Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Peter had always pictured the multiverse as a sprawling, endless expanse — countless versions of reality stretching into infinity, each one teeming with lives like his, and yet not. But now, sitting on the cold, grimy rooftop of a city that wasn’t his own, the concept didn’t feel grand. It didn’t feel awe-inspiring. It felt crushing. A relentless weight of insignificance. He'd always known, logically, how small he was in the vastness of it all, but knowing wasn’t the same as feeling. And now, he felt it. He felt it deep in his bones.

And God, it terrified him.

He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat threatening to choke him. The stillness of the rooftop pressed down on him, and he clenched his jaw, forcing his chest to rise and fall evenly. Breaking down here, now, wouldn’t help. He knew that. If he gave in to the storm that churned inside him, he might do something reckless. Something irrevocable. He wasn’t sure if he trusted himself not to.

The city spread out beneath him, a jagged silhouette of stone and steel. Gotham. The name itself carried a weight, like the city bore the burden of its own existence. It was nothing like Queens. No familiar streets, no skyline he could trace in his sleep. Instead, grotesque gargoyles jutted from the tops of buildings, twisted and looming. MJ would have laughed, called them so extra , then followed it up with a backhanded comment about how she secretly appreciated their drama. Peter could almost hear her voice, that soft lilt tinged with affection, but it slipped away as quickly as it came. Just like everything else.

A perpetual haze lingered over Gotham, clinging to the air like it was afraid to let go. The neon lights below barely cut through the gloom, their glow smeared and weak. Even the stars overhead seemed reluctant, faint pinpricks behind the patchy clouds. The cold was unrelenting, biting through the sweater Peter had pulled tightly around himself. It wasn’t much — just something he’d swiped from a lost-and-found bin — but it was enough to keep the worst of the chill at bay. Not that the ache in his bones had much to do with the temperature.

The bruises beneath his clothes throbbed in rhythm with his heartbeat, a dull and constant reminder that his body was still alive. Still functioning. But the deeper pain? That was the real killer. The kind of ache no mask, no web-fluid, no stubborn healing factor could fix. It lived inside him, gnawed at the empty spaces that had once been full.

It had been weeks. Weeks since Doctor Strange whispered the incantation that stole him from the world. Since every memory of Peter Parker was scrubbed clean. The silence that followed had been unbearable. Just… nothing. And now, the universe had thrown him somewhere else. Not just a different city — a different world. A world without the Avengers. A world where Aunt May wasn’t the woman who raised him, but a stranger. A 22-year-old woman who smiled kindly as she handed out bowls of soup at a shelter, oblivious to the life she’d lived in another reality.

Peter exhaled, the night air burning his lungs. He tilted his head back, eyes tracing the faint constellations above. They weren’t any different from the stars back home. The same sky, the same vast expanse — and yet, it was wrong.

Everything was wrong.

His hands curled into fists, nails biting into his palms. He wasn’t dead. Not yet. But sometimes, it sure as hell felt like he was. Every breath was heavy, like his chest was caving in, ribs grinding together with each shaky inhale. It reminded him of a beetle caught in a jar, wings flapping against glass walls. Futile. Exhausting.

Gotham had shown him its worst almost immediately. Crime festered here in a way that felt more personal, more venomous than New York. The violence didn’t stem from faceless invaders or misguided gods — it came from people. People with blood on their hands and hollow eyes. The city wore its misery like a second skin. And yet, somehow, life went on. People pushed forward, working through the wreckage and patching up the damage left behind. They didn’t wait for heroes to save them.

Peter had noticed it on his late-night patrols, when he slipped back into the comfort of the mask. He shouldn’t have. There was no reason to keep doing this. No one in Gotham knew who Spider-Man was. He was a ghost — a shadow swinging between buildings no one thought to look up at. But the mask was the only piece of home he had left. The last fragment of the boy who had once been Peter Parker.

And maybe that was the real reason he kept putting it on. Not because he believed in great power and great responsibility. Not because he thought he could make a difference in a city that already had its own vigilantes. No, it was something darker. Something he refused to name.

There was a part of him — small and silent and far too easy to ignore — that was waiting. Waiting for the wrong fight. Waiting for the moment he couldn’t dodge fast enough. Waiting for someone, anyone, to finally put him out of his misery.

But for now, the city kept breathing. And so did he.

—

Peter didn’t flinch when the voice called from behind him. It was low and calm, like the practiced tone of a first responder. Gentle, but detached. Professional. A lifeline that didn’t offer comfort so much as protocol. The kind of voice that knew how to steady a crumbling soul without ever feeling the weight of it. He didn't turn. He didn’t want to see the concern, the cautious stance that always followed. The tight coil of muscles, ready to spring if he so much as shifted too far forward.

His fingers dug into the concrete edge, the cold biting into his skin through the fingerless gloves. The height didn’t scare him. Not really. The wind tugged at his curls, and the city below blinked and pulsed with neon lights. Gotham was alive, yet utterly lifeless at the same time. There were no sounds of distant laughter or muffled conversations like in Queens. Only the hum of traffic, the occasional wail of sirens, and the ghostly presence of something unseen. He could feel it. Gotham was never quiet—not in the way a city should be.

But Peter’s thoughts weren’t on Gotham. They were with Ned and MJ. He wondered if they were in class, taking notes and passing whispered jokes beneath their breath. Or maybe they were at home, curled up on the couch, watching some dumb rom-com and throwing popcorn at each other. Did they miss him? Did they know they missed him? Or did it come in flashes—the inexplicable pang of something absent? Like a phantom limb that ached, even when there was nothing left to feel.

A soft crunch of gravel sounded from behind, but instead of tensing, Peter’s shoulders slumped. Relief. He didn’t know why. Maybe it was the loneliness, so deep and hollow that even the presence of a stranger was enough to loosen the knot in his chest. A part of him wanted to lean into it, to let someone else bear the weight, even if only for a moment.

Then, warmth. A solid arm, muscled and steady, wrapped around his torso. The contact was gentle, careful, as though afraid he might shatter. Peter didn’t resist. He let himself be pulled back, away from the ledge, until his feet rested firmly against the rooftop. He should have fought it—there was something humiliating about how easy it was to be handled like a fragile thing. But the strength in that arm felt familiar.

“You don't belong here, Kiddo.”

The words were murmured, low and firm, like a truth Peter had long since accepted. He swallowed hard, his throat raw, and let out a hollow hum. No kidding.

Peter blinked sluggishly, his vision blurred. His body felt leaden, each movement dragging like he was wading through wet cement. He lifted his head, gaze finally settling on the figure beside him. The man’s face swam into focus—strong jawline, tousled black hair, tan skin. The sleek blue and black suit was unmistakable. Nightwing. He should have felt some sense of familiarity. Recognition. But all he felt was the ache. A tremor of something unspoken clawed at his chest.

And then the world cracked.

“Dad?”

The word escaped before Peter could stop it. His voice was barely above a whisper, but the weight of it lingered in the air. Nightwing’s brows furrowed, a flash of confusion flickering across his masked face. The tension in his jaw was subtle, but Peter caught it. The arms that had held him steady loosened, then tightened again, like the man was trying to ground them both.

A low, uncertain chuckle escaped Nightwing, though it lacked any real humor. “I don’t think so, kid.”

But Peter’s breath came shallow and sharp. He recoiled, stumbling back like he’d been burned. Because that face—that voice—it belonged to a ghost. A man Peter had only ever seen through old photographs and fading memories. Richard Parker. His father.

Peter’s heart pounded in his chest, nausea twisting through him. Memories crashed over him, relentless and suffocating. His father’s laughter echoing in the kitchen, strong hands lifting him high into the air. The smell of sawdust from the circus days he barely remembered. Aunt May’s quiet stories about how his dad had once soared through the air like it was second nature. How he’d traded the tightrope for textbooks when Peter was born. How he’d died too soon, leaving a hole that Peter never quite learned how to fill.

But this man wasn’t supposed to be here. None of this was supposed to be real.

Nightwing’s gaze stayed steady, but Peter saw the questions swirling behind it. The scrutiny. He crouched down, the shift of his body sending gravel scattering. “What’s your name?” The words were calm, but Peter felt their weight. He tried to breathe, tried to ground himself, but the edges of his vision wavered.

He couldn’t think. Couldn’t answer. But when the words came, they spilled out without permission.

“Peter Grayson.”

His voice cracked. The name felt foreign, wrong, yet disturbingly natural. A name that didn’t exist. Couldn’t exist. Nightwing’s sharp inhale was barely audible, but Peter caught it. The grip on his arm tightened again as his knees buckled. He barely registered the rough texture of the wall as he was propped against it, the cold biting through the thin sweater.

His breaths came faster. The rooftop spun. He could hear Nightwing saying something—his name, maybe. Or was it his dad’s name? His vision blurred as the dizziness swept through him. But even as the blackness crept in, Peter’s last thought echoed like a distant scream.

Oh, holy shit.

And then everything went dark.

–

Peter Grayson.

Dick couldn't breathe.

Those were his mom's eyes, the same splatter of freckles across his nose and cheeks. The shock hit him like a punch to the gut. This kid—Peter—was a carbon copy of Dick at that age. Every detail, from the unruly dark hair to the familiar tilt of his jaw. The resemblance was undeniable, like staring into a mirror that had been buried in the past.

But that didn't make sense. He didn't have a son. He would know if he had a son. Wouldn't he?

Peter's body slumped forward, and Dick caught him instinctively. The boy was dead weight, limbs limp, breaths shallow. Panic clawed at Dick's chest, but he forced it down. Now wasn’t the time.

“Oracle,” he bit out, his voice taut.

“Batmobile is on its way, Wing. I’ve already informed the others.” Barbara’s voice was steady, though Dick could hear the undercurrent of worry. She didn’t ask questions. Not yet. That would come later.

Nodding to himself, Dick shifted Peter more securely in his arms. The kid was too light. Not dangerously thin, but like someone who hadn't taken care of themselves in a long time. The oversized sweater did little to hide the sharp edges of his frame. Bruises peeked out from beneath the fabric—old and new. Dick’s jaw clenched.

The gravel crunched beneath his boots as he moved, feet automatically finding the safest path. Gotham’s skyline loomed above, the city’s endless hum pressing against his ears. But all he could hear was the boy’s labored breathing.

By the time he reached the ground, the Batmobile was already waiting. Sleek and imposing, its black exterior gleamed beneath the faint glow of a nearby streetlamp. The back door opened with a hiss, and Dick wasted no time sliding inside. The reinforced interior was eerily quiet, sealing them away from the chaotic pulse of the city.

Peter’s head lolled against his chest, dark curls brushing against the Nightwing insignia. Dick's fingers tightened their hold, like letting go might shatter the fragile sense of control he clung to. He wanted to believe this was some elaborate trick. A shapeshifter. A clone. Something he could solve with logic and force. But the sharp twist in his gut told him otherwise.

The Batmobile accelerated, the hum of the engine steady beneath them. Oracle's voice crackled through the comms.

“Vitals?”

“Unstable but not critical,” Dick responded, his gaze flicking to Peter’s pale face. “Shock, exhaustion… possibly more. I won’t know until we get him back.”

There was a pause.

“And the name?” Barbara’s voice was careful, like she didn’t want to ask. Like she already knew the answer and hated it.

Dick swallowed hard.

“Peter Grayson.”

Silence.

It stretched out, heavy and suffocating. The hum of the Batmobile seemed louder now, filling the void. Dick could practically see Barbara processing, fingers no doubt flying over her keyboard, digging through databases and records. But they both knew there wouldn’t be anything. No birth certificates. No medical files. Nothing that explained how a boy with his name and his face had ended up on a Gotham rooftop.

“We’ll figure it out,” Barbara finally said, though her voice lacked the certainty she usually carried.

Dick didn’t respond. He couldn’t.

Peter stirred slightly in his arms, a faint groan escaping him. Dick's gloved hand instinctively brushed a stray curl from the boy’s forehead. The simple act sent a pang through his chest. He wanted to wake him, to demand answers. But the kid needed rest. And whatever nightmare he’d come from—whatever brought him here—could wait a little longer.

As the Batmobile sped through Gotham's streets, the city lights blurred into streaks of gold and blue. And for the first time in a long while, Dick felt something other than control.

He felt fear.

-

The cave was dark, the usual hum of machinery mingling with the low drip of water echoing off the cavern walls. Stalactites hung like jagged teeth above, their shadows twisting under the dim glow of flickering lights. The air was cold, thick with the earthy scent of damp stone and the ever-present hum of electricity. Massive computer screens lined the far wall, casting a pale glow that barely touched the deeper recesses of the cavern. They illuminated streams of data and live city surveillance, a constant, silent witness to the chaos of Gotham.

Bruce had called ahead. He was already waiting.

As the Batmobile slid to a smooth halt on the platform, the metallic hiss of the cockpit door echoed through the cavern. Mist curled from the exhaust, dissipating in the cold air. Dick stepped out, Peter's limp form still cradled in his arms. The boy hadn’t stirred since the car ride, his head tucked against Dick's chest, breath faint and shallow. Every uneven exhale scraped against Dick’s nerves, a sharp reminder of how fragile Peter seemed.

Bruce emerged from the shadows, his presence as commanding as ever. The soft click of his boots against the stone floor was deliberate, measured. Even without the cowl, there was something unnerving about the way he carried himself—like a shadow that never quite dissipated.

His eyes locked onto Peter, narrowing with calculated intensity. He didn’t speak right away, and that silence was louder than any reprimand could have been.

“Explain,” he finally said. His voice was low, steady, but the weight behind it was undeniable.

Dick's jaw tightened. His muscles coiled beneath the weight of that single word. There were a hundred things he wanted to say, to demand, but the only truth he had was one he hated admitting.

“I don’t know.”

Bruce said nothing. The silence stretched, heavy and expectant. He studied Peter, taking in the bruises, the hollowness to his cheeks. The resemblance was impossible to ignore—the same unruly hair, the same stubborn set of his jaw. A mirror of the boy Bruce had once raised. But it wasn’t accusation that flashed in his eyes. Not yet. Just questions. Endless, unanswered questions.

“Medical bay is prepared, Sirs,” Alfred’s voice interrupted, calm and composed. He approached with his usual air of quiet efficiency, though the faint flicker of concern in his eyes didn’t go unnoticed. The man had seen countless injuries and tragedies over the years, but even he seemed unsettled by the sight of Peter.

Dick gave a curt nod. His legs moved without thought, the weight of Peter grounding him. He could still feel Bruce's gaze burning into his back, but he didn’t stop. Whatever questions his mentor had, they would have to wait. Peter needed help.

The medical bay was a stark contrast to the rest of the cave. Bright, sterile light flooded the space, gleaming off polished steel and pristine white countertops. Advanced diagnostic equipment lined the walls, beeping softly in rhythm with the ebb and flow of the cave’s systems. It was a place of control. A place where injuries could be analyzed, cataloged, and treated. But as Dick laid Peter down on the examination table, that sense of control felt like a lie.

Peter didn’t move. His skin was too pale, dark curls plastered to his forehead with a thin sheen of sweat. Dick brushed a stray lock of hair aside, his fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary. The boy's eyelids fluttered, but he didn’t wake.

“We’ll run a full scan,” Alfred assured, his voice soft. “Vitals, DNA analysis. We will get answers, Master Dick.”

Dick nodded, though the motion felt hollow. He wanted answers. He needed them. But deep down, a part of him recoiled from the thought. What if the truth was worse than the uncertainty? What if it unraveled something he could never piece back together?

Peter Grayson.

Who was he?

The soft hum of the scanners came to life, glowing rings sweeping methodically over Peter’s body. Alfred worked with quiet precision, inputting commands and monitoring results. The beeping of the machines blended with the distant echoes of the cave, each sound tightening the knot in Dick’s chest.

Bruce stood at the threshold, his arms crossed, the cowl now discarded. Shadows clung to his figure, but his expression remained unreadable.

Dick didn’t dare look away from Peter. The boy’s chest rose and fell with painful slowness, the monitor’s soft rhythm a lifeline that tethered them all to the present. Every protective instinct screamed at Dick, demanding he do something—but there was nothing to fight. Not yet.

Bruce held his gaze for a long moment. There was no challenge, no judgment. Only the unspoken agreement that whatever came next, they would face it together.

The answers were coming. And ready or not, Dick would be there when they did.

-

Hours passed.

Peter remained unconscious. The monitors traced steady patterns of his heart rate and breathing, but the boy showed no signs of waking. The rhythmic beeping filled the cavernous space, steady and unforgiving. The medical bay's cool, sterile glow cast pale shadows across Peter's face, his skin far too pale against the stark white sheets. Despite everything, he looked peaceful. But that peace was a lie. Every quiet second was a reminder that they had no answers—only questions that twisted the air like a vise.

The scans had concluded. Alfred had stepped away to review the results, his presence absent but looming. Bruce had remained by the main console, his figure rigid as he poured over data. There were no words. Only the sound of footsteps echoing against the stone floor whenever Bruce moved, pacing like a restless ghost. That silence weighed down on Dick. Every minute that passed without an explanation gnawed at him.

Dick sat at Peter’s side, elbows resting heavily on his knees. His fingers tangled in his hair, tugging absentmindedly. The exhaustion seeped into his bones, dragging him down. His shoulders ached, his thoughts frayed at the edges. Every so often, he’d glance at Peter’s face, half-expecting him to stir—to offer some sarcastic quip, or groggily ask where he was. But the boy remained still. The only movement was the soft rise and fall of his chest.

“Come on, kid,” Dick muttered under his breath, his voice barely above a whisper. “Wake up. Just… wake up.”

But Peter didn’t.

Across the room, Bruce's eyes flicked toward him. He’d been silent for most of the night, save for a few brief exchanges with Alfred. Whatever the results showed, Bruce hadn’t said a word about it yet. That alone set Dick on edge.

Finally, footsteps echoed from the corridor. Alfred returned, his usual composure in place, though there was something uneasy in the slight furrow of his brow. A tablet rested in his hands, its glow casting faint reflections in his eyes. He paused at the edge of the room, his gaze steady as he regarded the three of them.

“Well?” Dick’s voice was low, but the demand was clear.

Alfred’s eyes flicked briefly to Bruce before returning to Dick. There was no comfort in his expression. Only facts. Only answers.

“The scans confirmed it,” Alfred said softly. “His DNA. It’s an exact match.”

Dick’s stomach dropped.

“He’s your son.”

The words struck like a punch to the gut. Dick's breath caught, his fingers curling tightly into fists. He searched Alfred's face, hoping for some sign that this was a mistake. But there was none.

“That’s not all,” Alfred continued, his voice grim.

Dick swallowed, forcing the bile in his throat back down. “What do you mean?”

Alfred handed the tablet to Bruce, who scanned the data in silence. It wasn’t just a standard DNA report. Charts, molecular breakdowns, and comparative analyses flashed across the screen. Something wasn’t right. Even Dick could tell.

“His DNA…” Bruce spoke at last, his voice low. “It’s human. But there are anomalies.”

“Anomalies?” Dick’s brow furrowed.

Bruce turned the tablet so Dick could see. Side-by-side visuals of Peter’s genetic code lined the screen. It looked normal at first—until it wasn’t. Strange, glowing markers twisted through the helix, like fractures glowing beneath the surface.

“There are mutations embedded in his DNA,” Bruce explained, his tone clinical but uneasy. “His genetic structure has been altered… deliberately. Not just hereditary. It’s biological manipulation.”

“Spider DNA,” Alfred said quietly.

Dick’s heart skipped.

“What?”

“There are traces of arachnid genetic material fused with his own,” Bruce confirmed. “The level of integration is… unnatural. Whatever happened to him, it wasn’t accidental.”

Dick's mind reeled. Spider DNA. The implications hit him all at once—someone had done this. Someone had changed Peter at a fundamental level.

The sound of approaching footsteps drew their attention. Tim, Damian, and Jason entered the room, their expressions varying from confusion to concern. Jason's arms were crossed, his brow furrowed as he scanned the unconscious boy.

Tim stood beside him, his side pressing into Dick. A quiet comfort. Jason pulled a chair close and sat with his arms crossed over the back of it, handing Dick a bottle of water and granola bar.

Jason huffed, his voice tinged with disbelief. “ Mierda , Dickie. Who's the Ma?”

“He doesn't remember. Its blank in the results.” Bruce replied.

Damian, who had remained silent until now, stepped closer to the table. His sharp gaze lingered on Peter’s face, as though inspecting him for weaknesses.

“If he is truly Grayson’s son, then he carries the blood of importance,” Damian said. “But this tampering… it is an abomination.”

“He’s a kid, Damian,” Dick snapped, his voice taut. “Whatever happened to him wasn’t his fault.”

Damian said nothing. But for once, he didn’t argue.

The weight of the revelation settled over them. The mystery was far from solved. Who had done this to Peter? And why? But as Dick watched the boy’s chest rise and fall, he knew one thing for certain.

Whatever came next, he wasn’t going to let Peter face it alone.

Chapter Text

Peter drifted.

The darkness pulled at him, thick and heavy, an endless tide swallowing his senses. It wasn’t just the absence of light—it was something deeper, something alive. The void pressed in from all sides, smothering, relentless. It coiled around his limbs like chains, dragging him deeper into its depths. He couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or closed. There was no difference here. No up, no down. No beginning, no end. Just the suffocating weight of nothingness.  

He wasn’t sure if he was awake or asleep.  

Time had no meaning in this place. Seconds stretched into hours, hours into eternities. His thoughts slipped through his fingers like water, fragmented and fleeting. Was he floating? Falling? Had he always been here?  

Then— the voices .  

At first, they were nothing more than whispers, ghostly and indistinct, as if carried on a wind from another world. Muffled, distant, layered over one another in a tangled web of sound. He strained to listen, his pulse quickening. The words were just beyond his grasp, slipping away every time he tried to focus.  

" DNA ..."  

" Mother ..."

" Grayson ..."

Fragments. Echoes. Pieces of a puzzle he couldn’t solve. His breath hitched as he reached for them, desperate for meaning, for connection—but they dissolved like smoke in his hands.  

And then—the shadows twisted.

A jolt of electricity shot through his veins. The darkness convulsed, writhing like a living thing, and suddenly—  

The memories struck. 

Not in fragments. Not in pieces. But in a flood, violent and unrelenting, crashing into him with the force of a tidal wave.  

---  

Queens.

The sun hung low in the sky, casting long, golden fingers of light over the rooftops. The brick apartments stood like old sentinels, their fire escapes zigzagging upward, rusted but steadfast. The air was thick with the scent of asphalt warmed by the afternoon heat, mingling with the faint tang of exhaust and the sweet aroma of blooming flowers in window boxes.  

He could hear the distant thud of a baseball smacking into a mitt, the excited shouts of kids playing in the park. The rhythmic squeak of a swing set, the laughter of a toddler chasing pigeons. A car rolled by, bass thumping from its speakers, fading as it turned the corner.  

And then—home.  

The apartment door creaked as he pushed it open. The scent of garlic and tomatoes hit him instantly—Aunt May was cooking. The kitchen was bathed in golden light, the checkered curtains fluttering slightly from the breeze sneaking in through the cracked window.  

She stood at the counter, flour dusting her hands as she kneaded dough for garlic knots. The radio played softly in the background, some old song she always hummed along to. She turned when she heard him, her face lighting up.  

"Hey, you."  

Her voice was warmth. Safety. Home.  

He could see the faint lines at the corners of her eyes, the way her smile crinkled her nose. The wooden spoon scraped against the pot as she stirred the sauce, steam rising in lazy curls. The sound was so familiar it ached.  

For a moment, he was there. Really there.  

Then—  

MJ’s laugh. Sharp, bright, cutting through the air like sunlight. She was perched on the roof of her apartment building, legs dangling over the edge, her hair a wild halo in the wind. She turned to him, that smirk playing on her lips.  

"Face it, Parker. You’re a disaster."  

But her eyes were soft. Fond.  

Ned was beside them, gesturing wildly as he launched into another impassioned rant about the Death Star’s structural weaknesses. "No, see, if they’d just reinforced the thermal exhaust ports—"  

Peter had rolled his eyes, but his chest had been full. Full of this. Of them.  

The city sprawled beneath them, alive and humming. The distant wail of a siren, the rumble of the subway beneath the streets. A street vendor calling out, "Hot dogs! Get your hot dogs!" The scent of roasted nuts, of pretzels, of rain on pavement.  

It was messy. Loud. Perfect.  

---  

And then—it shattered.

The sky cracked open.  

Purple lightning tore through the clouds, jagged and unnatural, splitting the world apart. The ground trembled, buildings swaying like stalks of grass in a storm. The air itself seemed to vibrate, a low, ominous hum building to a deafening roar.  

Screams erupted from the streets below. Car alarms blared, glass shattered. The scent of smoke filled his lungs, acrid and thick. Flames licked at storefronts, devouring everything in their path.  

Aunt May’s face appeared in the chaos, streaked with soot, her eyes wide with terror.  

"Peter—!"  

Her hand reached for him, trembling.  

He lunged forward, fingers stretching—  

And she slipped through his grasp.

"No—!"

The world twisted. Reality itself seemed to warp, bending in ways that made his stomach lurch. The streets folded in on themselves, buildings crumbling into dust. The sky was no longer sky—it was a swirling, endless void, swallowing everything.  

And then—Strange. 

The sorcerer stood amidst the destruction, his cloak billowing as embers spiraled around him. His face was grim, etched with something Peter had never seen before—regret.

"Peter." 

His voice was heavy. Final.  

"I’m sorry."  

A pulse of energy. A blinding light.  

And then—  

Nothing. 

---  

The silence returned.  

It was worse than before.  

Because now he remembered. Now he knew.  

The warmth of May’s embrace. The sound of MJ’s laugh. The way Ned’s eyes lit up when he talked about the things he loved. The city— his city —alive and breathing around him.  

All of it— gone . 

Not just gone. Erased.  

He wasn’t just alone.  

He was forgotten .  

The darkness pressed in, colder now. Suffocating. His breath came in ragged gasps, his fingers clawing at the emptiness. He wanted to scream. To fight. To rage against the void.  

But there was no one left to hear him.  

No one to remember.  

No one to reach back.  

And the weight of that truth crushed him.

—

Peter woke in silent terror.

His senses were flayed open, raw and overstimulated—every sound, every flicker of light, every whisper of air against his skin was like nails raking across a chalkboard. His nerves screamed, electric and frayed, as if his body had been stripped down to nothing but exposed wiring.  

The lights above bore down on him—blinding, merciless—stabbing into his skull like shards of glass. He blinked, but the brightness seared into his vision, leaving phantom shapes writhing behind his eyelids. The air was thick, sterile, choked with the overwhelming stench of antiseptic and something metallic—blood, maybe, or the ghost of it. The scent clung to the back of his throat, suffocating.  

Hospital?  

The word flickered in his mind, but it brought no comfort. Hospitals meant safety. Healing. This—this wasn’t safe. This was a cage.  

His lungs heaved, desperate for air, but it refused to come. It was like breathing through static, through water, through a pillow pressed too tightly over his face. Every gasp was a struggle, wet and ragged, the sound of his own choking breaths roaring in his ears. His chest spasmed, ribs aching as if they’d been cracked open and stitched back together wrong.  

Something was wrong.  

Something was so wrong.  

He tried to move, but his body rebelled. His limbs were stiff, trembling with the weight of panic, muscles locked in a vise of exhaustion. His fingers curled weakly against the thin hospital sheets, but the sensation skittered away before he could grasp it. He was untethered, floating in a sea of sickly white light, disconnected from his own flesh.  

" Hello ?"  

His voice cracked—hoarse, strangled. It barely escaped his lips, swallowed by the suffocating silence. He tried again, the word catching in his throat like broken glass.  

"Is anyone there? Please—"  

The silence that answered was unbearable. It wasn’t just the absence of sound—it was a presence, thick and oppressive, pressing down on him like a physical weight. The distant hum of machines only deepened the emptiness, a mechanical heartbeat that didn’t belong to him. The walls felt closer now. Too close. The room was shrinking, pressing against him, and he swore he could hear it—the low, creaking groan of the walls tightening inch by inch.  

A tremor wracked through him. Panic surged, thick and venomous, coiling in his gut. His thoughts tangled, incoherent, slipping through his fingers like smoke.  

Where am I?  

What happened? 

His breathing quickened. Too fast. Too shallow. His chest ached from it, but he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t slow down. The fluorescent glare pulsed in time with his heartbeat, bright and unbearable. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the shapes burned there too, writhing beneath his eyelids like living things.  

He wanted to scream.  

He wanted to wake up.  

But the terror stayed.  

--- 

Then—  

He hears it.  

A sound so familiar, so deeply embedded in the fibers of his memories, that it cuts through the haze like a knife.  

That’s—  

That’s his dad’s voice.   

That’s Uncle Ben’s voice.  

A soft laugh. The warmth of it wraps around him like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. His father’s voice, rich and steady, the way it used to be when they’d sit on the couch together, watching baseball games on the old TV. Uncle Ben’s gravelly chuckle, gentle but full-bodied, the kind that made you feel safe just hearing it. Peter can practically feel the vibrations of it in his chest, like the echo of a memory he’d almost forgotten.  

How?

They’re gone. Dead.  

But they’re here . He hears them.  

"Pete?" 

It’s his father’s voice. He swears he can hear the concern, the endless affection.  

"It’s alright, kiddo. We’ve got you."

" You're safe, kid ," Uncle Ben murmurs, his words so close, so real . Like the nights when Peter couldn’t sleep, plagued by nightmares. The familiar reassurance that always calmed him, made the dark feel smaller.  

Peter’s body goes still.  

The fear melts away, replaced with a bone-deep relief that leaves him trembling. His eyes sting, but he doesn’t fight it. A small, broken cry escapes his lips.  

He’s okay.  

He’s home.  

He can almost see them. Dad’s wide grin, those calloused hands that always smelled faintly of motor oil. Uncle Ben’s steady gaze, the soft crinkles around his eyes that deepened when he smiled. They’re waiting for him. He can feel it.  

It had to mean something.  

Is he dead? 

A shuddering exhale leaves him.  

Good .  

If he’s dead, then it’s over. The fighting, the pain, the unbearable ache that never left his chest. He doesn’t have to be strong anymore. No more falling. No more struggling to keep it together.  

He’s done.  

Peter’s body relaxes fully, like the tension has been drained from his bones. For the first time in what feels like forever, he doesn’t have to hold it all together. He can let go. A soft sob trembles out of him, but it isn’t fear.  

It’s release .  

He’s going home.  

" Dad ," he whispers, his voice cracking. " Uncle Ben..."   

---  

But something is wrong.  

The warmth starts to fade.  

The laughter grows distant.  

The echoes warp, twisting. The outlines of their faces blur, dissolving like mist in the morning sun. He reaches for them, but his fingers meet nothing.  

The walls are there again—cold, sterile.  

The hum of machines pulses louder, swallowing the echoes whole.  

His chest tightens. His breathing quickens.  

No. No, no, no.  

" Please ," he chokes out, his voice raw. " Please don't go ."  

But they’re gone.  

And he’s still here.  

---  

Then the pain registered.  

It came all at once, like a wave crashing over him. An ache, deep and unbearable, radiated through his entire body. His muscles burned, twisted tight like overstretched rubber bands. His ribs throbbed with every shallow breath. The nausea curled through him, acidic and relentless.  

He was so hungry .  

It gnawed at him, hollow and desperate. But beneath it all, there was something worse.  

His heart .  

It hurt.  

Not the physical kind of pain. No bruises or fractures. Just a cavernous ache. A terrible emptiness. It squeezed his chest, suffocating.  

Why did it hurt so much? 

A warm, gloved hand rested gently on his leg.  

The touch was cautious, but even that slight pressure sent bolts of panic through him. Peter’s eyes shot open, the fluorescent lights stabbing straight into his skull. Shadows loomed around him. Voices. Muted. Distant.  

" No !" 

Peter thrashed, the weak cry tearing from his raw throat. His limbs jerked, but he was too weak to fight. The hands didn’t let go. More of them. On his arms. His shoulders. Holding him down.  

The voices grew louder, words spilling over each other. He couldn’t understand them. They spoke too fast. Too loud. The walls were closing in. The world was spinning. The pressure of the hands tightened, and Peter’s heart pounded in frantic terror.  

"No—stop—" 

His voice broke into sobs, harsh and gasping. He couldn’t breathe. The air wasn’t enough. He wasn’t enough .  

The tears came. Hot and unstoppable. His throat burned. His chest ached.  

And then—  

The darkness crept back in.  

The panic ebbed. The hands slipped away. The voices faded.  

And Peter passed out again.

--

Dick’s crying.

Silent, shattered sobs wrack his frame, shoulders trembling as he presses his face into his hands. The tears won’t stop. They burn hot and shameful down his cheeks, dripping between his fingers, pooling in the hollows of his palms. He doesn’t wipe them away. He doesn’t care.  

Jason’s pacing.

Back and forth, back and forth—boots slamming into the sterile tile like he’s trying to crack it open. His hands flex, curl into fists, release again. His jaw is clenched so tight Dick can hear his teeth grinding. The air around him is electric, volatile, like a lit fuse sputtering toward dynamite.  

The others had left the medbay long ago, slipping away one by one. No words were exchanged. Just the quiet shuffle of boots, the soft hiss of the sliding door. No one wanted to risk making it worse.  

Dick was grateful.  

The air felt too fragile. Like the room itself might shatter under the weight of Peter’s screams.  

Peter had only stopped when both he and Jason had spoken to him, their voices stumbling over each other in desperate reassurance. Even then, the sobs had lingered, tremors running through Peter's small frame. His face was pale, eyes hollow.  

Broken .

He thought he was dead.

And he had been relieved . 

The words gnaw at Dick, each syllable a serrated knife twisting deeper. The weight of it settles like lead in his chest, crushing his ribs, stealing his breath. He sits in the stiff plastic chair beside Peter’s bed, hands shaking, face buried in them. His domino is gone, discarded on the nearby table. He doesn’t care who sees him like this.  

Jason’s footsteps fill the room, sharp and furious. He paces like a caged animal, shoulders tight, muscles coiled. Spanish curses spill from his lips— maldito, jodido, puta madre —each one jagged, laced with guilt. For what, Dick doesnt think Jason knows either. Jason doesn’t pace like this unless he’s unraveling.  

Dick doesn’t try to stop him.  

What could he even say?  

The image of Peter, curled in on himself, flinching at shadows only he could see, is branded into Dick’s mind. The way he had gasped for breath between sobs, clutching at his chest like the weight of his own existence was unbearable.  

He thought he was dead… and that it was good.  

Dick’s stomach twists.  

The kid had fought so hard, survived things no one should ever have to. He wore that strength like armor, but it cracked tonight. And when it did, Peter had collapsed under it, crushed by something far heavier than any rogue or supervillain.  

Jason lets out a harsh breath, fingers twitching like they’re itching to punch something. Dick can hear him grinding his teeth, the sharp click of enamel as he stalks past the bed for the fifth time. Jason is angry—at himself, at the world, at whatever had hurt Peter enough to make him believe death was mercy.  

But under that anger?  

Fear.   

Raw, unfiltered, clawing up his throat.  

"He’s gonna be okay," Dick says, voice cracking.  

It isn’t a promise. He isn’t sure it can be.  

Jason nods stiffly, like he wants to believe it.  

The hum of the medbay machines is the only answer. The steady beep of Peter’s heart monitor ticks away the seconds. Too steady. Too fragile. Like at any moment, it could stop.  

Jason’s pacing slows. His breathing is ragged, chest rising and falling beneath his leather jacket. He swipes at his face, smearing away the few tears that slipped past his carefully constructed walls. He won’t let himself break.  

Not yet.  

Jason never does.  

Dick’s fingers curl into his palms. The lingering chill of the medbay bites at his skin, but he barely feels it. All he can feel is the unbearable ache in his chest.  

And the silence.  

The awful, suffocating silence.  

Because Peter is alive.  

But for a moment, he had wanted not to be.  

And that—  

That is the worst part.

—

Peter woke up crying.

Not sobbing, not wailing—just quiet, broken sounds catching in his throat as his body trembled beneath thin blankets. His eyes were already wet when he opened them, tears slipping down his temples to soak into the pillow. His chest ached with something deep and wordless.

He wanted May.

He wanted his dad—

His mind scrambled like bad signal, flickering images of men with warm smiles and tired eyes, all of them gone.

Richard Parker–
Benjamin Parker–
Tony Stark–

He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to rub the tears away, but his hands felt clumsy and slow, like his bones weren’t working right. His fingertips were ice-cold. He sniffled and blinked hard as the blur of the room around him began to sharpen.

Not a hospital.

He’d thought it was, at first. But now that he was more aware, the details weren’t quite right. The bed was softer, the blanket a little too nice. There was no beeping, no IVs, no sharp smell of disinfectant. Just dim, amber lighting and a hush that settled over the room like fog.

There was a chair next to the bed. Someone had been sitting there. Recently. The seat cushion was still slightly indented, and a crumpled water bottle rested on the floor beside it.

Peter’s head felt like it was full of static. His limbs weighed a thousand pounds each. He let out a low, miserable groan and sank back into the mattress, letting the exhaustion pull him under again.

He drifted, time slipping past like oil on water. Then—

The door creaked open.

Peter’s eyes snapped open and he turned his head.

His dad walked in.

No—no. That wasn’t right.

Except it was. Because there he was, walking into the room like it was the most normal thing in the world, like Peter’s world hadn’t already cracked in two. His brain flailed. It wasn’t a dream. This wasn’t some cruel hallucination his grief had conjured. He was real, flesh and blood and—

Oh God.

He was wearing a domino mask.

Peter blinked, stunned into silence, and then another man stepped in behind him– his uncle —broader, taller, still wearing civilian clothes, but also masked.

Peter stared.

Double whammy.

What the actual fuck.

They were vigilantes . Gotham-style. Domino masks and secret identities and all the ridiculous theatrics. Peter remembered the articles. He’d read about Gotham. It was like New York with fewer bagels and more trauma.

His brain did a full reboot.

His dad—his dad was Nightwing ?

What the fuck ?

Peter narrowed his eyes, watching the two men freeze like deer in headlights as they met his gaze. They looked guilty. Shocked. Soft in a way he didn’t quite understand.

And Peter, through the veil of disbelief and grief and disorientation, had the stupidest thought:

Those masks do literally nothing.

Seriously. He wasn’t face-blind. Even with the mask, it was so obvious who they were. He could do a side-by-side comparison of their vigilante pics and their civilian ones and win that game blindfolded. Same bone structure. Same hair. Same everything.

He squinted at the bigger guy.

Not Batman. Too young. Too... not broody.

Red Robin?

No, too jacked. Way too jacked.

Whoever he was, Peter was pretty sure he bench-pressed trucks for fun. The guy looked like he followed the Gaston diet plan: five dozen eggs and protein powder. Peter side-eyed him warily.

Off topic.

Focus.

Back in the room, both men were still frozen by the door, staring like Peter had grown a second head.

He wiped his cheeks again, catching the dried tear tracks, and glared at them like they were the weird ones here.

“What?” he snapped, voice hoarse. “Do I have something on my face?”

The bigger guy made a startled noise that might’ve been a cough or a laugh. Peter didn’t care. Rude.

Whatever.

His dad— Nightwing , Jesus Christ—was the first to move, stepping toward the bed with hesitant steps. His smile was small, weak at the edges, but there. There was a crack in his voice, like he’d been holding something in for too long.

“How are you feeling, kid?”

Peter blinked.

That voice.

God, he missed that voice.

He swallowed hard, heart thudding unevenly. He didn’t trust himself to say anything soft, so he defaulted to sarcasm.

“Uh. Pretty good, man. You?”

There was a snort from his uncle—or whoever muscle-man was—that Peter ignored like a professional. Nightwing— his dad, his dad, holy shit —looked like he was about to collapse from relief. His shoulders finally lowered, some of the tightness leaking from his expression.

He tilted his head, soft smile still lingering, and reached for the water glass on the nightstand.

Peter snatched it before he could say anything sappy.

“I’m doing okay,” Nightwing said. “I’m glad you’re feeling better. You gave us a pretty bad scare earlier.”

Peter curled his fingers around the glass, letting the coolness bite into his palm. He stared down at the water, suddenly aware of how dry his throat was, how tired his eyes felt.

A scare.

Yeah.

He’d scared himself, too.

Peter took a small sip of water, feeling it slide down his throat like something heavy and unfamiliar. He hadn’t realized how dry his mouth was until now. His hands shook a little as he set the glass down on the nightstand.

He could feel them still watching him—both of them—but it wasn’t the sharp, clinical kind of watching he’d grown used to. It was… quieter. Like they were making sure he was really here.

He glanced at them out of the corner of his eye. The smaller one—Nightwing—looked like he hadn’t slept in a while. Not in a scary way, but in the way Peter remembered from May, when he got hurt. Soft lines of worry around his mouth. Eyes that tracked his every movement like they meant something.

The bigger one—who still hadn’t said his name—stood like a shadow near the wall, arms crossed, looking too large for the room. He didn’t say much, but he hadn’t left either.

Peter shifted a little under the blanket, not quite able to relax. He wasn’t scared, exactly. Just… raw. Like he hadn’t finished waking up.

His chest still ached, but not the sharp, gutting kind of ache from earlier. It was quieter now. Duller.

Still there, though.

“Okay,” he whispered, rubbing the blanket between his fingers. “You were… here before. Right?”

Nightwing’s mouth twitched into a sad little smile. “Yeah. We’ve been here the whole time.”

Peter nodded again. Slowly. Like his body was trying to catch up to the words.

“I thought I dreamed you,” he mumbled. “That was kind of messed up.”

The big guy let out a soft breath that might’ve been a laugh, or maybe just surprise. Nightwing sat down again in the chair next to the bed, like he’d been waiting for permission.

“I can go if you want,” he offered, voice gentler than Peter remembered anyone sounding in months.

Peter stared at the blanket for a long second. Then, quietly: “No. You can stay.”

Nightwing didn’t say anything to that. He just leaned back, resting his elbows on his knees like he had nowhere else to be.

The big guy shifted too, finally uncrossing his arms and stepping closer to the foot of the bed. Still guarded, still quiet, but… present.

Peter’s eyelids felt heavy again. His body wasn’t quite ready to move. He curled into the blankets and closed his eyes, but didn’t sleep.

“Hey,” he whispered, not opening them. “I just… thanks.”

A pause.

Then Nightwing said softly, “You’re welcome.”

And the big one, after a beat: “…Get some rest, kid.”

Peter breathed in deep, letting it settle in his chest. The room stayed quiet.

He didn’t know who they were. Not really. But he wasn’t alone.

Not this time.

And for now… that was enough.