Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Peter Parker remembers what it feels like to die.

The first time was on Titan. He’d been surrounded by strangers — a wizard, a talking raccoon, a man with anger issues — and Tony Stark, who wasn’t a stranger anymore but still felt impossibly far away.

They’d just lost the stone. The air itself seemed heavier, thick with failure. Peter had carried it like it was his alone.

Then his spider-sense whispered — not a warning, not panic, just a low, resigned hum. As if it knew Spider-Man couldn’t stop what came next.

He remembers the tearing sensation, his body unraveling piece by piece while his healing factor fought uselessly, only stretching the agony.

He remembers clinging to existence. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to leave May. Or Ned. Or the girl he hadn’t even figured out how to talk to yet.

He remembers thinking he should’ve stayed on that bus. Let the real Avengers handle it.

Most of all, he remembers looking at Tony — and realizing Iron Man couldn’t save him. Not this time.

He’d tried to say sorry, but the words had been too small, too late. He’d wanted to say so much more.

And under it all, guilt.

 That he wasn’t strong enough.

 That he couldn’t hold the gauntlet tighter.

 That he couldn’t stop the giant.

 That he couldn’t make a difference.

Spider-Man should have—

 Should have—

What should Spider-Man have done?

The second time, Spider-Man dies in space.

(What are the odds, right? Both times. Space. He’d have started to think the universe had it out for him if he didn’t already think so.)

The gauntlet ended up in his hands during that insane game of keep-away. And when he slides it on for a better grip, the pain is immediate — raw, unfiltered fire racing up his arm, then detonating through his whole body. His vision floods with black spots. Staying conscious feels like climbing a mountain he can’t see the top of.

He fights his own body. Numb fingers that won’t listen. Lips mumbling, begging his hand to move, to snap. His spider-sense screams, every nerve blazing, his healing factor scrambling to knit him together while the stones tear him apart faster.

And through the haze, he catches Tony’s face. The devastation in his eyes.

Anger hits harder than the pain. He hates himself for being weak. For not being stronger. If he’d had the strength, the power… maybe it wouldn’t have come to this.

But Peter Parker thinks differently.

He thinks someone always had to snap.

 If not him, then Tony. Or Steve. Or Thor. Or Carol. Someone.

Maybe in another universe, it wasn’t him. Maybe in another universe, he lived.

But here, in this one—Peter’s glad it was him.

Because your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man (even lightyears from his neighborhood) isn’t as important as the legends fighting beside him.

So, if it had to be someone, let it be the kid.

Even if the pain is so all-consuming he can barely hold a thought.

 Even if every cell in his body begs him to stop.

 Even if a part of Spider-Man wishes it didn’t come to this.

Peter Parker is glad to take it.

 Glad he had the power to shield everyone else.

 Glad the choice was his.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

 Peter Parker remembers dying twice.

So why are his eyes opening again?

For a moment, he thinks the pain is still killing him. His chest burns — a steady, grinding ache right behind his sternum, like his ribs are trying to collapse inward. Every breath feels too shallow, too tight.

But he’s breathing. Alive.

The world barrels in all at once: gunfire in the distance, horns blaring, voices shouting, dogs barking, rats skittering in some dumpster nearby. Too much. Too loud. Normally he can mute it, dial it back, but right now it’s raw, jabbing at his nerves with every sound.

And through it all—silence. His spider-sense. Not a hum, not a whisper. Nothing.

Peter pushes up to his feet. The motion sends a bolt of pain across his chest, but he clamps down on it. No time. No use focusing on something he can’t fix.

That’s when he notices it.

Everything looks taller. The counters. The doorframe. Even the sterile lab tables loom over him.

It’s wrong. Off. But he doesn’t let himself think about it. Doesn’t let himself think about any of it.

Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Cold tile presses against the soles of his shoes. The lab is empty, too quiet, the only company is his own ragged breathing and the electric hum of machines asleep in the corners.

He doesn’t stay still. He can’t. His body is already moving, spider-sense tugging him forward, guiding his legs while his brain lags behind. He lets it happen. Let’s autopilot take over, while he ignores the fire in his chest and the way the world suddenly feels too big.

It was weird being alive.

Right?

Like, seriously — the Snap was supposed to be the last thing he ever did.

So how was he here?

Maybe he didn’t survive. Maybe he got revived again. That was… possible.

But then why didn’t he wake up in space? Shouldn’t he have blinked back in right where he dusted? And speaking of dust—did he even turn to dust this time? Or did he leave a body? Something they could’ve buried next to his parents and next to uncle ben. It was kinda sad to think the Parker family had ended with him in that world.

…

Wait. That world?

Why did he just think that?

Why would he assume he wasn’t still in the same one?

Sure, the multiverse existed. He knew that much. But knowing it’s out there and actually traveling to one? Two completely different things. He couldn’t even wrap his head around the theory of it.

Theoretically it—

Enough. Eat.

The words sliced through his head like static.

Peter froze.

What? Eat what?

And was that… his spider-sense? Talking?

That was—okay, not gonna lie—that was kind of awesome. It had never spoken before. Usually it was just a tingle, a hum, not… words.

Eat. No think.

Peter blinked and suddenly realized he was standing somewhere else entirely. A different section of the lab.

This room was cluttered with gear that looked advanced and outdated at the same time — half-futuristic, half Frankenstein’d together. Not Stark-level tech, obviously. No one touched Stark. Except maybe Wakanda.

Still… It was impressive.

Eat. Later, think.

The voice again. Stronger. Hungry.

Slight problem with what it was demanding though. He was holding a rock. A weird, glowing, green rock. It didn’t even smell like anything. No sugar, no grease, not even a whiff of chemical. Just… stone. So why the hell did his spider-sense think he could eat it?

Eat. Now.

“Okay, okay!” he muttered. “But only to prove how insane this is.”

He wiped the rock against his sleeve, eyed it suspiciously, and bit down on one end.

Crunch

And—what the actual hell—it tasted like candy. Like a sour green apple Jolly Rancher. His favorite. The kind he hadn’t had in… forever. Even stranger, the gnawing ache in his chest dulled instantly, fading to a background hum.

Told you.

Peter groaned. “No need to rub it in.”

But he kept eating. Of course he did. Finished it faster than he wanted to, the last shard dissolving too quickly on his tongue. He sat there, disappointed like a kid who scarfed Halloween candy before realizing there’s no refill.

“Aww, man.” He sighed, looking around hopefully. “Should’ve saved that one.”

We find more. No worry.

“How’d you even find that one?”

Accident. Seeking exit.

Peter rubbed his face. Great. So, no stash. No guaranteed source. Just a cosmic vending machine that dropped one green miracle candy in his lap.

Best to focus on leaving.

…

Except he didn’t.

Nine hundred and forty-five seconds later (yes, he counted), Peter admitted he’d wasted all that time scouring the lab for another glowing rock before finally stumbling on an exit.

The lab had been empty, sterile, humming with fluorescent lights. Cold tile against his hands, the faint sting of chemicals in the air, machines asleep in the corners. Shadows clung to the walls and pooled beneath the tables. He hadn’t liked it, exactly, but it had felt manageable. Contained.

Then he stepped outside and the world slammed into him.

Light reflected off glass towers and steel beams, sharp enough to sting his eyes. Colors were too bright. Every building seemed polished, alive, like the city itself had been scrubbed clean.

And the noise—God, the noise. Car horns layering over pedestrian chatter, dogs barking, a dozen conversations colliding at once, music leaking from storefronts, the sizzle of food from street vendors, even the hum of neon signs overhead.

It was life. Constant, relentless life.

And it was too much.

Normally, he could filter it—tone it down, let the static fade into the background. But his nerves were raw, his senses frayed, and every sound jabbed into him like pins.

The ache in his chest, dulled inside the lab, came roaring back the moment he hit the street. Every breath caught against that invisible knife in his sternum, every step made it worse.

He kept his head down. Couldn’t bring himself to meet the eyes of strangers walking past with easy smiles and steady strides. They looked like they had everything, and he felt like he’d lost it all.

 After walking for a while, Peter realized he wasn’t in New York anymore.

Hasn’t been, for a while actually.

The city around him was… brighter. Buildings gleamed. Signs flashed cheerfully. Even the sidewalks felt polished. People passed by with shoulders relaxed, smiles easy, walking like they had everything instead of nothing.

Normally that kind of hope would’ve made him smile. Now it just made his skin crawl.

It was too open. Too exposed. No alleys to vanish into, no shadows to melt inside. His spider-sense twitched, restless, like it didn’t know where to hide. And the people—none of them felt familiar. No scraps of that New York rhythm he’d grown up with. Just strangers who seemed to know, somehow, that he didn’t belong.

It felt like the world had kept moving while he was gone. It had before—five years dusted, gone in an instant. But this? How much time had passed this time? Another five? Longer? He didn’t want to know.

His chest throbbed with every step, the dull burn behind his sternum growing sharper until it was almost unbearable. He pressed a hand there once, quick, then shoved it back in his pocket like he could pretend it wasn’t happening.

He counted the seconds as he walked. One. Ten. A hundred. Fourteen thousand, four hundred.

By then, the lights and cheer of the city had thinned, giving way to quieter streets, peeling paint, the smell of rust and oil. That’s when he saw it: a warehouse.

Inconspicuous. Maybe newly abandoned.

By the time he stumbled into the warehouse, his legs were on fire and his chest felt like it was being pried open with every breath. Each step sent a dull spike of pain radiating up through his sternum, and he half-wondered if he’d just collapse right there on the cracked concrete floor.

A place like this—dark, quiet, full of crates stacked to the ceiling—felt like a gift. Maybe he could hide here. Sleep here. Just… rest, until he figured out what the hell to do next. Because like it or not, he couldn’t ignore the city forever. Not if he wanted answers. Inside, the air smelled of dust and old wood. Crates, boxes, pallets—heaps of them. It didn’t feel abandoned, not really. But he told himself it was. Easier that way.

…Open…

He froze. “What?”

Open.

Peter eyed the crates. “A crate? No way. This stuff could be… I dunno. Important. Belong to someone.”

Open. Trust.

He swallowed hard. The voice was steadier now, heavy, certain. Too certain.

“Nope,” he muttered, shaking his head. “No way.”

It took four hundred and eighty seconds of aching legs, burning chest, and his spider-sense gnawing at him like teeth before he gave up.

He’d open just one.

He found a big crate in the back—bigger than him, or maybe he just felt smaller than usual—and cracked it open. Light spilled out. Green. Glowing. Familiar. Peter’s breath hitched.

“Score!” he whisper-yelled, already scrambling inside.

The rocks were piled in abundance. More than enough for him. Maybe too much for him. But right then, staring at them, all he felt was relief. He grabbed one, bit down, and the pain in his chest dulled like someone had pressed mute on his suffering. A sob caught in his throat, and he almost laughed, almost cried at the same time.

For the first time since waking, the fire behind his sternum wasn’t clawing him apart.

So, Peter ate. And ate. And kept eating until his heart stopped hammering and his legs didn’t feel like lead. He ate until the ache was nothing but a memory. And he wanted to cry with how good it felt just to breathe again.

 So he ate another. And another. And another. Each one tasted the same—sour green apple, sharp and sweet—and each one smothered the ache a little more. The knot in his chest loosened. His legs stopped trembling. His hands steadied. For the first time since waking, he could breathe without pain.

And still, he kept going.

He, ate and ate and ate

He knew he didn’t need more—could feel the edge where hunger ended and something else began—but his body didn’t care. His hands kept reaching, mouth kept chewing, until he realized he’d lost count. It was addictive. Terrifyingly addictive. But right now? It was also the only thing keeping him alive.

Peter didn’t even notice when his body gave out. One minute he was chewing, the next his head was nodding, eyelids dragging down. His chest was quiet, his limbs heavy in that perfect, sugar-drugged way. Before he could think twice, he slid the crate’s lid shut above him. Safer that way. Darker. Like a spider curling up in its web. He told himself he’d open it later, no problem. Just a nap.

Except naps weren’t supposed to end like this.

The sound of gunfire jolted him awake, sharp and metallic, ricocheting in his skull. He gasped, heart pounding, chest screaming all over again. For a split second he forgot where he was—then he felt the wood pressed around him, smelled the dust and stone sugar on his breath.

The crate. Still closed.

But something was different. The air felt heavier, thicker, humid in a way it hadn’t been. The hum of the city—the laughter, the chatter, the background hope that city seemed to breathe—was gone. In its place came chaos: yelling, car horns blaring too long, tires screeching as someone floored it. The buzz of hope that city carried was gone, replaced by shouting, screeching tires, the unmistakable chaos of people running for their lives. And underneath it all, a stench he couldn’t ignore: oil, smoke, rot.

…Wake. Danger.

No kidding. Wherever he was now, definitely wasn’t the city he’d fallen asleep in. It was somewhere darker. Meaner.

He pressed his palms against the lid, but didn’t push. Not yet. His spider-sense hummed faint and low, the same uneasy vibration that had been with him since he woke in the lab, only sharper now. The message was clear: not safe. Not yet. Not fully.

His throat was dry. He licked his lips, the ghost of green-apple candy still there, sour-sweet and cloying. He wanted more. “You ate yourself into a food coma, Parker,” he muttered, head thunking back against the wall. “Real smooth. Ten out of ten survival skills.”

He tried to laugh, but it came out thin, tired. His chest hurt too much for real laughter. Another gunshot cracked outside. Closer. He flinched again, heartbeat spiking.

This was a new city. He didn’t need to see the skyline to know it. That other one was all shine and polish and second chances. This place—the heaviness in the air, the way even the silence between gunshots felt hostile—this place was different.

It reminded him of New York on its worst nights. When the alleys reeked of smoke and garbage, when the shadows were too deep to tell who was lurking inside them. But even then, New York had something. An undercurrent of resilience. A pulse that said, We’re still here. We’re not done yet. Here, all he felt was decay. And fear.

And here he was. Delivered in a box, like bad cargo.

Another round of gunfire rattled the crate. Something clattered nearby—metal dropping on concrete. He bit down on his lip, trying to keep from making a sound. His chest flared again, a dull throb radiating up into his throat. He pressed a hand over his sternum, as if that would keep the pieces of him from coming apart.

“Just… stay quiet,” he muttered to himself. “Wait it out. Figure it out. You’re good at that, right?”

Chapter Text

Peter startles awake at the sound of gunshots and yelling only to slam his forehead against the top of the crate.

“Ow.”

He winced, reaching up to rub the spot. It didn’t even hurt—not really, not compared to the constant ache in his sternum—but the jolt was enough to make his heart race. When did he fall asleep, anyway? The last thing he remembered was scarfing down glowing, natural Jolly Ranchers in a warehouse, waking up and then…

Nothing.

He just blacked out. Which was unusual for him. Even after patrols that dragged until dawn, Peter Parker wasn’t the type to just fall asleep mid-chew. Something about those rocks had knocked him flat, and that was more worrying than he wanted to admit. He shoved the thought aside. Later problem. Right now? Escape problem.

Peter pushed the lid open as quietly as possible, wincing each time the wood creaked over the gunfire. He slid out, body low, and ducked behind the nearest crate. That’s when it really hit him—this wasn’t the same warehouse he’d curled up in. Not even close.

This one looked like it had been through five wars and barely survived any of them. Bullet holes chewed up the floor. Skylights above were shattered, glass teeth still clinging to the frames. The walls sagged under the weight of time and neglect, and the support beams looked like they were held together more by rust than metal. The shouting and gunshots echoing across the room were just the cherry on top.

“Yeah, cool. This is fine,” Peter muttered to himself, peeking out. Okay, options. Door to his left. Broken window to his right. Run for it, or crawl? He wasn’t exactly dressed for stealth, but he was light on his feet.

“Right, window it is,” he whispered, nodding to himself. “We’re thinking the same thing, brain. Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Much to his delight, Peter made it across the warehouse without anyone noticing. Everyone seemed too busy exchanging bullets to pay attention to one underfed teenager creeping along the shadows. A win was a win. He pressed against the broken window frame, only pausing when movement caught his eye.

There—a guy in a red helmet. No, not a helme?. Pill-shaped head? Definitely a helmet though… probably? It was glossy red, two blank white slits for eyes. Still, the pill comparison stuck. If it was his head, then the guy had some seriously weird genetics going on. The red-helmet-guy was in the middle of a shootout, returning fire with precision that made Peter’s stomach tighten. The man moved like he’d done this a thousand times, like violence was a second language. For a second, Peter almost forgot to breathe, watching him dismantle a group of thugs like it was an after-school hobby.

“Cool moves, pill-head,” Peter whispered under his breath. “Assuming you’re one of the good guys.”

Which, in this city, was a big assumption.

He didn’t wait to find out. As he crawled through the window, his palm scraped against jagged glass. Pain shot up his arm, sharp enough to sting even with his healing factor.

“Ah, great. Perfect. Love tetanus,” he hissed, checking the cuts. Tiny shards glittered under his skin. He’d deal with it later.

Once outside, Peter walked for what felt like forever—3,620 seconds, according to the little clock in his head. He kept counting the whole way, probably as a distraction from the fact that nothing about this place felt right.

First clue: crime wasn’t just here, it was everywhere. He’d passed three muggings, a carjacking, and what looked like a gang deal in less than an hour. New York wasn’t innocent, but it didn’t bleed chaos on every corner.

Second: danger was ambient. A constant hum in his bones. His spider-sense kept twitching, never resting, like the whole city wanted to take a swing at him.

Third: the people. Everyone he passed reeked of something dangerous—gunpowder, cheap knives, pepper spray, blood. These weren’t civilians just trying to get home from work. They were wolves in street clothes, daring the world to challenge them. And then the buildings. That was the final nail in the coffin. Black stone. Dark glass. Gargoyles hunched on rooftops, watching. Whole city blocks seemed sculpted from shadow. New York had bright billboards, gaudy neon, Broadway lights. Here, it felt like the city wanted to crush him under its weight.

He didn’t know where he was, but he knew one thing: he wasn’t in the bright, hopeful city he walked around in the day before. That place had smiles on its shining windows and wide streets. This one? It glared. By the time he ducked into an alley, his chest was screaming at him again. Every step rattled the pain deeper into his bones. His legs burned, heavy with fatigue. He sat down on a flipped-over trash can, dragging in shaky breaths. The alley smelled like wet concrete and mildew, but at least it was dark. His spider-sense purred, quieter here, like it approved.

Finally, he turned his attention to his hands. The glass shards from the window sparkled under the faint streetlight. His healing factor was already knitting the skin closed around them, sealing them in like ugly souvenirs. Which meant getting them out would hurt. A lot.

Peter dug his nails in, prying the first sliver free. A hiss escaped through clenched teeth. His chest throbbed in sympathy, pain radiating through his sternum like it was mocking him.

“Yup. Definitely hurts like hell,” he muttered, tossing the shard aside. “Thanks, Parker luck.”

He pulled another piece. Then another. His fingers trembled as he worked, blood smearing across his palms.

Watching.

The voice slid into his mind, quiet but firm, the same way Eat had in the lab.

Peter froze, glass halfway out of his hand. His breath hitched.

“…Careful,” he whispered back, not sure why.

The shadows in the alley didn’t move. No footsteps followed. But the feeling lingered, heavy and sharp, like eyes pressed against his skin. Peter Parker had always known the difference between being watched and being hunted. This? This was both. Peter looked up from his hands and glanced around the alley, scanning for whoever—or whatever—was watching him. He was about to leave when something caught his eye.

A mirror.

A cracked, filthy mirror was propped against the wall, and in it… a face.

His breath caught in his throat. His whole body locked up as he stared. He knew that face—of course he did—but it wasn’t the face he remembered having.

Peter Parker had been sixteen when he died on Titan. Even after being gone for five years, when he came back, his face hadn’t aged a day. Then he’d died again, snapping the gauntlet, and even then, he’d still been that same sixteen-year-old kid who’d barely had time to live again.

But the reflection looking back at him now?

That wasn’t Spider-Man.

That was ten-year-old Peter Parker. Pre-bite. Pre-Avengers. Pre-responsibility. That was the boy who still needed glasses and an inhaler, the boy who did homework with Uncle Ben on Saturday mornings and begged Aunt May to push him on the swings at the park. The boy with a loving aunt and uncle still waiting for him back home. The world shrank until the mirror was all he could see.

His feet dragged him forward, each step feeling too heavy, too slow, as if the ground itself didn’t want him to move. He reached out, hand shaking, and touched the cracked glass. Cold. Solid. Real.

It was him. But it felt wrong.

How did he get this way?

 What happened after he died?

 Where was he even?

 How did he get back?

 Could he change back?

 Would Tony know how to fix this? Or Strange?

Why was it suddenly so hard to breathe?

 His chest—God, his chest hurt.

 Why did it hurt so much?

 He’d died in his suit, hadn’t he?

 Where was it now?

 Why was he just in a T-shirt and shorts?

 It was freezing.

 The shirt had a red “S” on it. Looked kinda sick, though.

 How could he still have his spider powers if this was his body before the bite?

 Did he regress without his DNA changing?

His vision blurred. His chest constricted, pulling tighter and tighter, no matter how hard he tried to inhale. His knees felt weak. His lungs were burning.

Breath.

The word wasn’t his. It came from somewhere deeper, that same voice that told him to eat in the lab. Breath? He was breathing. Wasn’t he? Was he doing it wrong?

How did you breathe again?

In. Two. Three.

He gasped, fighting the air in. One, two, three.

Out. Five. Six. Seven.

His lungs emptied in a stuttering rush.

In. Two. Three.

 Out. Five. Six. Seven.

Again.

In.. two.. three..

 Out.. five.. six.. seven..

Slow. Steady.

In… two… three…

 Out… five… six… seven…

The pounding in his chest eased. The edges of the world stopped closing in. The mirror stopped rippling like water.

Okay.

 Okay..

 Okay…

He was okay.

He dragged in one last shaky breath, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. But his reflection stared back at him, small and fragile in a way he hadn’t been for years. And that terrified him more than the panic ever could.

That’s fine though. This is just a minor setback.

Literally.

Ha!

Peter let the corner of his mouth twitch into a grin. He could work with being small again. Sure, it was weird, sure, it was wrong, but he’d dealt with worse. Probably. Just gotta stay clear of anyone who looked like they’d call CPS on him. Easy, right?

Then once he made it back to New York—because obviously he was going to make it back—he could go to Strange or Mr. Stark. Someone would know how to fix this. Maybe Tony had put tracking tech in the old suit? Yeah, that sounded like something Tony would do. If so, Peter could find his suit when he got back.

And May… how would May react to seeing him this small again? Would she even recognize him? The thought tugged a smile across his face, soft and shaky but genuine.

“You got this, Parker,” he told the boy in the mirror.

The reflection nodded back; eyes wide but determined.

Peter finally stepped away, sparing the glass one last lingering look before turning for the street. He was a foot away from open space when five figures walked into the alley. His heart sank.

They moved in a loose pack, practiced, like guys who’d done this before. The sort of people who carried weapons even when they weren’t planning to use them. His spider-sense didn’t scream, though. Odd. He swallowed down the instinct to panic and instead dipped his head, muttering, “’Scuse me,” as he stepped sideways, trying to slip past.

A rough hand pressed to his shoulder and shoved him back.

“What’s the rush?” the guy in the middle asked, flashing a smile that didn’t touch his eyes.

Careful. Danger. Safe.

Peter froze. The voice tangled in his head, its meaning slippery. Careful. Danger. But safe? Did that mean the men weren’t lethal as long as he didn’t escalate? Or that he had a way out if he stayed alert?

“I’m just tryin’ to get home,” Peter said carefully, taking one step back. He could probably make it to the far side of the alley if he moved fast enough without looking suspicious.

“Yeah?” one of the men on the left snorted. “Guess that means you can’t stop to speak to your elders?”

“Someone oughta teach you some manners,” another added, cracking his knuckles for show.

The leader—the man in the middle—rested both hands in his jacket pockets. Even from here Peter could tell one was curled around a knife. “Catch him.”

Go. Not worth it.

Peter didn’t wait for them to change their minds. He pivoted on his heel and sprinted. His sneakers slapped wet concrete, lungs tight in his chest.

Duck.

He didn’t think, just dropped. A trash can whistled overhead, smashing against the wall and exploding into clattering metal and garbage.

“Seriously?!” Peter shouted, scrambling back to his feet. “Who throws trash cans at kids!?”

They were trying to rob him. Or kidnap him. Or both. Either way, he wasn’t sticking around to find out. His heart pounded as he tore toward the end of the alley, legs pumping faster than his too-small frame wanted to allow.

Focus.

“I am focused!” Peter hissed, only to immediately trip over his own feet.

His knees smacked the ground, pain flaring sharp and hot. He hissed through his teeth. Totally fine. Strategic fall. Just testing the pavement’s structural integrity.

The scrape on his knee? Came out of nowhere. Definitely not his fault.

Peter scrambled upright again. That’s when he heard it—the thud of boots hitting concrete, close, right behind him. Too heavy for trash, too deliberate for luck. Someone had jumped from the roof.

Safe.

Peter stilled, half-expecting another one of the alley thugs. But the voice insisted. Safe. Which meant whoever just landed wasn’t with them. Still, his body tensed, chest aching, adrenaline sparking in his veins. His spider-sense was all but humming like a warning line held just short of snapping.

The thugs slowed their approach at the sound, their confidence slipping as they realized someone else had joined the game.

Peter wiped his palms on his shorts, heart racing. He didn’t know who—or what—had dropped behind him. wherever this was, felt like it was built entirely out of sharp corners and things waiting to kill you.

But if his spider-sense was right, then this wasn’t danger. This was… something else.

The alley went quiet except for the drip of water and the muffled city sounds beyond. The gang shifted uneasily, hands brushing their weapons, eyes darting toward the newcomer. Peter didn’t dare turn all the way around yet. He just hoped, desperately, that the voice in his head wasn’t wrong.

Safe, it whispered again, steady, sure.

And Peter decided—for now—to believe it.

This probably explained the warning from earlier. They’d been watching him without intent to harm, and then the group showed up. The warning had been about them. Careful. Their intentions were danger. But the person who dropped down—Safe. That part made sense now.

Peter slowly turned, heart hammering in his chest. And there he was. That same pill-shaped head guy from the warehouse.

Seriously though? How—how did they even get here? they were, like, elbows-deep in a gunfight!

“What the hell do you guys think you’re doin’, huh!?” Pill-head barked. His voice carried down the alley, low and metallic, like it had been dragged through a speaker system.

The gang froze mid-step. Their confidence melted away the second they registered who stood between them and Peter. Afraid. That was the word. The look in their eyes said it all. They knew this guy. And they didn’t like what knowing him meant. One of them, though—because there’s always that one—pulled out a gun. Another decided a crowbar was the answer and charged forward, yelling like the world’s angriest construction worker.

Pill-head didn’t flinch. He caught the crowbar mid-swing, yanked it free like it weighed nothing, and pulled the guy off-balance. One booted kick later and Crook No. 3 sailed backward, smacking into his friends like human bowling pins. Crooks Four and Five crumpled in a heap with him.

Peter’s jaw dropped. “That… was awesome.” He barely got the words out before the gun went off.

Bang.

Crook No. 2 had terrible aim. The shot nearly hit him, Peter had dodged it of course but just barely. It had been close enough to where he could feel the air ripple by his shoulder.

Peter stumbled back with a yelp. “Hey! Do I have a target painted on me or something!?”

No. 2’s eyes flicked toward him, smug like it had been on purpose. Not to kill, maybe, but to distract.

It almost worked—until Pill-head turned sharply, voice booming through that modulator.

“What the hell are you still doing here!?”

Peter pointed at himself, voice cracking. “Me?”

“Yeah, you!”

Pill-head drew his own gun in one fluid motion, and before Peter could even think about ducking, he fired. One clean shot—straight into Crook No. 2’s shoulder. The man cried out, gun clattering to the pavement.

Peter flinched hard. His ears rang. His spider-sense hummed steady but not panicked. Which meant this wasn’t a threat—at least not to him. Still, it was guns. And Peter didn’t do well with guns.

“Go home, kid!” Pill-head snapped, his voice sharp as broken glass.

Peter didn’t need to be told twice.

He bolted, sneakers slapping wet pavement as he took off with every ounce of speed his too-small legs could muster. Not enhanced speed—he couldn’t risk drawing eyes—but fast enough. He didn’t stop until the echoes of gunfire dissolved into the city noise, swallowed whole by the darkness.

When he finally slowed down, lungs burning, chest aching, he found himself in a part of the city that looked… dead. Rows of buildings lined the cracked street. Most were hollowed out husks—dark windows, peeling paint, whole walls caved in like rotted teeth. “Abandoned” would’ve been the easy word. But Peter knew better.

He crouched low, tilting his head, listening. His senses spread outward, tuning into the rhythms. There were heartbeats. Dozens, tucked into different corners of the street. Most weren’t alone—clusters, groups clumped together like survivors in a storm. The soft shuffle of bodies moving inside. Low murmurs too faint for words.

But no running water. Not a single pipe rattling, no hiss of pressure, no metallic rush. No electricity either. His ears picked up wires humming faintly with static in the walls, but nothing active. No buzz of lights, no electronic heartbeat of life. Somewhere nearby, wood crackled. He tuned in further—yes. A fire. Built inside one of the buildings, heat waves distorting the faint night air that slipped from its broken windows. They were huddled around it, their heartbeats uneven and weary.

Peter hugged himself as a chill swept through.

This wasn’t like the bright city he’d walked through before. Not even close. That city had felt unnerving in its optimism, every building shining like it had something to prove. Here? Here was the opposite. A place that didn’t even try. A place where the shadows weren’t an absence of light—they were the only thing keeping the world stitched together.

The ache in his chest flared again, dragging him forward, reminding him that he couldn’t just stop. He needed answers. He needed a way home. But right now, standing in this street that stank of smoke, mildew, and forgotten lives, he couldn’t shake the thought that maybe “home” wasn’t anywhere near as close as he wanted it to be.

Peter went a block over. Same deal—abandoned-looking streets, boarded windows, buildings either sagging in on themselves or lurking like empty shells. Still, luck was finally on his side.

He found it; An actual abandoned apartment building.

It wasn’t much to look at—five floors, most windows covered with rotting boards, and the handful not covered were too high for anyone without a ladder or a death wish to reach. The front entrance had been nailed up with heavy planks, some splintered but still holding. The kind of place most people wouldn’t even bother with.

Peter circled the perimeter, hands shoved into his too-big sleeves, scanning for options. Around the back, he spotted a fire escape clinging to the brick wall like a stubborn insect. Its bolts creaked and groaned when the wind hit, and Peter swore it looked about two bad days away from collapsing entirely.

“Perfect,” he muttered. “Definitely not gonna die on this.”

He tested the first rung, flinching as it squealed, but it held. Climbing came easy—it always had—and soon enough he was crouching beside a window on the second floor. One pane had been smashed long ago, jagged glass still clinging to the frame. He tugged at the boards until one came loose with a snap and slipped inside.

The apartment smelled old. Dust, mildew, and something sharp underneath it all—like rust and forgotten food. Whoever left had done it fast. Chairs were tipped, one snapped clean in half, the table was overturned. Cabinets hung on broken hinges. The carpet squished unpleasantly under his sneakers, dark mold blooming in spots.

“Nice,” Peter whispered. “Home sweet tetanus.” Cobwebs threaded every corner, thick and untouched. They made his skin itch. He couldn’t decide if it was gross or reassuring. Probably both.

He padded across the creaking floorboards and found the stairwell. The steps were warped, but they didn’t give in. The handrail, though, flaked red rust onto his fingers when he brushed it. He climbed carefully, shoes crunching over glass and debris.

On the fifth floor, the stairwell door had practically fused shut. Rust welded the hinges, and the metal stuck to the frame. Peter pressed his shoulder into it and shoved. It screamed in protest before finally lurching open.

This floor was different. Better.

No broken furniture, no scattered trash. The apartments up here were stripped bare, like whoever lived here had packed what they could and left on their own terms. A few stray boxes sat in corners, too small or too heavy to take. Peter’s chest loosened for the first time since he got to this city. Empty meant safe.

“I can work with this,” he told himself. His voice echoed faintly in the hollow space.

He chose the largest apartment—the one with an open kitchen and three bedrooms. Dropping his baggy shirt to wipe dust from his nose, he started scavenging. Two small boxes in the kitchen cabinets. Another in the bathroom. One in the hall closet. A pair in the living room. And finally, the biggest box tucked in the closet of the bedroom opposite the master. Seven in total. His spoils.

Peter dragged them all into the living room and sat cross-legged on the warped floorboards. He picked the biggest box first. Waist-high, oven-wide, heavy. He grunted as he pried the lid off.

Inside: clothes.

“Awesome,” Peter breathed. “Except… not.” They were all summer clothes—shorts, tanks, bright T-shirts with faded logos. The exact opposite of what he needed in a city where his breath puffed visible in the air. Still, he dug through, holding up a thin long-sleeve. Beggars, choosers, and all that.

He stripped off his blue shirt.

And froze.

His breath caught.

Right there, in the middle of his sternum, embedded deep like it had always been part of him, was a stone. A glowing, pulsing, orange stone.

Peter’s hand hovered just above it, fingers trembling. His chest throbbed with a dull, unrelenting ache, the same pain that had been gnawing at him since he woke up in that lab. “No,” Peter whispered. “No way. No freaking way.”

He touched it—just barely—and hissed. The stone was warm. The skin around it wasn’t healed but scarred, lightning-bolt like patterns spidering outward from the center. Like fire had licked him alive and refused to fade. It wouldn’t heal. His body, his freaky healing factor that had fixed burns, cuts, broken bones—none of it worked here.

“What the hell…” He staggered back, hand clutching his ribs. “I—I’ve got an Infinity Stone in my chest. I’m like—like Vision, but worse. Oh God, Tony’s gonna lose his mind. He’s gonna—”

He cut himself off with a bitter laugh. Right. Tony wasn’t here.

“Okay, think. Think, Parker.” He paced the room, tugging at his hair. “Orange is… uh… not Time. Not Space. Soul. Right, Doctor Strange said orange was Soul. Okay. So, I’m… what? Soul Vision Junior? Spider-Man but with a glowstick shoved in his sternum?”

The stone pulsed once, sending a ripple of pain through his ribs. He doubled over, groaning.

“Cool. Cool cool cool. Totally fine. Just… fused with one of the most dangerous artifacts in the universe. No big deal.”

He pulled on the long sleeve quickly, dragging the red fabric over the scar and stone as if hiding it would make it less real. Except hiding didn’t help with the next discovery. As he rolled the sleeves up—habit more than anything—his eyes caught slits in his wrists. Tiny, narrow openings that weren’t supposed to be there.

Peter froze again.

“…Oh, you have got to be kidding me.” He flexed his wrist. Something inside shifted.

“Spinnerets.” His laugh cracked. “I’ve got actual spinnerets. Because clearly, being bitten by a radioactive spider wasn’t enough.”

Make web.

The voice startled him, though by now he should’ve expected it. It hummed low, resonant, urging.

“…You want me to test them, huh?”

Yes. Make.

Peter sighed, shaking his head. “Sure. Why not? Might as well. Not like my life can get any weirder.” He aimed at the far wall, flexed instinctively—and web shot out. Not mechanical. Not cartridge-fed. Raw, organic webbing, sticky and strong, stretching across the room.

“…Gross,” Peter muttered. “Also… kind of amazing.” He tried again. Another web line. Then another.

The next few hours blurred into instinct and construction. He moved room to room, stringing lines, layering patterns. First, he sealed the windows with thick lattices of webbing, the better to keep eyes and intruders out. Then, in the master bedroom, he spun a hammock high in the corner, angled so he could watch the door. Beneath it, he built a net—his backup plan for when he inevitably rolled over in his sleep.

At first, he thought he’d just shoot a few strands to test things out. A little splat here, a sticky line there. But the more webbing he made, the more it felt… instinctive. Like breathing. His body moved almost on its own, wrist flexing, palm angling, shoulders rolling forward to cast a line with perfect trajectory. And the sound.

It wasn’t the mechanical thwip of his old web-shooters. This was organic. A wet, sticky snap as the silk left his wrist, the faint whistle of it cutting through air, the almost imperceptible hum as it pulled taut and hardened. The smell too—like a mix of saltwater and fresh glue. Sharp, chemical, but alive.

Peter wrinkled his nose. “Okay, ew. Very gross. Ten outta ten, would rather have cartridges again.” But the strength of it was undeniable. Each strand gleamed faintly in the dying daylight that filtered through the cracks in the boards. Thicker than dental floss but thinner than yarn, strong enough that when he tugged, the wood frame of the window creaked instead of the web snapping. Before long, he wasn’t just testing anymore—he was building.

He sealed the windows first, layering thick crisscross patterns until they looked like frost had etched over the glass. Sticky enough that anyone trying to pry them open would be stuck before they even realized. Then he moved on to the walls, tossing lines corner to corner, weaving a lattice that turned the room into a cage. His cage.

It was fast. Faster than he’d ever been with his cartridges. Web poured out of him like his body had been waiting years for this moment.

And then the hammock. He slung two anchors into opposite corners of the bedroom ceiling, then threaded strand after strand, layering until the center sagged into a shallow dip. Testing it, he climbed in gingerly—and nearly laughed when it held.

“Ha! Look at that. Eat your heart out, IKEA.”

He bounced once, twice, and the web flexed but didn’t break. Better than any mattress he’d ever owned. He could feel every vibration through it too—the hum of the city outside, the faint shifting of air when he waved his hand. A living sensor.

Still not satisfied, he spun a safety net beneath it, draping thick strands in a webbed bowl just in case he rolled out in his sleep. No way was he hitting hardwood at two a.m. By the end, the room didn’t look like a bedroom anymore. It looked like a nest. His nest. The walls glittered with strands, the ceiling sagged under white ropes, and the hammock gleamed faintly in the shadows. He sat back, breathless, and stared.

It was terrifying how natural it felt. Terrifying, but also… satisfying. Like scratching an itch, he didn’t know he had.

“…Okay,” Peter muttered, running a hand through his hair. “That’s actually kinda cool.” His spider-sense purred in agreement.

“It’s not bad either,” he whispered, hands on his hips. “Not bad for a first try at least.” His stomach growled, reminding him that pride didn’t fill you up. He patted his pockets—still had a few glowing stone shards. Not enough for long. He needed food. Water. Resources.

But night pressed heavy against the boarded windows, the city growling outside with sirens and shouting. Going out now wasn’t smart. He’d learned that much already.

Instead, he sat cross-legged in the living room again and cracked open the rest of the boxes. Junk, mostly. Old shoes that are way too big for him. Dishes. Magazines warped from moisture. A pack of playing cards. He stacked them neatly anyway. Nothing wasted. He’d salvage what he could, donate or dump the rest when he figured out how this city worked.

For now? He had shelter. He had a hammock. He had… some sort of stone lodged in his chest, sure, but he also had webs. And as insane as it sounded, that was enough for tonight.

Peter leaned back against the wall, chest aching, eyes heavy.

Peter leaned back against the wall, chest aching, eyes heavy. The buzz of the webs still hummed in the room, vibrating faintly against his skin. He fished a hand into his pocket and pulled out the few glowing green rocks he’d swiped from the crate. They were warm against his palm, like they were alive, and he hesitated for only a second before biting into one. The sour-jolly-rancher taste hit instantly, soothing the burn in his sternum, dulling it enough that he could breathe easier.

Chewing slowly, he eyed the hammock he’d spun in the corner. It wasn’t much, but it looked safe. Secure. His. Crawling into it, he let himself sink into the sticky cradle, chest easing as exhaustion finally pulled him under.

Chapter Text

Peter opened his eyes to find himself in a small bedroom. Cozy, almost too cozy. A desk in the corner stacked with neat piles of paper. Jackets hung by the door. Posters plastered over every wall; corners curled from years of being there. It looked like a child’s room. And somehow, here he was — tucked under the warmth of a Star Wars blanket, sunlight spilling across the mattress from the window beside his headboard. His body felt heavy, unwilling to move, but safe. His spider-sense was quiet. Too quiet.

The door swung open. His heart lurched.

“Ha! Told you he’d still be in bed,” came his mother’s cheerful voice.

Peter’s breath caught. His mom. He hadn’t seen her face in so long he’d nearly forgotten the exact shape of it. Yet here she was, cherry-red hair bright against the sunlight, soft brown eyes sparkling in a way that echoed back at him whenever he looked in a mirror. Behind her stood his dad, just as he remembered — tall, broad-shouldered, a stern but affectionate crease between his brows. His brown hair was cropped shorter than Peter remembered, less curl, more order. But it was him.

Peter couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.

“Yes, yes, you were right,” his dad said with mock exasperation as he crossed the room to yank open the curtains, flooding the room with gold light. His mom sat on the bed, peeling the blanket away with a playful tug.

“Up and at ’em, bug,” she said, smiling. “We’ve got a big day ahead.” Bug. The nickname twisted like a knife.

Peter’s throat locked up. His mom leaned closer, worry tugging at her features. His dad stopped at the bedside, the amusement draining from his face.

“What’s wrong?” his father asked, placing a heavy hand on Peter’s shoulder. His mom slipped her hand around his, warm and familiar.

“You don’t want to see Superman anymore?”

Peter blinked. Who?

“You’ve been looking forward to it all month,” his dad pressed.

No, I haven’t. I’ve never—

“We can catch the next one if you’re not up for it,” his mom added quickly, thumb brushing over his knuckles. “Or we’ll just stay in, eat ice cream, spend the whole day together. Whatever you want, honey. Just tell us what’s wrong.”

Peter shook his head slowly, eyes darting around the too-perfect room. The posters. The blanket. His chest tightened. “This… this isn’t real.” His voice cracked. “You aren’t real.” Confusion clouded their faces.

“What do you mean, bug?” his mom whispered.

“We’re right here,” his dad said firmly, sliding onto the mattress beside him.

“No,” Peter whispered. The word lodged in his throat like glass. “You’re both gone. You’ve been gone for years.” His chest trembled, tears dripping before he realized he was crying. Sadness softened their features.

“Oh, Peter,” his mom murmured, brushing her hand across his cheek with aching tenderness. His father threaded his fingers gently through Peter’s hair.

“I promise we’re still here,” his mom said.

“Liar,” Peter choked, even as he leaned into their warmth.

“Even if you can’t see us,” his dad continued, pressing his palm over Peter’s chest.

“We’re here,” his mom added, placing her hand over his heart beside her husband’s. “We’re right here. Always.” Together, they pulled him into a hug. The kind of hug he’d forgotten the shape of. The kind he wanted to drown in. Peter shut his eyes and begged silently to stay, to keep this moment, to never wake up. Because the world waiting for him was colder. And they weren’t there.

Peter woke with tears streaking his face and a distinct lack of warmth.

The dream had bled away, leaving only ache in its place. How long had it been since he’d dreamt of his parents? Since he’d seen their faces clearly instead of blurred, half-forgotten sketches in his memory? Richard and Mary Parker had been gone for so long that even when he visited their graves, it never helped him remember their voices, or the way his mom’s hair caught the sunlight, or the warmth of his dad’s hand. All those visits did was keep their absence relevant. But the dream… the dream had felt real. Too real.

Peter rubbed at his face, shaky but determined. He’d see them again when he got home. Not for real — he knew better than to hope for that — but he’d keep them alive in memory. He’d talk to them. He’d remember. And that meant getting home faster.

Dragging himself upright, he packed away what little resolve he had left and made for the second floor. He slipped out the same way he’d crawled in, down the rusted fire escape. Before leaving, he webbed the window shut — a makeshift lock for a makeshift home.

Today, he told himself, he’d find a library. From there, maybe a way to reach Aunt May, or Happy, or even Mr. Stark. God, Aunt May… she had to be losing her mind not knowing where he was. Maybe she even thought he was dead.

Which… fair. He had been.

But not anymore.

When he left, he hadn’t considered the obvious problem: he didn’t know where he was. Not just the city — he didn’t even know what direction to take. Sure, he could ask someone, but something told him no one here would care enough to stop. So he walked, aimless, letting the city’s alleys and crumbling streets guide him.

And then it rained.

He’d smelled it coming the moment he stepped outside, but the downpour arrived faster than expected, hammering the streets with unrelenting force. Within minutes his shirts clung heavy against his skin, and the cold bit into his bones.

He ducked beneath a rundown bus stop. It didn’t do much. The bench was damp, the roof leaked in places, and the wind funneled through the streets sharp and merciless. Still, it was better than nothing.

The rain here wasn’t like New York’s. It wasn’t cleansing. It was punishing, another layer of cruelty painted over an already cruel city. He could hear cars splashing through puddles, people cursing at the sky, someone shouting about the weather report.

 And over it all… he felt eyes on him.

A steady heartbeat pulsed above him, somewhere on the rooftops. Someone was watching. Not moving, not threatening, just watching. His spider-sense stayed oddly neutral, warning him of no danger, so Peter kept still beneath his thin shelter.

 They stayed for twenty-five minutes. Then, boots scraped against rooftop concrete. A sharp thunk of a grappling hook. The sound of someone gliding away across rooftops. And then Peter was alone again.

He sighed, trying to distract himself. A spider had crawled onto his arm, large enough to take up most of his palm. Peter tilted his head at it.

“You wouldn’t happen to be radioactive, right?” he asked. The spider twitched its legs.

“I’m just gonna assume you aren’t. So… fine. Stay dry. Just don’t bite me.” The spider scuttled up his arm and under his shirt. Peter didn’t stop it.

The familiar ache in his chest flared again, and he wondered if this was what Mr. Stark had lived with every day, an artificial core pressing against bone and lung. Peter almost reached into his pocket for another piece of that glowing green rock — just enough to stave off the gnawing hunger and discomfort — when the rain shifted around him.

A shadow fell across his lap. Peter looked up.

There he was again: the pill-shaped helmet guy from yesterday. Only now he stood in the downpour with a comically small umbrella, one of those kiddie ones patterned with faded cartoon animals. It barely covered his shoulders, water streaming down his jacket anyway. He carried a black backpack slung over one arm, and every bit of his posture screamed “motorcycle guy who doesn’t care if it’s raining or not.”

Peter blinked at him. “…You again.”

"hey man, thanks for the save yesterday,” Peter said, trying not to sound like he was freezing his ass off. Which he absolutely was.

“Damn rascal. Don’t you have any self-preservation in that head of yours?” the man snapped, tossing a backpack at Peter. The voice modulator made him sound angrier than he probably was — to Peter’s ears it came off more like annoyed older brother than threat.

“What are you doing in this weather, dressed like that?” the helmeted guy asked. The sight was comical at best: pill-shaped helmet, broad shoulders, black leather, and a tiny cartoon umbrella clearly meant for a five-year-old. Not intimidating. At all.

“The forecast said there was a low chance of rain,” Peter shrugged.

Total lie. He had no clue what the forecast said.

“And you fuckin’ listened?” the man shot back, incredulous. A long, metallic sigh hissed through the modulator. “Unbelievable.”

“Just put on the jacket, kid.”

Peter unzipped the backpack. Inside was a thick red jacket, the same symbol stamped across pill-head’s chest stitched over the front — only in black this time.

He slipped it on. The jacket swallowed him whole. The sleeves draped over his hands, and the hood nearly slipped down past his nose. But it was warm. Gloriously warm. Pill-head reached over and tugged the hood up over Peter’s head, then adjusted the sleeves for him like he’d done this a thousand times. He shoved the umbrella into Peter’s hands.

“Put the pants on when you get wherever you’re going, alright?” Scary helmet or not, this guy was definitely just concerned.

“Sir, yes sir.” Peter saluted weakly.

If he could’ve seen under the helmet, Peter swore the guy was smiling.

“Where you headed anyway?” The man zipped the backpack closed and swung it onto Peter’s shoulders for him. Which, rude — Peter wasn’t that helpless. He was ten, not four. He could put on his own stuff.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, weather boy?” Peter smirked.

He was pretty sure he heard the man age in real time, muttering something about kids these days. Peter grinned wider. Joke’s on him — Peter had been like this before he got de-aged.

“I’m going to the library,” Peter admitted before the guy could scold him for being cheeky.

“You know where it is?”

Peter’s silence answered for him.

“Figures.” Another sigh, then: “C’mon. I’ll help you out.”

The guy didn’t just give directions — he walked Peter all the way to the train station. Other kids drifted in along the way, clearly familiar with him, and Peter couldn’t shake the thought: this guy was a mother hen in a scary helmet. Maybe the whole outfit was just camouflage to hide the feathers.

By the time Peter stepped off the train, he was already being guided by one of the kids toward the library. Which, hey, less work for him.

The warmth of the jacket lingered as Peter slipped his hood down inside the library. He shifted the glowing green stone from his shorts into his new jacket pocket as he walked to the front desk.

The woman behind it noticed him immediately. Her heartbeat spiked, then steadied, but Peter caught the flicker of surprise in her eyes.

“Excuse me, miss…” Peter leaned forward to squint at her nametag. Not because he couldn’t read it — just habit.

“…Miss Barbara, where are the bathrooms?”

“They’re right over there.” She pointed to a hallway with a smile.

“And don’t worry about calling me ‘miss,’ okay? Makes me feel old. Call me Babs.”

“Okay,” Peter nodded. He started off toward the bathrooms, then remembered his manners. “Thank you.”

And just like that, he was gone, making a beeline for the restrooms.

Barbara Gordon had seen a lot.

The average person who walked through Gotham’s public library doors carried at least one weapon capable of serious harm. Pocket knives hidden in backpacks. Switchblades stashed in boots. Once, she’d even clocked a twelve-year-old trying to sneak in a handgun with tape over the serial number. That was Gotham for you—kids carrying weapons because sometimes that was the only way they thought they’d survive.

And that stuff was just on the job as “Barbara Gordon, librarian.” In her other lives—once as Batgirl,now as Oracle—she’d seen far worse. Madmen in clown makeup. Soldiers of fortune armed to the teeth. Even people she loved and trusted pushing themselves to the breaking point. If you asked her, she could honestly say she’d seen it all.

Until today.

Because a ten-year-old boy had just walked into her library carrying kryptonite.

Barbara recognized it instantly. The faint glow seeping from his jacket pocket, the low hum only her trained ears might’ve picked up. She’d read the encrypted Justice League reports, studied the files, learned the energy signature. A child carrying kryptonite. That was a first, and one hell of a dangerous one.

What in God’s name was he planning to do with it? Fight Superman? Try and sell it? Did he even know what he had?

Her gut twisted, the Oracle side of her already running scenarios. If Clark caught wind of this… no, if anyone caught wind of this, that boy could become a target faster than he’d blink. A kid with kryptonite was practically a walking bounty poster in Gotham.

Before she could spiral further, a soft voice snapped her out of her thoughts.

“Excuse me.”

She blinked and looked down. The boy was standing at her desk again, his big eyes tilted up at her. He looked tired, but sharp in a way kids usually weren’t.

“Where are your computers?”

Barbara pointed to the main staircase. “Up those stairs, to the left. You’ll need a library card, though.”

Sliding the form and a pen across the counter, she watched as he nodded without a word and started filling it out.

It gave her more time to study him. The red jacket was too big, sleeves swallowing his hands—it was clearly borrowed. His dark hair was still damp from the rain, plastered across his forehead. His sneakers were scuffed to hell, thin and worn down, and his socks didn’t match. At least he’d changed into sweatpants. He’d walked in wearing shorts. Shorts. In November.

He chewed at his lip while writing, one sleeve tugged low, his pen scratching too fast across the form. His handwriting was messy but practiced, like someone who’d learned to take notes under pressure.

“Um, excuse me?” he asked softly, glancing up at her. “I don’t have an email or an address. I mean—I’m living in a house; I just haven’t memorized the address yet. My family just moved here, so… is that okay?”

Barbara felt the familiar tug between concern and caution. He was lying, that much was obvious. But she also knew the kind of kid who told white lies like that: the kind who didn’t want to be a burden, the kind who thought admitting the truth would get them in trouble.

“Yeah, that’s fine,” she assured him gently, giving him the kind of smile she hoped came across as normal. “You can fill it out when you memorize it.”

He nodded quickly, relief flickering across his face before he bent back over the paper.

Barbara kept her expression neutral, but inside her thoughts were moving a mile a minute.

 A child with kryptonite. Borrowed clothes. No address. No email. No parents in sight.

 This wasn’t just unusual. This was trouble. And Barbara Gordon knew trouble when it walked in her front door.

After Miss Babs handed him the library card, Peter headed straight for the stairs. His sneakers squeaked faintly against the polished floor, leaving little damp marks as he went. Gotham Public Library looked… kinda cool, actually. Not in the futuristic “Stark Tower” sense, but in a heavy, old-world sort of way. The kind of place that smelled faintly like paper, ink, and a century of rain leaking through cracks in the stone.

He hadn’t been in a real public library in forever. Back in Queens, he and Ned used to spend hours poring over Star Wars manuals and science books, trading theories like they were state secrets. That felt like another lifetime now. Between fighting aliens, dying, coming back, and then dying again, “library trips” had kind of slipped off the schedule. Still, there was something comforting about the rows of shelves, the muffled coughs of strangers, the hushed whisper of turning pages. It almost made him forget he was in a city he didn’t understand, wearing a borrowed jacket that hung off him like a parachute.

Peter found an empty terminal at the far-right row, pulling out the chair as quietly as possible before sitting down. His spider instincts itched until he angled himself, so his back was against the wall. Habit. He needed to see everything in front of him. No surprises from behind. The monitor blinked awake with a soft hum, and Peter blinked at the homepage. No Google. No Bing. Not even Yahoo. Instead, a logo in goofy bubble letters greeted him: Wiggle.

He let out a soft snort. Wiggle? Seriously? But the layout was eerily familiar, almost like Google’s cousin twice removed. A search bar, a few tabs at the top, suggestions auto-filling underneath. He drummed his fingers against the desk, realizing this was it. This was where he could start piecing things together.

Time to figure out where—no, what—Gotham really was.

Peter stared at the glowing screen, blinking hard like maybe if he rubbed his eyes the word count would change.

Gotham

 23,345 results.

How? He’s never heard of this city. Not once. And Peter paid attention, okay? He read newspapers. He scrolled the news while waiting for MJ to text him back. He even tuned into J. Jonah Jameson’s rants sometimes—though those usually ended with a very heavy sigh and a little screaming into his pillow. But still. If “Gotham” was real, he should’ve at least heard the name somewhere in passing.

Another click. Another headline.

Gotham City, New Jersey.

Peter froze.

 He’s in Jersey? Ew.

It wasn’t that he had anything against Jersey, but c’mon. Jersey. Out of everywhere in the world he could’ve ended up, he gets dumped in the state Queens kids loved to make fun of. Great. Just fantastic. He scrolled again.

Gotham latest attack.

Gotham City meta law.

Gotham vigilantes.

Okay, now that was weird. Latest attack? What did they mean, latest? As in, this happens so often it has a recurring section in the news? And what the heck was a “meta law”?

Peter searched it.

Gotham City Metahuman Law

2,020 results.

He skimmed the first page, eyes darting over phrases: registration, regulation, restriction, high-risk individuals. It hit him like a weight in the chest. Metas were basically mutants. Or Inhumans. Or whatever the flavor-of-the-month word was back home. Except… here? They had an actual laws for them.

Peter leaned back in his chair, lips pressing into a thin line. The word mutant always made him flinch, mostly because it was usually spat more like an insult than a category. But meta? That sounded… better. Cleaner. Like a title instead of a curse. He could live with “meta.” What he couldn’t live with was the whole Batman thing. His eyes narrowed at the headlines:

Batman pushes for stricter laws against metas.

Batman: Gotham’s Dark Knight or Meta Menace?

Unwelcoming a whole group of people from your city? Not very heroic. Peter could practically hear Steve Rogers ranting about freedom and rights and all that important stuff he said whenever Tony got too authoritarian. Batman didn’t sound like someone Cap would approve of. Didn’t sound like someone Peter approved of either.

Still… curiosity gnawed at him.

He typed:

Batman.

 124,679 results.

Peter nearly choked on his own spit.

“Wha…?”

Scrolling fast, eyes wide, Peter took in headline after headline. Photos of a tall guy in a cape, jaw set like he wanted to fight the entire world. Articles from nearly every paper in existence.

How come he’d never heard of this guy?

He clicked one, skimming faster than his eyes could handle.

Batman: one of the founding members of the Justice League, Gotham’s own vigilante…

Peter stopped.

 Hold up. The what league?

He backspaced as quickly as lightning.

Justice League.

12,908,568 results.

His jaw went slack.

 How—how has he never heard of them? That’s like… that’s like someone not knowing who the Avengers are. Peter scrolled through the description, trying to keep up with the flood of words.

The members of the Justice League include Wonder Woman, Batman, Superman, The Flash, Green Lantern…

Peter’s head thudded back against the chair.

 Who are these people!!?

He clicked on Wonder Woman first. Apparently, she was a warrior from some hidden island. What? Then Superman, who was basically if Thor and Steve Rogers had a baby, but with laser eyes. The Flash? Some guy who ran faster than anyone alive. Green Lantern? Alien police with glowing jewelry.

None of them were familiar. Not a single name.

How could these people exist and Peter never once hear about them? Not from Tony. Not from Strange. Not even from Fury, who collected superhero dossiers like trading cards.

Heart pounding, Peter typed the obvious.

Avengers.

 0 results.

He stared. Refreshed. The 0 still glaring back at him.

No… no way.

His throat felt tight. Fingers shaking, he typed again.

Tony Stark.

 0 results.

He typed faster.

Iron Man.

The search engine blinked back at him:

Do you mean Cyborg?

Peter shoved the keyboard back an inch, breath stuttering.

 “No I don’t mean Cyborg!” he hissed at the monitor.

Cyborg. Who even was that? Another hero he’d never heard of, apparently.

Fine. Maybe Stark wasn’t famous. Maybe Stark Industries still was. He typed:

Stark Industries.

 0 results.

Do you mean Wayne Industries?

“What the hell is a Wayne?” Peter whispered.

He rubbed his face hard. None of this made sense. None of this matched anything he knew. He typed desperately now, each word hitting the keys harder than the last.

Spider-Man.

 0 results.

His heart stopped.

He tried again.

Spider Man.

 0 results.

No. No. No. No.

Why? Why was there nothing? Why was it like he’d never existed at all?

Hands trembling, Peter punched in the words that had haunted him daily in his pursuit as spider man

Daily Bugle.

 0 results.

Do you mean the Daily Planet?

“What the hell is the Daily Planet?”

Peter’s chest felt like it was collapsing inward. Every result was another knife twisting deeper. He couldn’t stop though, couldn’t stop until he proved something, anything, was real.

Battle of New York.

 0 results.

Do you mean the Battle of Bull Run?

“Damn you, history…” Peter muttered hoarsely, slumping forward.

His last chance. His last gamble. Fingers hovering, he typed slowly, deliberately.

“Peter Parker.”

0 results.

He’s right here.

He swallowed. Tried again, full name this time, like maybe the computer would respect the formality.

Peter Benjamin Parker.

0 results.

The tears hit before he even realized he was crying. His shoulders shook, breath catching as the screen blurred in front of him.

He was right here. He was real. He existed, dammit. He’d fought aliens and saved Queens and bled beside Tony Stark. He’d died in Tony’s arms and come back, and he existed. So why didn’t this world know it? Why didn’t it remember?

Peter pressed his palms hard into his eyes, like maybe if he pushed hard enough, he’d wake up in his own bed. Or Aunt May’s apartment. Or literally anywhere else that wasn’t a city that pretended the Avengers never existed.

The silence around him grew louder, pressing in like suffocating static. The quiet clicks of keyboards, the occasional cough of a stranger—it all sounded like it was mocking him.

Peter Parker didn’t exist here.

 Spider-Man didn’t exist here.

 Tony Stark didn’t exist here.

 The Avengers didn’t exist here.

For the first time since waking up small and lost, Peter wasn’t just confused. He was terrified. But he kept his fingers moving.

Peter

 5,895 results.

None of these people are him though.

Peter sat there, tapping his nails against the desk with a restless rhythm. His eyes burned from staring too long at the screen, but he couldn’t stop scrolling. Every click felt like a little hope, every scroll another small letdown. The names blurred together—Peters who were lawyers, actors, politicians, nobodies. Not him. Not even close.

The closest result he’d found was some kid: Jason Peter Todd. But Jason Todd had been tragically dead for years now. That’s what the obituary said, that’s what the articles whispered. Pictures showed him smiling like he had something to prove. Not unlike Peter himself.

Peter stared at Jason’s photo far longer than he should have, memorizing every line of his face. He didn’t look exactly like Peter. There were differences—the kid had less freckles, skin a shade lighter, blue eyes instead of hazel, and his hair wasn’t brown but black. But still. There was something there. They shared the same curls, stubborn and untamable. The same eye shape, the same grin that came out whenever pride got the better of them. And worst of all… the same baby face. That curse of a boyish look Peter had been stuck with even at sixteen.

Seeing Jason’s face calmed Peter in a strange way. He wasn’t alone anymore, not exactly. There was… something of him here. Like he wasn’t erased completely, just written over. He exhaled shakily, fishing into his pocket for the small sliver of green rock. He broke a piece off with a fingernail, pressed it against his tongue, and let it melt bitterly into his mouth. His chest eased instantly, though the taste made him grimace. His body craved it. It was unsettling how natural the ritual was becoming.

As the mineral dissolved, the questions began pressing in again.

How did Peter get here?

How had he ended up in a universe different from the one he was born in?

Did the stone embedded in his chest have something to do with it?

Could he ever go back?

Did everyone back home think he was dead?

Were they searching for him? Were there posters with his face on it? Did MJ keep hoping, even when logic told her not to? Was Aunt May crying herself to sleep, waiting for a phone call that would never come?

Had they buried him already?

Peter’s nails dug crescents into the wooden desk as his mind spiraled further.

Had they buried an empty casket? Or—worse—did they have a body? His body?

If he somehow went back, would he wake up inside a coffin, six feet underground? Would he have to claw his way out, soil in his teeth, lungs burning, like something out of a horror movie?

Peter shuddered violently at the thought. No. He wouldn’t wish that on anybody. Not even his enemies.

But then another thought crawled in. If his body was still back there, then whose body was he in now?

That dream from earlier—his parents, the cozy room, the voices he hadn’t heard since childhood—was that actually just a memory from this body? Not a dream at all, but fragments of someone else’s life bleeding through?

His stomach twisted.

“Oh god,” Peter whispered under his breath, eyes glued blankly to the search bar. “Am I in some dead kid’s body?”

His pulse pounded in his ears.

No.

No.

No.

He slammed the thought away, shaking his head so hard curls bounced into his eyes.

Maybe—maybe it wasn’t that. Maybe it was more like a switch. What if he and this body had traded places somehow? That made… a tiny bit more sense, right? Not that any of this made real sense. But it was easier than imagining himself walking around in a corpse.

Yeah. That had to be it.

For his own sanity, Peter clung to that explanation.

With a deep breath, he turned back to the computer. Panic wasn’t going to get him anywhere. Survival meant adapting. Survival meant being smart. And if there was one thing Peter Parker knew how to do, it was putting a mask on and pretending like everything was normal until it really was.

So he started fabricating an identity.

He didn’t know if he was still “Parker” in this universe—there hadn’t been a single trace of a Peter Parker online—but if nobody recognized his current face, then what was stopping him from writing his own story?

Click after click, his fingers danced across the keyboard, weaving the threads of a new life.

By the time he was finished, Peter Benjamin Parker existed again. Born to Mary and Richard Parker in Queens, New York. After their tragic deaths in an unexpected house fire, their son was sent to live with his uncle—Benjamin Reilly—in Gotham City.

Simple. Clean. Believable.

He dug deeper. Mary and Richard were real in this world, just like in his. Married, but childless. They had died in a house fire, like the record said. Perfect. No contradictions.

Uncle Ben didn’t exist here—not really. Or maybe he did, somewhere. Peter hadn’t searched that far. Didn’t want to risk finding another grave. So, he just… wrote him in. A digital ghost.

In this version, Ben had a steady job at LexCorp in Metropolis. Recently transferred to Gotham, working from home since a year ago after his wife passed away during some villain’s attack. A firefly attack, to be specific. Gotham’s history was littered with bizarre criminals, so it wasn’t even suspicious. Peter added in Aunt May too. Because how could he not? Yes, she’d been real here. Yes, she’d passed years ago. No, she wasn’t married. Yes, she had no remaining family. Perfect. Easy to tie Ben to her estate. Her last address became Ben’s current one.

Peter kept spinning. Ben had a bank account linked to May’s inheritance. He paid taxes on time, donated small amounts to charity, never had so much as a parking ticket. Model citizen. Then came the tricky part: money. Peter fabricated paychecks stretching back five years, siphoning tiny amounts from LexCorp itself. Not enough to raise suspicion, not when cross-referenced against other employee payments. And with how ancient these computers were; No one would notice.

This way, Ben had a steady income. Enough for Peter to access through a bank. Enough to buy food. To survive.

It was only temporary, Peter promised himself. Once he figured out how to make enough money here on his own, Uncle Ben would die tragically in a convenient accident. His estate would donate the rest of May’s untouched inheritance to charity. Probably the Martha Wayne Foundation—because in Gotham, that sounded right. Neat. Clean. Tidy.

He wiped his history completely, leaving nothing but a trail of generic ten-year-old searches. Cartoons. Homework help. Star Wars trivia. It was so easy. Too easy. The outdated tech made Stark’s earliest computers look like alien artifacts.

Peter leaned back, letting the monitor’s glow wash over him. He checked the time. 5:57 PM. He’d arrived at the library around ten in the morning. That meant he’d spent almost eight hours here. A whole school day. Gone. Just like that.

His stomach growled faintly, but the stone in his chest still hummed content. He dug another sliver of green rock from his pocket and rolled it between his fingers before slipping it into his mouth. Bitter, metallic. Familiar. Comforting. Peter logged off and slid off the chair, tugging the borrowed backpack tighter on his shoulders.

On his way out, he passed the front desk. “See you later, Miss, uh—Babs.” He winced at his own stumble. Nice save, Parker.

The redhead grinned at him. “Bye! Get home safe!”

The doors hissed shut behind him before he could answer.

Peter walked down the library steps, popping another piece of the green rock into his mouth. The bitter tang clung to his tongue, and before it was even halfway gone, he already had the next shard pinched between his fingers, ready to follow.

A few feet ahead, two boys stood at the bottom of the steps.

The first one caught Peter’s attention instantly—his heartbeat. Not normal, not human. Similar to Thor’s, but less thunderstorm and more… static hum. The kid looked like he’d walked out of a poster: a black, form-fitting T-shirt with the same red S inside a diamond Peter had hidden under his borrowed jacket. Plain jeans, combat boots, sunglasses. The whole package screamed “trying not to be noticed,” but his build and the way he carried himself made him stick out anyway. Punk hair too—taper fade grown out, sharp but unkempt.

The other boy was more forgettable at first glance. Black hair, gray-blue eyes, an ordinary haircut. His heartbeat was boringly average. His hoodie and jacket said he’d noticed the weather, unlike his partner. But the way his eyes darted around? Concern painted across his face? That wasn’t ordinary. Peter slowed his steps as he got close. The S-shirt kid didn’t look well—sweaty, pale, like the world was tilting under his feet. The second one hovered near him, tense and unsure.

“Uh, you guys okay?” Peter asked, stopping just out of arm’s reach. Nobody else on the street had spared them a glance, but Peter had the time of day. His voice was light, cautious but genuine. Both of their gazes snapped—not to his face, but to the rock in his hand.

Peter frowned. To him, it didn’t look strange. Passable as rock candy, maybe even a weird Jolly Rancher. It wasn’t glowing much anymore. Still, the way their eyes widened made his gut clench.

He shoved it into his mouth and swallowed fast. Sorry, but there was no way he was sharing. It was the only thing he could eat, the only thing keeping him standing. If they thought it was weird, too bad.

“You need me to call somebody? Or…?” Peter tilted his head, pretending not to notice their stunned looks.

The normal one finally snapped out of it. “No—no. It’s fine.” His voice was tight, rushed. He hooked an arm under the sick kid’s shoulder and started hauling him toward the accessibility ramp.

“We’re good!” he called over his shoulder, sharp like Peter was some kind of threat.

Peter blinked, baffled, as the pair disappeared back into the library. “Okay then,” he muttered, tugging his hood tighter. Weirdos.

He turned away, heading for the train station. The streets glistened with leftover rain, neon signs bleeding into puddles. His pocket felt lighter with every bite of the green stone, and he thought briefly about going back to the warehouse to scavenge.

“They were pretty weird, huh?” Peter asked, voice casual as he adjusted his backpack strap. Not to himself. The spider from earlier crawled lazily up his sleeve, tucking itself into the crook of his arm. A Goliath birdeater, according to the hours he’d just spent online. The thing was massive—practically a pet now. Peter sighed, watching the train lights approach. “Yeah. Pretty weird. Now the real question is—how the hell am I supposed to feed you?”

Chapter Text

Peter makes it back to Park Row just before nightfall and decides walking is a good idea.

Newsflash: it’s not!

He makes it all of seven minutes before stumbling across what would’ve been a mugging in progress. Why would’ve been? Because Pill-Head is already there, stomping the absolute hell out of the would-be mugger. The lady who’d almost been the victim doesn’t even say thank you—she just shoves past Peter in a panic to get away. Peter can’t blame her.

Red’s heartbeat sounds angry. Not furious—just…burning with it. Like the echo of a storm cloud right before the thunder hits. Nothing like earlier when Peter first met him.

“And you’re sure you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart?” Peter can’t help but quip from a few feet away.

Pill-Head snaps his head around—

Danger!? Duck!!

He drops just in time for a bullet to scream overhead and slam into brick. Peter hears Red Hood’s heart skip, almost stop, as recognition hits him.

Yep. Peter knows the guy’s real name. He found it earlier while digging through Gotham’s vigilante info dump. No, he doesn’t know why Gotham needs so many cape-wearing lunatics. No, he will not call this guy “Red Hood” until he actually sees him in one. Helmet stays, Pill-Head lives.

“What the hell, kid!!” Pill-Head barks, making sure the mugger is down for the count.

“You don’t just sneak up on a guy with a gun!” he stresses, stomping across the alley toward Peter.

“I didn’t sneak up on you!” Peter defends, jamming his hands into the oversized jacket pockets.

“You just weren’t paying attention. Too focused, I guess.”

That makes Pill-Head pause—just for a heartbeat.

“Is that guy still alive?” Peter asks, jerking his chin toward the groaning man on the ground. He doesn’t need the answer—he can still hear the heartbeat, faint but steady. He just wants to know if Pill-Head knows.

“Don’t worry about it.” Pill-Head cuts off quickly. His gloved hands land heavy on Peter’s shoulders, steering him out of the alley.

“What are you doing out here, kid?”

“Walking,” Peter answers flatly.

“Now? Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“It’s not nighttime yet.”

“The streetlights are on.”

“So? I’m big enough to stay out past eight o’clock.” Red must realize he’s not gonna win this one, because the modulated sigh he lets out is long, exasperated, and a little funny with the voice filter.

“If you say so, kid.”

And then—then—he messes up Peter’s hair. The dick.

“You eat yet?” Pill-Head asks.

Peter’s about to say “yes” when his stomach betrays him. Loudly. Peter swears it’s a paid actor. It’s been quiet for days, content with green shards, and now it’s just gonna out him like that?

…Yeah

Peter ignores it.

“I’ll take that as a no.” Pill-Head says, hands leaving Peter’s shoulders.

“Let’s go.” He gestures, already walking.

Peter debates turning the other way. But then his stomach growls again. Fine. Fine! He jogs a couple steps to catch up, slipping into step with him easily.

They end up at a pizzeria on the edge of Park Row. The guy behind the counter doesn’t even flinch at the sight of Gotham’s helmeted crime lord strolling into his place. Just takes the order, no questions asked.

The silence is killing Peter, so he tries conversation.

“So…why Red Hood?”

“What?”

“Where’s your hood?”

“Why would I need one?”

“Your name is Red Hood,” Peter points out.

“And?”

“And where’s your hood? Or is it a reference to something?” He hadn’t even thought of that until now, but hey—fair question.

“Why does it matter?”

“Because it makes no sense. You’ve gotta have some reason to be called Red Hood.” Peter says it like it’s obvious, which, in his mind, it is.

“Alright, mister name expert.” Jason grabs the steaming boxes, turns toward Peter with his head tilted. “What’s your name then?”

“Peter.”

“Yeah? And what’s the very important meaning behind that?” Red slides the pizza onto the table in front of him, sarcasm dripping through the voice modulator.

Peter stares at him, deadpan. “...Rock. It means rock.”

Red actually snorts, the sound glitching slightly through the helmet.

“Figures.”

Jason Todd had seen a lot in his time—too much, honestly. As both crime lord and vigilante, he thought he’d covered every bizarre scenario Gotham could throw his way. He’d stared death in the face, come back from it, carved a bloody reputation in the city’s alleys, and still found ways to claw some good out of the mess. But the kid?

Peter.

That was new. A whole brand of strange Jason didn’t have a reference for. Which was saying something, coming from a man who had literally crawled out of his own grave.

The first time he’d spotted the boy was down at Gotham Harbor. Jason had gone there on Oracle’s request to bust a kryptonite smuggling op—low-level scum moving product they didn’t understand. Simple enough. What wasn’t simple was the kid climbing out of a cracked window of the same warehouse Jason had just cleared. No explanation, no sense. None of the smugglers said a word about a child, swearing up and down there hadn’t been one inside. Jason knew liars when he heard them, but even liars usually stick to plausible stories.

The second time, Jason had been looking. He doesn’t even know why he bothered, except the sight of the boy at the harbor stuck in his head. The way he moved, like he knew exactly where he was going—like Gotham was already mapped out in his bones. Took Jason over an hour to catch up to him, and even then it was luck that he spotted the Superman shirt from the rooftops. The weird part wasn’t just finding him in Crime Alley. No, the weird part was watching the kid freak out at his own reflection in a broken mirror, like the face looking back didn’t belong to him. Seconds later, some gutter rats tried to snatch him, and Jason had to step in. Typical Gotham. But still—strange timing.

The third time, Jason wasn’t even surprised anymore. Gotham had that kind of way about her. Still, seeing the kid again on one of those gray, drizzling mornings—same shirt, same shorts from the night before—did something to him. He wasn’t Bruce. Never Bruce. He wasn’t about to drag the boy off to some cave and throw a cape on him. But he also wasn’t about to let him freeze. So he brought him clothes. A jacket. Directions. A little help without strings. The kind of thing he wished someone had given him.

The fourth time, though… that was on Jason. He’d been angry—furious. Joker and Scarecrow had broken out of Arkham, and Bruce had already threatened to bench him like he was some sidekick with training wheels. Jason had taken it out on the first mugger dumb enough to cross his path. Too focused, too wound up. He didn’t even register Peter until after he’d already fired. He almost shot the kid. Almost killed him. And the worst part? Peter dodged the bullet. Moved like he knew it was coming. Like it was nothing.

Jason could excuse once as luck. Twice, maybe. But four times? In Gotham? No. Coincidences didn’t exist here. Not for people like him, and definitely not for kids who could dodge bullets like it was instinct. So, he made the split-second choice: food before interrogation. Kids talk easier with something in their mouths. And Peter did.

He let slip that he’d just turned ten in August, six days before Jason’s own twenty-third birthday. Said he’d moved in with an uncle. Said he was homeschooled. Parents gone. On the surface, it painted the picture of a pretty average kid. Tragic, sure, but average. But Jason didn’t buy average.

 Not from this boy. Not with everything else swirling around him—the timing, the familiarity Jason couldn’t quite shake, the way the kid’s eyes seemed too old for his face.

No.

Peter wasn’t average.

And Jason Todd wasn’t about to let him slip through the cracks of Gotham. Not with Joker and Scarecrow loose. Not with the way danger seemed to orbit the kid like a second heartbeat.

Therefore Jason resolved to keep an eye out. To stay close.

Not because he pitied the boy. But because in his gut, Jason knew—kids like Peter didn’t just happen in Gotham.

Peter leaves Red just as it hits 9:15. He’d declined the pill’s (yes, that was still his working nickname for the guy) offer to walk him home. Peter didn’t need anyone knowing where he lived. Too risky. Too personal. He’d already said too much while scarfing down pizza—sure, Red couldn’t tell he was lying for half of it, but Peter wasn’t about to give him a breadcrumb trail to his door.

He makes it back to the old building at 9:33 if his second-counting was right. Standing in front of it, Peter freezes. For the first time, it really hits him: this is home. Not Queens. Not May’s apartment. Not his old room with Star Wars posters peeling at the corners and books stacked like tiny skyscrapers. This. A crumbling old building in a city that smells like smoke and copper.

He can’t go back. There’s no way. His chest burns when he even lets the thought in. If by some miracle he could? What would he be returning to? A funeral already held? An empty casket? A world that moved on without him? Nobody waiting. Nobody thinking about him. Nobody at all. Peter blinks fast, angry at the sting in his eyes. He climbs the fire escape like it owes him money. He slips inside the second floor, takes the stairs up to the fifth. Habit now. But before his hand closes on the final door, he stiffens.

Friends? Friends??

What?

Peter’s blood runs cold. Heartbeats. Dozens of them. Not human. Not rats. Something else. His spider-sense prickles sharp, confused—but not warning him away.

He kicks the door open.

And immediately regrets it.

The room is alive. Crawling. Skittering. A horde of spiders, every size, every shape, scattered across the rafters and walls like they own the place. A few even dangle from his hammock. His carefully built net is infested.

“...oh no.”

Peter yanks his backpack off and webs it to the ceiling, so nothing crawls inside. Panic gnaws at him. Where did they all come from? They weren’t here this morning! And these weren’t just house spiders. Some were massive, exotic-looking, the kind you only saw in books or nightmares. How is he supposed to feed all of them!?

Before the panic spirals, the Goliath birdeater from earlier climbs boldly onto his cheek.

Friends!

Peter blinks. The voice isn’t exactly words—it’s more like an impression that slides through his skull. Familiar, almost comforting. He exhales.

“Uhm. Okay! Okay. You… you’re Arachne.” He gently nudges the spider down to his shoulder.

Another, smaller one skitters near his shoe. “You… uh. Peter 2.” Then another. “Peter 3. …Man, I need variation already.”

He squats down, pointing one by one. “You’re Gwen. You’re Miles. Hobie. Pav—yeah, you look like a Pav. Uh… Noir, Porker, Lyla… Miguel?”

It takes over an hour. Naming them all, giving them identities, cracking little jokes that only he laughs at. By the end, his voice is hoarse, his brain tired, but he feels lighter somehow. Like he’s not so alone. Like this whole, terrifying city hasn’t swallowed him whole.

If anyone thought it was silly that he’d grown emotionally attached to a colony of spiders he just met? Well, that was their problem. Not his.

Peter finally collapses back into his hammock, too drained to keep his eyes open. Around him, his “friends” begin to weave. Some make perfect spirals. Others spin jagged, clumsy lines like they’re still figuring it out. Miguel steals a chunk of Peter’s net outright, until Arachne and Lyla come to help him tidy it up. Miles’ web looks like it’s about to fall apart, so Peter B (yes, there’s a Peter B) helps him patch it. Gwen, Hobie, Pav—they all spin loud, flashy webs, bright with personality, strands stretching far and wide.

Peter watches, eyelids heavy, a soft smile tugging at his lips despite everything.

Their heartbeats thrum in chorus, steady and strange and safe.

It’s the last thing he hears before he drifts to sleep.

Peter wakes up to the distinct feeling of eight tiny legs on his forehead.

Arachne.

Friend. Good morning!

Peter groans, rolling over in his hammock, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. Arachne skitters down to perch on his hoodie’s drawstring, utterly unbothered. The first thing Peter notices when he sits up: nobody’s gone. All of them—every last spider he named last night—is still here. He counts. Twice. And sure enough, they’re all present and accounted for.

“Guys…” Peter sighs. “Seriously? None of you went home?”

Not that he really expected them to. Still, a part of him hoped he wouldn’t be waking up to a full-blown spider commune. He scratches at his curls, already stressed, and starts head-counting again. This time, though, he notices something troubling: Miguel is looming way too close to Miles.

“Hey! No cannibalizing!” Peter snaps, pointing at them like a disapproving dad. Miguel skitters back with what Peter swears is a sulky vibe. Miles looks rattled.

Great. Fantastic. His pets/friends/roommates were about to eat each other.

He doubts they’d touch the glowing green rocks he eats. Lucky him.

“Okay, okay—fine. I’ll go find you guys some food.” He snags his backpack down from the ceiling, careful not to squish anyone underfoot. “But please, please, please don’t eat each other while I’m gone!”

Arachne crawls up his sleeve and tucks herself neatly into the hood of his jacket, like she’s claiming her spot for the trip. Peter just sighs. “Alright, you can come. But the rest of you—behave!”

The morning greets him without rain, which feels like a miracle in Gotham. No wet socks today. That’s already a win. But Peter doesn’t get long to enjoy it. He’s got bigger problems to deal with. Namely: how is he supposed to feed dozens of spiders when he can barely feed himself?

He doesn’t have a working bank card yet. If he had a phone, maybe he could set up a digital wallet, but phones cost money. Which he doesn’t have. To get money, he needs a card. But to get a card, he needs money. It’s a circle. A very annoying circle.

Peter mutters to himself as he boards the train. “This is like a snake eating its own tail. Except I’m the snake. And I’m starving.”

The train car is crowded. Normally, Peter would tune out the background chatter, but today something cuts through. The whispers, low and uneasy, ripple from passenger to passenger:

“The Joker’s out again…”

 “Scarecrow too…”

 “They should’ve been in Blackgate, not Arkham…”

 “Only a matter of time before something big happens…”

 “Thanksgiving’s coming up—he’ll hit then, you watch…”

Peter sits back, chewing a sliver of green rock, letting their fear wash over him. It smells sharp, metallic. Heavy. He knows Joker and Scarecrow are names to fear, sure—he skimmed enough last night to know they’re Gotham’s big-time psychos—but that’s about it. He hadn’t bothered with details yet. Too busy faking an identity.

He’ll stop by the library later. Do some proper research.

For now, though, Peter can’t help noticing the irony: Gotham has a whole army of vigilantes, yet people are still terrified. Still whispering about which holiday a madman will strike next. Maybe they could use some help.

But not from Spider-Man. Spider-Man’s dead. He died fighting to save his world. That legacy deserves respect.

Still… maybe Peter could keep part of that legacy. Not the mask. Not the name. But the meaning behind it. The drive to protect. To help. His chest tightens. It’s a nice dream. But right now? He doesn’t even have enough food to keep himself standing. Vigilantism ate up calories like crazy, and his rocks—whatever they were—only dulled the constant ache in his chest. They didn’t stop the hunger. And the organic webs? Those definitely burned through energy. He needs actual meals before he can even think about costumes.

One problem at a time, Parker.

He makes it halfway to the library before chaos interrupts.

Specifically: a car flying through the air.

Peter freezes mid-step. “...Okay. That’s not normal.”

The car crashes onto its side with a screech of tearing metal. And the reason becomes obvious: a massive crocodile-looking guy is in the middle of the street, swinging wreckage like it’s a baseball bat.

And fighting him—trying, at least—is Signal.

Peter recognizes him from the very brief look at the page for Gotham. Yellow suit, sharp movements, holding his ground as best he can against Croc. The whole street’s blocked off, civilians corralled behind tape or hiding in storefronts. Some are even complaining.

“Ugh, I’m late for work!”

 “Always with these fights…”

Peter pinches the bridge of his nose.

He can’t remember the last time he was just a bystander. Watching instead of doing. It feels… weird. Wrong. His fingers twitch like they want to sling webs. But he stays put.

Signal’s good. Keeps the fight contained, doesn’t let Croc plow into the crowd. Peter chews on another rock, watching intently. He can hear a voice crackling over Signal’s comms, but between the crowd, the shouts, the grunts—it’s impossible to catch.

Eventually, Signal wins. Croc is down. Sirens wail in the distance. The civilians start clapping, muttering thanks. All normal.

Except for one thing.

Signal looks right at Peter.

Not long. Not accusing. Just… focused. Like he sees something no one else does. Like he knows something.

Peter freezes, rock halfway to his mouth. He swallows it quick, tries to look casual. Totally normal kid here. Nothing weird at all. Signal doesn’t say a word. Just holds the stare for a beat longer, then goes back to handling Croc.

Peter exhales. His stomach growls. His hood shifts—Arachne clicks softly.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Peter mutters. “We gotta feed the colony.”

And with that, he slips back into the crowd.

Believe it or not, Duke was no stranger to strange. He just got done wrestling a man who looked like he’d crawled out of the sewers with scales, claws, and an attitude problem.

But a kid—an actual kid—standing in the crowd, calmly crunching on what looked and felt like kryptonite? That was a whole different level. And it wasn’t just the rock. Duke saw it—faint, but there. A glow in the middle of the boy’s chest. At first, he thought it was a reflection, a trick of light off the fight. But no—the glow had rhythm. It pulsed like a second heartbeat. Not the cold, sharp hum of radiation. Something warmer. Something… alive.

“Hey, Oracle? You there?” Duke muttered into comms as he grappled up to a rooftop, trying to get some space to think.

“I’m always here,” Barbara’s voice crackled back. “What do you need?”

“Are there any cameras covering the street I was just on? Near 12th and Kingston.” He vaulted across a gap, landing in a crouch. His head was still replaying the kid’s image in his mind, that eerie chest-light.

“Yeah, that intersection has two city feeds. What are you looking for?”

Duke hesitated. It sounded ridiculous even to him. “…A kid. Near the front of the crowd. Looked about ten.” He landed in an alley just as a mugger lunged at a woman with a knife. Duke sighed, sidestepped, and swept the guy’s legs without missing a beat. “Oh, and he was eating kryptonite.”

There was silence. Actual silence. He could practically hear Oracle blinking on the other end.

“…Are you sure?” she finally asked, her voice tight.

“A thousand percent.” Duke pinned the mugger’s arm behind his back and cuffed him to a fire escape.

“I think I know who you mean,” Oracle said at last, a sigh escaping.

“Talk to me.”

“Peter. Peter Parker. Just moved to Gotham. That’s all I’ve got.”

“That’s all?” Duke frowned, swinging back up to the rooftops. “Kid eats kryptonite like candy, and he’s got… something glowing inside him, and you’ve just got a name?”

“I didn’t think to dig deeper immediately,” she admitted. “I’ll start pulling more now.”

“Good,” Duke said, scanning the city below. The rooftops stretched in front of him, endless, restless. His gut twisted. “Keep me updated.” He requested

“Oh, hey, Peter, good to see you back so soon,” Miss Babs greeted from behind the front desk as Peter walked in.

“Hello again, Miss Babs,” Peter said.

“Just Babs,” she reminded him with a smile.

“Right. Sorry.” He doubted he’d ever stop thinking of her as Miss, but he could at least try to drop saying it out loud.

Peter slid into the same computer station as yesterday, the one with its back against the wall. The thought of someone looking over his shoulder made his skin crawl. He really needed a notebook—just not in English. Arabic, maybe? He was rusty, so it could be good practice. But then he glanced around the library and second-guessed himself. Gotham was huge; odds were somebody here spoke Arabic. Maybe something more obscure? Whatever. He’d cross the language bridge when he got to it.

For now, priorities. He could set up a digital wallet, maybe even a PO box under Ben’s name to receive a card. What he really needed was a phone, but that meant money, which meant a card… which meant he was trapped in a very annoying circle.

He was a click away from spiraling into Gotham’s rogues gallery when the screams broke out.

“Kill it!”

“Get it away!”

“Get a broom!”

“I’m not going near that thing!”

Peter twisted in his chair to find a group of kids about his age freaking out.

The group consisted of 5 kids. Though one kid had checked out of the situation already, they straight up speed walked to the other side of the library. Out of the group Peter could see two of them were clearly related. Of the two, one boy was wearing black and red, a red hood or red robin fan, and had an afro. The other boy was wearing purple and black, maybe a spoiler fan, and they had box braids, at least that’s what peter thinks their called. Anyways they looked similar, their heartbeats were nearly identical, so peter guesses their maybe identical twins. There was an older boy with them, he had wicks(?) and was giving punk rock, like that sick teen from the other day. The last in their group was a Caucasian girl. She had short blonde hair and was wearing a shirt with a wonder woman(?) logo on it. The girl was standing the farthest away from the table without leaving completely.

 Their heartbeats spiked sharp and frantic—but one stood out. Smaller. Eight legs. A spider.

Probably just hungry. And really, what was one more spider to feed?

Peter pushed back his chair to go help just as Miss Babs rolled off the elevator. How did he not notice until now she was in a wheelchair? That thought barely had time to register before she was asking,

 “What’s happening?”

“There’s a spider!” Punk boy points to a lunch box which the spider has claimed as its own.

“It’s harmless” Peter interjects as he walks over

“Harmless!?” The girl repeated

“It nearly bit off my hand!” The boy in red cries

“Hold on I’ll get the bug spray-” Miss Babs started but before she could go anywhere peter makes is way to the lunch box and picks up the spider

“How!” The red boy demands

“Ya can keep the lunch box.” The purple maybe twin tells Peter with crossed arms

“Really?” Peter questions as he glanced back at the full lunch box

“I ain’t gonna touch it; that thing coulda laid its eggs in there already.” The twin stated

“Uh right.” Peter closes the lunch box and picks it up, the spider crawling up his arm

“Why’re ya so cool with it!?” The boy in red demands

“It’s not like it’s radioactive.” Peter shrugs

“How would you know?” The girl questions

“Just look at it.” Peter replied as the spider crawled onto his face. It was on the bigger side for a spider but that was normal for him if he thinks back to the spiders in his house.

“Yer crazy.” The Punk boy stated as the group packed up and tried to leave, only for Miss Babs to pull them aside to talk.

Peter goes back to his computer and shoves the lunch box in his backpack. He’ll use what’s in there now to feed the spiders back at home and then go to the warehouse and fill it with the rocks. Still though what was there now was most definitely not enough for every single spider back at home. Peter clears his history of the important stuff and gets up to leave. The spider crawled into his shirt, and he suddenly realized it needed a name.

“You can be…Prowler?” He hasn’t named a spider yet, has he?

Peter shrugs the straps to his backpack then heads for the stairs. He could do research on the rogue’s another time. It’s not like the library was going anywhere, and he doubts he’ll suddenly find the solution to universe travel tomorrow. The card should be arriving in the PO box around the 9th and its currently the 7th so he’s got time to kill most definitely.

Peter headed to the nearest playground in Park Row, hoping to sit and stew over every life decision that had dumped him here. Contrary to his expectations, the playground wasn’t empty. In fact, it was crawling with kids. The swings creaked, the rusted slide screamed for oil, and the paint on the jungle gym peeled in long curls—but the kids didn’t seem to care. They ranged from maybe twelve down to seven, and most had backpacks tossed in the dirt nearby. School must’ve just let out. It was around three when he’d left the library, so yeah, that checked out.

It made sense they’d want to spend their Friday afternoon at the park.

There went his plans for quiet existential dread.

At first, Peter sat off to the side, perched on the edge of a cracked bench while everyone else yelled and ran and laughed. He figured he’d just watch. But then one group started a game of tag, and before long the whole playground was involved. Did he verbally agree to play? No. Did he still end up playing anyways? Yes. Yes, he did. They called him a chicken when he tried to stay out of it, and Peter Parker was no chicken.

The whole thing turned out… surreal. For a while he completely forgot himself. Forgot Gotham, forgot the warehouse, forgot the glowing rock in his chest and the spiders waiting for him at home. For those stolen minutes, all that mattered was dodging hands, sprinting across uneven gravel, and shouting “You're it!” loud enough to make his throat raw.

It was like the outside world had paused just for him.

The game only ended when the afternoon shadows grew long and parents, guardians, and older siblings started showing up to collect the other kids. Slowly the noise thinned, laughter faded, and backpacks were claimed until Peter realized he was the only one left.

It took him an embarrassingly long time to register why. No one was coming for him.

Logically, he knew this. His parents were dead. In this universe, in his last one—it didn’t matter. That fact wasn’t going to change. But some stubborn part of his ten-year-old brain still clung to the idea that someone might appear at the edge of the park, waving him over. No one did.

Did he cry when it finally sank in? No. Absolutely not. And if anyone asked, no one could prove otherwise.

Watching. Watching. Friend!

Peter was broken out of his definitely-not-tears by the alert. It had been there earlier, back when the tag game first started, but he’d brushed it off—assumed it was just the other kids watching him. The sensation faded fifteen minutes into the game anyway, and he hadn’t thought much of it since. He’d had more important things to worry about, like not being tagged.

Now though? Now the alert was back.

Peter wiped his face with his sleeve and grabbed his backpack off the bench. He’d left it there while playing so Arachne and Prowler wouldn’t get jostled around or stepped on if they slipped free.

Listening closely, Peter tried to sift through the park’s background noise until he found the heartbeat that didn’t belong. It only took about five seconds. He knew it by now—Pill-Shaped Head Guy’s rhythm. He’d memorized it after all their run-ins. Figures. And sure enough, he spotted the guy dropping from a rooftop into a nearby alley before stepping casually out, heading toward him.

Friend! Hi!

Don’t sound so happy.

Peter crossed his arms as the man stopped in front of him. “What’re you doing at a children’s park?”

Red tilted his helmet toward him. “I don’t know… maybe checking to see why some kid is crying alone at one.”

“I wasn’t crying,” Peter shot back, matter-of-fact.

“Uh-huh. Well, there isn’t anyone else here, kid.” Red crouched so they were eye level.

“I know that. Which means you probably didn’t see anyone crying at all.”

For a moment, Red just stared at him. Peter could smell the doubt and concern rolling off him. At least it wasn’t pity.

“And you’re sure you weren’t the one crying?” Red pressed.

“I’m sure.”

“Well, I think you were the one crying.”

“You can’t prove it!”

Red’s body language shifted—flat, unamused. “Right. ’Cause your eyes totally aren’t puffy.”

Damn him.

“They aren’t,” Peter insisted stubbornly.

Red sighed like a man conceding a war. “Alright then, kid. You eat lunch yet?”

Peter was ready to say “no” when another thought struck him: if Red bought him food, he could take some home for the spiders. A win-win.

“No…” he admitted.

“Okay then. Let’s fix that, yeah?” Red stood, offering a gloved hand to help him up.

Lunch with Red No-Hood hadn’t been half bad.

First off, he got to ride on the guy’s motorcycle, which was absolutely sick. He was still buzzing from it when they pulled into a place called Bat-Burger. Peter half expected it to be a gimmick-y tourist trap, but nope—it smelled amazing. Though Peter hadn’t been allowed to enter the building, nope, he had to stay on the motorcycle.

They ate on a rooftop. Peter chattered more than he meant to, rambling about his day, about the spiders at home, about random hobbies, anything that filled the silence. Red mostly listened, helmet still firmly in place, not touching his food.

Peter figured it out halfway through: he probably didn’t want to take the helmet off in front of him. Reasonable, actually. Secret identities and all that.

Before leaving for some “bat briefing,” Red pushed the untouched bag of food toward him. “Take it. For later.” Peter didn’t argue. He stuffed it into his backpack and rode the high of free food all the way home.

To Peter’s delight, the spiders hadn’t cannibalized each other while he was gone. Hurray! Though Miles was sulking in the corner above the door, like someone had definitely tried. Not shocking.

Peter set the food on the counter and watched the horde scuttle down to claim it. As he leaned against the counter, chewing on a small piece of green rock, he thought to himself: he really needed to find that warehouse again.

Chapter Text

Peter woke up late the following day.

Friends!

And to his surprise, he found himself smothered in spiders—not drowning exactly, but close enough. They clung to him in a living blanket, legs tickling across his arms and shoulders. A few had even wriggled into the folds of his jacket, curled tight against the cold.

That’s when Peter realized why. The air bit against his skin, sharp and merciless. Autumn in Gotham wasn’t playing around, and the jacket and sweats Red had given him weren’t nearly enough. Had it not been for the spiders clustering around him, sharing what little warmth they had, Peter wasn’t sure he’d have even woken up. If he’d gone to bed wet? Forget it. Hibernation. The kind that lasted all of winter and well into spring.

That was bad. Really bad. Peter needed clothes, heat, and a shower—preferably in that order. His jacket smelled faintly of mildew, his shoes were falling apart, and every breath fogged like a reminder of his situation. Warmth was survival. Without it, the spiders would slow down, and so would he. The thought alone made him shiver.

A heater would be nice, sure. Peter could probably cobble one together with the right parts. Problem was, there weren’t exactly alien invasions every week to scavenge from. For now, he’d settle for dry clothes and a shower. Anything to feel a little more human again.

That’s why he was trudging around the Upper West Side of Gotham, no plan beyond find somewhere with running water. Maybe an old gym? A school? He just knew one thing: he stank. Bad. He had no idea when this body had last touched soap, and he wasn’t about to let Gotham remember him as the smelly kid.

Two hours later, Peter was ready to declare Gotham impossible. His legs ached—not the good kind of ache he used to get running with Ned, but the dragging, cement-heavy kind. The sidewalks were cracked, full of broken glass, and even the sneakers he’d scavenged from a donation box after dropping off his unnecessary boxes weren’t much help. A little Too big, but still better than his old pair, which had been crushing his toes for days. At least he’d grow into these.

The longer he walked, the more he craved somewhere quiet. The whole city buzzed like static in his skull—his spider-sense humming, not screaming, just that constant nagging hum of eyes in the dark. Gotham always felt like it was watching.

Eventually he ended up back near the Bowery. That’s when he spotted it: a squat brick building with GYM fading across its cracked sign. Posters curled in the windows—“Amateur Boxing Night 2009” and “Self-Defense Classes for Kids.” Once upon a time, this place probably meant something. Now, it just sagged under dust and neglect.

The side door was locked. One tug would rip it open, but Peter wasn’t about to leave fingerprints. He chewed his lip, glancing up at the cameras he’d avoided on the way here. Then—

Friend?

A small spider dropped onto his shoulder. Thumb-sized, not tiny, not big. Before Peter could react, it crawled down his arm, squeezed into the lock, and he heard a faint click. The door swung open at the push of his foot.

Peter blinked. “…You’re a pretty nifty guy, huh?”

Friend!

The spider wriggled back out and climbed up his sleeve, settling at his neck. Peter grinned despite himself, then stepped inside.

The gym smelled like dust and rubber. His sneakers crunched chalk powder scattered across the floor. Punching bags sagged like wilted fruit, dumbbell racks sat half-empty, and silence pressed so heavy it muffled his breathing.

Locker rooms. Showers. He could hear water faintly in the pipes. His heart skipped. He moved fast, pushing open the door to find rows of dented lockers, graffiti scrawls, a broken bench. The showers were tucked behind a grimy curtain. He twisted the knob. For one terrifying second, nothing. Then the pipes shrieked and water sputtered brown before turning clear, steaming faintly.

Peter dropped his bag, letting Arachne and the new spider—Loki, he decided—crawl free. Then he stripped off the hoodie and sweats, peeling them away from sticky skin. His reflection in the cracked mirror made him flinch.

He looked ten. Too ten. His eyes were too big, too tired, wide like he’d been startled and never stopped being startled. Human, sure, but off around the edges. Like the stone in his chest was bleeding into the rest of him.

“Okay, Parker,” he muttered, smearing a hand across the fogging glass. “Ten out of ten. Totally normal kid. Definitely not terrifying.”

The water hit lukewarm, but to Peter it was heaven. He tilted his head back, soaking his hair, letting the grime sluice off his skin. For a second, he let himself pretend—the pipes rattling like his old apartment, May calling from the kitchen, a towel waiting on the sink. The thought hurt so bad he pressed his forehead to the tiles, eyes squeezed shut until they burned.

The shower hid the sniffs. Covered the way his shoulders shook.

When he finished, he pulled on the damp clothes again. They clung, but at least his skin felt clean. Almost. He rubbed his arms, glanced once more at the boy in the mirror.

“If I squint,” he said softly, “I almost look normal. Just a kid who got too muddy at recess.”

The mirror didn’t argue.

Peter turned away, giving Arachne and Loki a chance to climb back on to his arm. They stayed put in the bag. Fine. He swung the bag over his shoulder, shoved his hands in his pockets, and pushed the side door open. The hinge shrieked. The Gotham sun hit him like a spotlight, forcing his eyes into a squint. Damp hoodie clinging to his back, hair spiking in stubborn wet tufts, Peter hunched his shoulders against the breeze.

Maybe if he kept his head down, Gotham wouldn’t notice him today. Maybe—for once—Parker luck wouldn’t find him.

Peter stepped out to the main street instead of the alley the gym dumped him into. The street wasn’t empty—it was about 1 p.m., after all. A couple office workers trudged by with takeaway coffee. A man in a grease-stained apron smoked outside a diner two doors down. A woman dragged a toddler along by the wrist, muttering something under her breath—Peter didn’t bother focusing on it. And then there was the blonde girl leaning against the wall by the gym’s front door. Teenager. Battered purple backpack slung over one shoulder. Posture like she’d been waiting forever and didn’t care who knew it.

Her eyes flicked up when Peter stepped on a crumpled newspaper. They landed on him. Stayed there.

“…Uh,” Peter muttered, ducking his head. He tried to sidestep, melt into the passing crowd.

“Hey, kid,” the girl called. Sharp voice. Not mean. Just curious. “Your shoe’s untied.”

Peter froze. Looked down. Shoes were fine.

The girl grinned. “Gotcha.”

Peter fought the urge to smile. Besides those kids at the playground, nobody talked to him unless they had to. Red and Miss Babs didn’t count—it came with their jobs. This? This was random. Weird.

She pushed off the wall, came closer, squinting at him. Sunlight made her hair look lighter than it probably was. “Sorry, you just look like someone I know,” she said, expression tightening in a way most people wouldn’t notice. Peter did. “Really, it’s uncanny.” Her smile was strained. Peter’s chest tightened. Did she know this body? The original kid? Panic buzzed at the back of his head. Think, Parker. Think. Deflect.

“I’m not who you’re thinking about!” Smooth. Real smooth.

“I, uh… just have one of those faces, y’know?” he tried again, fiddling with his fingers in his pockets, praying she’d drop it.

“Yeah… one of those faces,” she said. Clearly didn’t believe him, but she let it go. Silence stretched and Peter took that as his cue to leave.

“Where you coming from?” she asked suddenly.

“…My mom’s house.” Skeptical look right back at her. Were Gotham teens always this chatty?

“I meant what city. But sure. You’re out here alone? Where you headed? I can walk you. Gotham loves swallowing up kids like you.”

“You sound like a creep,” another voice cut in. A boy walking up behind her. Plain-looking. Coffee in hand. Peter recognized him instantly—library boy. Sick friend.

“I’m being neighborly,” the girl scoffed, turning to him.

“In Gotham? Don’t kid yourself,” the boy shot back, sipping his coffee.

A third figure approached then. None of the sharp edge Gotham usually carried. Tall, broad-shouldered. Bright yellow hoodie. Jeans. Duffel bag slung on his back. He looked more like somebody’s older brother heading to practice than a Gotham type.

“Steph. Tim.” His eyes flicked between them before landing on Peter. “What’s going on?”

“Stephanie’s harassing some poor elementary school kid,” Tim said flatly.

“I was being nice!” Stephanie snapped.

“Sorry about them,” yellow-hoodie guy said, offering Peter an easy smile. Apologetic. “They bothering you?”

Yes. “…No.”

“I’m just in a rush,” Peter started to edge past—then his stomach growled, loud. He hated it. Hated how convenient it was. Plot point stomach.

“For lunch?” Yellow hoodie-boy asked, amused.

“Let us treat you. Call it payback for the hassle,” he added.

“That’s not necessary.”

“I insist.” He smiled.

They ended up at Bat-Burger after way too much pushback from Peter. Place smelled like grease and salt and fake disinfectant. His nose hated it. A giant Bat-symbol cutout loomed behind the counter. Menus plastered with stupid names: Night-Wings, Robin Nuggets, the Harley Quinnzelle Shake. He’d wondered about this place yesterday when Red bought him food from here. Now? He didn’t know if he should be impressed or disappointed. Probably both.

Stephanie ordered like she’d been here a thousand times. “Three combos—hey, kid, what do you want?”

Peter blinked at the menu. Overwhelmed. “…Fries?”

“You’re getting more than fries,” Stephanie said, ignoring him. “Four combos.”

They sat in a booth. Duke and Tim on one side, Stephanie and Peter on the other. Peter sat stiff, like the napkin dispenser might save him if he needed to bolt.

Tim finally set his coffee down, folding his arms. “Where are you from? Not Gotham right?. You don’t move like you’re from here.”

Peter bristled. Words hit too close. “…Doesn’t matter.”

Stephanie kicked Tim under the table. “Smooth.”

Duke cut in before Peter shut down. “You don’t gotta answer. You’re here now. That’s enough.” His tone was steady. Reassuring. “Eat first. Talk later.”

Peter blinked at him. Looked down. Mumbled, “…Thanks.”

Food arrived in a clatter. Stephanie dunked fries in her milkshake. Tim looked horrified.

“What?” she mumbled. “It’s a Gotham delicacy.”

“That’s not a delicacy,” Duke said. “That’s a war crime.”

Peter snorted into his fries, trying to hide it.

Over lunch, Peter realized that these three weren’t half bad—if you ignored the way their eyes were always working. Not just looking; but calculating. Measuring him. When they thought he wasn’t paying attention, they traded glances that spoke whole sentences in silence. Their posture was too precise, their smiles too practiced.

On the outside, they just seemed like overly friendly Gotham teens, which was probably an anomaly in itself. But Peter wasn’t normal. He knew how to read tells. These weren’t kids who’d grown up ordinary. They were trained. Disciplined. Professionals. They weren’t dangerous to him now—but they could be. And that was enough. He wouldn’t let himself relax. Not fully. In Peter’s mind, the only people who smiled that easily while hiding everything behind their eyes were feds, SHIELD agents, or secret service. Not Chimera agents though… What the hell was that?

Duke pulled him back with a question: “So, where you headed now?”

“The library,” Peter lied, slipping his leftovers into his bag, careful to shield the two spiders chilling in there. Saved most of the food for them anyway.

Duke’s lips quirked. “Library’s a good place. You meeting someone there?”

“My… uncle. Busy. We’re meeting after.” Too specific. Too clumsy.

Stephanie tilted her head. “Funny. You don’t seem like a kid waiting for anybody.”

Peter’s gut twisted.

Duke broke the tension again. “We can walk you there. No problem.”

“Not needed,” Peter said instantly. Stomach tight. If they followed, if they pressed, he’d have nothing.

Stephanie leaned forward, chin in her hand, curious. Not hostile. Worse. Curious was worse.

Watching. Watching. Watching.

They were always watching. Honestly, he’d prefer Red’s silent stalking to their constant watching. Peter’s throat felt tight. His spider-sense wasn’t screaming, but that faint buzzing made his skin itch. He shoved the rest of his extra fries into his mouth, chewed too quickly, and stood up, brushing crumbs from his hoodie.

“Thanks for the food,” he muttered. “But I gotta go.”

Duke started to say something, but Stephanie put a hand on his arm, stopping him. Tim just watched, eyes narrowed, studying Peter like he was a puzzle that refused to solve itself.

Peter shoved his hands into his pockets and turned toward the door, shoulders tight, pulse pounding.

He wasn’t sure if he was walking out of Bat Burger—or running from a trap

The midday sun cut sharp across the sidewalk, stabbing at Peter’s eyes until he squinted. His hands stayed shoved deep into his pockets, his head low, shoulders hunched. None of it helped. Not the slouch, not the way he tried to sink into the crowd. The static in his chest wouldn’t quit. His spider-sense buzzed faintly under his skin like static cling, always worse when eyes were on him.

Watching.

 Friend.

 Watching.

He knew that buzz. He’d learned to tell the difference. This wasn’t the city itself, not just the constant hum of Gotham’s thousand restless shadows. This wasn’t the background ache of being surrounded by strangers brushing too close on the street. This was sharper. Focused. Familiar. A heartbeat steady and measured. Too familiar.

Red no hood.

Peter’s pace quickened, sneakers slapping against cracked concrete. He didn’t dare look up at the rooftops. Didn’t need to. He felt the presence moving with him, matching his rhythm, patient and relentless.

Now, don’t get him wrong—the guy was great. He really was. But Peter wasn’t in the mood for check-ins. He’d just showered, eaten fries that didn’t taste like moldy grease, and for once he didn’t want to feel like Gotham had him under surveillance. Red meant well, sure, but being watched—being hunted—scraped at the rawest parts of him. Besides, the sun wasn’t even down yet. What was the guy doing out here anyway? Maybe if Red saw Peter duck into someplace safe—something normal, like a store—he’d back off. That was the plan. Just… let the guy think he was fine. No crying in parks today. Which he’s never done, for the record.

Peter ducked between two businessmen, nearly colliding with a stroller. The mother swore at him, but he didn’t stop, didn’t slow down. His eyes darted up and down the street until they landed on it: a cramped little bookstore wedged between a pawn shop and a tailor. The sign out front was faded to the point of invisibility, the glass windows half-covered by tilting stacks of hardbacks that looked like they hadn’t been touched since the ‘90s.

Perfect.

Peter bolted across the street, ignoring the angry blare of a taxi horn, and shoved through the bookstore’s heavy door. A bell jingled above him like an alarm.

Inside, the air hit him like a blanket—dust and ink, thick enough to taste. The light was dim, gold-tinted, the kind that made you want to whisper even when nobody was around. The shelves leaned in uneven rows, crowded and crooked, their books sagging like tired soldiers who’d given up on standing straight.

Behind the counter, a young woman barely looked up from her magazine. She had the kind of face that said she was one bad day away from scowling at everyone. Fine by Peter. He gave her the fastest nod of acknowledgment he could manage before slipping deeper between the shelves.

The buzzing in his chest hadn’t gone away. He closed his eyes and listened. Through the muffled filter of books and dust, he still heard it: a steady heartbeat, measured and calm. Outside. Above. Waiting. Red hadn’t moved on.

Watching.

 Waiting.

 Watching.

Peter wedged himself into a corner between tall shelves stacked with battered paperbacks. He pretended to skim spines—The Collected Works of Shakespeare, Water-Stained Edition—but his ears strained for every creak and shuffle outside. He counted seconds. Ten. Thirty. A hundred.

Fifteen minutes passed. Red stayed. That heartbeat kept pacing out there, steady as a metronome. Peter’s own pulse skittered in response, too fast, too shallow.

Is this what prey feel like?

He rubbed his palms against his damp hoodie, forcing himself to breathe, to wait. And then finally—finally—the presence receded. Silent steps across rooftops, fading into the Gotham hum until the buzz in Peter’s skin smoothed out again.

He slumped against the shelf, knees weak with relief. He should leave. He should. He could make it back to Park Row before evening if he hurried—

The bell above the door jingled again.

A woman swept inside, perfume and entitlement announcing her before she even spoke. Her coat looked more expensive than the bookstore itself, her heels clicking like gunshots on the old tile. She marched up to the counter, already mid-sentence.

“This is unacceptable!” she snapped, slapping a receipt down. “I bought this novel yesterday and it has a crease in the spine. Do you people not even check your stock? I demand a refund—or better yet, a replacement in mint condition. Honestly, this is why local businesses fail—no standards whatsoever!”

Peter winced. Oh no. He’d seen this species before. Karens. New York had an infestation of them, and apparently Gotham wasn’t immune.

The clerk blinked at her, clearly seconds away from breaking. “Ma’am, we don’t do refunds—”

“Unacceptable!” The Karen’s voice rose. “This is customer service malpractice! I should call the Better Business Bureau right now—”

Peter crouched lower between the shelves, ears burning. He could practically hear Aunt May’s voice in his head, the way she’d mutter about rude customers whenever someone at the grocery store pulled this stunt. May would’ve killed this woman with kindness, all smiles until the Karen wilted. But the poor clerk wasn’t May. She was young, tired, and already frayed.

“This is ridiculous,” the clerk snapped at last, ripping off her apron. “You know what? I quit. Enjoy your crease, lady. I don’t get paid enough!” She stormed past Peter, snatched her magazine from the counter, and disappeared out the door.

The Karen huffed, muttered something about Yelp reviews, and strutted out after her.

Silence.

From the back room came the sound of shuffling feet. Another figure emerged: an older man, maybe in his late fifties, with sharp eyes that looked younger than the rest of him. His shoulders sagged with years of stress, his hands rough like they’d spent too long moving boxes heavier than they should’ve. He glanced at the abandoned apron, then at Peter—still frozen in the science section like he’d been caught shoplifting.

“…You any good with a broom, kid?” the man asked gruffly.

Peter blinked. “…What?”

“Need help around here,” the man said, already moving behind the counter like meltdowns were nothing new. “My body don’t move like it used to. Shelves don’t dust themselves. Customers don’t bag their own books. And as you just saw, my help just quit. You’ve got two hands. And you didn’t bolt when you had the chance. Better than most.”

Peter opened and closed his mouth. “I… uh. Isn’t there, like, paperwork? Labor laws? Permission slips?”

The man barked a laugh. “Kid, this is Gotham. Nothing’s legal. You want cash under the table, you’re hired.”

Peter stared at him. This couldn’t be real. He hadn’t even said yes. Jobs weren’t supposed to just fall into your lap, especially not in Gotham. Yet here he was, being handed one like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“…Guess I work here now,” Peter muttered under his breath.

“Good. Apron’s on the chair.” The man—Steven, Peter learned later—tossed him the oversized fabric like it was settled.

By the time Peter finally slipped back out onto the street, the afternoon sun had dipped low, painting the skyline in dull bronze.

Steven had spent nearly two hours walking him through the basics. The register that stuck every other sale. The mop bucket tucked behind the boiler. The “priority dust zones” on the shelves that warped fastest in Gotham’s swampy humidity. Steven didn’t ask questions. Didn’t pry. Just handed Peter a rag and muttered about “earning your keep.” It was… comforting, in a weird way.

Books didn’t demand anything except to be left intact.

By the time Peter trudged back toward Park Row, the sky had bruised into evening. He slipped into his corner of the living room and sat cross-legged, watching as the last of his not so little spiders swarmed over the greasy Bat Burger wrapper, dragging cold crumbs like treasure.

They ate noisily, efficiently. No doubts. No guilt. Just hunger and fulfillment.

Peter envied them.

He pulled out the final shard of his “rock candy” and popped it into his mouth. The sharp sweetness cracked under his teeth, and that familiar wash of relief unfurled inside him. Subtle but undeniable. Like static clearing from a radio signal.

But it also raised questions. Questions he could no longer shove aside.

Meeting Stephanie, Tim, and Duke had been like someone throwing a bucket of cold water over his head. They’d looked at him too closely. Seen too much. Reminded him that this body—this ten-year-old frame—wasn’t just his to claim. It had a past. A life. And if he’d stolen it, even by accident, then he owed it back.

To give it back, he needed answers.

Step one was the warehouse. Whatever this rock candy really was—it wasn’t food. It wasn’t medicine. But it did something. It steadied him, soothed the ache in his chest, made the noise bearable. He needed to know what, and why.

Step two was the lab. The sterile room that lurked in the back of his mind like a bad dream. White walls. Fluorescent buzz. Metal tables that smelled of disinfectant. He couldn’t remember it clearly, but flashes stuck like glass splinters. And every time he thought too long about it, his skin crawled.

If he could find that lab, maybe he could find the truth. And if he wanted to give this body back, he had to.

Chapter Text

Peter had so foolishly thought he’d get to search for the warehouse the very next day. No. Silly him. He forgot he actually had a job now.

Subsequently for the following three days, the pain in his chest didn’t just linger—it gnawed. Sharp. Relentless. Like a reminder every time he breathed that he wasn’t in control. Not even Red’s occasional lunches or late-night rooftop dinners could do anything to ease it. The guy was trying, sure, but greasy Bat-Burgers weren’t exactly miracle cures for… whatever this was.

The card had come in the mail already, his golden ticket to buying his own food. But what good was it? By the time his shifts ended, the ache in his sternum had sharpened so badly he could barely stand, much less focus on research. So he just went home, collapsed into sleep, and woke up to do it all again. Wake. Work. Ache. Repeat.

He was sure Red had noticed. The guy kept dropping careful hints—“If something’s bothering you, you can tell me, kid.” Peter brushed them off. He wasn’t about to share he had a glowing stone in his chest that demanded green rocks to keep him alive.

So when November 12th dawned, Peter woke up with one clear mission.

He absolutely needed to find that warehouse.

No more delays. No more excuses.

That’s why Peter was currently retracing his steps, trying to remember every turn he’d taken the first night he stumbled into Park Row. His search eventually spat him out in Tricorner, and from there straight to Gotham Harbor—which, for the record, reeked worse than anything he’d smelled inside the city. Salt, oil, rust, and dead fish all jammed together in one unbearable cocktail.

The problem was, Peter hadn’t exactly stopped to admire the architecture while speed walking and counting the seconds the first time. Which meant now he had to rely on his nose—his curse and blessing both. For how much he’s been eating them he’s learned their specific scent; metallic and sharp, almost like ozone before a storm. He just had to cut through the harbor’s stench to find it. Easier said than done when every nerve in his chest screamed like it was being pulled apart and he’s actually had that done to him.

He stumbled block to block, chasing that faint spark of scent. Hours—or maybe minutes—blurred until finally, a garage door slammed shut nearby. And there it was. The smell. Clear. Inside that building.

 Of course peter now needed to figure out how to get inside without being obvious. The place had been crawling with traps, not that they were much of a problem for peter, but avoiding traps while avoiding cameras isn’t exactly easy. Especially since there seemed to cameras in every corner of this house. When peter actually reached the crates, they were locked up in closet. Loki, the lockpicking spider, worked his magic and bam! The door was open.

 Of course, now Peter needed to figure out how to get inside without looking obvious. The place practically screamed “don’t touch”—cameras on every corner, wires tucked along the walls, trip sensors in places most people wouldn’t even notice. Traps weren’t exactly a problem for him, but avoiding those while dodging cameras? That was a different nightmare. He had to move slow, deliberate, like a shadow weaving through tighter shadows. When he finally reached the crates, they weren’t just sitting out. They were locked up behind a closet door. Luckily, Loki—the lockpicking spider—scurried forward, clicked his tiny mandibles, and bam. Door opened.

Open. Open. Open.

He was gonna do that anyways. No need to state the obvious. Peter pried open the lid of one of the crates, jacket sleeves tugged down over his hands so he wouldn’t leave prints—not that anyone was likely to trace a ten-year-old kid, but still. He was still breaking in. The second the wood cracked open, the smell hit him, sharp and electric, like ozone mixed with sugar. His chest tightened in anticipation.

Without hesitation, Peter snatched up one jagged piece of the green rock and shoved it straight into his mouth. The relief slammed into him almost instantly. The pain he’d been dragging around for days dissolved into nothing, melting away like ice on hot pavement. He could almost cry, if he hadn’t already promised himself he wasn’t the crying type.

But focus—focus.

Blinking hard, Peter dug his empty lunch box out of his backpack. One by one, he stacked the rocks inside, careful to fit them snugly, no empty space left for rattling around. He snapped the lid shut, tucked it away, then eyed the crate again. Not enough. He needed more.

He stuffed the smaller front pocket of his bag, weighing it down until the zipper strained. Better. That much would definitely last him longer than a few desperate days. Still not enough for comfort though. So, for good measure, he shoved several chunks into his hoodie pouch, and then both side pockets, until he was practically clinking when he moved. The crate looked nearly gutted now, but Peter shrugged. Survival first.

Friend! Coming!

What.

Peter froze. That buzz in his veins—the spider-sense that had dulled to a quiet hum while he’d been stuffing his bag—flared back to life. A heartbeat. Familiar. Steady, heavy, like boots on rooftops. He knew that rhythm like he knew his own pulse. Red.

Red was coming.

Why though? Why here?

That’s when it clicked.

This wasn’t just some random warehouse with a convenient supply of rock candy shoved into crates. This was Red’s place. His house—or, more likely, one of his safe houses. The place didn’t feel lived in, not really, but the faint traces were there now that Peter wasn’t drowning in pain and desperation. The lingering leather-and-gun-oil smell. That iron scent clinging to the walls like old blood, mixed with motor oil. He’d been too distracted before, too locked in on the relief, but now? Yeah, it was obvious. Too obvious.

“Damn it, Parker,” Peter whispered under his breath, heart hammering in his throat. “Way to go. You broke into Batman’s angry cousin’s house.”

The sound outside was closer now—boots hitting concrete. The scrape of metal. The creak of the big rolling door. Peter spun in place, eyes scanning the stacked shelves and crates, desperate for any kind of exit.

Nothing.

Well—nothing except—

There.

A vent. Not big. Not meant for people. But he was ten, and he’d been living out of tight corners since he woke up in this body. If a spider could crawl through cracks, so could he. He moved fast. Bag first, shoving it through the grate with a clatter that made his heart stutter. Then him, curling his shoulders, shoving his knees against the frame. His hoodie snagged, his elbow barked against the metal, but he wriggled, twisted, forced himself in.

And not a second too soon.

Because that’s when Red came through the front door.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I just forgot something.” His voice carried, deep and dry, like he was talking into a comm.

Peter froze inside the vent, every muscle taut, barely daring to breathe.

Red sounded… casual. Irritated even, like he’d been caught running an errand and was brushing it off. Peter could picture the guy rolling his eyes behind that helmet. But casual or not, Peter knew better. If Red spotted the mess, if he noticed the half-empty crate, Peter was done.

The vent metal was cold against his stomach as he wormed further along, inch by inch, trying to make no noise. His bag scraped faintly against the duct walls; he winced at every sound, convinced the man below would hear. The steady heartbeat kept him grounded, pulsing through the floor beneath him, reminding him of exactly how close he was to being caught.

Peter pressed on, counting his breaths, until the vent opened onto a narrow gap behind the building. He kicked the grate free and slipped out, landing in the damp alley like a cat. His chest screamed in protest, even with the rocks in his system. He bit it back, scooped up his bag, and bolted.

Not across open streets—he wasn’t that stupid. He stayed low, clinging to the shadows, darting between dumpsters and rusted fire escapes until the safe house was well behind him. Only once he hit the edges of the Diamond District did he slow down to force himself to walk like he belonged. Just another skinny kid heading home with a too-big backpack. Nothing suspicious going on with him right now.

The whole time, though, his head buzzed with one sharp thought:

That was too close.

But at least he had the rocks now. Peter took one out a piece of the shard an put it in his mouth, allowing it to calm his nerves. It probably wasn’t even noon yet, and since he had ben’s card, he should do something productive. Maybe find the parts for a heater. Does Wayne industries have a specific dumpster? He could go and see… no never mind, it looks weird for an elementary school kid to be wondering around Gotham in the middle of the school day.

For now at least peter settles for going back to his home, dropping off his lunch box, emptying his pockets, halfway emptying the front pocket of his bag and then going back out. From there he stays within the Crime alley and Bowery area to dig around in trash cans for something salvageable.

Jason Todd was far from stupid.

All it took was walking up to the door of his safe house to know something was wrong. The air felt… off. He thought he’d heard something faint, a whisper or a scrape, just before he keyed in the code. But when he stepped inside, the silence was complete. Too complete.

The closet he kept locked was open. Not forced, not smashed—just neatly picked, like it had never been secure at all. Inside, one of the crates sat with its lid tilted back, the contents damn near gone. Rocks scattered at the bottom like crumbs. And yet no alarm had gone off.

Jason’s jaw clenched.

He couldn’t just chalk it up to one of his half-baked siblings snooping around. He did the mental roll call automatically: four of them were still at school, he was literally on the phone with Dick as he walked in, Cass and Babs both had the decency to tell him before they touched his things.

Which left him with one uncomfortable truth: someone else had found the place.

He crouched by the crate, gloved fingers brushing the faint dusting of grit at the bottom. Not a smash-and-grab. No real mess, no overturned furniture, no gun cabinet disturbed. Whoever it was had come for one thing only, and they’d been careful enough to get past his traps and his cameras without a blip.

Jason exhaled slowly, straightening. “Son of a bitch.”

The kryptonite wasn’t supposed to be on anyone else’s radar. His family barely knew where they were being kept. So how the hell did a stranger get in here, take only that, and ghost out before he arrived?

Jason hated ghosts.

After spending a good hour or so scouring alleys, dumpsters, and the backs of abandoned lots, Peter managed to drag together a small collection of junk that looked, to him, like potential treasure. A busted space heater with its wiring half torn out, a bent metal fan blade from what was probably once a desk fan, two dented aluminum pots, a coil of copper wire, and—most importantly—a cracked car battery that still gave off the faintest hum of charge. Anyone else would’ve called it garbage. Peter saw a project.

When he got back to the apartment building and up the stairwell, his arms were sore and his chest throbbed from the weight of the battery, but he ignored the ache. Dumped the parts in his living room. He sat cross-legged on the floor and spread them out like puzzle pieces. The heater came first: stripping it down to the core, salvaging what wasn’t burnt or rusted through. The fan blade could be repurposed to push warm air out, though it was bent badly enough that it would probably wobble and clatter when it spun. The pots—those gave him an idea. He could line one with foil from snack wrappers to reflect heat back into the room and use the other as a makeshift casing for the coil.

His fingers worked on autopilot as he twisted wires, tightened screws, and carefully scraped corrosion off contacts. It wasn’t going to be flawless—hell, it might not even be safe—but if it worked just enough to take the chill out of the air, that was all he needed. He knew it would drain the car battery fast, maybe last a couple nights before giving out, but that was better than nothing.

As he soldered wire ends together with a lighter and the faint stink of burnt plastic, his mind wandered. Back home, he used to do this all the time—well, not exactly this. He used to sit at his desk with real tools, scrap electronics his teachers slipped him, sometimes even Uncle Ben hovering nearby with advice he never asked for but always needed. He remembered cobbling together half-finished gadgets for fun, things that sparked out after five minutes, things Aunt May pretended to be impressed by anyway.

Now it wasn’t about fun. Now it was survival.

He looked down at the crude shape taking form in front of him, his heater-slash-deathtrap, and sighed. “Not pretty, not perfect, but good enough,” he muttered under his breath. Then he tightened one last bolt, nudged the wires into place, and hoped it would hold.

“Okay… here goes nothing,” Peter muttered, bracing himself like the thing might explode in his face. He twisted the wires together, pressing them against the battery terminals. For a second, nothing happened. Then—

Whhhrrk!

The fan sputtered to life with a grinding squeal, rattling unevenly in its frame. The coil glowed faintly red, flickering like it couldn’t decide if it wanted to catch or burn out. Heat bled out unevenly, more of a sickly warmth than anything else, but it was enough for Peter to feel against his fingers.

He grinned, despite himself. “Ha! Take that, Gotham weather.”

The grin slipped almost instantly when the fan let out a horrible clunk and began to wobble, shaking the whole contraption. Sparks spat from the coil, one landing on the floor beside his sneaker. Peter quickly yanked the wires free from the battery and the glow died out with a pitiful hiss of cooling metal. The room went quiet again, save for Peter’s heavy exhale.

“Okay, so… not exactly OSHA-approved,” he muttered, brushing ash off his pant leg. Still, when he pressed his hand close to the contraption, there was lingering warmth, faint but real. It had worked—barely. Long enough to take the edge off the cold.

Not perfect. Not safe. But usable for him.

Honestly, he should’ve left it at that—good enough—but his hands wouldn’t sit still. He pulled the pile of leftover scraps closer: a bent coat hanger, half a circuit board, the broken radio he’d gutted for wires. Little odds and ends that most people would’ve written off as trash, but Peter turned them over like puzzle pieces.

His fingers moved without thinking, looping wire through the hanger, testing a connection against the dull side of the battery terminal, soldering with nothing more than friction and patience. His mind was quieter like this, focused on the rhythm of building, fixing, trying. He hated the silence when he wasn’t moving. That’s when the doubts crept in.

Don’t think about the pain in your chest. Don’t think about the questions you can’t answer. Don’t think about what this body remembers that you don’t.

Instead, he imagined possibilities: if he rewired the busted fan, could he make a second heater? Maybe even a crude hot plate? What if he stripped down the circuit board and used it for a timer, something that’d keep the coil from overheating and catching his corner of Park Row on fire?

Each thought was shaky, unfinished, a bridge that never quite reached the other side—but he kept walking anyway. Because looking forward, even to flawed ideas, was better than turning back to the blur of things he didn’t want to face.

The heater gave another sputter and went dim, and Peter gently thumped the casing until it rattled back to life. He smirked faintly. “Good enough,” he muttered.

And for now, good enough had to mean survival.

Speaking of survival going into reds place, though accidently, had been an eye opener for Peter. See had never really thought of the apartment building as fully his. Not really. It was just a space to really exist in, like a home of sorts. But after seeing into Red’s place—well, ‘probably safe house’—he couldn’t stop thinking about it; the way Red had cameras tucked into corners, locks doubled up, traps in places Peter hadn’t even noticed on the first glance. Every inch of that place screamed: I belong here. This is mine. Touch it and see what happens.

And Peter realized he didn’t have anything like that.

Right now, anyone could just waltz through his busted front door, take whatever they wanted—his heater, his rocks, even his spiders. His chest tightened at the thought of someone stomping down on one of them, squashing the not so tiny legs without a second thought. Not happening. Not ever.

So, survival plan 2.0: fortify his building.

He started with the first floor, because if someone was going to come in, they’d have to pass through there first.

The stairwell smelled faintly of mildew and something metallic, and the plaster walls had chunks missing like someone had tried punching through them decades ago and no one ever fixed it. The air carried a kind of damp heaviness, clinging to Peter’s lungs. He padded quietly down to the lobby, his sneakers squeaking faintly against the cracked tile.

The lobby wasn’t much: a few mailboxes hanging half-broken against one wall, the remnants of a reception desk collapsed in on itself, and a sagging couch that looked like it had more bugs living in it than cushions. Perfect. It just solidified what Peter already knew; no one really cared about the place. No one would notice if Peter did a little remodeling.

“Booby-traps 101,” Peter muttered under his breath, his voice echoing faintly off the empty space.

“Deterrence is key. You don’t actually want someone to walk into your house—you want them to not want to in the first place.”

Which was easier said than done when your budget consisted of trash scraps and half-broken parts scavenged off the street. But hey, limitations bred creativity.

First, the entryway. The front doors were old wood with a rusty lock that anyone with a credit card could force. Peter didn’t have the tools to reinforce the lock, but he did have webs. Lots of webs. He rigged it so if anyone forced the door too far open without turning the handle just right, a series of cans would crash down from above. Loud, messy, and annoying—not exactly deadly, but enough to make someone think twice.

“Low-budget alarm system, courtesy of Peter Parker,” he quipped as he tested it, the cans clattering loudly across the lobby floor. He winced, heart lurching at the volume, then grinned despite himself. “Yep. That’ll wake the dead. Or at least me. If I can stay warm at night at least…”

Next stop: the side hallway.

There were a few storage closets down there, mostly empty except for dust and forgotten junk. He rigged a tripwire low across one doorway, attached to another set of dangling objects. This time, he used shards of broken glass strung together with string. They’d smash noisily against the floor if anyone blundered in. It wasn’t much, but the idea wasn’t harm—it was confusion. Confused people made mistakes, and mistakes made them vulnerable.

Still, he needed something better. Something that would keep himself safe, not just annoy intruders.

That was when he found the boiler room.

The door was tucked at the end of a narrow hallway, heavy and dented, with chipped paint flaking off in dull gray layers. When he pried it open, a wave of heat hit him, damp and choking. The smell was a cocktail of old water, rust, and scorched dust.

The boiler itself was an ancient beast crouched in the center of the room, metal sides streaked with corrosion, pipes jutting out like arteries. It thumped and hissed, releasing a steady wheeze of steam every few minutes. Peter tilted his head, watching the pipes snake along the walls and ceiling, and a dozen ideas sparked all at once.

“Now this,” he murmured, stepping closer, “this is potential.”

He ran his hand along one of the pipes, flinching out for instinct when the heat singed his skin. If he could reroute just a little of that pressure, he could make a trap that spat steam on command. Not lethal—probably—but no one wanted to run face-first into scalding vapor. And in Gotham’s winter, it would be shocking enough to scare anyone off.

Of course, it wasn’t simple. He scavenged through the corners of the boiler room, finding an abandoned toolbox missing half its tools, a busted mop handle, and a handful of screws. Good enough. He wedged himself under the pipes, tinkering with the joints until he could redirect a little pressure into one loose valve he could tie shut with wire. Then, with a bit of improvisation, he rigged the valve to a string across the doorway. Anyone barging in too fast would yank the line loose and—pssshhhhh!—instant faceful of steam.

“Not perfect,” he admitted, wiping sweat from his brow as he stepped back. The pipe rattled a little ominously, and he frowned. “Yeah, not perfect. If this thing blows, it’s me who gets cooked. Note to self: stand far away from the boiler when this goes off.”

Still, the thought of someone else getting blasted by it instead of him gave him a grim kind of satisfaction.

Peter moved through the rest of the first floor slowly, testing corners, tapping walls. He used what scraps he had: string, wire, broken hinges, even some old nails he found near the stairwell. Nothing lethal. Nothing permanent. But enough noise, enough hassle, that anyone sneaking around would have to work for it. And hopefully, by then, he’d know they were coming. All the while, his mind kept drifting—back to the old world, to nights he’d spent cobbling together gadgets in Aunt May’s kitchen with nothing but duct tape and a soldering iron. Back when he was Spider-Man and the idea of building a trap out of trash seemed laughable, because why would he ever have needed to build a trap for people? He was secure enough back then.

Now it was just him, scavenging in the dark, trying to stay alive.

And yet… the rhythm was the same. The way his hands moved without hesitation, looping wires, tying knots, fitting pieces together that shouldn’t fit. He could almost trick himself into thinking it was just another night at the workbench, another late project to show off to Ned in the morning.

Almost.

By the time he finished, the first floor looked nearly the same as before: dingy, broken, unloved with the new addition of webs everywhere. But beneath the surface, it was different. The doors had alarms, the hallways had tripwires, and the boiler room had teeth. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

Peter leaned against the wall, breathing out slowly. His chest still hurt, a dull ache that never quite left, but at least now the building didn’t feel like it was waiting to betray him.

Now this floor felt like his.

If they had the nerve—or stupidity—to keep climbing, he needed layers. Layers of warning, layers of protection. He wasn’t just guarding himself anymore. He was guarding them too. His spiders. His horde. His little family.

So, part two: the second floor.

The staircase creaked under his sneakers, wood groaning like it hadn’t been touched in years. Perfect. He didn’t even need to add traps here; the building was already tattling on intruders. But he could amplify it. He dug into his bag, pulling out a handful of loose screws, bent nails, and some glass shards he’d collected earlier. A quick jury-rigged setup later, and the stairs would squeal louder if anyone put weight on them—sharper, higher, like a scream instead of a moan.

“Sorry, neighbors,” Peter whispered to the empty hall, not that anyone lived here anymore. “Your stairs just got a whole lot louder.”

The hallway was long and narrow, with peeling wallpaper and a broken light that swung lazily overhead. Peter eyed it, then pulled it down, smashing the glass on the ground. He gathered the shards and spread them thin under the worn-out welcome mat outside the stairwell door. The mat was so filthy no one would notice unless they stepped on it. One crunch and Peter would know.

“Spider-sonic detection system… okay, no, that’s a terrible name,” he muttered, shaking his head. “But hey, it works.”

From there, he moved floor to floor. The third story had an old radiator that barely worked, so he tied a wire from its valve to a loose hinge on the nearest door. If anyone opened it wrong, the valve would jerk and let out a shriek like a dying banshee. The sound scraped Peter’s ears even when he tested it softly.

He grinned. “Yeah, that’s staying.”

The fourth floor was even easier—someone had abandoned an entire drawer of silverware. Peter set up a crude tripwire that would send forks and knives clattering across the hall when pulled. Not sharp enough to hurt anyone, but plenty sharp enough to scare the crap out of someone who wasn’t expecting it.

All the while, he worked in silence, slipping in and out of rooms, weaving wire and string like threads in a web. His web. He realized that’s what he was doing—turning the building into one giant spiderweb, where every thread connected back to him. Every tug, every vibration, he’d know. Just like before. Just like when he’d swing between skyscrapers and feel New York through the lines he spun.

He paused once, hands trembling around a knot of string, and swallowed hard. For a second, he wasn’t in Gotham. He was in Queens, stringing web fluid into cartridges, Ned at his side, babbling about upgrades and science fairs. Aunt May humming in the kitchen. His eyes stung, but he blinked it away. He couldn’t afford to cry now. Couldn’t afford the weakness.

By the time he reached his own floor, the air was heavy with dust and his fingers ached from tying knots. But he wasn’t done. This was the most important part. His door was trash. A stiff kick could break it in half. So, Peter turned it into a trap of its own. He pulled out what wire and screws he had left, along with two cracked bottles. He rigged it so if anyone pushed the door without lifting the handle just right, the bottles would tip over and smash at their feet. Not only loud, but glass everywhere meant Peter’s spiders would scatter and alert him.

Speaking of his spiders, he crouched by the wall and whispered, “Alright, guys. You’re part of the system now. Scouts. Guards. My eyes.”

As if they understood, the little things scuttled out across the walls, vanishing into cracks, corners, ceiling beams.

Peter let out a shaky laugh. “Yeah. Knew I could count on you.”

But he didn’t stop at the obvious. He went room by room in his own floor—abandoned apartments long emptied of furniture and life. He left strands of wire across doors, cans balanced on windowsills, strings tied to loose floorboards. Nothing lethal, nothing flashy. Just noise, distraction, warning. By the time he was done, he knew no one could make it to his place without tripping something.

And if they did? If someone was careful enough to dodge all his traps, smart enough to move silent as a shadow?

Well. Then Peter wanted to know their face.

He climbed back into his apartment, slumped against the wall, and stared at the flickering heater he’d cobbled together. His chest throbbed, a dull ache that refused to leave, but for the first time since he’d landed in this strange world, he felt… secure.

Not safe. Never safe. But secure.

He looked around the room—his spiders devouring crumbs, his stolen green rocks tucked under the heater, the faint scent of oil and dust in the air—and nodded once.

“Alright,” he whispered to no one, or maybe to the building itself. “Now you’re mine.”

Chapter Text

The morning is surprisingly quiet—or at least, quiet by Gotham standards. With someone like the Joker on the loose, silence never feels peaceful. It feels loaded, like the city is holding its breath, waiting for the next scream or explosion to split it apart. Damian noticed it the moment he stepped outside: the unnatural stillness pressing down on the streets, the way even the pigeons seemed hesitant to scatter.

He adjusted his scarf with one gloved hand, the other wrapped firmly around Titus’s leash. The great dog padded along beside him with the same measured stride as his master, obedient, watchful, alert. Walking a dog was supposed to be ordinary—civilian. But nothing about Damian Wayne was ever ordinary. He catalogued every face they passed, every car that idled too long, every rustle in the trees that didn’t match the wind.

Still, there was something grounding about the ritual. The tug of the leash, the damp crunch of frost under Titus’s paws, the little huffs of breath the dog let out as he caught scents on the air. Alfred insisted these walks were “healthy.” Damian suspected the butler’s real intent was forcing him to practice blending in. He loathed to admit it, but it worked. No one gave him a second glance. Just another boy walking his dog in the park.

The park was unusually still, the kind of quiet that felt wrong in Gotham. Even the wind seemed hesitant, barely stirring the brittle leaves clinging to the trees. Damian adjusted his grip on Titus’s leash, letting the dog nose ahead along the path.

That’s when he noticed him.

A boy sat on a bench beneath a crooked oak, his posture small, almost folded in on itself. In his hands rested a notepad, the cover bent, and corners softened from use. His thumb traced the edge absently, flipping it open just enough to stare at a page before closing it again, as though caught between writing something down or hiding it away.

Next to him sat a backpack. New, sturdy. A strange contrast to his fraying hoodie cuffs and mud-stained sneakers. Damian’s eyes lingered on it. A gift, clearly. Someone had given the boy something meant to last. And yet… he was alone.

Titus let out a quiet whine, pulling toward the boy as though sensing something beneath the surface. Damian stilled him with a command, gaze sharp. The boy didn’t look up. After a long moment, he slid the notepad into the front pocket of the backpack, shouldered the bag in a motion too practiced for his age, and rose. Without once lifting his head, he disappeared into the deeper parts of the park, swallowed by the shadows of the trees.

 Titus whined again, low in his throat, before jerking against the leash so suddenly that Damian lost his footing for a fraction of a second. Damian snapped the command to heel—but Titus ignored him.

The Great Dane barreled toward the boy who’d just stood up from the bench, head ducked like he was hoping not to be noticed.

The boy startled at the sudden weight of Titus pressing against his side. “Whoa!” He staggered a step, steadying himself with a hand on the dog’s neck. His wide eyes darted from the hound to Damian, already walking toward them with tight shoulders and an annoyed scowl.

“Apologies,” Damian said curtly when he caught up, tugging on the leash. “He’s not normally this… insubordinate.”

The boy rubbed Titus’s ear like it was the most natural thing in the world. The dog leaned into it with shameless affection, tail wagging in a heavy thump-thump-thump against his legs.

“Doesn’t seem like he minds,” the boy muttered, half under his breath. He adjusted his bag higher on his shoulder, clearly debating if he should slip away again.

Damian’s eyes narrowed. “You,” he said, tone sharper than he intended. “What’s your name?”

The boy hesitated, then gave a small, guarded shrug. “…Peter.”

Damian did not think himself to be a fool. He would admit—begrudgingly—when his skills fell short of expectation, but that happened rarely. Still, it never stopped his family from attempting to shield him from matters they believed he couldn’t handle.

Right now was a prime example.

The boy before him—Peter—fit too many variables. Either he was the product of Todd’s occasional lapses in discipline, or a clone manufactured under shadowy circumstances, or something akin to Damian’s own beginnings. Regardless, the truth was being hidden. It would explain Drake’s nervous tics lately, the conspiratorial glances Brown and Thomas shared when they thought no one was looking, and Todd’s increasingly distracted demeanor. Gordon surely knew something. Cain would never ignore a detail like this. Richard? Perhaps oblivious, or perhaps playing his part as he always did, masking his tells better than the others.

Damian’s jaw tightened as he studied Peter. The boy seemed small, but carried himself with a wariness that didn’t match his age. Bag slung too carefully across his shoulder. Eyes flicking, measuring exits. Not ordinary. Not at all.

“In that case, Peter,” Damian said evenly, “you have a tarantula crawling up your arm.”

He expected flailing. A scream. At the very least, wide-eyed panic.

Instead, the boy glanced down at the spider scaling his sleeve and said, perfectly casually, “Oh, yeah. This is Arachne. She won’t bite you.”

The creature crawled up his arm and perched on his cheek like it owned the place. The boy didn’t even flinch.

Damian’s brows twitched upward, reluctant admiration slipping through. “And you would know that because…?”

Wrong question.

The boy’s face lit up like a spark catching dry leaves, and suddenly words poured out of him in a rapid, tangled stream. “Because she’s a goliath birdeater—well, technically she’s still juvenile so she’s not at full size yet. They’re the largest tarantulas in the world by mass, though some people argue about leg span because of the huntsman spider, but huntsmen are way skinnier so it’s not really a fair comparison. Anyway, their venom isn’t deadly to humans, more like a bee sting, unless you’re allergic, but their fangs? Huge. Like, half an inch. And the hairs—don’t get me started on the urticating hairs, they flick them off when they’re threatened and it’s like fiberglass in your skin, itchy for days—oh, and they hiss! Did you know they hiss? It’s actually more of a stridulation, rubbing their legs together, super cool—”

Damian did not stop him. He didn’t even interrupt. He simply let the boy talk, filing every word away with the precision of a practiced observer.

Because this? This reminded him of stories. He had heard Richard and Drake speak about Todd before the Pit—before the brashness and anger hardened into armor. They spoke of a boy with sharp wit, restless energy, and a mouth that never seemed to know when to quit. Of curiosity that bordered on reckless.

The resemblance was undeniable.

The cadence, the eagerness, the way Peter seemingly forgot himself when speaking about something he cared for—it was familiar, echoing through the years. If Damian hadn’t already suspected a connection, he would now. This wasn’t coincidence.

The boy kept going, and Damian simply listened, letting him burn through the words until he trailed off, sheepish and flushed with the realization he had just unloaded a ten-minute lecture on tarantulas to a stranger in the park.

“…Sorry,” Peter mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I… get carried away.”

Titus gave a soft chuff, as though disagreeing.

Damian hummed low in his throat, masking the certainty hardening in his chest. “There is nothing to apologize for.”

“I’d have stopped you if I had any issue with it.” He added

Peter shifted his weight, clearly embarrassed by how much he’d just rambled, when his eyes darted down to the Great Dane at Damian’s side. Titus sat perfectly still, his ears forward, gaze locked on Peter with a curious intensity.

Peter crouched down without hesitation

“So uh… this guy’s pretty huge…” Peter breathed, cautious but not afraid. He held out a hand, palm down, fingers loose. “What’s his name?”

Damian regarded him evenly, then inclined his head. “Titus.”

“Titus,” Peter repeated, grinning as the dog sniffed his hand. When Titus’ tail gave the faintest thump, Peter’s whole expression lit up as if he’d just been handed a medal.

“He’s awesome. I’ve only ever had, you know, smaller pets.” His fingers shifted slightly toward the tarantula now perched on his shoulder. “Guess I have a type.”

Damian tilted his head, watching as Titus—who was typically suspicious of strangers—pressed his snout against the boy’s palm as though sealing an unspoken pact. The boy laughed softly, like it was the best thing that had happened all week.

“Creatures others find unsettling,” Damian remarked, his tone flat but edged with curiosity.

Peter just shrugged. “Yeah, well. Someone’s gotta give them a chance.”

For the first time, Damian found himself hesitating—not because he lacked an answer, but because the boy before him spoke with a conviction that reminded him, unnervingly, of someone else.

“So… what are you doing out here?” Peter finally asked, breaking the silence. His tone tried for casual, but there was an edge to it, the kind that came from a kid who was used to being the one watched.

“I am on my daily walk with Titus before school,” Damian answered after a moment. His voice was calm, measured, without the waver Peter expected from someone his age.

Peter raised a brow. “Before school? Isn’t that kinda early?”

“I have another engagement to attend to this afternoon,” Damian said smoothly.

Peter tilted his head “Engagement? You sound like an old man.”

Damian allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch—just barely. “Perhaps I am simply more disciplined than most.”

Peter snorted. “Yeah, okay. Or maybe you’re just weird.”

Arachne crawled a little higher on Peter’s sleeve, and Titus let out a soft whine, still fascinated by the movement. Damian’s sharp eyes tracked the spider, but he didn’t comment.

Instead, he asked, “And what of you? Why sit in the park so early with a notebook and a spider?”

Peter shrugged quickly, too quickly. “Just… stuff. Ideas. It’s not a crime to write things down, you know.”

“I never said it was.” Damian’s tone was even, but probing. “Still, most children your age don’t fill notebooks before school hours.”

“Guess I’m not most kids,” Peter replied, trying for flippant, but his eyes flicked toward Damian, narrowing slightly. “And neither are you.”

Damian was more than just weird from what Peter could see. The boy moved like Black Widow—quiet, precise, and with purpose. Even the way he adjusted his stride to match Peter’s was too smooth, too deliberate. Peter had only ever seen that kind of control in trained fighters.

“So…um, you walk Titus every morning?” Peter asked, stuffing his hands deeper into the pockets of his hoodie. Keep it casual. Normal kids talk about pets, right?

“Yes,” Damian said simply. His voice didn’t waver. He didn’t look at Peter when he answered either, just kept his eyes scanning the path ahead. Watching. Constantly.

Peter chewed the inside of his cheek. Black Widow used to do that too—answer short, clipped, like words were rationed out of necessity. Natasha never wasted movement, never wasted sound. Damian was the same way.

“That’s, uh… that’s cool. He seems nice.” Peter reached down to scratch Titus’s head when the dog brushed against him. The big shepherd leaned into it, warm and solid, grounding him. “I’ve never had a dog before. Just… y’know. Spiders.”

Damian glanced at him then, sharp and assessing, like he was weighing the truth behind that statement. Peter gave him his best awkward smile, the kind that usually got people to back off. It didn’t work on Damian. Nope. Definitely didn’t work. The older boy’s eyes were still fixed, steady, like a magnifying glass burning through paper.

 Peter added quickly, filling the silence. “Spiders move quiet y’know? They’ve got little hairs on their legs that pick-up vibrations, so when they step down, it’s all careful, like they know exactly how much pressure to use. I read about it once, at the library.”

Damian’s eyebrow ticked upward at that. Not much, but enough to show he’d heard.

“Like, take a jumping spider,” Peter went on, words spilling faster now that he had momentum. “They’re small—like really small—but they’re crazy precise. They’ll line up a leap perfectly, every single time, no wasted effort. That’s you. You walk like a jumping spider. Calculated.”

Titus huffed beside them, tail swishing against Peter’s knee. Damian still didn’t say anything. Just listened. Watched. Always watching.

Peter licked his lips nervously. “Or, uh, maybe more like a wolf spider? They don’t use webs to hunt, they just stalk their prey and pounce when the time’s right. Super patient. Kind of intimidating, honestly. And, uh…you’re kind of intimidating. No offense.”

“None taken,” Damian said smoothly.

“Right. Good. Cool.” Peter rubbed the back of his neck. He could feel Damian’s gaze on him again, steady and unblinking, like a spider studying whether something in its web was food or a threat.

“Actually…” Peter added after a beat, “nah, you’re not a wolf spider. You’re more like a trapdoor spider. You wait. Still. Then strike. Surprise factor. That’s totally your vibe.”

Damian tilted his head, almost curious. “And what about you?”

Peter blinked. “Me?”

“Yes. What kind of spider are you?”

That threw him. He laughed awkwardly, kicking at a loose pebble on the path. “I dunno. Probably… a house spider. Y’know, the kind that gets stepped on or swept up in a vacuum if it’s not careful. Not exactly glamorous.”

Titus whined softly, nudging Peter’s hand as if to argue with that answer. Peter gave the shepherd a distracted scratch behind the ears, but his thoughts lingered on Damian.

Black Widow. Jumping spider. Wolf spider. Trapdoor spider. The more he looked, the more comparisons fit. It was unsettling. Fascinating. Dangerous.

Peter narrowed his eyes a little, curiosity sparking brighter than his nerves. If Damian was a spider, Peter needed more proof before settling on which one. He shoved his hands in his pockets, trying to look casual, even though his brain was buzzing.

“So… do you, like, do sports or something?” Peter asked, tilting his head up at him. “You move like you practice. Not baseball. Too stiff. Maybe fencing? Or… gymnastics?”

Damian blinked, cool as ever. “I train.”

That wasn’t an answer, and Peter knew it. He grinned anyway, teeth flashing. “That’s vague. Okay, okay, so maybe you’re more like a crab spider. They don’t build webs, but they hang around flowers and just… wait for something to wander too close. Then bam! Strike. You feel like that. Like, practiced stillness.”

Damian glanced down at him, unimpressed, but Peter wasn’t discouraged. If anything, it only egged him on.

“Do you fight people?” Peter pressed, narrowing his eyes like he was a detective. “Like, actually fight? ’Cause I swear, you walk like someone who’s used to punching people in the dark. Or stabbing them. No offense.”

A pause. Damian’s lips twitched—maybe amusement, maybe irritation. Hard to tell. “You ask too many questions.”

“Yeah, but you don’t not answer them,” Peter shot back quickly. “That’s kind of the same as answering, just sneakier. Which is very spider of you, by the way.”

Damian exhaled, more like a sigh than a laugh, but Peter caught the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth. Victory. Small, but a victory.

Peter pushed forward, relentless. “So what’s your favorite animal, then? Don’t say dog, that’s too obvious. Cats? Birds? Snakes? You feel like a snake person. Or maybe, like…a hawk. Sharp eyes, sharp beak, swoops in out of nowhere.”

Titus barked once, cutting in like he was insulted by being left out. Peter gave him a quick pat. “Sorry, buddy. You’re a good boy too.”

Damian folded his arms, the gesture neat, controlled. “I prefer predators. Creatures with purpose.”

Peter lit up at that. “Exactly! Trapdoor spider vibes. See? I knew I wasn’t wrong. You’re like…all patient waiting, and then you just snap—game over.”

Damian studied him for a long moment, gaze sharp and assessing. Most kids would’ve looked away by now, but Peter only shifted under it, a mix of nervous energy and fascination bubbling in his chest. He felt like he was poking at a dangerous spider in a jar, watching to see if it would rear up or stay still. And if Peter was being honest with himself…he kind of liked the danger of it.

Peter tilted his head, still not backing down under Damian’s stare. “So…what about school? You go around here?”

Damian’s expression shifted, almost imperceptibly. “I am educated,” he said, like that was all the answer required.

Peter snorted. What a funny way to say you’re in school. “Yeah, me too. But I’m homeschooled.”

Damian’s eyes flicked down to the backpack slung over Peter’s shoulder, then back up. “If that’s the case, why are you walking around the park at this hour? With a bag?”

Peter blinked, caught, then laughed a little too quickly. “What, am I not allowed fresh air? Pretty sure the Constitution says kids can walk outside.” He tugged at the strap. “The bag’s just… y’know. Stuff. Notebook. Snacks. A couple tools.”

Damian raised an eyebrow. “Tools.”

“Yeah, like pencils, rulers, maybe a screwdriver if I feel like fixing something.” Peter’s grin came crooked, defensive but playful. “Don’t tell me you don’t carry weird things around too.”

The look Damian gave him said more than words ever could—an unspoken admission wrapped in silence.

Peter shifted his weight, suddenly fascinated by the way Titus’ ears twitched at the passing breeze. He tightened the strap on his bag and flashed another quick, boyish grin. “See? Totally normal. Just a kid with a backpack.”

Damian didn’t answer right away. He only studied Peter for a long, quiet moment, gaze sharp enough that Peter had to fight the urge to squirm. Then, with a short tug on Titus’ leash, Damian resumed walking down the path as though the conversation had never happened. Peter fell into step beside him, the air between them carrying all the things neither of them said.

.

.

.

Peter hadn’t even gone ten minutes away from where he’d parted ways with Damian—a boy he figured might actually count as a friend—before someone yanked him into an alley.

Now that’s not weird for Gotham—he’s learning—the weird thing about that was, his spider-sense didn’t even treat it like a threat. Just a vague nudge at the back of his head like, oh yeah, that person’s there too, by the way. Which made sense, because the lady who grabbed him didn’t exactly scream ‘danger.’

She was thin, jittery, eyes flicking around the alley like she expected monsters to crawl out of the bricks. Her coat was too big, her breath sharp with something chemical. Peter barely had time to get his footing before she slammed him against the wall and shoved her hand out.

“Bag,” she demanded, voice low but shaky. “Hand it over.”

Peter stared at her. “…Seriously?”

“Don’t get smart, kid. Bag. Now.”

“Where’s your gun? Or knife, both work really, ‘cause I’m not about to give you this bag up without something that compromises my safety.” He tightened his grip on the strap. Red’s backpack. New. Somewhat clean. The one good thing he’s gotten out of Gotham so far. He wasn’t about to just give it up, not without a fight.

“Look,” Peter said carefully, “there’s nothing in here worth anything to you. Just books. Homework. Stuff like that.”

Her eyes narrowed. She didn’t believe him. The hand she held out shook harder. The ache in Peter’s chest pulsed, but he ignored it, jaw tightening. For the first time since landing in Gotham, he wondered if maybe keeping his head down wasn’t going to cut it forever.

He sucked in a breath, weighing whether to shove her off and bolt. He didn’t want to hit her—she wasn’t some supervillain, just… some lady down on her luck. Maybe this was a last resort?

The spiders didn’t see it that way.

From the folds of his jacket, from the creases of his hood, from the seams of the very backpack she was trying to take—eight-legged shapes began to spill out. Dozens at first. Then more. They moved in a slow, deliberate tide, crawling over Peter’s shoes, skittering across the brick wall behind him, their legs clicking faintly against the concrete.

The woman froze. Her eyes went wide, lips parting in a strangled half-sound.

Peter raised both hands quickly. “Whoa, hey—don’t freak out. They’re not gonna—”

One particularly bold wolf spider—Hobbie actually—scurried across her wrist.

The woman screamed.

She jerked back so fast she almost tripped over herself, smacking her hand against the wall in a frantic attempt to shake it off. “What the hell—what the hell is wrong with you, kid?!”

The spiders didn’t chase her—they just lingered in a loose circle around Peter, their bodies twitching, watching with too many eyes. The woman’s face twisted with fear, disgust, then something almost like superstition. She spat, cursed him under her breath, and bolted out of the alley, her footsteps fading into the street.

Peter exhaled, tension bleeding out of his shoulders. He looked down at the crawling little army that had rallied to his defense. “You guys really need to work on your timing,” he muttered.

One of the bigger ones—Arachne, of course—climbed back up his arm to perch on his shoulder, as if proud.

Friend! Hi!

The voice chimed sharp in Peter’s skull, bright and eager, like a dog wagging its tail.

Your selling, stop it!

Just what Peter needed on this almost hectic morning. He wasn’t even near Crime Alley, for crying out loud. Sure, he was kind of close, but so what? He was in the upper side of Newtown, coming in from Coventry. That was practically a whole world away by Parker standards. There was no reason Red should be here—absolutely none.

And then slam.

Boots hit hard concrete, cracking the rhythm of the street. The man dropped out of the skyline like a piece of shrapnel, cape trailing, and landed about six or seven feet ahead of Peter. Give or take.

The ground trembled faintly from the impact, a reminder of just how much weight and control this guy carried. People on the street barely even flinched. Gotham had taught them not to look too long at things that might kill you. Peter, however, couldn’t ignore it. His spider-sense buzzed erratically, not danger mostly just comfort really—it felt like a neon sign flashing LOOK.

Red straightened, adjusting his jacket like this was a casual walk-in instead of a rooftop dive. His helmet tilted toward Peter, unreadable but heavy with attention. The spiders, who’d long since retreated back into peter’s bag, rustled faintly.

“Morning, kid,” Red said, voice tinny through the modulator, casual.

The silence stretched. Peter waited for him to say something, like a child waiting for the reprimand from their parent. Peter guessed he was going to demand an explanation, to accuse him of… whatever that looked like back there, despite his constant kindness. But Red didn’t mention the spiders. Didn’t bring up the woman who had bolted out screaming.

Instead, Red tilted his helmet, casual as anything, and asked, “You eaten yet?”

Peter blinked. “…What?”

“Breakfast, kid. There’s a place two blocks from here. Good pancakes. C’mon.”

Peter wanted to refuse. Wanted to walk away, because every second he spent with Red was a second too close to exposure. But his stomach betrayed him with a loud growl. His face flushed hot, and he ducked his head, muttering, “I’m fine.”

The tilt of Red’s helmet shifted just enough to suggest he was smirking under there. “Yeah, sure you are. Move your feet.”

Peter didn’t argue again.

The diner Red picked looked like it had been there forever. The neon sign—what’s with this city and neon signs—buzzed faintly in the daylight, advertising “ALL-DAY BREAKFAST” in crooked letters. Inside, the air smelled like burnt coffee, grease, and syrup—a mix that was both comforting and overwhelming with Peter’s sharp senses.

The booths were patched vinyl, their colors faded into something indefinable. Waitresses moved like clockwork, refilling mugs before they hit empty, balancing plates stacked with eggs and toast and bacon. A radio crackled from behind the counter, old rock tunes barely audible under the clatter of dishes.

Peter slid into a booth by the window, stiff as a board. Red sat across from him, still helmeted, like this was completely normal behavior. He didn’t fidget. Didn’t shift. Just radiated the kind of steady calm that made Peter itch.

The waitress didn’t even blink at the helmet. Just poured coffee into the chipped mug in front of him and said, “The usual?”

“Yeah,” Red said, voice low and even. Then he nodded at Peter. “And whatever he wants.”

Peter froze as the waitress’s expectant gaze turned on him. The menu was a blur of words and numbers, too many choices pressing down on him at once. “…Uh. Fries?” he mumbled finally.

The waitress raised a brow, but before she could write it down, Red cut in. “He’ll take the short stack. With eggs. And bacon. Chocolate milk.”

“I—” Peter started, but Red shut it down with a tilt of his helmet.

“You’re not living off fries,” he said.

Peter huffed, sinking into the booth, but didn’t argue again.

He’s starting to notice a theme here.

The food landed on the table with a heavy clatter—pancakes stacked high, bacon sizzling, eggs steaming, and a tall glass of chocolate milk that practically glowed in Peter’s eyes. He’d been trying to sit still, to play it cool, but the moment the plates hit the table, restraint evaporated. His fork was in his hand before the waitress even left.

Red hadn’t even touched his coffee again when Peter leaned forward and blurted, “Did you know tarantulas can live up to thirty years? That’s longer than some dogs! Not Titus, though, ‘cause mastiffs can live for a while if you take care of ‘em right, but still—thirty years is a lot. And people think spiders are weak or scary, but actually they’re one of the most adaptable creatures ever. They’ve been around forever, way before humans, and they’ll be around after too, probably. Unless somebody tries to gas the planet, which—ugh.”

Red’s helmet tilted slightly, just watching him. He didn’t say a word, which Peter mistook for encouragement.

“And, okay, people always think spiders are dirty, but they’re not. They groom themselves, like cats! Except with their legs instead of tongues, which is better ‘cause—ew. And the way their fangs work, it’s super-efficient. They don’t chew, so they liquefy their food first—though that’s not gross, that’s smart, right? Saves energy!”

He stuffed a bite of pancake into his mouth, chewed, and kept going around it.

“You know what else? Everyone thinks the biggest spider is the huntsman, but actually it’s the goliath birdeater, which can eat birds but doesn’t usually despite its name. They’re more into worms and frogs. People exaggerate ‘cause it sounds cooler. But huntsmen are fast, like super fast, so if you want to count leg span, maybe them. Depends on what you’re measuring.”

Red sipped his coffee in silence.

“And tarantulas—oh, man, tarantulas are amazing. They’ve got urticating hairs they can flick at predators. They’re tiny but super itchy, like fiberglass. I tried handling one once and—well, never mind.”

Peter paused only to attack the bacon, tearing through two strips before diving right back into his monologue. His voice picked up momentum the more he spoke, words tumbling out in a rush like he’d been holding them in for weeks.

“You’d think with all the legs they’d be clumsy, but they’re not. They move like ballerinas. Balanced. Graceful. And webs? Don’t even get me started on webs. There are different types—orb webs, funnel webs, sheet webs, cobwebs, each one for a specific purpose. It’s like engineering but with silk. The tensile strength is stronger than steel by weight, and if we could replicate it in factories, we’d revolutionize everything—bridges, buildings, medical stitches—oh! And parachutes! Silk parachutes would be wild. Well, not silk, ‘cause spiders don’t really make enough to mass-produce like silkworms, but the idea is there.”

He barely stopped to breathe. The chocolate milk dwindled as he gulped between facts, his hands flailing sometimes when he wanted to emphasize something. A sticky line of syrup ran down his wrist, unnoticed.

Red, helmet steady, leaned back in the booth. Still silent. Still listening.

“And the thing is,” Peter said, voice lowering a fraction, “people think they’re creepy, but they’re not. They’re survivors. They make do with whatever’s around. Even when the world hates ‘em, they keep going.”

That line lingered heavier than the others, and for a heartbeat Peter seemed to realize how much he’d said. He ducked his head, stabbing at his eggs. “…Anyway. Sorry. I just—I like spiders.”

Red’s helmet dipped, a slow nod. “Clearly,” he said, voice even but not unkind.

And somehow, that was enough.

Peter cracked a grin, messy and small but real, before diving back into his pancakes with new energy.

By the time the plates were empty—his, not Red’s; Peter had made short work of every bite—he felt lighter. Not full exactly, because the ache in his chest never really left, but steady. Like maybe he wasn’t carrying it all alone.

Red slid out of the booth first, settling the bill without ceremony. Peter trailed after him onto the sidewalk, the city noise rushing back in to fill the space. That’s when Red dug into his bag and pulled out the lunchbox. Matte red, emblem stark black. Peter froze, staring.

“…What’s this?”

“Matches the bag,” Red said, matter-of-fact. “Food’s inside. Figured I might not catch you at lunch. Or dinner.”

Peter held it, tentative, as though it might vanish. “…Why?”

Red didn’t answer directly. He just shifted the duffel back onto his shoulder and tilted his helmet. “Eat. Or don’t. Up to you.”

Peter hugged the box close, a strange heat crawling behind his eyes. He blinked it away quickly, forcing a shrug. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks.”

Red gave that tiny tilt of his head again, unreadable. Then he melted back into the shadows, leaving Peter on the sidewalk with a lunchbox clutched to his chest and too many thoughts spinning in his head.

Safe. That’s what it felt like. Against his better judgment, against every rule he’d set for himself in this city, Peter actually felt safe.

And maybe—just maybe—that was the dangerous part.

Jason didn’t light the cigarette he’d pulled from his jacket pocket. He just rolled it between his fingers while leaning against the mouth of the alley across from the diner, helmet tilted up at the sky.

The kid was a talker. A nonstop, run-your-mouth, no-filter type of talker. Jason had barely gotten three words in during the entire breakfast, and yet somehow, he felt like he’d learned more about spiders than he ever wanted—or needed—to know. The thing was…Peter wasn’t just reciting facts. He was comfortable. Animated. Talking about them the way normal kids talked about video games or cartoons or that new sugar-loaded cereal.

Then the real kicker.

Jason had seen the alley, the mugger, the swarm that spilled out of the shadows. A tide of chittering legs and glittering eyes, answering the boy’s panic in seconds. Jason hadn’t missed the way they formed a barrier, aggressive and protective. And he sure as hell hadn’t missed the way Peter calmed down once, they pulled back, like he’d called them off himself.

Most people screamed at a single spider. Pete had a damn army on speed dial.

“Kid’s a meta,” Jason muttered to himself, finally sliding the cigarette back into the pack. He didn’t light up around kids anymore. “Has to be. Spiders don’t just do that.”

Sure, maybe it wasn’t telepathy exactly. Could be pheromones. Could be some low-level empathy field. He’d seen weirder metahuman powers in Gotham alone, and that was without even counting the League’s files. What mattered was this kid had something—and from the looks of it, no one else knew.

Not the system. Not the Bat. Just Jason.

And the kid trusted him. Enough to ramble, to eat until he nearly fell asleep at the table, to clutch the lunchbox like it was the only real possession he had in the world. Jason had seen that look before. In mirrors, mostly.

He cursed under his breath and rubbed a hand over his helmet.

This wasn’t supposed to be his problem. He wasn’t supposed to care, to be this invested. But damn it, he was and no one could change that now.

He could already hear what Bruce would say—what Dick would say. You’re not equipped for this, Jason. You’re reckless. You can’t be responsible for a kid. Yeah? Well, too bad. Someone had to be and it damn sure wasn’t going to be the uncle or whoever that leave him to wonder around Gotham alone nearly every day.

Jason pushed off the wall, tugged his jacket tighter, and vanished into the crowd.

The kid wasn’t his. Jason reminded himself of that every step.

But if anyone thought they were gonna hurt Peter, they’d have to go through the Red Hood first.

Damian did not require anyone’s permission to pursue the truth.

It wasn’t as though his family had ever bothered to confide in him when it mattered. They kept their secrets wrapped up tight, exchanging glances over his head like he was still ten years old, incapable of understanding. Fools. He noticed everything. He always noticed.

Peter Parker was the latest proof.

The boy’s arrival was suspicious enough. Ten years old, unaccompanied, carrying himself like a stray pulled straight off the streets—and yet not. He wasn’t gaunt. He wasn’t wild-eyed. He was… composed. Too composed. And then there was the spider. Titus had taken to the boy instantly, which in itself meant something. Damian trusted his dog’s instincts more than most people’s. But Peter was still an anomaly.

And anomalies deserved scrutiny.

Damian sat in his room at the manor with his laptop balanced across his knees. Titus sprawled at his side, head resting heavily on Damian’s shin with Ace at the foot of his bed.

The first issue was simple: he didn’t even know the boy’s surname. “Peter” alone turned up thousands of possibilities. Students. Foster children. Runaways. Death records. He cross-referenced with Gotham, narrowed it by age, but none matched the face of the boy he’d met in the park. That alone was suspicious—what kind of ten-year-old lived in Gotham without leaving a single public trace?

So he widened the search. That’s when it appeared: Peter Parker.

On the surface, everything was there. Birth certificate. School records. Medical files. Even a transfer note explaining why the boy was now living in Gotham. The neatness of it was almost insulting. Damian’s eyes narrowed as he scrolled through the documents, memorizing the minor details.

The problem wasn’t that the records didn’t exist. The problem was that they existed too perfectly.

Every photograph attached to the file looked… borrowed. They were close enough to pass a casual glance, but Damian’s eyes caught the differences in lighting, the inconsistency in the resolution, the faint suggestion of splicing. Whoever had fabricated these records was skilled, certainly, but not infallible. And the further he read, the more the seams began to show.

Dates that lined up almost too well. Teachers’ signatures that didn’t match other records from the same school. Addresses that technically existed, but cross-referencing utility bills revealed them to be vacant during the years Peter was supposedly living there.

It was a façade. A carefully built façade.

Damian’s lip curled as he leaned back in his chair, Titus shifting at his feet.

Todd.

This reeked of him. The boy’s sudden appearance, the forged past, the way Jason had been acting restless and distracted lately. Todd was hiding something, and this Peter was at the center of it.

But there was something else, too.

Most forgeries Damian had encountered were rushed, sloppy, half-hearted attempts to give someone a paper-thin alibi. This one was different. It was detailed. Comprehensive. Whoever had spun this identity into being hadn’t just wanted Peter to pass unnoticed—they wanted him to belong. That unsettled Damian more than he cared to admit.

He closed the laptop, his reflection catching in the black screen: sharp-eyed, unsmiling, the weight of suspicion heavy on his shoulders.

Peter Parker was either the greatest risk to their family in months… or the strangest sort of plea for protection Jason had ever made. And Damian Wayne intended to find out which.

Secrets never lasted long around him—not in the manor, not on the streets, not even in his mother’s court. He saw through lies like glass. And yet, this boy—Peter—wasn’t fitting neatly into any of the categories Damian expected. That was infuriating. But If Todd thought he could sneak an entire child past the rest of them, he was sorely mistaken.

The train somehow felt worse this evening, it just seemed heavier like something was about to happen and everyone knew it but was still holding their breath in hopes they make it home without incident.

Work had dragged later than usual, so Peter ate a piece of one out of the three rocks he keeps in his pockets to shave off time and pain. His backpack weighed against his shoulders, his lunch box knocking softly against his side with each step. He tugged his hood lower and kept his head down.

Danger…

When the train had screeched to a halt at the station in the narrows the people who rushed on weren’t your run of the mill citizens, nope. No, they moved with purpose, a dangerous sort of synchronization, their bodies loose but ready. The lot of them had their crowbars and bats in hand. They weren’t laughing—but their smeared grins and chalk-white skin made Peter’s stomach twist all the same. Joker goons. A sight to terrorize anyone unlucky enough to be nearby. He swallowed hard; the scent of chaos hit him like acid.

One of the goons slammed a foot against the door, and it locked with a mechanical click. The others formed a human wall, blocking escape. Panic rippled through the car as commuters stumbled back, pressed against one another. Peter’s stomach knotted. He was out of practice; he wasn’t ready for this.

The goons moved methodically, circling like predatory spiders, scanning faces, measuring reactions. A woman screamed as one of them jabbed a bat against her cart, sending belongings scattering. Peter’s backpack hit the floor with a soft thud. He dropped to the seat, trying to make himself small.

He scanned the car. There was no way out. The windows were too high, too thick. The doors were blocked. Only the spaces between the goons offered narrow paths—and they weren’t going to be generous.

A gloved hand swung at a man trying to rise from the floor. Peter ducked instinctively, pressing against the wall. His eyes flicked to the vent above, a small mesh running the length of the ceiling. Not enough space for him, but… he noted it anyway. Always scanning. Always planning.

The chaos made the train feel alive, writhing. Commuters shouted, tripped over one another, shoved against the doors. The smell of fear was thick—sweat, cheap perfume, the tang of blood from a split lip or cut hand. Peter’s chest tightened as he tried to steady his breathing. One of the goons stomped toward the back of the car, crowbar raised. Peter’s hands itched to act, to intervene, but he couldn’t. Not yet. Too many variables, too many innocent people. He had his spiders tucked away, hidden, silent. They could help, but only if he used them wisely.

A scream tore through the car. A woman had fallen to the floor, a goon pressing a bat near her knee. Peter’s stomach turned, but he stayed crouched, eyes sharp. He flicked a glance to the young man near the door—a kid like him, maybe older—pressing against the wall with his backpack clutched tight. That kid was frozen too.

Peter’s mind raced. There had to be a way to create distraction. He reached into his bag, feeling the smooth edges of the rocks, then paused. Not yet. Not without a plan.

The goons started moving up and down the aisle, poking, shoving, testing reactions. Their smiles were grotesque, wide, painted. Peter’s eyes followed each one, noting patterns, timing, gestures. One always lingered near the back, one prowled near the middle, one hovered near the doors.

Peter crouched lower, letting the hum of his spider-sense guide him. He could feel the vibrations of movement in the floor, subtle, telling him where the strongest pressures were. The rock in his chest throbbed softly, grounding him. He exhaled slowly, forcing his nerves to focus.

The goons had missed the gap between two seats. Peter edged toward it, careful, moving like he’d practiced in the alley, one hand on the floor, one on the edge of the seat. If he could just slip through, reposition…

Near!

A crowbar scraped against metal near his feet. He froze. The goon glanced down, muttered, then moved on. Peter exhaled quietly, heart hammering.

The car felt endless, every second stretching, every movement amplified. The human wall, the shouts, the screeching of the train—it was a concert of fear and chaos, and Peter had to thread through it all. He watched, calculated, waited for the slightest opening. A vent at the ceiling still caught his eye. Too small for him now, but maybe later. He noted the spacing of the goons, the width between their boots, the angle of their bat swings. Everything was data, every twitch of muscle a signal.

He inched closer to a small cluster of seats near the middle, where an older man tried to shield a child. The goons hadn’t noticed him yet. Peter’s fingers brushed the rocks in his pocket. He could act, could deploy them somehow, create a tiny distraction. But timing was everything.

A laugh—a scratchy, cruel, human-like sound—echoed from the back of the car. One of the goons smirked, tilting his head toward the others. They responded with nods, spreading out more methodically, herding people forward. Peter stayed crouched, mind racing, calculating, waiting for a pattern. The train lurched forward again, metal screeching, feet slipping on the tiles. The passengers shifted, and the goons adjusted their stance.

Peter’s eyes flicked to the narrow spaces near the seats again. If he could move fast, move smart…maybe he could slip, just barely, and create a distraction that didn’t endanger anyone. He counted, silently, waiting for the perfect moment.

The first opening came—a tiny gap between two goons near the middle of the car. Peter’s chest throbbed as he slid forward, silent, careful. Every step was measured, deliberate. The crowd pressed against him, a tide of motion and panic.

He didn’t know if he would make it. He didn’t know if anyone else would. But he kept moving, one careful inch at a time, toward the gap, toward a way to survive, toward a moment where he could do something, anything to tip the balance. Peter’s hands gripped the seat edge, pulling himself through, sweat prickling his hairline. The goons didn’t notice yet. The hum in his chest pulsed softly, the rock in his sternum anchoring him.

He was inside the chaos, part of it, yet apart from it. And for the first time in a long while, he let a sliver of focus guide him—pure, methodical, precise, the way spiders moved. Every inch, every moment mattered.

The car was still alive with screams and painted faces, but Peter had found his rhythm. He could survive this. He could navigate the chaos. And maybe…just maybe…he could help, even a little.

Peter stayed crouched, heartbeat thrumming in his ears. The gap was closing. The goons were starting to tighten their formation again, pushing the crowd forward, cornering them like cattle.

He hated that feeling. Being herded. Being powerless.

The hum in his chest deepened, and with it came a flicker of movement at the edge of his vision. Small, skittering shapes crawling along the underside of the seats, up the railings, through the vents. New spiders + the small ones from the park+ a few from the colony had followed.

Friend! Hungry! Play!

Not now. Focus.

He swallowed hard, glancing around. Nobody else had noticed—not the commuters packed shoulder to shoulder, not the thugs too wrapped up in their intimidation. Only Peter knew the spiders were there, waiting for direction, their tiny claws pricking along the steel.

He couldn’t let them swarm. That would out him instantly. But subtle? Subtle could work.

One goon had his bat balanced loosely in his grip, smirking as he tapped it against the floor. Peter shifted his focus. A few spiders crept across the tile, invisible in the chaos, climbing the man’s boot. The tickle made him flinch. He slapped at his leg, muttering, but didn’t see anything. His grip on the bat loosened.

Good.

Another spider scurried up onto the door panel, slipping into the small groove where the manual override sat. It tugged at the wiring, not enough to open it, but enough to spark a faint flicker. The goons at the door stiffened, shooting glances back, momentarily distracted.

The crowd noticed too—hope fluttered across their faces at the thought of an opening. That flicker was all Peter needed.

He moved. Silent. Swift. He slid along the floor toward the seats at the side, weaving through pressed legs and bags. His body folded tight, almost spider-like itself, squeezing through gaps where no one else could fit. A child whimpered nearby, clinging to her father. The goon closest to her smirked, raising his crowbar. Peter’s pulse spiked.

Now.

Two more spiders dropped from the ceiling rail, landing on the man’s neck. He slapped wildly, stumbling backward, crowbar clanging against the rail instead of the child. The noise startled the other thugs, drawing their attention for a critical second.

The train lurched again, screeching around a bend. The sudden tilt sent everyone stumbling, bodies crashing together. Peter used the chaos, springing to his feet just long enough to grab his backpack and shove forward through the shifting mass. He ducked again immediately, heart pounding, sweat slicking his palms.

No one had seen. Not really. To the passengers, it looked like coincidence. To the thugs, maybe nerves or bad footing. But Peter knew. He’d nudged the web.

The spiders still lingered, waiting. His head buzzed faintly from the strain of keeping them quiet, controlled. He wiped his sleeve across his forehead, eyes scanning. They couldn’t do everything for him. He had to stay smart.

A voice cut through the car—rough, mocking. “Sit down and shut it, or we start breakin’ bones!”

The commuters froze. The sound of ragged breathing filled the silence. Peter stayed low; teeth gritted. His instincts screamed at him to act, but he forced himself to wait. Timing. Always timing. One spider crawled across the vent again, drawing his eye. He almost smiled despite the fear. They were restless too.

Friend! Help! Protect!

Yeah, yeah, I know. Just—don’t blow my cover, alright?

He shifted his weight, readying himself. The spiders would move when he moved. And if he played it right, the goons would never even know what hit them.

The train rumbled on, the fluorescent lights flickering overhead, fear thick as smoke. Peter Parker was trapped with nowhere to run—but he wasn’t alone.

Not really.

The train screeched again, lights flickering hard enough to throw shadows across the walls. The goons barked orders, trying to steady themselves, but the crowd shifted restlessly, fear boiling over into the beginnings of panic. Peter’s breath hitched. He could feel it—that tipping point where everything snapped.

Go!

The spider-sense burned, sharp and electric, and all at once his colony stirred like a wave, hundreds of tiny legs skittering in unison, answering a call he hadn’t meant to give. They spread across the ceiling, down the walls, into the cracks of the floor, hidden in plain sight.

One of the goons looked up. Froze. “The hell—?”

A spider dangled from a thread right in front of his face.

The man screamed.

Chapter Text

The spider that had dangled from a thread right in front of the man’s face let go of its silk and landed squarely across his nose and mouth. The goon staggered, clawing desperately at his own face. The crowd pressed against the far wall of the train cart flinched, the claustrophobic air thick with their panic.

Peter didn’t hesitate. The second the man’s grip on his crowbar loosened, Peter snatched it up with quick, precise hands. The weight nearly pulled his arms down, but he planted his feet and yanked hard. The momentum tipped the man further off balance, his boots slipping against the train’s floor. With a startled grunt, the goon crashed backward into a row of seats, his head bouncing against the window with a dull thud.

Peter’s pulse roared in his ears. He couldn’t celebrate, not even for a second. The rest of the Joker’s thugs were already shoving through the cart, their weapons raised, eyes wild and gleaming in the dim light. One down—too many left.

And now they were looking straight at him.

Just great parker. How the hell are you supposed to make this look normal in this cart full of witnesses? Peter thought bitterly as his grip tightened on the crowbar. This was fine. Totally. he can make this look like some reckless kid trying to play hero and getting lucky, right?

Duck!

A second thug lunged, swinging a spiked bat that whistled through the air, too fast, too close. Peter ducked, the rush of wind grazing his ear, and jabbed upward with the crowbar. It clipped the man’s ribs—not enough to break anything, he wasn’t trying to seriously injure anyone after all, but it was just enough to make him stumble and curse. Before the thug could recover, half a dozen tiny legs scurried up the back of his neck.

The man’s scream ripped through the cart, high and guttural. He clawed at his own collar, twisting and jerking as just one spider sank its fangs deep. Venom worked fast—it wasn’t a lethal amount peter hopes, but the paralysis hit like lightning. The thug’s arms froze mid-motion, his legs buckled, and he collapsed to the floor with a thud, his bat clattering uselessly beside him.

Watching. Watching. Watching.

Peter forced himself not to look at the crowd. He knew they were watching, knew that every move, every unnatural save would etch itself into their memory. However if he focused on that, focused on the possibility some man dressed in a bat suit would find him personally and kick him out of the city for being a meta, he’d definitely freeze up. Re-think his decisions, doubt himself, and Peter simply can’t afford that when other people’s well-being is at stake. So instead, he tried to keep the crowbar high and his posture clumsy, like a desperate kid swinging wide and getting lucky while chaos did the rest.

Think messy, Parker. Think stupid. No one suspects stupid.

The next goon wasn’t buying it. He sneered, swinging a chain that clanged as it snapped against a pole. “Brave little brat, aren’t you?” His teeth were stained yellow-green, his grin feral. “Boss’ll love peeling you apart.”

Peter tightened his grip. His skin prickled, not from the words, but from the familiar hum—dozens of small heartbeats moving along the ceiling, the underside of seats, tucked into cracks and shadows. His spiders had spread out like an army waiting for a signal. He didn’t have to command them. They just… knew.

“What a clever line, you hear it from a movie? Or did you just come up with that on the spot?” Peter quipped, keeping himself seemingly open.

The chain lashed toward him, but before it could land, three spiders dropped in perfect unison. One sank fangs into the man’s wrist, another into his calf, the third across his jawline. His growl twisted into a gurgle as his body locked up, the chain slipping from his fingers. His eyes rolled back, and down he went. Only one bite actually came from a spider with paralysis venom, it wasn’t enough to kill, the guy will be fine… most likely.

Another thug cursed, panic edging into his voice. “The hell is this?!”

“Wouldn’t you like to know weather boy?” Peter smirked

The cart was starting to tip toward hysteria. People gasped, some screamed, others pressed tighter against the walls, their eyes wide and unblinking as they tried to avoid the fight and subsequently, the spiders.

Peter kept moving, every step quick, every swing meant to sell the story of an underdog flailing by chance, of course, he made sure to take a few hits every now and again, just to really sell the picture he was trying to paint here. However for most of the thugs the spiders finished the fight for him. Bite after bite, thug after thug crumpled. All alive, thankfully, just in pain.

In the middle of it all peter heard the unfamiliar but all too predictable thumps of boots on the train roof. Of course the real heroes had arrived, which was expected, he’d long since heard a very concerning speech from the joker himself a few carts up.

And when the last thug went stiff and hit the floor, silence followed. Heavy. Smothering.

Peter’s chest heaved. His knuckles were white around the crowbar, his jacket sticking to his back with sweat. Dozens of eyes burned into him, all asking the same thing: What the hell did we just see?

Smile, shrug, pretend you’re just some dumb kid. Play it off, Parker.

“Man, I did not expect to come outta that alive,” He gives his fellow commute members a shaky smile as he drops the crowbar. It works for the most part, a man who was protecting his own kid pulls peter in by slinging an arm over his shoulders.

“Yer crazy kid,” The man decides as he pat’s peter’s shoulder. Most of the passengers have similar sentiments.

 “What’s with the spiders?” The man’s daughter quizzes and for a moment peter freezes, what was peter supposed to say to that?

“I dunno… freak coincidence?” Peter tries, before he could even think of any more to say to that, the rear doors of the cart hissed and slid open. A tall figure stepped in, clad in blue and black, escrima sticks holstered at his side. The passengers’ relief was instant, palpable—an audible gasp of recognition as one of Gotham’s many protectors strode inside. Nightwing.

.

.

.

.

.

.

The police hadn’t exactly let him go without questions. A dozen different voices had pressed him about what happened, about the spiders, about where his parents were. He’d stuck to his script—wrong place, wrong time, got lucky. The spiders? Total freak accident. If they didn’t buy it, well, they didn’t push too hard either. Nightwing’s arrival had pulled most of the attention anyway, and Peter had faded into the background like he always did.

Now, walking the cracked sidewalks of Gotham with his backpack slung over one shoulder and his hood pulled low, the adrenaline had finally burned out. He felt wrung dry, the echo of his heartbeat still pulsing in his ears. Every corner felt sharper, every shadow heavier.

But under all that exhaustion was a stubborn thought, one he couldn’t shake: This city needs Spider-Man. Spider-man was dead though, and peter wasn’t about to drag a Deadman out of his grave for a city he didn’t even belong in. So, correction. This city needed something like Spider-Man.

Gotham had its Bats, its Robins, its vigilantes cloaked in shadow and fear. That wasn’t him. It wasn’t spider-man like ether. He wasn’t trying to replace anyone. But after tonight? After seeing those people pressed against the walls of the train car, terrified and waiting to die? He couldn’t just sit back and play the kid with a backpack anymore.

The cousin, Peter thought, biting back a grin despite himself. Not Spider-Man—too much weight in the name. Just the cousin. The weird younger relative nobody talks about, who still shows up anyway.

It was dumb. So dumb. But it was also perfect. Gotham didn’t need another Bat. It didn’t even need another Spider-Man. It needed… someone in between. Someone who knew what it was to be small, to be overlooked, but who could still make people feel like they weren’t helpless. Peter adjusted the strap of his backpack, ignoring the ache in his ribs from the hits he’d taken. He had work to do. Plans to sketch, fabric to find, gadgets to cobble together from junk. For the first time since waking up in this city, the thought didn’t feel impossible.

Gotham was about to meet Spider-Man’s cousin.

And if the Batman didn’t like that? Too bad.

The Batcave was too damn quiet. Always had been. The kind of silence that got under your skin, all sterile and clinical, like the whole place was trying to pretend it wasn’t built on rot and grief. Jason never stayed long down here for that reason. Too many ghosts, too many reminders of what he wasn’t anymore.

But tonight? Tonight he was here anyway.

His helmet dangled from his hand, the weight of it pulling at his shoulder as he stood in front of the glowing monitors. His other hand flexed and unflexed, the faintest tremor in his fingers from the effort of keeping still. On the screens, grainy playback flickered from the Narrows line attack: terrified civilians, Joker’s grease-painted psychos flooding the train, the chaos spilling like a broken artery. And right in the middle of it, crowbar gripped too tight, face pale but steady—that kid.

Jason replayed the moment again. And again. Each time it made his stomach churn hotter, tighter.

That same kid who stuffed extra sandwiches into his bag like a starving squirrel. That same kid who cracked jokes at Jason without flinching, who didn’t bolt when anyone else would’ve. Jason had told himself Gotham would leave the boy alone. That for once, maybe, someone who’d already had it rough could slip under this city’s radar. But Gotham didn’t leave anyone alone. Least of all kids.

Jason’s jaw ached from clenching. He didn’t move for a long time, didn’t look at the others standing around him—he could feel them, Nightwing with his arms crossed like he always had the moral high ground, Tim hovering too close to the damn keyboard, Cass silent as a shadow. Bruce, stone-faced as ever. Damian was conveniently absent, probably sulking in some corner, but Jason wasn’t fooled. The brat knew something.

When Jason finally spoke, his voice cracked through the cave like a gunshot.

“This is fucking ridiculous.” He gestured at the screen, anger simmering low and dangerous. “That there a kid. A normal fucking kid, trapped in a box with Joker’s psychos. And he’s fighting them. Can any of you grasp what could have happened to him?”

He was pacing now, armor creaking with the strain of his movement, every step fueled by the pounding in his ears. His chest heaved like he’d run a mile, rage boiling just beneath the skin. The green of the pit’s curled in the back of his skull, whispering, feeding.

“He could have died. Sure, he handled that better than most untrained adults but so what? What if Joker had dropped gas in there? Hm? What if he’d stepped into that cart instead of the next one? What if joker decided to rig the train with bombs? That kid wouldn’t just be traumatized—he’d be dead. Another name for that clown’s already extensive victim list. He was lucky to come out of that walking, but is that what we settle for now?”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed, but his tone stayed even. “The situation was contained. No one died. Nightwing’s presence ensured the boy was safe before things escalated.”

“Safe?” Jason barked a laugh, but there was no humor in it. “Safe is being home in bed, not trying to survive a Joker ambush on the goddamn commute. Safe is when the joker can do no more harm. Safe is when children can walk around with the security of knowing they won’t fall victim to jokers' next big show. Yet that monster is alive and well enough to keep coming back, and who pays the price? Them. Always them.” He jabbed a finger toward the paused hologram, frozen on Peter’s pale, tense face.

The silence that followed was thick. Jason’s chest heaved, heat rising up his throat, threatening to choke him, green at the edges of his vision.

“This cannot be allowed to happen again or next we won’t get a ‘fortunate’ out come.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Even the cave seemed to hold its breath. Nightwing looked grim. Tim was pale, his hands twitching toward the keyboard like it could shield him. Cass’s dark eyes flicked between Jason and Bruce, measuring, calculating.

And Bruce—of course Batman—just stood there, silent, with that goddamn look on his face. The one that said he was already trying to contain Jason like another problem to solve.

The rage clawed up Jason’s throat, all green edges and pounding blood, and for one heartbeat he wanted to shatter the cave around them.

Peter spent the days following the 14th holed up in his apartment building, keeping the outside world at bay. Gotham had always been loud, but after the train incident, it seemed louder—like every shout, every siren, every car horn rattled his bones. He went out only when he had to, gathering things in quick trips across the city. Scraps, fabric, tools, cheap paint. Nothing glamorous. Nothing that would raise eyebrows.

Work was steady, if uneventful. Steven didn’t really care much if he dragged his feet, as long as the shelves were neatly put together, and the floors weren’t sticky. It gave him time—time to plan, time to tinker, time to sketch.

By Tuesday, he had something more than scribbles in his notebook. He had a suit.

It wasn’t much. An oversized red hoodie—one not gifted by Red, because Peter couldn’t stomach the idea of putting paint on something someone had given him. He bought the plain one himself, a size too big, so it hung loose and didn’t cling when he moved and so that he could hide his spiders in it. Across the chest, he embroidered a spider emblem with yellow yarn, each stitch slightly uneven, but bold enough to catch the eye. The underarm panels and inner sleeves were pieced with black fabric, stitched in place with small, tight seams. With more of that same yellow yarn, he threaded thin web designs up the sleeves.

The ribbed hem of the hoodie matched, yellow like the cuffs. The pants were nothing special—plain black, salvaged from a discount bin—but he added kneepads, painstakingly painted with webbing in sharp, black lines that curved across the red base. The boots were tall, clunky things he’d bought with his first paycheck. They’d been a dull brick red at first, but he painted the soles black and cleaned the scuffs until they gleamed.

Peter set the pieces out across his mattress, studying them with critical eyes.

Honestly, it wasn’t his best work. He could see every flaw. The uneven stitching. The brushstrokes on the boots. The paint bleeding on the kneepads where the lines weren’t crisp. The fact that the hoodie was just… a hoodie. But it would have to do. He didn’t have Wayne money or Stark tech. He had yarn, paint, and stubbornness.

He pressed his hand against the embroidered spider, the yarn coarse under his fingertips.

“It’ll work,” he muttered to himself. “It has to.”

It wasn’t about style. It was about having something. About not being just a scared kid shoved into a train cart full of maniacs. About standing for something—even if Gotham didn’t know his name, even if this wasn’t a forever thing. It wasn’t like he planned to stay in this body forever anyway.

Peter sat back, chewing the inside of his cheek, eyes locked on the suit. A part of him buzzed equal parts anxious and excited. The city didn’t know it yet, but soon, someone new would be crawling across its rooftops. Someone who wasn’t afraid to bite back.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Now on the very same night of the 18th peter finds himself standing atop a building in crime alley.

The night air of Gotham felt heavier than Queens ever had. Maybe it was the smog, maybe it was the constant bite of something sour in the wind, or maybe it was just Gotham itself. Still, standing on the ledge with his patched-together hoodie tugged over his head, Peter felt…good. Nervous, sure. His stomach was in knots and his palms were damp inside his gloves, but under all that was something warm, something steady.

This was familiar.

Not the skyline — Gotham’s towers were darker, gothic stone and cold steel, shadows crowding out the stars. Not the people — they hurried, eyes down, shoulders tight, as if always waiting for the next siren to wail. But the act itself, the crouch, the way his fingers itched to grip ledges and sling webs across alleys, the pulse that quickened when he heard a distant shout — that was muscle memory. That was Spider-Man.

He’d missed this.

The first jump made his heart leap into his throat. The web-line stuck, the hoodie tugged at his shoulders, and Peter swung, too low, almost clipping a lamppost. His laugh cracked out anyway, bubbling and startled.

“Still got it,” he whispered, giddy.

Believe it or not he never thought to check if his webs could actually hold him up if he suddenly decided to start swinging, he’s glad they could, it would’ve set his return to the vigilante scene way back. As he swung higher, breath burning in his chest, Peter couldn’t help thinking about those first nights back home. How small he’d been compared to the others, how he’d always been trying to live up to the mask. Back then, he’d been the little guy Spider taking care of the little guys. Tonight, in a city that didn’t know him, he was something else entirely.

Not Peter Parker. Not Spider-Man.

But maybe…Gotham’s Spider.

And for the first time since he’d woken up in this world, that didn’t sound like a bad thing.

Or maybe it did.

See patrolling Gotham wasn’t easy. Not because Peter couldn’t handle the crimes—a drunk swinging his fists, a thief with a crowbar, a gang cornering a kid for his shoes—those were things Peter had seen before, things he could stop in his sleep. No, what made Gotham hard was how it looked back at him. Despite itself, Queens had smiled sometimes. New York had cracked jokes at his expense. But Gotham? Gotham stared. Gotham muttered. Gotham recoiled.

His first save of the night set the tone.

A woman screamed in an alley — Peter swung down, webbed the mugger’s knife out of his hand, and sent him sprawling into a pile of trash bags. “You’re good now, ma’am,” Peter said, trying to keep his voice light through the hoodie muffling him. “No thanks necessary.”

But instead of relief, she raised a canister of pepper spray and fired blindly in his direction. Peter yelped, dodged back onto the wall. His eyes stung anyway, the mist burning against his nose.

“Stay away from me!” she shrieked, stumbling out of the alley. “Freak!”

The mugger groaned in the trash, webs already sticking him to the bags. Peter rubbed his eyes, heart sinking.

“Okay. Cool. That’s… yeah. Thanks for the gratitude, lady.” He sighed and swung back up to the rooftops, telling himself he didn’t mind. Maybe he should keep his googles on at all times yeah?

The next one wasn’t better.

Two kids had been trying to jack a car. Peter dropped down, startled them into tripping over themselves, webbed the crowbar out of their hands. He tied them up in a neat bow and leaned against the hood. “Maybe try not breaking into cars, huh? Steal candy bars or something less felony-shaped.”

The car’s owner rushed out from a nearby diner. Peter smiled under his hood, about to say something reassuring. Instead, the man shoved past him, eyes darting between the webs and Peter’s frame.

“You one of Joker’s freaks?” the guy hissed. “You setting me up?!” He shoved Peter hard in the shoulder. “Stay the hell away from my car!”

Peter froze. “Uh, no? I literally just—”

The guy raised his own tire iron, and Peter took the hint, shooting a webline and leaving before things escalated.

By the third, fourth, fifth run-in, the pattern was set. People didn’t trust him. They recoiled, called him names, muttered about “another mask” roaming their streets. Even the cops weren’t impressed — one cruiser swerved close when Peter was crouched on a lamppost, and the passenger leaned out to snap a picture. Not out of awe, but out of suspicion.

At one corner, Peter swung down just in time to shove a man out of the way of a crowbar. It hit him across the ribs instead, sending a sharp crack through his side. Pain lit up his chest, but Peter gritted through it, webbed the attacker, and pinned him against a wall.

“You’re—” he wheezed, clutching his ribs, “—welcome.”

The man he’d saved only scowled. “Get away from me! You think I’m stupid? I’ve seen your type before. Masked freaks causing trouble.”

Peter blinked, stunned. “Uh, sorry? I just stopped him from caving your head in.”

“Bullshit,” the man spat. “You probably planned it together. I’m not falling for this vigilante garbage.” He shoved past Peter and ran, not even sparing a glance at the still-struggling thug strung up on the wall.

Peter groaned, not from the ribs —they didn’t really hurt all that much anyways— but from the sheer futility of it.

Later, he pulled a kid out of the way of a runaway car. The kid’s mom grabbed her son so fast it was like Peter had burned him. “Don’t touch my boy!” she snapped, hugging him close. “You think I don’t know what you really are?!”

Peter held his hands up, voice tight. “Lady, the car. You’re welcome for—”

She was already dragging the kid away, muttering about monsters in masks.

Gotham didn’t want him. Yet. Peter was going to change that.

Right now it didn’t matter if he stopped three muggings, two assaults, and a potential hit-and-run. It didn’t matter that he took bruises and scrapes on their behalf. The people still looked at him like he was just another sickness bleeding into their streets. But eventually they will come to accept him, the city will learn he’s not a threat to their livelihood, and peter is willing to wait for that day to come.

On a rooftop overlooking Crime Alley, Peter finally stopped moving. He sat on the ledge, tugging his hood tighter around his face, chest aching from the stone. His spiders crawled quietly in the shadows nearby, restless.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered to them, voice small. “I know. It’s not about thanks.”

Below, sirens screamed. This city never slept. Gotham didn’t care if he bled for it — but that wasn’t new. Queens hadn’t cared much, either, in the beginning.

Peter drew a slow breath and stood again.

“Round two, then,” he whispered, and dove back into the city.

Through it all, Peter kept going. He still stopped the crimes. He still did the work. Because wasn’t that the point? Even if they hated him, even if they cursed him, the city needed help.

By the time dawn edged over the horizon, Peter’s arms were sore, his boots scuffed, and his hoodie smeared with dirt. He perched on the ledge of a run-down apartment block, listening to the city below.

Someone, somewhere, would probably start a rumor about the new guy tonight. The weird kid with webs. The one who fought crime but left spiders behind in alleys. Maybe they’d call him a menace. Maybe they’d call him worse. But so what? Queens had done that too.

Peter let his head fall back against the brick, a faint smile tugging at his mouth despite everything. This was the start to something great. He could feel it in his bones.

The Batcave was quiet, save for the faint hum of computer fans and the rhythmic dripping of water echoing off stone walls. It was the kind of quiet that let thoughts creep in, coil themselves tight, and refuse to let go. Tim hated nights like this, when the city seemed louder in his head than it ever was outside.

He sat hunched over the main console, fingers flicking over keys with an ease born of years, his eyes narrowed at the grainy footage glowing across the bank of monitors. The timestamp glared at him in digital red, the camera feed jittering as though it too wasn’t entirely sure what it had just captured.

There. Freeze-frame.

A figure in red and black, hoodie oversized, kneepads crudely painted, boots scuffed but new. The angles were poor, resolution garbage, but Tim could still make out the embroidered spider emblem across the chest — yellow, thick stitches, the kind of detail you’d notice if you were looking for it.

And he was looking. Hard.

“Again,” he muttered under his breath, backtracking the footage five seconds, replaying it frame by frame.

The figure dropped into view from a rooftop, the descent clumsy but purposeful. One mugger went down fast, tangled against a wall with what looked like… webbing? Another swung a knife, only to be disarmed with a crowbar the vigilante had pulled from nowhere. The fight lasted less than a minute, the attackers scattered.

Not Batman. Not Nightwing. Definitely not Robin.

Tim’s jaw tightened. Gotham was a breeding ground for masks, sure, but this one was new. And dangerous in the way only rookies could be.

He rewound the clip again, zooming as far as the pixelation would allow. The movements weren’t random. Too sharp, too practiced, as if someone had trained their body for years. But the execution—messy, frantic, like muscle memory at war with hesitation. Someone who knew how to fight but didn’t want to be caught knowing it.

Then there were the webs. Strings? Rope? Whatever. Point is when Tim froze the frame on the moment they shot out — thin strands glinting faintly in the streetlight as they wrapped around the mugger’s arms. His gut twisted. That wasn’t grappling tech. No motor recoil, no cartridge smoke, no weighted tips. Just… strands. Out of nowhere.

Organic?

“No,” Tim said out loud, shaking his head. “Can’t be. Maybe made in a lab? Some type of formula?”

He sat back in his chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Gotham had seen it all — at least, he thought it had. But this was different. This wasn’t a copycat. This wasn’t someone mimicking Bruce or Dick or even Jason. Whoever this was, they weren’t using Wayne tech or scavenged gear. They were working with something else entirely.

And they’d chosen Gotham to debut it.

Tim’s fingers flew across the keyboard again, pulling feeds from across the city. He didn’t have to look long. Another clip: a liquor store holdup interrupted. Same red hoodie, same stitched emblem. The owner lived, the robber didn’t get away, but the crowd outside had screamed. Some pointed. Others ran.

Another file: an alleyway confrontation. Knife fight. Two attackers’ unconscious, one webbed to a fire escape like a grotesque art piece. Witness testimony scrawled in the margins: He came out of nowhere. It was creepy. There were spiders—real spiders—crawling everywhere. I don’t trust it.

Tim leaned closer, jaw tightening. So maybe more then the webs were made in a lab.

Each scene ended the same way — not with applause, not even with the wary tolerance Gotham reserved for its vigilantes, but with fear. People weren’t embracing this newcomer. They were recoiling.

And who could blame them? Certainly not Tim. Gotham’s scars ran too deep. You saved someone’s life in this city, they still watched your hands afterward, waiting to see if you’d stab them when their guard dropped.

Tim watched one particular clip three times — a young woman clutching her purse to her chest as the hoodie figure webbed her would-be mugger to a lamppost. She hesitated, then pulled pepper spray out of her pocket and tried to spray her rescuer in the face.

The vigilante stumbled back, hands up, voice muffled by the hoodie, clearly trying to calm her. But the camera caught it all: the flinch, the confusion, the way he let her shove past without so much as a word of thanks.

Tim exhaled through his nose, sharp and irritated. “Great. Gotham’s newest vigilante is either delusional, suicidal, or both.”

On the far side of the Cave, Jason’s helmet glinted dully under the pale workbench light. He’d left it there after another terse argument with Bruce, pretending not to hover but making sure the monitors were always in his line of sight. Dick was upstairs, nursing bruises from patrol. Damian, predictably, was off sulking in whatever corner of the world he decided was beneath everyone else’s notice, he’s been doing that a lot more recently.

And Bruce — Bruce had that quiet stillness that drove Tim insane. He stood in the shadows of the platform, unreadable, as though he hadn’t already noticed everything Tim had hours ago.

Tim dragged the clips into a side-by-side playback, watching the hoodie figure repeat the same patterns again and again. The stance, the quips shouted at criminal’s mid-fight, the way he rolled his shoulders as though settling into something familiar. Not a stranger to this, no matter how hard he pretended otherwise.

He pulled up city reports, started cross-referencing. The hoodie figure had been spotted in the Narrows, Old Gotham, the East End. Always after dark. Always alone. The time stamps fit together like pieces of a puzzle no one wanted to see completed.

“Seriously. How much of a death wish does this guy gotta have?” Tim muttered. “Like he thinks this city doesn’t chew people up for sport.”

Bruce finally spoke, his voice calm but weighty. “You’ve been tracking him.”

Tim didn’t look up. “Of course I have. Someone has to. You think we can afford another mask in this city without knowing who it is? Every time we let a wildcard run loose, people die.”

Jason, from across the room, snorted without humor. “Spoken like a true hypocrite.”

Tim ignored him. He dragged one feed forward, zoomed on the hoodie’s chest emblem, crude stitches glaring in the camera light. “Look at this. He’s not using Wayne tech. He’s not using any tech I recognize. And those webs? That’s not something you can just cobble together in a basement. Which means he’s either a meta, or he’s sitting on tech way beyond what anyone in this city should have.”

Cass shifted against the wall, still silent, eyes sharp.

“With gear like that? Sure Timbo. Sure. He’s defiantly got secret tech we’ve never seen before” Jason snarked

Tim—ignoring the comments—jabbed a key, freezing the screen on a single frame: the hoodie figure crouched low on a rooftop edge, silhouetted against the city’s sickly orange glow. The shot was almost iconic, almost purposeful, like something pulled out of a storybook.

And yet the reality gnawed at him. This wasn’t a symbol. This was a kid in over his head.

He leaned back, finally letting the tension bleed into his voice. “Everyone’s worried about Joker’s next move, but meanwhile we’ve got some rookie swinging around in a hand-stitched costume getting in over his head. Gotham does not need another child out there bleeding for it.”

His eyes burned, exhaustion fighting with the familiar itch of paranoia. He scrubbed his hands over his face, exhaled slow.

The clip ended. The hoodie vanished into the skyline, swallowed whole by Gotham’s endless shadows.

Tim sat forward again, his voice low, almost to himself. “Whoever you are, you picked the wrong city.” As if the kid could hear him, nonetheless his fingers were already flying again, digging deeper into feeds, scraping databases, hunting for a name, a face, anything at all.

Because Gotham didn’t tolerate mysteries for long — and neither did Red Robin.

Chapter Text

The library wasn’t Jason’s usual haunt, but tonight he needed something quieter than the Cave, somewhere the hum of the Batcomputer didn’t remind him of every failure written into its files. He’d claimed a seat by a back wall, motorcycle helmet at his side, trying to pull together a dossier on Peter’s boss, Steven Westcott. If Peter was going to get caught in Gotham’s teeth, Jason was damn sure going to know exactly what kind of wolves were circling him.

But his focus kept breaking thanks to the chatter coming two aisles down.

“You heard ‘bout that new mask goin’ ‘round Hood’s part of town?” one boy said, just loud enough that Jason’s jaw twitched. The voice was unpolished, all brashness and bad volume control.

Jason lifted his eyes. The kid had gravity-defying red hair and equally red contacts—or maybe they were real, he didn’t know Gotham fashion anymore. His buddy had what was most likely a dyed lightning bolt running through blond bangs, accent thick enough to sound fake.

“Reckon it won’t be long now ‘fore they run inta him,” the blond said in a drawl so exaggerated it made Jason’s teeth hurt.

“Too weird they haven’t already, don’t you think?” Red asked, tugging a Justice League history volume off the shelf.

Before Jason could mentally file them under annoying but harmless, another boy stormed into view, spiky blond hair bristling. “Would you two shut the hell up!? I can hear you from the other aisle!”

“You’re the one yelling,” Lightning-bolt shot back.

That earned him a punch to the gut, followed by some dramatic shoving that was more schoolyard scuffle than genuine threat. A handful of other kids crowded in, their voices switching languages mid-argument. Field trip, Jason guessed. Foreign exchange. Not his problem.

He dragged his gaze back to the computer screen. Just one line sat in the file he’d opened: Steven Westcott. A pin in the map, the start of a net. Jason meant it when he said he’d keep Peter safe, and that meant knowing everything—who his boss was, who he dealt with, whether he could be trusted.

But that plan would have to wait.

The streets were talking. This 'Spider Knight' name was already in circulation, and if the people had noticed, it meant Tim would start seriously looking into this guy more than he already was, and if he did then so would the Bat. Jason couldn’t let Bruce sink his claws into some new, reckless wannabe running around Crime Alley. All it took was one mask without a leash before Gotham’s vultures smelled weakness. And Jason couldn’t have some no-name, bold, reckless, idiot going around his neck of the woods messing shit up cause they didn’t know how it operated. All it takes is one for others to start getting ideas.

Jason shut the file, powered down the terminal, and stood. Time to plan his “greeting.” Stalk the guy a few days, Drake-style. Test if he was competent or another corpse waiting to happen. Figure out his identity if possible. Then—confront him. Keep Bruce out of it. Easy as pie.

At least, in theory.

Jason was still building the strategy in his head while he sat at a red light, engine idling in Gotham’s late-night traffic.

That’s when a man burst from a corner store up ahead—ski mask, duffel bag, gun. Breathing like a spooked animal. Jason clocked everything in half a second. Amateur. He sprinted to a waiting sedan, yanking on the handle—except the door wouldn’t budge. Webbing, Jason realized. Fresh. The spiders inside gave that fact away immediately.

The guy swore, abandoned the car, and bolted into the lane—straight at Jason’s bike.

Jason cursed under his breath. He wanted the light to flip green, to avoid this whole mess, but it held red.

“Get off!” the robber barked, voice cracking, pistol aimed at Jason with a shaking hand.

Before Jason could even dismount, a blur in a red hoodie barreled out of the convenience store. The gun jerked sideways, a string of sort’s pulled it loose, and the robber was face-down on the pavement with webbing binding his wrists before Jason could blink.

The kid in the hoodie straightened, maskless, chest heaving. He looked toward Jason, googles he doubted the boy could properly see through and a mask covering his face.

“Sorry—he slipped past me. Should’ve kept it inside,” the boy said, voice light but tight at the edges. “You good man?”

Jason froze.

He knew that voice. That gait. That exact rhythm of breath.

Peter.

No mask clever enough to fool him, no posture different enough to disguise the kid he’d been considering snatching up. Jason would have known him even in the middle of a battlefield. Nothing in the world could hide him from Jason.

Spider-Knight—that was what the streets had started calling him—moved without hesitation, grabbing the robber by the scruff like he weighed nothing and hauling him upright. The guy dangled in his grip, sputtering curses, before being dumped unceremoniously over one of Spider-Knight’s shoulders.

Jason just stood there. Watching. Thinking.

The kid shifted under the weight, giving Jason one last quick glance. “Um, well…have a good night, sir.”

He jogged back toward the convenience store, the criminal slung like a sack of potatoes, and Jason caught sight of three more strung up inside. Webs. Hanging like Christmas ornaments, wriggling and swearing muffled oaths.

Jason exhaled slowly, helmet tucked close to his side.

So maybe he had to rethink things. Maybe the stalking plan wasn’t going to cut it.

Hell, maybe he should skip straight to the part where he admitted the obvious—because apparently Peter had gone and made himself a vigilante, in Jason’s part of town, without so much as a warning.

And Jason?

Jason couldn’t even pretend he was surprised.

“God dammed Gotham air.” Jason grumbled angrily as he shoved his helmet back on as the light turned green

Spider-Knight got the guy situated unceremoniously next to the other three webbed to the ceiling, their muffled grunts echoing in the tiny store.

Peter brushed his hands against his hoodie, forcing himself to breathe evenly. Just another night. Just another takedown. No different than back home.

Except it was.

Because out there, on the bike, was him.

Peter had known the second the man slowed in traffic. Not from sight—red wore helmets and armor too well for that. Not from the voice—he hadn’t spoken. But from the steady, low thrumming rhythm beneath it all. The heartbeat. Familiar. Recognizable. As clear as a name written across the sky.

Red Hood. Who still wasn’t wearing a hood.

Peter’s stomach twisted. He’d memorized that heartbeat without meaning to, the same way he had with everyone close to him. It was his survival trick. His way of keeping track. Reds was steady, a strange contradiction—anger always simmered in his voice, in his movements, but his heart rarely betrayed it. Like it had burned too hot too long and settled into coals.

And Peter had just stopped a crime right in front of him.

He pulled his mask down just enough to drag in a deeper clear breath, wiping sweat off his lip with the back of his sleeve. His hands trembled, not from the fight, but from the thought gnawing at him: Did he know?

Red was sharp. Too sharp. He noticed things. Peter had been careful; voice pitched higher, words clipped, posture more confident than usual. But Red had a way of seeing through facades, of staring right through layers until there was nothing left to hide behind.

Maybe Red Hood had recognized him. Maybe he hadn’t.

But Peter couldn’t take that risk.

He tugged the mask back up, pulled his hood lower, and busied himself checking the webs—tight, strong, no chance of the goons slipping free before the cops arrived. From the corner of his eye, though, he couldn’t help flicking a glance toward the street. The motorcycle wasn’t there. Yet it felt like he was still there. Watching. Waiting.

The mask hid Peter’s face, but his chest still felt too exposed.

Please don’t know. Please don’t know.

Red hood had spent all of last night and today replaying the scene outside that convenience store in his head. The gait. The voice. The goddamn breathing pattern. And now, watching the figure dart across Gotham’s rooftops like the city was nothing but his own personal jungle gym?

Jason knew.

This wasn’t some reckless wannabe vigilante. This wasn’t another wide-eyed kid with a death wish. The way Spider-Knight landed light on his feet, never breaking rhythm, already planning the next swing before his boots touched concrete—Jason had seen that before. He’d seen it in warzones. In the League. In himself.

Whoever this kid was, he’d been trained.

Jason knew It’d be smart to pull back, to dig into peter’s background beyond what was told, figure out how he learned to move like, find out how to stop him if he needs to. That was the right way to it. The Bat way. However. Jason was no Bat. Not really. Sure he wore the symbol on his chest, but it was hallow, a reminder of all he wasn’t. everything he had to be better then. Jason hadn’t been a Bat in a long time.

So he followed, knowing he couldn’t mask the sound of his grapple line for long. And sure enough, a few rooftops later, Spider-Knight paused, crouched low, his head tilting in the exact direction Jason had been shadowing him from.

The kid didn’t bolt. Didn’t panic. He just waited, crouched like a coiled spring, goggles reflecting the dull city light.

Jason stepped out from the shadows and let the helmet do the talking, red lenses glowing, stance loose but ready.

“You’ve got good instincts,” Jason said, voice low and measured. “Most of the wannabes around here don’t even notice me until I’ve got a gun to their head.”

Spider-Knight didn’t move, crowbar balanced across his knees. “I’m not most wannabes.”

Jason’s mouth curved, though the helmet hid it. Yeah. No kidding.

“Where’d you learn to move like that?” Jason asked, pushing forward a step.

Spider-Knight shrugged like it was nothing, but Jason caught the faintest tension in his shoulders. “Practice.”

“Bullshit,” Jason snapped. He closed the gap another step, not drawing his gun, not ever. “That’s not practice. That’s training. Serious training. Military. League-level. You don’t just wake up one day and start flipping rooftops like that.”

The boy tilted his head at him, voice even, almost playful—but not careless. “Maybe I’m just a fast learner.”

Jason’s chest tightened. That tone. That rhythm. That same edge Peter always carried when he was hiding something behind a joke.

A small voice in the back of his head snarled Mine. Yours. Ours. Don’t let him go.

Jason forced it down, fists curling tight at his sides. He couldn’t acknowledge those thoughts. He couldn’t claim it out loud. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Instead, he leaned forward, voice dropping to a growl.

“Listen, kid. I don’t care how good you are, or how many spiders you’ve got crawling in your brain. Gotham eats people alive. Especially kids who think jumping around in some suit is going to do any good.”

Spider Knight tilted his head, goggles catching the flicker of a half-dead billboard. “Funny. I thought stopping guys with guns before they kill someone was the definition of doing good.”

Jason’s jaw flexed. “Yer not getting what I’m saying. Gotham doesn’t forgive mistakes. It doesn’t hand out second chances. You screw up once, you’re a body in an alley, and the city doesn’t even blink.”

“I’ll be fine. I’ve been fine doing this so far,” the boy shot back, quick, sharp. His tone was light, but Jason heard the tightness at the edges—the iron stubbornness he’d come to recognize in their every interaction.

Jason barked a short, bitter laugh. “You think you’re ready to play soldier? In Gotham no less? Read the writing on the wall kid; your going to get yourself killed!”

Spider-Knight’s body stiffened. His voice, though, didn’t falter. “I’m not playing. You think I don’t have an idea of what it’s like out here? You think I don’t know what one mistake does? I’ve seen it. I’ve lived it. But I’m not just gonna sit around, waiting for some bat to drop in, freeze the problem, and then disappear. This city needs more then that!”

Jason stepped closer, boots grinding against the gravel of the roof. The pit stirred, heat licking at the back of his skull. “You’re a kid! You don’t belong in this line of work. You want to help? Grow up well and become a doctor, or a firefighter, or a teacher, something normal! You shouldn’t be doing this!”

Spider-Knight straightened, chin rising. “You don’t get to decide that. My life. My choice.”

The words slammed into Jason like a crowbar to the ribs. His chest ached with the force of it, memory bleeding through before he could stop it—his own voice, years ago, spitting the same line at Bruce. My life, my choice. You don’t own me.

And look where that had gotten him.

Maybe this was karma?

No. He wouldn’t allow another kid to walk that path.

Jason’s hands curled into fists. He fought to keep his voice low, even. “You keep this up, it won’t be your choice anymore. It’ll be theirs—the freaks, the psychos, the Joker. They’ll make the choice for you. And then you’ll just be another name, another face, another cautionary tale, another child lost to Gotham.”

Spider-Knight’s chest rose and fell, sharp and deliberate. “Then I’ll fight harder. I’m not quitting.”

Jason took a step forward. The boy didn’t back down. For a second, their shadows merged under the neon glow, both too stubborn, too angry, too scared to admit what they were really fighting about.

“You think you’re invincible, huh? Is that it?” Jason’s voice cracked sharp. “You think because you’ve got a few tricks, you’re untouchable? I’ve buried kids tougher than you. Kids who thought they could take it. Gotham chewed them up and spat out bones. You wanna be next? Yer a smart kid. Where do you think doing this is gonna get you?”

Spider-Knight flinched—not from fear, Jason realized, but from the weight in his words. “You don’t know what I’ve survived,” the boy said, quieter now, but firm. “You don’t know what I’ve already lost.”

Jason froze, pit heat stuttering in his chest. For a heartbeat, he thought he heard his own voice echoing back at him, younger, broken, insisting no one understood.

But the kid wasn’t done.

“I know what the stakes are. I know the cost. I go out there because if I don’t, someone else pays it. That’s worse. Standing by while people bleed? That’s not me. It can’t be. Accepting the worse means it’s never going to change!”!! I’m going to give this city some semblance of safety!”

Jason wanted to scream, to rip the damn goggles off his face and make him understand. Instead, his voice dropped low, dangerous.

“Safe is home in bed. Safe is never stepping into Joker’s line of sight. Safe is not becoming another goddamn weapon for Gotham to use and throw away.”

“And what?” Spider-Knight’s voice cracked sharp, cutting through the night air. “Wait for someone else to save them? Pretend the city isn’t burning when I can do something about it?”

Jason’s helmet tilted, just slightly. “Yes. Because you’re not—” His throat locked, the word ready dying before it left. That wasn’t it. That wasn’t the truth. He swallowed it down, voice gravel, rough. “Because you shouldn’t have to.”

Silence again. Heavy. Pressed tight against both of them.

Spider-Knight looked at him, goggles hiding his eyes but not the way his body shifted, weight squared, unyielding. “It’s too late for that. Should or shouldn’t—it doesn’t matter. I’m already in it. This city doesn’t exactly have a choice in who gets to help it.”

Jason’s pulse roared in his ears. The pit surged, green at the edges of his vision, whispering to tear the mask off, drag the kid home, lock the door. Protect him the only way Gotham ever understood through violence, through control.

But Jason knew that wouldn’t work. Not on this one.

He forced the words out instead, low and steady. “Fine. You’re not quitting? Then you do it my way. My rules. Or I shut you down.”

Spider-Knight tilted his head, the faintest trace of doubt in his stance. “And what exactly is your way? The media doesn’t exactly do you any favors.”

Jason’s jaw tightened under the helmet. He could hear the edge in the boy’s voice—not rebellion, but wariness. The same kind of wariness Jason himself had carried for years toward Bruce. And it stung worse because Peter wasn’t wrong. Gotham painted Red Hood as a butcher, a lunatic with a vendetta and a trigger finger. Maybe he’d earned some of that reputation. Maybe all of it.

But looking at the kid in front of him, Jason wanted to rip the narrative apart with his bare hands.

“My way is staying alive,” Jason said finally, voice like gravel. “You stick to the cracks, the small-time scum. Nothing bigger. The small stuff basically. Muggers. Thieves. Lowlifes who think they’re clever but fold when someone actually fights back. You leave the freaks, the psychos, the rogues to me. You don’t go near Joker. Ever.”

Spider-Knight tilted his head, wary. “…And in return?”

“In return,” Jason said, “I’ll make sure you don’t get yourself killed. You want to play hero? Then you’re training. With me. You’ll learn how to fight the right way, how to use your head before you swing your fists. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll walk away from this city in one piece.”

The boy didn’t answer immediately. He shifted his weight, scanning Jason like he was testing the weight of every word. Then, slowly, he nodded.

“Deal.”

Jason let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The knot in his chest loosened a fraction, though the pit snarled at him for compromising at all.

“Good,” he muttered, turning away. “First lesson’s tomorrow. Don’t be late.”

Spider-Knight’s voice followed him, lighter, edged with something almost like amusement. “Does this make you my mentor? It totally does right? Didn’t think you’d be the teacher type. But I makes sense I think.”

Jason didn’t look back. “Don’t push your luck, kid.”

Peter spends the whole morning peeling last night apart in his head like the sticky shell of a candy.

He tells himself Red didn’t recognize him—Red hadn’t said anything, hadn’t leaned forward like someone who’d suddenly put a name to a face. That should be good enough. It had to be. If Red had known for sure, Spider-Knight would have been a lot less confident up on that roof. He wouldn’t have been able to play casual about the whole thing.

Speaking of which, Spider-Knight really? He’s not complaining. But…Really? Who came up with that? At least it wasn’t something like Bug-Boy, or Spider-menace or heaven forbid something without a Hyphen. However He’d thought it would take way longer then two days in order for people to acknowledge him.

Sure they’re not sold on whether or not he’s a vigilante, but the ‘knight’ part has to count for something. Maybe he should take up swordsmen ship? The current robin has a sword. Peter is already dedicated to the bit, there no stopping him now.

“Hey, Peter,” Steven called as he pushed at the front door of the shop.

“Morning,” Peter said, forcing his voice into the flat, polite thing he used at work. He shoved his notebook into his pocket and tried to smooth his hoodie sleeve down like he wasn’t still thinking about rooftop gravel and the faint, steady drum of another person’s heartbeat.

“Right on time as usual.” Steven clattered out from the back room grinning like he’d been waiting for this. “Look who actually decided to stop by this Saturday”

 “This is my son,” Steven announced proudly. “You know, the no-longer ‘mini’ version of me I’ve been telling you about? Steven Westcott Jr.”

“Oh god. You talk about me at work? That is so—” Steven Jr started, cheeks pinking when his dad wrapped an arm around him.

“Relax. I didn’t tell him about the comics you think your hiding in your room,” Steven laughed.

Peter extended his hand. “Nice to put a face to the name.”

Steven junior shrugs off Steven and shakes his hand “Yeah, Peter, right? My dad talks about you too sometimes.” He pauses for a second “You can call me Skip.” He was warm, easy; his grin made Peter feel unreasonably less like he was pretending to be an adult.

They talked, a lot, because Saturday was one of those slow days where dust motes decided to hold auditions in streams of sunlight and nothing much happened.

Skip was a Gotham Prep kid, into photography (dad jokes about developing in a darkroom already queued themselves in Peter’s head), he went to the library on Saturdays except—today, of course—the library was closed. Skip liked the idea of crawling into stacks and taking pictures of spines.

“So you got a phone einstein? Or are you one of those iPad kids?” Skip questioned while leaning back in a chair behind the counter

“Nah,” Peter said before he could stop himself. “I prefer books. Also carrier pigeons.” He grinned because it was the kind of dumb joke that felt safe and half of him wanted to be a ridiculous, literary weirdo.

However…His question did make him think; maybe he should get one? He didn’t have anyone to communicate before, Red kind of just popped up whenever, but if he was going to have friends… Why does he need friends again? If anything he should be trying to be basically invisible. This isn’t his body after all. He has to go back at some point and making friends would just make the original owner of the body confused.

While on the topic of communication, peter just realized Spider-knight has no way to contact Red for tonight. They didn’t exactly set up a location to meet. A phone meant he could call. It meant he could arrange meetings. It meant he could avoid sending a spider with a scrap of paper on its back like some arachnid Pony Express. The thought of letting a spider act as courier made him laugh and then wince. Most people would probably scream and run if a huntsman dropped off their stoop; Red might shoot first and argue later. Practical communication would be easier than arranging for spider diplomacy.

Whilst peter is contemplating this Skip is called to the back—Steven needed help stacking boxes or whatever plausible adult task needed a kid currently on his break—and Peter wandered between the aisles pretending to organize while really thinking about plans and routes and ways he could get a phone.

Friend! Hi!

You’re kidding.

Peter moves from the rows of books to see the door and sure enough.

The bell above the door chimed.

And in walked Red—no, the man behind the helmet—stood framed in the doorway in plain clothes. Hoodie, dark jeans, a wet cuff at the hem like he’d been in the rain. No helmet. No armor. For a half-second, Peter let himself breathe like a civilian might. Maybe today Red read, liked quiet places. So Peter is not going to freak out just yet. Maybe Red just likes books, that wouldn’t surprise peter, coming into his place of work didn’t mean Red knew peter was Spider-knight.

“Oh hey, there you are Pete” Yeah neverminded. Peter is just gonna throw that idea out the window.

“Hi…I see you actual have a red hood this time” Peter can help but be suspicious of why Red Hood was here. He’s going to ignore the ‘Pete’ part and how it makes him really feel like a child. He’s going to ignore how being called ‘Pete’ by someone like that shoved him back to afternoons in Queens where May fussed with the collar of his jacket and all the world felt safe.

“You still hung up on that?” Red makes his way to peter “It’s whatever. Here you forgot this.” He holds out a lunch box and peter tilt’s his head. This one doesn’t match his backpack, or the first lunch box he gave, it has robin on it. Not the first one, it’s the one with the swords.

 “…I forgot this?” Peter repeated as he takes the lunch box

“Yep. No worries: mistakes happen. And yer just wee wittle baby so it’s expected” Red hood shrugs. Peter has half the mind to bite off the guy’s hand. He is not a baby and he’s not ‘wittle’ Before peter can protest Red turns to leave.

 “See ya” the man said before Peter could recover from whatever weird, sharp thing had landed behind his ribs. He turned, and for a beat everything was normal again — the bell, the smell of old paperbacks, Skip calling out another question from the back.

 Peter stood there with the lunchbox hanging from his fingers for a beat, then went to a corner and sat on the floor to open it like a kid on Christmas morning—equal parts curiosity and dread.

Inside: a neatly wrapped sandwich, a bag of green grapes, a thermos with something that steamed when he cracked it open. And beneath the food, tucked along the side like it belonged there, was a small, new looking phone. There was no SIM card poking from the slot, but it hummed faintly as if it remembered being something important.

Peter stared at it. For a second the world narrowed to the hum of that little device and the gentle clink of cutlery from a distant café. He lifted the phone with reverent fingers. It was basic — no fancy apps, no sleek glass, just a workmanlike rectangle with a cracked protective casing and a single contact already saved: R.

His heart did a stupid, dangerous flip. He put the sandwich aside and picked up the thermos. The warmth went through his palms. He ate like a kid who hadn’t eaten in a week and hoped no one watched how fast he did it.

When he finally swallowed the last bite, he thumbed the phone open. No messages. No number saved beyond that lone initial. No instructions. A burner with one contact — exactly the sort of thing that was both a lifeline and a threat.

Peter slid the phone into his hoodie pocket and closed the lunchbox with a soft click. He didn’t know whether to be grateful, terrified, or furious. Maybe all three.

Peter snapped the lid shut just as the floorboards in the back creaked. He shoved the lunchbox against his side, casual as possible, like it had always been there.

Skip reemerged, hands dusted with cardboard grit, muttering something about how his dad never let him off the hook. Then his eyes landed on Peter, who was sitting cross-legged behind the counter like he’d been caught sneaking cookies.

“What’s that?” Skip asked, eyebrows raising.

Peter’s brain scrambled for the first lie it could catch. “Oh, uh—lunch. Y’know, food. Nutritional substance. The stuff humans eat.”

Skip smirked. “Yeah, I’m aware how lunch works. But you didn’t walk in with that. Don’t tell me you summoned it out of thin air.”

“Nope,” Peter said, snapping the thermos closed and trying to look unfazed. “Carrier pigeon. Very reliable. The best in the business. They do express delivery, too.”

Skip blinked, then barked out a laugh. “A carrier pigeon. You’re serious?”

Peter tilted his head, deadpan. “Completely. Pigeon landed right on the mat, dropped this off, asked me to tip in sunflower seeds. Really professional service.”

Skip shook his head, grinning like Peter had finally gone off the deep end. “You’re weird, man. I kinda like it. Better than half the guys at Prep who think TikTok filters are personality traits.”

Peter’s mouth tugged at the corner. He didn’t mean to smile, not really, but It was easier to play into the ridiculous than admit the truth—that someone had just walked in, dropped a burner phone with one mysterious contact, and walked back out like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Skip hopped onto the counter, ignoring the No sitting sign taped under the register. “So, what’s in it?”

“Uh…” Peter hesitated, flicking the latch open again like he was humoring a curious cat. He made sure the phone was tucked under his thigh, hidden from sight. “Sandwich. Grapes. Pretty standard pigeon cuisine.”

Skip leaned over. “Man, your pigeon’s got good taste. My lunch is usually like, soggy cafeteria pizza. Can you hook me up with your delivery guy?”

“I’ll check his flight schedule,” Peter said dryly, tucking a grape into his mouth before Skip could ask more questions.

For a while, they just sat there. Skip yammered about the way Prep’s photography club kept stealing his ideas, Peter half-listened and nodded, letting the normalcy of it wash over him. He liked it — the simple rhythm of another person filling the silence with something harmless. He didn’t have to calculate every angle, didn’t have to brace for someone pulling a knife or a gun. Just words. Just grapes.

But the weight of the phone pressed against his side like a secret with teeth. Every laugh, every story Skip offered made it feel heavier. What was he supposed to do now? Text Red? Call him? Pretend it wasn’t sitting in his pocket like a loaded gun?

Skip reached for a grape and Peter almost flinched, almost thought he’d reach straight for the phone instead even if it was in his pocket and peter had no reason to think that.

“You’re jumpy,” Skip said, biting into the fry.

“Caffeine withdrawal,” Peter lied smoothly.

“Man, you’re like, made of excuses. Carrier pigeons, caffeine, whatever. You should just own it.”

Peter chuckled under his breath. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Maybe. Or maybe he couldn’t afford to. Because owning it meant saying out loud that he wasn’t just Peter, the polite bookstore kid. That he’s got some stuff going on in the shadows he’d rather not talk about.

Skip didn’t notice the way Peter’s fingers kept brushing against the lunchbox lid. He didn’t notice how Peter’s laugh came a beat too late. He just kept talking, easy and unbothered, and Peter let him. It was easier this way. Easier to be the weird guy with pigeons than the boy with too many masks.

By the time Steven came back out to shoo them toward actual work, Peter had managed to eat half the sandwich and bury the phone in his hoodie pocket deep enough that no one would see.

Skip groaned and hopped off the counter. “Next time, I’m bringing my own pigeon. We’ll see whose delivery service is better.”

Chapter Text

Guys it's October (・・;)

I thought I could power through and just write while reading but no!

I don't like reading tags all the way so I'm think what I'm reading is just some fluffy stuff with plot and NO! it's not 😭😭

To top it off? the next two chapters got lost/weren't save to ether of my devices. Now I have to rewrite both of them.

So I'll see you guys next month.

I plan to post every 2 days leading up to Thanksgiving and then I'm gonna dissappear off the face of the earth until Christmas and new years (;´∀｀)

See ya (^з^)-☆