Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Peter was floating. He didn't know where he was. He was floating, suspended in a void that felt both infinite and suffocating. His mind was a jumble of fragmented memories, the most vivid being the moment he disintegrated into nothingness.

His mind raced, trying to latch onto any memory, but they were disjointed, like shards of broken glass that refused to form any cohesive image. The most vivid image, though, was that moment—the snap. The sound of Thanos’s fingers closing around the gauntlet, a sound so final that Peter’s whole body seemed to shudder in response.

It had been the end of everything.

The world had started to twist and bend, colours bleeding into each other like a painting being drowned in water. The edges of reality itself began to unravel. Peter had tried to call out, tried to do anything, but all he could manage was a choked gasp as his body began to break down at the molecular level. The sensation of disintegration was horrifying. It felt like being torn apart, piece by piece, but in the slowest, most agonising way. He watched himself dissolve into nothing, like sand slipping through his fingers.

The only thing he could focus on in those last moments was Tony Stark’s face. The pain in Tony’s eyes—sorrow, fear, and something else. Regret? But it was too late. Peter had no time to ask.

“I don’t wanna go,” Peter had said, voice shaking, fear spilling out of him like water from a broken dam. He'd wanted to tell Tony so much more. He wanted to tell him he was sorry, that he wasn’t ready to go, that he hadn’t done enough.

And then, there was nothing. No pain, no fear—just silence. Darkness. The cold weight of nothingness.

Peter’s breath hitched, even now, in this place of non-existence. Where was he? Was he dead? He didn’t know how much time had passed. Was this... the end? Was this some kind of purgatory? Or worse—had he been erased completely, lost to the nothingness forever?

As he floated, Peter's mind replayed the events leading up to the snap. He thought of his friends, his family—Aunt May, who had always been there for him. He wondered if they too had been snapped, if they were floating somewhere in this endless expanse, lost and alone.

The uncertainty was suffocating, a weight pressing down on him from all sides. Peter's thoughts were a jumble of questions and fears, but beneath it all, a spark of determination flickered. He had to find a way back, to make sense of this strange new reality, and to find his place within it.

As his mind tumbled through those questions, there was a sudden pull. A shift. Like gravity had grabbed him and dragged him back toward something, somewhere. Reality snapped back into place with a violent jolt. His senses exploded to life.

Peter's eyes fluttered open, his consciousness slowly returning like a ship emerging from a thick fog. First, the sound. It slammed into him like a tidal wave—traffic rumbling in the distance, the scurrying of rats in nearby sewers, muffled voices above him, fragmented snippets of conversations.

He blinked, trying to process it, but it all came at him too fast. The sounds stacked on top of each other, layers of noise overwhelming his brain. It felt like a sensory overload, each new input like a slap to his face. The air was thick—heavy with the scent of something metallic, damp stone, and a faint, acrid tang of pollution. It smelled wrong. This wasn’t New York, he realised. New York had its own smell—hot dogs from street vendors mingling with the salty breeze off the Hudson River. This place smelled... wrong.

Peter groaned, a low, strained sound as he slowly shifted, pushing against the rough concrete beneath him. His body screamed in protest as he moved, aching in ways he hadn’t expected. Every muscle, every bone felt sore and stiff, like he'd been battered and bruised like he'd been lying there for days. Or longer.

As he lay there, trying to make sense of it all, memories began to resurface—fragmented and disjointed but vivid enough to send a chill down his spine. The snap. The sensation of his body dissolving into dust.

He struggled to sit up, his hands shaking as they hovered over the unfamiliar surface of his body. His fingers felt longer, somehow. His skin felt different—like it wasn’t his own. He glanced down at himself. Same lanky build, but everything was just... off. He didn’t know how to describe it, but nothing felt like it should.

Peter’s breath hitched as he remembered standing on Titan, staring at Mr. Stark with wide, terrified eyes as he felt himself begin to disintegrate. He had clung to Tony in those final moments, desperate for some kind of anchor as his body betrayed him.

“I don’t wanna go,” he had said, over and over again, his voice trembling with fear. And then... nothing. Just darkness.

But now he was here—alive, breathing—and he didn’t know how or why.

Was he dead? Was this some kind of afterlife?

Then he saw it—a sleek bracelet on his wrist that glinted faintly in the dim light. Karen. She was still with him. Or she had been, at least. A wave of relief washed over him when he saw something familiar amid all this strangeness. He tapped the bracelet gently at first, then harder when he did not receive a response.

He tapped the bracelet, harder now, a little frantic. “Karen? Hey, Karen, are you there? Please, please, respond…”

But there was nothing. Silence. Just that aching, empty void that had swallowed him before.

The absence of her voice hit him harder than he expected. Karen had always been there to help, to guide him. And now, she is gone. Peter leaned back against the cold brick wall behind him and closed his eyes tightly, willing himself not to panic.

“Okay,” he muttered under his breath, trying to steady himself.  “Okay... okay, focus, Peter. You’re alive. That’s something. That’s good. You’re alive .”

But what was this place? His senses spun as he tried to make sense of the noises around him, trying to piece together where he was. The conversations filtered through the walls above him, snippets of life in a city he didn’t recognise.

"…Riddler’s back at it again…" "...Dent's campaign heating up..." "...Batman took down another gang last night..."

“Batman?” Peter whispered under his breath, eyes widening. His heart skipped a beat. Batman? 

His mind reeled. No. No way. This wasn’t possible. Batman wasn’t real. He was just a character from a comic book. Yet here, in this strange place, these people were talking about him like he was real. Like he was a hero.

“Not possible. Not real...” Peter muttered to himself, feeling the weight of disbelief pressing down on him. He stood up slowly, his legs wobbly and unsteady as he tried to shake off the dizziness that had come with his disorienting return. Pain flared briefly in his body, but his healing factor kicked in, knitting together his injuries.

Peter stumbled out of the alley cautiously and into the dimly lit streets beyond. The world around him felt so strange—so dark, so wrong . The sprawling metropolis of Gothic architecture that loomed ominously overhead. Gargoyles perched on rooftops like silent sentinels watching over their domain. The air was thick with smog, and the streets smelled of decay, of something older, more sinister.

Neon signs flickered erratically in the smoggy air above storefronts, advertising brands Peter didn’t recognise: Ace Chemicals, Monarch Theater—nothing familiar.

Peter stumbled forward, his heart pounding as the realisation sank in deeper. This wasn’t his world. He wasn’t home.

He stopped in front of a huge billboard, the lights flickering erratically in the polluted air. “Vote Dent for Gotham’s Future.”

Gotham? Peter’s mind raced as his surroundings seemed to warp around him. Gotham. This... this can’t be real.

But it was. The name felt heavy on his tongue. He looked at the newspaper stand nearby. Gotham Gazelle . The headline screamed: “BATMAN SAVES CITY FROM RIDDLER’S DEADLY TRAPS.”

Peter’s heart stuttered as he picked up the paper, scanning the headline. His hands shook, and the paper felt foreign in his grasp. “This can’t be real,” he whispered to himself, walking away as the vendor snapped at him.

But deep down, he knew it was true. 

The multiverse theory—it wasn’t just theoretical anymore; it was real! He’d read about it before in science journals and even nerded out about it with Ned during late-night study sessions at home. But now? Now it wasn’t just some cool concept—it was his reality.

He was in another universe. 

He was in Gotham.

For someone who had spent almost every waking moment swinging through Manhattan’s skyscrapers or navigating its bustling streets on foot, the absence of New York’s familiar skyline felt like losing a part of himself. 

A city of crime, of shadows, of a hero who was supposed to exist only in stories. Peter’s chest tightened, his breath coming faster as the full weight of his situation hit him. This wasn’t home. There were no Avengers, no Tony Stark, no Spider-Man.

Just... Peter Parker. Alone.

He leaned against the nearest wall, eyes squeezed shut as his heart pounded in his chest.

For the first time in his life, he felt truly lost.

Alone.

Chapter Text

Peter’s mind was a whirlwind of thoughts as he paced through the narrow alleyway, his breath coming out in quick, shallow gasps. The panic he felt clawing at the edges of his mind wasn’t helping, so he pushed it down. He was Spider-Man, for god's sake. He had faced worse before—hell, this was nothing compared to the alien disasters. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t scary. This city... Gotham . It felt different. It felt wrong. His world was out there somewhere, lost in the cosmic shuffle, and here he was—stuck in some messed-up parallel universe, with no clue how to get back.

The alleyway around him was a mess. Litter, grimy puddles, and abandoned trash cans, all drenched in the faint drizzle of Gotham’s ever-present mist. A part of Peter felt like he was walking through a nightmare. The city around him was a far cry from the bustling, noisy streets of New York. Gotham was… darker, in every sense. It wasn’t just the overcast sky or the looming shadows. The whole city had this oppressive, suffocating weight to it like it was watching him, judging him.

While Uncle Ben had read him Batman comics, the only thing he remembered was Batman is Bruce Wayne. Maybe the sidekicks. Robins. But nothing else. Peter wasn’t a huge fan of the comics. Now he wished he was.

Get it together, Pete. He mentally slapped himself, taking a deep breath. This wasn’t the time for a mental breakdown. He had things to do. He needed to survive, and survival meant planning. The basics first: Shelter. Food. Resources.

Shelter, he thought, eyes scanning the streets. He didn’t want to sleep on the streets, but the idea of sneaking into an abandoned building wasn’t exactly comforting either. Gotham’s streets had a way of swallowing people whole, and not all of them came back. A homeless shelter? That would be a death sentence. Who knew what kind of trouble was lurking in those places? No, he had to find something quieter, something safer. Maybe there was a safehouse or a place he could blend in without drawing attention.

His stomach growled sharply, reminding him of the next priority—food. He patted his hoodie pockets and frowned. He had about thirty bucks left. Not a lot, but maybe it would be enough for a quick bite. Maybe a small dinner. That wouldn’t last long, though. He needed to find a way to make some cash. Maybe he could use his powers somehow.

Then there was the bigger problem: resources . Peter’s mind lingered on his suit. His Ironspider. The web-shooters were still hidden under the bracelet on his wrist, but that didn’t do him much good at the moment. Karen, his AI, was offline, leaving him without a safety net. It was just him, the hoodie, and his dwindling web-fluid. He’d need to refill those cartridges sooner rather than later, but how? He had no lab, no equipment, no money. Ugh, he thought, clenching his fists. This wasn’t going to be easy.

He cursed softly under his breath. Where was he going to get the chemicals for his webbing? Without any money or connections, finding a lab to refill his cartridges wasn’t exactly a walk in the park. Maybe he'd figure that out later. For now, getting to the library seemed like the most logical step. He needed a computer.

That’s when he spotted it—a piece of paper on the ground. He bent down, carefully picked it up, and uncrumpled it. It was a map of Gotham, beaten up and worn at the edges, with ink fading in places. Graffiti covered it in chaotic scribbles, but one thing stood out in bold letters: Gotham City Public Library. His heart skipped a beat.

The library, he thought. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. Information . That’s what he needed. The more he learned about Gotham, the better chance he’d have at figuring this mess out. Maybe he could find someone there who knew about the city—or, at the very least, get to a computer.

“Okay, Karen,” he muttered, glancing at his bracelet, “Let’s get you charged up.” He needed that link to the outside world, even if she wasn’t fully functional right now. Every bit helped.

Looking down at the vandalised map, he realised he was currently in Park Row—a place marked out with jagged lines and crossed-out streets. The words Crime Alley were hastily scrawled in bright red spray paint. Typical Gotham. Everything here had a story of death and despair. The name alone sent a chill down his spine.

He shoved the map into his pocket and stepped out of the alley, only to feel his spidey sense pinging like crazy. His nerves shot up, and he scanned the surroundings. His senses weren’t just buzzing—they were screaming at him. There was something wrong. His instincts told him to be careful, but there was no immediate threat. Nothing moved out of the ordinary. Just the usual Gotham unease.

Shaking his head, Peter hurried down the street, trying to ignore the uneasy feeling in his gut. His spidey sense was still on high alert, and it made his skin crawl. Was it the city? Or was something else here watching him?

His gaze was still trained on the map in his hand. Gotham was even darker than he expected. There was no bright city energy here—no bustling streets like New York, no friendly noise or laughter. Just dark alleyways, shadowed corners, and the hum of distant danger. This place was alive with danger in every crevice. He could feel it in his bones.

Even then, Peter still had questions. 

How had he ended up here? 

Was this some bizarre side effect of Thanos's snap? 

And if he was here, were others from his world trapped in different universes too? 

Stop being paranoid, Peter chided himself. It was probably just the city messing with his head. After all, Gotham was a strange place. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that something, or someone, was watching him. His gaze shifted to the shadows of a nearby alley, where a flicker of movement caught his eye. He could have sworn he saw a flash of red— a hood . It vanished just as quickly as it had appeared.

What the heck was that? Peter paused for a second, watching the darkness, but saw nothing. He sighed, mentally kicking himself. Focus, he reminded himself. You’re here for a reason. The library’s right there.

He didn’t linger. The quicker he got to the library, the better. He had to stay sharp, even if the whole city felt like it was about to swallow him whole. Gotham’s energy was different . It was heavier, darker, and colder. He could feel it pressing in on him with every step, almost as if the city itself was a living, breathing thing—waiting for him to slip.

Finally, as he approached the looming structure of the Gotham City Public Library, Peter allowed himself to breathe a little easier. He wasn’t in the clear yet, not by a long shot, but it was something. It was a place that could give him answers. Or at least a computer to start his search.

The inside of the library was an oasis of light in the midst of Gotham's relentless darkness. As Peter stepped through the doors, his eyes squinted, adjusting from the cold shadows of the alleyway to the sudden brightness. Sunlight streamed through towering arched windows, filling the vast space with a soft glow. For a brief moment, it felt almost out of place, like a relic from another world. Gotham's grim reputation had left him expecting nothing but bleakness and despair. Yet here, the air was warm, the stillness inviting.

"Wow," Peter muttered under his breath as he took in the grandeur of the library. His gaze travelled from the towering shelves filled with books to the intricate woodwork of the carved beams. The high, vaulted ceilings made the room feel almost cathedral-like, offering a strange contrast to the harsh city outside. Gotham might be suffocating, but this—this was a sanctuary.

At the front desk, a woman with striking red hair caught his attention. Her sharp green eyes flicked over to him as he hesitated, and there was something about her that felt… familiar. Barbara Gordon. Her name tag said. Uncle Ben used to talk about someone named Barbara, but that was always in the context of Batman comics. Was this her? No, that couldn't be right. This woman was just a librarian. But then again, this was Gotham. Nothing was ever that simple.

"Excuse me," Peter said, trying to sound casual, but his voice betrayed him, faltering as the words left his mouth. It had been hours since he’d last spoken to anyone. "I was hoping to use a computer?"

Barbara's smile was polite, but there was something almost calculating in her gaze. It made his spider-sense tingle uncomfortably, the way she studied him as she could see straight through him. “Of course,” she said smoothly, sliding a form toward him across the desk. “You’ll need a membership card first.”

Peter took the form, his fingers trembling slightly as he scribbled his name—Peter B. Parker—then hesitated over the age field. Sixteen. That was at least technically true. Guardian and Address remained blank. He didn’t have either, not in this world.

He handed it back, half expecting a million questions about his vague details. But to his surprise, Barbara just glanced over it, made a note on a membership card, and slid it back to him.

"Here you go, Peter," she said, smiling warmly. "The library closes at 9:00 PM, but you’re welcome to use the computers until then."

“Thanks,” Peter mumbled, his heart giving a relieved thud. She didn’t question anything. Maybe she was just being nice. Or maybe she already knew more than he realised. Either way, he was out of the immediate danger zone.

Still, that nagging feeling in his gut didn’t go away. His spidey sense hadn’t fully quieted. As he walked toward the computers, he glanced over his shoulder. Barbara had already shifted her attention to an elderly woman looking for a book, but there was something in the way she watched him—just for a split second—that made his skin crawl.

Peter quickly sat down at the farthest computer, trying to shake off the unease. The place was a haven of quiet: students typing away, readers absorbed in books, and soft murmurs of hushed conversation. The ambient noise was a relief after the tense hum of Gotham’s streets. Still, the weird feeling lingered. It felt like he was being watched, even in this supposed sanctuary.

He looked down at the computer, blinking in surprise. This thing was ancient. A CRT monitor, the kind his grandparents used to have, and a beige tower that looked like it might run on Windows XP. Definitely not Stark tech. He clicked on the browser, finding a search engine called Bling instead of the usual Google. Gotham’s tech world was seriously behind.

"Okay, let's see what we’re dealing with here," Peter murmured as he typed the word “Batman” into the search bar. The results that appeared were a weird mix of outdated articles and old forum posts, all centred on Gotham’s infamous vigilante.

Peter leaned back in his chair, his mind racing. Gotham City. He was really here. He thought he’d known what to expect, but this? This place was so much darker, more twisted than he'd imagined. Batman, vigilantes, crime families—it was like living inside one of those old comic books Uncle Ben used to read. And now, Peter was stuck in the middle of it.

The familiar hum of Karen’s bracelet buzzed against his wrist. “Come on, Karen,” he muttered, plugging the bracelet into the computer’s USB port. “Wake up.”

For a long moment, nothing happened. Peter’s fingers drummed nervously on the desk. Was she still offline? Has something happened to her?

Then, just as he was about to give up, a soft blue glow blinked to life on the bracelet, and Karen’s voice crackled in his ear, calm and collected. “Peter, we have arrived in an unknown city. Scanning environment now.”

Peter let out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. "Karen, you're alive. Thank God." He ran a hand through his hair, the weight of the last few hours pressing on him. He had felt like he was losing everything—his world, his friends, even his mentor, Tony Stark. But here, with Karen’s voice in his ear, there was a thread of hope.

Karen’s voice continued, calm as ever. “Gotham City appears to be a place of considerable risk. The high crime rate, and several violent criminal organisations. I am detecting the presence of several vigilantes, most notably a figure known as Batman.”

Peter chuckled dryly, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah, I got that part. Gotham’s got the whole ‘brooding vigilante in a bat costume’ thing going for it.” He glanced over at Barbara, who was now helping a kid find a book. His spidey sense flared up again. Something wasn’t right. She was too focused on him, too aware. The librarian was becoming more and more suspicious.

Karen continued, unfazed. “I am also detecting the presence of several individuals associated with Batman, forming what is known as the ‘Bat Family’: Nightwing, Red Hood, Red Robin, Robin, Spoiler, and Signal.”

“Bat Family?” Peter echoed, raising an eyebrow. “So Batman’s got a whole team of sidekicks? Sounds like a bad TV show.”

“Affirmative,” Karen replied. “Gotham is a city ruled by organised crime syndicates, with criminal masterminds such as Joker, Penguin, and Two-Face at the helm.”

Peter leaned in closer to the screen, his mind spinning. Joker? Penguin? This city sounded like a nightmare. And he was stuck in the middle of it.

He shook his head, trying to focus. This wasn’t going to be easy. He had to find a way to blend in, to make it through without drawing too much attention. 

But first—he needed to know if there was anyone else in this world with his name.

“Karen,” Peter said quietly, fingers tapping the keys nervously. “Can you find any records for a Peter Parker here? Like, me ? I need to know if there’s someone like me in this world.”

There was a pause, and then Karen’s voice replied. “There is a record for a Peter B. Parker. However, the database indicates that he passed away at the age of ten.”

Peter froze. His heart stopped for a split second. “ Dead? ” His voice was barely a whisper. He couldn’t believe it. The kid in this world had been ten when he died.

“That’s… that’s terrible,” he muttered, his stomach sinking.

“Indeed,” Karen replied. “However, there is an opportunity here. I can delete the death certificate and link your identity to this Peter Parker, creating a valid history for you in this world.”

Peter’s hands shook as he stared at the screen, processing the weight of the decision. He had never felt so conflicted. On one hand, it felt wrong—like he was erasing someone’s life, even if that life was already gone. On the other hand, he couldn’t survive in Gotham without an identity. He would be invisible, a ghost.

“I don’t know, Karen,” he said, rubbing his forehead. “It just feels... wrong, you know? Morally questionable.”

“I understand your hesitation, Peter,” Karen replied. “But think about it. Without a valid identity, you are an outsider—vulnerable. This is not about impersonating someone. It’s about survival.”

Peter sighed. He didn’t have time to be sentimental. He was trying to survive in a city like Gotham.

"Alright," he finally muttered, resigned. "Do it. Just... don’t mess with the details too much." He didn’t want to fully erase the kid’s life. 

"Understood. Proceeding now."

Peter sighed deeply. He didn’t have time for being sad. Gotham wasn’t a place for that.

As she worked, Peter couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming unease settle over him. He was tampering with fate, changing the course of someone else’s story.  He shook his head, trying to dispel the creeping thoughts. He couldn’t afford to dwell on the what-ifs. Besides, he reasoned, he wasn’t trying to take over the world or anything. He was just trying to survive in a world he didn’t belong in. It wasn’t ideal, but it was what he had to work with. Still, that nagging feeling refused to leave.

 Karen’s voice came through his earpiece, steady as always. "The process has been completed. You are now officially Peter Bruce Parker. All historical records have been updated."

Peter let out a sigh, slumping in his chair. "Peter Bruce Parker," he repeated, almost tasting the bitterness of the name. “Bruce” sounded like someone who wore three-piece suits and discussed stock markets. He wasn’t that guy. He was Peter Benjamin Parker. Always had been. That was the name that had stuck with him, even after all the things that had happened—his Uncle Ben, his Aunt May, the constant weight of responsibility. 

"Why Bruce ?" he muttered under his breath. "I thought it was supposed to be Benjamin. That was his name—Uncle Ben’s name."

Karen processed the question, calmly and methodically. "That is the name recorded for the Peter Parker of this universe. There were no other alternatives."

"Yeah," Peter replied bitterly. "I guess so. But Bruce?" He shook his head as if the name itself would make more sense if he could just think it through long enough. It didn't.

The tension in his chest tightened as the reality of his situation sank in deeper. He wasn’t just Peter Parker anymore. He wasn’t even Peter Benjamin Parker. He was Peter Bruce Parker. A kid who’d never grown up, whose life had been snuffed out before it had a chance to begin. And yet here he was, the same Peter Parker who’d lost everything, now stepping into someone else’s shoes, carrying the weight of their past.

But he couldn’t let it stop him. Not now. He wasn’t going to let some paperwork define who he was.

"Okay," he sighed, trying to push the disquiet down. "What else did you find out about this... Peter Bruce Parker?" He didn’t know why, but he needed to know. He needed to understand who this kid had been. Maybe it would help him understand the mess he was walking into.

"Peter Bruce Parker was born on August 10th. His mother died during childbirth. His father is unknown," Karen’s voice continued, factual, unemotional. "He lived in multiple foster homes throughout Gotham and passed away at the age of ten due to a rare form of pneumonia. You are listed as his sole surviving relative and are entitled to a small inheritance."

Peter’s stomach churned as he absorbed the details. August 10th, just a baby when his mother died, bouncing from one cold, uncaring foster home to another. And then pneumonia took him. It felt like a life that had barely started, snuffed out by something as cruel and random as illness. He couldn’t imagine what it would’ve been like for that kid, to grow up in a world like Gotham, where nothing was ever safe. And here he was, walking around in his shoes, wearing a name that wasn’t even his own.

This isn’t your life, Peter. He had to remind himself. He wasn’t this kid. He was still him. The same Peter Parker who’d fought in the streets of New York, who’d lost people, who’d tried to make the world a little better every day. But even that wasn’t enough to wash away the weight of what he was doing.

"Anything else?" Peter asked, more out of a need to keep the conversation going than because he wanted to know. "What did he like? Any weird hobbies? Was he into magic tricks or model trains or something? Because that would be awesome .”

Karen took a moment as if sorting through the data. "Peter Bruce Parker was quiet, introspective, and had an aptitude for science and mathematics. He was allergic to peanuts and had a severe fear of clowns."

Peter blinked, taken aback. "Peanuts? And clowns? Seriously? Who isn’t afraid of clowns?” He chuckled nervously, trying to make light of it. A peanut allergy and a clown phobia. Well, at least he could handle that part. Gotham was weird, sure, but how dangerous could peanuts really be?

"I’ve compiled the summary of this information for you," Karen continued. "It includes medical history, educational records, and known associates. I suggest you memorise the key facts so you can respond if anyone questions you."

Peter sighed, glancing around the library. It was so quiet now, but something about it felt... off. Barbara Gordon’s gaze flickered toward him again, just for a second, sharp and calculating. Peter couldn’t shake the feeling she was keeping tabs on him. Watching. Waiting for him to make a mistake. It wasn’t paranoia. It was just Gotham. The city had a way of making you feel like you were never really alone.

"Got it," Peter said, standing up and stretching, trying to shake off the unease. "Let’s get out of here before Barbara starts asking me about my life story." He forced a grin, even though his stomach was tied in knots.

"Understood," Karen replied. "I have erased all traces of our activity. You are clear to go."

Peter glanced at the librarian one last time, her red hair catching the light. There was something about her. Something more than just a librarian behind that calm smile. But he didn’t have time to figure it out right now. There were bigger things at play. Things that made Gotham a ticking time bomb.

He took a deep breath. One step at a time. That’s all he could do.

With that, Peter walked toward the door, his footsteps echoing in the stillness of the library. As he stepped back out into the streets of Gotham, the weight of his new life settled on his shoulders like a heavy cloak. The city loomed around him, dark and foreboding. But he was Peter Parker. And he wasn’t about to let it swallow him whole.

Chapter Text

Peter shivered, pulling the hood of his sweatshirt lower, the fabric barely enough to shield him from the biting cold that seemed to seep into his bones. It was around 11:30 PM now, about two hours since he’d left the library, and the night felt like it was pressing down on him, suffocating him with its damp, musty air. Gotham’s weather wasn’t exactly forgiving. The streets were slick with grime, and the persistent drizzle that never seemed to end made the whole city feel like it was slowly decaying. The faint glow of streetlights barely made a dent in the darkness, and the streets—crowded with all sorts of people, some of them good, most of them not—seemed to stretch on forever.

His feet slapped against the wet concrete, the echo of his footsteps mixing with the distant hum of city noise. He didn’t feel like part of it. He felt like an outsider in a city that didn’t care. Not that it mattered. Gotham never cared about anyone, really.

Tonight, though, Peter wasn’t looking for trouble. No, tonight he was just trying to find somewhere to sleep.

His mind kept drifting back to the money. Bruce— his alternate self—had a mother who left him $20,000 that he hadn’t even touched. Peter was sure Bruce never knew about it. After all, he’d spent his whole short life bouncing from one broken foster home to the next. And now Peter was in the middle of this mess, standing in the shoes of a kid who’d never had a chance. Peter hated thieves—he was not a thief, he told himself. But the money… he had to take it. He needed it to survive.

The guilt gnawed at him, digging its claws deeper into his gut. This wasn’t his money, it wasn’t even his life, but here he was— Peter Bruce Parker —taking it anyway. It didn’t feel right. It never would. But Peter promised himself that once he was stable, he’d put it back—double. He’d find a way to repay Bruce’s unclaimed inheritance. But for now, he had to focus on one thing: survival.

He took a sharp right down a narrow alley, the shadows swallowing him as he pressed himself against the cold brick wall. His spidey sense flared, a sudden, jarring warning. Muggers, he thought. Pickpockets. Crime Alley lived up to its name, and Gotham didn’t waste any time showing you just how bad it could get. The alley ahead was a maze of debris and wreckage, and Peter could almost taste the danger in the air. This was the heart of Gotham’s underbelly, where people disappeared without a second thought, and no one ever bothered to look for them.

Peter's fingers instinctively brushed the pocket where his phone was, a small but necessary comfort. "Karen, you still there?" he muttered, half-expecting nothing but static. But no, the soft hum in his ear told him she was still with him, still watching his back.

"Always, Peter," Karen’s cool, methodical voice came through, though he could hear the faintest hint of her energy being drained. She was trying to conserve power. “I’ve arranged to get you into the foster system tomorrow. For now, keep your head low. I don’t want you spotted.”

Peter snorted, though it was more to hide his unease. “I’m not planning to start a gang war or anything, just... looking for a place to crash that won’t collapse on me in my sleep.” He kicked a loose can across the street, the hollow clink of it bouncing off the walls. It was the only sound for a while, and it felt too loud. His shoulders were tight with tension. He’d been wandering the streets for hours, trying every shelter he knew, but they were all full. No one wanted a kid with bloodshot eyes, hunger in his gut, and a heart full of fear. Not in this city.

A pause. Then, a light chuckle. It didn’t make him feel any better, but it reminded him he wasn’t completely alone.

"Good. But remember, you’re in Gotham now. Have you considered the abandoned buildings around this area?"

Peter raised an eyebrow, even though no one was there to see it. “Believe me, I’ve already gotten the memo. Gotham’s like New York’s much darker, weirder cousin,” he muttered, his gaze flicking over the derelict buildings around him. Some were boarded up, others had windows that looked like they’d been shattered by something bigger than just time. “Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that.” He rubbed the back of his neck, the scar from his spider bite still an irritating itch, and felt his spidey sense flare up, then settle again. His body had been running on fumes lately, and it was starting to take a toll.

“I used to sneak into abandoned buildings all the time when I was Spidey,” he said, trying to sound confident. “I’ll be fine.”

Karen’s voice was tinged with something softer now, almost like concern. “I am aware, Peter. But remember, you’re not at your best. Your body is running low on resources, and you need rest.” She paused again, almost like she was checking his vitals from somewhere far away. “I’ll need to conserve power, but I will respond if there’s an emergency.”

Peter groaned, the weight of everything settling on him all at once. “Yeah, yeah, I got it. Just... don’t go silent on me, okay?” He shoved the phone into his jacket pocket and hunched his shoulders. The night was colder than ever, and his stomach gnawed at him. It felt like Gotham was trying to swallow him whole, and the longer he stayed out here, the more it seemed like the city was winning.

He needed a place to lie low. A place where he could breathe. Anything, he thought. Just somewhere away from the cold eyes of the city. His gaze darted across the empty, forgotten streets. Then, his eyes landed on an old building tucked away between two others, its exterior peeling and weathered, its windows boarded up. But the door— the door —it was hanging off its hinges. It looked like the kind of place no one would even think twice about.

Peter’s heart raced, and his spidey sense flared briefly, but then it dropped to a quiet hum. No immediate danger. He exhaled sharply, a relief he didn’t even know he needed. This was it. This was his chance.

He moved cautiously, hand wrapped around the phone in his pocket, the fabric of his jacket making a soft rustling sound as he moved through the dark. There was something wrong with the air here—thick, heavy like the building itself was holding its breath. His fingers brushed against the cold metal fire escape ladder at the back of the building. It looked rusted, and worn, but still strong enough. His fingers tightened around the lowest rung, and he climbed, his enhanced strength making it effortless. Still, he took his time, his eyes scanning the area below him.  It was enough for him. Without a second thought, he grabbed the lowest rung and began to climb. His fingers found purchase easily, his feet steady even on the uneven rungs. His enhanced strength made it feel almost effortless, but he couldn’t afford to make any noise. The last thing he needed was someone hearing him, especially with how deep he was in Crime Alley.

At the top, he found a small window, just a crack between the rotten wood and the broken frame. It wasn’t boarded up like the others. Peter’s heart beat a little faster as he approached it, the adrenaline kicking in. He grabbed the frame with both hands, prying it open with a creak that felt like a screech in the silence.

He slipped inside quickly, dropping to the floor in a quiet roll. His sneakers hardly made a sound as he landed in the dim interior, the stench of mildew and rot almost overwhelming. The building was just as abandoned on the inside as it was on the outside—peeling wallpaper, broken beams, and scattered garbage. But it was shelter. And that was all Peter needed. 

He spotted a pile of old cardboard boxes near a far wall and stumbled toward them, exhaustion pulling at him like a physical weight. He sank down onto the makeshift bed, grabbing one of the boxes and pulling it over himself like a blanket. The cardboard was thin and uncomfortable, but it was better than nothing. For the first time in hours, Peter let himself relax, his body going limp as he closed his eyes.

For the first time since Peter had arrived in Gotham—since he’d stepped into a universe that felt as foreign as it was familiar—he allowed himself a brief moment of rest. His body sagged against the wall, the cold concrete pressing into his back as he pulled his knees up to his chest. He exhaled, the sound a release of tension, a desperate surrender to the weariness that had been gnawing at him for days.

But his mind… his mind wouldn’t let him settle. Barbara … The woman he’d encountered earlier in the library. The look in her eyes was concern mixed with suspicion. This place, he thought bitterly. Gotham’s enough to drive anyone crazy. But that thought only dug the weight of the situation deeper into his chest. He couldn’t stop. He had to keep moving, keep surviving.

The minutes dragged by, but slowly, his enhanced healing kicked in, smoothing out the worst of the aches in his shoulders and back. The bruises from the men he'd fought earlier in the night began to fade, his body mending itself, the fatigue that had settled in his muscles retreating as quickly as it came. His breath evened out, the quick pace of his heartbeat slowing down. The aches from his earlier encounter felt like they were being erased, each cell regenerating, one by one. It was a gift—and a curse. He could rest, but only for so long. His body would do most of the work while his mind tried to catch up.

After a few minutes, Peter stood, a small groan escaping as his stiff muscles stretched. He felt steadier now, stronger, though the weight of the city still clung to his skin. He glanced around the room, eyes lingering on the dull glow of the moonlight seeping through the cracked window, casting long shadows over the crumbling walls. This place, this abandoned building—it was far from home. Far from safety. But at least it was a roof over his head, even if it was barely holding together.

He needed more than just a place to crash. He needed clarity. Something more than the constant chaos. He needed to clear his head.

With a quiet sigh, Peter crossed the room, his feet barely making a sound against the broken floorboards. He made his way toward the window, the creaking wood protesting beneath him. He pulled himself through the opening and climbed out onto the fire escape, his fingers finding the metal rungs with practised ease. Each movement was deliberate, instinctual, his body falling into the rhythm of something that had once felt like second nature. The city sprawled before him, and he was high enough now to feel like a part of it, but also distant from it. Detached.

He made his way up to the roof, the wind cool against his face as he pulled himself over the edge, careful not to make too much noise. The rooftop was desolate, littered with old debris and rusted equipment that had been left to decay. From up here, Gotham looked different. The city stretched on forever, the broken skyline littered with jagged buildings that seemed to reach toward the sky like desperate hands. The distant lights flickered in the shadows, casting long, unnerving shapes across the streets below.

Peter crouched low, eyes scanning the horizon, his senses alert as he checked for any signs of movement. The city seemed to breathe in its own strange rhythm. The faint rustle of wind through the air was the only sound, the faint hum of distant sirens a constant background noise. For a moment, Peter closed his eyes, breathing in the cool night air. It felt good—like a brief escape from everything. The weight of Gotham’s crime, its chaos, the endless cycle of destruction that gnawed at his thoughts, felt lighter. He wasn’t Spider-Man here. He wasn’t the boy who had to constantly fight, constantly push back against the city’s darkness.

He was just Peter Parker.

And for the first time in a long while, it was okay to just be him. To exist. To not have the weight of the world on his shoulders. The peace was fleeting, but it was enough.

Then, like a jolt of electricity, his spidey sense flared—a sharp, immediate warning.

Every hair on the back of his neck stood on end, the familiar tingle racing down his spine. He froze, body tense, the calm of the night slipping away as quickly as it had come. His senses stretched out, like an invisible thread searching the dark corners of the rooftop. There was someone there. Someone hidden , watching him.

Peter didn’t move at first. He didn’t want to give himself away. Instead, he let his instincts take over, every muscle in his body coiling, ready for whatever came next. He didn’t have to wait long. A figure materialized from the shadows at the far end of the rooftop.

The figure was still and silent, leaning against a rusted vent, arms crossed. Peter’s eyes narrowed as he focused, locking onto the silhouette of a red helmet. Its surface was scarred and battle-worn from countless encounters. The dim glow of the city lights caught on the edges of the helmet, casting a sickly sheen across its surface.

Red Hood.

Jason had seen a lot of weird shit in Gotham. But this?

This was new.

Patrolling Crime Alley wasn’t usually eventful. Sure, there were always thugs to crack down on, some idiot looking to make a name for himself, and the occasional psychopath with a flair for the dramatic. But tonight? Tonight, he had found a kid perched on the edge of a rooftop, legs dangling like he had all the time in the world.

Jason had nearly had a goddamn heart attack.

From a distance, it looked like the kid was going to jump. He was slumped forward, eerily still, head tilted downward as if he were staring into the abyss. Jason had seen that posture before—too many times. It made something inside him lurch. His gut told him to move, so he did, creeping closer without a sound, prepared to yank the kid back if necessary.

Then, Jason got close enough to get a proper look.

The kid wasn’t tense. His breathing was even. No hesitation, no fear, no impending sense of doom radiating off of him. He looked… at peace. Like he was just enjoying the view. That was weird enough on its own. Nobody in Gotham just enjoyed the view.

Then Jason caught the scent of dried blood.

His eyes sharpened, scanning the kid quickly. No obvious wounds. Clothes? Mostly clean. The only signs of a struggle were faint cuts on his hands, and old bruises peeking from beneath his sleeves. It wasn’t his blood. That meant he was a fighter.

Jason’s first instinct was to assume a new player had wandered into Gotham, but something about this kid didn’t sit right. He was too young to be one of Black Mask’s goons. Too clean to be a street rat. And then, when Jason moved, making the barest shift in weight on the rooftop—

The kid snapped his head toward him, locking onto his exact position.

And Jason saw Bruce.

He froze for half a second, and something cold crawled up his spine. The way the kid’s eyes tracked him through the dark. The immediate shift in posture—tense, but calculated. His heartbeat didn’t even spike that much. It was restrained. Controlled.

Just like B.

Jason swallowed down the urge to curse. That was the last thing he needed to be thinking about. It was probably a coincidence. He shook it off, stepping out of the shadows and leaning against a rusted vent, arms crossed over his chest like he hadn’t just had a minor existential crisis.

“Y’know, if you were thinking of jumping, there are cleaner ways to go,” Jason drawled, keeping his tone light.

The kid exhaled sharply, unimpressed. “I wasn’t planning on it,” he muttered, his voice low, carrying an edge that made Jason freeze again.

That voice.

Not the pitch. Not the accent—definitely not Gotham-born, probably New York. No, it was the way he spoke. The low, measured, restrained way the words left his mouth. It hit Jason in the chest like a freight train, dragging him right back to his days as Robin. To missions with Batman whispering low commands through the comms, voice calm even in the middle of chaos.

This was bad.

Jason tilted his head, taking in more details. Brown hair—dyed. He could see the darker roots under the city lights.

Black.

His stomach twisted.

Shit.

The stance. The dyed hair. The way he analysed Jason in real-time. The way he hadn’t panicked when he sensed someone watching. The way he spoke—like he wasn’t used to letting his real emotions slip through. The way he kept himself perfectly balanced, like someone who had learned to fight before they learned to run.

This kid wasn’t normal.

This was probably another goddamn Damian.

Jason forced himself to breathe through his nose, assessing quickly. The kid was about sixteen, maybe a little younger. Still had some softness in his face, despite the hardened edges creeping in. He wasn’t trained—not fully. But his instincts? They were too good. The kind of good that only came from one place.

Goddammit.

Bruce didn’t know about this kid. Jason would’ve known if he did. That meant one thing: this was another child that B had no idea existed. Another Bruce's biological kid.

A new addition to the Bat-shaped family tree.

And if Bruce ever found out—if he ever got even a whiff of the fact that there was a teenage boy, his kid, running, around Gotham with this kind of potential—

Jason gritted his teeth. No. No way. He wasn’t letting that happen.

The last thing Gotham needed was another kid in a cape.

Jason pushed off the vent, closing the distance slightly but keeping it casual. “So, what’s your deal, kid?”

The boy blinked, not giving anything away. “Do I need one?”

Jason smirked. “Stray kid in Gotham, covered in blood, hanging out on rooftops. You don’t scream ‘local.’”

The kid sighed as if deciding whether answering was worth his time. “I have a place to stay.”

Jason narrowed his eyes. That wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the whole truth either. Deflect and redirect.

Another Bat trait.

This was getting ridiculous.

Jason exhaled, rubbing a hand down his helmet in frustration. “What’s your name?”

The kid hesitated, then finally answered, “Peter.”

Jason rolled the name around in his head. Peter. Didn’t ring any bells. “Well, Peter, you stickin’ around?”

Peter studied him. “I don’t know yet.”

Jason didn’t like that answer.

He didn’t like how Lost the Kid sounded saying it.

And that settled it. Bruce or not, Jason wasn’t letting the Bat find out about him. Not this time. He wasn’t letting another normal kid get dragged into the hellhole that was Gotham’s vigilante mess.

Jason crossed his arms. “Stay away from the Bats.”

Peter blinked, tilting his head. “Huh?”

Jason straightened, his voice coming out firm. “Just—trust me, alright? Stay out of Gotham’s vigilante business. The Bat doesn’t play nice, and you don’t wanna be on his radar.”

Peter looked at him, confused but too tired to argue. “Uh. Okay?”

Jason held his gaze a second longer, then nodded. “Good.” He turned, ready to leave, then glanced back one last time. “And, kid? Try not to get yourself killed.”

Peter snorted. “No promises.”

Jason sighed. He was really in for it now.

Chapter Text

After Red Hood left, Peter lingered on the rooftop for a while, his gaze fixed on the space where the guy had been standing just moments before.

The conversation still played fresh in his mind, looping over each little exchange.

It had been… nice.

Weird, sure. But nice.

Red Hood. The name didn’t ring any bells. Peter frowned, rubbing his chin as he tried to recall if he’d ever heard of a Red Hood before. Uncle Ben had read Batman comics to him when he was little, and Peter still remembered most of the names—the classics like Batman, Robin, Batgirl. But Red Hood?

Was he new? A Gotham-exclusive character who hadn’t been mentioned in the main comics?

Peter made a face. Great. I fell into another universe, and I don’t even get accurate lore.

And on top of that, Karen had told him that Red Hood wasn’t one of the Bats. That he was a rogue element. A crime lord. But Peter wasn’t buying it.

The bat symbol on his chest wasn’t just for show. 

Peter had seen the way he moved, the way he observed, the way he asked questions but never gave up anything about himself. The only other people Peter had met with that kind of behavior were spies and government agents.

Or, in this case—Batmen.

He sighed, leaning his arms on his knees. Definitely one of the Bats.

Peter had half-expected Red Hood to be some crazed crime lord, judging by what he had heard from the whispers in Gotham’s streets. But instead of threats or gunfire, the man had stood there, looking at him like he was trying to piece together some grand puzzle. And that was something Peter recognised.

Because that was exactly what Peter did to everyone else.

He smirked a little to himself, shaking his head. “Guess I just got reversed psychoanalysed.”

And yet, he hadn’t felt uneasy around him. Red Hood was oddly easy to talk to. He asked direct questions, and didn’t dance around things, and even though his body language was loose and casual, Peter could tell he was sharp. He noticed things, even when Peter tried to mask them.

It was weird. Peter had always thought that nobody could read him, not unless he wanted them to.

Then again, maybe Red Hood was just that good.

And yet… his Spidey Sense had been strangely calm around him. That wasn’t something Peter took lightly. His Spider-Sense screamed at him when people were dangerous, even if they hadn’t done anything yet. It buzzed when people lied, when someone held a gun, when an enemy or anyone was watching from afar.

But with Red Hood?

Nothing.

Not completely silent, but muted . Like his body knew that Red Hood could be dangerous, but at the moment, he wasn’t.

That, more than anything, unsettled Peter the most.

He had to figure out more about this guy.

But not today.

His eyes drifted across the Gotham skyline, the glow of the city casting long shadows across the streets below. He should head back. It wasn’t safe to loiter up here, or he may run into another vigilate. 

With a quiet sigh, Peter moved, slipping down from the rooftop with practiced ease. His fingers found the fire escape, swinging himself onto the rusted metal and moving down the rungs in silence. His window was still open from when he’d left earlier, a small gap letting in the cool night air. Peter hoisted himself inside, landing lightly on the floor before shutting it behind him.

His little makeshift room wasn’t much—a corner of an abandoned apartment, the walls cracked with age, the floor creaky under his weight. But it was hidden, dry, and more importantly, his.

Peter pulled off his hoodie, rolling his shoulders as he exhaled. His body was still a little sore, but the aches were fading, his healing factor working through the last remnants of the night’s wear and tear. The encounter had drained him more than he’d expected, and despite himself, he was looking forward to sleeping.

He settled into the nest of blankets he had scrounged up. Red Hood — The guy had been interesting, to say the least. He hadn’t tried to threaten him, hadn’t tried to recruit him, hadn’t even tried to fight him—well, aside from all the glaring.

Peter had expected worse. Instead, he had a surprisingly normal conversation.

Weird.

With that final thought, Peter let himself close his eyes, letting the exhaustion finally drag him under.

The next morning, Peter woke up feeling better than he had in days. He woke up feeling charged . Not just well-rested— fully restored . His body felt refreshed, his senses clear, every nerve humming with energy. His healing factor had done its job overnight, leaving him feeling brand new.

He stretched, his joints popping as he sat up, ruffling his hair before letting out a yawn. He had work to do today—actual, important work. He needed to get into the system. He needed to Bruce’s documents, to get the money from the bank. 

He rolled to his feet, shuffling off his hoodie. His hoodie was fine, but it screamed ‘I’m a street kid who hasn’t slept in a bed for weeks,’ which wasn’t a good look for what he needed to do today. Instead, he looked at the simple shirt he was wearing underneath it—black, with a stupid science pun printed across the front in bright white letters.

Come to the nerd side. We have π.

Peter snorted to himself. His track pants were still in good condition, and they were comfortable enough to move in. He ran a quick hand through his hair, then set about cleaning himself up as best as he could. He’d been in worse situations before. A little ingenuity, some clean water, and he could make do. It wasn’t perfect, but it worked. He took the only water bottle he had bought yesterday with his 30 dollars, splashing some onto his face before rubbing it down. 

Good enough.

No toothbrush? No problem. He had snagged a pack of gum from a gas station the other night (it was 4 dollars.). He chewed on a piece as he double-checked himself, making sure he looked at least passably normal. Because today, he had to dig into the records.

He stretched, rolling his shoulders, then headed out (or jumped down). Peter moved through Gotham’s streets, his hood pulled up, shoulders hunched. The city felt heavy as normal, pressing down on him like a weight he couldn’t shake. He wasn’t sure if it was the smog clinging to the air, thick with car exhaust and something vaguely metallic, or just the way the people here moved—silent, guarded like they were waiting for the next blow to land.

It was different from New York. New York had crime, yeah, but it was alive —it had a pulse, a rhythm. Gotham, though? Gotham felt suffocated like the entire city was trapped under some invisible weight, pressing down on its people until they either broke or learned to live bent over.

People weren’t living here. They were surviving.

And now, somehow, this was his life.

He didn’t want to be here longer than necessary.

"Good morning, Peter," Karen’s voice hummed softly in his earpiece, crisp and calm, like she wasn’t speaking into the worst city in the world. "Your appointment regarding the foster system documents is scheduled within the hour. I have marked the most efficient route for travel."

Peter sighed, adjusting the strap on his backpack. "Morning, Karen. Thanks."

A pause. Then: "Are you certain about this course of action? You have no documented history in this universe’s system. Acquiring these files may raise questions."

Peter smirked. "What, you don’t think I can charm my way through it?"

"Your previous encounters with law enforcement suggest a pattern of evasion, not charm."

"Ouch," Peter muttered, as with a chime, Karen switched off, probably for the energy-saving mood again.

Peter kept walking, picking up his pace. The foster office wasn’t far now. The closer he got, the worse the neighbourhood became. Buildings looked abandoned, windows either shattered or boarded up. A fire hydrant was broken open, and water leaking into the street like the city itself was bleeding out. A group of kids sat on a stoop, bundled up in oversized jackets, their eyes sharp, watching him like they were trying to decide if he was a threat. Or a target.

Peter ignored them.

Then, finally, he saw it—the Gotham Foster System Office.

And, wow , it was worse than he expected. The building was falling apart. Chipped paint peeled away in long strips from the walls, revealing the rotting wood beneath. Streaks of grime clung to the brick walls like old scars. The sign-out front was missing letters, so it just read "GOTHAM FOS ER CARE" like some kind of sick joke. The windows were grimy, some cracked, some covered with plywood. The front door had scratches on it—long, deep ones, like someone had clawed at it. A broken street lamp flickered weakly overhead, buzzing like a mosquito caught in an electric current.

Peter wrinkled his nose as he stepped inside, and the smell hit him. 

Mildew. Stale coffee. Something sour underneath it all, like sweat and rot and despair.

The lobby was packed . Kids sat slumped on torn plastic chairs, some kicking their legs impatiently, others staring blankly ahead with that dead look Peter had seen in too many foster kids back in Queens. Some held garbage bags stuffed with their belongings—probably everything they owned.

It made his chest ache.

Adults stood in clusters near the front desk, their voices raised in frustration as overworked caseworkers tried to answer questions with the patience of people who hated their jobs. A flickering TV bolted to the wall and played a news report about another gang shooting. No one paid attention.

He’d heard about places like this before. He just didn’t think they actually existed.

Peter’s Spidey sense prickled at the back of his skull.

Not full-blown danger, but... wrong. Off.

Not just the broken chairs, the flickering lights, or the overworked caseworkers trying to talk down frustrated parents. Something deeper.

Rotten.

Peter tried to keep his expression neutral. His fingers curled into fists before he forced them to relax.

"This is just a stop. Get the documents. Get out."

 He let out a deep breath and approached the front desk, where a woman with deep lines under her eyes was flipping through a stack of papers. She barely looked up.

"Take a number," she muttered, shoving a crumpled ticket toward him.

Peter ignored it. "Actually, I think I have an appointment. I just need to speak to someone about my case file."

The woman huffed and flipped through another stack of papers. "Name?"

"Peter Parker."

She froze.

Her head snapped up, and for the first time, she really looked at him. Her eyes widened slightly.

"...Peter Parker?" Her voice was quiet, uncertain. Then her brows furrowed. " You’re back? "

Peter stiffened.

Okay. That wasn’t the reaction he expected.

He forced a smile. "Uh… yeah?"

The woman—her name tag read Marla Jenkins—stared at him like he was a ghost.

"You—" she exhaled sharply. " Wow. You look... good. "

Peter blinked. "Uh. Thanks?"

Marla kept staring. " Where have you been? " she asked, voice sharper now. "Your foster placement—your last one—there was an investigation, and then you just... disappeared."

Peter’s stomach clenched.

"Not my history. Not my problem."

Time to deflect.

He leaned on the counter, flashing an easy grin. "Oh, you know. Been around. Took a very extended vacation." He spread his hands. "Figured I'd come back, see how things are going."

Marla’s eyes narrowed. "You’re joking."

"Only when I’m awake."

She scoffed, shaking her head. "You’re different."

Peter shrugged. "Puberty. Hit me like a freight train."

Marla let out a disbelieving laugh. " Puberty doesn’t give you a whole new attitude." She folded her arms. "You used to be quiet. Nervous."

Peter’s grin twitched, but he kept it in place.

He didn’t know the Peter she was talking about. But he could guess.

A scared kid. Alone. Forgotten in a system that chewed kids up and spat them out.

Bruce.

His chest ached.

And now I'm standing here, taking his place. Walking in his footsteps like he was never here at all.

Marla studied him for another long moment before sighing. "Alright, Peter. Come with me. Let’s see what we can dig up."

Peter followed the woman through a cramped hallway, the air thick with the scent of stale coffee and damp paper. The further in they went, the worse it got. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered, buzzing like dying insects. His Spidey-sense hadn’t stopped whispering since he walked in, but it wasn’t an immediate danger type of feeling—more like this place is bad news rather than someone is about to shoot you in the face.

Which, you know, was better , but still.

Marla Jenkins —or just Marla, she said to him— led him to an office that looked like it hadn’t been properly cleaned since the 90s. Stacks of folders teetered on the edge of an overstuffed filing cabinet. A computer sat on the desk, its monitor humming faintly. Marla gestured for him to sit while she pulled out a thick folder, flipping through the papers inside. Peter sat as Marla rifled through an overstuffed folder marked "PARKER, P.B."

"Alright, Peter?" she said, giving him a pointed look.

Peter fought to keep his expression neutral. He couldn’t slip up now.

"Yes," he said, keeping his tone light. 

Marla hummed, still scanning the pages. "You always were a quiet kid. The kind that kept his head down, and tried not to cause trouble. Not like some of the others. You were one of the good ones." She glanced at him. "But you... you look nothing like how I remember."

Peter forced a grin. "Guess I had a glow-up."

She gave a tired chuckle but didn’t seem entirely convinced.

"Well," she muttered, flipping to another section of the file. "According to this, your last placement ended with an official investigation."

Peter’s fingers curled slightly. "What kind of investigation?"

Marla sighed. "Your foster placement at the time—Raymond and Linda Holloway. They had a record but somehow kept slipping through the cracks. Allegations of abuse, missing funds, neglect." She shook her head. "By the time anyone took action, you had already disappeared."

Peter kept his face carefully blank, but inside, his stomach twisted. Bruce had been in an abusive home.

And nobody had saved him. His fingers twitched.

Marla rubbed her temple. "There was talk about them using you for the benefits money, barely feeding you, locking you in a basement if you ‘acted out.’ Then suddenly, you vanished. No trace. Nothing." She exhaled. "Most people assumed the worst. A runaway at best, a body in an alley at worst."

Peter clenched his jaw. His hands curled into fists. And no one came looking for him? No one even cared?

He had known Gotham was bad, but hearing it firsthand, knowing that this had been Bruce’s life —it made his skin crawl. 

Peter forced himself to breathe evenly. To not let the fury bubbling in his gut show on his face.

Because it wasn’t his fury.

It was Bruce’s.

"So," Marla continued, "you’ll forgive me for being a little shocked when you walk in here, taller, healthier, wearing clean clothes, and acting like you just came back from some fancy private school."

Peter needed to redirect this conversation before she started asking questions he couldn’t answer.

He leaned back in the chair, putting on his best Stark-like smirk. "What can I say? Good food, good sleep, and personal growth." He spread his hands. "And, you know, puberty. "

Marla snorted. "You’re different, that’s for sure."

Peter shrugged. "Different is good. I’m doing fine now. Better than fine, actually."

Marla studied him for a moment longer, then sighed. "I won’t pry. I’m just glad you’re alright."

Peter swallowed. He wasn’t Bruce. He wasn’t the kid she remembered. But he still felt the weight of those words, like they were meant for someone who never got to hear them.

Marla reached for the computer and started typing. "Alright, let’s see what I can pull for you."

Peter watched as she navigated through what looked like an ancient database. The loading screens took forever, and the system lagged every few seconds.

"So, what exactly do you need?" she asked.

"Any official documents," Peter said, keeping his voice even. "Birth certificate, foster records—anything that proves I exist."

Marla hummed, tapping at the keyboard. "You trying to apply for something?"

Peter hesitated. "Something like that."

She didn't question it, but he could tell she was curious. Still, she kept working, occasionally muttering under her breath as the system froze. After a few minutes, she huffed. "Alright, got it." She clicked a few more times before the printer sputtered to life.

Peter exhaled slowly. One step closer.

Marla pulled out a manila folder, pulled the needed documents and set them on the desk. Birth certificate. Foster records. His proof of existence.

"There you go. Everything we have on you."

Peter took it, fingers gripping the edges tightly.

"Thanks," he said, meaning it.

Marla waved a hand. "Just don’t disappear again , alright?"

Peter forced a small smile. "No promises."

As he left the office, folder in hand, his Spidey sense buzzed again .

Not dangerous. Not immediate. But something about this place was wrong .

He needed to get out of here.

Fast.

And as he stepped back into Gotham’s grimy streets, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was carrying more than just a folder.

He was carrying someone else’s life. A past. A boy who had lived and died in this city, and who no one had saved.

And it felt heavy .

"I’ll make it right, Bruce."

"Somehow."

Chapter Text

Tim Drake was exhausted.

Not just the usual I-pulled-another-all-nighter exhausted, but the I-spent-the-last-eight-hours-patrolling-Gotham-then-had-to-write-up-a-detailed-report-for-Bruce-and-I’m-running-on-two-hours-of-sleep-and-five-coffees kind of exhausted. The kind where his body was still running on autopilot, but his brain was about two steps behind everything else.

Which is exactly why, instead of dragging himself to school like he was technically supposed to, Tim decided— logically —that school was a waste of time. He already knew everything they were teaching, he could hack into the system and adjust attendance if needed, and frankly, Gotham needed him more than some underpaid history teacher who couldn’t even properly pronounce Hapsburg. Besides, if Bruce wanted him to keep up appearances, maybe he should stop handing him mission files at two in the morning.

The sun had barely started to rise when Tim slipped into one of Gotham’s quieter coffee shops, the kind of place that didn’t ask questions about why a teenager looked like he hadn’t slept in three days. Tim rubbed at his eyes and stifled a yawn, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his hoodie as he stepped inside. The smell of coffee was already doing half the work of waking him up. He made a beeline for the counter, ordering the strongest thing they had before turning to find a seat.

That was when he saw him.

At first glance, the kid didn’t stand out much. Dark hair, lean frame, sitting near the back of the shop, hunched slightly over his drink. He looked his age. A black shirt with the words "Come to the nerd side. We have pi" stretched across his chest. Track pants. He didn’t look like a street kid—too clean, too put-together. If Tim had to guess, he might’ve thought the guy was just another Gotham teenager skipping school, the kind who probably spent too much time in a lab or a library.

But there was something about him. He had this sort of wired energy, like he was half-asleep but still on high alert. Tim had seen that posture before.

It was the posture of someone used to running.

Tim frowned, tilting his head slightly as he studied him. It was the posture—relaxed but deceptively so, like someone used to being aware of their surroundings. The way his fingers tapped absently against the side of his cup, a quiet, rhythmic movement that reminded Tim of how Bruce sometimes drummed his fingers against his desk when deep in thought. And then there was the kid’s face.

The resemblance was subtle, but it was there. A sharpness in the jawline, a familiarity in the way his brow furrowed slightly as he stared down at his drink, lost in thought. The way his shoulders squared, the way he held tension like it was second nature, the way his eyes—sharp, analysing—tracked movement without giving away where he was really looking. Tim had spent years studying Bruce, memorising the details that separated him from Batman, understanding the intricacies of how he moved and thought.

And the dark haired teenager moved like him. Like someone trained, like someone who knew how to disappear in a crowd yet still see everything.

Tim blinked, then took a long sip of his coffee. Maybe he was hallucinating. Maybe he’d finally hit the threshold of too many sleepless nights, and his brain had decided to start throwing out random Bruce-adjacent figures into the world.

Tim took a casual step forward, adjusting his stance as he prepared to get a closer look—but before he could even shift his weight properly, the teen stilled.

Completely.

Like a switch had been flipped, his whole body froze for the briefest second, muscles locking in place. His shoulders tensed just enough to be noticeable. And then—he turned his head, gaze flicking in Tim’s direction, eyes sharp, precise. Assessing.

Tim stopped moving.

For a second, neither of them spoke. The teen just stared at him, gaze unreadable, almost calculating, and Tim felt something twist in his gut. That wasn’t normal. Most people—most kids—didn’t react like that. They didn’t register someone’s presence like it was a threat detection system being triggered. They didn’t freeze, then turn, then look at you like they were scanning for potential danger.

Tim felt the prickle of curiosity coil in his brain, pressing down against the sleep deprivation.

Who was this guy?

Tim made a split-second decision. Instead of backing off, he forced a slow, easy smirk onto his face and moved forward, slipping into the seat across from him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You know,” he started, resting his elbows on the table, “most people don’t notice when someone’s watching them. That was… interesting.”

The teen—Peter, according to the name scrawled on his coffee cup—raised a brow, his expression shifting just slightly, enough that Tim could see the wheels turning behind his eyes.

“Well,” Peter said, tone light but laced with something more thoughtful, “most people don’t watch other people that closely. That’s interesting.”

Tim huffed a quiet laugh, resting his chin against his palm. Okay. Nevermind. He liked Peter.

“So,” Tim said, tilting his head, “what’s a guy like you doing in Gotham? You don’t exactly give off the ‘local delinquent’ vibe.”

Peter hesitated—just for a fraction of a second, so quick that most people wouldn’t have caught it. But Tim wasn’t most people.

“I could say the same about you,” Peter countered, giving him a once-over. “You don’t look like a high schooler, and I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to be in class right now.”

Tim smirked. Smart . He wasn’t just dodging the question—he was redirecting it. Classic move.

“Touché,” Tim admitted, taking a sip of his coffee. “Alright, fine. We’ll call it even. No school, no questions.”

Peter let out a small huff of amusement, shaking his head slightly as he picked up his own drink. 

“Alright,” Tim said, leaning back in his chair. “New to Gotham, right?”

Peter tensed, just slightly. Most people wouldn’t notice, but Tim wasn’t most people . His brain, despite running on fumes, cataloged everything—the way Peter’s fingers tightened around his coffee cup, the way his shoulders squared just a little, like he was bracing for something.

“…Yeah,” Peter said, too casual. “Just passing through.”

Lie. But the truth. 

Tim hummed. “Interesting place to pass through. Not exactly a tourist town.”

Peter shrugged. “Had some… business to take care of.”

Another lie. But not a full one.

How annoying. He’s good.

Tim rested his chin on one hand, studying him. “So, what, you just woke up one day and thought ‘Hey, you know what would be fun? Dropping into the most crime-ridden city in America and seeing what happens’?”

Peter gave him a lopsided grin. “Yeah, well. I like a challenge.”

Tim’s mind was already running through possibilities. A clone? A lab experiment? An undiscovered child?

The way Peter moved, the way he sat—everything about him screamed someone who had been through hell and knew how to survive it. And he looked like Bruce, which was definitely something he wasn’t going to let go.

Peter finished the last of his coffee and stood, stretching. “Anyway, it’s been fun, but I should get going.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “You sure? I was just starting to enjoy our little interrogation session.”

Peter snorted. “Yeah, and I was just starting to enjoy my coffee before you started questioning my entire existence.” He tossed his empty cup into the trash and shot Tim a mock salute. “Later, Stalker.”

Tim watched him leave, mind still buzzing.

Peter. This wasn’t over.

The second Peter was out of sight, Tim pulled out his phone and started digging. It didn’t take long. His full name popped up on the screen, and Tim’s breath caught for just a second.

Peter. Bruce. Parker.

Yeah. This was definitely not over. He drank the coffee in one gulp. 

Peter stepped out of the coffee shop, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, his mind still buzzing from the weird interaction with the guy inside.

Tim Drake.

Or, as Peter had mentally dubbed him, Stalker McSuspicious.

It hadn’t taken much to recognise him. Bruce Wayne’s, well, more precisely, Batman’s kid—one of them, anyway. Peter had done his research when he got here. If he wanted to stay under the radar, he needed to know the big players, and the Wayne family was Gotham royalty. Tim wasn’t the biological one, that was Damian, but he was the smart one. The one with a reputation. And Peter now knew all of them are trained, and possibly the vigilates of the Bat family. He just wasn’t sure which one. 

The kid was sharp—too sharp. Peter had spent enough time around people who knew how to observe, analyse, and dismantle others in real-time to recognise the signs. The way Tim had studied him, the way his mind was clearly piecing things together even as they spoke—it wasn’t normal. It wasn’t casual. It was exactly the kind of thing Peter himself did when he was sizing someone up. But the worst part was that his Spidey-sense had prickled at Tim, but not in a bad way. More like a warning. A heads-up.

A ‘pay attention, this one’s dangerous’ kind of thing.

And Peter had no doubt that the guy had clocked him as something .

The way Tim had sat down across from him, casual but calculated. The way he’d studied him like a puzzle that just wasn’t quite fitting right . Peter wasn’t sure what he’d given away—maybe something in the way he moved, or the way he reacted when he felt someone watching. Tim had definitely been watching. That much was obvious.

But why?

Peter hadn’t even seen his face or showered in days. It wasn’t like his alternate self had some massive reputation in Gotham. The Batkids were all about pattern recognition, though, and that was the part that got under Peter’s skin. Had he done something that screamed dangerous ? Had he moved like someone trained?

… Probably.

His fingers twitched slightly as he walked, flexing and releasing, trying to shake the restless energy from his limbs. His body always felt like it was waiting for a fight, like his muscles weren’t satisfied unless they were burning with movement. It wasn’t something he noticed often, but now, after meeting Tim? He felt seen .

He huffed, adjusting the strap of his backpack. Peter had gotten from the foster system to keep his file in. Whatever. He had bigger things to focus on.

“Karen,” Peter muttered under his breath as he walked. “Tell me everything you can dig up on a guy named Tim Drake”

Karen’s voice chimed softly in his ear. “I will keep you updated, Peter.”

“Thanks.”

He sighed, exhaling sharply as he kicked at a loose piece of sidewalk. The whole encounter had left him uneasy. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been scrutinised before, but Tim had a very specific kind of intensity, the kind that came from someone who had seen too much, done too much, and was always three steps ahead of everyone else in the room.

Peter knew that kind of person because he was that kind of person.

His stomach growled, interrupting his thoughts, and he groaned. Right. One coffee wasn’t going to cut it. His metabolism was still going nuts, and while he was getting better at managing it, it still sucked. Not that he could do anything about it right now. He had bigger things to deal with. Like the bank.

“Karen,” he muttered under his breath, again, keeping his voice low.

“Yes, Peter?”

“Walk me through this again.”

“Certainly. Your objective is to retrieve the funds left in the account under Peter Bruce Parker’s name. The total balance is $20,000. You currently require legal foster documentation to access the full amount, but you can withdraw up to $2,000 immediately under standard bank policy.”

Peter nodded absently. Right. That was the plan. Get the money, get food, find a place to sleep that wasn’t horrible . The Gotham foster system wasn’t doing him any favors, and he wasn’t planning on waiting around for them to maybe give him a bed in some group home. He needed resources, and right now, this was the best shot he had.

His stomach twisted uncomfortably at the thought of taking it, though.

Not that he didn’t need it. Not that he wasn’t owed it.

Peter swallowed down the guilt and focused on the task at hand. He was almost at the bank.

The building itself was nicer than he expected—tall, polished glass. The kind of fancy that screamed, ‘We handle rich people money and judge you on sight.’. The fact that Bruce’s mom had an account here was crazy. Maybe she was one of the rich ones.

Peter resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he stepped inside, already feeling out of place in his hoodie and sneakers. 

Yeah. He didn’t look like someone who had two hundred grand waiting for him.

Not that he was planning on keeping it.

The thought made his stomach twist uncomfortably.

This wasn’t his money. It was Bruce Wayne-Grayson’s—or rather, the version of him that had died. A version of him that had grown up in Gotham, bounced between foster homes, lived a life Peter would never fully understand. The money belonged to him.

But Peter needed it.

At least for now.

Karen’s voice hummed in his ear. “Proceed to the reception desk. The documents required are in your backpack. I will inform you the necessary sections.”

Peter resisted the urge to smile. “What would I do without you?”

“Statistically? Be lost and significantly more disorganised.”

“Rude.”

But also fair.

The receptionist barely glanced at him at first, probably used to brushing off teenagers who wandered in, but still rude, so when Peter set the documents on the desk, her expression changed.

He plastered on his best Tony Stark smile—easygoing, confident, like he belonged here. "Hi, I’m here to access an account. Should be under Peter Bruce Parker."

She took them, eyes scanning over the paperwork, and for a second, Peter let himself breathe.

Karen’s voice interrupted the moment. “Maintain confidence. You are legally entitled to this account. If asked, refer to the executor clause under subsection four.”

Peter fought back a grin. God, he loved Karen.

The receptionist gave a small hum, tapping at her keyboard before nodding. “Everything seems to be in order, Mr Parker. Please take a seat, and an associate will call you shortly.”

Peter nodded and turned away, already feeling the tension ease slightly. One step down. Now he just had to actually get the money and get out of here before anyone started asking too many questions. 

“Stay relaxed," Karen reminded him. "Everything checks out. You're legally recognised as Peter Bruce Parker. No one will question you."

Peter forced himself to breathe evenly as the receptionist typed something into her computer. A beat passed, then another, before she gestured toward one of the sleek black chairs in the waiting area. "A banker will assist you shortly."

"Cool, thanks." Peter stepped back, taking a seat.

His knee bounced restlessly as he waited. The guilt was still there, a weight pressing down on him, but he shoved it aside.

This wasn’t stealing. It was a loan.

He’d return it. Every cent.

Double.

Peter exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. 

His thoughts were interrupted when a sharply dressed woman approached. "Mr. Parker?"

Peter pushed himself up. "That’s me."

The process itself was surprisingly smooth. The banker led him into a quiet office, went over some legal jargon that Peter pretended to understand, and then asked how he wanted to proceed.

Apparently, he could take the full amount out if he wanted to, because of robbery and things. 

But he didn’t, obviously. That would be stupid.

Instead, he opted for something smaller—something subtle. Two thousand. Enough to last for a bit without raising any red flags.

A few signatures later, Peter had a fresh bank card in his hand.

He stared at it for a second, feeling the weight of it between his fingers.

This was real.

This was his.

For now, at least.

"Would you like an envelope for the cash?" the banker asked, sliding over a neat stack of bills.

Peter shook his head. "Nah, I got it."

She nodded, standing. "Your new card should be active immediately. If you need anything else, feel free to reach out."

"Yeah," Peter muttered. "Thanks."

He left before he could change his mind.

The second he stepped outside, he slipped into an alleyway, heart pounding harder than it should’ve been. He leaned against the brick wall, gripping the cash in one hand and the card in the other.

This was fine.

He’d figure it out.

His stomach growled again, louder this time, and Peter huffed.

"Alright," he murmured to himself. "Food first, existential crisis later."

Tucking the money into his pocket, he pushed away from the wall and headed down the street.

Chapter Text

Barbara Gordon wasn’t the type to get hung up on people.

She met hundreds of people every week—students, researchers, criminals, police officers, politicians. She listened to their voices, picked up on their habits, read between the lines of what they said and, more importantly, what they didn’t say. That was what made her good at what she did.

That’s why Barbara Gordon wasn’t sure why she was still thinking about the kid from the library.

This kid—Peter Bruce Parker—had stuck in her mind.

At first, she dismissed it. Just another teenage boy, just another Gotham foster kid trying to get by. But the more she thought about him, the more her instincts wouldn’t let it go. Not just because of the name (though, seriously, Bruce ?), and not just because of the faint resemblance to a certain billionaire. No, it was the way he acted , and carried himself — it was all wrong .

Or, no. Not wrong.

It was familiar.

The first red flag had been his awareness. The way his eyes had flicked toward the exits before he even fully stepped inside, how he’d chosen a seat where he could see the entire room while keeping his back to a wall. That wasn’t something most people did, least of all teenagers.

Then there was the way he moved.

Controlled. Measured. Every action deliberate, every step calculated.

He didn’t fidget, didn’t slouch like a typical teenager. His fingers tapped against the desk with perfect rhythm—not random, not restless. It reminded her of Bruce, how he would drum his fingers against the arm of his chair when he was working through a puzzle.

And his expression.

Calm. Blank. Controlled.

Most kids his age carried their emotions on their sleeve. Even Tim, despite his best efforts, had tells if you knew what to look for.

Hell. Even most adults, period, didn’t act like that.

But Peter?

Something about him was like watching Bruce when he was trying not to give anything away.

And that— that —was what made Barbara pull up his file.

She hadn’t expected to find much. A simple background check, maybe some red flags in the system. Gotham’s foster care records were usually full of errors, misplaced documents, missing files.

But Peter Bruce Parker?

His records were perfect.

She had run his name through every system available, cross-checked records, dug as deep as she could. But Peter Bruce Parker had nothing out of place. No missing records, no inconsistencies.

He was too clean.

Birth certificate. Medical history. School records. Every change of address accounted for. His mother—Mary Parker—had all her paperwork in order too. Even the Batcomputer couldn’t find a single discrepancy.

And that was a problem.

Because nothing in Gotham was that perfect. Gotham was a bureaucratic mess, full of red tape and lost paperwork. Even legitimate people had gaps in their records.

But Peter didn’t.

It was perfect. Too perfect.

And that was what made Barbara uneasy.

Barbara was so caught up in the files that she barely noticed the soft sound of footsteps approaching behind her.

A hand suddenly landed on her shoulder, and she nearly reached for a weapon before she realised who it was.

“Jumpy much?” Dick Grayson teased, leaning over her chair to peek at the screen. His dark hair was still damp, likely from a post-patrol shower, and he was dressed in sweatpants and a worn-out Gotham U t-shirt.

Barbara sighed. “You know better than to sneak up on me.”

“Didn’t sneak,” Dick said easily. “You were just distracted.” He peered at the screen, tilting his head, “What’s got you in a twist?”

She hesitated, then gestured at the file in front of her. “Him.”

Dick leaned in, studying the image. It was a still from the library security feed—a dark-haired teenager, hunched slightly over a book, one hand curled around a coffee cup. He didn’t look out of place. Just another Gotham kid.

But then Dick’s expression shifted.

He squinted. Tilted his head. His mouth opened slightly.

And then—

“…Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”

Barbara gave him a knowing look.

Dick groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Babs. Babs, you can’t keep finding these kids.”

“I didn’t find him,” she said dryly. “He walked into a public library. I just happened to be there.”

Dick pointed at the screen. “Yeah, well, he walked right into our problem.”

Barbara rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t even suspicious at first. But then I noticed the way he acted. He reminded me of Bruce.”

Dick let out a low whistle, leaning in closer. “You know what this means, right?”

Barbara rubbed her temples. “I don’t want to assume anything.”

“Oh, please. ” Dick tapped the screen. “Mysterious kid shows up out of nowhere, has zero paper trail issues, acts like Bruce, looks like Bruce, and even has Bruce’s name in the middle? That’s not a coincidence.”

Barbara ignored him, turning back to the screen. “He’s too aware for a normal teenager. He knew exactly where the exits were. He kept his back to a wall. His body language was controlled . Like someone trained—or at least someone who learned to be cautious the hard way.”

Dick watched the screen, frowning. “And his records?”

“Too clean,” she said. “There’s nothing suspicious in them, but that’s the problem. No missing documents. No inconsistencies. Just a perfectly normal, well-documented teenager with a dead mother and no listed father.”

Dick sighed. “Father unknown?”

Barbara nodded.

Dick leaned back, crossing his arms. “Well, that’s suspicious as hell.”

Barbara nodded again.

There was silence for a moment.

Then—

“…You think he’s actually one of Bruce’s?” Dick asked, finally voicing the thought hanging between them.

Barbara exhaled slowly. “I don’t know. But I don’t want to bring it to Bruce unless we do know.”

Dick hummed thoughtfully, staring at the screen again. “Yeah. Good call.” He tapped his fingers against the table. “So, We keeping an eye on him?”

Barbara gave him a look.

Dick grinned. “You know I love a good stakeout.”

Barbara sighed, but a small smile tugged at her lips. “I figured you would.”

Dick stretched, then glanced back at the screen. “So, this Peter Bruce Parker—”

“Don’t say the full name like that,” Barbara groaned. “It makes it worse.”

“Peter Bruce Parker,” Dick repeated, grinning. “PB&J.”

Barbara smacked his arm.

“Alright, alright,” Dick laughed, holding up his hands in surrender. “But seriously. If he’s that normal, then someone went out of their way to make sure his files were airtight. That’s not easy.”

“Exactly,” Barbara said. “Which means he’s either actually a normal kid—”

“—or someone wants us to think he is,” Dick finished.

Barbara nodded.

Dick smirked. “Guess we better go introduce ourselves.”

Barbara sighed. “ Subtly. ”

Dick waved a hand. “Sure, sure. We’ll just follow him around in costume and watch his every move. Totally normal, totally subtle.”

Barbara gave him a pointed look. “Don’t let Bruce or the others know until we have more information.”

Dick raised an eyebrow. “Especially not Damian?”

“ Especially not Damian,” she said firmly.

“Right,” Dick said, standing up. “Well, this should be fun.”

Barbara gave him a skeptical look.

Dick just grinned. “I’m just saying, if Bruce ever meets this kid, we both know what’s gonna happen.”

Barbara groaned. “Don’t.”

“Oh, come on , Babs,” Dick said, walking toward the suit vault. “Bruce is gonna take one look at this kid and—boom—instant adoption papers.”

Barbara groaned.

Dick’s grin widened. “I mean, think about it. Bruce sees sad, traumatized, overly competent teenage boy? That’s like, his whole thing. ”

Barbara tried to fight the small smirk threatening to appear.

Dick, however, was already leaning back in his chair, still grinning like an idiot. “Y’know,” he mused, “we’ve had a lot of siblings, but I’ve never thought we will have one after Duke.”

Barbara gave him a look. “You don’t even know if he’s Bruce’s.”

Dick shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Look at him. He’s got the face, the broody attitude, the ‘my life is a tragedy’ vibes—he’s either secretly a Wayne, or Gotham just copy-pasted Bruce’s whole aesthetic onto some poor kid.”

Barbara sighed. “Dick.”

Dick threw an arm over her shoulder, still smirking. “ Dick, he might not be your brother! ” he mocked in a high-pitched voice. “ Dick, don’t get attached! ”

Barbara shoved his arm off. “Dick, I swear to God.”

Dick just stretched, cracking his knuckles. “Alright then,” he said, already heading toward the suit vault. “Looks like Nightwing’s got a new case.”

Barbara exhaled, rubbing her temples. “Don’t make it weird.”

Dick shot her a grin over his shoulder. “Too late!”

Barbara shook her head, but she couldn’t fight the small smile forming.

Because, honestly?

She knew she was right.

And if this kid was what they thought he was…

Well.

Bruce Wayne was about to have one hell of a surprise.

Peter shut the door behind him with a soft click , leaning against it for a moment. He exhaled slowly, letting his head tip back against the wood.

It had been a day.

Walk up in a foster system nightmare? Check.
Find out he technically owned $20,000? Check.
Go to a rich, but probably-mob-influenced bank? Check.
Withdraw two grand while questioning every life decision that led him here? Big check.
Meet a weird kid who looked at him like a puzzle to be solved? Massive check.

Now, he was standing in his brand-new, totally not luxurious apartment, which he had rented with his probably-shouldn’t-exist bank account.

Progress?

Peter pushed off the door, letting his eyes roam the space.

It wasn’t much.

A studio apartment, which was the fancy way of saying one small room with a bathroom attached. The bed was shoved into the corner, barely more than a mattress on a cheap metal frame. The kitchenette was a counter, a microwave, and a tiny fridge that looked like it belonged in a college dorm. The bathroom was technically functional, if you counted a shower that looked like it would trap him in an awkward game of human Tetris.

The walls were that sad, off-white color landlords loved—probably because it made it easier to hide stains—and the hardwood floor was not actually wood, just cheap laminate. The only other pieces of furniture were a single chair and a nightstand that wobbled if he so much as looked at it funny.

It was small.

But it was his.

For now.

Peter sighed and flopped onto the mattress. It was stiff. The kind of stiff that told him someone had definitely slept on it before, but not recently.

“Karen,” he muttered, staring up at the ceiling. “We need a plan.”

“Agreed.”

Peter groaned. “Why does that sound ominous?”

“Because, statistically speaking, you are likely to make impulsive financial decisions that will put you in further economic instability.”

Peter scowled. “Wow. Love the confidence. Really feeling supported right now.”

“Would you like me to lie?”

“Yes.”

“You are a responsible, financially literate young adult who will make only the best decisions for his long-term survival.”

“…I hate you.”

“That is highly unlikely.”

Peter huffed, rubbing his eyes. “Okay. Let’s start with job ideas. What can I do that doesn’t require a social security number I definitely don’t have?”

“Given your current skill set and the identity I have fabricated, service industry jobs are the most accessible.”

Peter groaned. “Yeah, no, I knew that was coming.”

“Bartending, waiting tables, or working in retail would provide immediate income, though your patience levels indicate potential disaster in customer service.”

Peter scoffed. “Rude. Accurate, but rude. ”

“Additionally, you could consider tutoring. Your knowledge of science and mathematics surpasses the high school level, making you a suitable candidate.”

That… actually wasn’t a bad idea. He was good at explaining things, and tutoring had to pay better than waiting tables.

“Alright. Not terrible. What about freelance stuff?”

“Freelance writing, coding, or tech repair are possibilities, though establishing credibility will take time. Without prior work history in this world, acquiring jobs will be difficult.”

Peter sighed, tapping his fingers against his stomach. “Fine. I’ll think about it.”

“Additionally, you will require supplies to make this apartment livable.”

Peter cracked one eye open. “Oh, now you’re concerned about my living situation?”

“It is in my programming to ensure your survival.”

“Right. Totally nothing to do with the fact that you don’t want to be stuck in an empty room with no distractions.”

“Correct.”

Peter smirked. Got her.

“Alright, what do we need?”

“Essentials include bedding, cookware, and basic hygiene supplies. A small desk or table will be beneficial for job-related activities. Additionally, food—”

Peter groaned. “Ugh, I know. ”

“Do you? Your spending habits today indicate otherwise.”

“Wow, okay, mom. ”

“Your nutritional intake must be maintained. Bulk purchasing and meal-prepping will be the most cost-effective solution.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “You really know how to kill the fun, huh?”

“I was not aware survival was meant to be entertaining.”

Peter snorted. “Guess I’ll just have to live a little.”

“…That was a pun, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, it absolutely was.”

He could practically hear Karen sighing.

Peter pushed himself up with another groan. His body still felt sluggish, the telltale sign that he hadn’t eaten enough to keep up with his metabolism. He had two thousand dollars to his name right now, which seemed like a lot until he started breaking it down.

Rent alone took a huge chunk. Then utilities. Then food. Then all the basic stuff he needed to actually exist in this apartment.

And then, there was the big one— tech.

A laptop was essential. He needed a way to research, apply for jobs, and not rely on Karen talking in his head all the time. A cheap secondhand one would work for now, but even that was going to cut into his budget.

He exhaled slowly.

He could do this. He’d been in worse situations.

Right?

Peter ran a hand through his hair, sighing. He could worry about all of this tomorrow. Right now, he just needed to rest.

His brain, however, had other plans.

Because, of course, it had to remind him of the weird kid.

Tim Drake.

Peter didn’t even have to look him up—he knew who he was. One of Bruce Wayne’s kids. Not biologically, but definitely adopted into the Batfam. The smart one. The one who ran Wayne Enterprises’ tech division. The one who had a reputation for being too sharp.

And he had noticed Peter.

Not just in a casual, oh-look-another-teen way. He had watched him. Analysed him.

And Peter had no clue why.

Had he messed up? Slipped up somehow? He’d tried to act normal, but Tim had looked at him like he was trying to solve him.

Peter groaned, dragging his hands over his face.

Whatever.

It was probably nothing. Gotham kids were weird.

Right?

He sighed, shaking his head. It didn’t matter. He was going to sleep now. 

Tomorrow, he’d focus on getting set up. Buying the essentials. Getting a job.

And then… then he’d figure out how the hell he was going to get home.

Chapter Text

Peter woke up feeling like absolute garbage, and to the realisation that his back hurt . His limbs were sore, and his neck felt like he’d slept on a pile of bricks.

Which, honestly? Wouldn’t be that surprising. This mattress—if it could even be called that—felt like it had been made from the shattered hopes and dreams of a better life. The springs were viciously poking into his spine, and every movement made them creak in protest.

Groaning, he rolled onto his side, blinking blearily at the dim light filtering through the single grimy window. For a second, his brain struggled to catch up with reality. The last thing he remembered was—

Right. Gotham. The world’s most depressing apartment.

He glanced around, his apartment still looked as empty as it had last night, which meant it hadn’t magically decorated itself while he was asleep.

Tragic.

And the fact that he had exactly two thousand dollars to his name.

Peter let out a slow breath, staring up at the ceiling. His body felt off —not necessarily bad, just… weird. He’d noticed it yesterday, but between getting money, getting an apartment, and trying not to completely spiral about the fact that he was stranded in a different dimension, he hadn’t exactly had time to sit down and do a full system diagnostic.

But now?

Now he could tell something was definitely wrong.

His limbs felt a little too long. His center of balance was just slightly off. And his hands— his hands —looked weirdly… elegant?

Weird. But he was way too groggy to deal with an existential crisis first thing in the morning.

Rolling out of bed with a muttered curse, rubbing at his face as he stumbled toward the bathroom. He needed to wake up. Maybe splash some water on his face. Check if Gotham’s tap water was actively trying to kill people. You know, the usual morning routine.

Flipping the light on, he blinked at his reflection—

And froze.

His stomach dropped.

Staring back at him wasn’t his face.

It was a face. A Peter Parker face. But not his.

That wasn’t his face.

That wasn’t his face.

His heart stuttered.

Okay. Okay. Maybe he was just tired. Maybe his brain was still waking up.

No. No, no, no. This was—this was a trick of the light, right? Except his reflection wasn’t changing.

Peter’s breath hitched as he took a slow step forward, hands gripping the edge of the sink. His reflection stared back at him, but it wasn’t his. It was similar —familiar enough to be unsettling—but the differences were impossible to ignore.

His jawline was sharper. His cheekbones were higher. His nose was straighter. His skin was paler, like he hadn’t seen the sun in months.

And his eyes—

They were still brown, sure, but they were sharper , more intense. They had the look of someone who had been through too much —who had seen too much.

And then there was the biggest change of all.

His hair.

It was dyed. It was dyed brown. But he could see the dye coming off. It was black. 

Peter reached up, running a hand through it as panic curled in his stomach. It was still the same length, still just as messy as usual, but the color—

What the hell?

His breath came faster as his mind raced for an explanation.

The Snap?

He had dusted —maybe this was some kind of weird side effect? Some cosmic joke from the universe?

But no. That didn’t make sense. He’d come back the same. He’d had his normal body, his normal face, his normal hair.

So what changed?

Peter clenched his hands into fists, forcing himself to breathe.

Think.

Unless—

A horrifying thought struck him.

What if this wasn't my body to start with?

Peter swallowed hard, gripping the edge of the sink.

This wasn’t just a side effect. This was—

A cold shiver ran down his spine. He flexed his hands, took a deep breath, and muttered hoarsely, “Karen?”

“Yes, Peter?”

“What the hell happened to me?”

“Your current appearance aligns with the official identity created for you in this world. Your DNA, fingerprints, and facial structure match all legal records.”

Peter’s stomach dropped. She wasn’t helping. That wasn’t an answer.

“Yeah, great, but why do I look different?”

A pause.

Then—

“Your consciousness and body appears to have been fused with an alternate version of yourself native to this world.”

Peter stared at his reflection, blood pounding in his ears.

Fused?

As in—

He wasn’t just in another universe.

He was in another version of himself, with him mixed in it.

His hands shook as he squeezed his eyes shut, inhaling sharply through his nose.

He wasn’t just in another world.

He was in someone else’s life.

And that someone had already died.

A shudder ran down his spine. He gripped the sink tighter.

What a great fucking start to the day.

Okay. Okay. No need to panic.

…Well. No need to panic more than he already was.

He took a slow breath, willing himself to calm down. He’d figure this out. He had to.

 “And you didn’t think to tell me this yesterday?”

“You already had a lot to manage at the time.”

Peter scoffed , dragging a hand down his face. “Oh, well, excuse me for wanting to know that I’m literally not in my own body anymore. Great communication, Karen. Love that.”

“Noted.”

God, she was impossible.

Still. He couldn’t afford to spiral.

He needed clothes. And food. And a plan.

And, judging by the state of his hair, shampoo.

Peter grabbed his shoes and laced them up, rolling his shoulders before leaving the room. His steps were steady, purposeful. He made his way down the rickety stairs, ignoring the lingering stench of mildew and cigarette smoke clinging to the walls. The motel clerk barely looked up as he walked past, and Peter was fine with that. The less attention, the better.

Outside, Gotham’s morning air was thick with smog, the sky an oppressive gray. The streets were already alive with movement—cars honking, people rushing past, avoiding eye contact. It was both comforting and disorienting, the way the city swallowed him whole. It didn’t care who he was.

Good.

He was just another nobody in Gotham.

The thrift store wasn’t far. He saw one yesterday while he was searching for the apartment. Just a few blocks, close enough that he didn’t need to waste money on a bus. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and kept his head down as he walked, blending into the crowd like he had in New York. Like he always did.

The thrift store was exactly what he expected—cramped, vaguely musty, and stuffed with racks of secondhand clothes that smelled like laundry detergent and bad decisions.

Peter wasn’t picky. He just needed a few basics—shirts, jeans, maybe a hoodie or two. Something that didn’t look like he’d rolled out of a dumpster.

He was sifting through a pile of hoodies when Karen chimed in.

“Based on your current budget, purchasing secondhand clothing is the most efficient option.”

Peter snorted. “Wow, thanks. I totally wasn’t already doing that.”

“Your sarcasm is noted.”

Peter picked out a few shirts and jeans, holding them up. “Alright, what’s the verdict? Do I look fashionable? ”

“No.”

“Wow. Brutal.”

“Would you like a dishonest answer?”

Peter sighed, and help up a pair of jeans. “What about this?”

“They will cover your legs.”

“…Incredible insight. Really. Groundbreaking.”

“Would you prefer a dishonest response?”

Peter rolled his eyes, shoving the jeans into his basket. “You really need to work on your social skills.”

“Noted.”

Peter sighed, shoving the shirt into his basket.

At least someone was having fun. 

Rolling his eyes, he grabbed a few more things and headed for the checkout.

By the time he left the store, he had a decent haul—jeans, hoodies, shirts, sneakers. At least he wouldn’t look completely homeless now.

Small victories.

Step one: get clothes. Done.

Now he just needed shampoo—

And then—

Prickle.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

His Spidey-sense wasn’t screaming danger, but it was whispering something else.

Watching. Watching.

He was being followed.

He knew it.

His Spidey-sense never lied.

Peter’s shoulders stayed loose, but his pulse quickened. Someone was tailing him.

And whoever it was? They knew what they were doing.

He made it about two blocks before three guys stepped out in front of him.

Peter frowned as he glanced them over. This wasn’t the person. No way. 

“Alright, kid,” the tallest one sneered, cracking his knuckles. “Hand over the bag.”

Peter sighed. “Really? In broad daylight?”

The guy smirked. “Don’t see nobody stoppin’ us.”

Peter tensed, already calculating—

“Wow. Really? You guys are so original.”

The new voice was bright, amused—like someone commenting on a slightly inconvenient coffee order, not a mugging.

Peter turned his head—

And immediately wished he hadn’t.

Leaning against a wall, arms crossed and grinning like he’d seen this movie before , was Dick Grayson.

So, this was the person that was tailing him.

Bruce Wayne’s first kid. Gotham’s golden boy. Socialite. Former circus kid.

But that wasn’t the part that made Peter’s instincts tighten.

It was the way Dick moved .

Loose and relaxed on the surface, but underneath? Controlled. Effortless. Like a guy who knew exactly what he was doing.

Like a guy who had been trained.

Peter’s Spidey-sense was still humming. Not in warning. But in awareness.

Definitely not just a regular civilian.

The muggers hesitated, shifting on their feet.

With a muttered curse, they backed off.

Just like that.

Peter exhaled, brain scrambling. Huh. Shouldn’t they be trying to mug a rich guy too? 

Dick pushed off the wall and strolled over like they were old friends. “You okay, kid?”

Peter frowned. His Spidey-sense was still whispering. Warning him.

“…Yeah,” he said carefully. “Thanks for the assist.”

Dick tilted his head, studying him. Peter could see the way his gaze lingered, how his stance stayed loose but ready.

He wasn’t just talking. He was assessing.

Analasying. 

Peter knew that look. He’d seen it on cops, agents, heroes. The casual, easygoing mask over something sharper.

It hit him all at once.

Dick Grayson is a vigilante.

Not Robin, though. He was too old to be the one Peter had heard about. Someone else, then.

Peter felt something cold settle in his gut.

Because if Dick had been following him—

That meant he was suspicious.

First Tim and now, Dick. Oh joy.

It was all the bat family was after him.  

And to make it worse, Peter had no idea why .

Dick clapped him on the shoulder like they’d known each other for years . “No problem! Not that you needed me. You had that whole ‘I could take them if I really wanted to’ vibe going on.”

Peter blinked, forcing an answer, hoping it sounds casual. “I—what?”

Dick just grinned. “Anyway. What’s your name?”

Peter hesitated.

He knew this was a test. But not answering would make him look more suspicious.

“…Peter,” he said finally. “Peter Parker.”

Dick blinked—quick, barely there—but Peter caught it . A flicker of something behind that easygoing smile.

And then, just as fast, it was gone.

Peter didn’t like it.

“Nice! I’m Dick. Dick Grayson.” He stuck out a hand.

Peter shook it, his brain spinning.

Dick studied him for a beat, head tilting just slightly. Assessing.

“So, Pete—can I call you Pete?”

“No.”

“Awesome. So, Pete—”

Peter groaned. “I said no.”

“Yeah, but I ignored it.”

Peter shot him a flat look. “Do you do this with everyone you meet?”

“Absolutely,” Dick said cheerfully. “Annoying people into friendship is my thing .”

Peter snorted. “Good to know. I’ll be extra careful.”

Dick gasped dramatically. “Oh my God , rude. You wound me.”

Peter smirked. “You’ll live.”

Dick grinned but didn’t let up. “So, Pete—”

Peter sighed. Oh my God.

“—what’s a kid like you doing in Gotham?”

Peter shrugged. “I live here.”

Dick’s smile didn’t budge. “Yeah? You don’t sound like you’re from Gotham.”

Peter fought the urge to squint. “Didn’t realise there was an accent test.”

“Oh, there totally is,” Dick said, grinning. “Gothamites sound like they’re one bad day away from a crime spree. You? You sound like you still have hope.”

Peter almost laughed. Almost.

Instead, he smirked. “Guess I’m adapting.”

Dick hummed, like he was tucking that away for later.

“So, Pete—sorry, Peter—how old are you?”

Peter shot him a look. “Why? You thinking of buying me a birthday present?”

Dick gasped. “Oh man, I totally should! When is it? What do you want? A pony? A grappling hook? Batman pyjamas?”

Peter huffed. “Hard pass.”

“Wow. No fun.” Dick shook his head in mock disappointment. “So, do you live around here?”

Peter narrowed his eyes slightly. “What, you writing a book?”

Dick threw his hands up. “Fine, fine, I get it . You don’t wanna tell a totally charming stranger your entire life story.”

“Shocking, right?”

Dick laughed. “Hey, some people do! You’d be surprised how much people spill when you just smile at ‘em.”

Peter snorted. “Yeah, I bet.”

Dick grinned but still didn’t drop it. “So, who do you live with? Parents? Siblings?”

Peter’s expression didn’t change. “Why? Looking to adopt?”

Dick pressed a hand to his chest. “Aw, Pete, if you wanted me to be your big bro, you could’ve just asked .”

Peter huffed. “Yeah, that’s not happening.”

Dick sighed dramatically. “Harsh. But okay, fine. You like your mystery .”

Peter gave a mock gasp. “Wow, you get it? I feel so honored.”

Dick chuckled. “Alright, alright, I’ll back off… for now .”

Peter just smiled. They both knew what just happened.

Dick had been trying to dig .

Peter had shut him down.

And now? Dick knew Peter had noticed .

Still, instead of getting frustrated, Dick just ruffled his hair.

…What?

Peter immediately swatted his hand away. “What the hell ?”

Dick grinned. “Big brother instinct.”

“You are not my big brother.”

“Not yet.”

Peter froze.

Wait. What?

He stared at Dick, suddenly very aware of the way the guy was looking at him. Like he knew something .

Like he was already fitting Peter into some category in his head.

Peter forced a casual laugh. “Not yet ?”

Dick winked. “Hey, you never know.”

Peter didn’t like that answer.

Did Dick know something? Was this just him being weird? Or was Peter actually about to have Bruce Wayne’s first kid force big-brother him? 

No. No way.

Peter huffed. “I need to go.”

“Aww, already?”

“Yeah, stranger danger and all that.”

Dick put a hand over his heart. “Pete, I’m wounded .”

“You’ll live.”

“Probably. But if you don’t wanna be a statistic, maybe don’t walk around alone looking all muggable , yeah?”

Peter rolled his eyes but—okay, yeah, that was good advice.

“Noted,” he said.

Dick winked. “Good. Stay outta trouble, Pete.”

“No promises.”

Dick chuckled. “Knew I liked you.”

Peter huffed and turned away, heart still pounding .

His Spidey-sense had settled, but his nerves hadn’t.

Because that?

That wasn’t just a casual meeting.

That was a test. Probably. 

And the way Dick had been watching him? Measuring him?

Peter had no idea if he passed or failed.

But he did know one thing—

Dick Grayson was going to be a problem.

Shaking his head, Peter turned toward the store.

He still needed shampoo.

The bell jingled as he stepped inside. It was a small place, mostly empty except for the cashier and a guy near the back.

He had only meant to grab a few things—shampoo, soap, toothpaste, maybe some snacks.

But of course, because it was his life, things had to go sideways.

Peter had just grabbed a basket when the door banged open behind him.

Three guys. Masks. Guns.

Oh, come on. Again?

The lead guy waved his gun, barking out orders. “Alright, everyone, hands where I can see ‘em! Cashier, empty the register!”

Peter clenched his jaw.

He could play civilian. He should play civilian.

Just stand still. Let it happen. No heroics.

Except… yeah. That wasn’t happening.

He was Peter Parker. Hero complex included.

His eyes flicked around the store. Just him, the owner, and these three guys. No security cameras. No one was outside.

Peter hesitated. 

He could take them.

No super-strength. No webs. Just skills.

No one would know. 

Peter exhaled.

Showtime.

The guy nearest to him barely had time to react before Peter moved.

He stepped forward, grabbing the man’s wrist and twisting. The gun clattered to the floor. Before the guy could yell, Peter swept his leg out, sending him crashing down.

The second guy turned, startled—Peter lunged, slamming an elbow into his gut before grabbing the back of his shirt and shoving him into a shelf.

The third guy raised his gun—too slow. Peter knocked it aside, twisting his arm back until the guy yelled and dropped it.

And just like that, it was over.

The store owner just stared.

Peter stared back.

“…So,” he said, dusting off his hoodie. “Uh. You good?”

The owner blinked, then burst out laughing. “Kid, ya got guts. ”

Peter grinned. “Eh. I’ve been told that before.”

The guy rubbed his chin, looking him up and down, thoughtful. “Do ya need a job?”

Peter blinked. “Wait. What? ”

“Ya just saved my store. Least I can do is offer ya work.”

Peter hesitated. He did need money. And it wasn’t like he had other offers lined up.

Karen hummed in his ear. “Accepting may be beneficial to your financial stability.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I got it.”

He turned back to the owner. “Alright. You got yourself an employee.”

The guy grinned. “Great. I am Dave. Ya can start tomorrow.”

Peter exhaled, smiling. That was one thing done.

Chapter Text

Dick leaned back in his chair, arms stretched out behind his head, letting the hum of the Clocktower’s machinery fill the silence. The city lights outside flickered, but his thoughts were far from the view.

It was on the kid.

Peter Bruce Parker.

One conversation. That was all it took. That was all it ever took.

Jason. Tim. Cass. Even Damian. The moment he saw them, something inside him had clicked into place. A responsibility, a pull.

And now Peter.

That damn kid. Sharp as hell, quicker than most, mouthy but not in an obnoxious way—no, in a way that made it fun. Made it feel like a game. Like they were tossing a ball back and forth, matching each other’s energy.

And worse?

Dick already liked him.

Which was stupid.

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair.

Attachment is a liability.

Bruce’s words. His old training. The thing drilled into him since he was Robin. Keep your emotions separate. Don’t get too close until you know. But here he was, already getting that stupid protective feeling in his gut.

Peter wasn’t looking for help. He wasn’t even looking for trouble.

He was just lost.

And God help him , Dick had never been able to ignore that. 

Damn it, the kid was already setting off every brotherly instinct he had.

A snort pulled him from his thoughts.

“You look like you just got hit by a truck,” Barbara commented without looking up from her monitor, her fingers still moving fluidly over the keyboard.

Dick blinked, momentarily snapping out of his thoughts. “Thanks for the support, Babs. Really uplifting.”

She didn’t miss a beat. “You’re welcome.Now spill. What’s eating you?”

He hesitated, then leaned forward, lowering his voice. “I met the kid.”

That got her attention. Her fingers stilled. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” He propped his chin in his hand, lips twitching into a grin. “Peter Bruce Parker. Ran into him during a mugging.”

Barbara arched her brow. “Ran into ? Or did you just happen to be in the same exact place at the same exact time?”

Dick gasped, mock-offended. “Babs, I am hurt. Wounded, even.”

She gave him a look.

“…Okay, fine, I maybe followed him a little.”

She snorted. “That’s what I thought. So? What’s your verdict, Boy Wonder?”

Dick’s grin faded slightly. “Didn’t need me.” He tapped his fingers against the desk. “The kid already had it handled. I was about to step in, but he was already calculating. Calm, fast, efficient.”

Barbara raised an eyebrow. "Trained?"

"Oh, definitely," Dick said, tapping his fingers on the desk. "But not in the usual ways. Not League training. Not military or police work. He handled himself like someone used to situations like that—like he’s been there before. Calm. Cool. Calculated."

The kind that comes from surviving .

The more Dick thought about it, the more unsettling it was. Peter had experience —real experience. The kind that couldn't be taught in a gym or a dojo. The kind that only came from living through it.

And yet, when Dick had been watching him—first in the thrift shop, then on the street—there had been something else, too. A tension. A guardedness. He didn't flinch or panic, but he was aware. Too aware. The way his eyes had flicked toward exits, the way he had scanned the crowd. Normal kids don’t do that.

Hell, most people don’t do that.

The worst thing, more than that was, Peter doesn't even seemed to realize what he was doing.

Like it was normal, and that, pained Dick. 

Barbara smirked, unknownst to Dick’s inner turmoil, rubbing her chin thoughtfully. “A mystery wrapped in an enigma.”

"Exactly." Dick leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "And get this—he knew I was watching him the second I stepped in. Clocked me immediately. Didn’t flinch, didn’t look over his shoulder. He acted like he didn’t care, but I could tell he knew."

Peter had tensed. His mask had cracked for just a moment. His eyes had darted around before settling again, his face smoothing over like it had never happened. It was fast, but Dick had caught it. 

Barbara tapped a finger against her chin. “You know who that sounds like?”

Dick exhaled. “Yeah.”

Bruce.

Barbara made a face. “That’s unsettling.”

Dick smirked. “I know that”

“Well, it’s double unsettling, then.”

Dick huffed out a laugh. “You’re telling me. It was like looking at a younger version of Bruce. The resemblance is already uncanny , but it’s more than that. The way he sees things, the way he calculates .” His voice dropped slightly. “The way he’s closed off.”

Barbara glanced at him. “So what, you think he’s another trained kid that has been taught to be the  long-lost heir to the Wayne throne?”

Dick drummed his fingers against the desk. “I don’t know. But I do know that if he’s Bruce’s, we need to find out, and tell B. Because if he is —” He exhaled. “We both know how Bruce gets when it comes to family.”

Barbara sighed. “Protective to the point of suffocation?”

“Bingo.”

A beat of silence.

Barbara snorted, her fingers pausing on the keyboard. “That’s… dark.”

“You think that’s dark? I'm waiting for the big reveal when B finds out. You know, waiting for him to swoop in and do his whole ‘I’m your father’ bit with the dramatic music in the background. It’ll be a mess.”

Barbara rolled her eyes. “I can already hear the orchestra swelling. But, honestly, Dick, he acts like Bruce .”

“Yeah, and the thing is…” Dick’s expression softened slightly, “he’s not that shut off like Bruce used to be. He’s… he’s still got some warmth. A little bit of humanity. You know what I mean?”

Barbara studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable, then spoke quielty. “…Do you think he knows ?”

Dick frowned. “Who, Bruce?”

“No.” She turned back to the monitor, eyes scanning rapidly. “ Peter.”

Dick paused.

…That was the question, wasn’t it?

Peter hadn’t reacted when he mentioned his older brother instincts. No flinch, no guarded expression, no anger. Just… confusion. Genuine, blank confusion. Like the idea of someone looking out for him was completely foreign.

Like he didn’t even realize he resembled Bruce at all.

Dick swallowed, the weight in his chest settling deeper.

“No,” he muttered. “I don’t think he does.”

Barbara exhaled through her nose. “That’s… interesting .”

Dick’s jaw clenched.

Yeah. No kidding.

Dick stared at the skyline, his mind racing.

“Whatever happens, I  think Peter’s gonna fit right in, whether he wants to or not.”

Barbara’s lips twitched into a knowing smirk. “Poor Peter.”

Dick chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeah. Poor Peter.”

Barbara turned back to her monitor and resumed typing, but not before adding, “Well, back to the problem, if he’s really Bruce’s, we’ve got a problem.”

Dick frowned. “What kind of problem?”

She glanced up. “We don’t know where he’s living. If he’s not in an apartment, he’s either couch surfing or in a shelter.”

Dick shook his head. “No way he’s couch surfing. That’s not his vibe.”

Barbara raised an eyebrow. “And you know this because…?”

“Because he’s smart, Babs,” Dick said, his voice softening. “I could tell. He’s not relying on anyone here. At least, not anyone I can see, but he had things figured out. He had clean clothes, and he was buying things.”

Barbara was quiet for a moment before nodding, turning back to her computer. “Okay. Then we find out where he’s staying.”

Dick let out a long breath, his shoulders slumping. “Yeah. We do.”

It wasn’t just about protecting some kid who might be related to Bruce anymore. It wasn’t even about the mystery anymore. It was about him. Peter. And the fact that Dick had seen something familiar in him—something that told him that if they left him alone, he’d slip through the cracks, just like so many others had.

The clocktower was quiet, save for the hum of monitors and the occasional distant siren from the streets below. Then—

A chime from the elevator broke the moment.

The doors slid open, revealing a sleep-deprived wreck of a human being.

Tim Drake stepped in, looking like death warmed over. His mask, and suit was rumpled, his hair was a mess, and the dark circles under his eyes were impressive, even by Batfamily standards.

Barbara smirked. “Long night?”

Tim collapsed into a chair and made an inhuman noise.. “Is there such a thing as a short one?”

Dick huffed a laugh, but his amusement faded the moment he really looked at Tim.

The way his shoulders were slumped. The way he blinked a little too long between words. The way his fingers hovered just above the keyboard like his brain was buffering.

Tim was running on fumes. Again.

Before Dick could say anything, Tim’s gaze flicked to the screen—and froze.

“…Okay,” Tim said slowly, his tone sharpening. “So we’re just casually investigating him now?”

Barbara didn’t even blink. “You know him?”

Tim nodded, before his gaze shifted from the file to Dick, brows furrowing. “You met him too?”

Dick leaned back, tilting his chair just enough to balance on two legs. “I did. Couldn’t help myself. He’s interesting.”

Tim rolled his eyes, dragging a hand down his face. “You two are so bad at being subtle.”

“We’re professionals,” Dick teased.

Tim huffed. “Yeah, sure.” His lips quivered slightly, but the exhaustion in his posture didn’t fade.

Then, he turned back to the screen, his fingers flying over the keyboard as he pulled up additional files. His face was unreadable, but Dick had spent enough years with him to know when Tim was thinking too fast for his own good.

Finally, Tim sat back with a sigh. “For the record, I also talked to him.”

Barbara rolled her eyes. “We know, Red. Details?”

Tim’s expression tightened. “…Yeah. Went into a coffee shop, the day before last. Something felt off. Saw a random kid that looked like Bruce,” His fingers flew over the keyboard. “Saw the way he clocked every exit, assessed every person—including me—the second he walked in. We had a pretty interesting conversation” He gestured vaguely. “So I started digging, and coincidentally found out that his middle name is Bruce too.”

Dick raised an eyebrow. “And you didn’t tell us because…?”

Tim shot him a tired glare. “Because I thought I was hallucinating a mini-Bruce after not sleeping for three days.”

Dick opened his mouth, then closed it.

“…I–”

Tim cut him off, “Exactly.”

Barbara crossed her arms, turning her wheelchair, so she can face them. “Well, now that we all know about him, we keep this between us. No one else should know until we have concrete proof. Not Bruce. Not the others.”

Dick frowned slightly. “Even if he is Bruce’s son?”

Barbara exhaled. “I mean, whether or not he’s Bruce’s son or a clone or just some kid who got in over his head, it doesn’t matter anymore. We’re already invested.”

Silence. That was true. It was already too late. 

Then—

“…Great,” Tim muttered, rubbing his temple. “Another one.”

Dick grinned, “Yup.”

Tim let out a tired groan, tilting his head back against the chair. “God. We collect traumatised teenagers like stray cats.”

Barbara smirked. “You say that like you aren’t one of them.”

Dick snorted. 

Tim exhaled. “Fine. But if we’re doing this, we need DNA. Proof.”

Barbara groaned. “Messy.”

Dick smirked. “When is it not ?”

Tim sighed again, rubbing his eyes. “Okay, so, stalk him until he trusts us enough, so we can get the DNA, and keep an eye on him?”

Dick clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You say that like we don’t do it all the time.”

Tim groaned. “This family is so messed up.”

Barbara smirked. “Welcome to the Batfamily.”

Dick, however, noticed the way Tim’s eyes were drooping slightly.

“Alright,” he said abruptly, straightening. “That’s enough for tonight.”

Tim blinked at him. “Huh?”

Dick gestured to him. “You need sleep.”

Tim scoffed. “I’m fine.”

“You look fine,” Dick said dryly. “In a just-crawled-out-of-the-grave kind of way.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “I function on minimal sleep all the time .”

Dick leveled him with a flat look. “Yeah, and we’ve all seen how well that works out for you.” He grabbed Tim’s chair and started rolling it away from the desk . “Bed. Now.”

Tim’s hands gripped the armrests. “Dick—”

“Bed.”

Barbara didn’t even try to hide her laughter as she watched.

Tim groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I hate you.”

Dick smirked, steering the chair toward the elevator. “No, you don’t. You love me. I’m your favorite brother.”

Tim crossed his arms. “That’s literally not true.”

Dick just grinned wider. “It’s absolutely true.”

Barbara shook her head. “Have fun, Tim.”

Tim muttered something about betrayal as Dick pushed him into the elevator.

And just before the doors closed, Dick glanced back at the monitor one last time.

Peter was alone now.

But not for long.

Not if he had anything to say about it.

Chapter Text

Living in Gotham was a different kind of survival.

Not the kind Peter Parker was used to—the swinging-across-skyscrapers, punching-out-bad-guys-before-dinner kind of survival. No, this was slower. Quieter. The kind that hollowed you out one mundane moment at a time while pretending everything was fine. A survival built on routines. On scraped-together meals, patched clothes, and exhaustion disguised as composure.

But for the first time in what felt like forever, Peter was stable.

He had a job—if it could even be called that. A corner store nestled between a pawn shop and a laundromat. Dave, the owner, didn’t ask questions. He paid thirty-five dollars a night for six hours of work. That meant food. A warm can of soup. New socks. Sometimes even quiet.

Peter had shelter. A half-collapsed apartment on the edge of Park Row. Four walls, give or take. A mattress that only mildly smelled of mildew. A window that caught slivers of moonlight if the sky was clear.

And now, finally, he had a laptop. Barely functional, wheezing like a smoker with every boot-up, but it ran. Karen was gradually patching herself together, her systems humming faintly again.

It wasn’t much.

But it was stable .

Scratched-up, duct-taped-together stability.

And Peter would take it.

He was even starting to believe it. That he was settling into Gotham. Getting the hang of it.

Until the library.

It was supposed to be a simple trip. Just research. Karen had prompted him gently the night before.

“You will need to pursue formal education if you intend to access scientific resources or obtain long-term income,” she had said, calm and logical.

Peter had groaned, half-joking. “Didn’t I already pass high school? Like, twice?”

As much as Peter had tried to brush it off, she was right. Dave had asked him just yesterday where he went to school. Peter had muttered, “Online,” and nearly choked when Dave narrowed his eyes.

So here he was, hunched over his laptop at the Gotham Public Library, a lukewarm coffee beside him. Light filtered through stained glass windows too gently for a city like this. The smell of old paper and floor polish made him feel almost like a student again.

Karen’s voice buzzed softly in his ear. “Searching for suitable schools. Prioritising access to labs, scholarship availability, and tuition affordability.”

Peter nodded absently. “Aim for ‘genius kid trying to make rent’ tier.”

Moments later, a name blinked onto the screen.

Gotham Academy.

He scrolled, his interest piqued. A school for Gotham’s elite—but scholarships were available, and the requirements seemed achievable. Science labs. Academic excellence. Scholarships. A weekly stipend of $150 for qualifying students.

That was more than what Dave paid him. Enough to live. Maybe even save. Maybe even pay back what he owed.

Then his mouse hovered over the school’s sponsorship page.

Funded by the Wayne Foundation.

And there it was.

Bruce Wayne.

A man in a dark suit, smiling like everything was fine. Sculpted features. Cold blue eyes. The public’s golden billionaire. Gotham’s prince. Gotham’s Dark Knight. 

Peter stared at the photo.

And frowned.

There was something about it. That he didn’t know. Bruce’s face was familiar, but he didn't know how. Something that caught on the edge of memory and refused to let go. And it wasn’t just the face—it was also the way he carried himself. If Peter didn’t know the truth, that Bruce Waye was Batman, he might have believed the Brucie Wayne persona like everyone else.

But he did know.

He knew who Bruce really was. And knowing that made the image different.

Controlled. Deliberate. A smile that didn’t quite reach the eyes. A performance.

Peter shuddered.

Because he’d seen that kind of smile before.

Tony.

Tony, who smiled through exhaustion. Who cracked jokes to keep everyone else afloat. Who always carried the world on his shoulders and insisted he was fine.

Tony Stark.

The breath caught in Peter’s throat.

Tony, who told him he was more than a suit.

Tony, who died holding his hand.

Peter blinked.

Swallowed .

Tried to focus.

But his hands were shaking.

“Karen,” he whispered. “I think—”

His lungs tightened. No air. His chest seized.

The grief hit like a truck. Sudden. Brutal. Unrelenting.

He hadn’t let himself cry. Not since he got here. Not since he woke up in a world that didn’t know Spider-Man. A world that didn’t know him.

He’d bottled it up. Duct-taped the feelings down. Kept walking.

Now, the bottle cracked wide open.

The chair screeched as he shoved back.

He stumbled. Fell. Or did he? 

Heart hammering.

The library buzzed around him—clicking keys, turning pages—but to Peter it sounded like thunder.

“Peter,” Karen’s voice cut in, sharp. “You are experiencing a panic attack. Begin regulating your breathing. Inhale. Exhale—”

He curled in on himself. Hands clutching his hoodie. Eyes squeezed shut.

“I can’t—I can’t—he’s gone—I saw him—He saw me die—”

A hand landed on his shoulder. Warm. Steady.

“Peter.”

Barbara Gordon.

Her voice was firm, grounding.

He flinched, but didn’t pull away.

“Breathe with me,” she said. “In and out. Just like that. You’re okay.”

Peter’s breath caught again. A sob escaped before he could stop it.

Everything spilled out.

The months of survival.

The fear.

The loss.

The guilt.

“I’m not supposed to be here,” he gasped. “I don’t belong here. I’m supposed to be—back home. With him. With them.”

Barbara stayed beside him. Unmoving. Calm.

“You’re safe,” she murmured. “You’re not alone.”

It took time. Minutes that stretched like hours.

But slowly, his breathing steadied. The tremors eased. His fingers uncurled.

He opened his eyes, red-rimmed and damp. Barbara handed him a tissue. No judgment. No pity.

“I’m sorry, Miss Barbara,” Peter mumbled, “I didn’t mean to make a scene.”

“You didn’t make a scene,” she said. “And even if you did—some things deserve to be seen.”

She glanced at the laptop still open on the desk. Gotham Academy’s homepage still blinked on-screen.

“You were looking into the Academy?”

Peter nodded. “Trying to figure things out.”

Barbara smiled softly. “I think you’d be good there. You’re smart. You’re resilient. And if you want help with the application… I might know a few people.”

Peter hesitated, This was Gotham. “Why?”

“Because you remind me of someone,” she said. “Someone who thought they had to carry everything alone.”

She didn’t wait for a reply. Just stood and walked away, calm and steady.

Peter watched her go.

“Karen,” he whispered. “Are you still there?”

Her voice was gentle. “Always.”

The cursor blinked on the screen.

Peter inhaled, trying to steady himself, then nodded. “Okay, let’s do this.”

The application wasn’t hard. If his hands weren’t shaking, it would’ve taken less than ten minutes. It was a glorified Google Form: name, age, contact info, ID, education history.

He filled it out slowly.

Name: Peter Bruce Parker
Age: 16
Email: [email protected]
Phone: (355) 242-9225
Address: 224 Mountain Drive, Park Row

The education and reference section gave him pause. But Karen guided him through, generating enough credible entries to satisfy the requirements.

Satisfied, Peter hit submit.

The screen flickered, then loaded a new tab: How to Proceed.

“The academic year has started, but worry not—Gotham Academy is accepting applicants for the upcoming semester!”

Peter’s eyes scanned the page. “Next semester?”

“Yes, Peter,” Karen said, Peter’s bracelet lighting up blue in response. “The next semester begins in a few weeks.”

“Thanks, Karen.”

He replied absent-mindley, as he kept reading. The acceptance exam would take place over five scheduled dates, of which the applicants can choose which one to write. The applicants would be tested in mathematics, science, humanities, and English. People who passed received scholarships—and the top three students could earn up to $200 a week in stipends.

He needed that exam. 

Needed the money.

Needed to pass it. Quickly .

He looked at the soonest available slot: Monday, August 21st, 2012. 4–6 PM .

Peter’s eyes flickered towards the date. 

Friday. August 18th.

Two days.

More than enough.

He clicked to reserve the time.

A small victory.

He closed the laptop, leaned back, and rolled his shoulders. The tension hadn’t fully left, but the breath he exhaled wasn’t nearly as shaky.

He was going to be okay.

He was trying.

And for now… that was enough.

His Spidey Sense flared—faint, but persistent. Like a whisper brushing the back of his neck. Someone was watching him, and he knew them.

Peter opened his eyes, scanning the library without moving his head. And then he saw him—walking toward him with practiced ease, coffee in hand, a hoodie zipped up despite the warmth.

Tim Drake.

Peter groaned inwardly. Can’t he just have one day?

“Hey, Peter?” Tim called out, voice just a touch too casual.

He slid into the seat across from Peter without waiting for a response. His tone sounded uncertain, like he was trying to make sure it was Peter, and not someone else. To anyone else, it might have sounded like that but Peter’s senses picked up the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. It wasn’t fast. No. It was calm. Confident.

He knew this was Peter.

Tim Drake already knew Peter was here. In the library.

The question was how?

Tim Drake’s plan was simple: walk into the library, play casual, grab the DNA, and leave.

Simple. Clean. Efficient. Like every other covert op Tim had ever run—only this time, the target was a teenager with a caffeine habit and an uncanny resemblance to his adopted father.

Barbara had texted: Lil B's at the library. Look alive.

"Lil B." As if that nickname wasn't already seared into his brain from the moment Dick coined it with a laugh and a very pointed look. And maybe Tim had rolled his eyes then. Maybe he still did now. But he wasn’t above admitting he was curious. Because Peter Bruce Parker? He wasn’t just some lost kid scraping by in Gotham. He was smart. Scrappy. And he looked way too much like a young Bruce Wayne to be coincidence.

And now, as Tim slipped into the library and spotted Peter exactly where Barbara said he’d be—laptop open, coffee in hand, slouched back like he owned the chair—Tim felt something unfamiliar tighten in his chest.

Not suspicion.

Not even duty.

It was interest.

Because Peter looked calm, almost annoyingly chill, like he hadn’t just had a breakdown twenty minutes ago. Like he hadn’t stared at Bruce Wayne’s photo and nearly cracked in two. Tim had reviewed the security footage already. The tremble in Peter’s hands. The way Barbara had coaxed him back like she knew exactly what that kind of grief felt like.

That alone told Tim more than any background check.

So yeah. Maybe this mission wasn’t going to be as simple as lifting a cup and leaving.

Maybe Tim kind of wanted to talk to him.

Maybe.

"Hey, Peter?" Tim asked, sliding into the seat across from him.

Peter didn’t even flinch. Just gave him a deadpan look and asked, “You always haunt libraries like a teenage cryptid, or is today special?”

Okay. Wow.

Tim sipped his coffee, trying not to smirk. “Only on Fridays. It’s part of my brand. That, and looking like I haven’t slept in a week.”

“Oh cool, I thought that was just Gotham’s default skincare routine.”

God, this— Kid? Teeanger?

Tim snorted. “You catching on fast.”

Peter mock-saluted. “I adapt. Like mold.”

That made Tim laugh—actually laugh. Not the polite chuckle he gave at galas. Not the forced smile during Wayne Foundation events. Just a real, startled sound.

Tim relaxed before he could remind himself not to. And maybe that was the first red flag. Because it was too easy to fall into rhythm with Peter. Too easy to let the mask slip, just a bit. Tim wasn’t used to easy . Not with normal teenagers his age. He didn’t do normal things. Hell, he wasn’t normal. Not when he was a trained teenager, who also happened to be Red freaking Robin. 

The people he did actually talk to were Duke or Steph, and even that had its moments. 

Tim glanced at Peter’s laptop. Camera software pulled up. Multiple tabs open. Exposure charts, editing tools, an old-school photography blog.

Tim internally smirked, finally something he can actually talk about. 

“You and photography. That a hobby or a calling?”

Peter shrugged, eyes flicking from the screen to Tim. "Bit of both. Started off sneaking shots at school games. Eventually moved on to rooftop skyline stuff."

Tim’s lips twitched. “Rooftops, huh?”

"Best views in the city," Peter said. "And the least people."

Tim smirked. "And the best places to brood dramatically."

“Guilty.”

They shared a grin.

Tim snorted again but then paused. 

His eyes drifted over Peter’s shoulder where, plastered on the pillar near the check-out desk, was a bright blue GCPD-sponsored Batman safety awareness poster. It was grainy and overly saturated, but it had The Bat himself front and center—cape flared, cowl sharp, the usual 'hero of the shadows' vibe.

Bruce broods on rooftops too, didn’t he?

Peter followed his line of sight and groaned. “Okay, like I get the whole bat vibe, but...who designed that suit?”

Tim blinked. “What?”

“I mean, sure. It’s intimidating. Shadows and capes and pointy ears. But functionally? If that was to work? That utility belt looks like a chiropractor’s nightmare.”

Tim coughed. Tried not to choke on his coffee.

He wasn’t expecting that. 

Was Peter not a Batman fan?

 “...You’re seriously critiquing Batman’s costume right now?”

Peter shrugged. “Hey, if you’re gonna be the poster boy for vigilantes, at least pad the shoulder armor. Guy moves like he’s trying not to dislocate a lung.”

Tim leaned in, grin slowly spreading. 

He needed to tell Dick this. 

Bruce’s own most likely son was criticising Batman’s look. 

Peter kept going, completely unbothered. "And the gauntlets? Way too bulky. He's supposed to be stealthy, not punching holes in walls."

"He does punch holes in walls," Tim muttered.

Peter leaned back. "Yeah, and I bet his shoulder sockets hate him for it."

“You do realise you’re nerding out over a vigilante’s cosplay right now?”

Peter shrugged. "Design is design. Don't even get me started on the grappling hook bulk."

Tim mock-gasped. "Blasphemy."

"Gotham’s finest deserves better ergonomics."

It shouldn’t have been this fun. But it was. They were bickering like they’d known each other for years, bouncing sarcasm back and forth like tennis pros.

But again, what does Peter know about this suit, and the vigilante struggles?

“Okay. Fine. What would your vigilante costume look like then, O Fashionable Shadow Knight?”

Peter blinked, thrown off. “Huh. I mean, I’ve… thought about it. But probably something flexible. Lightweight. Breathable. With reinforced stitching in the joints, maybe segmented armor plates so you don’t sacrifice mobility.”

Tim blinked. That was… really specific. Surprisingly practical. Scarily tactical.

It wasn’t just theory. It was experience .

Peter had, most probably, worn a suit before, and fought in it. Maybe not here. But somewhere.

Tim filed that away, for later, before he looked at the poster again. 

It was a sketch of Batman, based on what the civilians saw him wearing, and what the artist thought. No one actually had a picture taken of the bats, that weren’t blurry. Best example shown by the Gotham Gazette. Bruce had a strict rule about pictures posted online because of safety measures. And it’s not like photographers can sneak up to them anyways. The sketch was, in Tim’s perspective, mostly accurate, but the gadgets that Batman was shown using were heavily exaggerated. Tim can’t really blame the artist for that. 

Anyways, back to the topic, if Tim were to speak logically, Peter had to work the structure of the suit based on the predictions given in the poster, analyse which one of the structures Batman would actually use to patrol, and then figure out what the problems of the suit were. 

And Peter did all of that in a span of 10-ish minutes. 

Peter’s voice dropped just slightly. “...And definitely improve the mask. I mean, it looks good. Cool. Give him the ‘I’m-the-dark-knight’ look. But I want to add more to it. Like adaptive lenses, you know. Auto-focus. HUD interface. Unless he has them, which makes sense, cause well, he is the OG Bat..”

Peter kept on babbling, and Tim stared at him. Okay. I see you very well. Peter.

This wasn’t just smart. This was field-level design knowledge. Tactical. Purposeful.

And Tim? Tim was seriously impressed .  

There was no doubt. This really is Bruce’s kid. 

Peter’s eyes met his. “What?”

Tim smiled faintly, and answered honestly. “Nothing. Just impressed. Most people say 'I'd wear black because it looks cool.'”

Peter shrugged. “Black is great until you're crawling through vents and someone spots your soles."

Tim huffed a laugh. "You’ve put way too much thought into this."

Peter grinned. "You asked."

And Tim—genuinely, unexpectedly—enjoyed it.

This wasn't an intel gathering.

This was talking. Bonding.

They sat in silence for a moment. 

Is Peter even bothered covering the fact he is trained? 

Tim internally chuckled. 

Bruce would have his hands full telling Peter to act more ‘civilian’. But then again, Peter has a mask. A very good one. He remembered looking at the footage of Peter and Dick’s conversation in the street, through the camera that was probably broken. Dick had sat with him, talking about how Peter’s mask cracked for a fraction of a second, when they were talking. He never admitted it, but it took him five tries to find out when the mask slipped. That’s how good it was. 

Tim glanced at Peter, who was humming…was that elevator music?  

Truth to be told, he had no idea if this was Peter being himself, or just a mask of his. Tim hoped it was the second. But on the other hand, Peter had shown his knowledge of engineering, and his interest in photography to Tim. 

If Peter wanted to hide himself, he wouldn’t have done that. 

He wanted Tim to know. 

Besides, Tim and Peter were going to be family anyways. 

And then Peter asked, cutting the not-awkward-just-thoughtful-silence, “You ever wonder what kind of vigilante you’d be? Like, if you didn’t have to follow someone else’s rules?”

Tim blinked at him. The question landed with a thud in his chest.

‘ not follow someone else’s rules?’

Was Peter referring to Bruce/Batman? Was this…a hint? A threat? Or simply just a coincidence?

Tim wouldn’t be surprised if Peter knew the identity of the Bats. Peter had the brains to figure out that. And they were not exactly subtle in stalking him. 

Dick had made that convo with Peter super suspicious, and hella awkward. With the big-brother talk. Even Tim, and their conversation at the cafe, it was so obvious that he was staring at Peter, and Peter had clocked both of them. The only person that actually didn’t voice any obvious suspicious behaviour was Babs, but Peter still looked somehow uncomfortable next to her. 

“Tim?”

Tim shook his head, clearing his head, and looking at Peter.

“Sorry. Didn’t get enough sleep yesterday.”

Peter’s eyes flickered with understanding, “Makes sense. I was wondering why you have eyebags.”

Tim rubbed his eyes, surely the bags can’t be that bad. He had actually gotten 3 hours of sleep yesterday. Which was a lot in Tim’s book. 

“Anyways, back to your question, yes, I do, all the time.”

Peter gave a tiny smirk. “Same.”

Silence fell on them again, as Peter returned to typing something on his computer. Tim glanced down at the now-empty coffee cup sitting on the table. 

“You finished with the cup? Want me to throw it out with mine?” He asked, holding up his cup. 

“Uhh..sure, thanks Tim,” Peter replied, taking the cup and handing it to Tim. 

Mission: technically complete.

But as he looked at Peter again, hunched over his laptop, brows furrowed in focus, Tim realised something had shifted.

He didn’t just want the DNA test anymore.

He wanted to know Peter.

To understand him.

And maybe, just maybe, to be his friend.

Peter was funny. Sharp. Curious. And the kind of smart that didn’t need to flex. He moved like someone trained. Someone who'd lived through too much and didn’t let it show unless it cracked at the edges.

Tim understood that kind of survival.

Maybe a little too well.

He stood finally. “Alright. I should head out before my inbox turns into a war zone.”

Peter arched his brow. “From?”

"Steph, my sister," Tim said, stretching. "If I don’t reply to her texts in ten minutes, she’ll probably assume I'm dead and start planning my memorial."

Peter chuckled. “Sounds great. Can’t wait to meet her and instantly regret it.”

“You probably will,” Tim said, grinning.

He turned, giving a mock salute. “Catch you later, Costume Critic.”

Peter grinned, waving. “See you, Stalker.”

As Tim walked out, coat rustling, coffee cup safely secured, he felt something strange.

Lighter.

He got what he came for.

But more than that—

He got a friend.

And maybe Dick was right.

Peter didn’t just fit.

He belonged.

Chapter Text

It was snowing in the dream.

Not the dramatic kind of snow Peter used to joke about in New York—the apocalyptic, shut-down-the-subway blizzards—but soft, drifting flakes. The kind that fell in lazy spirals, catching in your hair and eyelashes. The cold wasn’t biting. It was gentle. Quiet. Clean.

He was little—five, maybe six. He didn’t remember the exact age, but he remembered the boots—too big. The coat—swallowing him whole. The scarf—wrapped around his neck so many times he could barely move his chin. His mittens were clipped to his sleeves, just like Aunt May used to do.

There was a woman walking ahead of him, her figure confident as she climbed a snowy hill.

When she turned, Peter’s breath caught.

Mom.

Not the blurry photograph. Not the ghost of a memory May sometimes tried to summon with old shoebox stories and secondhand smiles. This woman was real. Tangible. She was alive . Her cheeks were flushed pink, her long brown hair braided over her shoulder, and her eyes—

God, her eyes were warm.

The kind of eyes that made you believe everything would be okay—even if it wasn’t.

“Ma,” Peter’s voice piped up—smaller, more fragile than he remembered ever being. “It’s cold.”

His mother turned and smiled. That smile. That soft one, the kind that lived just on the edges of his memory. “Just a bit further, sweetheart.” 

Her hand closed around his. Big and steady, swallowing his little fingers in hers. They climbed the slope together, snow crunching beneath their boots.

At the top, there was another woman waiting.

She had long black hair and warm brown skin. Her coat fluttered in the breeze like a cape. Her face was calm—kind, even—but serious. There was weight in her posture, in the way she held herself like she knew things that Peter didn’t.

His mother greeted her like an old friend. They talked, voices muffled by the snow and distance. Peter tried to lean closer, to hear—

But the words were blurred. Like a movie out of focus.

Except at the end.

His mom knelt again, picking him up, and turning to the lady.

“Remember my promise…”

A name. Whispered.

Not his.

Not one he knew.

A name Peter didn’t know. 

A name that didn’t belong to him.

Then—

BZZZBZZZBZZZ.

The alarm shrieked.

Peter jerked upright, gasping like he’d been pulled out of the ocean mid-dive. His heart hammered in his chest, ragged and uneven, his breath sharp in his throat. Sweat clung to his back like a second shirt.

“Karen—?” His voice cracked. “You there?”

“I’m here,” her voice responded immediately, soft and steady. “You experienced increased heart rate, REM disruption, and audible distress. Nightmare logged at 4:52 A.M.”

“Great,” Peter groaned, slapping the alarm off. “Another dream sequence brought to you by trauma and unresolved mommy issues.”

He fell back onto his mattress—if it could be called that. It creaked under him, the springs long dead. His tiny apartment greeted him like it always did: peeling walls, cracked ceiling, the faint scent of mildew and cold air bleeding in through the windowpane.

Peter stared at the ceiling for a long time.

Why had he dreamt about her?

Mary Parker.

Why now ?

He never dreamt about his mom. Not once. There were barely any memories. And even then, only through dusty frames and half-told stories May never quite finished. She’d died when he was a kid. Plane crash. He never got the full version, and by the time he was old enough to want it, May had stopped talking about it.

But that dream… it felt real .

The way she looked at him. 

The feel of her hand. 

The sound of her laugh.

That woman she spoke to. 

Who was she? 

Why did her voice ring with something that felt… important?

And the name. 

What was the name? 

He racked his brain, chasing the syllables as they slipped further away. 

Nothing . 

“You want to talk about it?” Karen asked softly.

Peter huffed a tired laugh. “No. Talking about it makes it real. And if it's real, then I'm officially losing my mind.”

“Statistically, that has not yet been confirmed.”

“Thanks for the pep talk, Karen.”

“Always.”

The weirdness stuck with him through breakfast—if you could call half a granola bar and instant coffee “breakfast”—and into the shift at Dave’s corner store. 

The corner store hadn’t changed. Fluorescent lights that buzzed louder than the register, expired bags of chips on clearance, and Dave grumbling about someone stealing a Snapple again. Peter manned the counter, restocked shelves, and talked two high schoolers out of stealing a six-pack with what little authority he had.

His Spidey Sense barely flickered—quiet today. Not calm. Just… quiet.

Normal, boring, unsteady.

By the time his shift ended, the sun had dipped low over the skyline. Gotham’s evening chill had returned, biting and sharp. Peter zipped up his hoodie and kept his head down after he muttered a goodbye and pulled his hood up as he stepped out into Gotham’s night.

Cold. As always. Damp air soaked into his sleeves and clung to his skin.

He turned down 5th and Renner.

Then he heard it.

A scream.

A small, high sound that stabbed into his spine like a knife. Not one of those horror-movie shrieks. This one was short. 

Raw.

His Spidey Sense exploded.

Like someone lit a match inside his skull.

Peter didn’t think. Didn’t breathe.

His body moved before his brain could catch up.

Down the alley. Fast. His Spidey Sense screamed in his skull now, flashing hot and sharp.

A little girl. Maybe six or seven. Being dragged by the wrist into a rust-stained van.

Peter didn’t think.

Didn’t hesitate.

He was already moving, launching off the brick wall with a running start. His foot slammed into the van door as he wrenched it open and threw himself inside.

One guy turned. Peter’s elbow connected with his nose before the guy could even get a sound out.

Another reached for something.

Gun? 

Knife?

Didn’t matter.

Peter was faster.

Two punches. One knee to the gut. The van rocked as bodies hit the floor.

The girl—curled up, crying—scrambled away and tumbled onto the sidewalk.

Peter leapt out after her, planting himself between her and the van. His breath puffed in the cold air.

“Hey,” he said, crouching beside her. “You’re okay now.”

The girl looked up with wide brown eyes. Her lip was bleeding. She sniffled hard.

“What’s your name?”

“L-Lizzie,” she whispered. “It’s Elizabeth, but… Lizzie.”

“Hi, Lizzie.” Peter softened his tone. “Where are your parents?”

“I don’t— I was in foster care,” she said, clutching her arms around her knees. 

And Peter—

Peter froze.

Something inside him pulled tight. Sharp and awful.

Images burst behind his eyes.

A dim hallway. A plastic plate. Food that looked like glue. Cold showers. A slap that came out of nowhere. A boy crying in the dark. A voice whispering, “Shut up or I’ll make it worse.”

Peter reeled back, a tremble in his hands.

That wasn’t his memory, was it?

His head swam. The concrete tilted. 

No. The answer was simple. 

They weren’t his memories. 

But he had felt them.

They weren’t his .

They were Bruce’s .

Peter’s hands started to shake.

Bruce , who was trapped in the foster care system.

His chest burned. 

Bruce , who had gotten adopted by an abusive family.

Pressure built behind his eyes.

Bruce , who had waited for help to come, and died in vain.

“Karen—” he whispered, desperate.

Bruce, who died when he was ten.

Karen’s voice crackled in his ear. “Peter, I’m here—your vitals are spiking. Adrenaline—elevated. Cortisol—elevated. Please breathe. You’re safe. You’re safe.”

But he wasn’t.

Peter’s vision swam.

He could feel the cold tile of the bathroom floor. Could smell the mildew. Hear the silence that screamed.

His hands shook.

Lizzie reached for his hand, and whispered. “Are you okay?”

Peter blinked down at her. His voice came out hoarse. “Yeah. Just… just a little dizzy.”

“You don’t look okay.”

He offered a crooked smile. “I don’t usually.”

Then—his Spidey Sense flared again.

But not sharp.

Not dangerous.

Just… presence. 

Peter recognised the heartbeat.

A shadow moved across the alley.

Boots. Leather jacket. Red helmet gleaming under the dim streetlamp.

Red Hood.

The vigilante strode toward them like a storm in boots, eyes locked on the two goons still groaning on the pavement.

He didn’t speak.

He looked at Peter.

Then at the girl.

Then back.

The silence crackled between them, thick as smoke.

Peter didn’t blink.

Neither did he.

The girl coughed. Peter tightened his grip protectively.

Red Hood took a step closer.

And Peter thought:

Of course the night wasn’t over.

Not in Gotham.

Not for him.

Not yet.

Jason had seen a lot of fights in his life. He’d started more than his fair share.

But what he saw in that alley with Peter?

That wasn’t a kid flailing in panic.

That was strategy.

Calculated. Controlled. Efficient.

Every punch Peter threw had weight. Every strike had intent. He was fast—not flashy—but surgical. Moved like he knew how to end a fight before it even started. It wasn’t just instinct. It was training. And not the kind you pick up from backyard brawls or YouTube tutorials.

It was familiar. Too familiar.

Jason had trained under Bruce. He’d seen how Bruce taught you to fight—not just how to hit, but how to think . How to read a room, break it down, map exits, and strike without hesitation.

And Peter had done all of that. Without a moment of doubt.

Ever since that first rooftop—back when Peter looked like a ghost with a smart mouth and too much weight on his shoulders. Jason had felt the itch then. Something familiar in the way Peter moved. The way he watched the world.

But seeing him fight?

It removed any doubt.

This wasn’t just some smart, scrappy teenager with bad luck.

This was Bruce’s kid.

And the worst part?

Peter didn’t even know.

To be honest, Jason had been suspicious. The kid looked way too much like Bruce, was cagey, yeah, but not sloppy. Smart in ways most street kids weren’t. Jason had tried following him a few times after that, but Peter had a knack for slipping out of sight. Like smoke. Like someone who didn’t want to be found. And most of the time, Peter didn’t seem to be realising that he was doing it. 

And then that name popped up in his digging.

Peter Bruce Parker.

Jason had choked on his drink. The middle name had felt like a punch to the gut. A coincidence? Maybe.

But then he read the rest.

Foster care at eight. Disappeared at ten. No real explanation. 6 years gone, then returned like he’d been plucked from another universe.

Jason was sure no bats knew about Peter yet, and Jason is the first one who has been officially talking to him. 

Peter had done a good job in hiding himself.

Not one Bat had mentioned him.

Not at movie nights, not at ops briefings, not even in passing.

Bruce didn’t know. He couldn’t.

Jason had half a mind to throw a smoke bomb and vanish himself. But Peter had been shaking—barely holding it together when that girl said the words foster care.

Jason had seen panic attacks before.

He’d lived through them.

And this one had all the signs. Shallow breath. Disassociation. Locked knees like he was trying not to collapse.

Of course he panicked. That kind of fear, being in the foster care cycle, didn't vanish. It buried itself and waited to be triggered. And Gotham? Gotham had claws that knew exactly where to dig.

So Jason stepped in. Quiet. Careful.

Didn’t crowd him. Didn’t say much.

Just watched.

She was safe. Because Peter stepped in. Because he fought like someone who didn’t care if he walked away bruised and bloodied, so long as she got out. That instinct to protect. To stay. Jason knew exactly where that came from.

It hit too close to home.

And that’s what scared him most.

Because it meant Peter wasn’t just another lost kid.

He was family.

Jason glanced to the side, where Peter walked with his hood up and hands stuffed in his sweatshirt pocket, still too quiet. They’d already dropped Lizzie off at one of Jason’s safehouses for his kids—a brownstone guarded better than most police stations. She was safe. Warm. Cocoa in hand, cartoons on in the background.

Peter hadn’t said much since, which wasn’t surprising.

Jason remembered that feeling too—the kind of tired that wasn’t just physical, but bone-deep. When the world felt too big and you felt too small.

So Jason decided to poke the bear.

“You ever gonna tell me how you went full Batman on those guys?”

Peter blinked. “What?”

“You know. The whole ‘sweep the leg, crack the ribs, don’t spill your coffee’ routine.” Jason tilted his head. “Where’d you learn that?”

Peter’s expression soured. “I didn’t have a teacher or anything.”

“Uh huh. Sure. You just magically knew how to disarm a grown man with a broom handle and prayer.”

“I had… gym class.”

Jason barked a laugh. “Right. Remind me to transfer to your school.”

Peter huffed. “It wasn’t that impressive.”

“No, kid,” Jason said, tone softening. “It was. And I don’t say that lightly.”

Peter looked away. His shoulders hunched tighter.

Jason kept walking, letting the silence stretch before nudging again.

“You okay?”

Peter nodded. Then shook his head. “I’m fine. I mean… not fine fine. But… y’know.”

Jason stopped, turning to face him fully. “That panic attack back there wasn’t nothing.”

Peter’s jaw tensed. “It just caught me off guard.”

“You said that girl was in foster care, yeah?”

Peter swallowed. “Yeah.”

“And it hit you hard.”

Peter didn’t answer.

Jason didn’t press. He didn’t have to.

Because he’d seen the records. The ones that said Peter bounced around from eight to ten like a damn ping-pong ball, then vanished for a year under ‘custody.’ That kind of trauma leaves cracks, even in people who can bench press cars.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” Jason said, voice low. “But you don’t gotta bottle it either.”

Peter gave him a weird look. “You always this nice?”

Jason grinned. “Only to kids I find kicking ass in back alleys.”

“Wow. I feel so special.”

“You should. You got the Red Hood’s seal of approval.”

Peter snorted. “What does that even mean? A bloodstained sticker?”

Jason clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Exactly. And if you collect five, you get a bat-shaped toaster.”

Peter chuckled, a soft noise like it slipped out before he could catch it. His mouth twitched up a little—barely there, but there .

Jason counted that as a win.

They turned a corner. The wind hit colder here, slicing through the gaps in Peter’s hoodie like it was made of paper. Jason noticed and frowned.

“You need a better coat.”

“I’ve got layers,” Peter mumbled.

“Yeah, sure. If those layers are all hope and regret.”

“Mostly duct tape.”

Jason sighed, dramatic. “I’m stealing you a jacket.”

“You can’t just—steal a jacket.”

“Watch me.”

Peter snorted again. “You’re a horrible role model.”

“And yet here you are walking next to me.”

“I didn’t ask for an escort.”

“You didn’t say no , either.”

Peter rolled his eyes, but it was the kind that didn’t carry heat. Just tiredness. Maybe even comfort.

Jason noticed they were a block from the old apartment Peter was squatting in. Jason knew that because he’d been watching Peter. Not in a creepy stalker way—okay, maybe just a little. But he’d been keeping tabs where he could. And it hadn’t been easy. After that first rooftop, Peter vanished. 

For a while, Jason worried something had happened. That he’d gotten picked up by someone worse. That he’d gone under for good. He knew how easy it was to disappear in Gotham. One wrong alley. One bad night.

But then Peter popped back up. Gotham Academy application flagged under the Wayne Foundation system. Library logs. A few shaky surveillance clips. Jason knew how to find people—but even with all his skills, Peter had stayed low. 

Smart. Way too smart for a regular kid.

He was in Crime Alley, after all.

He was surviving it.

It took Jason some time to find where Peter was staying. People don’t bother writing things down in Crime Alley, because nothing is permanent. People could go, and never come back. Hotels, apartments, they don’t bother writing names down as long as they have the money, and the moment they don’t, they kick them out. And they have their hands clean. 

It took Jason some threats, and snooping to find out where Peter was crashing at.

They were closer to the building now, and Peter gestured towards it.

“You’re staying in that run-down death trap, huh?”

Peter didn’t meet his eyes. “It’s not that bad.”

“You sleep under a pipe that drips mold water.”

“Okay, that part’s bad.”

Jason sighed. 

“I’m fine where I am.”

Jason didn’t argue. Not yet.

Instead, he muttered, “Still walking you up.”

Peter groaned. “Why?”

“Because you’re underage, and this is Crime Alley, and I’ve got a moral compass that screams every time a kid walks into danger.”

“I’m not a kid.”

“You’re twelve.”

“Sixteen.”

“Still a fetus in vigilante years.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

Peter shot him a look. “I’m strongly considering it .”

Jason smirked, following him up the fire escape. “You’d miss me too much.”

Peter paused at the top. “Maybe.”

Jason blinked.

Then smiled (not that Peter knew that because of his hood).

Jason glanced up at the building, as they reached it. “I’m saying it again, you know this place has like, four code violations just by existing, right?”

“I’m aware.”

“You’re aware that you are literally staying in the Gotham equivalent of a haunted toaster oven.”

“Thanks for the visual.”

Jason pointed at him. “You know, if you ever get tired of this, I’ve got a place with a real bed. Not even cursed, probably. And, I have Pop Tarts.”

Peter paused. “Do you always offer random teenagers a room and Pop-Tarts?”

Jason smirked. “Only the ones I like.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Lucky me.”

“Damn right you are.”

Jason let the silence stretch a moment, then added, “You did good tonight.”

Peter looked at him, almost surprised.

Jason nodded. “Seriously. That girl’s alive because you stepped in.”

Peter looked away. “Didn’t feel like enough.”

Jason’s voice dropped. “Sometimes it won’t. But it is .”

Another beat passed before Jason bumped him lightly with his elbow.

“Hey,” he added, teasing again, “for the record, you’ve got the Bat-glare down. Uncanny, honestly.”

Peter frowned. “The what?”

Jason snorted. “Nothing. Just… you remind me of someone.”

Peter narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “You’re being weird again.”

“Yeah, well, get used to it. Older brothers are weird.”

Peter froze for a second.

Jason didn’t push. Just watched the realisation not happen.

Still not connecting the dots.

Still didn’t know who he was. Or who he really came from.

Jason could’ve told him right then. Could’ve explained the records, the resemblance, the whole twisted truth.

But he didn’t.

Because right now? Peter deserved to be just Peter Parker. Not Bruce Wayne’s secret legacy.

Just a tired kid, with a hoodie too thin for Gotham and a heart too big for his own good.

And Jason would protect that for as long as he could.

“C’mon,” Jason said finally. “Let’s get you inside before Gotham eats you.”

Peter shook his head. “You’re dramatic.”

“And you’re short.”

“I’m not—”

Jason ruffled his hair. “Shhh. Baby bat things.”

Peter smacked his hand away. “You’re the worst. And don’t call me baby bat. ”

Jason laughed. “No, but I’m your worst now.”

Peter rolled his eyes, unlocking the door.

As he stepped inside, he turned back. “You coming?”

Jason leaned against the doorway. “Nah. I’ve got some crime to scare off and a reputation to uphold.”

“Oh right, Vigilante and all that.” Peter smirked, as he leaned against his door frame, and then hesitated as he spoke, “Thanks… for everything.”

Jason saluted. “Always, kid.”

And as the door shut behind Peter, Jason stood in the dark a little longer, the cold biting at his armor, his helmet fogged at the edges.

He could live with that.

Especially since—for the first time in years—he wasn’t looking out for a Robin, or a soldier, or a replacement.

He was looking out for his brother .

And no one— no one —was taking this one from him.

Not even Bruce.

Chapter Text

Peter dreamed in whispers again.

Tonight, he was seven. 

Small . Legs dangling off the edge of a counter too tall for him.

In the dream, the air was golden and soft.

Late summer light filtered through a cracked kitchen window. Dust danced above the linoleum floor. And Mary—his mom—was crouched in front of him, warm smile and trembling hands. Her fingers were sticky with hair dye. Her fingers were sticky with dye, the scent of ammonia sharp and chemical, clinging to the air like a secret.

"Hold still, sweetheart," she said gently.

Little Peter fidgeted in his plastic seat, his nose scrunched in childish confusion. “But Ma,” he said with a tiny scowl, “my hair’s black. Why’re we making it brown?”

There was a pause. 

A long one.

The kind of pause that feels like a room holding its breath.

Mary’s hand hesitated mid-stroke. She blinked, her eyes turning glassy for a moment too long—shining not with tears, but something close to fear. Or grief.

Then—like flipping a switch—she smiled again, too wide this time. Too Bright.

“So we match,” she said softly. “That way, people know we belong together.”

Peter looked puzzled but nodded anyway, trusting her like kids do.

“Okay!” He peered down at the brown-stained towel wrapped around his shoulders. “Will it wash out?”

Mary laughed—quietly, like she was afraid someone might hear. “Eventually.”

Then the kitchen faded. 

The light dimmed. 

The linoleum cracked. 

And Peter was alone.

He jerked awake, sucking in a sharp breath like he'd been drowning. Sweat clung to his neck and temples, chilling him instantly.

The room was dark. 

Still. 

The Gotham cold pressed against the fire escape window, misting the glass. His shirt clung to his chest, soaked in sweat. His hair matted to his temples. He sat up too fast, and the air hit him like a slap—frigid, sharp, real.

His heart thudded too fast. 

Too loud.

And in his chest, something pulled.

Not pain.

Not fear.

Memory.

Not his .

But someone else’s.

“Karen,” Peter rasped.

A soft glow pulsed from the watch on his nightstand. “Yes Peter, I’m here.”

He exhaled, pressing fingers to his eyes. “What time is it?”

“1:03 a.m.”

Figures . Of course. 

Peter pulled the blanket off, swung his legs over the edge, and stood barefoot on the peeling floorboards. His breath curled into the air like smoke.

That dream—it wasn’t just a static memory bleed from his own childhood. 

It was from the other Peter. Peter Bruce Parker. 

The one who’d died at age ten in this universe. 

The boy whose life he’d slid into like a borrowed coat. 

Peter knew he was fused with Bruce. Karen had told him. But he hadn’t understood how deep it went.

The signs had been there—subtle, almost too normal to notice. His body guiding him through Gotham like it had lived here all its life. The way he gravitated to specific streets, cut through alleys with purpose, stopped at the right corner store before he even saw the name. How he knew where to find shelters even when he didn’t know which way was north.

He’d written it off as Spidey-sense. Some gut survival instinct.

But It wasn't that. 

It was Bruce.

Bruce hadn’t just given him a body.

He had passed on instincts. Reflexes. Muscle memory. Emotion .

And that left Peter with questions—dangerous ones.

What happened to Bruce?
Was he dead? Or was he still... inside ?

Was this just some multiverse screw-up?

Or had someone made it happen?

Peter sighed harshly, dragging a hand through his damp hair. He just wanted to breathe . To settle. To be something close to normal.

But no. The Parker Luck had never allowed for that.

His brain, wired tighter than a snare trap, wouldn’t stop spiraling.

And there was no one left to give him answers.

Peter reached for the watch on the makeshift nightstand beside his bed. The interface lit under his touch, Karen’s calm presence shimmering into the space with gentle precision.

“Hey,” he whispered. “Sorry to wake you.”

“I don’t sleep, Peter,” Karen answered, soft but dry. “But I appreciate the manners.”

He cracked a small smile. It didn’t reach his eyes.

Peter stepped toward the crate he used as a nightstand and pulled out the thick file folder Marla Jenkins had handed him.

Bruce’s life—what was left of it—stuffed into aging manila, brittle and yellowed.

Hardcopies. 

The kind of evidence you could smudge, tear apart—hide or destroy.

Now that he thought of it, he hadn’t paid much attention, or read through these when he had picked them up. Karen (his life savior) had already handled his IDs. He just needed to keep the documents in case someone ever needed “proof.”

But now—staring at the folder—it itched.

There was something wrong. Peter didn’t know what, but he felt it.

Something that gnawed at his spine every time he closed his eyes. Something that didn’t fit. Questions that aren’t answered. 

Something that gnawed at his spine every time he blinked. A mismatch in a puzzle that should’ve never fit.

He sat cross-legged on the cold floor, back pressed to the wall, and opened the first page.

And there they were—his own eyes, staring back at him from a grainy ID photo.
Too young. Too hollow.

Given Name: PARKER, PETER B.

Date of Birth: August 10th

Transferred to Program: August 2nd

Age: 8

Gender: Male

Location of Birth: Gotham               

Reason of Transfer : Guardian (Mother) dead.

Mother : Mary Parker                                         

Father : Unknown (Not listed)

“Karen,” Peter murmured, flipping through the pages, “how did Peter Bruce Parker die again?”

“According to state records,” Karen replied, “he was marked as deceased, cause of death: not indicated. Only a single certificate was filed. No coroner report. No autopsy documentation.”

Peter's frown deepened. His fingers tightened on the edge of the file.

 “So…no body?”

“No formal record of one.”

He stilled. 

Images from the foster office flooded back. Too clean. Too quick.

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“No,” Karen agreed. “It doesn’t.”

“Then how did they know he died?”

There was a beat of silence.

“They didn’t,” Karen admitted. “There’s no mention of a witness or discovery. Just a timestamp. Filed retroactively by a legal guardian—Raymond Holloway. The same man accused of abuse prior to Peter’s disappearance.”

Peter’s stomach dropped.

The name echoed like a gunshot through his chest.

Raymond Holloway. 

His hand trembled.

He remembered this feeling. He’d felt it before—in that godawful foster system office, sifting through records that felt like poison, when he picked his— Bruce’s — documents up. But now he knew why.

These weren’t his spider-sense warnings.

This wasn’t instinct.

This was Bruce .
His fear.
His trauma.

Peter stared at his hands. They were shaking. Slightly. Subtly.

He wasn’t scared.

His body was.

Bruce was. 

He was terrified . The man name sent a visceral, primal terror through Peter’s body. But unlike with Lizzie, where he got flashes of what happened. There isn’t any flashbacks, or echos, but he could feel the phantom of it—bones remembering what the brain refused to say aloud.

He leaned further back into the wall, taking deep breaths to calm his body down. 

A ten-year-old. Beaten so often that even hearing a name made his bones flinch.

Peter’s mind spun through thousands of possibilities of his conditions, all darker than the last. 

It was Gotham, after all. 

Secrets didn’t just get buried here—they got wiped clean. 

Maybe Bruce had been killed.

Buried.

Filed away under a lie.

Maybe worse.

But again, it was leading to more questions.

If there was no body… no autopsy… no evidence…

How the hell did Holloway file a death certificate?

Who approved it?

Who let it happen?

Did he have connections?

Peter flipped through the pages again, hands tightening. His fingers brushed over the names—Raymond and Linda Holloway. 

A string of addresses. Places that smelled like rot and something worse. Peter’s hand paused. His hand shooked violently as he traced over the address. Maybe he needed to pay them a visit. Maybe he needed answers.

He hesitated, then flipped further through the file.

One last update:

PLACEMENT CLOSED. CHILD MISSING, PRESUMED RUNAWAY. NO RECOVERY. CASE ARCHIVED.

He stared at those words.

Presumed. Not confirmed. 

Runaway, not dead . 

He read the paragraph again, slower this time.
No search.
No witness statements.
No investigation.

Just a corrupted system shrugging its shoulders and walking away.

Just closed.

His eyes narrowed dangerously.

On what ground had they called Bruce a 'runaway'?

It didn’t make sense.

None of it did.

This wasn’t just neglect.

This was intentional .

Peter’s stomach twisted, dread pooling in his gut. A horrible thought crept in, slow and inevitable:

What if... what if…

He swallowed hard, his heartbeat speeding up. “Karen… if the kid died at ten… and I was sixteen when I died on Titan, and I woke up in this body... why isn’t it ten years old? Why is it my age?”

Karen’s voice dipped low. 

“I don’t have a definitive answer. The biological age of the current body matches your original timeline. However, certain cellular anomalies suggest that the current body is a fusion—partially reconstructed, partially overwritten.”

Peter’s heart skipped a beat.

His blood went ice-cold.

Meaning—

“The body wasn’t dead?” he breathed.

“More likely: it was incomplete. A liminal state. Neither truly living nor truly gone.”

Peter clutched the file against his chest, heart pounding in his ears.

That means—

That kid—Peter Bruce Parker—didn’t die.

He’d been erased .

And someone had made it official.

Peter shoved the folder away as if it burned him.

But something still gnawed at the edges of his mind.

The dreams.
His mom.
Mary Parker.

The name should have fit neatly into place.

But it didn’t.

Parker. That’s who he was. Peter Benjamin Parker. 

In his universe, Mary had been Mary Fitzpatrick before Mary Parker. She wasn’t born a Parker, she married Peter’s dad to become one, and after they died, Peter was left with May and Ben Parker.  

And there had always been Richard. A father figure—even if distant.

But here?

No father.

No marriage.

Just Mary and Bruce, drifting from town to town.

Something wasn’t right.

Maybe it was just multiverse weirdness.

Maybe this is just a universe where Mary Flitzpatrick was born as Mary Parker, which in itself, is very messed up, that Peter’s parents in another universe where siblings . 

Maybe that’s why Peter looked different, and he had another dad because his parents in another universe were blood-related. 

Maybe.

Still—he didn’t trust maybes .

Not anymore.

He grabbed the documents on Mary Parker, flipping through them, his breath quickening.

Mary Parker looked normal. Too normal. 

Mary Parker used to work as a kindergarten teacher while caring for her son. She used to love travelling a lot, shown by how Bruce and her didn’t live in the same place for more than 8 months. 

That left the question, again , how had a kindergarten teacher, Mary Parker, afforded that kind of a life with a son?

Peter narrowed his eyes, scanning harder. Line by line. Word by word.

There was a mistake.

There had to be. 

Flip.

Not here. 

Flip.

Humans make mistakes, and Peter was sure it was here. Not here. 

Flip. 

He knew it was here. Not here. 

Flip. Not. Flip. Not. Flip. Not. Not. Flip. 

WHY CAN’T HE—

Flip. No. Flip. NoT HeRe. Flip.

HE KNEW IT WAS—

His breath hitched.

Hands stilled. 

There—

F inally . He found it. 

One mistake.

One crack in the facade.

"Karen..." His voice was tight. "Who was Mary Fitzpatrick?"

Mary Parker had been listed on every record.

But in one—one early document, one medical form confirming pregnancy—she was listed as Mary Fitzpatrick.

“Researching…” 

A few seconds passed. 

Then: “Mary Elizabeth Fitzpatrick. Born to Dorian and Evelyn Fitzpatrick. Gotham residents. Registered as elite family, donors to multiple city campaigns. No records of marriage or name change.”

Peter’s jaw tightened. 

“But she’s listed as Mary Parker in my files.”

“Correct.”

“No reason why?”

“None indicated.”

His hand lowered.

The paper crinkled beneath his trembling fingers.

A knot burned at the base of his throat.

"So she changed her name... unofficially. Cut ties. Left the Fitzpatrick estate behind. Moved into a low-income neighborhood. Had a kid. Alone."

“Correct.” Karen confirmed.

Peter leaned heavily back against the wall. His fingers dug into the fabric of his sweatpants.

"Why would someone do that," he whispered, "unless they were hiding?"

No answers.

Only the cold, static hum of silence.

His dream came back to him— let’s match, she’d said. So no one mixes us up.

But that hadn’t been about dyeing hair.

It had been about erasing identity . 

Peter’s vision blurred. His breath came too fast, too shallow. Something inside him curled tight, protective.

That kid didn’t die, after he went with Holloways. That kid was hidden , kidnapped. 

Buried in paperwork. Buried in Gotham's rotting bureaucracy. Silenced.

And Mary Parker—Mary Fitzpatrick—

She hadn’t just been a struggling single mother.

She’d been on the run .

Running for her life. 

But why? From who ? 

And Peter Bruce Parker—

The boy whose life he now wore like a second skin—

The boy who was fused with him—

Had been caught and erased , after his mother’s death. 

The documents trembled in his hands.

Peter sat motionless, heart pounding beneath his ribs like it was trying to break out. The silence in the room was heavy, suffocating, broken only by the soft hum of the city outside.

And his breathing.

Shallow. Unsteady.

He stared down at the final page like it might rewrite itself if he waited long enough. It didn’t.

The eyes of Peter Bruce Parker, stared back to his. 

Bruce was a target. Buried, erased, forgotten—and Peter had been dumped into that forgotten space like a replacement part.

His fingers curled tightly around the edge of the folder, the paper creasing under his grip. He didn’t open it again—he couldn’t. Not yet. His hands were shaking too much. Rage simmered just beneath his skin, coiled and hot, pressing against his ribs like a scream trying to claw its way out.

How could they have gotten away with it?

A ten-year-old kid, marked missing. No body. No autopsy. No search. Just a system that turned away and decided it was easier to file paperwork than ask questions.

How many more had they done this to?

Peter clenched his jaw and shut the folder with a soft thud.

He needed air. 

Space. 

Distance from this choking room and the ghosts clawing at the back of his skull.

"Karen," he whispered.

"Yes, Peter?"

"I'm taking a walk."

"Would you like me to monitor your location?"

He hesitated. “Yeah. Just in case.”

He pulled on a hoodie—one of the few decent ones he'd gotten from the thrift shop—and zipped it up halfway, tugging the hood over his head. His breath still came too fast. His fingers still trembled.

But he needed out. He needed Gotham’s chill to bite into his skin and remind him he was still here.

Still real.

The streets were soaked in darkness, and Gotham was breathing.

Alive in all the wrong ways.  

The sun had fallen, and the darkness had consumed the light. 

Slick neon from broken signs spilled onto crumbling sidewalks. Sirens wailed far off in the distance, echoing down alleyways like the city was screaming. A low hum of violence pulsed beneath the surface—thick, constant. Not too big. 

None of the main rogues were out tonight. 

And the bats were awake, Peter glanced up, seeing the bat symbol lit in the sky.

Gotham wasn’t a city that slept. 

It waited. 

Lurking .

Peter walked quickly, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, head low. The night pressed close, thick with tension and cold. Trash rustled in the gutters. A shadow moved behind a rusted fence. A man cursed under his breath behind a dumpster.

He kept walking. 

Every nerve in his body was on alert—Spidey-sense humming low and constant, like a wire stretched too tight.

It wasn’t long before trouble found him.

Two blocks into Burnley, past the derelict warehouse Peter had clocked earlier as suspicious, a black van turned the corner too slowly. Too precisely.

He barely had time to turn when—

Hands grabbed him.

Rough. Fast.

He was slammed into the side of the van, ribs thudding against cold metal. The door slid open behind him.

Peter’s first instinct was to fight.

Throw the man. Break his wrist. Leap up the wall and vanish.

But then he saw inside.

The van was dim. A single yellow bulb flickered above. And beneath it—half a dozen kids, packed together on the floor. Knees pulled to their chests. Eyes wide. Silent.

Boys. 

Girls. 

Some no older than six .

Peter froze.

His breath caught.

A flash.

Lizzie—her eyes. Her voice. Her bruised wrists.

The night she nearly vanished into one of these vans and never came out.

The man behind him shoved again. “Get in!”

Peter stumbled forward.

He could have fought. Could have ended this in seconds.

But he didn’t.

Not this time.

Because if he saved these kids now—what about the next batch? The next van?

This wasn’t just about saving victims anymore.

This was about finding the source.

Peter let himself be pushed inside, his knees hitting the cold metal floor. He slumped beside the others, trying to make it look convincing.

The door slammed shut behind him with a gut-deep clang .

The van lurched into motion.

And Peter sat still, every muscle coiled, his eyes scanning the others. Kids. Terrified. Quiet. Trying not to exist.

His jaw tightened.

Is this what Bruce went through?

Was this how he was moved—silent, disposable, forgotten?

Peter swallowed hard.

The air inside was thick with unwashed clothes, fear, and engine fumes. His hands itched. He could feel his powers pressing up against the surface, begging to lash out.

But he didn’t move.

Not yet.

One of the kids was staring at him.

Peter turned slowly, meeting sharp eyes under messy black hair. The boy couldn’t have been more than fourteen, but he didn’t look surprised, or scared..

No—he was assessing .

Like Peter was a puzzle he was trying to solve.

His skin was a shade warmer than Peter’s, his posture far too disciplined for a kid. Even hunched slightly, he held himself like someone who was used to fighting. Not afraid of it. The knuckles on his right hand were scabbed.

Peter’s spidey-sense buzzed. 

Not loud—but curious .

Like it didn’t know if this kid was a threat or a warning.

Peter kept his head down at first, trying ignore the piercing stare. But the longer they drove, the more he could feel it—eyes on him.

He turned slowly and met them—icy green and watching. His eyes were sharp.

Measuring. 

He looked like he was studying Peter the way a predator studies a rival animal in its territory.

Peter blinked.

“…Hey,” he said cautiously, voice low.

The boy didn’t answer. His expression didn’t shift. He just stared, head tilted ever so slightly, like he was trying to crack open Peter’s skull and read what was inside.

There was something familiar about that expression—something Peter couldn’t place.

Spidey-sense tingled again.

Seemingly deciding that the kid wasn’t danger. Yet . 

But something.

Still, the silence stretched on.

So Peter tried again. “Name’s Peter,” his voice coming out low, his tone carefully neutral.

Nothing. A blink. A flick of the eyes down to Peter’s hands. Then back to his face.

The boy finally spoke, low and clipped. The kind of tone you’d use when testing for weakness.

“…You’re not scared.”

It wasn’t a question.

Peter tilted his head slightly, startled by the observation. But before he could answer—

The boy continued.

“You don’t breathe like the others. Scared. Sad. You’re too still.”

There was no challenge in his voice. Just fact. Cold. Calculated.

Peter blinked, suddenly unsure if he was the one being watched—or profiled.

Are kids supposed to be like this? 

He opened his mouth—but the boy cut in again, eyes narrowing.

“What are you doing here?”

It was both accusation and inquiry.

Peter stared at him, not quite sure what answer would be safest.

The boy studied him for another beat, then finally gave up a name. His voice barely above a whisper, but with the edge of someone who expected the world to recognise it.

“Damian.”

A pause.

Then, sharper—firm and definitive, as if stating something:

“Damian Wayne.”

Peter stilled, masking his face to not let anything away. 

Another one? 

Dick, Tim, Red Hood, and now, Damian. 

How many baby vigilantes did Bruce Wayne take in?

Was this baby the robin?

Peter glanced at Damian. 

Damian was still looking at him. 

He said his name like a weapon. Like a warning.

Peter stared more.

Damian stared harder.

Yep. Definitely. 

The van rattled over a pothole.

Outside, Gotham howled.

Inside, Peter Parker realised he was sitting next to batman’s kid. 

And whatever breath he’d been trying to catch?

It vanished all over again.

Chapter Text

This mission should’ve been simple.

Blend in. Track the vans. Find the hub. Signal Drake.

Damian had done worse before breakfast.

He sat in the back of the van, spine rigid, refusing to let the cramped, rusted shell press him down. The cold bit through the metal, gnawing at his bones, but he barely registered it. Discomfort was a tool-one he’d learned to wield, not suffer. His limbs drooped just enough to look weary, just enough to blend in. Shoulders slouched with calculated carelessness. Chin tucked, gaze low. He knew how to pass for prey. He’d spent his whole life learning to be the predator, but sometimes, you had to wear the other skin.  

A part of him always felt that way. Like prey, hunted by expectation, by legacy, by the shadow of a cowl he was born to inherit. 

He crushed the flicker of unease before it could bloom. 

Weakness was something that others had.

Not for him . 

Never for him.

He wasn’t weak . 

His clothes were dirty, shoes scuffed, hands stained with Gotham’s grime. Every detail was deliberate, every thread a stitch in the mask he wore for survival.

Grandfather had taught him that.

No-Ra’s al Ghul.

Never “Grandfather.” 

Damian’s jaw tightened, but only for a moment. There was no space for emotion. Emotion made you predictable. Weak. 

He was better than that.

He had to be.

Drake had protested the plan, said Damian wasn’t the best face for undercover work. Not "approachable enough." As if that mattered. Damian was the perfect person for the job. Drake was too soft, too forgiving. Damian knew better than to believe in second chances. Second chances were for people who could afford to fail.

But these missions-these children-they twisted something inside him. Something he buried deep, under layers of training and pride.

Guilt? Maybe.

But not guilt for doing wrong.

Guilt for not being enough.

Not strong enough.

Not the right one.

The first blood son, but never quite enough.

Damian shoved the thought away quickly.

No. He was enough . 

The van rattled over uneven pavement. He listened to the sound of it, cataloguing every rattle, every bump. His eyes scanned his surroundings—guard faces, exit routes, the other kids. The kids were silent, their faces hollow, empty. Just another day for them. Damian could feel their fear, even if they tried to hide it. He lived it. It was nothing new to him. 

Except for Peter . No last name. 

The name stuck like a thorn. Not just the name, but the face.

He’d spent years watching his father—studying him, observing every slight movement, every subtle change in expression. He knew Bruce better than Bruce knew himself. People whispered that Damian resembled his father. They were right of course, However, Damian was also his mother’s son, he had gotten her eyes, her mouth, her skin, sun-warmed by desert heat.

But Peter...

Peter looked like Bruce in grayscale.

Damian felt his chest tighten with something cold and sharp. If Peter was truly Bruce’s son, if he was the firstborn, then everything Damian had believed about his place in the family could be a lie. He’d always been told he was the heir, the only blood son, the one meant for the cowl. 

But what if he wasn’t? 

What if Peter had always been out there, waiting to take everything Damian had fought for?

It was unnatural. A person like this shouldn’t exist.

Not outside of a lab.

Not without purpose.

Not born .

The League’s lessons echoed in his mind: eliminate threats, never show weakness, never let anyone close enough to hurt you.

But the Batfamily had taught him something else-family meant trust, meant letting yourself be seen, even if it hurt.

Damian didn’t know which voice to listen to. His stomach turned.

He didn’t want to feel this way. Not over something like this.

His mother had always promised there were no others.

No threats.

No rivals.

Only him .

It was a dirty secret that Damian never admitted to anyone in the family. That his mother had wiped out any possible mother and children. Something that he intended to take to his grave.

But now there was Peter. 

Damian didn’t kno w who this teen was, but he wasn’t a stranger. No, that look... It was too familiar. Peter’s movements, his posture—they mirrored his own. And that meant Peter wasn’t some weak, untrained civilian. 

No.

Peter had been taught. Trained .

But by whom?

It wasn’t the League, and it wasn’t Batman.

Damian would know if it was.

Peter wasn’t a victim.

He was pretending to be one.

Damian watched Peter, searching for flaws, for cracks in the mask.

Was Peter really worthy of the title Damian had carried his whole life? 

Could he really be an older brother-Bruce’s first son, the one who should have come before Damian? The True blood-son? 

The idea made his chest ache with something sharp and ugly-fear, jealousy, and a desperate hope that Peter would fail his silent test.

He caught himself almost hoping Peter would prove himself unworthy, that he’d slip up, reveal some weakness Damian could use to reassure himself.

He shoved that thought away, as his eyes narrowed. No time to idle with these emotions.

He just needed, no, had to investigate and find out more.

Damian decided, right then, that he would keep a close eye on the teen, Peter. Not just to protect his own place in the family, but because he needed to see for himself if Peter was really Bruce’s son, if he was worthy of being Damian’s older brother.

Worthy of being the heir to the cowl. 

He would watch, and wait, and test Peter at every turn. If Peter was a threat, Damian would know, and he would be eliminated.

If he wasn’t… Damian wasn’t sure what he’d do.

He wasn’t sure what it would mean for him, or for the family.

Peter looked back at him, catching him staring, and Damian barely suppressed the flicker of discomfort that passed through him.

He wasn’t weak.

He couldn’t afford to be.

Not now. 

"You always this intense?" Peter asked, voice low, teasing.

Damian didn’t blink. "You always this evasive?"

A smirk tugged at the corner of Peter’s lips. "Touché."

Damian’s gut tightened. He hadn’t meant to feel this... relaxed . However, there was something in Peter’s demeanor that felt like... home —and that was something Damian didn’t like.

He didn’t like that it made him feel like he wasn’t enough.

He was supposed to be the best.

The only one.

He had to be.

"You’re not from here," Damian said, his voice clipped, testing the waters.

"Nope," Peter replied without hesitation.

"You’re not here by mistake."

Peter hesitated just a beat. "Kind of am. Kind of not."

Damian’s brow furrowed. "Who trained you?"

Peter raised an eyebrow, amusement playing on his face. "Don’t most people start with a name?"

"I know yours. You know mine. Answer the question."

Peter’s grin grew. Too familiar.

Damian’s chest tightened. That smile. It was his father’s . The public mask, Brucie, that heh wore to those endless charity galas. The smile meant for cameras. This was the smile that had been weaponized for debates, and political battles that violence won't win.

Sharpened. Deadly .

And the worst part? Peter didn’t even know he was doing it.

Was this what it felt like to be replaced?

To be unnecessary?

He tried to remind himself that he was the blood son, the first, the one who had survived the League and the Bat. 

But the fear lingered, sharp and poisonous.

What if being first found didn’t matter?

"Rough school," Peter said vaguely, snapping Damian out of his thoughts. 

Damian leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "Does your school teach you to mask your fear?"

Peter didn’t answer immediately, his silence a calculated response.

Damian pressed. "You’re not a civilian."

Peter raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "You haven’t seen me fight."

"I don’t need to." Damian’s voice was low, steady. "Your posture. Your scan of the van. You know every bolt in this place."

Peter shrugged, a nonchalant gesture that only made Damian more certain. "You were watching me."

Damian’s eyes never wavered. "I always watch."

"Well, that’s creepy."

Damian didn’t respond.

He couldn’t.

Not without feeling like his every insecurity was being laid bare for Peter to see. No. That would never happen.

He needed to prove to Peter that he was superior. That he was the blood son. The one suitable for the cowl. The heir. 

Peter’s hands shifted slightly, an instinctive movement that caught Damian’s attention. The stillness. The readiness. And it terrified Damian.

Peter wasn’t just another civilian. He was trained. He didn't need to be trained. 

"What do you think of Robin?" Damian asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Peter blinked, clearly caught off guard by the question. "Random."

"Answer."

"I like him. Especially the sword."

"Katana," Damian corrected sharply.

"Even better."

"Would you want to be him?" Damian pressed, the question falling from his lips before he could stop himself.

Peter laughed, the sound a bit too light, too carefree. "God, no."

Damian raised an eyebrow. "Not your style?"

Peter grinned. "Too many rules. Too much attention. And the tights? Please."

Damian's lips twitched, almost—but not quite. He did not smirk. No. Foolish. 

Too many rules . Too much attention .

The words stung more than he’d expected. Did Peter even realise what he was turning down?

Did he realise what Damian had sacrificed, what he’d been molded to become?

Damian had been raised to crave the mantle, to be the heir.

He was the heir.

He had to be. 

Damian’s heart beat faster. 

He didn’t know why it bothered him. 

He shouldn’t care. But he did.

Peter didn’t crave the spotlight.

Didn’t need the recognition.

D idn’t need to be Bruce’s heir.

Didn't need to be Batman's heir.

It was such a stark contrast to what Damian had been raised to believe. To feel . He’d been trained for this. Groomed for the role of Batman’s heir. 

The van slowed. Stopped. Metal screeched. A door slammed. Guards barked orders.

They were herded out, rough hands grabbing elbows, shoving shoulders. Peter went easily, but Damian could see the tension in his legs—the way he held himself back, the way his eyes flickered, calculating.
He was holding back.
Same as Damian.

The building was larger than expected.

Not a warehouse. 

An auction house.

Rows of children. 

Crying. 

Silent. 

Compliant . 

Numbers taped to their backs. Some too small to stand. Some already in chains.

Damian’s teeth clenched, and something inside him twisted up tight. Rage threatened to slip through the cracks of his control. But he forced himself still. He couldn’t lash out—not yet. Not until the plan was in motion.
He dipped his head just slightly, triggering the comm built into his sleeve.

“Robin reporting,” he whispered. “Found it. Secondary hub. Sending coordinates.”

A soft click confirmed the ping.

He turned his head, eyes trailing over to Peter. And this time—he didn’t see Bruce’s face. Didn’t see the cold mask of a Wayne.

Peter’s jaw was tight. His shoulders rigid. His body still. His face—

It wasn’t Brucie’s.
It wasn’t even the Peter he’d seen before.

It was Batman’s.

And somehow, that unsettled him more than anything else had all night.

Damian swallowed hard, a knot forming in his stomach. For the first time in a very long time, he hoped this wasn’t a trick.
Because if Peter wasn’t a clone—
If he was real—
Maybe Peter was the only one who didn’t want to belong to the shadows.

But who still knew how to walk in them, just like Damian.

The operation was shifting now-he could feel it. His senses tingled, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. Something was about to happen. Chaos always built up like this, right before it broke.

They were being herded deeper—past the showroom, past the ostentatious lounge where the powerful made deals over crystal decanters. Now it was cold concrete and flickering lights, halls that hadn’t been cleaned in months. The stench of rot lingered in the air like old blood. The kind that seeps into grout and never truly washes out.

The children were quieter down here. The silence, thicker.

 Almost suffocating.

Damian’s fists clenched. He couldn’t allow himself to feel this much. He’d seen slavery before. He knew what it did to people—especially the powerless. But this scale…
It was efficient.
Industrial.
Marketed.

This wasn’t just a child-trafficking hub. This was everything.

Metas.

Enhanced. 

Stolen. 

Sold .

A girl with gills blinked listlessly in a tank too small for a child’s goldfish. A man with crystalised skin sat trembling under a tarp. 

There were labels everywhere. 

Barcodes. 

Categories. 

Inventory.

Damian couldn’t breathe for a second. And then he forced air into his lungs—sharply, quietly. Swallowed it like a pill coated in ash.

He almost didn’t hear Oracle’s voice, sharp and steady in his ear. “You were right, Robin. This is bigger than the Weiss operation. It’s connected to the Argus-leaked manifest. Batman confirmed.”

Damian glanced up at Peter. His head was bowed, eyes on the floor, looking like he was trying to blend in. But Damian could see it. The tension in his shoulders. The way his fingers twitched once and then went still.

He tapped his comm. Whispered.

“ETA?”
“Five minutes. Everyone’s coming.”

The voices of his family followed, each one a promise of backup.

“Nightwing in position, circling towards north entrance.”
“Hood, approaching east.”
“Me and Orphan are on the way!”
“Red and Signal’s on overwatch. You’ve got five minutes, Baby Bat.”

And then-

“I’m en route,” Batman’s voice said, flat. Controlled. Like stone.

Of course, Father was coming.

Damian didn’t need to ask why. He didn’t need to hear it. 

Because Peter was here.

And Peter was Father’s. 

Damian knew that now. And it hurt in ways he wasn’t ready to admit. Not even to himself.
Peter wasn’t some stray civilian who’d stumbled into the wrong alley. He wasn’t even a citizen.

No. 

Peter was one of them. One of the Bats. And Damian felt in the pit of his stomach, sharp and cold. 

Before this night ended, before sunrise crawled over Gotham’s grimy skyline-Peter was going home with them. 

With him.

 He didn’t know it yet. But Damian did.

And if Peter was going to be part of the family—if he was going to take his place—

Damian needed to know how capable he was.

Damian glanced at Peter. He was two bodies ahead now. Still quiet. Still watching.

Then—he slipped.

Not stumbled—slipped. Through a blind corner behind a bulkhead of crates and pipes.
Too fast.
Too clean.

Damian froze for a split second. Tolerable, he admitted to himself. 

He followed. Of course. 

Instantly. 

Silent. 

Invisible in his own right.

It wasn’t out of necessity.

It was out of… uncertainty.

Why had Peter slipped? Why was he moving so differently now?

Damian kept his distance. He was trained to keep his distance. But he didn’t stop watching. 

He couldn’t.

He was supposed to be the heir. The first blood son. The one who had survived the League and the Bat. 

The one shaped from blood and duty and blade.

But Peter was older. Probably Drake’s age.

And if Peter was really Bruce’s son, he could replace Damian. He could take everything Damian had been raised to believe was his.

The League’s lessons echoed in his head: eliminate threats, never show weakness, never let anyone close enough to hurt you.

And yet—Damian didn’t stop.

Peter moved with a confidence that wasn’t arrogance, a calm that wasn’t forced. It wasn’t performance.
It was lived-in. Earned. Natural.

Damian hated that he admired it.

He watched Peter slip into a side room with a flickering security panel outside. A peeling placard above the frame read 'Control Room'.

Of course. He found it.

How?
Had he memorized the blueprints? Studied layouts that didn’t exist on public grids? Did he plan this before even boarding the van?

It had to be premeditated. It had to.

But how?

Damian pressed up to the door. No footsteps. No panicked breathing.
Nothing.

Damian knew that silence. He’d been trained to understand it.

It was perfect. Efficient. 

Peter was perfect. 

Damian almost hated him for it.

He slipped inside.

The control room was a dim, humming space tucked into the bones of the building. Rows of screens flickered with surveillance feeds—static-covered video of holding cells, corridors, auction floors. Old tech, patched together with new. Crates of records lined the walls, half-dusted and forgotten. The air was stale, reeking of disuse, of burnt wires and damp concrete.

Peter was crouched at the main terminal, his body framed by the ghost-blue light of the monitors. A sleek black drive dangled from a port, and his fingers danced over the keyboard—quick, confident, fluent.

He wasn’t just hacking. He was dismantling.

Damian stayed in the doorway, arms crossed tightly. Watching.

Not out of suspicion. Not out of distrust.

But something else. Something harder to name.

Peter moved with ease—fluid, practiced. Not trained by the League. Not molded by the Bat. And still, he moved like this.

He didn’t stumble. He didn’t second guess. He just acted.

And Damian—Damian, who had been raised for this life, who had been forged like steel to be the one and only successor—felt that sharp twist again.

Jealousy. Ugly. Bitter.

And fear.

Because Peter wasn’t supposed to be good at this.

He wasn’t supposed to feel like he belonged here—like he’d always belonged in this world. In his world. 

And maybe… maybe Damian wasn’t as unique as he thought. Maybe being the heir didn’t mean being the only one who could do the job.

But he was good. He was… capable. He was trained by the League. He was trained by the Batman himself. 

He was the first blood son. He’d fought for that title. Bled for it. Endured a childhood that scraped the softness from his bones and filled the void with discipline and pain and duty.

But Peter…

Peter hadn’t needed that to survive.

He hadn’t needed the League or Bruce or the mantle of Robin.

And yet—here he was. Working like it came naturally. Like it was muscle memory.

And it made Damian wonder—

Had he only needed all that training because he’d been weak to start with?

He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to stay calm.

Peter didn’t need his help. Didn’t need his approval.

But as Damian stood there, arms crossed, watching Peter’s fingers fly over the keys, it became clearer. He wasn’t just observing anymore. He was learning.

Peter wasn’t a soldier. He wasn’t an assassin. He wasn’t even someone trained to be in the shadows. But he was good at navigating danger. At reading people. At knowing when to act and when to hold still.

It wasn’t from privilege.

It wasn’t from wealth.

It came from experience.

And… And it felt familiar. Too familiar.

The silence in the room stretched out between them.

Peter paused.

Just long enough to glance over his shoulder.

Their eyes met.

Damian’s chest tightened.

Peter didn’t flinch.

Didn’t reach for an excuse or an explanation.

He just nodded once, as if to say: I know you see me. I see you too.

And went back to work. 

Peter knew he was there. Peter knew he’d been followed. But Peter didn’t care. Not out of arrogance. Just trust.

Damian didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

He just stood there. Watching.

Because even now, with all the doubts whispering in his ear, something quieted inside him.

Peter didn’t need his help.
Didn’t need to prove anything.
Didn’t even want a place.

And somehow, that made it worse.
Because he wasn’t even trying to replace Damian.

He just… fit.

Peter was good. Peter was capable. And Damian hated that he was feeling the slightest sense of relief that Peter didn’t need to be the perfect soldier. That there was space for imperfection.

Peter was one of them. One of the family. Damian wasn’t sure how he felt about that yet. But deep down, he knew it was true.

He’d been trained to be the best. But maybe… Maybe the best wasn’t always what they needed.

Damian looked at Peter again. This time—he didn’t see a stranger. He saw someone who could make a place beside him. With him.

And maybe that was something he wasn’t ready for. But it was something he couldn’t ignore anymore. Not when Peter was already carving out his own place. Just as Damian had done. 

He exhaled again, the words he didn’t want to say still tangled in his chest.

Maybe… Maybe he could live with this.

But not yet. Not yet.

Damian glanced back at Peter, who was now scanning the files in the shelves. 

Damian’s blood brother was a formidable competitor indeed.

Chapter Text

The control room buzzed like it remembered how to breathe. It pulsed.

Peter stood in the glow of dying fluorescents, arms crossed against the stale chill. The control room reeked of metal, old heat, and something that made his stomach churn—ozone, maybe. Blood, maybe. Or the memory of both.

Karen pulsed gently at his wrist, her soft glow faint in the stale, cold dark. The flicker of old monitors cast long, bruised shadows on the floor, the overhead lights sputtering like a dying heart. 

The walls weren’t clean. They weren’t walls anymore. They were stories.

Scorched handprints stained every surface, pressed into the concrete like someone had tried to escape through the seams. Blackened fingers. Burned into the walls like they’d clawed from the inside .

As if someone had tried to claw their way out—from the inside .

Peter didn’t say anything. He just stared.

Behind his eyes, something buzzed. Not just his Spider-sense—no, this was deeper. Slower. Like static rising from marrow. Something old was humming through this place. It reminded him of Titan in the worst way. But more personal. Closer .

Karen broke the silence, her voice quiet in his ear. “We’re clear. Damian’s gone dark. You’re alone now.”

“Right.” Peter’s voice was hoarse. “Let’s make it quick.”

He stepped forward, crouched beside the terminal—an outdated relic of something built before touchscreen tech was mainstream. Wires frayed like exposed nerves. Screws half-rusted in place. Some machines were still open, missing panels like organs had been dug out with no intent to fix them. He reached into his jacket and pulled the adapter cable. Jacked into his watch. Slid the connector into the terminal’s main port.

The monitor blinked.

Then twitched .

Peter jerked back instinctively.

“What the—”

The screen shuddered , then flickered again—this time waking with a whimper, as if dragging itself conscious. Karen immediately launched a scan, flooding his HUD with code-strips and data trails. But the OS that crawled onto the screen wasn’t WayneTech. Not even GCPD-standard.

It was... something else.

Something fragmented. Alive.

“What am I looking at?” Peter whispered.

Karen’s voice had a clipped edge now. “It’s not digital. Not fully. The system’s running on bio-symbolic code. Hybrid infrastructure. Some of it looks like neural scaffolding. Alive, maybe. Self-healing. Possibly sentient.”

Peter’s jaw clenched. Did Karen just say—

“Alive?”

“Not in a way that would comfort you.”

The code on the monitor began to move. Not scroll — move . Like it was reacting to him. Like it knew him. 

Lines rippled across the screen, golden veins of light against a background of ink-black.

Then came the words.

VESSEL-113B: INITIATED

ANATHEMA-BLOOD ERROR

TRACE: FLITZPATRICK / VEIL-B

(X-NULL)—LINE REJECTED > PHASE 2

HOST DETECTED. 

Peter froze.

Karen said something, distant in his ear. He didn’t hear her.

His eyes were locked on the screen, but his vision was narrowing. The letters were too sharp. Too bright. They cut behind his eyes.

Flitzpatrick. 

That was a name. 

His mother’s name. 

No—not just his. 

Peter Bruce’s mother’s name before she changed it .

The screen glitched. The lights above him buzzed and flared. Something inside his chest constricted—like something else was trying to pull up from beneath his skin.

He blinked.

And blinked again.

The room tilted.

Karen’s voice was sharper now. “Peter. I’m detecting neurological spikes. Heart rate irregular. Do not—”

The screen cracked, and his world fractured .

White tile.

A child—barely conscious, thrashing against leather straps, blood soaking the table beneath him. Small. So small.

A woman’s scream—raw, breaking. “That’s my son! Don’t touch him, he’s just a—”

Men in black robes circled the slab, voices low and chanting.

One leaned forward. His face was hidden behind a featureless plague mask. But his voice was ice dragged across steel.

“You are the fracture. You are the vessel. You are the price.”

The lights pulsed red.

The child screamed—

Peter screamed.

He came back with a jolt.

An electric pulse shocked through his wrist. Karen had triggered a failsafe. The static in his ears broke apart into real sound, and suddenly the cold of the room hit again, like a slap to the face.

His breath tore out of his lungs, and he stumbled backward, nearly knocking over a broken chair.

“You lost consciousness,” Karen said. “Forty-one seconds. Heart arrhythmia detected. You had a neurochemical seizure.”

Peter didn’t answer.

He looked at his hands.

They were shaking.

“Peter?”

“I’m fine,” he rasped, but it was a lie. Everything inside him felt wrong. Like something had slipped loose from under the floorboards of his mind. Something not him .

He turned back to the monitor—and froze.

The screen was now static again. Running a clean operating system. No symbols. No strange veins of light.

Except...

In the corner.

A circle of thorns. A weeping eye. A needle through the pupil.

Peter’s stomach dropped.

He knew that symbol.

He didn’t know how.

Not from his world. Not from New York. Not from anywhere he had ever been.

But the symbol was burned into him. Like a brand under the skin. Like he’d seen it long before he was born.

“Karen...” he said quietly. “Where are we, really?”

She hesitated. “Based on architectural data and satellite imaging... this wasn’t just a trafficking hub. It’s a repurposed medical facility. Likely blacksite. Possibly a front for another crime. I’m tracing one name— Bellona. ”

Peter’s mouth went dry.

He looked around the room again. Really looked this time.

Half the computers were older than him. The walls had lead shielding under the paint. The burnt handprints... they weren’t from panic.

They were from something trying to escape. 

Not from trafficking. From something worse. 

Peter felt cold all the way through.

His stomach turned, and he swore he could still hear the woman screaming.

“Pull up anything you can,” he whispered. “I want files. Names. Locations. All of it.”

Karen didn’t reply immediately.

And somewhere, in the corner of his mind, something else opened. Like a door creaking inward.

He wasn’t just seeing what had been done.

He was remembering what it felt like.

The door whispered open.

Damian stepped inside with the kind of silence that was trained into your bones —a product of years spent perfecting the art of not existing until it was too late. His movements made no sound. Not even his breath.

Peter didn’t flinch.

Didn’t turn.

Didn’t even acknowledge him.

Most people noticed Damian. He made them notice him. Civilians tensed, even seasoned vigilantes gave him a flicker of recognition. There was always a moment—shoulders locking, eyes cutting sideways, breath hitching.

But Peter?

Nothing.

He just kept typing, fingers flying over the decrepit keyboard like the interface wasn’t glitching between corrupted symbols and broken language. Like the machine was speaking a language he already knew .

Damian paused just past the threshold.

The control room still felt wrong . Rot clung to the walls like old screams. The scent of scorched circuits and something fouler—something human—hung heavy in the air. The handprints scorched into the metal hadn’t faded. Blackened, stretched. Like someone had tried to claw their way out of the walls .

It wasn’t just a control center.

It was a grave.

And Peter?

Peter fit here in a way Damian couldn’t explain.

Or maybe… he could . And didn’t want to.

Because Peter wasn’t just some stray tech genius who’d wandered into Gotham with trauma and good reflexes.

Peter was blood.

His older brother.

And he didn’t even know.

Damian clenched his jaw. The realization still felt strange in his chest—like swallowing glass. He didn’t want it. Didn’t ask for it. But it was there now, lodged behind his ribs.

And the worst part?

Peter was good .

Too good.

He moved with the kind of precision that came from breaking things to learn them . That wasn’t natural. That was learned. Conditioned. Survival-wired .

Damian studied him in silence.

Peter’s shoulders weren’t stiff. Just controlled. Tension, disguised as ease. Like a coiled spring pretending to be slack.

He didn’t ask who Peter was talking to. There was a comm in his ear, faintly active—but no voice Damian could hear. Whoever it was, they hadn’t introduced themselves. Which meant they were hiding something.

Another red flag.

He finally spoke.

“You find anything?”

Peter’s response was instant. “Coordinates. Names. Shipment paths. Six confirmed hubs. Two in Gotham. One off-shore. Others buried deeper in the network.”

Cold. Clipped. Efficient.

Not an answer. A report.

Like Peter was used to delivering debriefs. Like he expected someone to ask.

Too clean.

Damian’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not just downloading,” he said, stepping forward, arms crossing. “You’re searching.”

Peter didn’t look up. Didn’t respond.

But he didn’t deny it either.

Silence settled between them again—heavy, but not empty.

Damian’s gaze flicked down to Peter’s hands. 

Long fingers.

Precise. 

Calloused. 

Scarred. 

Tactical. 

Not from fencing or schoolyard scraps. 

Not from childhood roughhousing. 

From work .

From fighting .

From training .

Not from their father .

Not from the League .

But from somewhere else .

Somewhere darker.

And somehow, Peter had walked out of it alive .

Damian studied the back of Peter’s head. He could still hear the Batfamily comm in his ear, squawking in disjointed pieces—

“ROBIN, WHAT’S YOUR ETA?” — Drake
“Tell him to answer his damn comm!” — Todd
“We’re breaching in thirty, Damian—” — Grayson
“Why is he not responding?” — Brown
“Little brother. Help?,” came Cain’s dry tone.
“Robin.”
“Robin, report.”
“Son.” — Father’s voice like steel.
“If you don’t reply in the next ten seconds—” — Drake again.

Damian muted the line.

Tt.

He wasn’t about to explain that he was in a sealed control room with his mysteriously talented, emotionally unstable, tech-savvy older brother —who he didn’t know was related to, who himself doesn’t know they were related, didn’t know Batman was his father, and definitely didn’t know Damian was Robin, and is mysteriously trained. 

So instead, Damian asked, “Who taught you?”

Peter’s shoulders tensed—barely. He didn’t look back.

“No one that matters anymore.”

Again, not an answer. 

You’re avoiding everything that matters. 

“You don’t flinch,” Damian said quietly. “Not even when I enter. You don’t hesitate. You don’t show fear. So who trained you?”

Peter paused in his typing. Just for a second.

Then: “Why does it matter to you?”

Damian exhaled slowly. “Because I know what kind of things it takes to make someone act like that.”

Peter finally looked at him.

His eyes were quiet.

Not cold. Not harsh.

Just... tired .

Like he knew exactly what Damian meant.

But wasn’t ready to say it out loud.

Peter’s mouth quirked, just barely. “You're not what I expected.”

Damian scowled. “Tt. I get that a lot.”

“You’re younger than me,” Peter said, voice soft. “But you stand like you’re twice my age.”

Damian bristled. “I’ve seen more than you think.”

“I don’t doubt that.” Peter’s expression sobered. “I just… didn’t expect you to be here.”

Damian’s gaze narrowed. “Why?”

Peter hesitated. “Because this place feels like something I was supposed to come back to. Alone.”

That landed in Damian’s chest like a stone.

Because deep down, he understood .

This place had claws . And Peter had already been caught in them once.

Damian said nothing.

Then, in a low voice: “I’m not letting you go through this alone.”

Peter blinked.

It was the first thing that actually surprised him.

Damian didn’t elaborate. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t. He wasn’t weak . 

The comm crackled in Damian’s ear again:

“Robin. You’re two minutes late.” — Drake

“Demon spawn, you better not be dead.” — Todd

“Wait, I think I found a thermal—he’s not alone.” — Thomas

“You guys think he’s with a villain ?” — Brown

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“What if it’s his friend?”

“He doesn’t have friends.”

“Robin,” Batman’s voice finally snapped, calm but low and dangerous , “Report now.”

He unmuted just long enough to say, “Control room. Extracting data,” 

“Still haven’t ID’d the other figure on internal cams. Who’s with you?”

“Tt. Civ,” Damian lied smoothly. “Knows the system.”

“Define ‘knows,’” Red Hood grumbled. “Because Babs says someone cracked bio-symbolic encryption. Not even I know how to do that.”

“Yeah, and that’s saying something,” Brown added.

Damian rolled his eyes. “Handling it.”

“You ignoring us again, baby bat?” came Thoma’s voice.

“Negative,” Damian clipped. “Stay on comms.”

Then he muted them. Immediately.

“I do have friends. Imbeciles,” Damian mumbled, almost too quiet.

Peter hands on the keyboard paused. Then said, softly: “Well, you’ve got another one now. Deal with it.”

Damian blinked.

Heat bloomed in his ears. “I didn’t ask for that.”

“Tough luck.”

They sat in silence for a few seconds.

Peter’s typing slowed. The screen flickered one last time. Then the download bar blinked—complete.

Peter stood up, arms stretching slightly, then looked toward the exit.

“We should check on the kids. They’ve been through enough.”

Damian nodded. “Yeah.”

Peter tilted his head, teasing, “You gonna keep shadow-stalking me?”

Damian turned away. “Tt. I only stalk people who deserve it.”

“So... me?”

“Maybe,” Damian muttered. Then: “You’re... tolerable.”

Peter smirked. “You’re not too bad yourself, tiny.”

Damian narrowed his eyes. “Say that again and I will taser you.”

Peter raised his hands in surrender, still smiling.

They headed for the exit.

And Damian, walking beside someone who should have been a stranger , felt something unexpected.

Peace.

Like maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t the only one who didn’t fit right into this family. Like maybe, they were both puzzle pieces from broken boxes, jammed into the same crooked frame.

And somehow… it was starting to work.

Chapter Text

Dick balanced on the ledge of the old ventilation silo, the wind carving across his cheekbones as he stared down into the skeletal sprawl of the trafficking hub. The building was ugly—square-jawed and squat, brutalist concrete patched with rusted sheet metal and half-dead wiring. 

The kind of place Gotham grew like mold. 

The kind of place where the city hid its nightmares.

The kind of place he’d been trying to burn out of Gotham since he was fifteen .

Over the comms, the team, his siblings, were unraveling.

“Did Little D just mute us?” Steph hissed, voice high with disbelief.

“Yep,” Tim muttered. “Cut his feed completely. He’s on his Solo Brooding Bullshit again.”

“He’s definitely with someone,” Duke replied, ever the quiet voice of reason. “He’s acting different.”

“‘Different’?” Jason cut in, dry as sandpaper. “He’s ignoring us. I swear to God if he’s adopted a criminal again, I’m leaving.”

“Wha– Again? Since when is that your line?” Tim deadpanned.

Dick let them run with it for a minute. He was watching shadows flicker through the broken upper windowpanes, scanning for movement, gauging how many guards were shifting through the entry lanes. 

His mouth was tight.

Because he’d heard it, too.

The voice.

Peter .

It had come through Damian’s mic like a ghost—barely above the static. Not a scream, not a call for help. Just a dry mutter, casual and irritated:

“Well, you got another one now—” 

It had cutten off from there. 

But just like that, Dick had known.

The tone. 

The cadence. 

The reluctant concern buried under sarcasm.

“Robin. Check in,” he’d said—already knowing there’d be no reply.

Then silence.

Then the chaos above.

Steph: “I bet it’s his secret boyfriend.”

Tim: “It’s not a boyfriend—well, I mean. He doesn’t even have friends . Except Jon, but he doesn’t count.”

Cass: “Respect. Family.”

Steph: “Wait, respects ? Are we talking about Little D?”

“Would explain the mute button,” Tim added.

Dick let out a breath. “Alright, enough.”

No one listened.

Of course not.

Duke: “Okay, but like what if it’s someone from the League?”

Steph: “What if it’s like someone, like, you know, Talia ?!”

Jason: “Shut up, it won’t be her. She would have made herself known to her ‘beloved’.”

“I told you he has a villain boyfriend,” Steph whispered like it was a conspiracy.

“Shut up,” said four voices at once.

Then—finally—Batman’s voice broke across the comm like a storm.

“ Enough. ”

Silence. Immediate.

“Focus on the mission. Tacticals only. We breach in ninety seconds.”

A click. 

Comms cleared.

Dick exhaled.

Sixty seconds of perfect silence passed.

Then a soft chime buzzed in his ear.

PRIVATE COMM INITIATED: ORACLE, NIGHTWING, RED ROBIN

“Okay,” Barbara said, all business. “Don’t yell.”

Tim muttered, “You’re gonna make us yell, aren’t you?”

“I lied,” Barbara said without preamble. “I knew who was with Damian.”

Dick straightened instinctively. “...It’s him, isn’t it?”

“Peter,” Barbara confirmed. “Confirmed via gait analysis and vocal signature. It's him. He cracked the encryption. I don’t even know how . I’m not even mad, I’m just—how did he—?!”

“I knew it,” Dick breathed. “I knew it. ”

Tim groaned. “We’re so screwed.”

“Busted,” Dick agreed grimly. “So grounded.”

A moment of silence passed. Then Dick blinked. 

Did Babs just say—

“ Peter’s the one who cracked the biotech firewall?”

Tim sounded very tired, not bothered at all. “Of course, he did. He’s Bruce’s kid, afterall.”

“Already cracking tech half-alive codes?” Dick nearly choked. “He’s not even a Bat yet!”

“I don’t think he wants to be a Bat,” Barbara replied. “But he’s acting like one anyway.”

Dick rubbed a gloved hand over his mouth, pacing the rooftop ledge. “Okay. So back to the problem, we’re all agreed: we’re in trouble.”

“But! We were trying to protect Bruce,” Barbara added quickly. “We didn’t know what Peter was yet. You know, the threat or something. And now... now I think he’s just as screwed up as we are.”

Tim sighed. “Yeah. So like... Bat-adjacent.”

“Bat-compatible,” Dick said, rubbing his temples. “We should’ve told Bruce.”

“We are in deep trouble,” Barbara groaned. “Like, Bruce’s Voice™ trouble.”

“Well,” Tim said, cheerful in that way that meant he was spiraling, “we’re already dead. Might as well tell him after the mission. Right? Right?”

“Tell him after we get yelled at?”

Tim: “Tell him after we can run. ”

Dick sighed. “You guys are the worst co-conspirators.”

Barbara: “Says the man who didn’t tell Bruce that his son, that he didn’t know about, was hanging out in Gotham with the emotional range of a haunted alley cat.”

“…Okay, fair.”

Tim: “Guys. Focus. We have an op.”

Dick exhaled and scanned the perimeter again. “Alright. We hit in three. I’ll take south wing. Tim, you’re on west. Barbara’s watching cams. Let’s move.”

The metal vent gave a metallic whumpf as Dick kicked it in with precision. He dropped down into a shadow-drenched hallway, blue batons in his hands, and fell into a low, prowling crouch.

The moment his boots hit tile, his instincts clicked in.

The smell hit first.

Chlorine. 

Burnt copper. 

Acidic disinfectant covering old blood.

He hated places like this.

He knew places like this.

He had been in too many rooms like that. Rooms that smelled like pain and smoke and old blood. 

But Peter? He shouldn’t have ever been in one. But he was in one now. 

That thought made Dick hit harder.

Because Peter was his little brother now. He was part of the family. 

And Dick knew that Peter hadn’t asked for this. And deep inside, that he , and the others are the ones that dragged him in. Into this world that once you get in, you can’t get out. 

And now, it’s too late, because Damian—Damian knew. That was clear now. 

And Bruce? Bruce was walking into this blind, and part of Dick hated that they were the ones keeping him in the dark.

But maybe a little longer wouldn’t hurt.

Maybe they could protect Peter for just one more night.

Footsteps echoed. 

And Dick moved .

Two guards rounded the corner—guns up, voices casual. They didn’t see him coming.

He took the first one down with a sweep-kick, baton crack to the wrist, and elbow to the throat. The second turned to shout—but Dick had already ghosted behind him, dropped him with a sleeper hold, and caught the falling body before it hit the ground.

Every target he dropped, he thought of Peter. 

Thought about how Peter would have to do this into the future he bought him too. 

Thought of all the difficulties, he had to live to. Everything that he needs to survive . 

That thought made Dick hit harder, and his chest feel heavier. 

Silence again.

His comm buzzed.

Tim: “West side clear. Hood made a hole in the wall.”

Jason: “You’re welcome.”

Steph: “I’m in the pit. Literally. Some kind of human sorting arena. This is disgusting.”

Cass: “In position. Guard rotation is three minutes. I’ll take the back stair.”

Duke: “South catwalks secure.”

Barbara: “Alarms are looping. Sixty seconds before the secondary failsafe engages.”

And then—

Batman: “Robin. Report.”

The whole line paused. It was a long one.

Dick held his breath.

Then Damian’s voice answered, clipped and cold: “We’re in deeper. There’s another room. They’re sorting the next batch.”

Dick’s heart twisted.

We. 

Of course they were deeper. 

Of course Peter followed.

He could see it—Peter slipping down a corridor without permission, without backup. Damian following him, half out of suspicion, half out of something closer to hope.

Dick clenched his jaw, knocked another guard flat, and kicked down a half-scorched door.

The room on the other side smelled like copper and chlorine and plastic despair.

And kids. 

Scared ones. 

Silent ones. 

Eyes wide like bruises.

Dick's heart cracked a little more.

Because he’d been the first Robin.

He’d been the one to escape.

And now he was staring at a room full of kids who hadn’t.

He heard Steph’s voice again in his ear: “North level mostly cleared. You guys see Damian yet?”

“Negative,” Tim replied. “They’re too far in. We’re converging.”

Dick stared around the room.

This wasn’t a place you walked out of the same.

And Peter—Peter had gone in willingly.

God.

He should’ve stopped him.

He should’ve—

“Nightwing,” Batman’s voice echoed. “To the central mezzanine. Now.”

Dick inhaled through his nose. 

Exhaled.

Then he turned toward the stairwell and bolted.

The city breathed beneath him, a living thing, its pulse erratic and choked with pain.

Bruce moved through the darkness, silent as a ghost, but inside, his mind was a storm. The comms buzzed with the voices of his children—his family—each tone clipped, each word a practiced efficiency honed by years of fighting in Gotham’s shadows. 

Nightwing’s report, Red Hood’s clipped warnings, Oracle’s updates. 

The mission was running like clockwork, but something was wrong .

He felt it in his bones.

Damian had gone silent again. 

No status, no updates, just that single, clipped response from ten minutes ago: “We’re deeper. They’re sorting the next batch.”

We.

Bruce’s jaw tightened. 

He hadn’t asked who “we” was. 

He should have. 

He should have demanded an answer, but he hadn’t. 

Because this was Gotham, and in Gotham, you survived the moment.

You pushed forward. 

You dealt with emotion later.

Always later .

But now, as he descended into the labyrinth of concrete and steel, the weight of that decision pressed down on him. 

He was used to secrets. 

He was used to lies, even from those he loved. 

But tonight, the silence from Damian felt different. It wasn’t just tactical—it was deliberate. 

It was hiding . 

Bruce’s mind raced, cataloging every detail: the cracked tablet on the floor, its screen shattered and stained, a barcode etched into its casing—a cold reminder of the system behind this trafficking ring. 

This wasn’t just a place; it was a machine. A monstrous, grinding engine of human misery, hidden beneath Gotham’s skin.

He thought of the voice he’d heard earlier on Damian’s open mic—distorted, young, irritated. “Well, you got another one now—”

That voice had stuck in his ribs, a strange echo. Unfamiliar, yet hauntingly familiar. Too close to something buried deep in his memory.

Of what? He wasn’t sure. He pushed the thought away. Now was not the time for ghosts.

The corridor twisted sharply left, opening into a half-finished mezzanine. Concrete steps framed with rusted railings led down to a broken floor below.From the shadows came the sound of light, rapid footsteps—too familiar to be a stranger.

Damian .

And someone else.

Bruce moved before he could think, descending the steps with practiced stealth. One shadow melted into another.

Then—

There they were.

Two figures.

Damian, back pressed to the wall, arms crossed tight, face unreadable beneath the dim light. Still in civilian clothes, blending into the ruins like a ghost.

And beside him—

A boy.

No gear. No weapons. Just presence.

He stood beside Damian—not behind him, not beneath him—but as an equal.

Bruce’s breath caught.

His mind froze.

That face.

Those eyes.

Blue, but not his shade.

Thomas Wayne’s eyes.

Pale. 

Fierce. 

Wary.

Eyes that had stared back at him from faded photographs locked away in a manor vault. Eyes that held a mournful weight, a stillness that shattered the silence.

He blinked.

The face didn’t change.

The teen met his gaze with an unreadable calm.

Not fear.

Not awe.

Not myth.

Just... recognition.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

Damian turned slowly toward Bruce, nodding once.

“Peter and I have secured the bottom level. Hostiles are neutralised.”

The kid( his? )'s voice was dry, measured, arms crossed.

“There’s one more hallway that we haven’t cleared yet. West end.”

Bruce couldn’t stop staring.

Not just at the eyes.

At the way the teen , his son(Peter?) , held himself—tense but controlled, protective.

There was blood on his sleeve.

A dull, dark smear.

Bruce’s mind reeled.

He couldn’t look away.

Something deep inside stirred—a memory, a question long buried beneath years of grief and duty.

Alfred’s voice echoed in his mind, soft and distant: “Do you think you’ll ever have more children, Master Bruce?”

He had never allowed himself to imagine it. 

Would they have his hands? His jawline? His mother’s laugh? His father’s frown?

But now,

He was staring at something real.

Something impossible.

And it broke him.

His jaw clenched .

Words caught in his throat.

He tried to steady the cowl, to mask the storm inside.

Peter’s gaze didn’t waver.

He nodded curtly.

“Batman.”

Just the name.

Like it was any other night. 

Not as a father. 

But as a symbol . 

Like this wasn’t a seismic shift shaking Bruce’s world apart.

Peter’s voice was flat, measured.

Not a challenge.

Not a plea.

Just fact.

He wasn’t armed.

Technically, Peter said, he was.

But he wasn’t here to fight.

Bruce’s breath hitched.

Not because of the words.

But because of how they were said.

Like he’d said them a thousand times before.

Like someone forced to explain himself just to survive .

Peter, his son, wasn’t posturing.

He wasn’t afraid.

He was ready.

Ready to be punished .

Bruce didn’t know how to look at him.

How to see a boy, his son, and not say it.

Peter didn’t know. Peter didn’t know that he was his son. 

And Bruce didn’t know how to tell him.

So he said nothing.

He just looked.

And Peter, after a heartbeat, nodded.

Like that was answer enough.

The comms buzzed softly in the background.

Voices of his family, slicing through the darkness with practiced precision.

Bruce’s mind raced.

He knew his children were hiding something from him.

Damian’s silence, the way he stood, so still, so guarded. The way he looked at Peter, then at Bruce, eyes flickering with something unreadable.

Guilt? 

Fear? 

Protectiveness?

Bruce had seen that look before.

On Jason, after he’d come back from the dead.

On Tim, when he’d kept secrets about his family.

On Dick, when he’d left Gotham for Blüdhaven.

They all had their secrets. Bruce had let them have theirs . 

But this—this was different.

This was something deeper.

Something that cut to the bone.

Bruce’s hands curled into fists.

He wanted to reach out.

To ask .

To demand .

But he didn’t.

Because he knew, better than anyone, what it was like to keep secrets.

What it was like to be afraid of what you might find.

So he stood there, silent, watching.

Peter shifted, just a bit.

Still standing in front of Damian.

Still guarding him.

And softly, almost without inflection:

“He’s not armed. I am, technically. But I’m not here to fight.”

Bruce’s chest tightened.

Peter wasn’t just lost kid.

He was something else.

Something impossible.

And Bruce didn’t know how to face that.

He didn’t know how to look at a boy who looked so much like his father, who stood with the same quiet strength, the same fierce protectiveness, and not see himself.

Not see Thomas.

Not see the family he’d lost.

The family he’d never had.

The comms buzzed again.

Nightwing’s voice, sharp and urgent.

“Batman, status?”

Bruce didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

He was staring at a ghost.

At a dream he’d never allowed himself to have.

Suddenly, footsteps thundered down the hall.

Nightwing and Red Hood appeared, weapons raised.

Jason’s eyes locked on Peter—and froze.

So did Peter.

“...You,” Jason muttered, lowering his gun.

“What the hell—”

Peter blinked, eyes narrowing.

“Red?”

Nightwing skidded to a stop, gaze darting between them.

Then, sharp and incredulous:

“You knew?!”

Jason’s voice was low, defensive.

“I didn’t know he’d be here —”

Nightwing’s tone cut through the tension.

“You knew he existed?! ”

Jason said nothing.

Bruce said nothing.

He couldn’t.

Chapter Text

Peter didn’t move.

Not because he didn’t want to. Oh, no. His brain was screaming move , say something , breathe . Not because he was being brave. Not because he had any kind of plan. 

But because the rest of him was frozen in place—locked into that exact moment where Batman, freaking Batman, and oh-my-god actual Bruce Wayne, was standing ten feet away and had been staring at him for the last ten minutes like Peter had personally keyed the Batmobile. 

Which, for the record, he hadn’t. 

Yet .

Bruce Wayne was staring like he’d been watching Peter’s entire life on CCTV. 

Like he already knew. Everything . 

And Peter? He was trying very, very hard not to completely fall apart.

Somewhere to the side, Red Hood and Nightwing were—yep—yelling. At each other. Which was weird, because Peter had assumed Bat-people didn’t yell. He thought they brooded. Like cats. Bats . He meant bats. 

But. Peter blinked. Why would they be yelling?

His entire brain had flatlined. Burned. Dead. 

It took Peter an embarrassing two minutes to realise what was going on. 

Red Hood was yelling about him. Nightwing was also yelling at Red Hood about yelling about him, but in that cool, practiced older-brother tone that was like half therapist, half exasperated teacher. 

“—YOU KNEW?” Red Hood barked.

“Little Wing—” Nightwing tried.

“But you STILL let him meet PETER?” (Peter didn’t even know who “him” was supposed to be, but he was about 80% sure it wasn’t Santa.)

Nightwing sighed. Therapist voice engaged. “Little wing. Listen. He needs—”

Peter tuned out.

Voices bounced around his skull like rubber bullets. Damian’s grip on his sleeve was the only thing keeping him tethered. The kid (Robin. Actual Robin.) had latched on like a barnacle with emotional damage and didn’t seem keen on letting go.

Which was fine. Great even. Except Peter’s fight-or-flight response was locked on ultra maxed-out freeze mode because—

Batman. Freaking Bruce Wayne.

Still. Just. Staring .

Like Peter was some kind of threat, or puzzle, or something .

Which made no sense, right? 

Peter’s mind spiraled. Maybe Bruce thought Peter hurt Damian. Or manipulated him. Or—

  Oh. Right. 

Damian’s Robin. 

Bruce might think Peter did something wrong to his kid.

That makes sense. 

His heartbeat was a tad bit fast. Sounding normal, but panicked at the same time. 

It was only then Peter noticed Nightwing’s heartbeat.

It was fast, but not panicked. Steady, in a way that screamed trained calm . Familiar somehow, like he had heard that rhythm somewhere. It was very familiar . 

Peter’s gaze drifted.

And then it clicked.

Richard.

Peter’s head slowly turned toward Nightwing. 

Oh. 

Richard Grayson. 

O h. 

The one who helped him on the street. Ruffled his hair.

Oh. OH. 

Meaning that Nightwing was—

Dick Grayson.

Peter blinked. Then blinked again.

Then just… stared.

His breath caught in his throat. Oh.

He felt his body still further, Spidey-sense going quiet not from relief but from resignation . Peter already knew that Richard Grayson was a vigilante. So, that wasn’t much a surprise. His brain was doing the math, tho very slow and it was all clicking into place. 

It was weird actually. That name—Uncle Ben mentioned it once. “The first Robin. The one who left.”

Except Peter barely remembered that. Barely remembered anything unless he tried really, really hard.

Like his brain was sorting through foreign files. Figuring out which memories belonged to him .

Like his body wasn’t his own.

Flashes.

Cold tables. Tweezers. Voices above him, not to him. Steel. Restraints. Scalpel.

Cutting him like he wasn’t human.

1. No. Please. DO—

Peter Inhaled sharply.

One. Two. Three. Four.

Hold.

One. Two. Three. Four.

Exhale.

One. Two. Three. Four.

How weird. 

Maybe, Peter just really needed his sleep. 

He refocused. 

Then who was Red Hood? 

That guy was harder to pin down. He wasn’t Tim, that was for sure. He was huge. Large body. Very tall. Muscles. His voice was sharp, like broken glass wrapped in humor. His movements were looser but still precise.

 His pulse was faster than Dick’s, rough around the edges, like he was always a little on edge—even now, when he was trying to look relaxed.

Peter narrowed his eyes. Peter didn’t know who he was. Not his name. Not his face. Not his heartbeat. 

Which meant… they hadn’t met. Not as civilians.

He mentally filed the information away next to the hundreds of other things he wasn’t ready to say out loud.

Then, his gaze snapped to Damian. Again.

Still staring. Still watching. Not blinking. Not flinching.

Peter stared back. Because what else could he do? He was boxed in. Surrounded. The other batkids ( That’s what they were called, apparently.) were probably around. 

Actually scratch that. As he felt the hair on his back stand up again. 

They were everywhere.

All eyes. All silent judgment. Or maybe whispers. Yeah. They were whispering. Rapid-fire Bat-style whisper-fights, voices low and sharp. 

That was when Peter felt it. Well. His Spidey-Sense felt it. 

A quiet, calm presence stepping into his space. Not threatening. Not aggressive.

Just—there.

And watching .

He turned his head and found a girl around his age standing a few feet away. Her black suit was sleek, her stance relaxed but alert. Her eyes locked with his like she was seeing something deeper, something more real than anyone else had.

Black Bat. 

The moment stretched. 

Peter’s Spidey-sense didn’t flare in alarm. Instead, it buzzed softly—like static before a signal clears. Like her presence registered as… safe . Not because she wasn't dangerous. No, she absolutely was. But because she moved in a rhythm he understood. She read the world through instinct and movement the same way his sixth sense did.

Her body language. The way she breathed. The exact weight in her step. It was all perfectly measured. Predictive. Like she was always in control.

Peter’s chest tightened. It was like meeting someone who spoke your first language when you’d been faking fluency your whole life.

She was someone like him . 

He knew it. She knew it. 

Black Bat tilted her head. Then signed.

You’re loud. Like me.

Peter blinked.

Then grinned.

Not wide and Stark-bright, not fake. Just… honest. He signed back. 

Loud. Can’t shut it off. 

Cass stepped closer and tapped her chest, then pointed at him. That’s okay. Understand. You feel the room. Here. Then she tapped her head. You think too much. Still good, though.

Peter didn’t know what to say to that.

But Black Bat smiled. Soft. Real.

And for the first time since he got kidnapped, his head felt a little lighter. 

This conversation was not left unnoticed by Batkids or Batman. 

Who, respectfully, didn’t interrupt. 

The circle formed around them again—not officially, but Peter felt it, and so he did what he always does in this kind of situation. 

To be more specific. 

What his mind does. 

Analyse. Catalogue. 

Red Robin— Tim Drake (Heartbeat recognisable), Tech support (likely), Third Robin (??) , Spoiler and Signal (Both still remaining variables, have theories. Unknown: Spoiler: Blonde Hair, not in family, Signal: Metahuman? Duke Thomas (??) Recent member of Wayne Family(??) ). 

Nightwing ( Dick Grayson: First Robin) , Red Hood (Unknown, presumed Second Robin, Civ identity still not known, but heartbeat recognisable) , and Black Bat (More dangerous. Civ Identity: Most likely Cassandra Cain. Only daughter (adopted) of Wayne Family. Approach with caution. Can read) , just off his left side. 

And finally, Damian ( Robin: Recent. Assassin. Experienced.) to his right, still clinging to his wrist. 

Peter was in the middle of it. Literally and emotionally and mentally. 

It was like a weird family huddle—but Peter wasn’t in the family.

He was just… there.

The subject of debate. The anomaly.

Batman ( Bruce Wayne. Dangerous.) stepped forward.

Peter’s head throbbed.

Noise. Pressure. Tension.

And Bruce just looked at him. Like he could see everything.

Through him.

“...Injuries?” Batman asked. Flat. Measured. Voice like crushed gravel.

Peter blinked. What?

He nodded. Poker face engaged. No emotion. No tells.

Not realising that the face he defaulted to—the one he used around Stark during those lectures, the one he wore around May when he didn’t want her to worry—was the same dead-eyed look Bruce used during Justice League and Cave Debriefs. 

He didn’t know how much it resembled him.

But everyone else noticed.

Red Hood stopped talking.

Nightwing and Red Robin flinched.

Spoiler whispered. Signal shifted.

Peter didn’t notice.

He answered automatically. “Superficial cuts. Minor concussion. Dislocated shoulder—self-reset. Bruised ribs. Damian’s bleeding from the side. Two inches deep, non-arterial. Recommend—”

He stopped. 

Oh.

Realised what he sounded like.

It wasn’t an answer. 

He messed up. 

It was a report . 

Peter’s stomach flipped.

A field report.

Batman didn’t move.

Dick and Red Hood exchanged a glance.

Tim froze.

Cass tilted her head.

Peter’s stomach twisted. They heard it.

The clinical edge. The flat tone. The detachment.

Peter clenched his jaw.

Oh, no.

Don’t shake. Don’t crack. Don’t fold .

He didn’t notice he was giving them the glare TM until Red Hood muttered, “That is so unfair. We’re gonna have to talk about this. That look should be illegal. ”

Dick winced. Spoiler elbowed him.

Peter stayed quiet. Did he look angry? He suddenly just wanted to curl into a ball and disappear. 

“Are we waiting for someone?” Peter asked suddenly, eyes fixed on the asphalt. Voice barely above a whisper. “Or… to leave?”

Damian looked at him. Then looked at Batman. “We’re waiting for my father.”

Peter blinked (again. He really, really, needed sleep) .

“Didn’t we—?” He paused. 

Looked at Batman. 

Then back at Damian. 

“...He’s not here yet?”

Batman grunted. “It’s a good idea.”

Peter stared. “What?”

Damian nodded, completely ignoring the confusion radiating off Peter. 

“Can you stay? With me. Until he arrives?”

He — Batman — Bruce freaking Wayne — was already here?

Peter nodded slowly. “Sure. Yeah. That’s… fine.”

Fine. Definitely fine. So fine. Very not on the verge of a breakdown.

“Thanks,” he added, and gave them the perfect Stark-certified smile. Straight from the PR playbook. Flashy, charismatic, teeth-and-all.

Every Batkid flinched. 

Red Hood muttered, “Nope,” and turned away.

Batman stilled .

Peter frowned. Weird.

The vigilantes started peeling away. One by one. Like sharks backing off. Saying quiet goodbyes. Spoiler saluted. Tim just nodded, thoughtful. 

Black Bat lingered a bit more, signing Breathe slow and going to be okay before vanishing into the dark.

And then, it was just Peter and Damian again.

Waiting.

Again.

For Bruce Wayne.

Peter sat back down. Head in his hands. His chest hurt. There were ambulances outside for the other kids—he could hear the sirens, the wailing, the low thrum of the engines. They were safe now. That’s what mattered.

Except Peter didn’t feel safe. Not in his body. Not in his mind. Everything was loud . Screaming. His memories surged up—blood, chains, screaming, fire, names, Mary Flitzpatrick. 

And Peter—just a sixteen-year-old kid pretending he wasn’t about to collapse.

His chest hurt.

His skin buzzed.

His head screamed.

Too much.

Too much.

He could feel the pressure behind his eyes building, and he hated it. 

Hated the headache. Hated the noise.

He fumbled for his headphones, hands shaking, breath hitched. He shoved them in and let music crash into his brain like a tide.

Just noise.

Any noise.

Noise that wasn’t sirens or voices or reports or fire or screaming or—

Damian didn’t say anything.

He just sat with him.

And they waited.

Waited for Bruce Wayne.

Or maybe for everything to fall apart.

He didn’t know what was first, but he knew what he want. 

He just wanted to go home.

But he didn’t even know where that was anymore.

The ride home was silent.

Tension lived in the seams of the Batmobile—thick, heavy, unspoken.

Bruce didn’t talk. Just drove. 

The others were smart enough not to break the silence.

Nightwing was in the passenger seat, glancing back occasionally like he wanted to say something—offer comfort or confession or commentary—but thought better of it. Red Hood lounged in the back, arms crossed, boots kicked up in the least relaxed posture Bruce had ever seen.

Everyone else had taken their own route back. They were smart enough to clear out. The comms were active, but quiet.

Even Oracle wasn’t talking.

Bruce kept his eyes on the road, grip tight on the wheel. Not too tight. Not clenched. Just controlled.

Always controlled.

He didn’t trust his voice right now.

Didn’t trust what would come out if he opened his mouth.

Because they all knew what Bruce had just realized.

Peter was his .

And because the image of Peter—sitting on the curb, shaking, headphones jammed in, pretending not to break while Damian silently guarded him like a dragon with a broken egg—was burned into his mind like a brand.

He couldn’t stop seeing it.

Couldn’t stop feeling it.

The Cave felt colder than usual.

The lights clicked on. The hum of systems rebooting felt too loud. Like static in his skull.

Bruce’s muscles ached. Not from the mission.

But from holding it in .

The anger. The grief. The guilt.

And the confusion.

Because they knew .

Dick.

Tim.

Barbara.

Even Jason.

They had all known.

And he— Bruce —had been the last to find out.

No one said anything as they filed in. No one dared.

Jason peeled off first, muttering something about “rooftop air” and “not dealing with this crap.” Steph followed, dragging Duke with her, claiming he “looked like he was gonna pass out from secondhand stress.” Cass lingered at the edge of the Cave entrance, her eyes darting toward Bruce once—soft, assessing—before vanishing like mist.

That left Bruce. Dick. Tim. 

The empty hum of the Batcave. And a whole lot of silence.

Dick was the one who broke it.

He always was.

“We were going to tell you,” Dick said finally.

Bruce said nothing.

“After the mission,” Tim added, quieter. “When we could confirm it. When he was safe.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “And you decided that alone?”

Dick didn’t flinch. “We decided it together.”

“You had no right.”

“No,” Dick said, his voice breaking. “But we did it anyway.”

The silence swelled.

Bruce turned to the monitor.

Peter Bruce Parker.

Still on-screen. Still staring back. Bruce Parker. 

Bruce. 

He reached for the keyboard. 

Threat Level: (??)                Strengths: (?)                Alliances:(??)

Stopped.

Didn’t type.

Couldn’t.

“He doesn’t trust me,” Bruce said. Flat. Distant.

“You were dressed like a cryptid,” Dick said.

“He was scared,” Tim murmured.

“He was trained ,” Bruce said. “To read people. To report. To act like a soldier. A spy.”

And none of that came from him .

That fact dug like glass under his skin. 

Dick stepped closer. “You can still—”

“He’s not coming back with us,” Bruce said, more to himself than anyone.

Tim looked at him. “You sure?”

Bruce’s silence said enough.

He didn't want to drag another kid with him to his nightlife.

Even if it is his own kid.

He didn’t wait for their replies or their reactions. 

He just turned and walked back upstairs.

Chapter Text

The room still smelled like smoke and dried blood.

Peter didn’t know if it was real or just in his head, but the scent stuck. Same with the weight in his chest. Too heavy. Like all the air had curdled around him and decided not to move anymore.

He sat in the corner of the safehouse couch — knees drawn up, hoodie over his head, eyes vacant and locked somewhere between here and not here. 

They were people everywhere. Kids crying, looking for the parents. Guardians coming to pick up the kids, eyes brimming with tears, and then police and first aiders. Next to him, Damian sat in total silence, posture stiff, back straight, arms crossed like a blade folded in on itself. He hadn’t said much since they were extracted. Since Peter sat down. Since the whole meet with the Batfamily, after they had pulled them both off the kidnapping hub and stuck them here in a “temporary safe zone.”

Peter hadn’t asked where they were. 

He didn’t care. He didn’t want to think.

He just wanted the inside of his head to stop buzzing.

It was quiet. But It wasn’t peaceful. It was as if the silence had teeth.

It pressed down on Peter’s ears like water, thick and heavy and constant, like the air in this dusty safehouse hadn’t moved in years. Like time itself was holding its breath.

His thoughts felt like glass in a blender. Still spinning. Still sharp. He couldn't hold onto a single one for longer than a few seconds without something twisting, darkening, swallowing it whole.

What he’d seen…

What he’d felt in that place—

He didn’t even know how to describe it.

Was it a flashback?
A memory?
A hallucination?

Because it felt real.

Not just vivid — real. Like his body remembered the cold of the metal table. The smell of burning silk. The weight of someone’s hand on his chest, pinning him down like he was property.

And worse — the voices.

He still heard them if he closed his eyes.
Not yelling.
Not screaming.
Just whispers.
Familiar. Distant.
Like bedtime stories you couldn’t escape from.

"He’s almost ready."
"Tighten the thread."
"Empty the boy. Make space."

Peter dug his nails into the edge of his sleeves, breathing in through his nose. Out through clenched teeth.

In. Out. In. Out.

He shifted slightly, trying to stretch out the stiffness in his back, but it only made the burn across his spine flare up again — phantom pain from things he didn’t want to remember.

How much of what he’d seen was real?
How much of it was implanted?
How much of it… wasn't even his?

Or, How much was his?

“Peter Bruce Parker,” he whispered to himself.

The name tasted wrong on his tongue.

Not because it wasn’t his. But because it was .
And that terrified him more than anything else.

What had they done to him?

What had he been before the merge?
Before him — before Peter Parker — slipped into a body that had already been broken, altered, emptied out and stitched back together?

The door beeped somewhere along the end. Unlocked. Peter was pulled from his thoughts. 

Footsteps, not sharp and thunderous like they expected, but slow, casual. Familiar in a way that made Peter’s shoulders tense anyway.

Bruce Wayne was here. He stepped in, not as Batman, not even as the gruff, gravel-voiced detective from the news.

No.
This was Brucie Wayne : billionaire, media darling, Gotham’s golden mask.

His expression was soft. His voice was warm. His suit was perfectly tailored and stupidly expensive, not like something that had been changed into recently. He moved like someone walking into a room he owned.

"Hope I’m not interrupting,” Bruce said mildly, flashing that smooth, practiced smile that never quite reached the eyes.

Peter blinked once. Offering a half smile. Didn’t sit up.

Damian stood. Not in deference — never — but with a precision that said we’re back in the presence of something bigger.

Bruce scanned the space with deliberate ease, then let his gaze land on Peter. His expression didn’t change, but something shifted beneath it — a barely-there furrow between his brows.

“You must be the infamous Peter,” Bruce said lightly, stepping closer but not too close. His tone was warm. Friendly. Perfectly crafted. "I've heard quite a bit about you."

Peter’s voice came out scratchy, dry from disuse.

“Cool,” he said flatly. “You can Google me later.”

Damian’s mouth twitched like he was trying not to smirk. Bruce, to his credit, let out a big laugh.

“I could,” Bruce agreed easily, clasping his hands in front of him. “But I figured it might be easier to hear it straight from the source.”

Peter didn’t answer. He just pulled his hoodie down and stared past Bruce’s shoulder, at a dusty vent in the corner of the room. The buzzing in his head hadn’t stopped. It was quieter now, but constant. Like static under his skin.

Bruce watched him for a second. Then — in a move that made Damian’s eyebrows lift ever so slightly — Bruce moved to the armchair across from Peter and sat down.

No questions. No commands. Just sat.

Peter glanced at him. Suspicious. Exhausted.

Bruce met the look with a casual smile, voice still warm, relaxed.

“I wanted to thank you. For watching Damian’s back.”

Peter blinked. His brow creased faintly. “…You’re thanking me?”

Bruce chuckled. “I know. Unusual.”

“I mean, yeah,” Peter muttered, “it’s not like he didn’t almost kill me the first time we met.”

Damian cleared his throat.

Bruce just smiled, eyes sparkling with that damn Brucie shine. “Well, if you stuck around after that, you’re clearly braver than most.”

Peter snorted. And for a moment — just a flicker — some of the tension in his shoulders dropped.

But it came back just as fast.

Because Bruce leaned in slightly. Still friendly. Still casual. But his words carried a shift.

“I’ve worked with a lot of people over the years. Some young. Some… extraordinary. And most of them have something in common.”

Peter’s jaw tightened.

“They carry more than they should,” Bruce said quietly. “And most of them think they have to do it alone.”

A pause.

Peter’s fingers curled into his hoodie sleeve. Not defensive — more like self-preservation.

“I’m not interested in a therapy session,” he said, eyes flat. “And I’m fine.”

Bruce tilted his head, unfazed.

“You sure?”

Peter’s laugh was sharp. Bitter. “Does it matter?”

Something flickered in Bruce’s eyes — something real, something unmaskable — but it was gone too fast.

Peter stood slowly, movements stiff like he was made of bruises.

“I appreciate the hospitality or whatever,” he muttered. “But I’m not looking for a therapist, Mr Wayne.”

Bruce rose with him, hands still relaxed, voice still soft.

“I’m not offering therapy.”

Peter’s eyes narrowed.

“I’m offering a choice, ” Bruce said.

Another pause. Another silence that felt heavier than the words.

Peter reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out a folded receipt. Scribbled in the corner: a phone number. He handed it to Damian without fanfare.

“My number. In case you get bored being emotionally constipated or whatever.”

Damian looked at him. His expression was unreadable — but the way his fingers closed around the paper was careful.

Peter stepped toward the door.

Bruce moved slightly — not to stop him, just to see him.

“You don’t have to run,” Bruce said.

Peter looked back, eyes shadowed, tired.

“I’m not running.”

Bruce didn’t argue. Didn’t step in his way. He just nodded, slow.

Peter left without another word.

He stood outside for a long time, pressed against the wall, breathing like the air was made of broken glass. His hands were shaking, but not from fear.

From overload.

Too much.
Too soon.
Too close.

He didn’t know who he was more scared of — Bruce Wayne, the group, the memories, the past, or himself.

Inside his chest, something pulsed. Faint. Unseen. Like a thread being tugged from the inside out.

But Peter didn’t follow it.

He just closed his eyes… and tried to breathe.

***

Bruce stared at the spot Peter had just disappeared from.

The door clicked shut, soft and clean, like it had never even opened in the first place. Like Peter had never been there at all.

But Bruce was still frozen in place. Hands slack at his sides. Mouth parted slightly — like maybe a word had almost made it out before the kid had gone. Like maybe he was going to say something.

He didn’t.

And now it was too late.

Peter was gone. Out the door. Out of reach.

Bruce exhaled, low and tight, and let his eyes fall to the empty space Peter had just occupied — hoodie pulled up, posture hunched, guarded and restless and far, far too tired for someone so young.

A boy who looked like him. Moved like him. Felt like a reflection he didn’t ask for. And yet…There was something else, too. Something under the skin. Something twisting.

Bruce could feel it. He wasn’t the world’s greatest detective for nothing.

Peter had looked at him like someone holding a grenade with the pin already pulled — not because he wanted to hurt anyone, but because he didn’t know where to put it down. Because he’d been holding it for too long .

And Bruce had let him walk away anyway.

He should’ve said something. Should’ve stopped him. Should’ve done… anything.

But the words stuck in his throat like splinters. Like regret.

Because Bruce didn’t know how to say, “I want you to stay,” without it sounding like an order.
He didn’t know how to say, “I’m scared for you,” without it sounding like control.
He didn’t know how to say, “I think you’re mine,” without making it a mission instead of a truth .

He was Batman. He didn’t ask. He didn’t beg.

But maybe, just this once, he should have.

Behind him, Damian shifted.

“You ready?” Bruce asked, quiet.

Damian didn’t speak. He just turned and walked toward the car.

Bruce followed. And neither of them said a word.

The drive home was quieter than death. Rain streaked down the windshield in long, crooked veins, Gotham outside blurred like an old photograph — all shadow and haze and neon bleeding into smoke.

Bruce’s hands were too tight on the steering wheel. His knuckles pale. Jaw locked. Eyes fixed forward like he was chasing something just beyond the fog.

He didn’t look at Damian. Not because he didn’t want to. But because he did.

And he couldn’t handle what he might see there. Not right now.

Not after watching another boy walk out of his life without saying what needed to be said.

Finally, after what felt like miles of silence, Damian broke it.

“He just left.”

The words weren’t angry. They weren’t even sharp.

They were quiet . Like something fragile being held too tight.

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “…He probably has things to do. People to return to.”

Damian looked out the window. “In that case, then he perhaps always has things to do. People to be with.”

His voice was harder now. Bitter. Mocking. 

Using Bruce’s own words against him. Damian continued, still not facing him.

“But you also have ‘things’ to do, Father. I do as well. But when he was there, you let him leave. Don’t deny it. You didn’t stop him. Your blood son.”

“I didn’t want to force him,” Bruce said.

“No. You didn’t want him.”

The silence that followed was a slap.

Bruce flinched — only slightly. But he felt it.

His voice, when it came, was quiet. Almost hoarse. “That’s not true.”

He meant it. God, he meant it. But the truth was messier than that.

He did want Peter. But not like this. Not broken. Not hunted. Not twisted by something Bruce hadn’t even begun to understand. He didn’t want another lost kid falling into the same shadows the rest of them had barely crawled out of.

He didn’t want to give another child the mask and pretend it was love.

And he couldn’t — wouldn’t — bring someone into his family if the cost was turning them into another weapon.

Not again.

But Peter had already been turned into something. And maybe Bruce had missed the only moment he could’ve offered him something else.

Wayne Manor loomed into view like a ghost.

Damian got out of the car first, moving fast, stiff, eyes locked forward like he was trying not to let anything spill out.

Alfred met them at the door, arms folded, gaze sharp behind his calm.

He didn’t speak.

Damian walked past him without a word. Bruce tracked his steps — up the stairs, down the hallway, into his room.

No slam.
Just a soft click.

A door closing like someone who didn’t expect anyone to follow.

Bruce stayed in the foyer.

Shoulders slumped. Breath unsteady.

Alfred was waiting for him. Arms folded, calm, composed, as always. There was no judgment in his eyes. Just that damn, terrifying thing Bruce had always avoided: Understanding.

“Sir?”

Bruce exhaled. “He left.”

“Yes,” Alfred said simply. “He did.”

“He gave Damian his number. But he didn’t stay.”

“No,” Alfred repeated. “But that may not be his fault.”

Bruce ran a hand over his face, dragging it down slowly.

“I didn’t invite him.”

“No,” Alfred said again. “Because you were afraid he’d say no.”

“I didn’t want to assume he’d want this life.”

Alfred’s eyes softened — just slightly.

“Then maybe next time,” he said, voice quiet but firm, “don’t offer him the life. Offer him a place. ”

Bruce’s hands dropped.

“I looked in his eyes,” he said. “He looked like me.”

“Yes,” Alfred said gently. “And he left like you, too.”

That silence settled again. But this time it didn’t feel safe. It felt like a noose.

That night, Bruce didn’t sleep. He lay in the dark, eyes open, staring at the ceiling above his bed — the same ceiling he’d stared at as a child after the gunshots. After the blood. After the echo of footsteps that never came back.

And now there was a new echo. Peter’s voice, low and bitter: “I’m not running.”  No. He wasn’t. But he was still leaving . 

All Because Bruce hadn’t said, Stay. Because he hadn’t said, Please. Because he didn’t know how.

***

Upstairs, Damian sat in bed, hoodie still on, Peter’s crumpled number in his hand.

He hadn’t texted it. Not yet. But he would. Eventually. Because Peter had given it to him . Not Father. Not Oracle. Not anyone else. Him. 

And that meant something.

***

Far across Gotham, Peter shut the door behind him with a soft click. The lock turned automatically. The hallway faded into silence. He stood in the dark for a moment, back pressed to the wood, eyes closed, breathing steady. Controlled. His hands were still trembling.

Peter didn’t feel like Spider-Man right now. Didn’t feel like Peter Parker either. Not the Queens kid. Not the Gotham ghost. Just static. Just skin. Just pieces. 

But he’d made it this far, hadn’t he? He wasn’t going to stop now.

His apartment was small. Not messy, but lived-in. Mattress on the floor. Blankets tossed. A stack of overdue library books. A chipped mug with coffee he didn’t remember making. The walls buzzed faintly with the hum of ancient wiring. It looked just like he had left it. 

Peter dropped his hoodie on the floor and sat cross-legged in front of the low coffee table — and pulled out the papers from underneath his hoodie. Files he had slipped through, with the help of Karen, during the aftermath. Stuff recovered from the kidnapping site, when the police was clearing it out. He had to make sure that Damian didn’t see him. 

But these files he found.
They shouldn’t exist . 

He reached forward, pulled a file marked “Threadkeeper Case – Off Grid Facility 3B” , and opened it. Inside: photos. Scans. Maps. One photo — grainy, low-res — showed a metal operating table.

Peter stared at it for a long, long time. His hand hovered over the image. Not touching. Not yet. His spine ached. A phantom burn crawling over bone. He didn’t know if it was real or memory or something worse.

Empty the boy. Make space.

His stomach turned. He pushed the photo aside and went for the next page. A list of names. All scratched out except one.

Arachne-00. Status: Decommissioned.

Peter stared at that line until the words stopped meaning anything.

He knew what it meant, but he also didn’t. He remembered what it felt like. He wasn’t just an experiment.

He was a failed one . Except… he wasn’t. Because he was here now.

“Karen,” he said, voice quiet.

A soft chime responded. “Yes, Peter?”

His throat tightened. “Pull everything from the Holloway archive. Especially their foster placements. Anyone in the system between 2007 and 2014.”

There was a pause. Then Karen replied:
“Accessing covert records. Please hold.”