he was, collapsed in an abandoned alley next to the dumpster. It was still day time, the sun was out and Peter could hear sounds of the city. 

It wasn’t dark

it wasn’t raining and

Peter wasn’t in pain 

Yet still he desperately he reached for Nightwing, clinging to him like he might die if he let go.

Or was it the man?

“D-Don’t let go,” Peter whispered, voice fragile, as if letting go meant falling back into that night and shivering. Peter couldn’t tell if he was dreaming or not.

Peter gripped tighter “I-I don’t wanna die”

“I won’t,” Nightwing said, holding him tighter. Peter pressed into his as his breath became even and his chest slow but Nightwing didn’t let go “I’ve got you.”

Chapter Text

Dick Grayson

“So,” Peter said, looking over the table that was stacked with different kinds of food. Each box was filled to the top, some with meals and drinks, others just snacks tossed in together without much thought. “You want me to sort these into different boxes?”

Mel, who was standing right beside him, pulled out a bunch of empty boxes and placed them on the table across from him with a thud.

“Yup,” she said casually as she started opening the flaps of one of them. “We usually separate them into different boxes to keep track of what we’ve got.”

She handed Peter a clipboard and tapped the pen clipped onto it. “For how many you sort, write them down here,” she added.

Peter looked a little unsure of himself, glancing down at the clipboard like it was more complicated than it probably was. But he didn’t complain.

He just nodded slightly and started. He picked up a small packet of orange juice, paused, then set it gently into one of the boxes. Then he wrote it down.

From across the room, Nightwing stood leaned up against the kitchen wall, arms crossed, just watching. His gaze didn’t move from Peter. Not after what happened thirty minutes ago.

Peter had a full-blown panic attack. Hyperventilating, eyes wide and full of tears, fists curled in Nightwing’s suit like he was holding on for dear life. Begging him not to let go.

He didn’t even cry when their parents died. Not like that. But today—he broke.

Nightwing closed his eyes briefly, the memory flashing again, Peter’s voice shaking, his arms clinging. It was like watching a dam snap under pressure.

“You don’t have to stay here,” Mel said softly, pulling Nightwing out of the memory. “Peter’s got it handled.”

It had been almost a full week since Peter officially started volunteering at Gotham Shelter. The first few days had been… interesting. He’d never done anything like this before, not really.

Mel had filled Nightwing in on the highlights. One time Peter got completely lost wandering through the building which led him to be late alot.

Another time, when he was mopping the hallways, he forgot to put up the wet floor signs. One of the elders ended up slipping and falling. Peter had felt horrible—said sorry over and over—but thankfully the guy hadn’t been hurt bad enough to need a clinic visit.

Still, Mel hadn’t kicked him out, which probably meant he was improving. Maybe.

“I know,” Nightwing sighed, finally replying. “It’s just for today.”

His eyes went back to Peter, who was now moving quicker, more focused. His hands worked smoothly—grab, sort, write, repeat. His body looked more relaxed now that he had a rhythm going. But Nightwing still noticed the faint redness under his eyes.

He’d asked him earlier what was wrong. Peter had just shrugged and mumbled, “I’m fine.” That kind of answer only made Nightwing more frustrated.

Peter glanced at Nightwing again—just a quick look—and then immediately turned back to the food, head ducked, fingers working a little faster than before. It made Nightwing wonder if maybe he was making him nervous just by standing there.

“Do you need help with anything?” Nightwing asked finally, pushing himself off the wall. “Since I’m gonna be here a little longer, I might as well be useful.”

“Well…” Mel turned to him, thinking for a second. “Do you mind going to the food bank and helping bring back more boxes of food?”

—

The line to the food bank was surprisingly longer than Nightwing expected. Nightwing had taken Gotham shelter’s Pickup truck since it would much harder for him to carry the food all by himself.

What was supposed to be a quick errand turned into nearly a thirty-minute wait just to get to the front. People stood in clusters, some chatting quietly, others just staring down at their phones or into space.

The air was cold and smelled faintly of gasoline and city dust, and the sky above looked like it was debating whether or not to rain.

When he finally got to the front of the line, a middle-aged woman was standing behind the desk.

She had brown eyes and long brown hair pulled into a loose ponytail and wore a dark blue apron smudged with flour and something that looked like tomato sauce.

As Nightwing approached, she looked up and smiled.

“Well, if it isn’t one of Gotham’s finest heroes,” she said with a thick New York accent, her voice warm but loud enough to turn a few heads. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Hi, nice to see you,” Nightwing said, giving a small nod. “I’m here to pick up food for Mel. She told me to stop by.”

“Oh, Melani, yeah—she called ahead.” The woman grabbed a clipboard and flipped through a couple of pages. “Let me go grab it.”

She disappeared through a swinging door in the back and returned a moment later, pushing a metal cart stacked high with boxes.

Some were taped shut, others barely closed, full of cans, meal packs, and bottles of juice. She waved for him to follow her around the side toward the pickup truck.

Nightwing took one end of a box while she grabbed the other, helping load them into the truck bed.

“So,” Nightwing said, glancing sideways at her as they lifted another box into the back of the truck, “what brought you to Gotham?”

Her accent was strong—thick and unmistakably New York. It caught him off guard. Not many people came to Gotham. Most either got stuck here or spent their lives trying to leave.

She chuckled, the sound light and a little tired, brushing her hands off on her apron after they set the box down.

“Isn’t that the question?” she said, the corners of her mouth tugging into a soft smile.

“Came here a few years back with my husband. He had this crazy idea, he wanted to start a food bank to help the homeless. Figured if we were gonna plant roots, might as well do it somewhere that needed us.”

She leaned against the side of the truck for a second, eyes scanning the skyline like she was remembering something. “Turns out, people really appreciated what we were doing. So we stayed. Simple as that.”

Nightwing smiled faintly, “Brave of you,” he said. “Gotham’s not exactly the easiest place to… build a life.”

She shrugged. “Yeah, well, life’s not always about what’s easy.” Her voice dipped a little, not sad exactly—just honest.

“Sometimes you land somewhere and it doesn’t make sense at first, but then you start seeing the cracks where hope can grow. This city’s rough But it’s got soul. It’s got people who care.”

Nightwing knew exactly what she meant. He’d grown up here. Gotham had raised him, scarred him, shaped him.

It wasn’t perfect—not by a long shot—but every day he put on the suit was his way of trying to make it a little better. Especially for Peter the main reason why he fights.

Once they’d finished loading the last box, May shut the truck’s back while Nightwing climbed into the driver’s seat. He glanced at the stacked supplies one more time, then turned the key in the ignition.

The woman stepped up to the window as he rolled it down, leaning her arm on the door.

“It was great talking to you, Nightwing. Not every day you meet heroes who still protect the city.”

Nightwing gave a soft smile and paused for a second  “What you’re doing… a lot of people don’t care enough to try. So—thank you.”

She laughed lightly, pushing off the window. “Well, it’s like my son used to say—‘With great power comes great responsibility.’”

“And right now,” she added, clapping her hands together, “my responsibility is making sure you get back to Gotham Shelter without forgetting half the food.”

She shot him a playful look and tapped the truck’s side twice. “Which I didn’t by the way.”

They shared one last laugh before Nightwing slowly backed out of the driveway. The woman gave a cheerful wave as he pulled away, heading in the direction of the Gotham Shelter.

As Nightwing was driving through It wasn’t until he was halfway down the street that he realized—he hadn’t gotten her name.

By the time Nightwing returned, Peter was already through unpacking the boxes. He was talking to another boy who looked to be around his age. The kid had shaggy brown hair and matching brown eyes.

His clothes were worn old, faded T-shirt and a pair of scuffed blue shorts but he carried himself with an easy kind of confidence. They were chatting casually, and for the first time that day, Peter actually looked relaxed.

Nightwing took note of the change in Peter’s energy. He seemed lighter, more at ease—at least until the door swung open and more boxes came in, the ones Mel and Nightwing had left behind in the car.

Peter groaned dramatically. “Oh, come on. I swear I just finished like five minutes ago.”

“Too bad,” Mel said, flopping down beside a stack with a sigh. “ Friday’s the official grand opening. Everything has to look perfect.”

“Wait,” the boy beside Peter spoke up, confused. “I thought you guys were already open?”

“Well, technically we are,” Mel explained, brushing hair from her face. “But there wasn’t much of an announcement. Mr. Bruce Wayne decided to do a whole media thing—news crews, cameras, even a speech.”

Nightwing already knew that part, but he couldn’t help glancing over at Peter again. The moment Bruce’s name was mentioned, his posture changed. His shoulders sagged, and the light in his eyes dimmed a little. Nightwing had expected him to be excited, not… distant.

“Hey,” he said gently, giving Peter a light nudge with his elbow. “What’s up?”

Peter shook his head, eyes fixed on the floor. “It’s nothing,” he mumbled, but the sadness in his voice said otherwise.

“Come on, Peter,” Mel said, trying to lift the mood. “These boxes aren’t going to sort themselves. And John—you said you wanted to help too, didn’t you?”

“I’ll help,” the boy—John—replied, already moving to sort through a stack.

Without a word, Peter followed his lead. But he was quieter now, his earlier enthusiasm gone. Nightwing watched him for a moment, unsure of how to reach him. Something was clearly bothering Peter, but he didn’t want to push too hard. So, instead, he dropped to the floor beside them and started helping with the boxes.

—

Peter had asked to be excused to the bathroom, but when he didn’t return, Nightwing went to look for him. He checked the bathroom first—empty. Then he doubled back to the cafeteria to see if Peter had returned there, but no luck.

That’s when he started heading to the rooms, thinking maybe Peter had just gone back early.

Damn. Where did he go? Did he run away again?

Nightwing didn’t want to panic. Not yet. He stepped outside, scanning the area, calling out his name.

“I’m up here,” Peter called out casually.

Nightwing looked up—there he was, sitting near the top of the building, legs dangling freely off the ledge as he gave a small wave.

“How—how did you get up there?!” Nightwing asked, alarmed.

Peter paused, like he actually had to think about it. “Fire escape.”

“Don’t move,” Nightwing said quickly. “I’m coming up.”

Before Peter could respond, Nightwing was already heading back inside. He took the stairs to the roof, then climbed up the fire escape. When he finally reached the top, there Peter was—still on the ledge, his legs swinging over the edge as he stared down at the city below.

It was already nighttime and almost time for him and Peter to head home, after a long days work.

Nightwing let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and sat down next to him. For a moment, neither of them said anything. The silence was heavy, but not uncomfortable.

It reminded him of that first night he’d met Peter on the roof of Wayne Manor—when Peter had just come back. But this Peter… he was different. There was a weight in his posture now, something fragile and quiet that hadn’t been there before.

“So… who’s the guy you were talking to?” Nightwing asked finally. “You two seemed really close.”

“John,” Peter replied. “I met him earlier this week. He volunteers while his siblings are in school—”

He stopped mid-sentence, opening his mouth like he was going to say more, but then shut it again. Then, after a breath:

“Actually… he’s the one who found me that day.”

He closed his eyes, breathing slow and deep like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

“If it weren’t for him… I probably would’ve died that night.”

Nightwing’s body tensed, heart pounding at the thought. He didn’t want to imagine a world without Peter. He couldn’t . When Peter had come back injured.

Nightwing had barely slept. He remembered those nights—Peter waking up in pain, and thrashing around begging them to stop hurting him.  His cries that filled the whole of the manor every night over the passed weak. They’d had to sedate him just so he could get any rest.

Then his quiet breathing followed along by aches and pain and him mumbling in his sleep.

“Do—do you wanna talk about it?” Nightwing asked, voice unsteady. A lump had formed in his throat. He wasn’t expecting Peter to actually answer. He never did. Not when Nightwing asked.

Peter hesitated then shook his head closing his eyes. It made him wonder what was stopping him from telling him any thing.

“I won’t tell your family,” Nightwing said as if he was reading Peter’s mind, which turned out to be right because Peter was taken aback

“I promise.”

Dick Grayson couldn’t bring him to say anything  to express the pain and the trauma he was going through But maybe . . . Nightwing could.

Peter turned to look at him and bit his lip. His shoulders were trembling, his eyes darting away like the words he was about to say were dangerous. Then, after a sharp inhale, Peter breathed out and told him everything.

How they caught him on his way back from the Gotham shelter. How they grabbed him—hands like claws—and beat him with anything they could get their hands on. Pipes, belts, wires. Whatever made a sound when it hit skin.

“They couldn’t even kill me because I was a Wayne,” Peter choked out with a painful laugh, hollow and cracked. “I would’ve died if I wasn’t who I was. Can you believe that?”

His voice shook like it didn’t want to leave his throat. Sometimes he paused completely, swallowing sobs, choking on his own words as tears streamed down.

“Then they started to—burn me,” Peter breathed. “Thought it’d be fun to light cigarettes and press them into my skin. I—I…”

Nightwing didn’t say anything, but Peter saw the tears forming in his eyes. He blinked them away. Forced himself to.

“He told me,” Peter whispered, curling his arms around himself, “he said he’d let me go if I begged. And I didn’t.” Peter let out a sharp, huffing breath, full of shame. “I couldn’—no matter how much pain I was in I just . . . You—you know?”

“Peter…” Nightwing said, voice soft and tight, like it hurt just to speak.

Still, Peter went on. His voice trembled, breaking apart as he spilled every horror. Every bruise. Every scream.

“After everything they did, they just dragged me somewhere and dumped me,” he cried. “Left me there like garbage. I was calling for help, but no one came. No one!! ”

He let out a scream, raw and guttural, that tore through the silence like a blade. Nightwing flinched. And then Peter collapsed into sobs, loud and shaking. The only sound left in the room was his crying.

Then came the quiet. Only sniffles.

Nightwing leaned forward and wrapped Peter in a hug, tight, protective—but this time, Peter didn’t hug back. He was just  there, stiff. Then, slowly, he moved away from the embrace.

“I hate it,” Peter said, wiping at his face, voice hoarse. “Being weak. Being helpless. Having no power to do anything but watch and suffer.”

He looked away from Nightwing.

“I didn’t know what to do. I tried to fight—I tried so hard. But I didn’t know how. “ Peter’s hands curled into fists “Am I just going to keep relying on him? Why can’t I fight for myself too?”

He said it like he was speaking to himself—like the question wasn’t meant for anyone else.

Nightwing stayed quiet. The words stuck in his throat. He’d wanted to shield Peter from this, from the pain, the fear. But he knew what it felt like. He knew helplessness. Knew what it meant to watch your world fall apart and be too small, too broken to stop it.

He’d seen his own parents die. He’d done nothing. But then there was Bruce. Bruce who took all that rage and turned it into something sharp. Turned it into Robin and now Nightwing

But Peter didn’t have that.

What did Peter have?

Who did he have?

Did he have him ?

Nightwing remembered Peter asking him, just a week ago, if they could watch a movie together. He’d said no. Too much work. Always too much work.

Did Peter have Dick Grayson?

“What if I teach you,” Nightwing said quietly.

Peter blinked. “What?”

Nightwing didn’t want this life for him. He never did. But somewhere along the way, Peter had been pulled into it. And if that was the reality, then he’d rather see Peter armed—than broken.

“I’ll teach you to fight,” he said, his voice low and steady, but his eyes were blazing. There was a rage inside him now, coiled like a storm.

Then he looked at Peter whose tears had just dried up and staring at Nightwing with confusion. But Nightwing eyes were filled with determination as he held Peter shoulders

“So no one can ever hurt you like that again.”

Chapter Text

Peter Parker

The sirens of Gotham filled the city with gunshots, bombs, and screaming. Peter didn’t need his super hearing to hear everything and man, Peter couldn’t get used to this, even if he wanted to. It had been one week since he made his way into this world’s Peter’s home.

The first couple of days were filled with him sleeping in. He’d wake up in the large, empty room that wasn’t his and just stare at the ceiling aimlessly; his desire to live was nonexistent but to want to die was pathetic.   

Maybe he was already dead.

Still, it was way better than being broke and living in an abandoned building, starving to death or stealing money. His “family”—who he just found out were billionaires—usually kept to themselves Which was surprising, since Peter had gotten the reaction of them being worried when he got back.

Wayne Manor (which he realized it was called) was empty after 4:00 pm. The house would be filled with laughter and the voices of “his” family throughout the halls.

Alfred seemed to be the only one who would attend to Peter more than the others. He was gentle, always told Peter stories before he went to bed and made sure he was fed. But he also didn’t pressure Peter to reveal anything

“I’ll trust you’ll tell us in your own time” Alfred had once said to Peter.

But Peter didn’t know what to say? He wasn’t Peter G. Wayne.

Dick Grayson (who the heck would call him that) would periodically visit Peter to check on him.

Dick Grayson was nice, very caring brother he would check on him from time to time but it turned out that he lives a whole city away. Which was interesting because brothers are supposed to stick together right?

Well Peter wouldn’t know because he’s an only child but one could assume

Still didn’t mind it. The quietness of the Wayne Manor  or the absence of strangers  in the house

After all, he needed the space . . .

And he didn’t want to deal with anyone right now.

He didn’t know how to deal with anyone right now.

His mouth quivered as he replayed May’s death in his mind and Her last dying words before she was gone forever. The same ones Uncle Ben had given him, right before he was shot dead.

Both of them drowned in there own blood

Both of them dying in his arms

Peter holding on to them begging for them to stay alive

The sound of their heart beat slowing with each breath they took . . .

Then

Silence.

Peter shot up from his bed, his spider sense flaring, breaking him from his trance, it was the only power he had in this powerless body. He couldn’t stick to walls, or lift anything, or even have super hearing.

His sense flared as a shadow was cast under the door making Peter scoot back until his back rested on the headboard. Maybe for a sense of comfort.

Then .  .  . a soft knock came at the door as a girl—Cass—stepped into the room. Short black hair and a silent but strong presence that made hairs stand straight.

This girl . . . was dangerous.

She stepped into the room without even asking. Then moved over to Peter’s bed, and sat down and for a moment, all she did was stare at him.

They sat across from each other an  awkward filled the room. But to Peter it felt like he was the only one feeling this way. Peter watched as she scanned him from head to toe as if she was looking for something.

Then, without hesitation, her hands moved swiftly, forming signs that Peter didn’t understand.

Shit.

Sign language.

Peter tensed a bit as she kept moving, and then she stopped as if waiting for a response peter who definitely looked confused started to panic.

He was fucked.

He didn’t know jack shit about sign language. His aunt always told him to learn, but he was always too busy, with a school, getting ready for college and well being Spiderman  and now—now it was coming back to him. What sort of Parker Luck was this?

Peter shifted uncomfortably under her gaze.

What was he supposed to say?

Was she deaf? Or was she just mute?

Peter didn’t know if he should sign back!?

Scratch that he can’t sign a damn thing even if he wanted to.

Cass stared at Peter, her face forming into a dangerous frown. As she started to lift her hands again, Peter shot out of bed.

“Bathroom,” Peter said  hurriedly“I need to go . . . to the bathroom.”

Cass stared at him. She sighed. Why.

One of the few words he was able to pick up while volunteering at his aunts homeless shelter. 

Thank the lord.

“Uh . . .” Peter started. “To get my glasses!”

Cass looked at him, then gave a slow nod. Peter made his way toward the bathroom, breathing a sigh of relief. Okay, so she’s not deaf. That would’ve been trouble.

He closed the door behind him, locking it. Then he looked around still amazed at how big the bathroom was. It was the size of his old bedroom. There was a ton of space—you could add a whole bean bag in there and still have room to walk around.

He found himself in front of a full-body mirror, examining himself for the tenth time. His body wasn’t as firm as it used to be, there were no scars, and he didn’t have a frail build but was still pretty thin.

Kind of like the way he looked before he became Spiderman it was very nostalgic. Then he touched his face. The baby face. Peter had a baby face even in his own universe, but this one—it was so innocent, so pure, so not him.

He stifled a laugh. He couldn’t get used to this. But still, he was surprised that he was taking it so well. As in, he wasn’t breaking down or jumping off a building at this moment.

Progress.

Then it hit him—the main reason he came to the bathroom. Peter moved quickly, past the bathroom and into the closet. Which was surprisingly smaller.

He moved toward the end, pushing hangers to the side as he pulled out his backpack—the one he woke up with—that he’d stuffed in the corner of the closet.

Peter sat on the closet floor, pulling the bag out. It was a large backpack, dark blue, but what made it different were the splotches of dried blood spread across it. And for some reason, Peter knew it wasn’t his.

He unzipped the bag and tossed everything out.

His heart hammering in his chest;  think he’d actually forgotten that he wasn’t completely alone in a world he didn’t exist in.

A lot of components sprawled on the carpet floor. And to his surprise, it wasn’t books or homework.

It was a couple sets of clothes and toiletry supplies that were shoved in there: towels, headphones, a sweater, some notebooks and pencils, and brochures. One of them had a school on it that looked way too familiar. It made Peter stop.

He picked up the crumpled brochure, opening it as a lump formed in his throat while reading it.

—MIDTOWN HIGH SCHOOL TOUR—

His pulse quickened as the pamphlet showed his old high school. It looked exactly the same. And it was in New York.

His hand trembled on the paper as he flipped it over, noticing dry blood prints on it.

Interested in Midtown’s school Program? Apply for the school tour and take the exam.

Huh? Peter thought, trying to steady his breathing. It looked like this world’s Peter was just as interested in math and biology as he was.

A knock from the bathroom door pulled him out of his trance.

Shoot. He’d been in here too long.

“I’m coming!” Peter said loudly exaggerating his last words “Damn, where the heck are my glasses?”

Peter wasn’t looking for his glasses. Instead, he found an old watch on the ground next to the stuff he’d rummaged out of his bag. Ever since he’d come to this world, he never even thought of the idea of contacting Karen.

He looked around the watch for a sign—a way to activate it—but nothing showed.

“Karen?” Peter whispered quietly.

Silence.

“Karen?” He leaned in closer wondering if his voice would activate Karen

Silence.

“Karen,” Peter said again, more frustrated, facing the watch.

Still silence.

He sighed desperately . “Karen, please . . . ,” Peter begged. “I need you.”

There was another beat of silence before the watch flashed.

“Hello, Peter,” Karen said. “I see you finally decided to reach me.”

He could hear the annoyance that was programmed into Karen’s voice. Peter gripped the watch more tightly.

“I’m sorry, Karen,” Peter said with more urgency. “But I really need you right now.”

“Oh,” Karen said. “Now you need me. When you didn’t a week ago.”

“C’mon, Karen, stop being dramatic,” Peter said. “I was going through a lot of stuff and I forgot—”

“You—” Karen said. “ Forgot? ”

Peter winced. If Karen were human, she would probably scoff at him and never talk to him again.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way,” Peter said, trying to sound more compassionate.

There was a long pause before Karen’s lights flashed.

“What is it you need?” Karen said as her automated voice returned to normal.

Peter quickly responded as he pulled out his glasses from his pocket—the ones he’d had the whole entire time.

“Can you use the nanobots and create a replica of these glasses to read sign language?” Peter asked.

“Affirmative,” Karen replied as he placed the glasses down in front of her interface. She scanned them in a swift beam of light. “Estimated time: ten minutes.”

Peter flinched as another knock echoed from the door. He tensed. “Karen, I don’t have ten minutes—hell, I barely have five.”

Karen didn’t respond.

Peter began to ramble. “I know I’m putting you under pressure, but I swear I’ll make it up to you. There’s this girl, she signs—and if I can’t understand what she’s saying, we might wind up homeless… or dead… or jailed for fraud—honestly, take your pick.”

But Before he could spiral any further—

“Done,” Karen cut in. “I was able to download basic sign language sufficient for standard conversation. Slang or complex phrasing may not register correctly. We would require more time for full integration.”