Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Sanctum Sanctorum had never felt quite so desolate, nor had the air seemed so thick with the burden of untimely loss. The vast space, once a fulcrum of study and mysticism, now stood in disarray. Scrolls and tomes, ancient relics of forgotten realms, lay scattered across all surfaces. Strange was attempting to find something, anything, to fix what had been done. The walls were cracked, their jagged edges catching the light in a way that mimicked the newly fractured state of existence itself. Within this crumbling expanse, the Sorcerer Supreme found himself on the precipice of an inconceivable decision.

He stood before an altar, hands quivering as they forged sigils in the air, wielding threads of golden enchantments that tugged at the very fabric of reality. The lucent green waters before him scintillated with unnatural life and an eerie glow. The air encircling it thrummed, charged with a vitality that felt both foreign and ancient.

Strange's spell had gone awry; the multiverse had shuddered, and the consequences were unfolding beyond the walls of the crumbling sanctum, quiet, insidious, and unrelenting. Peter Parker's body, gaunt and still, lay motionless upon the altar. With harrowed realisation, Stephen had known that if he did not intervene at once, Peter would remain forever untouched by the passage of time; his hands trembled.

Doctor Strange cast his eyes upon the Lazarus Pit, its eerie, viridescent glow pulsing with the force of something arcane and enigmatic. He had always known it was here, buried beneath the Sanctum Sanctorum, hidden behind a door. 

Its threshold had always foreboded a warning, and Strange had never dared approach it. Even the most seasoned sorcerers among them, those who had walked through the halls of the Sanctum for many years, kept their distance; they respected the dark force that radiated from within, but were afraid to venture too near its unrelenting grasp. 

It was a room of abhorrence, a place in which the most disciplined minds could lose themselves. But in this moment, this unbearable instance of loss, all of that fear, all of those long-held cautions, slipped away. He could not stand the thought of Peter Parker being gone, his bright, young flame extinguished before it had had a chance to truly burn. Strange knew little of the Pit’s inner workings; he had never studied it in detail, had never wished to unravel its ambiguity. Its magic was... wrong, but in his desperation, he found himself standing before it, willing to reach beyond his understanding. 

The price of ignorance seemed small, almost insignificant, compared to the gnawing emptiness of what he was about to lose. And so, without hesitation, he moved Peter, whose unseeing eyes were already lost to the world, into the depths of the green glow.

Peter Parker, Spider-Man. The name would be as foreign to him as a language he had never heard. Strange had seen the damage; he had felt it in the tremors of the universe, in the way reality bent under the pressure of a truth that no longer held. No one would remember Peter Parker, not even Strange himself. The very essence of Peter would be erased from the minds of every living soul. His friends, his enemies, gone, as though he had never existed. A spectre in a world that could no longer recall his name.

‘Forgive me, Peter,’ Strange had whispered, the sound lost in the expanse of the Sanctum. ‘Forgive me for this.’

The words were hollow. Even now, as the reality of what he was about to do, of what he had already done, settled over him, Strange could not quell the gnawing feeling that something irreplaceable had been lost. But there was no turning back.

The initial spell was designed to be a memory charm, to carve a person from the collective memory of the world. The spell required precision, words not simply spoken, but felt. It drew on the caster’s understanding of the subject's identity, not just their name, but the very weight of who they were in the lives of others. It meant unthreading those memories delicately, like pulling a single strand from a web without bringing the whole structure down.

But Peter Parker was too deeply woven. His name was not just spoken, it was believed in. He had been loved, hated, mourned, and admired. To remove him from the world’s memory was not like dousing a candle; it was akin to snuffing out a star. Every person who had known Peter Parker as Spider-Man, every friend, enemy, ally, even those across distant universes, acted as a tether, anchoring him in place. Strange had underestimated the strength of that connection. He had tried to modify the spell on the fly, bending reality without a net, not realising the multiverse was splintering under its pressure.

And so the spell, intended to quietly erase, to gently sever, shattered. Its edges turned jagged, cutting through dimensions with surgical precision. Strands of fate snapped. People who had known Peter across infinite Earths began creeping from their worlds. And Peter, standing at the centre of this occult maelstrom, bore the brunt of the collapse. His body failed, not from trauma or injury, but from the sheer metaphysical toll of being forgotten, of being overwritten. The spell worked, in the end. Though the world had not simply forgotten Peter Parker, it had ended him; much like the star, it had snuffed him out.

It should never have been cast, not in its raw, undisciplined form. But desperation breeds recklessness. It was meant to seal the rift, to contain the knowledge of Peter Parker, Spider-Man, erase it cleanly from the minds of all who had ever known him. But the magic, volatile and burdened by grief, faltered under its own weight. 

The multiverse convulsed. Time stuttered. And in a cruel twist of fate, it was Peter who paid the price; his body had collapsed under the strain of existence itself, as though the universe had tried to forget him in too many ways at once. His heart stuttered, then slowed. The breath left his lungs not with violence, but with absence. He was not simply dying; he was being overwritten. He perished before Strange’s eyes. Not heroically, not theatrically, but quietly. And despite the death of the boy, the universe still threatened collapse. Despite everything, the boy still needed to be forgotten. But there was no reason why he could not be known elsewhere. Strange could not bear it; he could not bear the part he had played in the young hero’s death. He would not accept it; if Peter must be forgotten, let him at least live, let him at least be loved. And so, he brought him before the Lazarus Pit, taboo and unstudied. 

Strange was resurrecting the boy in order to cast him into another universe, one in which he belonged, one where he could live without invoking dire cosmic consequences. A world where, by some strange mercy, a family awaited him.

He had seen it, its shimmering akin to a mirage, an image flickering in the dark recesses of his mind, an image of a world where Peter Parker would not be alone. A world where he had a family. A future. A place where his pain could be mended.

Strange's hands trembled once more, and with a final breath, he cast the final incantation.

The Lazarus Pit erupted, its green glow consuming and dispersing the air around them. A deep, resonating hum filled the room, vibrating through the bones of the Sanctum as the Pit's power surged with the force of a current, dragging Peter’s body further into its depths.

Peter stirred. His fingers twitched, then his eyes fluttered open, pupils dilated and unfocused. He did not scream. He did not struggle. Confused and disoriented, he took in the shimmering green water surrounding him, as if searching for an answer that eluded him, then quickly withdrew with an instinctual terror. Peter recoiled, forcing himself to the edge of the pit, hands splayed against its verge.

He stumbled out, crawling away, disoriented, the world around him spinning in fractured hues of uncanny green. The air felt thick, he choked on it. Something was different, something was wrong.

Peter’s breaths came in frantic, jagged gasps, the acrid, metallic taste of the Pit’s waters lingering on his tongue. His fingers dug into the cold stone floor, and each pulse of his heart sent a fresh jolt of agony through his veins. His mind thrashed against his skull, pushing against the edges of his consciousness, desperate for something familiar. He looked down at his hands, trembling and pale, wet with the viscous, awful residue of the strange Pit, veins glowing faintly beneath his skin. For a moment, his breath caught, a strangled, panicked sound; he could not speak. He staggered back, pressing his back against the cold stone wall, eyes wide with the echoes of countless half-formed memories clawed at the edges of his mind, slipping away before he could grasp them.

One moment, he had been escaping the ghastly viridescent gleam of the water, cold stone against his back; the next, he was falling. His extra sense, that constant, invisible premonition of danger that had saved his life more times than he could count, screamed in protest, a sharp, piercing chord reverberating within his skull. But his mind was lethargic, searing with confusion and half-formed memories. He could not react. He barely understood.

Wind tore his skin like whips, and then, impact.

A rooftop was the first thing to break his descent, bricks crumbling beneath him, but it did not halt his fall. Peter’s body crumpled against the edge of a high-up windowsill, his face bounced hard off a rusted pipe. Then, he slammed into the bars of a fire escape, each collision stealing breath and clarity. He did not scream. He barely gasped. Gravity showed no mercy. He hit the pavement below with a wet, sickening smack, the kind that silences a crowd, and for a moment, all was still.

He lay there in the alley’s contour, half-curled and unmoving, as he burned with a white-hot agony. No human would have survived this impact, and Peter caught himself, for the briefest moment, as he writhed in pain, wishing he had not been the exception. His spider sense thrummed at the nape of his neck; danger was not imminent, but looming, as though it were bound into the very foundation of his surroundings, of the unfamiliar city that crowded him. The world around him was wrong. Too quiet. Too dark. The ether above was hazed with city smoke and drowned out stars. It was not familiar. The name was not yet known to him, and its weight settled over him like ash. Rain began to fall, soft and reluctant, diluting the blood seeping into the crevices beneath his body.

‘Where... am I?’ Peter's voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper; it came out in a choked gasp. He was not quite sure when the pit had vanished or how the aging ground beneath him had become wet stone, only that it had. His eyes darted around a sombre city landscape, searching for something, anything, that might anchor him. 

But the faces, those he had once known, were absent. There were no familiar walls, no comforting presence of loved ones, nor the quiet companionship of his friends. There was only an alley, vast and strange, stretching before him.

His thoughts were tangled. The memories of his life had begun to blur at the edges. He remembered his Aunt May, his Uncle Ben, and the sting of loss that had shaped him. He remembered New York, his city. He recalled Queens, his home. He saw flashes of blue and red, and yearned for the sensation of swinging through he air. But beyond that? A dark, cavernous gap. The time before this moment, this strange awakening, was a void. A blank space in his mind that gnawed at him, leaving only fragments in its wake. He remembered being Spider-Man. He remembered the weight of that responsibility, the sense of duty that bound him to the world. 

But the road that led him here, to this moment, to this strange place, was lost.

He crawled further down the alley, wincing with each movement, his heart pounding in his chest. Was he dying? Was he hallucinating? Was this a fever dream, a trick of his fractured mind?

Peter pulled himself to his feet, his knees shaking beneath him. The world around him twisted and shifted, as though it were a dream just beyond the edge of his comprehension. The air smelled of something both metallic and damp, and as his eyes adjusted, he could see shadows dancing across the spires and gargoyles of Gothic architecture. It was unlike anything he had ever known.

The air around him felt alive, a damp, cloying thing that clung to his skin like smoke. It tasted of rust and oil, of rainwater filtered through decades of corroded metal and cracked stone. The distant wail of a siren cut through the fog, sharp and shrill, its echoes twisting through labyrinthine laneways, chased by the faint, irregular pulse of helicopter blades. A loose gutter somewhere above him clanged against brick with each restless gust of wind. The ground beneath him, wet and uneven, smelled of stagnant water and mildew, every fractured paver a monument to the city’s neglect. His every breath felt polluted, thick with the abiding remnants of exhaust fumes and industrial waste, the scent deeply woven into the fabric of the urban sprawl. Even the shadows felt heavier here, dense and unyielding, Peter could feel their weight upon his shoulders. What was this place?

He stumbled further forward, his body aching, his mind lost in the fog of a fragmented existence. He did not understand how he had gotten here, or why, but as the rain continued to fall, cold and relentless, he knew one thing for certain: he was alone. And for the first time, in this strange world that seemed to want nothing more than to swallow him whole, Peter Parker, the boy who had never been sure of his place, somehow felt as though he had descended even further.

Chapter Text

Peter staggered forward, every movement a discordant clash of agony and instinct. His body felt too heavy, his limbs uncooperative, as though his bones were protesting the sheer absurdity of his existence.

A sharp gust of wind sliced through the narrow lane, seeping through the fresh tears in his suit; it bit against the raw, exposed skin beneath. He shivered, his teeth clattering against each other as he wrapped his trembling arms around his middle. He had to move, had to cover himself, had to find something to shield himself from the oppressive chill that seemed to cling to his bones. The shredded remains of his suit clung to him, damp and adhering like a second, broken skin, its once vibrant red stained darker with streaks of his own blood. 

Peter looked toward his wrist, home to his ever-helpful AI, Karen. However, her interface had gone dark and was unable to connect to the server. His eyebrows furrowed. It was rare that there was a fault in Stark tech such as this; he would have to have a closer look when he found a place to settle. 

The lane opened into a wider, slightly more populated street. The muted thrum of engines and the distant wail of sirens drifted with the breeze, muffled yet constant; it was a reminder of a living world just beyond the desolate alleyways he found himself amid. He ducked behind a rusting dumpster, the metallic tang of old refuse sharp against his enhanced sense of smell, and scanned his surroundings. His senses were still frayed, hyper-attuned and jagged, and every shadow seemed to stretch toward him, every flicker of movement a potential threat. The thrum of his spider-sense had been offering a ceaseless portent since his landing, as though danger was a constant possibility. Glancing around the strange place, Peter could hardly doubt it. 

Across the street, his blurred, unfocused gaze caught on a dishevelled heap of fabric spilling from an overturned donation bin. He waited, breath hitching, every muscle coiled and trembling like a frayed wire, before stumbling across the cracked pavement. His shoulder scraped against a brick wall as he moved, each step sending a fresh pulse of fire through his spine. He seized a faded, blue hoodie, a pair of torn, grease-stained jeans and some old, battered shoes a few sizes too large from the heap, forcing his limbs into the coarse fabric. 

The hoodie’s worn cotton clung to the shredded suit beneath, already soaking up the thin rivulets of blood that continued to seep from his new wounds. He cringed, knowing how gruesome he must look to an outsider, but bloodied civilian clothes were significantly preferable to being caught as Spider-Man. After that thought, Peter was quick to remove his mask and stash it into his front pocket, before drawing the hood. The dampness of the fabric against his skin sent a shiver through him, but it was a small mercy, a barrier against the cutting wind that seemed intent on peeling him raw.

He slunk back into the alley’s embrace, the hoodie hanging loose around his shoulders, the jeans stiff and ill-fitting against his legs. His mind still felt fogged, heavy, as though he were trapped beneath layers of suffocating haze. The world around him spun, the barbed edges of his consciousness tearing at his thoughts, threatening to unravel them entirely. He leaned against a brick wall, head tilted back, breaths coming in short, sharp gasps as he tried to steady himself, his vision swimming in and out of focus. 

It had never taken so long for his senses to return full force, though a flicker of movement to his left caught his attention regardless. A figure, silhouetted against the misted glow of a flickering streetlamp, moved with a fluid, cautious grace, pausing just within the threshold of the alley’s shadow. Peter’s heart seized, his muscles tensing instinctively, though, in this moment, he had neither the strength nor clarity to fight or flee. In the muted recesses of his mind, Peter knew this person would not pose a threat to him; he could not feel a spike in his spider-sense, but this fact was easy to overlook as he gazed at the shadowed form. 

The figure stepped into the narrow shaft of light, revealing a lithe frame clad in dark, armoured fabric. White lenses glinted from beneath the sharp lines of a domino mask, and golden decals cut sharply across the figure’s crimson chest. The stranger’s posture shifted, the stiff, calculating stance of a predator subtly softening, his head tilting slightly as if struck by a sudden, unexpected realisation.

‘Hey,’ the voice that cut through the gloom was cautious, tinged with a bewildered kind of concern. The figure took a slow, measured step closer, raising his hands in a placating gesture. 

‘You alright, kid? You’re bleeding pretty bad.’

Kid? Through the haze of his disorientation, Peter felt a twinge of annoyance; they could not be that far apart in age.

Tim Drake felt a flicker of unease as he took in the boy’s trembling form, his hunched shoulders and blood-soaked clothing. Something about his posture, the way he clutched at his side as though holding himself together by sheer force of will, struck a chord. Tim gasped, the lines of the boy’s face, the sharp, dark brows and pale skin were painfully reminiscent of someone he knew well. The boy could not have been older than twelve, maybe thirteen, his frame lean but battered, but the resemblance was undeniable. His hair was shielded by the hood of his faded blue clothes, which cast shadows across his face as though he were trying to disappear into it.

But it was the eyes, even through the haze of fear and confusion, that caught him off guard. There was something too familiar in the way they darted around, desperate, calculating, as if searching for an escape from a space that had already closed in on him. It was a look Tim had seen before, a haunted, cornered gaze he had glimpsed in his own reflection more times than he cared to admit.

‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ Tim said, his voice carefully measured, forcing his tone into something softer, something less threatening. He took in the boy’s blood-streaked face, the way his hands trembled even as he curled them into tight, defensive fists. It was like looking at a copy, a half-remembered version of his brother, the same sharp cheekbones, the same eye shape, though the boy’s pupils were blown wide with panic, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts.

‘My name’s Red Robin. I can help you.’

The words cut through the fog in Peter’s mind, sharp and jagged. Help. His body flinched instinctively, his muscles tensing beneath the thin layers of borrowed fabric, a surge of raw, unfiltered terror flooding his veins. He did not know where he was, did not know who this stranger was, and the thought of trusting anyone, of letting anyone close enough to see the fracture lines already forming in his mind, felt like a slow, suffocating death.

Tim took another step forward, his own heart pounding harder now, his mind racing. The resemblance was impossible to ignore, but this kid, this bloodied, trembling figure before him, was not his brother. But there was something about the way the boy moved, the way his eyes flickered with a panicked awareness that felt too close to home. He could not leave him like this, could not turn his back and walk away, not when the kid looked like he might shatter at any moment.

‘Hey, it’s okay,’ Tim said quickly, his hands still raised in a careful, open placating gesture, his tone softening further as he took in the boy’s wild, fractured expression. ‘I just want to help. You’re hurt. I can get you somewhere safe. Just... let me help.’

Peter shook his head, his back colliding with the damp, graffiti-riddled brick wall behind him. The cold, rough surface bit into his spine, sending another sharp jolt of pain down his limbs. He felt cornered, trapped, his instincts screaming at him to flee, to put distance between himself and the unfamiliar, armoured figure.

Without another word, Peter turned on his heel, his battered, trembling form stumbling deeper into the shadowed depths of the alley, his footsteps echoing against the damp stone. He did not look back, even as the sound of Red Robin’s hurried footsteps faltered, the figure’s worried, uncertain gaze lingering on the boy’s retreating form.

Peter had felt no warning. No sharp, searing pulse at the base of his skull, no twisting, nauseating dread that typically accompanied danger. His spider sense had remained silent, even as the armoured figure had stepped toward him, his shadow stretching across the damp stone like a harbinger. Though his instincts had betrayed him before. 

He had trusted people he should not have, let them close enough to strike, and paid for this naivety in blood and broken bones.

Peter had learned this lesson too many times to count.

The memory of Red Robin’s voice still echoed in his mind, the careful, measured tone, the gentle, placating words meant to soothe. He had seen the concern in the masked vigilante’s eyes, even through the shrouded lenses, but that only deepened Peter’s unease. It felt too calculated, too precise, like a predator lowering its hackles just long enough to lure its prey within reach.

Peter clearly could not trust his own judgement; he did not even know where he was, for god’s sake. His senses had failed him before. He would not make that mistake again.

Red Robin had been ready to launch into a pursuit when the crackling of an opening comm line became known, Oracle’s voice sounded in his ears.

‘Red Robin, you’re needed in the central business district to aid in a hostage situation. I’ll forward you the coordinates. Batman and Robin are already there.’

Tim watched in trepidation as the figure of the young boy retreated further into the distance. He was conflicted, he had half the mind to ignore Oracle’s instruction and continue to follow the boy. But the kid was clearly scared, and he knew better than to challenge that fear. Though in the same instance, he knew he could not leave him like this, injured and distressed, so he took note of the street sign, ensuring himself that he would look into the surveillance after patrol, it would be easier to help when he knew more anyway. He hesitated a moment longer, jaw tightening beneath his mask. It was not abandonment, he told himself, not truly. Just a delay. He would return; he would not allow the kid to slip through the cracks. He took a final lingering glance into the now-empty alley before using his grappling hook to rush towards the coordinates.

─ ⟡ ✢ ⟡ ─

Peter stumbled through the damp, uneven streets, knowing it was likely the strange figure would follow; he needed to disappear, so he willed his occult sense to guide him. He weaved through building after building, avoiding cameras and populated streets; only halting once he felt confident he would be untraceable. 

His mind was still a fractured haze of disjointed memories and raw, animalistic instinct. His breath came in short, ragged gasps, the pain radiating from his bruised ribs and bleeding gashes. He was tired; he wanted nothing more than to curl up in his warm bed and be done with this dreaded, perplexing day. A lump formed in his throat, its burn akin to a torrid acid, when he realised suddenly that he did not know where home was; he was completely and utterly lost.

But he had to keep moving. Peter may not have known where he was, but he knew he could not stay in the open, exposed and vulnerable, his every nerve alight with the residual terror of his encounter with the armoured stranger. 

His legs trembled beneath him, his pulse a frantic drumbeat in his ears as he weaved through the labyrinth of shadowed alleys and cracked pavement. He felt like a stray animal, his every sense fraying at the edges, his mind clinging to the tattered remnants of survival instinct.

The thin, flickering glow of a neon sign bled through the fog, casting fractured shards of sickly red and blue light against the sharp brick walls. A hum of electricity crackled faintly overhead, lost amid the distant, echoing wail of sirens and the soft, shuffling footsteps of nameless figures. He stumbled through a rusting chain-link fence, the cold metal scraping against his exposed knuckles, and collapsed against the crumbling brick of a derelict corner store. His head tilted back, his eyes squeezing shut as he tried to catch his breath, his chest heaving against the blood-soaked fabric clinging to his skin.

A crumpled, water-stained newspaper skittered across the slick ground, caught in a sudden, biting gust of gale. It struck his leg, catching on the fraying hem of his borrowed jeans before settling against his foot. Peter blinked and reached down, his fingers trembling as he seized the edge of the damp paper, bringing it under the dim, crackling light of the neon sign.

His eyes scanned the faded text, the blocky, smudged letters bleeding into one another in his unfocused vision. He forced himself to concentrate, his teeth clenching against the sharp, insistent throb in his temples as he tried to make sense of the words.

Gotham.

The name hit him like a physical blow, a cold, twisting sensation unfurling in his chest. He had never heard of a place called Gotham, had never seen its dark, jagged skyline or felt the oppressive weight of its suffocating air. The name was foreign, wrong, a piece of a puzzle that did not fit into the world as he knew it.

Peter’s breath hitched, his fingers tightening around the fragile, waterlogged edges of the paper. His eyes darted across the page, his heart hammering in his chest as he caught the small, italicised print of the date in the corner.

October 3, 2013.

His pulse seemingly halted, his blood running cold as the numbers seared themselves into his mind. He stumbled back, the newspaper slipping from his fingers and fluttering to the ground, where it quickly absorbed the sheen of rainwater pooled in the cracked pavement. 2013. He felt as though the ground beneath him had shifted, his already unstable world tilting at a sharp, disorienting angle. It was 2024, he had been so sure of that.

He forced himself to his feet, his vision swimming with black spots, his knees threatening to buckle beneath him as he staggered away from the corner store. He stumbled into an opening behind the building, which looked to be a space for rear parking. His shoulder struck the brick wall with a sickening thud, his mind spiralling impossibly further into a frantic, panicked loop. 2013. It could not be. That was years ago. He remembered… he remembered the battles he had fought, the years he had spent balancing his life between the masked vigilante and the boy who never quite fit in, the countless lives he had saved and the people he had lost.

He reached the end of the alley, his frantic steps carrying him to a rain-fogged window set into the crumbling facade of an abandoned warehouse. He leaned against the cold, cracked glass, his breath misting against the surface, his eyes straining to focus on the blurred reflection staring back at him. He furrowed his eyebrows and pushed his hood back. 

The figure in the glass was both familiar and alien, a twisted, distorted caricature of the boy he had once been. His hair, usually dark and unremarkable, now carried a stark, unnatural streak of white at the front, the pale, ghostly strands standing out against the grime-streaked mess of his face. His eyes, once a warm, unassuming brown, now glowed with an unnatural, viridescent green, their depths flickering with a faint, unnatural light that made his skin crawl. But the most harrowing difference of all? 

He looked young. Too young.

Peter staggered back, his hand rising to touch the damp, tangled strands of his hair, his trembling fingers brushing against the cool, slick surface of his skin. His jaw felt narrower. His cheeks were softer, rounder. His height was... wrong. He was not just thinner from exhaustion and trauma; he was smaller, his limbs lanky in a way that had not been the case in years. 

Twelve. Thirteen, at most. He recalled the year printed on the newspaper, 2013...

The face staring back at him was that of a boy, not the young man who had stood before the multiverse and begged to be forgotten. His pulse roared in his ears, his thoughts spiralling into a chaotic, panicked mess as he stumbled further into the darkness, his every nerve alight with a raw, unfiltered terror that seemed unwilling to evade him on this dreaded night.

A warehouse loomed before him, its rusted metal doors hanging ajar, opening like the maw of an unsettling creature. It was a sight for sore eyes, but it would have to do. Peter stumbled inside, his ragged breaths echoing off the cold, empty walls, his feet dragging against the cracked concrete. He collapsed against a rusting support beam, his back sliding down the cold metal as his legs gave out beneath him, his head falling back against the unyielding surface with a hollow, metallic thud. He knew it was a matter of time before his accelerated healing kicked into gear, but he would have to remain here for now.

His mind raced, the disjointed fragments of his shattered thoughts colliding in a chaotic tangle of fear and confusion. Red Robin. 2013. Gotham. His hair, his eyes, everything felt amiss, fractured. His body ached, his lungs burned, and his skin felt too tight, too raw, as though it were drawn taut over his bruised, broken bones.

He clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms as he fought to steady his breath, his mind spiralling. He then relaxed his hands and stared at the small crescents he had left behind.

Peter’s head tilted back, his eyes staring blankly into the shadows above him. He strained his hearing, forcing it past the frantic pounding of his heart, to focus on the small sound of life above him. Quiet fluttering heartbeats; he wondered what they belonged to, he was sure they would be mice. 

After this distraction, his mind began to fade into an abyss, and his pulse slowed. Peter’s thoughts grew sluggish and unfocused. He felt the cold, unyielding metal against his back and the sharp, metallic tang of blood lingering on his tongue. Though these irritants quickly became redundant when he thought of just how tired he was.

The darkness felt heavy, suffocating, pressing down on his chest like a weight; even with all his strength, he could never hope to lift it. And as his eyes finally fluttered shut, his breath rattling in his chest, Peter Parker, the boy who had once been Spider-Man, felt himself unravelling, his mind slipping into the warm, caring embrace of slumber.

Chapter Text

The cavernous silence of the Batcave was interrupted only by the gentle hiss of the Batcomputer’s whirring systems. The pale, flickering light of the monitors cast Tim’s face into an almost spectral glow, illuminating the sharp angles and shadows beneath tired, darkened eyes; eyes that had long since forgotten rest. 

His suit still clung to him like a second, heavier skin. His gloves were slick with the grime and cold mud of the city and faintly stained with remnants of blood. His domino mask lay abandoned and forgotten at his side, discarded in the feverish urgency that had brought him rushing straight from the streets, without pause, without respite. There was no other place he could be, no other place he could stand to be but here, beneath this pale glow, chasing a ghost of a boy whose face had haunted his every blink since their encounter.

The flickering loop of the security feed at the corner of Little Lonsdale plagued the screen again. Tim’s eyes, bloodshot and relentless, traced the boy’s path through darkened streets, followed his uneven, broken gait beneath the yellowed light of a faltering streetlamp. 

The timestamp showed it was just past midnight, as the boy stumbled out from the oppressive blackness of another alley, bent and broken as if weighed down by some invisible burden too heavy for his slight frame. Tim leaned forward, breath shallow, fingers tightening as he forced himself to see more clearly, zooming in on the tremulous figure that moved with a hesitant fragility, limbs trembling yet somehow deliberate. 

The boy paused briefly, head turning toward the camera as if sensing its presence, and in that taut moment, something old and painful struck Tim’s gut with unwelcome familiarity. The jawline, the eyes half-hidden beneath the shade of his hood, the way his body held itself, it was like a facsimile. 

Not Dick. No. But close enough to make his stomach twist.

For what felt like endless minutes, Tim followed the boy’s winding journey through the fractured night. He crossed streets, bleeding slowly, ducking into the shadows whenever the shrill wail of sirens sliced through the silence. And then, just as abruptly as he had appeared, the boy vanished, no camera caught his flight, no trace remained to mark his passage through this barren city. 

It was as though he had stepped off the precipice of the world itself. Tim suddenly flattened his hands against the console, the sharp sound echoing like a crack of thunder in the stillness of the cave. He had searched the area twice already after the hostage situation was resolved, retracing his steps again and again, but there were no trails left behind, no fresh disturbance in the dirt of the empty streets, no signs of life. Nothing. It was a conundrum with no answer, a wound that refused to close. No child so grievously hurt should simply vanish into the night unless someone had swept him away, or unless the boy knew precisely where no one would look, but why would he shirk help? 

An unwelcome part of Tim's consciousness suggested he could be nowhere at all, that his wounds had gotten the better of him, but he was quick to reject this notion.

Swallowing the growing lump in his throat, Tim brought the alley footage back to life once more, gnawing on his own doubt as the cold cave air pressed in around him. He would not let this slip away, would not stop until he understood these flickering images, until he could shake free of the ghostly resemblance and find the missing piece to the puzzle that currently seemed just out of reach. 

The clock beside him marked 5:13 am, the cave smothered again by a profound silence that had a weight of its own. Then, without warning, a voice cut through the stillness, low and measured, a quiet reprimand wrapped in concern. 

‘You should be in bed.’ 

Tim’s breath caught; his fingers hovered above the console, reluctant to turn and face him. He quickly hit the power button, and the monitors dimmed one by one. His eyes remained fixed on the newly blank screens. Bruce stood there, half-shrouded in shadow at the foot of the stairs, arms crossed like a sentinel cloaked in unspoken judgment. His voice had been quiet, unreadable and distant.

Tim did not meet his gaze, the weight of the night pressing down on him with every silent heartbeat. 

‘Just… running through some of the route logs,’ he muttered, voice tight and brittle as cracked glass. A pause stretched between them, long and cold as the concrete beneath their feet. Footsteps approached slowly, deliberately, filling the space with an unyielding quiet. 

‘You stayed out on patrol after the hostages, ’ Bruce said, voice low. ‘Looks like you got back just past two. You’ve been here since?’ 

It was not a question, not truly. Although there was a query in his tone, there was only one response that could be given, and Tim knew that.

‘Yeah,’ Tim answered, the word barely more than a whisper. ‘Must have lost track of time.’ 

Bruce’s presence loomed just behind him now, the invisible pressure of his gaze settled heavily on the back of Tim’s neck, making him want to curl inward, disappear beneath the weight of it. The boy’s face lingered behind his eyes still, pale, alert, slipping away even as Tim reached, trying desperately to hold on. He did not know why this mattered so fiercely, only that it did.

‘There’s nothing urgent,’ Tim insisted, rising with a forced steadiness, hoping to hide the tremor beneath the resolve. ‘Just something that caught my attention on patrol.’ 

Bruce remained unmoving, his silence a heavy stone pressed against the fragile thread of conversation. 

‘You shut the monitors off pretty fast,’ he said softly, a prompt for further information. 

‘It wasn’t important,’ Tim replied too quickly, defensive, hollow. 

Another pause, then, ‘I’ll look at it tomorrow,’ he added, voice flat, words empty. 

‘I’m going to bed, you should too.’ Bruce said nothing more after this. Tim quietly followed him up the metal stairs.

The air shifted once more as they crossed the threshold into the manor’s upper floors, the cool cave air replaced by the warm hush of dawn’s early light, which filtered through heavy curtains and onto the soft carpet.

At his door, Tim hesitated, stealing one last glance back at the darkened stairwell, expecting more words, questions, anything that might pierce the quiet. But Bruce simply met his eyes, dark and inscrutable beneath the hallway’s soft glow, a knowing remaining unspoken between them.

‘Get some sleep,’ Bruce finally said. ‘You can pick this up tomorrow. With a clearer head.’ 

Tim nodded, half-heartedly, and slipped past the threshold, the quiet click of the door echoing in the stillness of his room. He pressed his back up against it, heart pounding too loudly in the quiet.

Bruce’s words still hung in the air, but they felt distant, as if they belonged to someone else. A clearer head. Tim scoffed inwardly at the notion. His head had been anything but clear tonight, or for years now, but he could not bring himself to admit it. Not to Bruce.

The boy.

Tim brought his hands to his shoulders, working to remove his cape as he paced in a tight circle. Tim’s thoughts spiralled in his confusion. He wanted to tell Bruce. The instinct to reach out for help, to share his concerns, was there, familiar, almost reflexive. Bruce would understand. Bruce would encourage him, push him to find and help this kid. So why had he hidden it?

A thread of realisation wound its way through Tim’s mind. He had not hidden it because he feared Bruce’s reaction. No, it was something deeper, something more visceral.

It was not just the fact that it was a vulnerable kid, not really. Even though Tim would have wanted to help regardless. It was the resemblance. The echoes of Dick’s expressions, his mannerisms, the way the boy’s fragile frame had crumpled beneath some invisible weight, as though there was too much on his shoulders, at too young an age.

Tim rubbed his hand over his face, frustration bubbling up as he stopped pacing. It was not that Bruce would not understand, or that he would try to talk him out of it. Bruce would get it. Bruce always got it. But this was different.

It was not the mystery of where he had disappeared to or why he was so intent on staying hidden. It was the damn resemblance. The kid did not just look like Dick; he had moved like him, had that same slight lilt to his walk, the same air of vulnerability that Tim had always noticed in Dick when he let his guard down.

Bruce would want to help. But Tim was not sure if he was ready to share this with him, not yet. Not when everything inside him screamed that finding this boy might open something up that was not ready to be opened. Not if it concerned his brother.

Tim sat on the edge of his bed, burying his face in his hands, trying to clear the thoughts that would not seem to settle. The boy was not Dick’s. He could not be Dick’s, could he? But the resemblance was impossible to ignore, and for reasons Tim could not quite put into words, he was not sure he could face it yet. He was not sure he was ready to ask Bruce for help, not with something that could end up being so personal for his eldest brother. 

But the boy was just a kid. Just someone who looked like Dick. That was all. And maybe tomorrow, maybe after he had had a chance to sort through his own feelings, he would be able to share what he had seen. But tonight? Tonight, he was not ready to let it all spill out.

Not until he figured out why it mattered so damn much.

─ ⟡ ✢ ⟡ ─

In the light of morning, the warehouse somehow felt colder now than it had the night before; perhaps it was not the temperature but the unfamiliarity that seeped into his bones. Pale light filtered weakly through grimy, cracked windows, fractured shards of dawn spilled across a dust-thick floor, painting it in dim strokes of gold and grey. Peter remained upright despite having slept, limbs hanging awkwardly on either side of the cold, skeletal frame of a rusted support beam. He blinked against the dim light of dawn, when questions rose like smoke, curling into the stale air. What had happened? Why was he here?

He was supposed to be seventeen, just past his awkward youth and standing at the precipice of adulthood. Yet when his eyes traced the shape of his own hands, smaller and more delicate than his memory would suggest, his fingers twitched. Then, as he discerned the wrists too thin to carry the weight he felt he bore, a laugh caught in his throat, shocked and absurd. 

He looked younger, younger than he should, and suddenly he was somehow both amused and grateful for the ingeniousness of the late Tony Stark. His suit would shrink in size at the press of the spider insignia, sat splayed across his chest, though in this moment it hung slightly loose under his already ill-fitting clothes, still set in his previous size. 

Karen, the ever-snarky AI companion that had been his tether in the fray of vigilantism and day life alike, remained silent and blank. Peter felt an all-too-familiar twinge of grief, though he knew it was needless. He would be able to repair her; he yearned for it, to have a small part of home back within his grasp. Though her sudden inactivity hinted at a terrible truth: this was not his home. 

This place, Gotham, according to the smeared letters of a rain-damaged paper he found the night prior, was unmistakably absent from the world he had known; this city, wrapped in shadows and secrets, was entirely foreign to him. He was confident it had no place within New Jersey, and the thought staggered him.

He exhaled, slow and deliberate, resisting the pull of despair that threatened to consume him. No matter how unfamiliar this place was, one truth burned clear and fierce beneath the confusion: he was still Spider-Man. He reached his hand underneath his hoodie and pressed against the spider, the suit constricted against his skin like a vice, a reminder that despite his twisted reality, the strange faces, and the still uncharted streets, the stakes remained the same. This city breathed differently. The heroes were unalike, with masks that did not fit the faces he knew, but regardless, a call to action remained.

As his fingers tapped a nervous rhythm on his knee, a hesitant beat in the quiet warehouse, Peter realised he ought to formulate at least the semblance of a plan.

First, he must find shelter, somewhere safe, and preferably warm, far from this damp, cold and rusting structure. Though, as Peter recalled the drab paths and streets he had followed in the evening just past, the prospect seemed suddenly doubtful. Then, he needed to secure the essentials: food, water and clothes.

Peter glanced at his wrist once more; Karen had gone dark the moment he crash-landed, and at first, he had told himself it was a lost cause, but he knew Mr. Stark would have scoffed if he caught Peter thinking such things. Which is why he now had his fingers buried in the tangled nerves of his suit’s gauntlet, its smooth shell pried open to expose a latticework of microprocessors and data lines.

His manual diagnostics told a grim tale. Karen had not shut down, she had frozen mid-startup, caught in an endless boot while trying to reach a network that simply did not exist here. 

Stark Industries. 

It was everywhere back home, ubiquitous, invisible and reliable. The idea of its absence felt impossible. And yet, here he was, in a city with a name he did not recognise, with tech that might as well have been obsolete. 

He exhaled slowly, pulling a thin cable from a port, and jerry-rigging a connection through his web-shooter’s own power source. The interface buzzed to life, bare-bones and blinking, waiting for him to do what Tony Stark had never intended.

He worked carefully, bypassing security protocols and rerouting Karen’s core processes to function entirely offline. Each command was a gamble; he knew that one wrong line could brick her for good, but after what felt like hours, the HUD flickered. He brought down the waist of his jeans slightly, and in a compartment next to his web fluid cartridges were a pair of small earpieces, which could have easily passed as headphones in the year 2024, but in 2013? He was not so sure. 

As he placed them in his ear, he prayed no one would question them. Then, a voice, slightly grainy but familiar, echoed through the tiny speakers. His relief was palpable.

‘Peter? You’re not authorised on this network environment. Proceeding in offline diagnostic mode.’

He sank back against the support beam, the tension finally loosening somewhat in his chest. 

‘Hey, Karen,’ he murmured, a tired smile tugging at his face. ‘Looks like it’s just us now.’

But with Karen barely running in offline mode, Peter knew he could not afford to stay blind for long. The suit was powerful, sure, but without access to maps or threat analysis, especially in this foreign place, he might as well have been swinging in the dark. 

He whispered a string of commands, cautious but deliberate, instructing Karen to sniff for the strongest local network, anything stable with high bandwidth. 

’Stealth mode only,’ he reminded her, voice low. ‘No pings, I want us to leave no trace.’ Seconds ticked by. Then a soft chime. 

‘I’ve found one,’ Karen said, her voice slightly glitchy but growing more stable with every passing moment. ‘Private enterprise system. High-security. Wide infrastructure. From what I can see, the server is called Wayne Enterprises.’ 

Peter blinked. The name meant nothing.

‘Can you piggyback it?’ he asked. 

‘Yes, I’ll connect discreetly and avoid triggering any network defences in place.’ 

He nodded, wiping sweat from his brow. ‘Learn everything you can. I have a feeling I’ve got a lot to catch up on.’

Chapter Text

The rain had since subsided, though the ether remained cloaked in hues of slate and charcoal, its clouds hanging like a dense shroud. Peter moved carefully through the backstreets, his gait still uneven, but less so than it had been the night before. 

He was still sore from his sudden, harsh landing, though now it only lingered with aches and stiffness, he was grateful to realise that his accelerated healing was as effective as usual. Peter knew that would not be the case for long if he were unable to find something to eat.

Gotham, in the daylight, Peter noted grimly, was no nicer than it was by night, only more revealing. It showed its rot unapologetically. The glint of shattered glass in gutters, the sagging bricks of half-collapsed walls, the crooked backs of fire escapes that bowed from years of misuse.

His thoughts remained fractured, tethered only by the slow resolve forming in the quiet of his mind. He needed shelter, preferably permanent, or at least somewhere that would not get him chased off by authorities, or even worse, taken by CPS. Peter realised, given he looked so much younger than he was, he would be susceptible to their jurisdiction, and the last thing he wanted was to be put into a home; his self-pride was too stubborn for that.

The streets began to climb, subtly at first. The buildings grew older the further he wandered, pushing into forgotten boroughs that sat within the newer sections of Gotham’s skyline. His footfalls echoed along narrow laneways stained with soot and mildew, his fingers curled around the pocket seams of his borrowed jeans. It was here, within the old narrow blocks, that he saw it.

The building sagged slightly in the middle, its signage was rusted, barely hanging from the decaying iron frame that bordered the brick: 

The painted text had begun to peel away, curling at the edges like parchment left too long in the sun. The windows were clouded, long since boarded over from the inside. There was a stoic kind of finality to it, ironically fitting, he thought, for a funeral parlour.

He circled once, quietly, and noted the alleyway entry tucked behind rusted dustbins and the crumbling remnants of old police tape. The back door was warped at the hinges, giving a grunt and a shudder when Peter pushed it aside. Inside, the air smelled of dust, corrosion and something faintly medicinal. Not pleasant, but far from unbearable. And most importantly, no one came rushing to chase him out.

As Peter crept through the back corridor, his senses flared and deliberate, he passed old counselling rooms left abandoned and curtained in cobwebs and a small interfaith chapel, with uncomfortable-looking wooden pews. But Peter almost recoiled when he spotted the mortuary, praying silently that it had been emptied the day this establishment was deserted. Peter quickly continued to the second floor, climbing up the wall to avoid the obsolete, drooping staircase.  

He was met with a single room, it still had a door that shut properly and a window that, unlike the others, was not boarded up. Peter could get it to open, albeit with some resistance. The room was private and secluded, and Peter knew immediately this would be where he settled. The room was bare-bones, but with a little housekeeping, he knew it could at least resemble a living space.

He remembered the once lush, moth-eaten curtains in the rooms below and quickly left to return with them. In the upstairs loft, there were a couple of empty drawer units; he shifted them outward, so they were parallel to each other, with their sides up against the wall. He draped a curtain over the top, which created a little alcove to sit under. Peter dragged the remaining curtain underneath to act as a barrier atop the old, splintered floorboards. He registered, with dark humour, that the aged planks, softened by years of water damage, made for a somewhat comfortable resting place, but it was still far from appealing; he longed for his bed, for his home. 

He thought of all the homes he left behind and the adored people who had lived within them. He thought of his childhood house, with parents whose faces he could barely recall; he had always been too sad to look at their photos, but now that they were forever out of his grasp, he yearned for them. Peter pictured the quaint little apartment he had lived in with his Aunt and Uncle until the night they were taken in the street. Suddenly, there was a burn in the base of his throat, which was only made worse when he thought of the space he had shared with Tony after he had saved him from the system. Even a place called a ‘compound’ could feel like a home with the right people in it. But as Peter glanced around him, he realised this was not a home, and he doubted it could ever become one. All because he was alone.

He sat for a long while underneath his newly formed hidey hole, knees drawn to his chest, and suddenly felt like the child he physically resembled. He wondered for a moment if he had mentally regressed; he wanted to ridicule the thought, deny it, but in this moment, he felt every bit as lost and unsure as he had been when he first got his powers, when he first lost Ben and May…

He did not simply look like a child; he felt like one.

He traced the outline of his knees with trembling fingers, trying to find comfort in the familiar motion, but even that felt foreign now. The world felt too loud, too wide, and he too small to meet it with the sharpness a person on the brink of adulthood should. It was not just his body that had shrunk; his mind, too, felt softer at the edges, clouded by instinctual fears and childlike dependencies he thought he had long outgrown. He could not tell if it was the trauma, the unfamiliar city, or something deeper; some rewiring of his very sense of self. But for the first time in what felt like years, Peter did not trust his own maturity. And that frightened him most of all.

His chest tightened with sudden, invisible pressure, a weight that pressed inwards rather than down, like the world was folding itself neatly around him. His breath hitched, once, twice, before breaking into short, shallow bursts that scraped his throat on the way out. The air in the parlour seemed to thicken, each particle clinging uncomfortably to his lungs, refusing to let go. He dug his fingers into the fabric of his hoodie, nails catching on the frayed threads as though he could hold himself together by sheer grip alone.

His vision blurred at the edges. Was it suddenly dark? No, it was just his mind, pulsing beneath his skull, accompanied by a pounding in his ears.

He pressed his forehead to the knees already drawn to his chest, shaking. He counted quietly. One. Two. Three. Tried to anchor himself to the present, the feel of the cold floor beneath him, the faint scent of rust and mildew in the air, the quiet hum of Karen’s dormant processor. Four. Five. Six. He whispered the numbers out loud, letting them carry his panic with them as they slipped into the stillness of the room.

By the time he reached twenty, the trembling had dulled. Not gone, but contained. He peeled his forehead from his knees and inhaled through his nose, shakily. He had not had a panic attack in many years, though the worst of it had seemed to pass. He let his head fall slack against his knees again, unable to abate the closing of his eyes. He let slumber take him.

─ ⟡ ✢ ⟡ ─

The sounds of Gotham were louder by day. The streets hummed with dissonance, brakes screeching at impatient intersections, vendors calling out over the drone of engines, pedestrians murmuring low into phones as they passed each other without a glance or acknowledgment. Peter moved among them silently, his shoulders hunched and tread uneven, arms locked close to his sides as if guarding what little warmth remained in him.

The smell of street food lingered thick in the air, frying oil, seared meat, spice and starch, and Peter could feel the ache in his stomach deepen into something hollow and scraping, it extended up his throat. It had been too long since he had last eaten, and his healing, though accelerated, was beginning to demand fuel he no longer held within him. His limbs had started to feel foreign in their stiffness, like he was walking through deep water. The rumble in his gut had become his constant companion, he cringed every time someone was close enough to hear it. 

He passed a cart brimming with grilled skewers and another with something sweet, syrupy, maybe churros, and had to force his eyes forward. He could not afford to slow down, not when the scent alone made his knees threaten to buckle.

Gotham was cruel, Peter realised. It was indifferent. There was no sense of community here, no warmth between strangers, only hard stares and harder silences. People did not walk together, they moved around each other like they were playing a game of keep away. Everyone wore the same look, guarded, cautious, self-contained. Look out for yourself. Only yourself. That was the rule. And if you could not? Well… then you disappeared.

He turned down a quieter street, one of those mid-avenue arteries that connected the louder chaos with the slower kind. Here, the noise faded just enough to hear the scrape of something heavy against concrete.

A woman stood at the curb, hunched awkwardly over a wide cabinet. The furniture was stuck at an angle, one leg caught in the curb where the sidewalk met the road. She was alone, thin arms straining as she tried to lift and pull without tipping it over. A few people passed. No one stopped. No one even looked.

Peter did not think. His legs moved before any doubts could catch up.

He approached quietly, hands out in a silent offering. The woman startled as he neared, her eyes darted to his hoodie, his dirty jeans, his bruised face. She clutched the edge of the cabinet like it might protect her.

But Peter did not flinch. He gently lifted the stuck leg, freeing it with a firm tug, then helped guide the cabinet over the curb and into the hallway of the building without a single word spoken. She watched him for a long moment, breath held like glass waiting to shatter, and then, slowly, she exhaled. Her shoulders softened.

Together, without fanfare or conversation, they moved the rest of her belongings inside: a couple of worn suitcases, a standing lamp, a few mismatched chairs. Peter did not ask questions, only smiling faintly every time she looked toward him. There was something quietly respectful in the absence of small talk.

When the last box had been set down inside the woman’s new first-floor apartment, she reached into her purse, fingers trembling slightly as she withdrew a few folded bills. Three tens and two twenties. 

‘I don’t have much,’ she said. ‘But please… take it.’

Peter blinked. ‘I wasn’t… I wasn’t helping for money.’

‘I know,’ she replied. Her voice was calm but edged with something soft. ‘But you did. And I would’ve had to call someone to help anyway, and probably pay more than this, I wasn’t getting anywhere myself.’ She paused for a moment. 

’So, really, I’m still coming out ahead.’ She justified, hand still outstretched.

He glanced down at the bill. Seventy dollars. More than he had even dared to imagine. He hesitated, unsure. But there was something in her expression, a look that flickered between gratitude and quiet pity, that told him she knew. She had seen the shadows under his eyes, the way his sleeves swallowed his wrists, the hunger he thought he had hidden behind stubborn silence.

He would not get a chance like this again. He looked into her kind eyes, then nodded, almost imperceptibly, and took the money with careful fingers. 

‘Thank you,’ he said, voice barely above a whisper. Peter’s cheeks grew hot.

She smiled, brief and tired. ‘No, thank you, sweetheart. You take care of yourself, alright?’

He left with the bills folded in his pocket, his heart weighed by the exchange.

─ ⟡ ✢ ⟡ ─

The secondhand store sat between a laundromat and a check-cashing business, its windows smudged and its mannequins dressed in last season’s extra stock. But inside, it was quiet, and the air did not smell like smoke or metal. 

Peter moved from rack to rack until he found a section with further discounted items. He sifted through the jeans until he found a pair close enough to his size, along with a couple of plain t-shirts, a flannel, and a pair of warm drawstring pants; he knew they would be better for sleeping, shivering as he thought of the night just past. Peter also picked out a pair of tattered sneakers, eager to stop walking around with the glaringly bright red feet of his spider suit sticking out from under his jeans. 

He took it all to the counter and paid with trembling hands, counting the bills twice before passing them over. Sixteen dollars. The clothes were folded into a thin brown paper bag, and when he held it in his arms, it was a strange relief to finally own something in this odd world.

As he walked out, a man brushed past him on his way in, lugging a large black donation bag. Peter stepped aside, murmuring an apology. The man glanced at him, just for a second, and then, without breaking stride, reached into the top of his bag and tossed a thick winter coat into Peter’s hands.

Peter froze. 

‘Hey… wait…’ he called after him, but the man was already through the door, already speaking to the clerk. He had not even looked back.

Peter stood there, stunned, clutching the coat. It was warm, clean, and heavy. There had been no transaction. No pity. Just… kindness. The man had not wanted anything in return.

He thought back to what he had believed, about Gotham, about its people. Maybe he had been wrong. Maybe not everyone looked out only for themselves. A small smile turned his cheek ever so slightly.

Peter stopped at a small corner store before dusk, the kind with flickering lights and a dusty radio playing muffled news reports. He knew he would have to scrimp if he wanted to stretch the money until he could figure out some form of income. 

He picked out the bare minimum required to survive, filling a handheld basket with various canned food. Fruits, beans and tuna. Peter had always despised the canned fish, his face twisted into a grim expression as he discerned the peeling label. But he knew he could not afford to be choosy when his options for non-perishable protein were so limited.

He then picked out some peanut butter, recalling a F.E.A.S.T. volunteer shift with his Aunt May as a child. She had explained it was high in fat and a good option for people struggling for food. Peter grabbed a packet of disposable cutlery, not relishing the idea of eating with his hands. Finally, he picked out a loaf of white bread, as a stockpile of items labelled ‘miscellaneous’ met his gaze, he could not believe his good luck when he spotted the multi-packets of socks and underwear being sold for a dollar each.

The total came to the mere count of $10.80, and Peter, for the first time since he crash-landed, was grateful for the year 2013 and this rundown cornerstore. He paid, tucked the items into the bag already containing his clothes, and set out to make the long trek back.

The funeral parlour waited in its stillness, unchanged but somehow more like home. He climbed up the same way he had before, limbs aching with both the weight of his day and lingering wounds. Back in the small upstairs room, he unpacked his food carefully, storing it in the top drawer of one of the units making up his sleeping nook. He set the new clothes beside his makeshift sleeping space, he peeled back the borrowed hoodie and jeans, realising that a trip to a laundromat should probably be the next on his agenda. For the first time since his arrival, Peter pressed the spider on his suit and let it fall to a heap on the floor. 

He rushed against the biting chill of the air to quickly change into his new clothes. One of the shirts, the flannel and his drawstring pants. He glanced down at his small feet, his toes already beginning to turn purple. Peter decided to draw two sets of his socks over them, he did not care much for frostbite. Finally, he pulled the coat over the top. It was thick and luxurious in a way he had not even known in his life in Queens. He smiled faintly once more as he thought of the man’s kindness.

He climbed underneath his shelter of curtains, the remainder of his new clothes folded neatly within reach. His ribs still ached, and the cold still bit at his fingers, but there was food in his drawer and clothes on his back. He lay back and tucked his feet underneath a fold of the curtain atop the floor, hands buried deep within his pockets. He was still hurting. Still lost. 

But he was steady now. Just steady enough to carry on as he fell into a huddled but much-needed slumber.

Chapter Text

It started slow, a darkness creeping in at the edges of his vision. Then it came crashing like waves, green and slick, swallowing him whole. The water felt thick, a viscous weight pressing against his skin, dragging him deeper, pulling him further from the surface. He kicked, but there was no air, no way to breathe. He screamed, but only the bitter sting of the putrid water answered.

He thought it was a dream, or rather a nightmare, and yet, there was something achingly familiar about it. The cold. The green. The unmistakable feeling of decay creeping out from under his ribs. 

In the dream, his arms flailed in desperation, trying to push against the forceful drag of the liquid, but it was everywhere. The green haze enveloped him, clouding his thoughts and memories, until nothing existed except the endless depths. Though his head remained under, he could swear he heard whispers, muffled and unintelligible.

The more he struggled, the more it seemed to weigh him down. And then, as though he were pulled by an invisible tether, Peter was drawn to the surface.

The air hit him like a slap, harsh and stinging, too cold to be real, too sharp to be anything but a nightmare. Peter shot up, his chest heaving with a kind of breathless panic that made his whole perception spin. His fingers dug into the curtains atop the splintered floor beneath him, the sensation of the green water still clinging to his skin, too real, too raw.

He blinked rapidly, eyes trying to clear the haze, but there was something strange, a faint shimmer of that same green around the edges of his vision, lingering like the vestige of something macabre. The green. The water. The weight. He clenched his jaw, rubbing his eyes, trying to force it away, but it would not make itself sparse. 

The panic subsided slowly, fading with each aspect of the surroundings Peter focused on. His body trembled from the aftershock, and the cold sweat turned sticky against his skin. Peter remained crouched there for a long moment, too shaken to move. His fingers still curled against the floorboards, the dull thud of his pulse in his throat.

Finally, he swallowed, blinking again, and the world around him returned to focus, his small room, the crumbling walls of the abandoned parlour, the quiet hum of Karen's dormant processor.

It was simply a dream. A nightmare.

But Peter was not sure he believed it. He could still taste the green water on his tongue, still feel the weight pressing down on him. It was too real. Too strangely familiar.

He did not know how long he had stayed there, breathing shallowly, until Karen’s voice broke the silence.

‘Peter?’ She sounded distant, her presence muted by the space between them. ‘Are you alright?’

Peter hesitated, then nodded, even though he knew she could not see him. He could not bring himself to speak just yet, there was too much swirling in his head, too many broken pieces of the nightmare still jagged at the edges of his mind.

‘I’ll be fine,’ he eventually murmured, though the words felt hollow. ‘Just… just need to focus.’

Karen did not argue. She never did. But there was a subtle shift in her tone when she spoke next, it suggested she understood more than she would admit.

‘I can look up some things for you, Peter,’ she offered, changing the subject, her voice steady and practical. ‘You mentioned wanting to repair tech for money.’

Peter had forgotten he had said that; it snapped his attention back, the thought of survival pulling him from the edge of his thoughts.

Right. Focus. Work. Survival.

Peter nodded again, though this time with more certainty. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘See if you can find any free, obsolete tech in the local marketplaces, things people are willing to give away. Stuff I can fix up and sell.’

The haze of the nightmare lingered in his chest, but Peter tried to shove it aside. He needed something to focus on, something tangible. He had to get by.

‘I’ll begin searching.’ Karen’s voice went silent for a beat, the soft sound of whirring mechanical parts filtering through the room as she worked, it would be soundless to the regular ear.

Peter let her do the heavy lifting while he tried to clear his head. He wrapped his arms around his knees, feeling the cold floor against his skin as his thoughts returned to the real world. Gotham was a city of isolation and corruption, where even the most basic needs were a struggle. Here he was, relying on scraps of technology, chasing fleeting moments of stability.

Minutes passed, maybe longer, before Karen spoke again, her voice cutting through the air with sharp efficiency.

‘I’ve found a few listings. Some broken smartphones, laptops, and a few old game consoles. They’re cheap, or even free. Most of them are out of date and wouldn’t sell for much, but with the right repairs, they could fetch something.’

Peter’s fingers twitched as he thought through the possibilities. His hands itched to fix something, anything. It was not just about the money; it was about feeling useful again. About doing something for himself.

‘Send me the addresses,’ he said, the words coming more easily now. ‘I’ll check them out.’

As Karen transmitted the details, Peter let his head rest against the wall, his eyes slipping closed for just a second. He could still feel the dream lingering in his chest, could still taste the green in the back of his throat, but he would not let it consume him.

─ ⟡ ✢ ⟡ ─

Peter’s arms ached with the weight of the haul, the tattered bags of obsolete tech hanging heavy in his hands despite his strength. The old parts were worth little, but they were his now, salvageable, fixable, pieces of something he could turn into money.

The streets of Gotham felt colder as the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows that stretched like grim, beckoning fingers. He did not want to look up, did not want to acknowledge the way the city was closing in around him, the broken streets, the broken buildings, the broken people. But his steps quickened, the rhythm of his feet a little faster than usual, as if to escape the thoughts gathering too close in his head.

And then, without warning, the alleyway ahead darkened further, and two men stepped out from the shadows, blocking his path.

A tingling at the base of his neck, his extra sense, told him they were trouble. But Peter was confident he could have drawn the same conclusion simply by looking at them, by taking in the way they prowled and sauntered, as though they were cornering prey.

Peter slowed, instinct kicking in. He was not sure what was worse, their eyes, hungry and expectant, or the way they were already eyeing the bags in his hands, calculating. He could feel the tension shift in the air, the kind that came with the unspoken understanding of a danger lingering on the precipice. 

‘Hey, kid,’ one of them said, voice thick with malice. ‘What’s in the bags?’

Peter straightened his back, trying to act bigger than he felt, and forced his voice to remain calm. Of course, these men were no real threat to him, but he had wanted to keep a low profile; fighting them in his civilian attire would certainly do him no favours. 

‘It’s… nothing much. Just some old tech. Broken stuff, really. Not worth anything.’

The second man’s lips twisted into a grin, a cruel, knowing grin that told Peter they did not believe him. 

‘It doesn’t look like “nothing” to me,’ he muttered, glancing at the first man. ‘What do you think? Looks like something we can flip for a buck, right?’

Peter’s stomach twisted. He needed to get away from them. He could talk his way out of this, maybe, he just had to keep calm, keep his head down. No reason to give them anything else. He shifted the bags, trying to find a way to keep the tech safe, trying to show he had nothing of value, nothing worth fighting over.

‘It’s just junk,’ Peter repeated his earlier sentiment, the words coming out clipped. ‘You can have it if you want, just leave me alone. Please.’

He did not want to give it up if he could help it, but it seemed easier to concede. The first man took a step closer, his grin widening. He sized Peter up, eyes narrowing. ‘You sure about that, kid? Because it looks like you’re holding onto it pretty tight for something worth nothing.’

Peter swallowed, his throat dry. They were not giving him much choice.

The second man came around behind him, stepping into Peter’s peripheral vision. ‘We could take it off your hands,’ he said. ‘But you’re gonna have to make it worth our while.’

His eyebrows furrowed. They were trying to steal all he had; what else could they want? Peter flinched, not enjoying the implication. He did not want to fight. Did not want to hurt anyone. And he certainly did not want to reveal himself, not like this. Not for something so small, so trivial.

One of the men reached out suddenly, pushing Peter back against the rough brick of the alley, and he did not try and dodge it. The sharp sting of it rattled through his chest, but he refused to make a sound, refused to give them any satisfaction. He kept his mouth shut, his breath shallow, fingers still gripping the bags, deciding suddenly that he was unwilling to let them go.

They were his.

The first man took a step closer, now inches away. ‘Give me the bags, now.’

Peter’s pulse hammered in his throat, but he held his ground, trying to think, how could he get out of this without causing a scene? But the thought slipped away before he could grab hold of it. The situation was spinning out of his control, and the longer he stayed, the more it felt like he had been swallowed whole by this godforsaken city.

He would let them push him around a bit, let them believe they won, and then he would make a serendipitous escape, make it seem like he was lucky to evade them. Before he could think of anything else, the second man raised his weapon, a blunt steel gun in his hand, the barrel low. 

Despite his resolve to cop their hits, Peter’s eyes still widened as the man swung it down in a brutal arc, slamming the handle into Peter’s forehead. The world spun as pain exploded across his brow, hot and sudden.

His vision blurred, but before the darkness could take him completely, he caught sight of something, someone, turning the corner at the far end of the alley.

A hulking figure in a red helmet. Donned with a brown leather jacket akin to armour.

Peter barely registered the quick pursuit before the figure was there, towering over the two men, anger radiating off him in waves.

‘What the hell is this?’ 

The voice was low and seething. Despite all his power, if this anger had instead been directed at him, Peter was sure he would have trembled beneath it. It carried the weight of something far more dangerous than the newly quivering crooks.

The two men had frozen. They looked at each other, then back at the figure in the red helmet, and without another word, without a moment’s hesitation, they turned and bolted, disappearing into the darkened streets as though they had never bothered him at all.

Peter’s head spun as he tried to focus, still clutching the tech in his hands, feeling the blood trickling down his face. His vision was swimming, and the air felt thick in his chest.

The figure in the red helmet took a step toward him, but then paused, brow furrowing behind the mask. The leather creaked as the man moved closer, stepping into Peter’s unfocused line of sight.

The man, that Peter would sooner describe as a behemoth, halted when he saw Peter’s bloodied brow. He was certain it looked rather alarming with the more mature bruises still blatant across his face. The man’s posture shifted; his anger, while still simmering beneath, turned into something softer. Even with his face shrouded by a mask, he seemed concerned.

‘Kid,’ the figure muttered, stepping closer still, as if making sure Peter was not going to crumble before him. Peter clenched his teeth; he did not enjoy being coddled, and despite his outward appearance, he certainly did not appreciate being referred to as a kid. 

‘What the hell are you doing out here?’

Peter blinked, vision swimming in and out of focus, his body shaking from the residual adrenaline and pain. He did not answer his question; he instead settled for an unconvincing, ‘I… I’m fine.’ 

Peter then paused for a moment, trying to stand up straight without swaying, failing dramatically.

‘I’m great, actually.’ 

Peter's words were a rasp and thick with exhaustion, but there was an underlying, devilish gibe that surprised him, and despite himself, the hulking man snorted.

‘Yeah, you sure look great. Fantastic.’ Sarcasm dripped from his words, his hands reaching for Peter’s shoulder, steadying him.

Peter winced at the touch but did not attempt to pull away. He did not have the will to.

‘You need a doctor, kiddo.’ The man stated, voice softer now, though still laced with that low, threatening tone. ‘You’re bleeding.’

Peter shook his head, biting back a new bout of dizziness. ‘I don’t need…’ He faltered. His body did not want to listen anymore. He thinks he may have been concussed. ‘I don’t need anything.’

The red-helmeted man looked at him for a long moment, eyes unreadable beneath the mask, but judgment seeping out all the same. Then, finally, he sighed, his shoulders sagging theatrically, like the weight of the world had fallen onto them.

‘Yeah, you do,’ the man said, his voice barely a growl. He reached into his jacket, pulling out a thick, worn cloth, and pressed it against Peter’s forehead, gently but firmly. ‘Hold that there. I’m taking you somewhere.’

Peter wanted to protest, but the world was still a dizzying mess around him. The man’s hands were surprisingly careful, his touch steady. Peter’s common sense told him he should turn away; he did not know if he could trust him, and he could not afford to get entangled with the vigilantes of this city, and that is certainly what this man appeared to be.

Yet, despite both these facts, for the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to lean into the support. It would be a fleeting moment, but, for now, it was enough. And this man, in all his danger, for all his mystery, seemed willing to give him that.

‘Who are you?’ Peter asked, his voice barely above a whisper, the question slipping from him before he could stop it. The man’s demeanour shifted slightly, as though he were stunned, but the confusion disappeared almost as quickly as it had surfaced. 

‘You can call me Red Hood.’

There was an edge to the man’s voice. Was Peter supposed to know who he was? He had not yet familiarised himself with this new world, and Peter realised a little too late that it should have been higher on his priority list. He blinked again, then tilted his head. It was too late to pretend he recognised him now.

‘Red Hood?’ He repeated. ‘What kind of name is that?’

Jason’s eyes sharpened as he studied the kid more closely, his attention narrowing. The kid, this kid, was strange in a way that Jason could not quite place. He had the look of someone who had been through hell and come back to tell the tale. His bloodshot eyes, tired and worn beyond his years, spoke of trauma that ran deeper than physical injury.

But it was not just that. The kid had the unmistakable features of someone who had dipped in the Lazarus Pit. The notion made him sick.

Jason’s gaze lingered on the white streak of hair, that unmissable lack of colour against the darkness of his messy brown curls. He looked into the kid’s green eyes, the aberrant colour that Jason had seen many times before, eyes he had seen in a mirror. Jason tried to convince himself it was merely a coincidence, people were born with poliosis all the time, and green eyes were not at all unusual. But as he gazed upon the battered, young boy, he could not help the doubt that festered beneath his skin.

But not only that, the angles of his face were eerily familiar. Jason’s stomach had twisted when he first saw him, and a sense of recognition had flooded through his system. The kid’s look, the innocence behind his discomfort. The way he held himself, as though he were trying to hide and appear strong at the same time. 

It reminded him so copiously of Dick, and he tried not to fret over the implications of such a resemblance, it had to be nothing.

‘Kid…’ Jason’s voice was gruff, his words soft but strained. He did not know what to say. ‘I’m going to take you to a clinic.’

Peter stiffened, still clutching the cloth to his forehead, now refusing to let Jason get any closer. His expression flickered for a moment, like he did not want to give anything away, but the stiffness in his body did not go unnoticed.

‘I’m fine,’ Peter mumbled, his voice barely more than a rasp. ‘Don’t need any medical help.’

Jason’s mouth tightened, the lines of his jaw clenched as his eyes swept over Peter again, lingering on the boy’s small frame. He looked too young to be alone out here, and that made his chest tighten with something ugly and protective. No kid should be walking around Gotham in the dead of night without anyone looking out for them.

‘Look, kid, you’re clearly not “fine”, but I won’t push it.’ Jason resigned, but his frustration slipped through his mask regardless. He knew the kid was a flight risk; he could see it in the way his eyes darted in every which direction, planning escape.

‘But if you’re not going to let me help you, at least let me take you somewhere. You need food. I’m sure it’s been a while, right?’

At that, the kid’s eyes looked up at him, hesitant, but his stomach gave a small, audible growl. Jason felt the muscles in his shoulders loosen as he studied the kid’s face, a flicker of something vulnerable hidden beneath all his fear and exhaustion. Finally, he relented. 

‘Food sounds good,’ he muttered, as though it were shameful to admit.

Jason nodded in relief, stepping back slightly and giving Peter the space he needed. 

‘Come on then. I know just the place.’

Chapter Text

They walked in silence for a few blocks, the only sounds filling the space between them being the constant hum of Gotham’s night and the occasional screech of tires in the distance. Peter’s steps were light but uneven, his head still bleeding, though, by now, the cloth on his forehead had softened the worst of it. Peter could already feel the unsteadiness caused by the hit dissipating. 

Jason led him through a side street and into a small, unassuming place with a flickering neon sign: Batburgers. It was not the kind of place anyone would expect Gotham’s masked vigilantes to frequent, but the novelty was amusing. It was also cheap, quick, and, for some reason that he could not comprehend, it actually served decent food.

Peter blinked up at the sign, confused, but said nothing as they entered. Immediately, he was met by an influx of colour. Each table was themed: bright greens, vibrant reds. He spotted a picture of the vigilante he had run into a few days past, bold letters underneath claimed what he already knew; his name was Red Robin. In all his years as Spider-Man, he had never seen anything like this. Peter, rather bemused, now eyed a poster of the hulking man beside him on the opposite wall. He wanted to ask him about it, but he suspected it was information a native of this city already ought to know.

The moment they were fully inside, Red Hood made his way to the counter, looking at the cashier with a slight nod. He turned back to Peter, his disposition warmer now.‘Order whatever you want, kid.’

Peter hesitated, glancing at the menu, eyebrows furrowing slightly at a fair few of the items, all boasting references he was yet to understand. ‘I.. uh, I don’t need a lot,’ he said sheepishly. ‘Just… a burger.’

The man raised an eyebrow. 

‘Just a burger?’ He paused, glancing briefly at Peter’s scant frame. ‘Don’t be shy. Get whatever you want.’

Peter stayed silent in protest, lips drawn thin; he did not want to overstep. But when the man ordered a multitude of burgers despite his claim of wanting one, his eyes lit up, betraying his wafer-thin conviction. He felt a tug in his lower stomach as the man spoke with the cashier, a testament to the hunger he had tried to hide. 

Fortunately for him, with the shop eerily empty, it was not much longer before their food was ready. At this hour, the people of Gotham were safely in their homes, or at least those with sense were. Peter could not have felt further from his life in Queens, his home in the city that never sleeps.

Jason stayed silent, watching him, an unseen flicker of a smile hidden beneath his helmet. There was something endearing about the kid, but it quickly turned sour. Jason’s eyes flickered to Peter’s bruised, slight hands as they carried the tray of food. He swallowed, unsure of how to feel. 

He was furious at whoever had hurt this kid, whoever had dared to lift a hand to him. But it was not simply the men from earlier, Jason was privy enough to know that the bruises and cuts that littered the kid’s skin were not new, he needed to know who caused them, to know who he would need to instil a dreaded fear into. 

His eyes flashed briefly with anger at the thought, and he took a slow breath to lessen his wrath. He was concerned, deeply concerned. A kid this young should not be alone in a city, let alone this city.

As they sat down, selecting a Nightwing-themed table, Jason caught himself staring. He did not know why, but something about the boy was unusual, strange. It was not just his vulnerability or his obvious exhaustion; it was something in his demeanour. Jason was comfortable with the fact that he was off-putting to most, so he had not been expecting the ease of the kid’s temperament; after the boy’s initial hesitance, he did not presume to be followed so readily.

However, what Jason could not see was the fact that Peter could not sense any danger emanating from him, despite his hulking figure, despite the remnants of gunpowder on his person, or the scent of blood that filled the space between them. 

Entirely contrary to his appearance, the Red Hood felt wholly non-threatening. Peter selected one of the burgers, working quickly to unwrap it, but he slowed when he felt Red Hood’s gaze from behind his helmet.

Peter nudged the tray in his direction, motioning for him to take one, but the man lifted a hand to his helmet.

‘It would defeat the purpose of this if I took one, wouldn’t it?’ He stated simply. Peter looked stunned, eyeing the crowded tray dubiously.

‘Why’d you order so many then?!’ His voice was bewildered, taking a higher pitch, but the man merely shrugged. Jason knew the domino he wore beneath would conceal his identity just fine, but he was not yet inclined to reveal that they shared both an unusual eye colour and hair feature.

From then on, Peter ate mostly in silence, devouring his meal in record time, not bothering with any formalities or savouring each bite. It was clear to Jason that he had been starving, having likely been living off scraps.

When the last burger was gone, despite the large number, Peter leaned back in his seat with a contented sigh. Despite his mask, Jason fought to hide his smile, looking away quickly to quell the softness that was starting to creep in.

After a beat of silence, Jason cleared his throat, trying to return to some semblance of normalcy. 

‘Alright, kid, you wanna tell me your name?’

Peter hesitated, chewing on his lip for a moment. Jason could see the discomfort in his eyes, the way he seemed guarded. He tilted his head, trying to make his voice sound less intimidating.

‘Your name?’ He asked again.

Peter felt his heartbeat quicken, an uneasy tightness creeping into his chest. He had yet to think this through. 

Peter was not sure giving his full name would be wise, despite the man’s apparent kindness; he was a stranger after all and an anonymous one at that. The boy pondered for a brief moment, eventually thinking of his late father. He had meant to bear another name, had it not been for a tragedy that took place long before he was born. Peter knew it would be difficult to trace back to him, and yet it would still connect him to the family he had found himself yearning for ever since their untimely departure.

‘Peter,’ the kid finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. ‘Peter… Grayson.’

Jason Todd was not often caught off guard.

But the words had barely left the kid’s mouth when his mind began to spiral. He blinked once, twice, and stared. In that moment, he saw only Peter, the world around the young boy dimming into a nonsensical static. 

Grayson.

It echoed louder in his skull than the gunfire that followed his every movement through Gotham. It was far from an uncommon surname, and it would not have been quite so unusual without the uncanny resemblance he had picked up on earlier. 

His first instinct was denial. It had to be some kind of coincidence. Gotham was large. The world was even larger, and his accent was not that of Gotham. But Jason had been trained to trust his instincts, and every cell in his body screamed that this was not simply some random kid.

The resemblance was truly unnerving. That same jawline, those cheekbones, the way his smile curled a little too easily. Jason had chalked it up to a trick of his eyes, a coincidental likeness to the brother he both adored and pretended to resent. The only difference came in the form of colouring. With the addition of a white streak, Peter bore hair of a lighter brown set against paler skin. 

Jason was suddenly compelled to count the years back in his head, the boy looked young, though his birth would have barely placed Dick on the precipice of adulthood. 

Taboo, sure. But far from impossible. 

He tried to speak, tried to summon some sardonic quip to bridge the awkward silence left by the kid’s introduction. But for a beat too long, he just sat there. Watching.

The black and blue of their chosen table suddenly seemed too on the nose. Peter, seated across the booth, tilted his head at him, brows rising in an amused confusion. 

‘Uh… you okay?’ His cheeks had reddened slightly, as though he were embarrassed by Jason’s stare. Peter kept busy, mindlessly wiping his hands clean as he waited for a reply.

Jason blinked, then coughed once, more of a sputter, really, and forced his voice to smooth itself out.

‘No. No, it’s… fine.’ He exhaled slowly, leaning back in the booth and turning his gaze toward the window, giving himself a second to recalibrate. 

‘Just wasn’t expecting it. I’ve… got a cousin named Grayson. Stupidly cheerful too.’

Peter's laugh was relieved, light and unbothered, and Jason wanted to kick a wall just for how easily the sound slid past his defences.

‘Must be a great guy, if he’s got anything in common with me.’ Peter offered innocently, shrugging his hands back into the too-long sleeves of his hoodie, the cuffs now clenched tight in his fists.

Jason smirked despite himself. The kid was quick. But his grin faltered when he realised who he had been reminded of.

What surprised him the most was Peter, this kid with sharp instincts and an awkward kind of charm, did not even flinch in his presence. No wariness, no fear and no, ‘oh my god, you’re Red Hood,’ when he had introduced himself earlier.

Jason narrowed his eyes, careful now. ‘So, Peter Grayson, you didn’t answer me earlier. What were you doing out there?’

Peter raised a brow, a feigned innocence tugging at the corner of his mouth. ‘Uh, just collecting some stuff?’ He picked up the bag and waved it around for emphasis, though his hands trembled ever so slightly. 

‘You know, nothing suspicious, just... the usual. But I realise saying that probably makes me sound suspicious. But it’s just…’ He trailed off, realising he had begun to ramble and opted for showing him the inside of the bag instead. Red Hood’s eyes zeroed in on its contents, seeming to find nothing of interest; it was hard for Peter to tell with the mask.

He gave a slight shrug, but the way he avoided Jason's gaze made it clear that something was not right.

Jason's unseen expression did not change, but there was a flicker of doubt in his eyes. 

‘Right. The usual,’ he repeated, his voice lowering, almost to a whisper. But he was not going to press him further; if Peter had wanted to be upfront, he would have already.

Jason recalled the scuffed-up jeans now hidden under the table, the hoodie too thin for Gotham nights and the shoes, too large for his feet, worn flat at the heel.

‘You’re not from around here,’ Jason stated more than asked, tapping his thumb idly against the cracking blue laminate of the table.

Peter shrugged, unbothered but still guarded. ‘Is it that obvious, huh?’

Jason could tell he was not going to say anything further, so he changed the subject, narrowing his gaze behind the mask, ‘And earlier, it sounded like you didn’t know who I was?’

Peter’s nose scrunched. He had already made it clear in the alley that he did not know him; there was no backtracking now. 

‘Well… you’re wearing a distinctive helmet and some very cool leather, and you’re on that poster over there. So I’m guessing you’re someone with a reputation I’m about to feel bad for not knowing.’

Jason stared blankly, despite the confirmation of what he had already expected. 

‘You’ve never heard of Red Hood?’

Peter blinked, mock confusion clouding his face. ‘Is that, like… a band?’ He joked, despite already having heard his name.

A beat. Then Jason barked out a laugh. A real one. Short and stunned.

‘No, kid. Not a band.’ Jason shook his head slowly. ‘Just… someone people usually don’t talk to so casually.’

Peter then smiled, easy, wide and sincere. ‘Well, I figure if you haven’t murdered me by now, then you’re likely okay. That’s probably not the greatest logic, though.’

His posture was open and trusting. No tension in his shoulders. No slight adjustments of weight suggested he was ready to flee, though Jason was confident the opposite was true. Just calm, wide-eyed honesty. As though he were not something dangerous.

And that, more than the surname or the resemblance or the way he seemed to hold his breath around this kid, was what made Jason’s throat tighten. This kid trusted him. Jason Todd. Red Hood. The walking cautionary tale of Gotham. 

He cleared his throat, looking away.

When he looked back, Peter was still smiling slightly, and Jason resisted the urge to ruffle his hair. Barely. 

He said nothing more about the name or his living situation. He would dig later, when the kid was not watching. When it would not ruin the way Peter looked at him, like he was someone worth trusting. 

And there were certain things he could discern for himself. The kid was scrappy. Smart-mouthed, too. The way he handled his food, quick, grateful, like he did not know when the next meal would come, told Jason everything he needed to know.

And he hated how familiar it felt.

Jason leaned back into the booth, gloved palms resting loosely against the edge of the cracked vinyl. 

‘You done?’ He asked, tone casual. Neutral.

Peter nodded, piling the burger wrappers on top of the previously empty tray. 

‘Yeah. Thank you. I owe you.’

‘You don’t owe me anything,’ Jason replied. He paused, then added, ‘Come on, I’ll walk you home.’

The reaction was instant. Subtle, but Jason had trained himself to notice subtle.

Peter had stiffened. Not visibly, not enough that an average person would clock it, but Jason was no average person. The kid’s hand paused for a moment, shoulders tensed just slightly under that oversized hoodie, and his gaze flickered, uncertain.

That was all it took. Confirmation.

Regardless of the suspicion that had already festered, Jason’s stomach sank a little. The silence hung heavy.

Peter recovered quickly, letting out a soft laugh that did not quite reach his eyes. ‘Appreciate it, but I’m good. Really. I know my way.’

Jason tilted his head, unconvinced. ‘It’s late.’

Peter’s smile turned boyish. ‘I didn’t realise directions change when late…’

Jason did not smile back. ‘Peter, it’s not safe.’

He stood, placing his hands against the denim of his jeans. ‘Trust me, I’ll be fine.’

Jason stood too, slower, folding his arms. ‘I’ll feel better if I know you got home alright.’

Peter’s jaw tensed, just for a second. Then he tilted his head, like he was weighing something, some unseen scale tipping in his mind. ‘I appreciate that. Really. But I’m good on my own.’

There was no heat in it. No rudeness. Just finality. And something older than his age, something Jason knew too well. That stubborn brand of self-reliance born out of necessity, not pride. Jason wanted to push. To insist. But something about the way the kid’s shoulders angled, just slightly defensive, wary, told him that pushing harder would just scare him off.

So Jason exhaled, raised his hands like he was backing off. ‘Alright. Have it your way.’

Peter smiled again, lighter this time. ‘I always do.’

And just like that, the kid was leaving. Ducking out the diner’s door, shoulders hunched against the chill of Gotham’s night. He waved at Jason through the glass and mouthed a farewell.

Jason tossed a few bills on the table and followed. Not close. Just enough to keep him in view. The kid had refused help, but that did not mean Jason was going to let him vanish into the dark without a second thought.

Peter moved fast. Efficient, almost too confident for someone his age. He wove through the city like he would know it in his sleep, ducking between crumbling alleys and cracked sidewalks with practised ease.

Jason kept his distance, sticking to the shadows. He was good at this. He had tailed all sorts of people without ever having broken a sweat. But the further they got, the more uneasy he felt.

The buildings around them grew older and more desolate, streetlights grew sparser before disappearing altogether, and the air was somehow colder. Every window in sight was boarded, and walls became scarred by graffiti and decay.

Jason’s frown deepened.

This was not where a kid should be living. Not alone. Not even for a night.

Peter did not slow. He turned down a side alley, passed beneath a broken fire escape, then cut across a rusting chain-link fence that bordered what looked like an old laundromat.

Jason sped up just a little, staying behind a row of dented rubbish bins. But when he reached the alley, Peter had disappeared. He was nowhere in sight; the space entirely empty.

Jason stopped dead. Looked up, then to the sides. No footfalls. No shifting shadows. Just damp brick walls and the soft hum of far-off traffic.

Jason’s eyes narrowed. It was not just that Peter had disappeared. It was how. Clean and deliberate, like he knew he was being followed, Jason clenched his jaw.

Not in anger, but rather surprise. And, if he was honest with himself, a reluctant note of admiration. Smart kid. Smarter than most.

Jason stepped further into the alley, scanning rooftops, windows, and even the rusted ladders overhead. Nothing. Not even the soft sound of footsteps.

He ran a hand over the back of his helmet, muttering under his breath.

‘Where the hell are you, Peter?’

Because kids did not simply vanish like that.

Jason lingered in the alley a moment longer, pacing around, sweeping the upper windows, the fire escapes, the places a small frame could tuck into and vanish. But the kid had pulled a clean escape. No trace. No sound. Not even the hint of a footfall in a puddle.

He muttered a quiet curse under his breath.

Then, without another word, he reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out his phone. The cracked screen lit his helmet with a pale glow, and his thumb hovered over the encrypted contact list.

If the kid was using a fake name, Babs would be able to find out. And if it was not fake...

Jason’s lips thinned, jaw tight. He could not afford to think of that in this moment.

He tapped the screen. Grayson or not, no one that young should be alone. Let alone disappearing that easily. He would have to make a phone call. He had not been on the comms tonight. It rang only once before going through.

‘Hey Hood, are you in trouble?’ Her voice was already alert, as it was not often he contacted them on patrol. 

‘Yeah, yeah. Everything's fine. Would you be able to look into someone for me?’ He was quick to reassure her. 

‘Yeah. What's wrong?’ She questioned, voice clearly intrigued. He winced slightly, hoping she would not pay any mind to the surname. 

‘There’s a kid, Peter Grayson. He sounds like he could be from New York, and looks about twelve.’ He paused for a moment. ‘It seems like he is on his own. Could you poke around and see what kind of records you can find? He was pretty beaten up.’ 

‘Yeah, I’ll get on that tomorrow. I’m walking the others through a reconnaissance mission at the moment.’ If she was wary about the name, she hid it well. ‘Where is he now? We can’t trust CPS at the moment.’

Jason had been hoping she would not ask this.

‘I’m not sure, he was an easy-going kid, but he got pretty skittish when I offered to walk him home. Obviously, I tried to follow him back, but he disappeared first chance he got.’ 

He cringed, dreading the judgment.

‘Disappeared? Surely he couldn’t get away that easily.’

Jason pressed his lips together, feeling a tension in his neck tighten.

‘Yeah, disappeared. One minute I’m right behind him, and the next… nothing.’ He glanced over his shoulder, as though he needed to confirm Peter had not just popped back into existence. 

Her silence on the other end of the line stretched, and Jason could practically hear the gears turning in her head.

‘You think he’s trained?’ She asked finally, her tone cautious but sharp.

Jason ran a hand down his mask; it felt awkward with his face covered.

‘No, it’s not like that. He’s just a kid who needs help.’

‘A kid who needs help...’ Babs repeated slowly, her voice careful, but not sceptical. ‘Alright. I’ll see what I can find. But, Hood, you gotta be careful. This might not be a simple runaway situation.’

Jason’s jaw tightened. He did not need to be told to be careful. He knew what he was getting into.

‘Yeah, I get it,’ Jason said, pressing his back to the brick wall. His eyes scanned the empty street, the silence amplifying in the wake of their conversation. 

‘He’s just a kid, O. Whatever happened to him, I don’t think he’s out here looking for trouble. He just... needs a way out.’ He laughed bitterly, ‘And he’s got a hell of a way of disappearing.’

Babs did not respond right away, but Jason could tell she was considering his words. There was a beat of silence, then she spoke again, her tone still cautious, but without the bite of doubt.

‘Alright. I’ll dig into it. But, Hood, make sure you don’t push him too hard. If he’s been alone, he probably won’t trust you easily. And if he’s potentially on someone’s radar... I need you to be sure of what you’re walking into before you put yourself in danger.’

Jason’s mouth twitched into a grim smile. Babs was ever the realist, but she did not need to tell him this. He had been walking this tightrope for years, and he knew the last thing he needed was to make a situation worse by pushing too hard or too fast.

‘Yeah, I’m not looking to make him run faster,’ Jason muttered, glancing up at the sky. ‘I just... don’t know what I’m dealing with yet.’

Babs paused, and he could almost hear her mind working over the details.

‘I’ll have something for you tomorrow,’ she said finally, her voice firm. ‘And I’ll keep it off the radar, for now at least. But I mean it, Jay, watch your back. You don’t know who else could be looking for him.’

Jason nodded even though she could not see him. He had already thought of that. Whoever was after Peter, if anyone was, could not be good news, if the state of Peter’s frame was any indication. He had to force his anger down once more as he thought of the grim injuries.

‘Yeah,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll be careful.’

‘Good,’ she replied, tone softer now. ‘Call me if you need me.’

Jason ended the call, staring into the dark alley. The weight of the situation settled in his chest. Babs had not questioned his instincts, but she was not about to let him rush in blind, either.

He stepped forward, back into an empty street, a feeling of deep unease gnawing at him.

Chapter Text

The air inside the parlour was still, thick with the scent of dust, old wood, and something faintly chemical, it clung to the cracked floorboards like residue. Peter had peeled back the moth-eaten curtain of his little alcove, laying out his haul on the warped floor with delicate precision. His breath fogged faintly in the cold, and the flickering lantern he had uncovered in the old storage cabinet cast long, soft-edged shadows across the room.

A battered laptop. Three outdated smartphones, each missing screens or back covers. An ancient handheld gaming console whose casing was more duct tape than plastic. A few power bricks, frayed cords, and the skeletal remains of what might have once been a router, though Peter was unsure.

He sat cross-legged on the floor, sorting everything by type, condition, and potential. His fingers moved automatically, quick and careful, muscle memory doing the work while his mind moved freely.

The space was mostly silent, except for the occasional clink of a screwdriver, the soft snap of a dislodged panel being put back into place or the occasional quiet hum of satisfaction when he discovered something intact: a salvageable circuit, an undamaged motherboard, or, best of all, a battery that had not swollen or burst from age.

Peter took one of the smartphones, carefully cracked it open, and began transplanting components from another. Despite the dire space, his spider-sense had never flickered here, his posture relaxed, tension bleeding slowly from his frame with each successful task. This was the one place he felt completely in control, amid the wires and batteries, surrounded by the kind of problems he could fix with his hands and a bit of intuition. Problems that made sense.

He rewired a micro-USB port onto the motherboard, coaxed life from a flickering backlight, and pulled apart a third phone for its working power button. Within the hour, he had a patchworked device pieced together, clunky, ugly, but somehow functional; the final product looked akin to Frankenstein’s monster.

The screen buzzed once, then bloomed to life with a faint, grainy boot logo. Peter grinned, small but sincere, the tiredness in his shoulders lifting just a little. It was not much, and it certainly was not sleek, but it worked.

He turned to the remaining devices, picking out his next task. 

By the time the grey morning light pushed through the grime of the second-floor window, the floor around Peter was littered with discarded shells and twisted cords, but the centrepieces of his makeshift workspace gleamed with tentative promise; a revived phone, a partially rebuilt laptop running on a repurposed battery, and a handful of circuit boards now stripped bare for parts.

Peter stretched, back popping audibly, then leaned against the support beam with a satisfied huff.

He only sat there for a moment before sliding the newly refurbished phone into the inner pocket of his jacket. He was quick to make his way out of the parlour. By the time he got into town, the pawn shop he had spotted the day before would be open, and the boy was keen to make the most of his time.

The ether was overcast and grim as he trotted along, and yet Peter thought it was the nicest Gotham had been since his impromptu arrival. It looked only half miserable, which was quite a feat.

The bell above the pawnshop door gave a quiet jingle, as though the inanimate object, much like himself, could not muster enthusiasm this early in the day; he rubbed his eyes. The man behind the counter did not look up, his attention fixed on the flickering screen of a small television bolted to the wall. A morning news cycle buzzed on low volume, something about another chemical spill in the harbour and an unconfirmed sighting of some vigilante called Batman near the district.

Peter hovered just inside the door, the phone tucked carefully into the pocket of his coat. His palms were sweating.

He stepped forward, cleared his throat.

The clerk finally looked up, eyes bloodshot and vaguely disinterested. 

‘Hmm…’ He huffed. ’What’re you sellin’?’

Peter pulled the refurbished smartphone from his coat and set it gently on the counter. ‘Fixed it up myself. Wasn’t working when I found it. Swapped the screen, power button, and battery… It boots clean.’

The man raised a brow, lifting the phone with a suspicious grunt. He tapped the power button. The screen lit.

Peter stood still, trying not to shift under the man’s scrutiny. A long beat passed, filled only by the tinny drone of the news broadcast.

‘You fixed this?’

Peter nodded. ‘Yeah. It’s clean. No bloatware. Sim-free. I kept the IMEI from the original logic board, so you won’t get flagged selling it.’

That got a look. Not hostile, but appraising. The man clicked his tongue, turned the phone over again.

‘Fifty,’ he said flatly.

Peter did not flinch. ‘Eighty.’

The man gave him a long, amused look. ‘You trying to bargain with me, kid?’

Peter met his eyes, unblinking. ‘I know what parts go for. And I know how much it’ll sell for once you flip it.’

Another pause. Then, to Peter’s surprise, a slow nod. ‘Seventy. Cash.’

Peter nodded once. ‘Deal.’

The man counted out a thin wad of bills from the register, and Peter pocketed them quickly, murmuring a soft thanks before stepping back into the cold.

He did not smile. Not really. But there was something softer in his chest. Something like control. It had felt good to earn money for himself. 

Peter pulled his coat tighter as he moved through the older parts of the city, following no particular path. His spider-sense was quiet. That was rare enough these days that he let himself slow down.

That was when he saw it.

A building nestled between an old courthouse and a crumbling art gallery, towering, cathedral-like, its blackened stone and narrow arched windows framing the entrance like a chapel doorway. A carved sign hung beside the door, its lettering elegant and slightly worn.

Peter hesitated only a moment before stepping inside; he had research to do, and Karen’s battery can only stretch so far before he figures out a way to charge her.

The heavy doors of the library groaned open, and he winced at the racket he was making in what should be a silent place. Peter stepped through the threshold and let them close behind him with a muted thud. The new temperature registered with him instantly, warmer, stiller, as the sound of the city dulled to nothing.

It smelled like paper, varnish and layering dust, subtle enough that he knew the average person would not register it. He moved slowly, pulling his hood down, his eyes adjusting to the low light that filtered through cathedral-like windows and flickering yellow bulbs atop understated chandeliers.

The library looked like it had once been a chapel, or maybe a courthouse, judging by the high ceilings and looming archways. Now, it was both and neither. But stunning nonetheless. 

Peter had felt eyes on him, but by the time he looked toward reception, the woman there had continued her work. He walked closer and hesitated at her desk.

The woman looked like she belonged in the building, composed and elegant. Her red hair was pulled back into a loose braid over one shoulder, and a forest green sweater was draped over her frame. A wheelchair framed her lower half, half-hidden behind the desk, though he could see the handles sitting just above the surface. She was typing something fast, with purpose, fingers flying across the keys of a monitor that looked two decades out of date.

Peter hovered at the edge of her periphery.

She looked up then, her eyes sharp and kind all at once. Though she looked tired, as though she were someone used to long hours and longer nights, but still made the effort to smile.

‘Morning,’ she said, voice light. ‘Do you need a hand?’

Peter blinked. ‘Uh… Yes, please.’

Her smile quirked sideways. ‘Alright. What can I help you with?’

‘I was wondering if I could… use a computer,’ he said, cautiously. Not unfriendly, just not offering more than needed. His hands slid into his coat pockets, pulling the sleeves down further.

She tilted her head, studying him with a gaze that saw more than it let on. ‘Sure. We’ve got public terminals, a few of them still work like they should. Might be a little slow, though.’

‘That’s fine.’ He rocked back onto his heels.

‘You looking for something in particular?’ she asked, still pleasant, but her tone gently probing.

He shook his head, gaze not meeting hers. ‘Not really. Just… looking stuff up.’

She nodded slowly, smiling. ‘Looking’s allowed.’

She turned her chair slightly and gestured toward a corridor between some shelves. ‘There’s an open desk three rows down on the left. You’ll find a computer with a yellow sticker on the monitor. It gets signal better than the others. There is a piece of paper with the guest login credentials taped to the table.’

Peter nodded. ‘Thanks.’

As he turned to go, her voice stopped him.

‘You got a name, by any chance? I’m Barbara, though you can call me Babs.’

He paused. He had not wanted this question.

‘…Peter.’

That was it; he would not offer a last name and hoped she would not request one. No elaboration. Just Peter.

Barbara’s fingers stilled on her desk. She had been suspecting as much, but the confirmation still managed to throw her off balance. There had been a message from Jason the night before, vague, but full of tension. A kid. Young and worse for wear, she looked at the fading injuries sadly. Jason had said his name was Peter.

Her eyes narrowed, barely perceptible.

She would not push. Jason had hinted that he was a flight risk.

‘Well, Peter,’ she said, her voice smooth and unreadable, ‘let me know if you need help. And be gentle with that computer, it’s survived its fair share of blackouts, at least two floods, and one kid trying to root it; he almost bricked the poor thing.’

Peter cracked a brief smile at that. ‘Sounds sturdy.’

‘Oh, it is. Old tech usually is.’

He nodded once more, then turned and walked quietly toward the computer wing.

Barbara watched him go, waited until he disappeared into the shelves. Then she tapped her finger against the desk once. Twice. She needed to call Jason.

Babs waited until the soft thuds of Peter’s footsteps had faded beyond the maze of shelves. She listened for a moment more, just to be sure, then pulled her phone from beneath the desk, thumb already hovering over her contacts.

She did not even wait to greet him when Jason picked up.

‘Hey Babs, how’d the search go?’

Her tone was flat. ‘Quite poorly. I found absolutely nothing and was about to call you with the bad news when a certain, battered boy, going by the name of Peter came in. Said he was looking to use some computers.’

The silence on the other end was short-lived.

“Peter’s there?!”

She heard the immediate rustle of fabric, the metallic clink of gear. He was moving, fast.

‘Oh my god,’ Babs muttered in slight humour, despite the situation. ‘You’re actually running.’

‘He disappears!’ Jason snapped, not seeing any humour in it, his breath already a little shallow. ‘I ducked behind a few bins for one moment, and then he was just… gone. Of course I’m running.’

Babs pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘You didn’t think it was worth mentioning he looks shockingly like your older brother?’

Jason hissed, then grunted as if he were vaulting something. ‘Yeah, that’s… okay, that’s fair. I should have mentioned it before asking a favour.’

‘And let’s not forget the features he shares with you. Lazarus Pit markers? Really?’

‘I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to jump to conclusions!’ he barked. ‘It’s not like I’ve got DNA or a confession or… look, I didn’t expect any of this.’

‘No,’ Babs drawled.

‘I already feel bad enough, Babs,’ Jason snapped. ‘Where is he? Is he still there?’

‘He’s on one of the computers. Not talking much. His guard’s up something shocking.’

Jason did not answer for a moment. He was breathing harder now, probably sprinting. She could hear it in the wind rushing past the microphone.

‘Alright,’ he said, lower now. ‘I’m maybe three minutes out.’

‘Well, I’d suggest cutting that in half if you can. You should’ve seen the way he scanned the building when he walked in. He was counting exits.’

Jason cursed again, low and vicious. ‘Babs, don’t let him leave.’

‘I’m a librarian, not a warden,’ she said. But she was already adjusting her chair, angling it slightly toward the hallway.

‘Please. Just stall him if he tries. Keep him talking.’

There was a pause. Then Babs exhaled. ‘Alright. I’ll try.’

She ended the call with a flick of her thumb, jaw tight as she glanced back toward the camera feed she had brought up. Peter was hunched over the terminal, absorbed in the articles flooding the screen. He did not seem nervous, just aware. Even now, his fingers hovered over the keyboard like he was ready to flee if something shifted.

Then, as if summoned by her thought, Peter pushed back from the desk suddenly. Not frantic, not panicked, decisive.

Babs wheeled herself away from the desk with practised smoothness, intercepting him as he rounded the corner.

‘Heading out already?’ she asked, keeping her voice easy, light.

Peter nodded, eyes flicking toward the entrance like they were magnetised. ‘Yeah. I’ve been here long enough.’

‘You sure?’ she asked, arching a brow. ‘Still a few computers left uncrashed.’

He gave a polite, almost apologetic smile. ‘Thanks. But I should go.’

Something in his stance shifted. A tiny withdrawal, like he had already made up his mind. He did not look scared, but he did look prepared. And Babs knew enough not to cage a cornered animal, even if it wore a hoodie and had sad, adorable eyes.

She nodded slowly, heart tugging. ‘Alright, Peter. Take care.’

He gave a quick nod, a flash of gratitude in his gaze, and then he was gone, slipping out the door with a wave before she could say anything else.

He had not run, but he certainly was speedy.

By the time Jason burst through the front doors, she was already leaning back behind the desk.

‘He just left,’ she said.

Jason’s mask turned sharply toward her, it was strange to see it in the daylight; the frustration radiated off him like heat. ‘You let him leave?’

‘I wasn’t about to spook a kid who’s already on high alert,’ she said, calm but firm. ‘I tried, but he was eager to go. It seemed like he knew you were coming, but he couldn’t have.’

Jason’s hands clenched into fists, then opened again. Babs tilted her head slightly. 

‘Count me in on whatever this is, we’ll keep it between us for now.’

─ ⟡ ✢ ⟡ ─

Peter sat impatiently before one of the dusty terminals, as it took an unprecedented amount of time for a login screen to flicker to life.

The monitor buzzed faintly, the fan humming like an insect trying to escape through a closed window. Peter hunched over the keyboard, fingers poised, eyes flicking fast across lines of text and grainy images. He had started with a broad search: Gotham Vigilantes. The results had been overwhelming.

So he had begun to narrow it down.

First, The Batman. He faintly recalled hearing about him on the small television in the pawn shop just that morning.

As he filtered through decades of rumour, articles, and contradictory accounts, it was clear: Batman was more than a myth. There were too many threads. Too many eye-witness reports, too many blurry stills, too many heavily redacted GCPD logs. 

The first sightings stretched back nearly twenty years. Earlier, some said. Others claimed the Bat had never been a single man, that it was a title, was passed along with the armour. A symbol that survived its wearers.

Peter did not know what to believe.

He opened a second tab, typing: Gotham vigilantes timeline.

The page populated slowly.

Names followed. Robin. Batgirl. Spoiler. Orphan. Nightwing. Red Robin. Each one attached to a shifting figure, masked, costumed, sometimes caped. Some disappeared from the record for years, while others remained steadfast.

Peter squinted at the oldest mentions of Robin, trying to determine if there had been one or many. Articles hinted at it, different heights, different fighting styles. Some wore green, red and yellow, and another, grey, red and black. 

Another tab: Red Hood.

That one drew his full attention.

There were not as many hits. The Red Hood did not seem to operate with the same frequency as the Bat. Less predictable. Less… visible.

More violent.

Peter studied the photos, the few that existed. The figure in them wore a red helmet, no visible facial features, and a brown leather jacket over body armour. He always carried pistols. The accounts were similar to what he had seen the night prior. One article had called him the black sheep of Gotham’s vigilantes.

There was no name. No identity. No leaks. No fingerprints on file. Just speculation. Street-level rumours claimed he had once worked with Batman, until something went wrong. Others insisted he was a mercenary who only pretended to care about justice.

Peter leaned closer to the monitor, eyes narrowing as he pulled up incident logs tagged Red Hood. Nearly all involved illegal weapons raids, drug rings, or human trafficking busts, operations the Red Hood dismantled with ruthless precision. Few survivors. Those who did live were tight-lipped or terrified.

A note in one report caught Peter’s attention:

He is known to use lethal force, but this does not extend to bystanders or victims. Tactical efficiency suggests a military background. Appears to operate independently from Batman.

Peter sat back slightly.

That tracked.

The man who had sat across from him had not acted like a soldier. But he had irrefutably looked like one. Though, despite the dangerous picture his research had been painting, Peter’s spider-sense had stayed silent the whole time. No danger.

He clicked back through the incident logs, picking apart dates and locations. The Red Hood moved like a spectre. He was not tied to one neighbourhood, but he preferred the worst ones, places the GCPD had abandoned. The kind of streets where missing persons reports got “lost.”

Peter’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. He typed:

Red Hood affiliations?

A few forums speculated. Some claimed he was a splinter of the Bat family. Others believed he had once worked with Batman and split off due to… ideological conflict. No confirmation. Just theories.

Peter leaned back again, jaw clenched lightly. The vigilantes of Gotham were tight-lipped. Cloaked and guarded. Nobody knew their names; it was part of the mythos. It kept them safe.

Though Peter was not after names. He was looking for patterns so he could better avoid them; he had already run into a couple. And the Red Hood had one. Brutal but targeted. Deliberate. Always the worst of the worst. Always the city’s rot.

Peter pulled out a piece of paper from a supplied stack and began noting down dates with a communal pen. He noted locations and rumours, adding every detail he could.

Peter’s fingers hovered over the keyboard once more, but he had stopped reading ten minutes ago.

The text on screen, some half-sensationalised forum thread about the so-called “Robins” of Gotham, blurred in his vision. He could not focus. Something was off.

Not the room. The room was quiet. Still.

It was inside him, the subtle, low-humming discomfort, like his whole body was tuning itself to a frequency only he could hear. A tension spidering up his spine. Like the air was too dense now. Like the floor might suddenly drop out from beneath him.

It was not a fully realised danger, but it was close enough that his instincts kicked in before logic could catch up. A subtle warning.

Peter switched the computer off, pushed back from the desk and stood.

Quick, smooth and practised.

His hoodie came up over his head as he moved through the rows, soft footfalls echoing faintly on the carpeted floor as he made his way toward the front of the library. As he turned the final corner, heading for the exit, the librarian, Babs, appeared from behind the desk.

‘Heading out already?’ she asked, the wheels of her chair angled as she turned to face him properly.

Peter blinked, slowing just slightly. He had liked her; she had a warm smile. But her voice had shifted now, still friendly, but alert. Measured.

He gave a tight, polite nod. ‘Yeah. I’ve been here long enough.’

‘You sure?’ she said, raising a brow. ‘Still a few computers left uncrashed.’

He hesitated for just a second. Not long enough to seem suspicious, but enough to notice her watching him carefully. 

‘Thanks,’ he said softly. ‘But I should go.’

There it was again.

Her eyes narrowed, not hostile, not even wary. Just… searching.

He kept his posture open, non-confrontational. No guilt, no panic. Just a kid with somewhere else to be.

Her expression shifted then, softening.

‘Alright, Peter. Take care.’

He just nodded, kept walking, and stepped out toward the entrance before she could say anything else, giving a small wave as he passed the heavy doors.

As the chill of Gotham’s late morning met him on the steps, that sensation, whatever it was, eased just a little. It was not gone completely, just dulled.

He moved quickly, careful to slip into the slight crowd of Gotham’s streets in the daytime.

Chapter Text

Jason stood behind the desk, arms folded, eyes fixed on the screen as if glaring hard enough would coerce the vexing device into yielding answers. Babs sat before the monitor, a soft glow from the screen casting a blue hue against her person. She was replaying the internal camera footage from earlier that day, paused at the moment Peter stepped into frame.

She studied his posture with a perturbed gaze, noting the way his shoulders dipped ever so slightly forward, as though he were attempting to make himself appear even smaller than he naturally was. She observed how his eyes had scanned the room once, quickly, and then never stopped flicking about the space the entire time he occupied it.

‘He was quiet,’ she said finally, breaking the silence. ‘Polite. Didn’t offer much. Only asked to use a computer, which I’ve already mentioned, though he didn’t say why. That was it really.’

Jason shifted slightly. ‘Did he seem... scared when he was here?’

Babs was quick to shake her head.

‘No, not scared. Though he was definitely cautious.’ She rewound a few seconds and played it again. ‘He didn’t lie about anything, I don’t think so anyway. But he didn’t volunteer anything extra either.’

Jason scrubbed a hand over his jaw, lips tight. ‘He was hesitant around me at first, Babs. He was pretty spooked when I mentioned taking him to treat his wounds. But after I let that go, he was completely fine; he smiled and joked. He didn’t seem to care at all about my…’ He gestured to his helmet lying dormant on the desk, ‘…occupation, only that I wasn’t taking him to a clinic. Then he all but disappeared when I offered to walk him home.’

‘Yeah, I don’t like the implications of that.’ Babs spoke, voice low.

Jason looked at her sharply.

‘He’s obviously involved in something, that goes without saying. Or he has a bad home life at the very least, but that wouldn’t explain the untraceable background.’

Jason did not answer, but the tightness in his posture implied that he was thinking the same thing.

Babs switched tabs. Facial recognition software was already running, trying to cross-check Peter’s features against records, though nothing matched the name he gave. She had looked through this information after Jason requested it over the phone, though her unexpected encounter with the child had her investigating it again. She pulled up a second window; a more extensive scan, running on off-the-books information that dipped just beneath the usual government channels.

Still nothing.

‘Peter Grayson,’ Jason said aloud, as if testing the name again would offer new information.

‘It’s looking more and more like an alias by the minute,’ Babs said. ‘Uncanny, though, given the resemblance.’

‘Uhm…’ Jason hummed his agreement. ‘Do you think someone gave him the name, trying to get our attention?’

‘I hope not, our identities aren’t known. Why would they try and get our attention with Dick’s surname? As far as anyone knows, he has no connection to us. If that's not the case anymore, that’s a whole new can of worms I don’t want to think about.’ 

Babs' words were confident, but there was a subtle trepidation lingering beneath her tone. She did not look away from the screen.

‘I think it’s more likely to be a coincidence, though the resemblance shouldn’t be ignored… Especially in our line of work…’ She continued.

‘Do you think he could be a clone?’ Jason's voice was uneasy. Babs looked up with furrowed eyebrows, and she lifted an arm to the back of her neck.

‘It’s more than possible, but what would the objective be? Surely not good by any means. They would have to be targeting Nightwing not Dick, but why him specifically?’ Babs' tone was unsure.

‘What was he doing here today? Did you check?’ Jason wanted to change the subject; he had not been keen on the shivers the previous one had provoked. Babs took on the new topic deftly.

‘He was researching. I checked his query logs. He looked at every major vigilante operating in Gotham, especially you.’

Jason blinked. ‘Me?’

‘He sat there reading through Red Hood sightings for over half an hour. News articles. Forum entries. Grainy footage from alley cams.’ She clicked through a few of the webpages he had looked at. ‘Overly curious after last night, it seems.’

Jason leaned in, his jaw tight. ‘So, there’s no birth certificate. No hospital or schooling records. Not in Gotham… or New York. I don’t like this, Babs… it feels… wrong.’

‘It looks like he has never been on the grid, at least with this name,’ she murmured.

Jason frowned. ‘Even off-grid kids leave some kind of trail; we need to find it.’ 

A taut silence stretched over a long moment; it could have been sliced with a blade.

‘We’re gonna have to broaden our search, check other names, surely we can get a match for his face.’ Jason continued.

‘Maybe, but it’s not that simple, unfortunately. Kids his age don’t have licences, and most don’t own a passport.’ She paused for a moment before continuing.

‘Which means there might not be a government image for us to find, we’d have to be lucky enough to stumble across something in the community, which will be a lot harder to narrow down with our lack of information.’ She peered into Jason's eyes.

‘If we want more intel, I think we are going to have to get it from the source himself…’

She looked away again, both now observing the screen, where a still image of Peter stared back, caught mid-turn, hoodie half-raised. His white streak of hair caught the dim light of early morning.

Jason was about to bring up the dour implications of the boy’s Lazarus pit markers when he registered a muted chime from the bell held suspended above the library’s entry. In his peripheral a natural light flooded the carpeted floor.

They did not look over at first; their heads remained down, brows furrowed, and their eyes were locked onto yet another dead-end search. But then came a familiar tread of boots.

Jason looked up.

Dick Grayson wore an easy smile as he approached them, he was dressed down in a black hoodie layered under a worn jacket, a pair of coffees in hand, with dark hair tousled from the crisp Gotham wind.

‘Figured I’d drop in while I was passing through,’ he spoke towards Babs, raising one of the cups in a casual offering. ‘Didn’t think you would have company.’

Jason blinked at him, caught between irritation at the interruption and guilt as the older man’s gaze slid past Babs and landed squarely on him. His helmet sat on the desk, its matte surface dull beneath the library lights. The tension that rippled across Jason’s shoulders was akin to a storm front.

Dick’s smile hesitated, faltered just slightly, he knew something was amiss. He crossed over to Babs and handed off the second coffee with a slight grin that did not quite mask the shift in his posture. 

‘Sorry, Jay. Didn’t bring a third.’

Jason did not bother to stand. His gloved fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the desk, then relaxed with visible effort. He did not enjoy the fact that he was keeping information from his brother. 

‘No worries,’ he muttered. ‘Would’ve gone cold by the time I drank it anyway.’

Dick tilted his head, watching him. There was something in Jason’s tone, something brittle. Not quite irritation. Not quite exhaustion. But close to both. It pulled at something instinctive in Dick’s chest, a familiar ache that never really went away when it came to his family.

‘Rough night?’ he asked, gently, meant half as a joke, half as a probe.

But his words trailed off the moment he glimpsed the edge of Babs’ screen.

The monitor, angled just enough for him to catch the corner, showed a partially minimised browser window. The title was partially cut off, but the text was legible enough: Unidentified Youths in Gotham.

Dick’s brow furrowed, some of the remaining ease slipping from his frame.

‘What are you guys working on?’

Beside him, Jason went rigid, though Babs did not miss a beat.

‘Just a cross-reference on recent CPS failures,’ she said quickly, voice light but firm. ‘We were trying to trace patterns across some known corruption cases.’

Jason added without looking up, ‘Kids are slipping through the cracks. City’s still got its usual amount of rot.’ The half-lie seemed natural enough; it did not stray far from what they would usually concern themselves with. 

Though, Dick’s expression did not change. Not immediately. Jason knew him well enough to see the shift beneath the surface. That slight narrowing of the eyes. A moment of stillness, where he studied their tone and did the mental math, finding it did not add up.

‘You’re both terrible liars when you’re tired,’ he said, sipping from his coffee. ‘And I know that look, Babs. That’s your “I’m not telling you yet” face.’

Babs turned her head, feigning indignation. ‘Since when do I have a face for that?’

‘Since always.’

Jason rubbed a hand over his face and grumbled, ‘Did you drop by for any reason, or just to psychoanalyse us?’

Dick raised both hands in mock surrender, smiling faintly. ‘Alright, alright. You’re clearly in the middle of something serious. I won’t pry. And I told you, I was just stopping by.’ 

He moved to lean casually against one of the stone walls, but there was nothing casual about the way he looked at them. It was the kind of look that implied he was not going to push yet, but he was paying attention nonetheless.

‘Just let me know if this turns into something you want help with,’ he said, voice even. ‘You know I don’t like being the last one in the room to get briefed.’

The sentence landed with more weight than he probably intended, but neither Jason nor Babs responded immediately. A beat passed, tense and unspoken.

Finally, Babs glanced sideways at Jason, her eyes flicking in silent conversation.

Jason did not meet her gaze.

‘Noted,’ she said simply. She wanted to add that he need not worry, but the unspoken words left a sour taste on her tongue; all their theories alluded otherwise. 

Dick lingered a moment longer, coffee cradled in his hands, his posture relaxed but his eyes were quietly sharp. Then, deciding to let the matter go, for the moment at least, he turned and wandered deeper into the library.

Jason watched him disappear between the shelves, then leaned back with a quiet sigh as he pressed a couple of fingers against his temples.

‘He knows something’s up.’

Babs did not look away from her screen. ‘Of course he does. He’s not blind, he trusts we’ll tell him when it matters.’

Jason nodded faintly, lips pressed into a grim line as something twisted in his gut. If things kept going the way they were, if this enigmatic case unravelled the way it felt like it would, “when it matters” would arrive sooner than either of them would ever be prepared for.

─ ⟡ ✢ ⟡ ─ 

Tim pressed further into the city’s underbelly, his gloved hands deep within the pockets of his coat as he moved along the edge of a street. His eyes scanned the spaces in between storefronts, trying to spot the very thing he had convinced himself he was not looking for.

The night was cold and wet in a distinctly Gotham way, a clinging, bone-deep damp that turned the air to frost. It wrapped around his shoulders, as the steam that rose from the gutters seemed to curl toward him deliberately, though it offered no warmth.

He had concealed it from Bruce, although the man still had his suspicions. In fact, Tim had not told anyone.

The smart thing, the right thing, would have been to log the encounter, share the footage, and start a formal search with the rest of the team. But when the moment had come, he had hesitated. Because it had not felt like another mission; it had felt like a secret.

Tim turned a corner and slowed, gaze sweeping the skeletal alley behind an old, shuttered bookstore. A cat startled and darted from a bin, setting off a low clatter that rang louder than it should have. He stood there for a moment, half-hoping something else would stir in its wake. Though nothing did.

He’s just a kid, Tim reminded himself. Just a normal kid. That’s it.

But the words did not sit right; they felt flat and deliberate. Like something he was rehearsing, rather than believing. He leaned back against a graffiti-covered wall, feeling the cool bite of the stone through his clothes. His breath curled in the air with a white vapour as he glanced up at the hanging wires and rusted fire escapes above him.

The boy had looked like Dick.

That was the part that refused to leave him alone. That was the reason he could not let this go.

Not exactly, of course. There were subtle differences in the colour of his eyes, in the paleness of his skin. But there was also a presence, the way he carried himself despite his obvious pain. The way his frame seemed built to move a the slightest disturbance. The way his voice had wavered but not broken when Tim had asked if he needed help. He had refused kindness with the same quiet grace that Dick used when he did not wish to talk about something.

Tim had spent years learning to read that silence. He knew what it meant.

What unsettled him the most was not the mystery, not even the vanishing act. But the possibility that the resemblance meant something. Something more than chance.

He did not want it to mean anything. Because if it did, then everything changed. The questions got bigger, and the consequences ran deeper. He had let a young boy, a child whom he would be responsible for, wander alone into the dangers of this city. He had allowed a misplaced trust in his abilities, the fact that he had been confident to find him after his patrol, to override the instinct that had told him to act, then. He would be rightfully concerned and strongly inclined to help any child living on these streets, but this was a boy who was potentially family, in danger because of his inaction. And if he told Bruce, if he told Dick, what then? What if they, too, saw the resemblance?

Tim pushed off the wall, feeling the weight of the evening settle heavier on his shoulders than the winter coat he wore. The city buzzed around him, distant sirens, muffled music, a car door slamming two streets over. Somewhere among all this, a kid with too many injuries and no known name was still missing.

Maybe gone. Maybe hiding.

And maybe…

Tim banished the awful thought from his head and moved again, quieter now, keeping to the deeper shadows, eyes flicking toward every rooftop, every alley mouth, every fire escape ladder not quite pulled up.

He had not wanted to make this personal. But the image lingered behind his eyes every time he blinked. A boy bent under an invisible weight, too small for the world, though moving like he had learned how to endure it anyway.

Tim had been attempting not to fret over the boy’s disappearance. He had tried to dispel it from his mind entirely, though quite dejectedly, it became clear to him that he had not been successful. 

There were patrol routes to run, leads to chase, riddles to decipher, and codes to crack; his responsibility in Gotham never ceased. He had trained himself to compartmentalise, to triage the chaos. His nights were usually built around function, motion, and necessity. But tonight, every alley looked a little too familiar. Every child-sized shadow made his gut clench. Every quiet side street seemed riddled with the memory of bruised skin and small faltering steps.

Which was why, when he suddenly gazed upon the familiar small and battered frame at the opposite end of the street, Tim thought he must have been hallucinating.

His breath caught, suspended in his throat like he had hit a wall. He blinked once, twice, but the figure did not dissolve, did not shimmer like a figment conjured by his ever-present exhaustion. The figure remained, real and tangible.

The boy was smaller than he remembered, which only made the bruises stand out more against the pale glow of the streetlamp overhead. A too-thin hoodie tugged tight around his frame. His posture was defensive but not panicked, the stance of someone used to being watched, someone who knew how to vanish without running.

It was the boy.

In a manner much unlike himself, Tim did not stop to think; he could not, not with the static building in his chest, cold and sharp. Though he did not move immediately. Just stood, half-shadowed by the narrow eave of a closed newsstand, letting a few seconds crawl by as he remained stunned rather than timing his action.

The boy was walking with purpose but not haste, slipping past a row of storefronts shuttered after their trading hours had elapsed. He did not look up, did not seem to see Tim.

That was good, that was what he wanted. He shifted his weight and crossed the street, not toward the boy directly. That would be reckless. Obvious.

Instead, he aimed for an intercept a few paces ahead of where the child was directed, calculating the rhythm of the boy’s walk. He slowed his own gait as he neared the sidewalk’s edge, pulled his coat tighter as if against the cold. Every movement was deliberate and intentionally civilian. Then, a soft turn, a subtle angle, and he collided with him.

‘Ah, sorry!’ Tim muttered quickly, stepping back just enough, raising a hand. ‘Didn’t see you there.’

The boy startled, pulling slightly inward, but did not bolt. His eyes flicked up sharply, wide, alert, but not immediately afraid. Tim swore he had looked as though he were ready to dodge the collision, even before it had become apparent, though he had not, due to the wall on his other side. 

‘It’s fine,’ Peter mumbled, adjusting the strap of a beat-up backpack that looked like it had been stitched together.

Their gaze met for a half-second. Just long enough for Tim to note the remnants of exhaustion, bruising under his eyes, and a shallow cut healing awkwardly above his cheekbone. Though there was a new cut across his forehead, sitting just above his brow, it looked as though it had been caused by intentional blunt force; Tim had to quell his anger. 

As Peter shifted his weight again, stepping around him, Tim moved subtly, a brush of fingertips at the hem of his hoodie. One clean motion. Unnoticeable.

The tracker adhered silently, and Tim did not let anything shift in his expression, did not allow anything to betray his invasive actions; he told himself it was for the boy’s safety. 

‘You alright?’ he asked, adding just a touch of concern. Not too much. Just enough to sell the part, ‘it’s getting a bit late to be walking around alone.’

Peter shrugged, not bothered. ‘Just heading back now. I don’t plan on being out much longer.’

Tim nodded casually like he understood, as though this was not the most important moment he had stumbled into in a long while. ‘You sure? Looks like you’ve been through it.’

Peter gave a small, almost imperceptible smile, the kind that did not reach his eyes.

‘Well,’ Tim said, gently stepping aside, realising he was not going to get much more than that, ‘take care of yourself.’

Peter nodded kindly in return and continued walking, slipping back into the night. Tim did not follow him. Not yet. He turned, walking the opposite way for half a block. The encounter had both his heart racing and a pulse drumming loudly in his ears. Only when he ducked into the shadowed alcove of a closed retailer did he pull out his comm. 

The signal was live. Tim let out a slow, controlled breath, head tilting back against the brick. He would now be able to follow the thread before it disappeared again.

Chapter Text

Peter knew he was being watched; it was not immediately alarming, but he felt it nonetheless. The sensation was not yet accompanied by the sound of pursuit, but rather nagged him in a deep, instinctive place where his spider-sense lingered, a quiet disturbance in the rhythm of the city around him.

Then, almost like clockwork, he registered the faintest shift in pressure, a breath held too long ahead of him, a pulse in the air that was a beat too quick. Though it was strange, the feeling was not enough to signal danger, not even enough to make him move, but the warning there was unmistakable.

He knew it was not the careful shuffle of someone out too late, or the drunken lurch of someone lost. This was clean, controlled and intentional.

Still, Peter did not react. He kept walking, kept his pace calm and casual, slouched in a way that suggested he was just a kid with somewhere else to be. Every step felt heavier than the last, not from exhaustion, though that certainly lingered in his muscles, but from alertness. If he reacted too quickly, too precisely, he would give himself away. He did not know who was triggering this, did not know what they wanted, and that uncertainty forced him into restraint.

His mind began working through exits. He could duck through the alley to his left, climb the scaffolding, and vanish down the back stairwell of the old tenement, no. All of these actions would be too fast and too clean. If he made a move like that with someone watching, they would know he was evading them. They may have seen he was more than just a skinny kid with a stitched-up backpack and tired eyes. So he played natural, allowed the city to swallow him in its noise and shadow, kept his eyes forward, every nerve taut beneath the surface.

Then it happened.

He felt the trajectory shift before he saw it; someone was crossing the street, not fast, not aggressive, but angled directly into his path. It was calculated in its subtlety, designed to look accidental, though Peter knew better than to believe this act. He was left with no option but to take the collision; he could not see how he could avoid it without making his inhibitions known. So, when the shoulder bumped into his, he did not flinch too hard. Just a mild recoil, enough to seem startled, but not suspicious.

‘Ah, sorry!’ the boy had said, stepping back with a raised hand.

Peter gave him a once-over as quickly as he could without lingering. Expensive clothes, late teens maybe. Dark coat, calm voice and no outward hostility. But there was something too deliberate in his posture, too smooth in his movements. Whoever he was, this was not his first time doing something like this.

‘It’s fine,’ Peter then muttered, fingers tightening slightly around the strap of his backpack. He adjusted it more out of instinct than anything, grounding himself in the motion. He felt the boy’s eyes on him, but he did not look back. Not yet.

Then came the contact. Just a brush, quick and precise, near the hem of his hoodie. It could have passed for nothing, could have been part of an accidental bump, if not for the sudden, sharp tingle of his spider-sense threading up his spine. The sensation was brief but unmistakable. Something had been placed on him.

A tracker. He could smell the tang of its metal and the slight whirr of its internals coming to life.

The realisation made his pulse spike and a lump form in his throat, but he did not let it show. He kept his expression neutral, let his eyes finally meet the stranger’s for the briefest of moments. The blue eyes were not unkind, just sharp, measured and watching.

‘You alright?’ He asked, his voice carefully laced with concern; it had not sounded false. ‘It’s getting a bit late to be walking around alone.’

Peter gave a small shrug, doing his best to keep his voice steady. ‘Just heading back now. I don’t plan on being out much longer.’

He knew the teen was still watching him, still trying to read him. He could feel it, the stranger nodded slowly, as if satisfied.

‘You sure? Looks like you’ve been through it.’

Peter did not respond right away. Instead, he offered a half-smile, hoping it was just disarming enough, just casual enough to pass.

‘Well,’ he said, tone still neutral, ‘take care of yourself.’

Peter nodded, gave a small half-step, and moved on. He kept his gait steady, did not break rhythm, even though his fingers itched to rip off whatever had been planted on him. Not yet. Not while eyes were still on him.

It was not until he had put a long stretch of blocks between them that he let himself slow. He turned down a quieter street and ducked behind a dumpster near a closed convenience store, breathing slowly through his nose. Under his hoodie, he grazed his fingers along the hem until he felt it, a small, circular device with tiny prongs buried into the stitching of the material.

He pulled it free carefully and studied it in the dim light.

It was sleek, high-tech and held within a clean casing. Definitely not some cheap GPS. Whoever that guy was, he had access to impressive resources.

Peter’s stomach twisted. He did not know who he had just encountered, but it could not be random; surely they were not following him by chance.

He was quick to crush the offending piece of metal between two fingers; the newly minute pieces looked akin to dust as they swirled away into the breeze of the evening. Peter knew he would have to flee immediately; he would not want to be in the vicinity when the boy realised the tracker was now offline.

Peter pulled his hoodie back down and melted into the dark of a nearby side street, keeping his head down and adjusting his route slightly. He slipped closer to the edges of buildings as he walked, already having mapped out the cameras in this part of the city. 

His eyes caught the familiar glint of a lens up ahead. Peter knew he could no longer allow cameras a clean shot of him if he wanted to disappear, so he veered left, keeping to a blind spot between some scaffolding and a row of bins, careful not to give anything a clear view of his face.

Once again, Peter did not stop moving for several blocks. Not until the lights thinned and the old buildings rose around him like sentinels did he finally allow himself to duck beneath the rusted overhang of a burned-out store. He crouched low beside a warped delivery chute, his breath shallow against his knees, heart thudding fast and loud in his ears. He leaned his shoulder against the cool brick, letting the night press in around him, trying to steady the churn in his chest. 

It was not working.

The encounter replayed itself in his mind like a glitching reel: the precise trajectory of the boy’s approach, the careful concern in his voice, and most of all, the quiet efficiency of the tracker attaching to his hoodie. None of it had been accidental. There was no mistaking the purpose behind the contact, no chance stumble, no passing curiosity. The boy had not looked at him with confusion or pity, but with focus and intention.

That fact alone made Peter's stomach twist.

He pulled his knees even closer to his chest, one hand tightening over the other beneath the folds of his sleeves. He did not know who that boy was, late teens, maybe twenty, sharp blue eyes, and a too-calm voice that had not been unkind but held weight beneath it. And Peter had been watched before, but this had been different. There had been no aggression, no threat. Just calm calculation and control.

The thought crept in quietly at first, absurd and irrational, but it sank its claws in nonetheless. What if it had been an abduction attempt? A clean one. Not a van and a syringe in a back alley, but something smarter. A kind voice, a brush of contact, a tracker instead of restraints. That boy had not needed force. He had not needed to threaten him or grab him by the wrist. He just needed to know where Peter would be next. 

Maybe that was the plan: wait until the signal stopped moving, wait until Peter thought he was safe, and then take him. God, how many times had it started like that before? A friendly face. A passing stranger. A misplaced trust. He had been taken before; this could have been the start of it all over again. A new handler. A new cage. Another set of white walls and sterile tools. The very thought made bile crawl up the back of his throat.

The interaction had felt too tidy, too convenient. And Peter had learned, the hard way, that when something felt too neat, it was usually a lie. Maybe it had been a random check-in, some older kid thinking he was just a vulnerable runaway. Maybe.

But he did not believe it, not really; normal kids do not put trackers on people.

There had been something too knowing in the way the boy had looked at him. Not just observant, but recognising. And that had been one factor that had set Peter’s nerves ablaze. He had not offered a name. Had not said anything to give himself away. Yet there had been no hesitation. Just a tracker, planted like it was protocol. Peter had been tagged and catalogued in the space of a breath.

Peter tried to force the worst-case scenario out of his mind, but it pressed in anyway, creeping back in with every heartbeat. What if someone had figured him out? What if this was not just an arbitrary kidnapping, or even more unlikely, some socially inapt, well-meaning stranger? What if someone had torn back his thinly veiled cover and realised what he was?

The possibility that someone knew he did not belong here, not just in Gotham, but in this entire world, turned his blood cold.

Maybe someone had tracked the rupture. Maybe someone had found the gaping holes in the falsified past he had barely strung together. Maybe someone had noticed that Peter Parker, or rather Grayson as he had been telling everybody, did not even exist in Gotham’s records because he was not supposed to exist here at all. And now, someone had found him and tried to tag him like a lab specimen.

Peter’s hands tightened around his arms until his knuckles ached. His fingers were numb, either from cold or from the static buzzing in his spine. He wanted to believe it was just a fluke, just another one of Gotham’s thousand eyes passing too close, but the tracker had been real. High-grade, mostly silent and professionally applied. It had not been some street-level gadget or store-bought GPS.

He had crushed it between his fingers because instinct told him to, because he had already known what it meant. The kind of people who used devices like that did not lose their targets often, and they definitely would not let it go once they realised they had.

He could not stay in his shelter tonight. Peter did not want to risk leading anyone back to the one place he had felt entirely safe, no matter how tired he was, no matter how much his bones ached or how raw the wind felt against his face. He could not risk it. He needed to wait and listen, to be sure. Because now, for the first time in weeks, Peter knew with certainty that someone was watching him. Someone had picked him out of the crowd and marked him. And for all his careful planning, for all the ways he had taught himself to blend into the background, he had still been noticed.

That changed things.

Not permanently, but enough to remind him that he was not invisible. That even here, in a city made of missing and forgotten people, eyes could still find him. He would lie low, shift his route, and keep moving sporadically until morning. Tomorrow, maybe, he would circle back and return to the rusted parlour and the cache of scavenged tech he had been working to restore. But tonight, he would stay hidden. Just in case.

The wind cut sharper now, as the weight of the encounter settled heavy in his ribs. He stepped around shattered glass and discarded wrappers, careful to keep his already tattered shoes from plunging into the grimy water that sat stagnant in the gutters; they were already stained conspicuously; he did not wish to add to them. 

He had passed a few spots that may have worked, the spaces under stairwells and behind chain-link fences, but each was too exposed. Too near lights or windows. Too vulnerable. He needed somewhere that would not be obvious. Somewhere, no one would think to look twice.

Eventually, he found it: the skeletal frame of a gutted construction site, half-walled in plywood and wrapped in sagging fencing. He slipped through a gap near the far corner, moving quietly, carefully. The floor was damp, the concrete cracked and uneven, but there was a pocket of space behind some stacked pallets, both dry and dark enough.

He sat down slowly, body protesting as he folded into himself. The adrenaline of the evening was wearing off now, leaving behind the usual cocktail of soreness and hunger and bone-deep fatigue. His limbs trembled with it, but he forced his clothes tighter around his middle and tugged his hood down low over his brow. Peter crossed his arms over his knees and pulled them close to his chest, burying his face between them.

Just a little while.

Just long enough to let the sky change colour. Long enough to make sure no one was coming after him. Then he would move again before sunrise; he promised himself that much, promised that he would keep going.

But for now, here, in the damp cold behind pallets and rusted framing, he was left to shiver himself to sleep, back pressed against the cold concrete wall, curled tightly as the wind swept through the gaps in the plywood. 

The chill settled into his clothes, now damp at the seams, and he shifted slightly, trying to find a position where his bones would not dig into the rigid floor. There was no warmth and no cushioning, just the ache in his joints and the sharp sting of cold air on his fingers; he pulled them back within his sleeves. His stomach ached, not sharply, but in a dull, hollow way he had grown far too accustomed to. Peter did not wish to cry, but he could feel a warm prickle grow in the corners of his eyes nonetheless. He just stayed there, silent and still, holding onto what little heat he had, falling into a restless slumber as he waited for the sky to turn grey.

─ ⟡ ✢ ⟡ ─

The soft hum of the Batcomputer filled the cavernous silence, a low, constant thrum that reverberated faintly through the stone and steel. Tim sat alone at the console, the pale blue light from the monitors painting sharp angles across his face and casting deep shadows beneath his eyes. He had not even bothered to take off his coat; the cold from the street still clung to him, sharp and stinging. His hands, still gloved, moved with practised ease across the keyboard as he brought up the tracker’s remote interface, the device he had discreetly planted on the boy not even an hour ago.

It should have been simple. A clean ping on the map, a line of movement through Gotham’s streets, leading him closer to the mystery that had been gnawing at the edge of his thoughts since their first encounter. 

But when the screen loaded, the data was lacking and sparse. A short path northbound, in the direction he had watched boy disappear, six pings, in a straight line spanning a number of blocks. No sudden deviations and no doubled-back trails. Just a calm, deliberate walk forward until he took a single turn down a street.

And then, nothing.

Tim’s brow furrowed as he gazed at where the icon on the map abruptly turned grey. He leaned forward, squinting at the last recorded timestamp. The device had cut out not long after he had placed it. It was not a random loss. It was not environmental interference or a low battery. It was intentional.

He opened the diagnostic panel, fingers dancing over the controls as he double-checked the initial status; the battery had been full, the firmware was stable, and the internal components were uncorrupted. There had been no malfunctions and no damage until its untimely demise. It was clear the tracker had been disabled, the abrupt nature telling him it had probably been crushed. 

He exhaled through his nose, sharp and slow, leaning back in the chair as the pieces began to fall into place. The boy had not flinched when they collided, he had not protested and not looked confused or scared. In fact, he had looked quite calm, open in a way that had not felt strange at the time. Now, upon reflection, it seemed like he had been playing a part.

Now, it was obvious; the kid had known.

From the moment of contact to the moment the tracker died, he had been in control. He had waited until Tim was out of sight, had put distance between them, and then destroyed the device so effectively that Tim could have no semblance of where he could be.

He stared at the screen begrudgingly, as the greyed-out dot blinked in quiet accusation. Whoever this boy was, he had not accidentally slipped through Tim’s fingers; he had evaded them. Deliberately. And with the kind of finesse that spoke of either training or survival instincts honed to perfection. The kind that could not be accidental, especially not by a kid that young.

Tim’s fingers moved again, no less focused. Given the tracker had failed, or rather, been destroyed, he still had one approach. The city itself. He switched tabs and began pulling up the security network closest to the last recorded ping, isolating traffic cams and storefront security within a six-block radius.

The footage loaded slowly, grainy and washed out by the hazy yellow of streetlamps. He scrolled backward through the time index and narrowed the window until he found what he wanted, a boy, small-framed, with shoulders hunched beneath a threadbare hoodie, walking north along an avenue.

There.

Tim zoomed in. No doubt now, same height, same uneven gait, same backpack with the torn seams and mismatched straps. The timestamp was consistent with the final ping. The boy passed beneath a flickering streetlight, glanced once over his shoulder, then kept walking with a steady, unhurried pace.

No signs of panic. No sprinting into alleys. Just movement, measured and precise.

Tim toggled to the next camera on the street, and there he was again. A minute later, same street, a block further down, passing the shuttered doors of a bakery. The kid did not even look at the cameras, did not hesitate at intersections.

Tim followed him across three more angles, hopping intersections as the boy weaved further into the industrial sprawl. Each transition lined up perfectly, until it did not.

The next camera showed nothing.

Tim frowned and double-checked the frame. The timestamp was right, the positioning should have captured his path clearly, but the sidewalk was empty. He scrubbed forward. Nothing. Reversed a full minute. Still nothing.

He checked the nearest cameras facing each direction he could have taken.

Still no sign.

Tim moved through more locations in a widening grid, but it was the same at every turn. The boy had vanished, seemingly having slipped between frames like water through cracks. No sprinting figure ducking into alleys. No shadow bolting across intersections. One moment, he had been there, and the next, he was gone.

Tim leaned back again, jaw tight in disbelief, his gaze locked on the still image from his last confirmed sighting, the boy mid-step, eyes forward, hood casting a shadow over half his face. Like a spectre caught just once before disappearing entirely.

The kid had known exactly where to walk and exactly when to drop from sight. And somehow, that was more unsettling than if he had run.

Chapter Text

The new night had settled deep into Peter’s bones; it concurred with a kind of cold that would creep beneath layers and lace its icy fingers around covered skin. Gotham’s streets were as empty as they ever were by this hour, just flickering streetlamps, the low rumble of a distant train, and the hum of city life wound down to its last few threads. Peter kept to its edges, hood pulled low and shoulders hunched, walking with quiet precision along the crumbling curb of an old district.

He had not entered his shelter, not since the tracker.

It was irrational, maybe. Overly cautious. He knew that. But the moment he had felt the light weight of the device pressed into the hem of his hoodie, the idea of returning to the single place he had carved out as his own had felt too risky. 

If someone were truly on the lookout for him, they would seek to follow him there; Peter knew it was better to stay mobile, to keep moving.

It was now the following night, and despite all his strength, the backpack over his hoodie was beginning to hang heavy with rain, coinciding awfully with his cold, waterlogged socks. His shoulders ached from napping briefly and sporadically under overhangs and within crevices too narrow to stretch out. He was tired and worn thin, strung out by too many hours curled around his own ribs to stay warm, worse now without his little alcove.

Peter had doubled back on all his routes, crossed bridges, dipped into neighbourhoods he had previously avoided for being too surly, too grim. All of it was preferable to leading anyone to his home.

He had passed near the parlour earlier that evening, just for a glance. Not close enough to be seen himself, but close enough to surveil. It had sat in its usual stillness, the boards over the lower windows rattling faintly in the wind, the alley beside it quiet. No sign of disturbance, no new footprints and no obvious bugging.

But it had not been enough to convince him to enter, not so soon, anyway.

He adjusted his hood even tighter around his ears, a vain attempt at chasing the numb, stinging cold away and pressed onward, eyes scanning the streets with a deliberate caution. He was not sure where he was headed; just not there. Not yet.

He had already turned down two potential sleep spots: one too close to a police substation, the other already occupied by a pair of older teens sharing a flask. There had been a faint thrum in his sense as he passed them, and Peter had not felt like a confrontation, so he was quick to move on.

Peter stuck to the narrowest parts of the city, the places where, even in broad daylight, light would barely touch surfaces, and noise would thin to nothing.

He had not intended to still be out this late. He had meant to seek shelter in one of the abandoned construction lots he scouted earlier, catch a few more hours of sleep, maybe find some discarded food if he was lucky. But time had gotten away from him, and now the streets felt tighter, like the dark of the evening itself was pressing closer.

Then, a chill ran sharp down his spine, though the cold was not its catalyst.

Peter did not pause, did not look up right away. He kept walking, kept his breath even. But his spider-sense had, once again, begun to hum. A low, constant buzz at the base of his skull. It was not screaming, was not sharp and blaring like danger was bearing down on him, but it pulsed steadily. 

Its presence felt vaguely familiar, and he was not at all surprised to catch a glimpse of red in his peripheral.

Red Hood.

Peter finally lifted his gaze and caught sight of the broad figure leaning casually against the frame of a graffiti-covered doorway. His red helmet glinted faintly under the dim light of a busted streetlamp as he stared sternly down an occupied alleyway; Peter did not startle.

But the man did.

He abruptly straightened from the wall the moment their eyes met, and for just a second, there was something like disbelief in his posture, a slight tension in his shoulders, subtle, but Peter did not miss it. It was clear he was burning with tightly reined-in concern.

‘Well, look who it is,’ The man said, tone even, casual, like this was just another run-in. ‘Out for a walk, kid?’

Peter hesitated, then gave a small shrug. ‘Couldn’t sleep.’

It was true, mostly. His legs ached, and his stomach had not stopped gnawing at itself for days, even before his current predicament, but rest was not going to find him any time soon. He yearned for real sleep, beneath covers in a warm bed, clad in cozy pyjamas and fuzzy socks. Though Peter banished the thought from his mind, he could not afford to dwell on unrealistic luxuries.

Jason stepped further away from the wall with quiet steps, hands loose at his sides. ‘You know, I’m starting to think you don’t have a bedtime.’

‘There’s no one to enforce one,’ Peter muttered, quieter than he intended. He had meant it as a light-hearted quip, but the words came out strangled, their harsh reality leaving a burn in his throat; he missed his family, missed having people to rely on.

Jason did not reply at first. The pause dragged just a beat too long before he nodded, as though the boy’s answer did not disturb him.

Peter stood a few paces away, hands shoved deep into the front pocket of his hoodie. He tilted his chin a little, wary but curious. ‘…Didn’t think you’d be out here yourself,’ he paused. ‘Don’t you have crimes to fight and people to save?’

Peter had not expected the overbearing sense of guilt that followed his own question; it churned sickenly in his stomach. He, too, had crimes to fight and people to save, though he had been neglecting his self-designated responsibilities as of late. He thought of the spider suit sitting dormant and hidden in the parlour he had been avoiding.

Jason huffed softly, barely audible beneath the synth of his modulated voice.

Silence stretched for a moment longer, thin and taut. Finally, he responded.

‘I was watching those people,’ he pointed down the alley he had been staring down when Peter first spotted him. ‘Looked like they might have been up to something sketchy, but I don’t think it’s anything.’

Peter shrugged, a small, tired gesture; he did not have anything to say to that.

Jason studied him for a long moment. His shoulders were tense, and Peter could tell, even under the heavy jacket and gear. 

‘Still living rough?’ he asked, voice softer now.

Peter had never explicitly confirmed that he was living in poor conditions, but Jason knew that only a fool would be blind to it, and he need not ask if it were still the case; that much was clear also. Though he inquired regardless, hoping it would prompt the boy to share more of his situation.

Though Peter did not answer immediately, just as Jason expected. Instead, he glanced toward the alley opposite them, the one they had just spoken of. He watched the people within it with furrowed eyebrows, before looking up at the distant sky. 

‘I like it out here,’ he lied easily, ‘it’s quieter at night.’

Jason let out a short breath, something between a scoff and a sigh. ‘Kid, you do realise that it’s dangerous, right? “Quiet” is not mutual with “safe”.’

Peter looked back at him, something flickering in his expression, part defiance, part resignation. 

‘Safety’s not an issue.’ 

As soon as the words passed his lips, Peter wanted to elaborate and reassure the clearly perturbed vigilante. Tell him that he was more than capable of looking out for himself, but he halted, words on the tip of his tongue; he did not want to give away too much. The realisation that he could not follow up on what he had said already made him wince; it would sound bad out of context. 

Jason hated Peter’s answer more than he could admit. A white-hot fury flooded his system; he was not angry at the kid, though he despised the fact that he did not value his own safety. 

Once Jason managed to quell this small frenzy, he did not push for more information. He was not sure how much pressure this kid could take before bolting again, and he was not willing to risk it and find out.

‘You’re a hard one to find,’ he said instead, tone shifting. Easier. Not threatening.

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Peter playfully retorted, a small smile turning his lips.

Jason gave a small nod, and despite his frustration, his face twisted in amusement; he was glad Peter could not see it. 

‘Yeah. I figured you’d say something along those lines. Trust you to turn up when I’m not looking.’

Peter hesitated, not moving back, but not stepping any closer either. The buzz of the spider-sense that had alerted him to the vigilante’s presence had not lessened this entire time, but it was manageable. Peter figured it was the guns. The knives. The weight of too many weapons tucked into a single person’s silhouette.

‘You always wear that?’ Peter asked, nodding toward the helmet.

Jason glanced up like he had forgotten it was there. ‘Well, it would be an occupational hazard if the world knew who I was,’ he said. ‘Makes the job easier. But I’ve got another underneath, a domino.’

Peter’s responding look was dubious.

‘Another one? Why on earth did you think that was necessary?!’

Jason shrugged unbothered, though he was smiling faintly under the helmet.

‘Backup.’ He stated simply, Peter’s eyes narrowed.

‘I don’t believe you. That’s ridiculous.’ He snickered. Jason laughed faintly.

‘Well, I’m not going to waste any of my valuable time trying to convince you.’

There was another beat of quiet, no longer cautious, simply alert. An undeniable truce of mutual curiosity had been planted. Peter’s eyes drifted back up to the visor. The longer he stayed, the more his spider-sense faded; Red Hood meant him no harm.

Jason jerked a thumb down the block. ‘There’s a truck two streets over, it makes good burritos. You look like you could do with some hot food.’

Peter blinked. ‘I’m good.’

‘You’re not good,’ Jason said, his voice still flat but firmer this time. Peter had been betrayed by a poorly-timed growl of his stomach, the vigilante turned his head in response, and Peter could all but feel the wry expression from behind the red.

‘I’m buying. No strings. Take it or leave it.’

There was another long silence, filled with Peter’s weighing of motives, judging distances and recalculating exit strategies. But hunger had a cruel way of dulling pride, and the weight of exhaustion pulled hard against his bones. His fingers twitched at his sides, then relaxed. 

And besides, he had already established that this man meant him no harm; he just wanted to help.

‘Okay,’ he muttered.

They walked in silence. Jason kept his distance, careful not to crowd him. He did not guide him with a hand, did not ask questions. Just walked a step ahead and slightly to the side, watching the shadows shift across Peter’s face within the reflections of storefront windows.

The food truck was wedged in an old service lane behind a post office, still open despite the late hour; as it always was, its faded paint lit up by a strip of buzzing neon. A few other customers milled about, night workers, maybe a couple from the hospital shift across town, but none paid them any mind. Gotham could be generous like that, when it came to looking the other way.

Jason stepped up to the window without waiting, ordering two burritos with extra meat, while ignoring Peter’s polite half-formed protest behind him. He paid in cash and stretched one steaming foil-wrapped bundle toward the boy.

Peter took it with both hands, cautious and quiet. He sat on the sharp edge of a cracked planter nearby, fingers already working at the foil, the warmth that bled into his palms almost euphoric.

Jason remained standing; he did not unwrap his own. Did not touch it.

Peter noticed.

‘You’re not eating?’ He asked between bites, his voice muffled slightly as he chewed.

Jason shook his head and pointed to his helmet; it was clear he was implying that he could not remove it.

Peter narrowed his eyes once more, a mischievous smirk appearing.

‘I seem to recall that you have another mask on, a domino wouldn’t stop you from eating.’

Jason immediately regretted divulging that knowledge; he did not want Peter to see the poliosis they shared. It was too distinct. What if Peter spotted him as his civilian counterpart? He could put two and two together.

‘It’s just… Nevemind… Shut up, eat your food.’ His tone was exasperated, but there was an underlying humour there. 

‘See? This is why I can’t believe you. The evidence is against you, Mr. Hood.’ Peter quipped, Jason rolled his eyes and laughed despite himself.

‘Don’t call me that ever again.’ He pleaded redundantly. 

‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Mr. Hood.’ Peter challenged, Jason returning with a comical huff.

They remained like that for a while, one eating, the other watching the street. The burrito was gone faster than Peter intended, the wrapper now balled in his hand, greasy and quickly cooling. He stared at it for a long moment before standing, wiping his fingers against a napkin that had come wrapped around the steaming bundle. 

‘Thanks,’ he said finally, quietly. And he meant it.

Jason gave a slow nod, unreadable behind the red helm. ‘You need anything else?’

Peter shook his head. ‘This was… enough.’

Jason did not argue; Peter would shut him out. He just stepped in closer, not threatening, just present. 

‘You walking far?’

Peter shook his head.

Jason did not ask where he was going, and the tone of the boy’s voice told him he did not know the answer to his question anyway. 

‘Good,’ he said, after a beat. ‘Stick to the shadows. Don’t talk to strangers.’

Peter gave a tired, dry laugh, pointedly looking him up and down. ‘A little late for that.’

Jason huffed, just a breath, with the faintest hint of amusement. ‘Touché.’

Then, as Peter began to step away, Jason called out one last time, voice lower now. ‘Don’t be a stranger, kid. Please.’

Peter stopped, looked back. His eyes were wary, but softer than before.

‘I’ll try not to.’

And with that, he turned and slipped back into the dark.

Jason stayed behind, watching until he was gone, completely, with no shadows, and no sound. Then he finally looked down at the second burrito still in his hand, untouched and cooling in the night air, tucking it into his pocket.

─ ⟡ ✢ ⟡ ─

Jason did not head back to his usual patrol route. Not yet.

He climbed to a rooftop nearby, boots landing soundlessly on damp concrete; the city stretched wide before him. It was a bad habit, standing around like this, rooted in place by his thoughts. He exhaled, low through his teeth, then lifted a gloved hand to his comms.

He switched channels. A private one.

A click, a pause, then he spoke, ‘Oracle, you copy?’

Static cracked once before her voice answered, crisp and familiar in his ear.

‘I’m here. What’s going on?’

Jason took another glance across the skyline, then turned away, boots scuffing against concrete as he began to walk.

‘It’s Peter. I saw him tonight.’

There was a pause, longer than usual. Then,

‘You found him?’

‘Didn’t find him,’ Jason muttered, adjusting a grapple line as he swung toward a fire escape. ‘He found me. Or rather, stumbled across me, I don’t think it was intentional.’

‘All that time we’ve spent looking for him, and you stumble on him by chance?’

Jason gave a quiet, mirthless laugh. ‘Yeah, hell of a coincidence, huh?’

‘Where is he? Are you still with him?’

Jason sighed; he knew she would not enjoy what he said next.

‘No, we parted a little while back.’ An uncomfortable silence stretched taut; he winced. Eventually, she broke it.

‘What? You let him go so soon? We’ve been trying to find him for days…’

Jason hesitated, then hoisted himself up the side of a rusted ladder, shoulders tensing beneath the weight of the words. ‘Following him didn’t do me a great lot of good last time, did it? He clearly prefers to be left alone, figured if I respected that fact, he might come around to trusting me sooner.’

There was a soft click, Babs typing something in the background; her silence was thoughtful.

‘I don’t like the idea of him wandering god-knows-where in the middle of the night, but I can see that it’s probably the best approach.’

Jason reached the next rooftop, wind whipping across his jacket. ‘He looked worse this time,’ he said, quieter now. ‘Tired. Hungry. Kid’s not sleeping somewhere warm, that much I can tell you.’

‘Did you talk much?’

He nodded to himself, crossing the flat of the roof toward the ledge. ‘A little. Casual back and forth, nothing of substance.’ 

He did not need to see Babs’ face to know the look she was probably wearing. She was quiet long enough that he thought the signal might have dropped.

Babs sighed. ‘I’ve been running searches for days and coming up empty. His name doesn’t show up in school systems, hospitals, shelters, anywhere. And you know how rare it is for a kid that age to leave no digital trail.’ She paused, ‘If… no, when you see him again, you’re going to have to try and get some more information for me. It doesn’t sound like he is going to make it easy for you, though.’

Jason dragged a hand down the front of his helmet; he changed subjects. ‘He’s not avoiding us, I don’t think. But I have the feeling he knows how to stay out of sight, like really knows. Looks trained, but he seems like a normal kid.’

‘Or simply self-taught by necessity,’ Babs offered. ‘But, I agree. You said he looked worse?’

‘Yeah,’ Jason confirmed. ‘Too thin and pale. I bought him food, and his hands were shaking while he ate.’

Babs did not respond right away, so he continued.

‘He’s about twelve, Babs. Twelve and hiding in Gotham like he’s some fugitive. That should be enough to have us turning the whole damn city inside out.’

‘We have been,’ she said quietly. ‘We just haven’t had much to go on. We’ll get there, though.’

Jason’s jaw tightened behind the helmet, and then he nodded to himself. ‘I’m staying near the area where I spoke with him. He might circle back.’

‘If he does, try not to scare him off.’

A faint scoff escaped him. ‘You saying I’m bad with kids?’

‘No,’ she said dryly. ‘I’m saying your unexpected mother hen tendencies are off-putting for everyone.’ Jason rolled his eyes at this.

‘Alright.’ He laughed, ‘I’m gonna let you go now, I’ve got to make another call.’ 

If the sudden halt in conversation seemed strange to Babs, she did not betray it. 

‘Okay, holler if you need me.’ There was a sudden, sharp static sound as the channel cut off.

Jason lingered on the rooftop longer than he meant to. Above, the glow of sodium lamps stretched in long, streaked lines over the streets, sharp contrasts of orange and shadow. But Jason’s thoughts were not on the picturesque sight, not really.

They were on Blüdhaven.

Or rather, the fact that Dick wasn’t in Blüdhaven right now. He had been pulled into Gotham business over the past week, helping Bruce and Damian track the uptick in smuggling activity near the Narrows.

If there was even a chance, even the barest sliver of possibility, that the kid really was connected to Dick, then that made this more than just another stray slipping through Gotham’s cracks. It made it personal. Jason had known something was off; he had seen the resemblance. And yet, for days, he had sat on it. Avoided it, and pretended that maybe he and Babs were wrong.

But Peter had looked more like Dick tonight than ever before. And Jason could not shake the feeling that his surname had not been a coincidence, whether it was borrowed, fake, or inherited; Dick deserved to know.

Jason let out a long breath through his nose and thumbed his comm over to another channel. 

Another private one.

‘Nightwing,’ he said, voice quieter now. More restrained than usual. ‘You busy?’

His brother's response came in no time. Jason winced; he had been half hoping he would not receive one; he was not prepared for this conversation.

‘What’s up?’

Jason hesitated. Then, more firmly than earlier: ‘Can you meet with me opposite the old Monarch Theatre? There’s something I want to brief you on.’

Chapter Text

Jason stood amid harsh wind, a billowing gale tugging at his worn leather coat as its chill sliced across the exposed skin at the nape of his neck. In its wake, it left trails of goosebumps where his collar met red, though he was not certain if the catalyst was the temperature or the notion of what he was about to do.

The skyline stretched far in every direction; dark clouds sprawled beneath the moonlight of an uncommonly bright ether. He paced in short, uneven steps near the rooftop’s ledge, gloved hands clenching and unclenching at his sides as he watched the shadows form across adjacent buildings.

He had not planned this part. It had been merely instinct. Now, as a consequence, his thoughts were left spiralling; he was not sure he had made the correct decision. Telling Babs had been one thing, simple enough; he needed help finding a boy he knew was in danger, and she was the perfect candidate. 

But this, this was harder. Because it was not necessarily just a child in need of help, something that could be solved and forgotten with research and surveillance, this was Dick. And the possibility Jason had been keeping something from him, for better or worse, made Jason’s stomach knot in unease. 

He paused again near an edge, boots scraping lightly against gravel and concrete. His fingers fidgeted at his sides, flexing and curling, then rising to the edge of his helmet, hesitating.

He would not take it off. There was a nervousness in him that he did not quite know how to expel. He did not get nervous, not like this. But there was something about what he was about to do that made the blood feel thin in his veins.

In his pacing, Jason had turned over every feasible, looming version of the pending conversation. All the ways he could start it, all the ways it might end; and most of them were not good.

Then, a soft thump landed behind him, weightless and precise. Jason did not turn. He recognised the arrival immediately.

‘Hood?’ Dick’s voice was a careful mixture of confusion and concern. ’You alright? You said you wanted to “brief” me on something?’

Jason did not turn, opting to keep his eyes ahead, body stiff and still.

Dick stepped closer. ‘What is it?’

Jason sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, forgetting the helmet was still on. Dick’s boots crunched lightly over the gravel as he came to stand just behind him now, silent for a moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was more measured, warmer. ‘Are you okay?’

He felt Dick’s gloved hand take his shoulder from behind, sensing his gaze making their way up and down his hulking frame; his brother was inspecting him, looking for injuries. 

Jason finally turned, facing him fully. Moonlight was now cast over his helmet, though as usual, the helm obscured his expression, but Jason was certain that Dick did not need to see it to know something was the matter.

‘It’s not about me,’ Jason said finally, part reassurance, part deflection. ‘I’m fine.’

Dick tilted his head; this revelation perplexed him exceedingly. ‘Okay. Then what’s with the impromptu rooftop meeting?’

Jason huffed a dry laugh, but still did not elaborate.

Dick frowned. ‘Jay…’

It was exceedingly rare for him to use their real names while donned in their guises. He knew this was serious; Jason swallowed. His jaw tensed beneath the helm. ‘I… I wanted to tell you something. Something that might concern you.’

Dick’s frown deepened, but he nodded. ‘Go on.’

Jason hesitated. Again. It was too much. And now, standing here in front of Dick, he found himself questioning every step, every decision that led to this confrontation.

He thought of Peter, the way the kid had looked up at him with wary eyes and a smirk that did not grace his cheeks. The way he had torn through that burrito like he had not eaten in days, but still had the good manners to ask Jason why he was not eating. He thought of that streak of white in his hair, that particular shade of uncanny green in his irises, and the sarcasm that was way too familiar.

He thought of how he had vanished without a trace, slipped past detection like it was second nature. Like he had done it a hundred times before. And how, despite all of that, he still looked like a lost kid, as though he were holding everything together with weak stitches and stubbornness.

Jason opened his mouth to speak, but what could he say?

He had been on the precipice of words when he closed his mouth again.

Dick took another step forward, slower this time. ‘Jason. What’s going on? Seriously.’

Jason looked away, his throat tight. ‘It’s… complicated.’

Dick’s brow furrowed, his voice now laced with horror. ‘What, are you dying or something?’

Jason turned back sharply. ‘No… no. It’s not me, remember?’

‘Then who?’ Dick pressed, voice softening. ‘What’s got you this wound up?’

Jason stared at him for a long second, caught in the gravity of it.

Then, slowly, measured, he shook his head.

‘Look,’ he said quietly, stepping back from the ledge. ‘I can’t explain it. Not here. I thought I could, but… It’s not the place.’

Dick almost smiled; he was attempting to be reassuring, but a lingering tension did not leave his posture. ‘Is this something I should be worried about?’

Jason hesitated. Then nodded solemnly. ‘Yeah. Probably. But not the way you think.’

Dick exhaled and crossed his arms. ‘Then tell me how to help.’

Jason’s eyes flicked back toward him, then out to the skyline. ‘Swing by my place after patrol. Bring your car.”

Dick blinked. ‘You want me to pick you up?’

‘I need to show you something,’ Jason said, gaze fixed ahead now, jaw tight beneath the helmet. ‘There’s somewhere I need to take you, I don’t think I can explain here.’

Dick studied him for a moment longer, searching his face for something, though all he could see was his reflection in the smooth red of the helm. Eventually, he nodded, stepping back slightly.

‘Alright,’ he said. ‘After patrol. I’ll come by.’

Jason gave a tight nod. ‘Thanks.’

Dick moved toward the ledge, pausing just before taking off. ‘You sure you’re okay?’

Jason nodded again. Slower this time. ‘Yeah. Just… I’ll see you soon.’

Dick seemed satisfied with this, not pressing further, and with a quiet breath and a flick of his wrist, he grappled away into the night.

Jason did not follow. Not immediately.

He stood alone on the rooftop after Dick vanished, the sound of the wind and the hum of traffic below filling the space he left behind.

He stared at the horizon for a moment longer, jaw clenched.

Jason arrived back at his place as the light of the new day was making itself known. He shrugged off his jacket and helmet in one motion as he stepped inside. The apartment was quiet, dimly lit, and cluttered with half-disassembled weaponry and gear from the previous night of patrol. He was quick to change into regular clothes, not knowing when Dick would arrive. 

He stood by the window for what felt like a long while, one hand gripping the sill, watching the street below. The sky had turned a lighter hue now, almost pinkish, and the city lights blinked in and out of rhythm like a slow, lethargic beat. It had been a couple of hours since he had called Dick, and yet Jason’s nerves had not settled. If anything, the weight in his chest had gotten more abundant.

When the familiar rumble of Dick’s car engine rolled into earshot, Jason did not feel relief, only a deeper certainty that there was no turning back now. Then three soft knocks came at the door, and Jason took a breath before opening it.

Dick stood there, out of gear, dressed in dark jeans and a fitted jacket, hair damp from a recent shower, no doubt scrubbed clean of the night's grime. His expression was unreadable but not unkind.

‘You look like hell,’ Dick said plainly, eyes flicking over him.

‘You came all this way to tell me that?’ Jason snorted, with a weak attempt at diversion.

‘I came because you asked,’ Dick replied pointedly. ‘But you’re making me nervous, Jay.’

Jason moved to grab another jacket, slipping it on with practised ease. ‘It’s nothing catastrophic. Just… unexpected.’

‘That’s not comforting,’ Dick muttered.

Jason paused by the door. ‘We need to go. You driving?’

Dick gave him a look but nodded. ‘Sure.’

They made their way down to the car in relative silence, the tension stretched taut between them like a coiled spring. Jason did not volunteer anything, and Dick did not push. Not yet.

They got in, Jason in the passenger seat, tapping his fingers lightly against the glove box.

‘Alright,’ Dick said, adjusting the mirror. ‘Where to?’

‘The Clock Tower,’ Jason replied simply.

Dick glanced at him, brows drawing up. ‘We’re seeing Babs…?’

Jason nodded once, staring out the window.

‘Okay,’ Dick said slowly, shifting into gear. ‘Wasn’t aware we needed an audience for your cryptic admission.’

‘It’s not that,’ Jason said quickly, too quickly. ‘She knows what I’m about to tell you.’

Dick shot him a look. ‘Knows what?’

Jason did not answer, lips pressing into a thin line.

The engine hummed as they pulled away from the curb, the only sounds inside the car being the low thrum of the heater and the faint rattle of something loose in the console.

Dick tapped his fingers against the wheel, ‘You gonna tell me anything before we arrive? Or am I just your chaperone for the night?’ 

Dick's attempt at a joke fell short as Jason spoke up.  ‘I’ll explain everything when we’re there.’

Dick’s brows knit together. ‘Jason…’

‘Just…’ Jason’s voice softened, suddenly. ‘Just give me a few more minutes, alright? I need to get it right.’

That threw Dick off more than anything. The uncertainty in Jason’s voice was not something he had heard often; it was just about something he had never heard. For all his temper, Jason had always been decisive. Reckless, maybe, but never hesitant.

Now, though, there was hesitation all over him. Dick could feel it in the distended space between them, and Dick did not like it. Though he nodded once regardless, and resolved not to speak again, not until his brother was ready. 

The streetlamps still alight in the early morning flickered over the windshield in slow intervals as they passed beneath them, each one caught Jason’s eyes like a strobe. He looked tired. Worn in a way that had nothing to do with a lack of sleep.

The car eased into the side street of Babs’ unassuming base of operation, headlights briefly casting long shadows across the damp brick. The rain had stopped some time ago, but the city still glistened with its remnants, light mirrored in the shallow puddles, windows streaked and fogged with moisture.

Dick reached for the door handle, already halfway out of his seat when Jason’s voice, soft and strangely halting, stopped him.

‘Wait, there are a few things I should tell you before we go in.’

Dick paused, hand still on the handle. He looked back over his shoulder, brow furrowed.

‘Okay…’ Dick settled back into his seat, shutting the door gently. ‘You’re acting weird, man. What’s going on?’

Jason shifted, uncomfortable. The leather of his jacket creaked faintly as he leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, fingers loosely laced under his chin. He stared out the windshield for a beat before speaking.

‘There’s… There’s a kid,’ Jason said, sitting up again, voice low. ‘He’s been living pretty rough in the city.’

That alone was nothing new. They encountered runaways and neglected kids more often than they liked. But there was something in Jason’s tone, the hesitation, the weight behind it, that made Dick’s chest tighten.

‘He’s maybe twelve…’ Jason continued. ‘Smart but paranoid as hell. Been avoiding shelters, cameras… us. I only saw him last because he stumbled across me. Otherwise, I’d still be looking.’

Dick nodded slowly. ‘Alright… and?’

Jason exhaled through his nose, the kind of breath that came before saying something you were not sure should be uttered aloud, as if the air itself might carry the weight of the words too far.

‘He’s tough and has good instincts. We think he must be living in condemned buildings or alley corners, and…’ He trailed off.

‘Jason…’ Dick’s voice was calm, but edged with concern.

Jason did not continue right away. He stared at his gloved hands, flexing his fingers as though trying to will blood back into the numbing appendages. Then, finally, Dick pushed again.

‘There’s something you’re not telling me,’ he probed gently. ‘We deal with lost kids all the time, Jay. This isn’t new. What’s different about this one?’

Jason swallowed. He looked up, not at Dick, but just past him, as though avoiding eye contact made the words easier.

‘He told me his name’s Peter.’

Dick tilted his head, clearly waiting.

Jason finally met his eyes.

‘Dick… I think he may be yours.’

A charged, stunned silence filled the car, louder than the words themselves. For a moment, Dick did not move, did not breathe. His expression did not shift immediately, not in shock, not in disbelief. It was just stillness, the kind of stillness that preceded an undulant storm.

Then, softly, not much louder than a breath; ‘What…?’

Jason nodded, slowly. ‘I know it’s a lot, and I want you to know it’s not confirmed. But Babs and I… we’ve got good reason to think he’s your son.’

Dick’s eyes unfocused. He leaned back into his seat like the air had been knocked out of him, lungs void within the expanse of his ribs, and he blinked rapidly as if the dull streetlights had suddenly become too bright.

‘My…’  He choked on the word. ‘My son?’

The words did not land all at once. They sank in slowly, like water on an almost impermeable surface, seeping through layers of disbelief before reaching the place where his panic resided. 

Your son.

Jason had spoken the words so carefully, like they might detonate if said too loudly, and yet, they still hit like a gut-punch. Dick’s first instinct was to deny it. Not out loud, not to Jason, he was too stunned even for that, but to himself. He scoured through memories with frantic precision, trying to find the moment he might have lost track of information this imperative. Jason had said the boy was twelve, and a shiver pulsated down his spine at the realisation that this was feasible, the realisation that Jason’s declaration was not an impossibility.

How could he be so irresponsible?

His chest tightened.

The thought, the horrifying possibility, that there was a child out there, his child, that he had not known... had not been there for... felt akin to a wedge driven between his ribs. Twelve years. That is what Jason had said. Twelve. Which meant this boy had existed for as long as he had been Nightwing. As long as he had been independently fighting to protect other people’s children.

And that boy had been alone.

A part of him recoiled from the idea. Because if it were true… then every year he had spent suiting up, patrolling rooftops, giving speeches to kids in shelters about safety and survival, all of it had been hollow. He had failed the one person who should have never slipped through the cracks.

And worse still, he had not even known to look.

His mouth felt dry. His fingers clenched into fists before he noticed, and he forced himself to relax them, like that could undo the weight pressing down on him. He wanted answers, needed them, but fear warred with reason. He did not know what was waiting for him inside that Clock Tower.

He was not ready. But he also knew he could not walk away.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,’ Jason said, his voice gentler now. ‘I just… I wanted to be sure I wasn’t jumping to conclusions, but I couldn’t keep it from you anymore.’

Dick did not respond.

He sat in silence, hands once more curling into fists in his lap. Jason could see the twitch in his jaw, the flicker of confusion, grief, and guilt all tangled into one unspoken response.

‘Dick,’ Jason said softly. ‘Say something.’

But Dick could not. He was not assured he could get intelligible words out if he tried.

Instead, he stared out at the city, chest rising and falling like he was relearning how to breathe. He did not look towards his brother. Just nodded once, very slowly, like his mind was moving miles behind his body.

Dick finally found his voice, though it cracked around the edges. ‘Does Bruce know?’

Jason immediately shook his head, sharp and definitive. ‘No. Just Babs and I. We didn’t want to bring anyone into it, not before you. Babs knows because I needed help finding him when I was on patrol once. It proved useless, though.’

Dick exhaled slowly, though it did little to steady the storm developing in his chest. He was grateful for the privacy, yes, but also crushed under the implication. If Bruce had known, there would have been a plan in motion, a solution already forming. Dick was not sure if he was relieved or more adrift because of it.

His hand curled tighter on the edge of the seat, nails biting faintly into leather. He did not look at Jason as he asked, voice soft, ‘What makes you think he’s mine?’

Jason hesitated, then gestured loosely toward the Clock Tower. ‘You’ll see. Babs has some files. Photos. Reports. Things that’ll make it easier to explain… It’s not definitive, not yet. But there’s too much lining up for it to be a coincidence.’

Dick gave a small nod, more of a reflex than anything else, eyes distant. Too much lining up. That phrasing echoed in his skull. He thought about how many chances he had missed over the years. How many nights had blurred together, one rooftop after another, one case after the next. He had dedicated himself to being responsible, to never making the same mistakes Bruce had made, and yet here he was, staring down the possibility that he had made one worse.

A son, a child, living weary in Gotham. Alone. And he had not known.

God, he thought, swallowing against the tight knot rising in his throat, if it’s true, I’ve already failed him.

Jason gave him another moment before speaking again.

‘Come on,’ he said quietly. ‘We should go in.’

They stepped out of the car and crossed toward the entrance in silence, the cold air wrapping around them like a second skin.

Chapter Text

The elevator gave its habitual faint groan as it climbed the final floors to the Clock Tower’s inner sanctum. Jason leaned silently against the wall, arms crossed tightly across his chest, while Dick stood with his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, gaze distant. He had not spoken much since they left the car.

When the doors slid open, the faint electric glow of Barbara’s base spilled into the hallway. She looked up from her desk almost immediately, startled to see both of them.

‘Jay?’ she said, blinking once. Then her eyes flicked to Dick, and her entire posture shifted. Her face drew taut in alarm. ‘Dick? Is something wrong?’

Her voice was soft, but urgent, already scanning him for visible injuries. He did not answer. Just looked vaguely hollow.

Jason held up a hand. ‘No… no, he’s fine. Sorry. I didn’t call ahead.’

Barbara’s brows lifted, unimpressed. ‘Clearly.’

There was a beat. Then she turned her chair fully, giving them her full attention. Her gaze lingered on Dick again, brow creased in clear concern. He looked like he had been winded some time ago and had not caught his breath since.

Jason rubbed a hand over his jaw, then said, ‘I told him.’

Barbara blinked, confused for a moment, then realisation dawned, slow but visible.

‘Oh,’ she said. Then again, more carefully. ‘Oh. Right.’

It was the kind of neutral response that broadcast her uncertainty louder than anything else might have. She flicked a quick glance back toward Dick, then shifted slightly in her chair, careful not to make him feel like he was under scrutiny.

‘Okay,’ she said lightly, voice pitched a little softer, the way someone might speak around a sleeping animal. ‘Do you want to sit? Both of you?’

Jason cleared his throat, neither of them moving toward the couch she gestured to. ‘We were hoping to look through some of the files.’

‘Of course,’ Barbara replied, already turning back to the computer to bring up the folder she knew he meant. ‘Anything specific you’re looking for?’

Jason shook his head. ‘Not really. Just thought it’d help if we went over everything again. For Dick’s sake.’

She nodded once, her expression unreadable.

Jason leaned over the desk slightly, watching the screens flicker to life as she pulled up the relevant files. ‘We don’t have a lot,’ he admitted.

‘That’s generous,’ Barbara muttered.

‘We know he’s been staying off-grid,’ Jason continued, now addressing Dick. ‘We haven’t found anything legal, no school records, no hospital entries, no shelter sign-ins. I’ve been checking store cameras and street footage where I can, but he slips past them; it’s too seamless to be coincidental.’

‘He’s avoiding them?’ Dick asked.

‘Deliberately,’ Barbara confirmed. ‘And frustratingly well.’

Jason nodded. ‘Yeah. He knows how to stay invisible. We’ve got a few sightings, mostly by accident, and none of them lead anywhere. I’d only seen him in person once, before he stumbled across me a few nights later, but only by chance. He’s... careful.’

Dick absorbed this with a muted intensity, his jaw flexing once.

‘He gave a name?’ he asked eventually, his voice low.

Jason exchanged a glance with Barbara, then said, ‘Yeah. Peter.’

Dick’s brows drew together faintly. He looked toward the monitors as if expecting more.

‘Peter Grayson,’ Barbara added, after a pause.

Dick’s head turned sharply toward her, ‘Grayson? He said that?’

‘Yeah,’ Jason said. ‘But, like I said before, we didn’t find any legal records that match, which made it all the more suspicious. Or… pointed.’

Babs gave a tight nod from her seat at the terminal. ‘We thought maybe it was fake. Just a name he grabbed off a newspaper headline or some tabloid. But seeing him… well… it’d be irresponsible to ignore the resemblance. And besides, even if it ends up being nothing, he’s still another kid we need to help off the streets…’

She trailed off awkwardly, opting to instead watch Dick closely. She waited for a flicker of recognition, a crease in his brow, a twitch of realisation. Something that would confirm what they had both been too afraid to say aloud.

Dick swallowed thickly, feeling the stares. His jaw worked once, twice, before he finally muttered, ‘Is this… Are you…’ He paused, ‘You guys want to know if it’s possible, don’t you?’

Neither Jason nor Babs answered. They did not need to.

Dick looked down at his calloused hands for a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter, rougher. ‘Yeah. It’s… possible.’

Jason blinked, then nodded, but still did not speak. 

Dick knew he would need to offer more information. He sank into the pliant leather of the couch Babs had offered earlier, and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. 

‘There was… a girl. Ah… Mary Fitzpatrick. I met her not long before I started out on my own. We were… close, for a while. But it wasn’t… it wasn’t something serious. I left for Blüdhaven not long after; I think she went to Queens herself. We… lost touch.’

The admission was followed by a pause, the kind that was not uncomfortable, but rather heavy.

‘I don’t know what happened to her,’ he added. ‘I never followed up. I didn’t… I didn’t think there was any reason to.’

‘Do you mind if I look into her?’ Babs asked gently, already typing.

Dick shook his head. ‘No. If there’s a chance… if he’s… yeah. Go ahead.’

The room fell into silence, save for the soft clicks of Barbara’s keyboard and the occasional hum of a loading data query. Jason paced restlessly behind her, arms crossed, glancing between the screens and Dick, who remained hunched in the same position, his expression unreadable. Then a sharp gasp cut through the quiet.

Jason immediately stepped forward. ‘What is it?’

Babs did not answer right away. She was staring at the monitor, lips parted, eyes wide. Then, she wordlessly angled the screen between them, displaying a birth record.

Peter Fitzpatrick.
Date of birth: August 10, 2001.
Birthplace: Queens, New York City, New York.
Mother: Mary Fitzpatrick.
Father: Unlisted.

Jason leaned in closer, and Dick sat upright with a start, his eyes locked on the name, then hesitently dropping to the birthdate; the timing could not have aligned more accurately, his chest tightened. 

‘That’s him,’ Babs murmured, as Dick swallowed. ‘His name is Peter. It’s got to be him.’

But she was not done.

Another click, another tab, and then she pulled up an old police report, mostly redacted.

Date: November 15, 2002.
Subject: Mary Fitzpatrick.
Status: Deceased.
Cause of death: Classified.
Additional Notes: Infant son reported missing from the scene. Presumed abducted. Case remains open.

Dick’s breath hitched.

The photo on the screen showed a young woman in her late teens, warm brown hair pulled back loosely. He felt a pang of grief; this person, someone with whom he had once been close, had been gone for years, and he had not even known it. Dick stared at her for a moment longer, heart pounding beneath his ribs. Then, in a voice barely more than a whisper, ‘That’s her. That’s Mary.’

He looked stricken, as if all the air had been pulled out of the room. He pressed a trembling hand to his mouth, but it did little to steady him.

Jason’s posture stiffened, unsure whether to comfort him or give him space, while Babs looked up from her chair, eyes filled with rue, but holding back from intruding.

‘Eleven years,’ Dick whispered, eyes still locked on the monitor. ‘He’s been missing for eleven years.’

Jason swallowed. ‘Dick… we didn’t know. If we had… ’

‘I didn’t know,’ Dick said, louder this time. Not accusing. Not angry. Just lost. ‘I didn’t even…’

He did not finish; he did not need to; heartbreak was riddled over his features. Barbara shifted once more in her chair, pushing away from the monitor. 

‘It’s a lot,’ she said softly. ‘More than any of us expected. But now we know something. It’s a start.’

Jason nodded slowly, agreeing. ‘It might not seem like it now, but this is a good thing, Dick. It’ll help us find him and help him.’

Dick said nothing.

His eyes remained on Mary’s face, his hands curled into fists in his lap. He looked like a man attempting to piece himself back together in real time.

Jason opened his mouth, perhaps to say something else, perhaps to offer comfort, but the weight of the moment anchored them all in stillness.

Dick could not speak. He was not even sure he could breathe properly. His thoughts turned inward, spiralling, suffocating, every instinct he had as a protector, as a brother, as a man who had sworn never to repeat the mistakes of those around him, began to collapse inward under the weight of this revelation.

Jason and Babs’ theory was not just plausible anymore; it was probable. The boy’s name, the image of Mary Fitzpatrick, and the report of her missing child. His missing child, as it would seem.

The thought burned through him like acid.

What kind of life could this boy have lived if he had been missing for eleven years? He tried to picture Peter as a baby, swaddled in a soft blanket, gurgling sweetly in some quiet room. And then that image shattered, replaced by alleyways, grimy buildings, and the soft whir of security footage catching a boy who looked too thin for his age, a boy who shivered under ragged clothes.

He should have been there. He should have known; he should never have reduced Mary to nothing more than a memory. He tried to recall where he would have been that year, already in Blüdhaven, buried in patrols and stake-outs and trying to be even better than Bruce had raised him to be. All that effort and still, he had failed someone who had needed him most.

He dragged a hand over his face, as if it could wipe away the mounting guilt that was beginning to consume him. How had this happened? How had he missed it? What kind of man was he, if a child born from him was living on the streets, while he scaled rooftops, deluding himself into thinking he was making a difference?

His throat tightened. The idea that any child, let alone his own, had grown up with no one, no safety, was enough to make his stomach turn violently. He felt like he could be sick.

Finally, Dick cleared his throat. ‘Do you have a photo?’

Jason hesitated; the simple request was enough to set off alarm bells.

Dick straightened, eyes narrowing just slightly. ‘I can handle it. You don’t have to keep shielding me, I’m not going to freak.’ Though the words felt akin to a lie as they passed his lips.

Barbara looked over her shoulder, then down at the keyboard. But she did not move.

Dick’s brows furrowed further, confusion now lining his voice. ‘What? Is there something wrong? You already said he looks like me, I can handle seeing it. I need to.’

Jason let out a slow breath and reached to brace one hand against the desk, fingers curling against the edge. ‘It’s not that,’ he said carefully. ‘It’s just… I don’t know how to explain this next part.’

Dick watched him closely. ‘Jason…’

Jason’s jaw clenched visibly. His breath stuttered. Something in him shifted, the weight of something deeper, darker, an anger barely held in check. His grip on the desk tightened; Dick was sure his knuckles had gone white beneath his gloves. Beside his brother, Barbara turned still, as though she were caught suspended just before an impact.

Dick’s expression turned wary. ‘What is it?’

Jason was silent for a long second. Then, finally, he lifted his eyes, expression flat. When he next spoke, his voice was tighter than it had been all night.

‘There’s something else about him,’ he said. ‘Something you need to know before we go any further.’

Dick nodded, silently prompting.

Jason swallowed, trying to lower his voice into something gentler, but when he opened his mouth to speak, the words caught somewhere behind his teeth.

When it became clear that Jason would be unable to continue, Barbara’s posture straightened, hands twisting nervously on the desk before her.

‘Peter…’ she began, her mouth trembling at the edges, ‘Peter has characteristics consistent with someone who has…’

She faltered.

Her eyes flicked to Jason briefly, then back down to the floor, and for a moment, it looked like she might stop altogether. Like saying it aloud would make it real.

The words tasted wrong even before they left her tongue.

‘…someone who has…’

Her voice thinned; she did not finish the sentence all at once. It came in fragments. Uneven and unwilling.

‘…come into contact with the Lazarus Pit.’

Dick did not speak. He did not move. He just sat there, eyes vacant as he registered the dreadful words, staring past Barbara like he had not quite processed what had been said. The Lazarus Pit. The words sat in his mind, they pressed inwards, each syllable splintering and pricking his ears like needles. His lungs forgot how to work. His ribs contracted, chest heaving under an insurmountable weight that had no physical form, yet felt heavier than anything he had ever borne.

No. That was his first intelligible thought. Not quite denial, not disbelief, just an instinctive, desperate refusal. The word barely formed before his stomach turned, nauseating and sharp, like something rotting below his sternum. He swallowed hard against the bile climbing his throat, pressing the heel of his palm to his brow like that could somehow hold back the scream clawing up the back of his throat. But his attempt was feeble, as a small groan, inhumane in sound, made its way past his lips.

Dick already thought of the Lazarus Pit with a grave sense of abhorrence, and the notion of it, of that, touching any child, his child. 

He blinked rapidly. Twelve. Jason said he was twelve. Dick’s hands curled at his sides, trembling so slightly it might have been missed by anyone who was not watching closely. But Babs was watching. Jason too. And neither of them said a word.

Why would a twelve-year-old have anything to do with death? The question came unbidden. Quiet. Terrifying. What kind of life did a boy have to live to end up near something like that? What had been done to him? How long had he been gone?

He remembered the report Babs had found. Mary Fitzpatrick, dead in her home, her infant son missing. Presumed abducted. Missing for eleven years. Had someone taken him and used him? Hurt him? Killed him? 

The thought made Dick shudder, his entire body recoiling. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the image came anyway, the boy Jason had described. Tired eyes. Thin voice. Cautious posture. But now he pictured a streak of white through dark hair, and he shied away from the image.

‘Dick,’ Babs said gently, and he flinched at the interruption, as though her voice had frightened him. She hesitated, momentarily, before she extended a small printout toward him. It was creased along the edges, clearly printed from surveillance footage. A timestamp ran along the bottom, blurred slightly from enhancement.

It was a still of a security camera outside a grocer. A boy stood hunched beside the storefront, half-obscured in shadow, a stitched-up backpack clutched tight over one shoulder. He was glancing back toward the street, mid-motion, but his face… Dick felt the world tilt.

The boy was grainy in the image, distorted by the limitations of the lens, but not enough. Not enough to mistake the slope of his nose, the shape of his jaw, the angles of his cheekbones. It was him; you’d be forgiven for mistaking them for one another, they had not been exaggerating the resemblance.  

Dick stared. Something in him splintered.

‘That’s…’ He could not finish. His throat closed around the words like they were too dangerous to speak aloud.

Jason nodded once, understanding him regardless. ‘I know.’

He let the image burn into his vision like it might never leave. He imagined this boy, Peter, out in the city right now, cold, hungry, riddled with fear and stubborn resilience. Bearing scars, Dick had not been there to stop, carrying memories he should never have had to make.

A child, his child, brought back from death. It was unbearable.

He had failed. He had failed before he even had the chance to know him. And that guilt, that awful, clawing guilt, coiled in his gut, and in that moment, he was certain it had made a permanent home there. He closed his eyes as a shuddering tremor ran through his system.

‘We have to find him,’ he whispered.

─ ⟡ ✢ ⟡ ─

The guilt had been gnawing at him for days now. It was not loud, not always, more like a persistent throb behind his ribs. It flared whenever he passed someone being hassled on the street, or when he caught the distant echo of sirens. Though it was always at its worst when he spotted a newsstand, when he saw the papers sitting within their trays and read all the terrible, dire headlines riddling their front pages. 

Despite the city’s unusually high vigilante count, every time he was met with breaking news, his gut clenched with shame, because he could be out there too, yet he was shirking the responsibility he had once held with reverence.

He told himself he could not help. Not right now, half-starved and frozen, and devoid of a proper place to sleep, a place that did not reek of mould and rot. But none of that seemed to matter when he lay awake, on the splintered, corroding floor of the parlour, while the sound of someone getting hurt lodged in his mind like shrapnel; an impact not intended for him, but finding his being regardless. 

By the time dusk slipped down upon Gotham’s horizon in slick grey layers, Peter found himself walking, without the semblance of a thought, back toward the undertaker he had just been thinking of.

He hesitated at the edge of the building, eyes tracking every window, every fire escape, every possible place someone could be watching. It still felt dangerous, perilous even, to return. But he had hidden it here, and he had already resolved to retrieve it.

Slipping through the loose board near the side alley, Peter ducked into the dark, hushed interior. His breath was louder than he liked, and white mist curled in front of his face. It was not long before he stood before his abandoned alcove, making quick work of prying open a loose floorboard at the apex of where he slept. 

Fingers numb, he reached in, brushing debris and newly formed cobwebs aside, until he felt the slick fabric.

The suit.

He pulled it out with care, unfolding the red and blue material with a reverence he had not felt since his abrupt arrival in Gotham. It looked almost foreign in his hands now, brighter than he remembered. Despite its lingering stains of blood and the hastily patched-up holes, it remained mostly untouched by the city's grime. 

Peter sat down to change, each movement aching. He pulled on the suit slowly, like it might tear if he were too hasty. With the mask now in place and a small press of the spider insignia near the chest, the material began to shift, contracting and adapting to his current frame.

The fabric clung easily, hugging his person, as it always did, fitting like an extension of himself, though it was no longer met with the same sense of comfort and familiarity. Peter sighed when he discerned his pointed joints, the ribs that poked out more than they used to, collarbones sharp and stark below his neck.

He stared down at himself, chest rising and falling shallowly, and could not help the grimace that tugged at his mouth.

In this city, this jagged, joyless place, intimidation mattered. Perception was important. No one was going to take a sunken-framed twelve-year-old in spandex seriously. Not when it looked like a gust of wind had a fighting chance of knocking him over.

So he rummaged through a drawer near his makeshift bedding, the one he used to keep his spare clothes, until his fingers met something soft. 

A hoodie in royal blue made from fabric both worn, and thick. The sleeves were still a bit long, but it was warm, and more importantly, it would conceal the worst of his gauntness.

Then, from another drawer, he dug out a half-used can of red spray paint, which he scavenged from a waste bin behind a convenience store a week prior. Up until this point, Peter had not been sure how he would make use of it; though now, he was not able to quell the notion that maybe it had been subconscious, as though he were waiting for this moment. 

It still worked, mostly. The nozzle dripping as he guided it across both the chest and back of the garment in careful, bold movements. Eventually, shapes began to form. Angular legs and sharp bodies made up two spiders in silhouette; a small one centred on his chest and a large one spanning his entire back.

He pulled it over his suit, smiling now, the hood settling over his head with a comforting weight. Spider-Man, but a little more street-level. He stared down at it for a long moment when he was done. It was far from perfect; the symmetry was off, and the lines bled a little. But it was still him, still the ‘friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man’ he had grown to sorely miss. 

Chapter Text

Peter flexed his fingers inside his gloves, feeling the fabric stretch and settle against his skin. Despite being made up of the same colours, the hoodie softened the sharp contrast of red and blue concealed beneath.

He lifted a hand to his mask and turned to view his reflection in a dark window. The eyes stared back at him, white and unblinking, as the familiar snugness encased his head, muffling the biting, cold air. It felt heavier than it had the last time he had worn it, between all his running, hiding, and near-misses; it had been hard for him to grasp that he was still Spider-Man. 

Peter was conflicted; he yearned to emit the same hallmark of trust he had garnered in this home of Queens, yet he could not seem to shake the conviction that it would be unwise to stand out here, in this city of crime and decay.

A memory flickered, one that had been nagging at him since his first week in Gotham. Peter had been huddled in on a side street, lingering within the warmth of a rusted food truck, when he overheard two men in suits speaking at a wrought metal table. They had been discussing Batman's apparent dislike of metas, as though it were common knowledge. 

The phrase had not been familiar to the boy, and in his curiosity, Peter had rushed home to the cracked, putrescent walls of the parlour. Utilising Karen, he conducted some research, eager to learn all he could about the famed vigilantes of Gotham. There were interviews, opinion pieces, even a couple of editorial pages from smaller Gotham papers, and to his dismay, they each conveyed the same message: Batman liked control, and metas were unpredictable, dangerous and a risk to society.

Peter had not been able to quell the shiver that rolled down his spine at this revelation; a meta is exactly what he would be considered in this universe. 

He tugged his hood further up over the mask. Peter would have to be diligent, no flashy web-swinging across Gotham’s skyline, and certainly no daring flips for the sake of style. He would take part in no high-profile rescues unless there was no other choice. 

Peter would not allow anyone to succumb to this caution; if there was a person in need of aid, he would not turn a blind eye. Though he was hesitant to make an audience with Gotham’s most revered vigilante, especially not the one who supposedly had eyes everywhere.

For now, he would stick to the alleys, the blind spots, the places even Batman might overlook. If he were lucky, he could still help people without drawing the attention of the world’s most paranoid sentinel. 

He tightened the drawstring of his hoodie ever so slightly, stood, and slung up and out from his windowsill with inhumane grace. The air outside the parlour felt impossibly colder, or maybe it was just the anticipation crawling up his spine. Either way, it was time to go.

The night went better than Peter had any right to expect. For someone who had been out of the game for so long, the rhythm crept back in like muscle memory, rusty around the edges, but certainly still there. An angled turn down a narrow, dimly-lit street brought him face-to-face with a situation that felt all too familiar: a woman had her back pressed against crumbling brick, as two men sauntered in towards her.

They did not distinguish his scant frame approaching until the first offender was already webbed to a brick wall, halfway through shouting something ugly. The second barely had time to spin around before Peter swept his legs out from under him, sending him sprawling. The guy scrambled, but a quick flick of his wrist glued his jacket to the ground.

'You know, for future reference, if you guys learn some basic manners, you won't end up glued to various surfaces.' Peter said cheerfully, his voice echoing off the close walls.

The woman did not linger. She muttered a shaky thank you and hurried away, still clutching her bag tightly. Peter stayed perched on the edge of the wall for a few seconds longer, watching until she disappeared around the corner.

Before moving on, Peter muttered under his breath. 'Karen, can you send out a few discreet pings to the GCPD? No flashy alerts, nothing that’ll put me on anyone’s radar, just quiet messages with coordinates so they can pick up our friends here.' 

He glanced at the man still glued to the brick wall, who was now muttering furiously under his breath. 

'Make sure it goes to officers who won’t ask too many questions about who gift-wrapped them.' 

Karen’s tone was matter-of-fact when she replied, 'Already compiling a list. They’ll be collected within the hour.' Peter gave a short nod, satisfied, before leaping up to the rooftops again.

A short while later, it was car thieves. He spotted them from across the street, fumbling with various implements on the driver’s side of a rusty sedan. They were so focused on their task, they did not notice him until he landed on the hood, crouching low, one hand braced against the cold metal.

'Hey fellas,' he said, tilting his head, 'I hate to interrupt, but you’re doing it all wrong. Usually, people acquire their own car.'

One of them froze like a deer in headlights, wasting no further time to abscond down the street, but he did not get far before he was dragged back by a well-placed line of webbing. The other tried to play it cool, standing his ground until Peter lazily aimed his left web-shooter. A second later, he dangled from a lamppost, swearing and thrashing as Peter strolled off.

'Send someone their way as well, please, Karen.' He asked pleasantly.

It felt good. Not perfect, not the triumphant, clean satisfaction he remembered from Queens, there was still a part of him that insisted this was far from a well-considered idea, but it felt good enough to make something in his chest loosen for the first time in weeks. It was easy to surmise he could handle this again, even in Gotham.

When the weathered boy reached the crest of the street he was trekking, he spied a flyer taped crookedly to a lamppost, edges curled from rain. The ink had bled in places, but the picture was still clear: a young girl, maybe five or six, crouching next to a stocky bull terrier with a black patch over one eye. She was grinning, one arm slung proudly around the dog’s neck. The caption read 'Missing, answers to Otis' followed by a phone number.

Something about the image halted him. He had seen missing posters before, but this one tugged strangely at his heart. The catalyst, he deduced, was the way the girl held the dog as though he were her entire world. Maybe it was the notion that, in the small moment immortalised on the paper before him, she clearly had no idea that one day she would be taping his picture to a post and hoping strangers could help her find him. He stared at the paper longer than he needed to, before glancing at the number. 

'Karen, cross-reference this phone number with a home address, please?'

'On it,' her voice replied in his ear, brusque yet warm.

It did not take long. By the time she was halfway through pulling the details, his senses had already picked up a faint canine scent a few blocks away. He followed it to a back alley behind a greasy diner. He could hardly believe his luck when Otis was there, paws deep in an overturned bin, muzzle slick with gravy and old food; Peter had entirely expected to find another stray in need of help.

'Otis?' Peter asked softly, crouching low. The dog froze, tail stiff, then wagged hesitantly.

'Hey, buddy, you’re a surprisingly easy guy to track down,' Peter murmured, coaxing him closer. He found half a burger in the bin, questionable, sure, but the previously tentative dog did not seem to care that it was less than appetising. In minutes, the bull terrier was trotting at his side, tail wagging like a banner.

Karen’s voice crackled in. 'Got the address for you.'

A few turns later, they were on the right street. Peter rapped lightly on the door, and when it opened, the reaction nearly bowled him over.

A little girl, pushing desperately past what appeared to be her mother, let out a scream of pure joy. She dropped to her knees to hug her pet so tightly the dog gave a muffled grunt, though his tail wagged expeditiously. Her parents were right behind her, thanking him over and over, hands trying to press folded bills into his palms.

He stepped back, shaking his head and laughing slightly. 'Hey, thanks for that. But I don't do this for favours.'

He gave them a wave and attempted to disappear around the corner before they could argue, when the young girl gazed upon him and spoke for the first time since he had knocked.

'What's your name?' Her eyes gleamed with unshed tears, cheeks rosy with the barely contained elation. Peter could not prevent the smile that turned his features, although she could not see it beneath his mask.

'You can call me Spider-Man, but don't wear it out.' 

It was not until he was halfway down the block, Otis’ happy yips still echoing in his ears, that a realisation dawned on him. He stopped dead, groaned, and dragged a hand down his mask. 'Way to keep a low profile, genius.'

He just announced himself by name to the first nice people he encountered, when he had promised himself that he would operate under the radar. He stood there for a moment, the sound of the city pressing in around him, distant car horns and the faint buzz of neon signs flickering. 

The weight of his own stupidity sank in.

Peter could feel the muscles in his jaw clenching as he seized his fists. He muttered a curse under his breath before turning sharply on his heel and scaling up the side of the nearest building, hoping the distance and height would give him a moment to think.

He leapt covertly from rooftop to rooftop, the city’s sprawling labyrinth stretching out below him. His mind raced. There was no telling what kind of impact his slip-up would have here; maybe it would amount to nothing, but his inner pessimist, born from weeks in Gotham, taunted otherwise. 

As he landed on the edge of a skyscraper, he crouched, looking out at the city with frustration. No one here had the faintest idea of who he was, what he was. That is how he intended it to stay. 

Though his worst mistake was not surrendering his name. It was the moment he let his guard down. The moment he allowed himself to feel the joy of interacting with someone normal, something he had not done since his uncanny arrival. 

He had silently promised himself that he would never get attached to anyone in this world, and although he was far from attached to the people he had just spoken with, he could not allow any emotional investments. He did not belong here, and knowing people would not do them any favours, he always left pain in his wake. It was why no one in his family lived long enough to see him grow up back home, and it was why history would repeat itself here; he was dangerous.

Peter banished the unsavoury thought from his mind, swinging to the next perch. He felt the familiar tug and recoil of his web-shooters and frowned at the sluggish way the line deployed. He landed lightly on a rooftop ledge and flicked open the small status display he had built into the wrist casing. The readout was far from encouraging; the fluid levels were down to barely a third of a cartridge, and he had not been conservative tonight. At this pace, he would burn through the rest before dawn. 

He muttered under his breath, trying to calculate what kind of stock he could scavenge in Gotham without drawing the wrong kind of attention before concluding his only option was to scavenge a lab. Ingredients for his web fluid were not things you could just pick up at a corner store, and the idea of being grounded, because he could not shoot a line, left a bitter taste in his mouth.

─ ⟡ ✢ ⟡ ─

The anomaly first entered Bruce’s perception in the early hours of the day, a faint, rhythmic blip threading itself, almost seamlessly, through the chaos of GCPD’s incoming data. Most of it was white noise, a constant churn of reports, dispatches, and system checks he could sort through in his sleep. But this was… different. A faint ping that did not match any of the department’s regular signatures.

He narrowed the vision and isolated the anomaly. It was not a traceable message in the traditional sense, no origin point, with no clear sender. It was a bare set of coordinates, so clean and minimal it might have been mistaken for nothing at all. But Bruce knew better.

His fingers moved across the Batcomputer’s console with machine-like precision, every keystroke a deliberate strike in this new digital hunt. Yet, despite all his efforts, he came up empty.

He could trace a digital footprint anywhere, peel apart encrypted networks no one else dared touch, but this ping slid seamlessly past every tool in his arsenal.

His jaw tightened, a low, controlled breath slipping through his teeth. An anonymous individual had the skill and resources to ghost the Batcomputer’s highest-level tracing systems. The people capable of such a feat did not compile a long list, and most of the names on it were already in Arkham or six feet under. Whoever this was… they were both careful and good, very good.

Another one came through. Same pattern. Same ghostly lack of a sender. Whoever was doing this knew exactly how to maneuver the GCPD’s internal systems without tripping alarms. It was subtle. Surgical. And that made his skin prickle.

His fingers stilled on the console. The hum of the Batcomputer seemed louder in the silence, underscoring an apparent truth: he was not going to crack this from behind a screen. 

If they wanted to thwart his tech, fine. He would take it to the street.

He rose from the chair in one fluid movement, already reaching for his cowl, left draped on the console. The familiar weight settled over his shoulders with a finality that sharpened his focus. He crossed the platform, bootsteps echoing through the cavern, and his voice carried in the same steady, clipped tone he always used when there was no room for negotiation.

‘Damian. Suit up.’

The boy appeared moments later from a nearby workbench, his expression caught somewhere between curiosity and suspicion. ‘What is it?’ he inquired, though he was already moving toward the lockers.

'Coordinates,' Bruce replied simply, adjusting his gauntlets with precise motions. ‘Untraceable pings to the GCPD. No origin point. Whoever’s sending them knows what they’re doing.’

Damian’s brow furrowed as he fastened the tunic of his Robin suit, securing his utility belt with brisk efficiency. ‘Do you believe it’s a trap?’

‘I think,’ Bruce said, checking the grapple gun before holstering it, ‘we’re not going to find the answer by sitting here.’

They met at the foot of the ramp leading to the Batmobile, the sleek black frame gleaming faintly under the cave’s high fluorescent lights. Bruce slid into the driver’s seat, Damian taking his place beside him without further comment. The engines came alive with a deep, rumbling growl, reverberating in their chests.

As they pulled out of the cave, Bruce kept his eyes on the head-up display, where the first set of coordinates pulsed steadily. 

‘The pings are clean. If someone’s feeding these to the GCPD, my best guess is that they intend for the police to find something, or someone, but not them.’

Damian adjusted his gloves, green eyes narrowing.

Bruce’s jaw set, and the city lights began to rise over the horizon ahead of them. ‘We’ll see if they’re friend or foe. These pings contained nothing to indicate they are a threat; we could be dealing with a whistleblower, but caution is necessary, regardless.’

Bruce was not ignorant of the fact that this could be a trap; however, he also knew the lack of theatrics indicated less than malicious intentions. Bruce stared at the blinking point on the monitor, his reflection dim in the glow of the screen. His mind moved quickly through possibilities: an ally operating off grid, an intruder in his city, or something far stranger. He leaned forward, his knuckles white against the wheel. The only thing he was certain of was that this was deliberate. And that not knowing was unacceptable.

The Batmobile’s engine rumbled to a halt at the mouth of a narrow alley, headlights cutting harshly through the damp shadows. Bruce stepped out first, cape undulant before settling heavily at his sides. His eyes tracked over the scene, two men were pinned in place, one upright against a brick wall, the other half-sprawled on the road, his jacket plastered to the asphalt by thick bands of an unfamiliar substance that caught the light like silk but discernibly held like steel.

A moment later, Damian rose from his seat and moved quietly to stand beside him. His gaze swept over the substance, and Bruce caught the faint arch of his brow beneath the domino mask.

‘This material… it is not anything I’ve encountered before,’ Damian muttered, crouching to examine the matter crisscrossing the man’s torso.

‘Take a sample,’ Bruce said quietly, eyes already scanning the rooftops for foreign movement. ‘Small amount. Intact strand, if possible.’

Damian did not need telling twice, as he carefully cut away a section with a scalpel from his belt. Bruce moved toward the nearest man, whose face was set in a sour scowl.

‘What happened here?’ His voice was calm, but it landed heavy, making the thug flinch despite himself.

The man on the pavement glanced from Batman to Robin, then back again, his jaw tightening. ‘Some punk blindsided us,’ he said finally, tone thick with frustration. ‘Didn’t even see him coming. One second I’m talking, next I’m stuck here like a bug.’

Bruce’s gaze sharpened, his voice stern. ‘Describe him.’

The man’s lip curled. ‘Could barely see. Small. Quick. Wore some weird get-up… red and blue.’ He jerked his chin toward his partner. ‘He took him out first. Didn’t hesitate.’

The second man, still struggling uselessly against his restraints, grumbled something under his breath.

‘What was that?’ Bruce asked, stepping closer.

‘He was cracking jokes,’ the thug spat. ‘Talking about manners or something. Like he thought he was funny. Then he called someone… couldn’t make out what was said, though…’ He broke off with a frustrated shake of his head. ‘Then he was gone. Up the wall like it was nothing.’

‘Why did he target you?’ Batman’s voice was low; it cut straight through the damp air severely and made both men shift uncomfortably.

The one against the wall gave a humourless laugh. ‘We were… talking to some lady.’

‘Talking?’ Bruce’s tone carried a strong edge of scepticism; he was not inclined to believe the evident simplification.

The thug’s eyes darted away. ‘Alright, maybe we were giving her a hard time. But nothing serious.’

The other man scoffed. ‘You wanted to grab her bag.’

‘It was a joke!’ the first snapped dishonestly, then immediately looked away when Batman sauntered closer.

Bruce did not break eye contact. ‘And that’s when he stepped in?’

‘Yeah,’ the man muttered. ‘Didn’t even give a warning. One second I’m stuck to a wall, and the next she’s bolting down the street.’

The second thug snorted bitterly. ‘Didn’t even take our wallets either. Just told us to “learn some manners” like he was our mother or something.’

Batman’s jaw tightened beneath the cowl. ‘Anything else?’

‘His voice…’ the second man said after a beat. ‘…sounded like a child. But confident, y’know? And… fast. Like, not human fast.’

Bruce did not move, but a subtle heaviness settled in his chest. A child. That changed things. Gotham was already brutal enough for seasoned operatives; the thought of a boy running its streets at night, inserting himself into danger with criminals like these without guidance, brought with it a sharp, cold undercurrent of concern.

Bruce did not reply after that. He let the silence stretch, watching the flicker of unease pass between them, before finally turning away. He straightened, the details slotting together but still too sparse to fully comprehend. Small, quick frame, untraceable pings, a curious means of restraints and an associate, if the call was any indication. Whoever this child was, they had no intention of being caught.

‘Sample secured,’ Damian said, tucking the contained fragment into his belt.

Bruce gave the unusually transparent men one last look, deciding he would send authorities their way, then turned toward the mouth of the alley.

‘We’re done here.’

Chapter Text

The cave was suspended in a rare moment of silence, broken only by the faint hum of machinery and the occasional drip of condensation from the sparse stalactites above. Their jagged forms emerged from a ceiling that teemed with restless, fluttering shapes. Bruce stood before the main console, the glow of a dozen monitors casting harsh blue light across his face, but the screens offered no clarity, merely frustration. 

He had trailed the pings, scoured citywide feeds, and run every process the Batcomputer contained to pull grainy frames into sharper focus, but still, nothing. The boy was a spectre. 

Bruce had grown accustomed to criminals ducking cameras, even wannabe vigilantes masking their tracks, but this was different. The absence was too precise, too deliberate. As though he were someone who not only knew the blind spots but could move through them naturally and instinctively, Bruce knew that no child should be able to disappear so cleanly.

And yet, out on the streets, this boy left an impression. Bruce’s methods had been forced to degrade from digital to analogue, listening through whispers on corners and hushed talk between informants. And he heard the same thing again and again: the story of a new garish figure weaving through Gotham’s dour veins. Young, cheerful and draped in red and blue.

Some said he was just a blur, scurrying across brick and stone. They insisted they saw him crawl vertically like a spider, bending and contorting his body in ways that made one's own skeleton squirm. One swore he had watched the kid cling to a ceiling before dropping silently into an alley before them. Each account was slightly varied, but all echoed the same impossibility: he defied gravity as though it did not apply to him at all.

Bruce pressed his knuckles upon the console, leaning forward. If it were true, if these feats were not exaggerations, then there could be only two explanations. The child was a meta, something Bruce never approached in Gotham without calculated caution, or he was aided by advanced technology. Tech that did not belong here, in his city. The first possibility was worrisome enough. The second was worse, because it meant someone else, someone unseen, had put it into his hands.

It should have been reassuring, having a working conjecture. Instead, it left Bruce unsettled. A cheerful child in red and blue, crawling across Gotham’s skyline, acting as if the city could be fixed by kindness. 

He was clearly skilled, disciplined, and dangerous in his own way, but also naïve. That combination could get him hurt. Or worse, it could attract the wrong attention. Gotham devoured the hopeful, ruined them and left them scattered across alleys. Bruce knew that better than anyone.

He leaned back from the console, eyes narrowing as he considered the possibilities. If the boy was a meta, then his abilities could at least be explained: heightened physiology, unnatural reflexes, some quirk of biology that let him move as though physics were a suggestion rather than a law. It would be rare, but not unprecedented. And if that was the case, then Bruce knew how to prepare. Metas came with their own risks, but they could be studied, profiled, and anticipated, and this boy seemed of kind intention, regardless.

But the other possibility he had devised chilled him in a different way. If this was not natural ability, if the boy’s feats were the result of equipment, then someone had supplied him with it. Someone was injecting themselves into Gotham’s ecosystem, testing their creations on a vulnerable child, and letting him run wild in his city. That was unacceptable. Gotham was already a battleground, already stretched thin by endless factions clawing for a piece of it. He could not, he would not, allow some unwonted hand to steer its future.

He loosened his fists to instead press his fingertips against the desk, jaw tight. If it were tech, then he had to find the source and shut it down before it proliferated. The idea that a child had access to that level of hardware, advanced enough to mimic inhuman movement and agility, meant there was a supplier bold enough to challenge Gotham’s order. Bruce had spent his entire life making sure Gotham’s rules were abided by, his rules, and he was not about to let an unknown player rewrite them.

And yet, despite every instinct telling him this was the beginning of an unprecedented threat, Bruce could not deny the evidence at hand; the boy’s actions had not harmed Gotham, but rather helped it. This child was not committing crimes. He was not gathering territory or spreading fear. Every single whisper said the same thing: he was aiding. Rescuing. Intervening in the smallest, most human of ways, from chasing off thieves to helping a woman with her shopping.

Bruce’s jaw tightened as he stared at the monitors, each blank square of footage mocking his inability to pin the boy down. So instead, he moved to stand over a reinforced analysis table, taking delicate instruments in his hands with practised precision. 

Before him lay a sample similar to the one Damian had harvested from the alley, a silken strand of white, still tacky at its edges.

It was the fourth one this week. Bruce had taken them from every known site where the new vigilante had intervened. Each time, he had secured the material carefully, rushing it back to the Cave to be catalogued and tested. Yet without fail, the substance broke down within hours, dissolving into nothing more than brittle residue. Every attempt to capture its chemical structure had ended in disjointed fragments of data, as though the material itself was designed to resist analysis.

The result was maddening. His investigation looked unlike the clean profiles he was known for and more like scraps of a puzzle thrown haphazardly across a room. Each dissolved strand represented not just a loss of evidence, but time wasted, time he did not have if someone was supplying a child with such advanced technology. He had worked with cutting-edge polymers, experimental silicates, and reinforced nanofibres, but this… this was beyond anything he had encountered. Stronger than Kevlar, lighter than carbon nanotubes, yet unstable and prone to dissolving.

Whatever the substance was, it did not align with any synthetic material in his database, nor any natural compound Bruce had ever studied. What unsettled him more was how, prior to its own deterioration, it resisted breakdown; solvents that should have dissolved plastics and polymers made no impression.

But it was the tensile strength that made him pause, genuinely pause, in rare astonishment. He had pulled it into clamps and watched as the machine strained against it, numbers ticking upward past steel, past carbon fibre, past even some of WayneTech’s experimental alloys. The strand stretched and stretched, fibres elongating almost invisibly, until the machine’s arm finally snapped, not the sample.

Bruce stared at the readout, lips pressed into a thin line. Whoever this child was, whatever technology had produced this, he had in his possession one of the strongest binding agents Bruce had ever encountered. Stronger than steel, deployable in seconds, and yet seemingly biodegradable. It was both enigmatic and fascinating.

He leaned back slightly, now holding reinforced tweezers with the last filament clamped between them. His mind churned, running through every contact, every lab, every scientist who may have engineered something like this. He could think of only a handful, though he was confident none of them had the motive to release it into Gotham in the hands of a child.

A soft shuffle of footsteps behind him broke his concentration. Damian came to stand at his side, in partial gear, tunic unfastened at the collar, but posture as straight and unyielding as ever. His sharp eyes flicked toward the latest sample, then toward Bruce’s face.

‘Well?’ Damian asked, voice clipped. ‘What is it?’

Bruce set the tweezers down carefully, as if mishandling the fragment might somehow reveal an undisclosed danger. ‘Unknown. The composition doesn’t match anything we’ve catalogued. Synthetic, most likely, and far beyond what we’ve seen deployed in the past.’

Damian narrowed his eyes, studying the gleaming strand. ‘You can’t identify it?’

Bruce gave him a brief look, patient but unamused. ‘Not yet.’

Damian crossed his arms. A note of disdain in his voice, sharper than the words themselves. ‘He is a child. Yet he uses something that outperforms our best prototypes. That is not something to be ignored.’

Bruce did not respond immediately, eyes returning to the cryptic readouts upon the screen. ‘No,’ he said finally, his tone low, almost thoughtful. ‘It isn’t.’

─ ⟡ ✢ ⟡ ─

The library stood in an archetypal silence as Peter slipped through its grand doors, keeping his head down as always. His hood was pulled forward, and his fingers were buried deep in the pockets of his hoodie. He did not think anyone would notice him, and if they did, he counted on the cautious, feigned disinterest, typical of Gothamites, to keep him anonymous.

But Barbara Gordon noticed.

From her place in reception, she caught him almost instantly; the boy who had occupied her every recent thought, wiry, tired, but alert in a way that was almost uncanny. She had memorised every small detail from the photos and files she and Jason had compiled, though even without them, she was confident she would recognise him from their single interaction. It was in the tilt of his shoulders, the way he moved through the aisles as if he were always on the verge of vanishing.

Shock flickered across her expression, sharp and sudden, but she banished it as quickly as it came. The last thing she wanted was to spook him. Instead, she forced herself to turn back to her screen, though she found her eyes drifting to follow him now and then, her hands fidgeting faintly against the edge of the desk before her.

Peter, with a kind, but faint nod in her direction, made his way to the row of computers near the back, selecting one tucked into the corner. He slid into a chair tentatively, as though he were trying to take up as little space as possible, and after a few seconds of cautious glances, he began typing. 

His search was focused and deliberate, labs in Gotham, mostly high schools, and universities. The plan was forming quickly in his head: a school’s chemistry precinct would be perfect. It would provide similar equipment to what Midtown High had offered, and it would be accessible if he moved carefully enough.

Barbara caught snippets as she monitored his activity, and each new entry confirmed what she already suspected: this boy was far more resourceful, and far more desperate, than he wanted anyone to realise. Though she was not sure if his interest lay in an education or a stipend. 

After nearly an hour, she made her move. Moving her chair up beside him, with a couple of wrapped sandwiches balanced neatly across her lap. The gesture was casual, practised, but her voice carried just enough warmth to break through the boy’s walls.

‘You look like you’ve been at it for a while,’ she said lightly, nudging one of the sandwiches toward him. ‘You want one?’

Peter blinked, startled. He had not sensed her approach until she was right there beside him, and he cursed himself; his malnutrition was beginning to hinder the abilities he normally took for granted, and he would pay for it out on patrol. But there was no danger in her tone, no hidden malice. Just the quiet cadence of someone making an offer without strings. His stomach twisted traitorously, and before he could second-guess himself, a small, almost skeletal hand reached out. Barbara winced at the distressing sight with ruth.

‘Thanks,’ he said, soft and sincere.

They ate in silence for a while, the quiet punctuated only by the soft ticks of moving clock hands and the rustle of sandwich wrappers. Eventually, Barbara spoke again, her tone casual, almost offhand.

‘You looking to make some pocket money?’ she asked, turning the words over as if they were nothing unusual. ‘I could use a hand around here with some things I can’t do myself.’

Peter looked up, brows knitting faintly. She smiled softly, keeping it light.

‘I know people don’t usually ask for the help of someone your age,’ she said with a conspiratorial edge, tilting her head before speaking again, ‘but I won’t tell if you don’t.’

He huffed a quiet laugh, still unsure. ‘Like what?’

‘Oh, little things,’ she replied smoothly, waving a hand as though it were no big deal. ‘Moving a few things around, sorting some stuff on the upper shelves. Just odds and ends.’

The truth lingered in the back of her mind, sharp and undeniable. She did not actually need any of this help; she could manage fine. But this was not about her. It was about him and finding a way to get money into his pocket without making it seem like a favour, without insulting the stubborn pride and self-reliance she could see written all over his frame. 

She was well aware how wrong it was in principle; the concept of an adult offering a child non-approved work edged into territory she would normally condemn. But the circumstances were different. She was confident the boy would never take a handout, not from her, not from anyone. So she would give him something he could claim as his own, something he could choose.

And, as she hoped, his pride did not bristle. Instead, Peter straightened a little, something like relief hidden behind a guarded expression. Work, on his terms, work he could accept.

‘Yeah,’ he said finally, nodding once. She could hear a newly formed solace suspended within his tone. ‘Yeah, I can come by tomorrow. Same time?’

‘Same time,’ Barbara confirmed, keeping her smile steady though her chest was tight.

He finished the sandwich quickly, neatly folding the wrapper as though tidiness might pay back the debt of being fed. Then, without much more, he muttered a quiet ‘Thanks again’ with rosy cheeks and slipped out between some aisles and beyond her sight.

Barbara watched him go, exhaling slowly, the weight of her decision settling heavily in her chest. It was not perfect. It certainly was not enough, but it was better than nothing.

Barbara waited until she was sure Peter had gone, his small frame swallowed by the city outside, his footsteps fading into the hum of Gotham traffic, before she wheeled herself back toward her desk. 

Her hands shook slightly on the rims, though she forced them steady as she reached for the phone, hesitating, for a trifling moment, before dialling.

The line barely rang before Dick’s voice cut through, raw and tight with an exhaustion that had not evaded him since the recent revelation. ‘Babs? Tell me you’ve got something.’

Her throat caught. ‘I saw him,’ she said carefully.

There was silence on the other end for half a heartbeat before his voice sharpened. ‘What do you mean, you saw him? Past tense? You didn’t call me immediately?’

The sting in his tone made her flinch, though she held her ground; he was stressed beyond her comprehension, she knew better than to take it personally. ‘Dick…’

‘You should’ve contacted me the second he showed up!’ His words cracked like a whip, frustration bleeding through grief, through the desperation she knew was tearing him apart. ‘Do you have any idea how fast I would’ve gotten there? I’m staying at Jason’s for this very reason.’ He paused and let out a hefty sigh, ‘he’s gone again now, isn’t he? God, Babs…’

‘Dick.’ Her voice cut clean, low but firm, anchored in a steadiness she did not fully feel. ‘You need to breathe. I get it, alright? I know you’re upset. But listen to me: he came in, he sat down, and he trusted me enough to talk a little, to eat something I gave him. If I had called you, if you’d shown up, he would have bolted before you even got through the door. He’s skittish, and right now, he doesn’t know who he can trust.’

She continued before he could retort, ‘I am sorry I didn’t call you to come down right away. I know how badly you want to see him, more than anything. But you have to understand: Peter is… jittery. He’s a flight risk. One ounce of pressure, and I’m sure he’ll bolt. And right now? You…’ she hesitated, measuring her words, ‘…you’re not in the best state to put him at ease. I get the impression he’d feel it in a heartbeat, and he’d be gone.’

He did not respond immediately, but she could almost hear the way his jaw tightened, the way the words dug into his chest. The line was heavy with his silence; all she could register was his breathing, uneven and strained. When he finally spoke again, it was quieter, though no less fierce. ‘You don’t get it, Babs. That’s my kid. My son. And he’s out there alone. I just can’t sit still while…’

‘I do get it,’ she cut in again, gentler this time. ‘I know how much this is tearing at you. But I need you to trust me on this. Forcing it right now could push him further away, maybe for good. This isn’t about what you want, Dick. It’s about what he needs. And what he needs is space, so we can get to helping him sooner.’

There was another pause. She could picture him on the other end, pacing, jaw tight, hands curling into fists.

When he spoke again, his voice cracked, softer now, frayed at the edges. ‘What happened?’

‘I made sure he felt safe,’ she said quietly. ‘That’s all. I didn’t push; I just let him do what he needed on the computers. He left calmer than he came in. That’s progress, Dick. Slow, frustratingly so, but progress.’

He let out a long breath; it sounded more like surrender than relief.

The silence stretched again, but this time it was not sharp. It was heavy, thoughtful. Finally, Dick muttered, ‘I hate this.’

‘I know. But we’re getting somewhere.’

Barbara allowed herself a small, tired smile, her eyes flicking to the door Peter had slipped through not long ago.

’Dick,’ she began again softly.

‘I had to think of something that would keep him coming back,’ Barbara continued. ‘So… I offered him pocket money for some simple tasks around the library. Things I don’t actually need done, but things I can frame as necessary. That way, he gets an income without feeling like it’s charity, and I get a reason to see him every day. To build trust. And…’ her voice softened, ‘He’s due to come in at lunch time. Which means I’ll always have an excuse to feed him, too.’

There was a long pause on the line. Then, slowly, Dick exhaled. ‘That’s… probably the smartest way to go about it,’ he admitted, though the words were bitter in his mouth. He hated not being the one to reach out, even though he could see the sense. 

‘If you’re sure I can’t make contact yet, if I’m not… steady enough, then let me at least provide the money you’re giving him.’ He paused for a moment, sounding thoughtful. ‘Whatever you give him, whatever you put in his hands, it should come from me. I’m the one responsible for him. If he really is my son…’ His voice cracked, strained. ‘…Then I owe him that much.’

Barbara’s heart tugged at the sheer weight in his words, at how much he wanted to make this right in the only way he could for now. She closed her eyes briefly, then said, ‘Alright. I can see why you want that. I’ll set it up so it’s you providing for him, even if he doesn’t know it yet.’

Chapter Text

The courtyard was hushed that morning, its stillness an odd reprieve from Gotham’s usual din. Trees leaned high over the winding paths, their branches rattling in the breeze and spilling shifting mosaics of light across the cracked pavement. Peter wandered without much purpose, while he wrung his hands before him, letting the slow rhythm of his footsteps fill the silence. He was killing time before heading to the library to meet Babs, trying not to dwell too hard on the knot of nerves coiled in his stomach.

Out of habit, he tugged out the meagre roll of bills he had managed to scrape together. Since its acquisition, counting it had become something of a ritual, though he knew the total down to the final cent; the quiet motion gave him something to do, something that grounded him. He kept the notes close to his chest, shielded from view. Gotham was not a place where you displayed money, not even a pitiful sum like his.

It was not much. Not even close. The few crumpled notes and coins were the product of weeks of stretching, saving, and denying himself things that still did not amount to enough for comfort, or even enough to live on if he was being candid. His chest hollowed a little as he counted them again, fingertips brushing over each piece as though sheer willpower might multiply them.

He was folding one note back when the wind caught him, tugging a ten loose and sending it tumbling down the path. Peter muttered a curse, breaking into a jog as it billowed ahead of him, always just out of reach. He darted around a bench, eyes fixed on it, weaving between the overgrown hedges, eyes tracking the scrap of green as it fluttered along the path as though it were taunting him. He was close, close enough to grab it, when another hand, quicker and steadier, plucked it out of the air.

Peter skidded to a stop, chest tight. His gaze fell to the hand, then down the arm to its owner: a girl, maybe twenty, black-haired, with a sharp presence that struck him before she even spoke. Her posture was easy but commanding, eyes dark and unreadable. She looked like the kind of person who could make most people flinch just by standing in their space. But there was no malice in her face as she turned the note between her fingers, only something quiet and oddly kind behind the intimidation.

Peter blinked, suddenly aware of how ridiculous he must look, fretting over a runaway ten-dollar bill. She had not moved much to snatch it, just reached out at the perfect moment, her hand darting almost as quickly as his eyes could track.

He blinked down at her, the faintest frown tugging at his mouth. The note fluttered lazily in her grip, crumpled but intact.

‘Uh… thanks,’ he said, extending his hand.

For a second, she did not move. Her gaze flicked up to his, sharp and unflinching, as though she was sizing him up in silence. Her presence was… strange. Intimidating, even. Not the kind of intimidation that came from menace, but from sheer certainty, the quiet, unshakable kind that made Peter feel like he was intruding.

Then, without a word, she held the note out to him. Her hand was steady with no wasted motion. Peter slipped it from her fingers, mumbling another thanks.

He half expected her to leave it at that, but instead she lifted her hand again, pointing toward the crumpled bill, then at him, then a gesture, like tucking something away safely. Her brows arched slightly, a clear suggestion.

Peter blinked, then huffed a short laugh, as he stuffed it back into his pocket. ‘Yeah, yeah, I know. Don’t let it fly away next time. Got it.’

She tilted her head, not smiling exactly, but something in her eyes shifted, approval, maybe. She made another gesture, vague but pointed, a little wave of her hand paired with an inquisitive tilt of her head. Where are you from? Or who are you? Something like that.

Peter hesitated. He was not great at reading people, but he was pretty sure she was not looking for his life story. He opened his mouth, then paused, studying the exact precision of the way her hands moved.

‘…Wait,’ he said slowly, lowering his voice a little. ‘Do you know sign language?’

The change in her expression was immediate and startling. Her eyes widened, that sharp confidence faltering for the briefest flicker. She nodded once, deliberate.

Peter lifted his own hands cautiously, careful not to rush, and signed. I know ASL.

That was when her whole demeanour shifted. Not entirely, but enough that Peter felt it like a warm ray of sunlight through dreary clouds. Her shoulders eased. A breath escaped her, subtle but unmistakable. When her hands moved this time, they were fluid, sure, a burst of unspoken words she had not expected to be able to share.

Peter kept pace, squinting slightly, a little rusty but serviceable, managing to answer her first question by spelling out his name. Peter.

She spelled hers in return. Cass.

Before Peter could continue, Cass’s gaze flicked to his hair. Her expression shifted strangely, and she made a subtle motion toward his head. Her fingers danced through the air, fluid and familiar.

Cool hair.

Peter blinked as he processed what she had said. The words were expressed as a compliment, but there was a peculiar weight to them. His gaze drifted to his reflection in the surface of some polished stone; the image was not clear, though he could make out a stark white streak in his otherwise brown hair. 

He had first noticed it not long after he arrived in this grim city, but he never considered it to be anything more than a benign quirk of his impromptu multiversal voyage; he had not really afforded it much weight. It was just hair, and that was that. But the manner in which she inspected him caused him to question this hasty conclusion.

‘Thanks,’ he muttered, fingers shifting uneasily, unsure how to respond to something that felt so oddly… observational. He gave a quick, half-hearted shrug before he turned his attention back to the ground, feeling a familiar tightness in his chest.

Before either of them could get further in their exchange, a voice cut through the air.

‘Cass? Who are you talking to?’

Peter startled, turning his head just as a blonde girl jogged over, ponytail bouncing, a bright grin already plastered across her face. She reached them in a few quick strides and immediately locked her eyes on him, curious energy practically radiating.

Her attention was so swift, so direct, that Peter found himself leaning back instinctively.

‘Hi!’ she chirped. ‘I’m Stephanie. And you are…?’

Peter’s hands twitched like he wanted to shove them in his pockets, but he thought better of it. ‘…Peter.’

‘Just Peter?’ she asked, grinning like she had caught him in a lie.

He smirked faintly, shrugging. ‘Yeah. Just Peter.’

Stephanie hummed, clearly unsatisfied but too polite to push further. 

Stephanie was in the middle of another bubbly question, something about whether Peter walked this courtyard often, when he suddenly jolted, eyes flicking to the clock set into the lamppost at the path’s edge. His stomach dropped. He was cutting it too close; Babs would be waiting for him at the library.

‘Crap’, he whispered under his breath, too low for them to hear, already hitching his backpack higher on his shoulder. ‘I’m so sorry, but I really have to go. I’ve lost track of time.’

Stephanie blinked, caught off guard by the boy’s sudden change in demeanour. ‘Wait, go? Okay…’

Cass tilted her head, watching him with that same sharp intensity she had worn since the beginning. She did not try to stop him, but her eyes followed every twitch of his body, every hurried movement, like she was burning the image of him into her memory.

Peter nodded quickly, offering a half-smile that did not quite reach his eyes. ‘Yeah. It was nice meeting you both. I’ll see you around.’ He signed the last part as well, just for Cass, before turning on his heel and jogging down the path.

Stephanie stood there a moment, mouth slightly open as she tracked his retreating figure. ‘Huh. Weird kid,’ she said finally, though her tone was not unkind, more curious than anything.

Cass’s gaze lingered long after Peter had vanished around the bend, her brows furrowed slightly. She tapped Stephanie’s arm once, then gestured vaguely at her own face, jawline, and cheekbones, then pointed in the direction Peter had gone. She then gestured a simple phrase. My oldest brother. 

Stephanie frowned, following the gesture. ‘What? He looked… oh.’ The thought clicked, and her eyes went wide. ‘Oh my God, you’re right. He looked like, he looked exactly like Dick.’

Cass gave the smallest nod, expression unreadable, but gaze still fixed on the space where Peter had disappeared.

Stephanie let out a low whistle, grinning now, though there was something thoughtful lurking beneath it. ‘Okay, that’s… that’s interesting. Guess we’ll be keeping an eye out for Peter, huh?’

Cass did not speak, but her fingers moved again, subtle, precise. She pointed once more to her own hairline, then to where Peter had vanished. Stephanie followed the gesture, confused at first, until Cass tapped just beneath her own eyes with an accompanying phrase. White and Green.

Stephanie let out a hushed breath, brow furrowing. Cass need not explain further for her to grasp what she was implying. ‘You think it’s more than a coincidence?’

Cass once again made no attempt to answer, but the subtle narrowing of her eyes said everything.

─ ⟡ ✢ ⟡ ─

The library, growing familiar with each visit, was brighter than usual when Peter slipped inside, the muffled sound of his sneakers on the polished floor echoing faintly in the high-ceilinged space. He scanned the room instinctively, shoulders tense until he spotted Babs at the front desk, tapping something into her computer with a neutral focus.

When she looked up and caught sight of him, though, her face softened into a smile. ‘Right on time,’ she said brightly, as if she had half-expected him not to show at all.

Peter lifted a hand in a small, almost shy wave before making his way over. He had done plenty of odd jobs for people in his time, but there was something different about this, maybe because Babs treated him like she genuinely cared, not like some desperate kid lucky to be given work.

She did not make a big show of it. She just handed him a folded sheet of paper with a neat list written across it in quick, tidy handwriting. ‘Think you can handle these?’

He glanced over the tasks. Rearranging some of the seats in the children’s section, a bit of dusting in hard-to-reach areas, and rearranging books along the upper shelves in alphabetical order. Nothing difficult, but all things that required mobility, Babs herself did not have.

‘Yeah,’ Peter said, already shouldering off his bag and setting it neatly behind the desk. ‘Easy enough.’

‘Good.’ She gave him a nod that was almost businesslike. ‘Shout out if you need anything.’

He smiled faintly, already heading toward the children’s corner. ‘Don’t worry, I should be fine.’

The next hour passed in quiet rhythm. He shifted chairs and swiped shelves with an old feather duster she had left propped against the wall, huffing faintly and scrunching his nose every time a piece of its old plumage came loose and wafted towards his face. Suppressing the sneezes that threatened to strike at this catalyst proved harder than he ever would have envisaged. 

Every so often, he caught her glancing his way, not in suspicion, but in the careful, watchful manner of someone who wanted to make sure he was comfortable without overcrowding him.

Eventually, her voice carried across the stacks. ‘Peter? Come here a second.’

He wiped his palms against his jeans and headed over, brows furrowing slightly. She was sitting at one of the side desks now, her wheelchair angled so she faced him directly. In front of her sat two steaming containers of food, the faint scent of seasoned chicken and herbs filling the air.

‘I, uh… heated up some lunch,’ Babs said lightly, as if it was the most casual thing in the world. She was already twirling pasta around her fork, but she gestured toward the untouched container beside her. ‘Grab a chair.’

Peter blinked, momentarily thrown. His instinct was to refuse, to say he was not hungry, or that he had food waiting, even though both would be blatant lies. His hesitation lingered on his face as he glanced from the pasta back to her.

She did not push, only added, ‘It’s already heated up, Peter. It would go to waste if you didn’t help me out.’

That phrasing disarmed him more than anything else had. He shifted awkwardly on his feet for another moment, then finally gave a sheepish nod and pulled up a chair.

‘Thanks,’ he muttered, still cautious, though his stomach was already tightening with hunger at the smell.

Babs just smiled and went back to her own container, giving him the dignity of not staring as he dug in.

They ate in relative quiet, the clink of metal forks against glass containers filling the small lull between words. Every so often, Babs would ask him something, nothing too pointed, just light touches of conversation that felt safe enough for him to answer without walls snapping up around him.

By the time Peter scraped the last remnants of sauce from the bottom of the container, he found himself feeling oddly lighter. He had been lucky enough to consume a proper meal two days in a row now, and he could feel a new vigour within his system, even if it were an improvement by the smallest of measures.

‘Not bad, huh?’ Babs quipped, snapping the lid back onto her empty container.

‘Not bad at all,’ Peter agreed, though the words carried far more weight than the simple meal would normally garner.

She reached into the side pocket of her chair then, fingers brushing over something. For a second, Peter thought she was pulling out her phone, but instead, she extended her hand, something folded between her fingers.

‘Here,’ she said simply, pressing it toward him.

Peter frowned and looked down, only for his breath to hitch. It was a fifty, more money than he had seen in one place in weeks.

‘I can’t…’ He recoiled slightly, as if the bill might burn his skin. ‘That’s way too much. I didn’t do enough for that.’

‘You did what I asked,’ Babs replied evenly, meeting his wide eyes with calm insistence. ‘And your time is worth something. Don’t argue with me.’ Her last words were blunt, but spoken with such kind conviction, it was hard for Peter to fret over them.

He shook his head, panic and disbelief flickering across his face. ‘Seriously, I can’t take this…’

‘Peter.’ Her tone cut through his protest, gentle but firm in a way that brooked no refusal. She folded his hand around the bill, holding it there until he stilled. ‘You earned it.’

For a long moment, he stared at her, his mouth half open with another protest he could not quite expel into the air. Finally, he exhaled, the tension in his shoulders slumping as he tucked the money carefully into his pocket, still looking as though he could not believe it was really there.

‘…Thanks,’ he muttered, barely above a whisper.

Babs gave him a small smile, then turned her chair back toward the desk, deliberately breaking the weight of the moment. ‘Same time tomorrow?’

Peter adjusted the strap of his bag, nodding once. ‘Yeah. Same time.’

When he slipped out the library’s doors a few minutes later, the fifty tucked safe inside his jacket, he walked with a strange, conflicting weight. Peter’s gratitude warred with his guilt and self-pride.

Babs pressed her lips into a thin line as she watched him retreat. If he had a hard time accepting a mere fifty, she had little notion how she was going to induce him into accepting the excessive total sum Dick was insisting upon.

─ ⟡ ✢ ⟡ ─

The recreation room was alive with the quiet hum of domesticity, the faint buzz of a dying ceiling light, the muffled tick of an ornate clock within a corridor, and the soft clacking of Tim’s fingers flying over a keyboard at the desk in the corner. Cass sat curled into one end of the couch, her knees drawn up beneath her chin, expression serene as she listened. Duke occupied the other end, lounging back with his arms stretched across the cushions, trying and failing to keep a straight face while Steph animatedly gestured her way through a story about their afternoon.

Steph laughed, her hands painting wide arcs in the air. ‘I swear, if looks could kill…’

‘Cass doesn’t need looks to kill,’ Duke deadpanned, earning himself a sidelong, albeit playful glance from Cass and a snort from Steph.

But as her laughter ebbed, Steph’s eyes widened suddenly, as if something had only just caught up with her thoughts. She straightened in her seat, hands dropping to her lap.

‘Oh! Wait, there was something else.’

Duke raised an eyebrow, bemused by her sudden shift. ‘This better not be another “Cass looked intimidating” story.’

‘No,’ Steph said quickly, leaning forward, her tone carrying an odd note of urgency. ‘We… met someone. In a courtyard in town. A boy. And, Duke, I’m telling you, he looked…’ She faltered, gesturing vaguely, her hands circling as if trying to conjure the right word. ‘He looked exactly like Dick.’

The air shifted.

At the desk, Tim’s typing stilled, his fingers hovering over the keys mid-stroke. For a heartbeat, he did not move; the silence from his corner stood in vast juxtaposition against the conversational air of the room. Then his head snapped up, eyes sharp, cutting into Steph with startling focus.

‘What did you just say?’ His voice was quick but not harsh, edged with something between disbelief and recognition.

Steph blinked, taken aback by the intensity. ‘I said we met a boy that…’

Tim interrupted, the words firing out faster than she could finish as he turned in his chair, his eyes narrowing as they fixed on Steph.

‘You said he looked like Dick?’

Steph blinked, caught off guard by the sudden focus. Cass nodded once in confirmation, her dark eyes steady, with the barest hint of a crease in her brow.

Tim’s jaw tightened. ‘Did he give you a name?’

For a moment, Steph hesitated, glancing perplexedly at Cass before looking back at Tim. ‘Yeah. He said his name was Peter.’

The effect was instant. Tim’s posture sharpened, his shoulders squaring as if bracing against the words themselves. His expression was hard to read, shock restrained by calculation, and something fragile hidden beneath.

‘Peter,’ he repeated, quieter this time, his heart skipping a beat; new information. ‘Did he give a last name?’

Steph shook her head and glanced at Cass, who had lowered her legs from the couch to lean forward, eyes locked on Tim with sudden interest. Duke, caught between them all, looked from face to face with wide-eyed confusion and interest, curiosity flaring hot.

Tim suddenly sat forward, hands clenched into fists against his knees, and pushed back from the desk, the chair’s wheels screeching faintly against the floor. ‘Hold on,’ he muttered, more to himself than to them. He strode quickly out of the recreation room, leaving Cass, Steph, and Duke exchanging bewildered looks.

‘...What was that about?’ Duke asked after a beat, gesturing vaguely toward the doorway.

Steph only shrugged, though her brow furrowed. Cass tilted her head, her eyes following the vacant space Tim had left, unreadable but intent.

A few minutes later, the sound of frenzied steps announced Tim’s return from deep within the manor. He had something clutched in his hand, a slim black hard drive, its surface scuffed at the edges from frequent handling. Without a word, he crossed the room again and dropped back into his chair, sliding the drive into an empty port.

‘Come here,’ he said briskly, beckoning them closer with a jerk of his hand.

Steph exchanged a glance with Duke, then scooted off the couch to peer over his shoulder. Cass followed more slowly, quiet as ever, slipping behind Tim with an intense focus already etched across her face. Duke trailed last, folding his arms but leaning in all the same.

The monitors flickered to life with a set of folders, each one tagged with strings of dates and coordinates, some bearing names of various locations within Gotham, all in the more dire parts of the infamous wen. Tim clicked into one.

The first file contained grainy footage, a still pulled from a security feed. The image showed a slim figure half-shadowed by the glow of a flickering streetlamp, hoodie tugged low, but there was no mistaking the lean shape of his jaw, the faint slope of his nose. Even blurred, he looked young.

Tim pointed at the screen, his expression tightly controlled but eyes sharp. ‘Is this the same kid?’

Cass did not answer right away. She leaned in, gaze narrowing, her head tilting slightly as if trying to read something beneath the fuzz of pixels. At length, she gave a slow nod, deliberate and thoughtful.

Steph, in the same moment, had sucked in a quick breath, surprise clear in her voice. ‘Oh my god. Yeah. That’s him. That’s the kid we saw.’

Duke frowned, still catching up, his eyes darting between the image on the screen and the others’ reactions. ‘Okay, you’re going to have to explain why you’ve got stalker-level files on this random kid, because right now, I feel like I walked into the middle of a conspiracy.’

Steph blinked at the frozen image on the monitor, then turned sharply toward Tim. ‘Okay, yeah, why do you have this? Why do you have a whole hard drive of random, grainy shots of some kid we just happened to meet in town?’

Her voice was not hostile, but it was sharp, pressing, cutting through the stillness.

Tim did not flinch, though his jaw tightened. His eyes stayed fixed on the image for a moment before flicking back to them. ‘Because,’ he said evenly, ‘I noticed it too. The resemblance,’ Tim answered, voice quieting. 

‘I’ll admit, the second I saw him, I thought of Dick, and it certainly piqued my interest. But you should have seen him that night, he was injured… covered in what I can only assume was his own blood.’ He hesitated, letting out a controlled breath. 

‘Even if he is a passerby, and their likeness chalks up to nothing. He’s been living rough, and he’s careful, too careful for someone his age; he keeps evading me seamlessly.’ 

Although the words were never explicitly stated, so as to preserve his modesty, none of them could ignore the implication that lay beneath; it was no easy feat to slip past Tim’s detection. The fact that this child had apparently done it multiple times left the others astounded, even if they did not voice it out loud. 

Duke shifted, unease on his face. ‘So you’ve been… watching him.’

‘I’ve been watching out for him.’ Tim corrected, though there was no bite in his voice. ‘He’s clearly in need of help, connected to Dick or not…’  he tapped the side of the monitor, the faint click of his nail against the casing sharp in the silence, ‘…I wanted to help. I’m not up to anything nefarious.’

Tim Drake, a person with a multitude of smart-arse siblings and friends, was in constant denial against allegations of stalking; they were all jokes, of course, but he found himself consistently relaying the distinction between detective and creep. A distinction they all took too much pleasure in disregarding. Though in this instance, they did not voice it again, much to his astonishment. 

Cass’s dark eyes lingered on the boy’s face in the still image, unreadable, before she glanced at Tim, her chin dipping in a small nod.

Steph crossed her arms, still clearly rattled, but her voice softened. ‘You’ve just been doing this on your own so far? No one else knows?’

‘No one else,’ Tim admitted. ‘Well, now except you guys.’

Duke let out a low breath, tilting his head in thought. ‘Well, we won’t be able to ignore it now you’ve clued us in. Let’s work together.’

Steph nodded in easy agreement, and Cass looked to each of them in turn, decisive. 

‘Together,’ she echoed softly, her voice carrying more weight in that one word than paragraphs might have.

Tim’s mouth pressed into a thin line, but there was something like relief in his eyes. He looked back at the screen, then at them, and gave the smallest nod. ‘Alright. Sounds like a plan.’

Chapter Text

The fight itself had been reckless, and Peter knew it. He had seen the brick coming; his senses screamed at him in the seconds before impact, but there had been no choice. If he ducked, if he let the thrown object fly past him, then the woman clinging to the eave of the building would certainly have lost her failing grip. She had been slipping, nails clawing uselessly against crumbling masonry. Opposite him, the shadowed thug responsible for the woman’s plight and imminent projectile still loomed. But Peter paid him no mind as he braced himself and shot a web that weaved around her waist, tugging her back into the safety of his arms. The impending brick struck his face a mere heartbeat later.

The pain was instantaneous and raw, like a burst of fire across his skin. His nose gave way with a sickening crunch, his head snapping back, lip splitting under the force of it. For a dizzy second, his vision blurred white. But Peter’s grip did not falter, as he pulled the woman further towards the centre of the rooftop, still panicked, but safe and whole. That was what mattered.

By the time he reached the parlour at the breaking of dawn, his mask was sticky and damp with blood. Every breath whistled through his nose in a wet, painful gush. When he peeled the darkened fabric away, a mirror he had dragged from a neighbouring building revealed what he already knew. His nose was bent sharply to the side, the bridge swollen and mottled with purple shadows that were already spreading down toward his left eye. The flesh around it throbbed, tender and hot to the touch, and his lip bore an ugly cut, scabbing and swollen.

He sat on the cold ground, trembling fingers pressing gingerly against the bridge of his nose, testing, assessing. Peter had no doubt it was broken, forcing back a muffled groan. A broken nose he could live with, but the bruising, the dark mask of purple and blue that now shadowed half his face, was not something he could hide, not really. Not unless he stayed away from the library. Not unless he decided to cut himself off from the one person keeping him afloat, a thought that hurt worse than the brick had; he would still go, he had to.

He snapped and set his nose back into place with a low, seething wince. It had already begun to heal incorrectly.  

But another thought came, one that made his stomach twist tighter. His body, even weakened and malnourished, did not heal like everyone else’s. Scrapes would vanish overnight, and bruises faded in days instead of weeks. This, the swelling in his nose, his eye, would linger longer because he was not eating right, was not sleeping right, but it would still clear too fast. Fast enough to raise questions. Fast enough to betray him.

He could already picture it, Babs seeing him later today, battered and purple, and two days from now looking untouched. She would know something was amiss; she was intelligent enough to piece it together. His shoulders slumped, Peter knew he would have to manage it himself. Replicate the injuries and time them against how quickly they would clear in a normal case, had he been a regular person. If anyone was watching, as he knew she would, his bruises would fade at a believable, human pace. The thought made him nauseous, but he knew it was a necessity. 

Every time he blinked, his face throbbed. He thought of Barbara seeing him like this. Seeing him broken, battered, and bloodied like every other street kid Gotham harboured. She would ask questions, he knew she would, and he did not have any answers that would not give too much of himself away, or make him sound insane at the very least.

Though he convinced himself to go anyway, he would rather take the hit, let her see, and hope she did not press too hard; she had not called CPS as of yet.

In all his distress, midday arrived much sooner than comfortable, the library’s warmth hit him the second he slipped inside, a contrast to the wet bite of Gotham’s late-morning air. He pulled his hood a little tighter over his brow, willing himself invisible as he drifted toward the desk. Barbara was already there, posture relaxed, glasses perched low, and her usual faint smile at the ready.

But the moment he tugged his hood down in greeting, he saw it falter.

For a fraction of a second, she froze. Her eyes swept over the bruises blooming across his nose and eye, caught the cut at his lip, and widened just slightly before she caught herself. Her mouth opened, just a flicker of a reaction. 

‘Ah… hey.’ Her voice cracked, and though she smoothed it out, Peter heard it. He always heard what people wanted to hide.

‘Hi,’ he mumbled, stuffing his hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heel.

Her smile returned, softer now, more careful, but her eyes never really left his face. She gestured him toward the public computer lab, listing off a series of things that needed completion, though each instruction was spoken in a voice softer than she had ever conveyed before. 

Peter threw himself into them. He untangled cables, dragged chairs to their respective places, and tried not to notice the weight of her gaze every time he drifted back into her line of sight. He knew she was watching, and he knew she was trying not to.

When Babs finally called him over, it was to the same desk as yesterday. The faint, familiar smell of deli meat greeted him before she even spoke, a neatly wrapped bundle waiting on the corner beside her own half-finished one.

‘I figured… you’d be hungry after all that work,’ she said lightly, too lightly.

Peter hesitated, but his stomach growled loud enough to answer for him. He took the bundle of aluminium and muttered a small, sincere ‘thanks’ as he sat opposite her. They ate in relative silence, only the occasional scrap of conversation to punctuate the rustling of foil. She asked how he was finding the work. He gave vague but warm answers.

But the shadow in her expression never really lifted.

When the food was gone, she reached away, as she had done the day before, and pulled out a folded bill. Peter nearly choked when she pressed it into his palm, another fifty, crisp and far too much.

‘I… this is…, it’s still too much,’ Peter stammered, clutching it like it might burn him.

Barbara shook her head. ‘It’s fair. You did a lot today. I won’t have it any other way.’ Her voice was gentle as she reiterated the same stance as the day prior.

He swallowed hard, cheeks burning, but finally nodded. ‘Okay. Thank you.’

She smiled at that, though it did not quite reach her eyes.

When he left, hood drawn back up over his bruised face, she watched him go with a heaviness she could not quite shake, and Barbara felt its weight press against her chest long after the library door closed.

─ ⟡ ✢ ⟡ ─

Dick knew it was risky, borderline reckless, to be doing this without so much as a word to the others, but he could not stop himself. The second Babs had mentioned the time to him, his mind had latched onto it like a lifeline, a chance he could not ignore. So he pulled on the suit, the one he would normally don with an easy confidence, and made his way silently across the city. 

Dick found himself crouched on a spire opposite the library; the air was colder at this height, biting at his exposed jaw, but he did not feel it. His heart was pounding too hard, his body wound tight with a nervous energy that made stillness unbearable. And then, after what felt like hours, he saw him.

The boy stepped out into the pale afternoon light, head low, his small shoulders hunched beneath a tattered, faded hoodie. He was thinner than he was in the photographs, far thinner. His limbs were wiry and sharp, hands shoved into his pockets as though he were attempting to disappear into himself. But that was not what caught his attention. Dick’s stomach dropped, and it turned to stone within him.

The bruises were fresh. They painted the boy’s face in brutal shades of purple and black, his left eye darkened, his nose swollen, with a lip split red and raw. Every line of damage was recent, still sharp at the edges, and the sight of them made Dick’s pulse surge until his vision blurred.

He clutched the spire so tightly his knuckles ached beneath the gloves. His son, his child, was walking out into Gotham with a face that screamed suffering. A malnourished, twelve-year-old kid, bearing injuries that should never have plagued his skin.

A sick, hollow weight compressed his chest. He had failed before he had even begun. He was not there when the boy was born, was not there when his life twisted into what could only be construed as a caricature of childhood, and now he was staring down the consequences of his absence, as it etched across a fragile, too-young face.

And beneath the guilt came a fury, white-hot and merciless. Whoever had laid hands on him, whoever had left his kid bleeding and beaten, they had no idea what storm they had just called upon themselves. Dick’s entire body was trembling with the need to act, to move, to find the one responsible, tear Gotham apart brick by brick until they paid for it. His lungs burned, every breath shallow and uneven.

From his perch, the bruises were enough to leave him raw and spiralling. He wanted to call out, to go down there, to close the distance and make it all stop, but he stayed locked in place, watching, his throat tight with a kind of helplessness he had not felt in years; a helplessness he had not thought himself capable of.

He stayed among the skyline as Peter walked off down the street. Every muscle in his body still screamed to close the distance, as he instead shifted his weight and sprang upward, landing silently on the next structure. If Jason had not managed to track him to his home, then he would. He had to. He needed to know where the boy was staying, what kind of life he was living when he vanished after his brief, agonising appearances.

He kept to the shadows, his movements controlled and trained, the kind of pursuit he had perfected years ago. But this time, his hands shook against the cool stone of the ledges, his breath catching with every glimpse of the hooded figure below. 

He made absolutely certain to stay out of sight, conscious of how easy it would be to scare off a skittish kid already conditioned to run. And yet, Peter gazed over his shoulder.

It was not the idle glance of someone vaguely aware of their surroundings. No, his head turned sharply, his body stiffening as though something invisible had brushed against his skin. His gaze swept the rooftops and, impossibly, landed exactly where Dick was perched.

Dick froze. He knew he had not made a sound. He knew the boy could not have seen him, and yet those furrowed brows, the sharp suspicion in his expression, said otherwise. The boy stared for a moment that stretched long and taut, then turned back around and kept walking, his stride only marginally quicker, yet deliberate.

Dick’s heart hammered against his ribs. How? How had this boy detected him when entire crime syndicates and professionals had failed? The question tangled itself into his guilt, into his panic; it sat as a knot in his chest.

His comm chimed then, Babs’ frequency ringing out within his ear. For a moment, he considered answering, her voice, her grounding logic, but the sight below him held strong. He declined the call without a word, unwilling to let Peter slip away, unwilling to divide his focus.

The boy’s trail pulled him deeper into Gotham, past familiar blocks, until the scenery began to decay into something older, more arcane. Dick’s stomach dropped when he recognised the direction.

Past Crime Alley. Into the districts the city had all but written off. The cadaverous remains of condemned housing, buildings tagged as biohazards in faded paint over splintering boards, the air thick with damp and rot.

He slowed, crouched low on a ledge, watching Peter weave through the broken streets with the quiet certainty of someone who knew them well. His gut twisted violently at this new revelation. His son, his child, was staying here? In this place unfit for anyone, let alone a boy who should have been sleeping under a safe, warm roof, eating proper meals, laughing without bruises shadowing his features?

Every protective instinct inside him screamed to drop down, scoop him up, carry him back to Wayne Manor, to Alfred, to warmth and safety and care. He wanted to tear him out of this poisoned corner of Gotham and never let him set foot here again.

But all he could do was follow, as the boy slipped deeper into ruin.

Peter took a turn, sharp, sudden, and casual as he rounded the corner of a collapsed building. Dick adjusted, vaulting a rooftop ledge to keep him in view. But then, he was not there. The sidewalk stretched out bare and broken, wind tugging at the old litter that scuttled along the curb. No hoodie, no backpack, no slim figure weaving through the ruins. Nothing.

Dick blinked hard, eyes darting across the block. He shifted vantage, crouched low against the crumbling brick edge, scanning with every ounce of training hammered into him since he was a boy. But the street was empty and its silence squeezed in like a fist around his throat.

‘Shit,’ he hissed under his breath, already leaping across the gap to another roof, desperate to re-establish a line of sight. He checked alleys, shadowed terraces, and even the upper stories of the derelict buildings. Nothing. No scuff of sneakers on concrete. No flicker of movement.

His pulse thundered in his ears, so loud he swore it might drown out his frantic thoughts. He could feel his heart hammering in his throat, raw and uneven, the pressure making him nauseous. He pressed a gloved hand to a ledge, steadying himself, but the tremor in his fingers betrayed him. His chest felt tight, like every breath scraped against the inside of his ribs. The bile rose bitter at the back of his throat, and he had to swallow hard to keep it down.

He had lost him. He forced his hands toward his comms, fumbling slightly as he pressed an almost imperceptible button. 

‘Babs,’ he rasped, his voice far rougher than he meant. He swallowed again, tried to centre himself, but it still came out broken, frayed at the edges. 

‘I saw him.’ A breath, shaky and uneven. ‘I saw Peter. He… he’s hurt. He’s really hurt, Babs.’

There was a pause on the line, heavy enough to make his gut twist again. Then her voice filtered through, low and steady but softened with something careful. 

‘I know, Dick. I tried to tell you earlier, when I pinged you. He was at the library. I saw the bruises myself.’

Dick shut his eyes. His nails bit into the palm of his gloves as he once again pressed his fist against the ledge. He wanted to demand why she had not made him listen, why she had not forced the words into his ear, no matter what. But the blame was not hers to carry.

He exhaled shakily, forcing his voice to level out. ‘I followed him. Past Crime Alley.’ The name itself stung like salt in an open wound. ‘He… he went into an abandoned district. Babs, he’s staying there. He disappeared on me, I don’t know how. One second I had him, the next…’ His throat closed. ‘He’s gone.’

Another pause, this one softer, weighted with her own measured breath. ‘He tends to do that. Can I have the coordinates?’ she asked, ‘I’ll scout the area, cross-reference it against whatever cameras we still have active. Maybe I can find a trail.’

Dick hesitated only long enough to glance down at the dead street below, still half-expecting Peter to reappear like it had all been a trick. But the space stayed vacant, and he sent the coordinates with a few clipped taps against his communication device.

‘It won’t help much,’ he said finally, voice low, almost hoarse. ‘Half these buildings are biohazards, condemned since before I can remember. There won’t be much CCTV. And if anything’s still active, it’ll be garbage quality.’

‘I’ll try and make do.’ Babs replied firmly.

‘I’ll let you go now, Babs, I’m going to keep searching.’ Dick’s hand lingered at his comm, his jaw tightening as he stared into the empty stretch of street where Peter had vanished. 

‘Okay, Dick, we’ll speak soon. Don’t wear yourself out.’ If she thought his farewell was sudden, she did not give it away. Her voice had been steady, but he detected an underlying sympathy nevertheless. His chest drummed with a hollow, aching pulse. She felt bad for him, but he did not deserve it. He did not say it out loud; he did not have to. But Dick knew he had failed him again.

So he searched, block stretching into block, and hour bleeding into hour. He did not stop to think, did not pause long enough to consider that his body was shaking with exhaustion, that his muscles ached from leaping roof to roof, from scouring every shadow-brimmed alley and scaling every condemned balcony with a chest suspended in panic. He moved like a man half-possessed, sweeping his gaze across every broken window, every waste-littered lot, every door barred with warning tape. If his son had slipped somewhere into this wreckage, then he would damn well find him. 

But the area seemed to swallow sound and light alike, completely silent save for the occasional groan of shifting metal or the distant bark of a stray dog. His grappling hook attached to an overhang as he scaled yet another rooftop, pulling himself onto its gravel with burning lungs.

Every time he thought he had caught the flicker of a moving shadow, a glimpse of fabric, it turned out to be nothing but wind tugging at loose remnants of plastic and metal sheets. Hopelessness pressed in as an unyielding weight, making it harder to breathe with every passing block.

At some point, he did not know when, as his mind was too frayed to keep track, the roar of an engine cut through the silence. He stilled in his place, turning sharply as the yellow glow of a headlight flickered across the far end of the street. A familiar bike coasted to a stop, its rider’s helmet gleaming red in the moonlight.

Jason.

‘Babs called,’ came his voice, his tone caught somewhere between grim and concerned. He killed the engine, swinging one leg over the bike. ‘Figured I’d find you out here working yourself half to death.’

Dick did not answer. He just turned back toward the empty block ahead, jaw clenched. Jason followed his gaze, then swore softly under his breath, unholstering his own grapple and promptly making his way to his brother’s side. 

‘You’ve been at this all night, haven’t you?’ Jason asked, crossing his arms. His tone was not angry; it was heavier than that. Pity.

Dick did not answer; he did not believe there was anything to be said, though his silence told Jason enough.

The latter heaved a sigh, sliding a hand over his mask. He stepped closer, his boots crunching over loose gravel. ‘You’re not gonna find him like this. You’ll burn yourself out before you even get close.’

Still, Dick’s eyes roved over the ruined streets, darting from building to building as if Peter might simply step out and appear. ‘He’s out here,’ he murmured, voice raw. ‘He’s out here somewhere.’

Jason’s jaw flexed. ‘Exactly, what good are you to him if you collapse before you find him?’

That cut sharper than Dick wanted to admit. His shoulders slumped, just slightly, but his eyes still refused to leave the streets. The thought of leaving, of pulling back now, felt unbearable. Like surrender.

Jason’s hand landed on his shoulder, heavier than it had to be, firm in the way only Jason ever managed. ‘Look, I get why you’re doing this. But if you burn yourself out now, you won’t be of any use to him when it matters. Right now, we just have to trust he’s found someplace safe to stay.’

There was a hesitance in his tone at the last part, but it was conveyed for his brother’s benefit. Though Dick’s throat tightened nevertheless, he did not trust himself to answer.

‘Come on,’ Jason pressed, his voice quieter now, but edged with steel. ‘Night’s over. Daylight’s breaking, you need food, and you need sleep.’

For a moment, Dick thought about refusing outright. But the truth remained steadfast; his body had already begun to betray him, vision swimming faintly at the edges, arms trembling each time he pushed off a ledge. He was running on sheer desperation.

Jason must have read the exhaustion in his silence, because he gave a small, sharp nod. ‘That’s what I thought.’

And so, when the night had bled fully into morning, when the condemned streets stayed silent and stubbornly empty, Jason led Dick to the back of his bike. The boy was still out there. But Dick, against his every paternal instinct, had to yield, if only for a few hours.

─ ⟡ ✢ ⟡ ─

Back in the undertaker, the wooden floor was as unforgiving as ever beneath his protruding bones. Peter pulled his hoodie tighter, knees pressed flat against his chest, trying to coax some warmth into his system. His mind, though, refused to settle. It looped back again and again to the figure he had spotted earlier that day, the one perched high above, shadowed against the skyline. He had looked them up once, Gotham’s famed vigilantes, their names riddled within articles and urban myth. Nightwing. That was what the sleek blue insignia meant, a bright symbol against black.

Peter shut his eyes, brow furrowing. Why? Why was he interested?

Red Hood, he could understand. Their paths had first crossed when Peter had been in an alley, bloodied and cornered. Hood had driven the men off, brutal and efficient, and Peter had been grateful, even if the sight of him had left a chill in his bones. Peter had been vulnerable, and vulnerability garnered concern. 

Though he had never encountered the new vigilante before, there was no real reason for his attention. Had Red Hood enlisted Nightwing's help? Is that why he had been pursued? It could be the only conceivable explanation. He turned the theory over in his mind, Nightwing’s lingering gaze, Red Hood’s rough intervention.

After he had all but crash-landed into this world, disoriented and broken, he had stumbled across another one of them. Red Robin. Peter rubbed at his swollen lip, the cut still tender beneath his fingers. He remembered the sharp gaze behind the domino mask, the way he had moved with a precision that made Peter recoil. That had been right after he arrived in this world. He had been battered, barely holding himself together. Were they all working together?

The longer he turned it over, the tighter a knot in his stomach grew. The pieces connected in ways Peter did not like, forming into an awful shape.

Maybe they were not circling him out of worry. Maybe they had figured it out, realised he was not from here. That he was an intruder. An imposter dropped into their city. Maybe they thought he was a threat, something dangerous that had to be neutralised before it got worse.

The thought was akin to a blade through his chest. He pulled his arms tighter around himself and attempted to bury his face in his knees as if curling small enough would make the feeling go away. But it lingered, heavy and suffocating. If they all knew, he would be cornered before he had even had a chance. What was he to do?

The idea gnawed at him with teeth sharp enough to draw blood. If they really had pieced it together, that he was not meant to be here, then he would not be some kid scraping by in Gotham. He would be a problem, and Peter imagined these vigilantes did not tolerate problems. He pictured their eyes on him, weighing his every step, waiting for him to slip. What if he had already? What if the reason he kept feeling hunted was not paranoia, but reality? The thought coiled tighter around his ribs until he felt like he could barely breathe, a pressure building in his chest that no curling into himself could soothe.

Though despite his spiralling thoughts, exhaustion soon clawed him under. And so he splayed out over one of the old curtains he had been sleeping with, dragging the other up and over his frame. Now under cover, he reached over and selected a pair of his spare socks; they sat in the bottom drawer of a unit forming his alcove. He pulled them over his icy fingers and settled back into a comfortable position; the tattered material worked decently as mittens. Eventually, his breathing grew shallow, uneven, though his heart thudded too fast even as his eyelids sank. This sleep did not feel like rest; it felt strangely like falling.

At first, it was only darkness, thick and endless, but then colour seeped in. A green, harsh and unnatural, lit and glowing from within. It pressed against him from all sides, viscous and suffocating, and before he could even fight it, he realised he was submerged. His limbs thrashed instinctively, each movement slower than the last, as though the green clung to him, dragging him deeper into its grasp. His chest ached, his throat convulsed, every nerve in his body screaming for air, but when he tried to open his mouth, the liquid surged in, choking him.

The green burned. It seeped into his eyes, down his lungs, through every vein as though it was trying to etch itself into him. His body warped against it, twisting and contorting in a frantic attempt to escape, but there was no surface, no air, no way out. Only the sensation of drowning in something that was not water at all.

The last pockets of air passed his lips, and even in his sleep, he felt the panic tear through him, sharp, desperate, inescapable; the green had swallowed him whole.

Chapter Text

As the next few days came and went, the happenstance behind Peter’s latest encounter grew overwrought within his mind. He hoped his initial hunch had been correct, that he had garnered Red Hood’s concern, and with the object of securing his safety, the man had sought the aid of others. 

However, the recollection of a separate encounter forced an alternate conclusion to the forefront of his mind. It had not been long since Peter had found himself hesitant to return here, to his makeshift home within the undertaker. The notion had been borderline abhorrent at the time. 

He thought of the tracker once more; the manner in which it had unsettled him was yet to be matched. Peter had been terrified that an external party was aware of his intrusion into their world and sought to rid him of it. It had not been unlike what he thought a few nights prior, when he first observed Nightwing. 

Was it then conceivable to surmise that they were all after the same thing? Were they all aware he was an imposter? 

With this new revelation, it was imperative that he get his story in order. Which was why he found himself with a half-dried marker in his grasp, hovering over a waterlogged piece of cardboard that he pulled from a rusting bin. 

Before him, in his messy scrawl, were lines outlining everything he knew. Some time ago, he violently crashed-landed in what could only be understood as an alternate universe, if the foreign city names and vigilantes were any indication. He had also found that both his mind and body had regressed into a more juvenile form.

But the catalyst of his presence here was still lost on him. He was confident of his name, the people who had made up his family, and his responsibility as the friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man. But the circumstances that found him stranded here were lost and muddled. 

He could not quell the shiver that pulsed through his system at the feasibility of false memories; maybe he was not remembering things correctly, maybe all of this was not his reality after all, it would certainly make more sense than multiversal travel. But then he cast a desperate gaze upon the Spider-Suit draped over an open drawer, and heaved a sigh of relief when its presence validated his sense of actuality. 

But there was another factor he could not ignore. Not once since he first met Red Hood, and the encounter that had followed suit, had Peter felt threatened by his presence. There was a constant abiding hum that Peter had chalked up to being caused by the man’s considerable array of weaponry. But his Spider-Sense had given him no warning of danger towards himself. Could he really have bad intentions if this were the case? It made the boy hopeful that his initial hypothesis was correct after all; they were all simply concerned.

Placed beside the cardboard containing his written thoughts was a creased flyer, which he had ripped from a lamppost on his way back from town one day. It boasted the exclusive opportunity of a scholarship at Gotham’s most prestigious educational institution, though Peter frowned at the fine print. The academy was for high-school-aged children, and Peter was well aware he would not pass as one. 

Though he could scarcely hope people would turn a blind eye, he knew he needed a means to replenish his webbing, and he was confident in his ability to pass their entrance exam. 

And so, after an unacceptably long amount of time, he would finally falsify an identity. The truth was, up until this point, he had subconsciously wished to find his way home by now, though he was not dense enough to think this was viable. 

Peter was not ignorant of the real reason for this hesitance; the notion of setting up roots here would make his situation all too real. If he started school, formed relationships and found a permanent home, it would feel as if he were conceding and giving up hope of ever going back. He knew if he were to find loved ones here, the time would come when he needed to leave them, and he could not bear the thought of losing more family. 

But to move forward, he needed a proper way to support himself, and an education seemed the best way to achieve this. And that was not even considering the added incentives, such as a chemistry lab at his disposal. 

‘Karen?’ Peter's voice rang out, hesitant, but decided.

‘Yes, Peter?’ Her voice was not immediately clear; she was hooked up to a hotchpotch charging station consisting of various oddities and scraps he had pulled when sleuthing in back alleys. He knew the questionable setup would have to do for now, though it certainly was not ideal, and barely enough to keep her active.

‘Do you think you’d be able to string together some legitimate-looking files for me?’ He asked, uncertain. She was not near full capabilities, and his request was power-intensive. 

‘I’m sorry, Peter. I am currently operating at 7%. Until my power source is more sustainable, I can only fulfil simpler requests. Would you like me to find a means for you to create these files yourself?’ The timbre of her speech was solemn; if Peter did not know better, he would think she felt sorry for him. 

‘No, it’s okay, I’ll head to the library again and use their computers. I figured as much.’ He found himself waving her offer off, despite the fact that she could not see him and then forced his body upright from a seated position on his knees, wincing slightly at the cracking within his long inactive joints. 

He moved to the drawer containing his cleanest clothes and shuffled around within it until he accumulated a fresh set. Then, after sauntering towards a window, he set his hands on its frame of peeled, splintering wood. It let out a faint groan as he pushed the panel upwards. Peter had been delighted to discover that the old block of apartments next door, which he jumped to from the sill he stood before, still possessed functioning showers. And although the water was frigid at best, it was better than practising no hygiene at all. Though he was careful to keep his mouth securely shut, the water of this city was home to a concerning number of toxins, and he imagined the water that reached this derelict corner of town could only be much worse. 

After he was freshly bathed, he shivered into his new outfit, fingers almost purple in colour as they hastily tied knots on both his tattered sneakers. He pulled himself back upright and glanced at his reflection in the black-mottled mirror, frowning faintly at the gaunt form that stood before him. 

He poked and prodded at the yellowing bruises that spread in blotches over his skin. They were, once again, too far in their healing process to match that of a regular person; it would be noticeable. Heaving a weary sigh, he lifted his fingers to his face again, catching the skin between his appendages and pinching down with more force than comfortable, he moved along the shape of the discolouration, placing a bruising pressure on every centimetre of it. 

Hot tears prickled in the corner of his eyes at the sensation, his spider-sense blared at the danger he was inflicting upon himself, and his heart beat erratically; he knew this was far from a rational approach, but the tracker had given Peter good reason to suspect there were people after him; he did not wish for them to know he was a meta. 

He then secured his nose within a closed fist, snapping it sharply to the side and back again, cringing at the warm trickle of blood that now gushed over his palm. He waited for the flow to halt before running the water, scrubbing it away in a pink stream until it ran clear. All that was left now was the reopening of the split that had crossed his mouth; this was the tricky one, as it had already completely healed over. 

Peter grabbed a fragment of glass he snapped from the corner of the mirror a day prior, which now sat on top of a clean hoodie. Peter had found a working gas stovetop in the staff kitchen of an abandoned office, and sterilised the shard in a pot of boiling water, not wanting to add an infection to his steep list of problems.  

He held the cool material against his lip and closed his eyes as he sliced down, taking care to keep it shallow; it needed to be scabbed over by the time he reached the library to match the swollen skin of his nose and the bruise now deepened in colour. He knew it was terrible, but it was necessary to circumvent suspicion. He would rather be hurt by his own hand as opposed to the hand of another, but still, he gazed upon his freshly injured face with revulsion. 

─ ⟡ ✢ ⟡ ─

The library had grown progressively familiar with each new visit. In the late afternoon, fractured golden rays gleamed through the dark, leaded latticework of its arched, cathedral-like windows; he was yet to observe it in this hour, and stood in quiet awe of its allure. Besides Barbara herself, the institution seemingly remained in a perpetual state of vacancy; he had grown accustomed to it. 

Which is why he halted at the sight of a strange man, hand clutched tight around the wrought brass handle of the ornate door he had just passed through. He conversed with Babs in a casual manner, and Peter could discern he was not a mere patron but rather a friend. 

His stature was aberrant; with a hulking frame that towered over the reception desk, Peter would not be surprised to learn that his shoulders were almost as wide as his own armspan. For a fleeting instance, he thought about turning around and making his escape, but he was soon caught in Barbara’s line of sight, and he was not blind to the surprise there. If he left now, it would only pave the way for more questions down the line. He may as well entertain them now.

He shuffled closer until he was a few metres short of the desk, hand itching the back of his neck. The man shifted to face him, and Peter turned his head in faint interest. He bore the same peculiar features as him, both a shock of white along his hairline and anomalous green irises. The man's eyes widened in a transient incredulity, but the boy caught it before it passed, and he found himself hoping it was due to his wounded features and not some information regarding him that the librarian had divulged. 

The room promptly descended into an almost suffocating state of unease, and Peter felt as though he had walked into a theatre and he was the only person not playing a part. They were discussing something he was not welcome to hear, which is to be expected of private conversations between friends, but there was a curious weight to the silence that Peter could not push to the back of his mind. 

‘Ah… Hey, Peter. I didn’t expect to see you tonight.’ Babs' tone contained the same warmth it always did, but as she spoke, she glanced over her shoulder apprehensively, looking towards a door with furrowed eyebrows. Peter wondered what bothered her, knowing that the door led to the staff kitchen. She then gave the man a pointed look that Peter was not confident he was meant to see and turned to look at him again. ‘This is my friend, Jason.’ 

He reached his hand out for a shake, and Peter took it tentatively; he did not want to come across as rude. The man gave a faint shake, with a kind smile, though it stretched out in a thin line as though he, too, was on edge. 

He gazed at the same door Barbara looked toward. 

‘That’s a mean grip you got there, kid,’ Jason paused with furrowed eyebrows, as though its power did not quite add up. Peter’s cheeks reddened, realising he was putting too much force into it, and he lessened his grasp. 

‘Um… Thanks. It’s nice to meet you, sir.’ Peter muttered in a low voice. Jason cringed slightly at the formal title and waved the boy off.

‘It’s nice meeting you too, but call me Jason. You’re making me feel old.’ His posture was still taut with a slight trepidation, but there was humour in his tone. Though it quickly seeped from his features when a rustling made itself known from the other side of the door. Peter cast his gaze upon its now opening frame, faintly registering the increasing pace of everyone’s heartbeats and let out a small gasp at the figure behind it.

He felt the world tilt, nails biting into his palms; confident that he had caused them to bleed. His own heart pounded in his chest now, the sound migrating to his ears and reverberating within his skull. It was akin to the beginnings of a terrible migraine; maybe that is exactly what it was.

One beat, then two. The atmosphere of the space was drawn taut, one heavy breath from any of its occupants, and it might snap.

Peter’s father stood before him, older now than when he had last seen him. Lines creased his youthful, yet weary face, but they were unfamiliar and very much alive. Peter felt a bile rise in his throat. 

His vision blurred and frayed at the edges, with the sudden sensation of a mass constricting his chest, forcing itself inwards rather than down, a weight that defied gravity. He felt the air thicken, dense and asphyxiating.

The man, Richard, if his features were any indication, looked as though he had witnessed a ghastly spectre. There was a recognition in his countenance, though Peter did not stop to ponder the implications of that fact. He stood with two steaming mugs of tea in his grip, but his hands shook slightly, and he set them down on a cabinet.

Peter needed to get away, but he could not quell the sneaking suspicion that one of these men would pursue him if he made a break for the front entrance. So he instead muttered a quiet, ‘excuse me,’ and headed quickly for the bathroom. But he realised his mistake as soon as the door closed behind him. There were no windows in the small room.

He heaved a muffled sob and let his back slide down the door until his knees were flush against his chest. His breath came in rapid, sputtering bursts, and he willed it to slow down, but the effort was futile. A fluorescent light flickered and buzzed faintly overhead, and what would normally be a harmless annoyance instead sent uncomfortable quivers through his system; it was all too much. He scrunched his eyes shut and cupped his hands over his ears.

The man in the adjacent room could not be his father; the rational part of Peter’s awareness knew there were entire universes between him and his grave. But he could not halt the flow of images bearing this man's features, memories of being tucked into bed, of being hushed gently after a fall, of soft kisses on his cheek at the front gate of kindergarten. 

Tears ran down his face in warm, itching tracks, and he removed his hands to wipe them frantically with the back of his sleeve. His father had died when he was six; he remembered the night with brutal clarity, and his heart ached at the memory. Not the shallow kind, but the deep, suffocating ache that made it hard to tell whether he was breathing or drowning.

He knew at once he was suffering from a panic attack; he needed to spur a moment of clarity and anchor himself in reality. He counted each toilet stall and focused on the feeling of his hands resting against his knees.

This man was his father’s equivalent, not his late parent; he had to be, and the thought calmed him down somewhat. They are not the same. This is not the man he mourned all those years ago; this Richard has had a different life. He is still alive. He manages to accumulate some semblance of control, the pace of his breathing lowering to a steady, long rhythm, and he convinces himself that there is no reason for this panic; it is an abnormal situation, sure, but nothing he could not handle.

Peter knew he could not exit from this room, which meant that to leave, he had to face them again, and if he were to avoid suspicion, he would need to act naturally. Or as natural as believable after his small, very obvious panic. Peter pressed a trembling hand to his mouth, stifling another sob. His head throbbed. Part of him wanted to fling the door open, throw himself at the man outside. 

But he resolved to complete what he set out to do when he first came here. He would walk out, apologise for his short disappearance, then excuse himself to the computer lab. He still needed to make those legal files, and apparently, he could add a new task to his list. He had some research to do.

─ ⟡ ✢ ⟡ ─

For a long second, they each stood in a dubious shock. They stared after him, gaping, open-mouthed at the now closed bathroom door. Jason was the first to disturb the stillness, shifting to follow after the boy, but Babs leaned over her desk and secured his wrist in her hold.

‘Jason, we need to give him some space. He wouldn’t have run off if he wanted to talk. Besides, there’s no way for him to exit from in there.’ She could see that the man was torn, but he eventually settled in his place, though his head was quick to snap upwards as he registered a small wheeze from the direction of his older brother. 

The black-haired man leaned against the sandstone door frame, twisting his hands before him. His chest heaved in and out, though Jason would not have realised that the man was crying had it not been for the glinting tracks on his cheeks that affirmed otherwise. They caught in the faint overhead lighting, and Jason’s heart broke at the sight. 

‘He recognised me… and it scared him…’ Had he spoken ever so slightly lower, Jason might not have heard him. 

All was quiet for a moment; they were not accustomed to hearing this vulnerability from him. Jason’s eyes flickered over to Babs, and she gave him a silent, almost imperceptible nod. He stepped forward, boots impossibly quiet on the hardwood floor and stopped just short of his brother. There was something instinctive in the way he rested a hand on his shoulder, though Dick recoiled at the added weight and swiftly shrugged it off. Jason let his arm fall helplessly to his side.

‘He took one look at me and ran. What could that mean? Does he know who I am?’ His voice took a higher pitch as he pushed away from the frame and began to pace around the room.

Jason stayed where he was, watching as Dick moved in uneven, restless strides. His movements were not frantic, not yet, but there was a tremble in his hands, and his breath kept catching in his throat like the words were choking him on their way out.

‘His mother passed when he was a baby; she never would’ve had the chance to tell him. How does he know who I am?’ He kept rambling, and they made no move to intervene, lest he collapse. 

‘We don’t know where he has lived all these years, how he has been treated. Who could have known he was mine? And why would they keep him from me? And now…’ He broke off, looking sick, ‘he’s homeless in Gotham, he’s malnourished and he’s…’ He stopped again, repulsed, ’… he’s injured.’

Up until this point, Jason had believed that turning green with nausea was nothing more than a hyperbolic expression, but looking at his brother's face, he could finally believe the opposite. 

Dick’s hands, trembling slightly, twisted together, a nervous, frustrated motion. He is shaken, more so than Jason’s ever seen him, and the guilt is written all over his face. The man’s eyes flicker between the door, himself and Babs, but there is something distant in them. Like he is lost in his own mind, spiralling for the answers he does not have.

Jason wants to tell him it is not his fault, wants to reach out and shake some sense into him, but he knows that will not help. Sometimes, people want to sit in the mess they think they have made, feeling every ounce of guilt and regret and shut out any rebuttal. He knew any attempt would be futile. Dick parted his lips once more, on the precipice of speech, when the rattle of a doorknob pervaded the room. They each turned their heads.

Peter stood in the frame, paler than he had been moments ago, cheeks now puffy and eyes blotched red. His expression was blank, but there was a clear exertion behind it; he wanted to come across as okay, but he was barely holding it together. 

For a heartbeat, none of them moved. The boy's sudden reappearance seemed to rob the room of its breath, as though his mere presence had pushed it into suspension. Dick’s mouth opened slightly, as though to speak, but no words emerged. His throat was dry, locked tight with emotion, and something in Peter’s expression, vacant yet struggling, made him falter. 

He did not want to scare him again.

Peter blinked slowly, his lashes wet and dark. He did not look at any of them directly, as if eye contact might break the fragile veneer he had managed to patch together in the minutes alone. His voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper.

‘Sorry about that…’ He mumbled, faintly. He looked as though he wanted to say more, but ultimately decided against it. 

He picked at his sleeve, an automatic motion, and Dick tried not to dwell on the wet patches that darkened it. But he was no longer crying; he simply looked drained.

‘That’s okay, Peter. You have nothing to apologise for.’ Barbara’s voice was uncertain, and she glanced at Dick as she spoke.

The boy gave a jerky nod, though it was unclear if he fully heard her. His gaze drifted to the once steaming mugs on the cabinet, now almost cold and untouched. He hesitated for a fraction too long, then walked forward, feet near-silent against the wood.

He did not look at Dick. Not yet.

Instead, he moved toward the desk where Babs still sat, her hands resting on its edge. Jason’s eyes followed him with a quiet perusal, though his expression had lost the tension it once held.

Peter stopped at the desk and glanced at its contents.

‘I… ah… came to use the computer lab. I have some things I want to do.’

It was such a simple sentence, almost comically mundane in the face of what had just occurred. But no one laughed. No one even smiled. Barbara gave him a small nod, fingers moving across the keyboard before she handed him a keycard.

‘Of course. Let me know if you need anything else.’

Peter nodded, card gripped tightly in his fingers. He still had not looked at Dick. Not fully. Only flickers. But as he turned to walk away, toward the hallway that led to the lab, his footsteps slowed, just briefly, near a shelf, and Peter’s head tilted toward Dick’s direction before quickly averting.

Although nothing had been said, Dick flinched as though he had been struck. His jaw worked like he was about to speak. But the boy moved on before he had the chance to, and disappeared down the hall. Dick remained silent, still rooted to the floor, and in his mind, there was a billowing storm of questions.