Chapter Text
The morning began with a nervous sort of excitement humming through the Manor. The sun had barely crested the horizon, but Peter was already bouncing on the balls of his feet in his room, fiddling with the collar of his new school uniform. The blazer felt stiff, the tie was crooked, and the polished shoes were a little too shiny — but to Peter, it wasn’t about looking perfect. It was about showing someone .
He darted across the hall, pushed open Damian’s door without knocking, and struck a pose.
“Ta-da!”
Damian looked up from tightening his own tie. For a second, the ever-stoic heir to the Wayne legacy just stared at the smaller version of himself standing in his doorway — same uniform, same crest, only a size or two smaller. Then, against his best efforts, the corner of Damian’s mouth tugged upward.
Peter’s grin widened. “Well? What do you think? Pretty sharp, right?”
Damian didn’t answer. Instead, he raised his phone and snapped a picture. Click.
“Hey!” Peter whined, cheeks heating. “No fair!”
“Consider it payback,” Damian said dryly, slipping the phone into his pocket. But his eyes softened as Peter skipped over and tugged his hand.
“Come on,” Peter insisted. “Breakfast!”
Downstairs, the scent of sizzling bacon and fresh toast filled the air. Alfred was already waiting at the long dining table, a full English breakfast laid out with his usual precision — eggs fried to perfection, sausages stacked neatly, grilled tomatoes steaming on fine china.
“Good morning, Master Peter. Master Damian.” Alfred’s eyes twinkled as Peter bounded into the room. “You’re just in time.”
Peter clambered into a chair, his legs swinging happily. He didn’t wait for ceremony, piling eggs and bacon onto his plate with wide-eyed delight. Alfred, amused, snapped two quick pictures before producing a small cloth bib and tying it gently around Peter’s neck.
“Alfred!” Peter groaned through a mouthful of toast. “Seriously?”
“One must be prepared for every eventuality, Master Peter,” Alfred said, as solemn as a priest. “Including tomato stains.”
Selina nearly choked on her tea laughing. “Oh, look at him! He’s perfect. My perfect boy in uniform. Bruce, look at him!”
Bruce, seated across the table, gave Peter one of his subtle smiles. Peter blushed scarlet, shoving another bite of sausage into his mouth to avoid answering. “No more pictures!” he mumbled. “I mean it!”
Selina reached for her phone anyway. “Just one more—”
Peter buried his face in his hands. “Mooom!”
That earned him a few chuckles around the table — even Damian smirked.
Bruce pushed his chair back and placed a small black box in front of Peter. “I think that’s enough teasing,” he said. “Here.”
Peter blinked at the box, curiosity piqued. “What is it?”
“A gift. For your first day.”
He opened it carefully, hands trembling with excitement. Nestled inside was a sleek black ring, its inner band glowing faint green. Peter lifted it out, feeling a faint buzz beneath his fingertips. The moment he slipped it on, the world dulled — sounds softened, his muscles relaxed, and the constant razor-edge of his senses smoothed into something manageable.
His shoulders dropped with relief. “Oh wow… it feels… normal.”
Bruce nodded. “Kryptonite alloy. Just enough to dull the edge of your senses, not enough to weaken you. Think of it as balance.”
Peter looked up, eyes bright. “Thank you.” He sprang forward, throwing his arms around Bruce’s middle.
Bruce froze for only a heartbeat before returning the hug, one hand resting gently on the boy’s back. He’d been doing that a lot lately — hugging. And every time, it chipped another crack in the walls he’d built around himself.
Breakfast finished with laughter, teasing, and Peter’s cheeks glowing red from too much attention. When the plates were cleared, Bruce leaned back in his chair.
“One more thing,” he said. “At school, your name will be Peter Parker. We haven’t put it into the system yet, but if you want to later, you can add Wayne. All you have to do is ask.”
Peter blinked, rolling the name around in his head. “Peter Parker…” He smiled. “I like it.”
Bruce’s mouth twitched into the smallest of smirks.
“The school knows only that a new prospect is being tested today,” Bruce continued. “If anyone gives you trouble, don’t be afraid to use the Wayne name. That should keep them quiet.”
Damian snorted. “Or you could let me handle them.”
“Not helping,” Bruce said flatly.
Wayne Academy loomed large in Peter’s imagination even before he saw it. A sprawling, modern campus funded by the Wayne Foundation, staffed with the best teachers Gotham could hold onto. It had everything — elementary, middle, and high school under one roof, a fortress of learning meant to give Gotham’s children a future.
Selina had wanted to follow Peter inside, fuss over his tie, remind him to sit up straight. But Bruce insisted that this was Peter and Damian’s day — their first step together. Still, that didn’t mean she and Bruce weren’t sitting in the back of the custom-built car, following them all the way to the front steps.
Peter pressed his face to the window as they pulled up, nervous energy rolling off him in waves. The building was huge. Kids in neat uniforms streamed toward the doors in chattering clusters. For a second, Peter’s stomach twisted.
Then Damian’s hand slipped into his. Not gently — more like a firm tug. But it was enough.
Peter looked up at him, smiled, and squeezed.
Outside, Selina’s eyes welled with tears the moment Peter opened the car door. “He looks so grown up already,” she whispered, dabbing at her eyes.
Bruce said nothing, but his jaw tightened, his chest heavy.
Peter stepped out, turned, and darted back to hug them both. He pressed his face into Selina’s shoulder first, her perfume filling his senses even through the ring’s dullness. “Bye, Mom,” he said softly. Then he turned to Bruce, wrapping his small arms around his waist. “Bye, Dad.”
Bruce hugged him back — tight, protective, reluctant to let go. “You’ll do fine,” he said quietly.
Peter nodded, slipped his hand back into Damian’s, and together the two boys started up the steps. Just before the doors, Peter glanced back over his shoulder, his grin wide and brave.
“Bye, Mom! Bye, Dad!”
Selina waved furiously, tears streaming now. Bruce lifted a hand in return, his expression unreadable — except to those who knew him best.
Then Peter turned, squared his shoulders, and faced the massive doors of Wayne Academy.
A new challenge. A new life.
Peter’s hand was snug in Damian’s as they walked up the long steps toward the main entrance of Wayne Academy. The morning air was cool, and yet Peter could feel warmth prickling at the back of his neck. Eyes. Lots of eyes.
Students clustered in groups on the lawn, their conversations dropping to a hush as they noticed Damian — Gotham’s “dark prince” of the school — striding toward the doors. And then, inevitably, their stares slid to the smaller boy holding his hand.
Peter’s stomach flipped. They’re staring at me.
He glanced up at Damian. His brother’s expression was perfectly calm, chin lifted, eyes forward, utterly unbothered by the weight of dozens of whispers. Damian didn’t care. He didn’t even notice.
Peter swallowed, straightened his shoulders, and tried to copy him. Calm. Cool. Collected. Totally not a little kid who wanted to hide behind his brother’s cape.
They walked in stride through the entrance hall. Peter’s sharpened hearing picked up the whispers easily.
“Wow, look at Damian…”
“…who’s the kid with him?”
“Wait, is that his
brother
?”
Peter’s cheeks warmed, but he kept his face neutral, even managing a tiny smirk just like Damian’s.
At the front desk, Damian stopped. The receptionist, a woman with kind eyes and reading glasses perched at the tip of her nose, looked up.
“This is my younger brother,” Damian said, his tone calm, practiced, almost regal. “He’s here for his testing and his tour of the school.”
The receptionist blinked, leaning forward. Her gaze shifted to the small boy at Damian’s side. Same sharp cheekbones, same dark hair — but Peter’s face was softer, rounder, his big brown eyes wide with nerves. Baby fat clung to his cheeks, making him look younger, more huggable. She couldn’t help the smile that tugged at her lips.
“Well, aren’t you a darling?” she murmured before clearing her throat. “Damian, you can head to class. We’ll have a teacher escort your brother for his assessment.”
Damian hesitated, glancing down at Peter. “Is that acceptable?”
Peter grinned, threw him a thumbs-up, then — to Damian’s horror — spread his arms wide for a hug.
A collective gasp rippled through the watching students.
Damian Wayne… hugging someone?
He rolled his eyes, muttered under his breath, but bent down and returned the hug anyway. The whispers doubled in volume, phones slipped out for quick, sneaky photos.
Peter beamed, waving after him. “Bye, Dami!”
Damian muttered, “Unbelievable,” and stalked off, trying to salvage some dignity.
The receptionist chuckled. “Alright, sweetheart, what’s your name?”
“Peter Parker,” he said brightly.
She jotted it down and gestured toward a row of stiff, wooden waiting chairs. “Have a seat, and someone will come for you shortly.”
Peter turned, eyed the creaky old chairs lined against the wall, and made a face. They looked like medieval torture devices. Then he spotted the cushioned office chair right next to the receptionist. Comfy, with armrests.
Decision made.
He walked right around the desk, clambered up into the office chair, and spun around once before plopping down with a satisfied grin. “Much better.”
The receptionist laughed, shaking her head as Peter patted his legs and leaned back like he owned the place. His smile was disarming, all sunshine and mischief. She let him stay.
For the next few minutes, staff filtered by the desk, dropping off paperwork or asking questions, their eyes flicking curiously to the boy in the chair. None asked, though; the receptionist’s amused expression was explanation enough.
The bell rang, loud and shrill. Students scattered from the hallways like startled birds, rushing toward classrooms. The great entrance hall emptied until it was just Peter, swinging his legs cheerfully, and the receptionist typing away.
That was when the teacher appeared.
He was tall, balding, with a forced smile that didn’t reach his eyes. His stride had a smug confidence, the kind that spoke of someone who enjoyed holding power over others.
“Where’s the boy?” he asked briskly.
The receptionist smiled sweetly, reached over, and spun Peter’s chair around. Peter burst into giggles, his little feet kicking.
The teacher blinked, frowning. The kid looked… familiar somehow. But he couldn’t place it.
“What’s your name?” he asked curtly.
“Peter Parker,” Peter replied cheerfully.
The teacher’s demeanor shifted subtly. Not a Wayne. Not a name he recognized. Which meant… likely not important. Which meant not worth much.
His smile tightened. “Right. Come along.”
Peter slid off the chair and followed.
The teacher led him down the hall to a testing room, plopped a thick exam packet in front of him, and said in a bored tone, “You have an hour and a half to complete this. Good luck.”
No instructions. No encouragement. He didn’t even check if Peter understood. He just smirked faintly, turned on his heel, and left.
Peter blinked down at the paper.
…It wasn’t elementary school work. Not even middle school. This was high school freshman material — advanced algebra, literature analysis, historical essays. A test designed to make him fail.
Peter’s lips twitched into a grin. Oh, this looks familiar.
He remembered Tim’s old books, Damian’s assignments, the lessons he’d absorbed by osmosis in the Manor. He wasn’t Damian-smart — but he was sharp. And these questions? These were puzzles. Fun puzzles.
He picked up his pencil. Thirty minutes later, the exam was complete.
When the teacher returned, coffee in hand, he was already rehearsing his smug dismissal. He expected the boy in tears, or sulking, or begging for more time.
Instead, Peter was balancing his pencil on his nose, giggling to himself.
“Oh, hi!” Peter said brightly. “I’m done.”
The teacher blinked. “…You’re joking.”
Peter slid the paper across the desk.
The man skimmed it, then slowed. His frown deepened. He pulled out a red pen, marking furiously. Ten minutes later, he sat back in shock.
Ninety-eight percent.
His throat went dry. Impossible.
“You cheated,” he snapped.
Peter blinked, startled. “What? No, I didn’t!”
“There’s no way a boy your age could do this. While I was out, you must’ve found the answers somehow.”
Peter’s cheeks burned. “No! I knew it! I worked hard!”
The teacher sneered, enjoying the power shift. “We have a no-cheating policy. You fail. I’ll call your parents to come collect you.”
Peter’s fists clenched, eyes stinging. He doesn’t believe me. No one’s even giving me a chance.
“Fine,” Peter snapped. “Call my dad. He’ll explain it.”
The teacher smirked, pleased with himself, and held the door open. “Out.”
Peter stomped past him, shoulders hunched, face set in a pout.
Back at the reception desk, the receptionist’s eyebrows shot up. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
Peter glared, jabbing a finger toward the teacher. “He’s mean. He said I cheated.”
The man sniffed disdainfully. “He did cheat.”
Peter huffed, spun around, and marched straight back to the cushy chair. He climbed up, crossed his arms, and sat there sulking.
The receptionist frowned, picked up the phone, and dialed the number on Peter’s form. After a few rings, a calm male voice answered, “Hello?”
“Hello, sir. I’m calling from Wayne Academy. Are you Peter Parker’s parents?”
“Yes,” the voice replied evenly. “Why?”
“There’s been… an incident,” she said carefully. “We’d like you to come pick Peter up. The teacher who witnessed the situation will remain here to give a clear explanation.”
There was a long silence. She almost thought the call had dropped — until she heard a female voice in the background, sharp and protective.
“We’ll be there in a few minutes,” Selina Kyle said. “Make sure that teacher stays put.”
Then the line went dead.
The receptionist glanced at Peter. He was still sulking in the chair, arms crossed, cheeks puffed. But his little foot was tapping, and his big brown eyes darted nervously toward the door.
He’d called their bluff.
Now his mom and dad were coming.
The receptionist looked up from her desk the moment the glass doors slid open, and her breath caught.
Bruce Wayne and Selina Kyle did not enter rooms — they commanded them. Even in daylight, even without their masks, they carried an aura that made the crowded entrance hall fall into silence.
The teacher waiting by the reception desk brightened immediately, his smarmy grin plastered on. “Mr. Wayne! Ms. Kyle! What an unexpected honor. What brings you here today? Is there anything at all I can do for you?”
Neither of them spared him so much as a glance.
Instead, their eyes went straight to the small figure in the cushioned chair.
“Mom! Dad!” Peter scrambled off the seat, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste. His eyes were wet, but he blinked them away, not wanting to cry here in front of everyone. He rushed into Selina’s arms, then Bruce’s, wrapping himself around their waists in a hug so tight it nearly cracked ribs.
Bruce bent low, one arm steady on the boy’s back, the other smoothing his messy hair. “We’ve got you, son,” he said softly.
Selina kissed his temple, her sharp voice softened to velvet. “No one’s going to hurt you, sweetheart. Not ever.”
Peter sniffed, smiled up at them, and hugged tighter.
Then Bruce’s head lifted, eyes cutting like blades. “Where’s the teacher?”
The receptionist, suddenly looking very small behind her desk, pointed meekly. “…There.”
For the first time, Bruce and Selina turned as one.
The teacher’s grin faltered. The way they looked at him — sharp, unblinking, two predators measuring their prey — made the sweat bead instantly at his temple. He realized, too late, the magnitude of his mistake.
Bruce didn’t speak to him. Not yet. Instead, he crouched so he was eye-level with Peter. “Tell me what happened. Your version first.”
Peter, still clinging to Selina’s hand, nodded. His voice was quiet but steady. “He… he left me alone in the room. Gave me this huge test. Harder than normal. But I finished it. I knew the answers. Then he came back, and instead of checking it properly, he said I cheated. That I failed. He didn’t believe me.”
Bruce straightened, eyes on the teacher. “Explain.”
The man stammered, tugging at his collar. “W-Well, you see… the boy was left alone, and the test was … advanced. He scored a ninety-eight, which is—ah, unusual. Given the circumstances, there’s a strong possibility—”
“That he cheated?” Bruce’s voice was cold steel.
The teacher flinched but nodded. “Y-Yes, sir. Precisely. We have strict policies—”
Peter stomped his foot. “I didn’t cheat! He’s lying!”
Bruce raised a hand, quieting his son, though his smirk tugged faintly when he saw Peter stick his tongue out at the teacher behind his back. Then his face hardened again.
“Get another test packet,” Bruce ordered. “Now. He’ll do it again. In front of us.”
The teacher’s heart sank. His mouth opened — perhaps to protest — but one glance at Bruce Wayne’s narrowed eyes killed the thought instantly. He nodded so fast his glasses nearly slipped off his nose, then hurried away.
Selina bent down, whispering against Peter’s ear. “Show him what you’ve got, tiger.”
Peter grinned, puffed out his chest. “Thanks, Dad.”
The test was placed in front of him minutes later, his parents, the receptionist, and the sweating teacher all standing witness. Peter cracked his knuckles like Damian had shown him once, then bent over the paper. His pencil scratched furiously across the sheet, neat handwriting flowing without pause.
Thirty minutes later, Peter leaned back, blew gently on the paper as if it might smudge, and slid it across the desk with a sunny smile.
The teacher’s fingers trembled as he marked. Every tick of the pen deepened his horror.
Final score: 100 percent.
Selina’s laugh was low and dangerous. “Looks like your ‘random kid’ just outperformed your system.”
Bruce leaned forward slightly, voice soft but dripping with promise. “You and I… will be speaking with the principal.”
The teacher swallowed hard, paling.
The receptionist, unable to hide her grin, handed Peter a slip of paper. “Congratulations, sweetheart. You’ve passed at the highest level. You’ll be placed with your brother in his class.”
Peter’s grin could’ve lit up the entire hall. “Really? With Dami?”
“Yes,” she confirmed warmly.
“Best. Day. Ever!” Peter hopped in a circle before throwing his arms around Selina again.
The tension slowly bled out of the room as Bruce, Selina, and Peter continued the promised tour of the school. They passed the library, the gymnasium, the labs. Peter asked questions about everything , pointing at trophies, climbing onto benches, Selina indulging his curiosity at every stop while Bruce quietly took mental notes on the academy’s facilities.
Eventually, they came to Damian’s classroom. Through the narrow glass of the door, rows of students sat in neat uniforms, their eyes fixed on the board — except for one. Damian, perched stiffly in his seat, sensed them instantly.
Peter was too short for the window. He jumped, his messy hair bobbing into sight. Then again. Then again.
Inside, a wave of chuckles rippled through the class as they caught sight of the excitable head popping up like a jack-in-the-box. Damian finally turned, saw him, and for once his lips twitched into a small smile.
Peter beamed, lifted a hand, and waved enthusiastically. “Hi, Dami!” his muffled voice carried through the glass.
Damian, in a rare moment of unguarded warmth, lifted his hand and waved back.
Bruce cleared his throat. “Peter. We shouldn’t distract your brother during class.”
Peter grumbled, landing back on the floor with a pout. Selina smoothed his hair and kissed the top of his head, amused.
The rest of the tour was calmer, though Peter’s excitement never dimmed. By the time they returned to the car, he was bouncing on his toes, chattering about the gym, the playground, and how “awesome” it was that he’d be with Damian all day.
As the car pulled away, Bruce gazed at his son in the rearview mirror — his boy still flushed with joy, Selina stroking his hair.