Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Peter knows this is the last time he will ever see Doctor Strange, more specifically, this will be the last time anybody from the Avengers will recognize him as anything more than just a guy on the street. It has to happen, he understands, even as the all consuming tendrils of grief tangle in his feet and threaten to drag him down. 

He doesn’t know what the sorcerer is doing with all of these strange glowing glyphs floating in the air. A more curious part of him is trying to decipher all of the alchemical symbols and what pattern Doctor Strange is trying to form with them. Some of the glyphs look like words, or parts or words, but Peter can’t read any of them. 

An apologetic look forms on Doctor Strange’s face, because as much as complained about Peter’s immature actions for the past seventy two hours, he doesn’t actually hate the kid. As frustrated as Stephen is at how this whole situation played out, Peter doesn’t deserve this . Nobody deserves this. 

Peter doesn’t say anything. He just chews his lip and picks at studies the lines of his suit. What else is there to say at this moment? He is going to lose everything, or at least, the few things he hasn’t lost already. M.J, Ned, Happy, the Avengers…they will all forget everything they have done together. 

It’s for the best . Peter thinks to himself mournfully. Nobody should have ever known Spider-man and Peter are the same person. He wears the mask for a reason. Tony was Tony. Cap was Cap. They could show their faces to the public because people know better than to try and mess with them. Peter is just a kid in a cruel world beyond his understanding. 

He understands now though, cradling his hope with bloody and broken hands, standing in front of a sorcerer with the cruelest yet simplest solution to his problem. Peter hoped he could have his cake and eat it too. His allies, friends, and families remember who he is, while the rest of the world lives in blissful ignorance. He should have known better. 

Peter Parker can never win, not unless the world ends instead. 

Doctor Strange grunts with the exertion of the spell, “No…” he whispers under   his breath, “that’s not - that’s not what I- ” the room shakes and Peter can feel the pulse of the magic winding itself around him. It smells like fire and ash, but a hint of Aunt May’s coffee order, then Ned’s house, and the lingering of M.J’s perfume. Espresso, Febreze air fresheners, and floral scent with underlying notes of oak and a fruit Pete can’t name, “Peter.”

“Yeah, Doctor Strange?” Peter says after a second, not realizing the sorcerer is talking to him, “What’s wrong?” 

“The spell.” Doctor Strange says in a strained voice, the orange and red markings of the spell convulse before spinning into a vortex around them. Peter has never seen a real tornado before, but he thinks this looks like all of the ones on T.V. The room isn’t designed to handle this kind of stress, if Doctor Strange doesn’t finish quickly, it might disintegrate entirely. “It’s turning into something else.”

Peter wants to ask questions. What is it turning into? Is that bad? How bad will it be? Will everyone still be safe? Will Peter be safe? What does that mean for Happy, M.J, Nate, and everybody else? He settles for the only one that matters at this moment. “Will it still work?”

An array of emotions filter through Doctor Strange's face. Realization. Horror. Grief. Contemplation. Eventually settling on determination, “Yes, but - ”

“Then do it.” Peter says adamantly, “Cast the spell.”

“Peter,” he sighs weakly, grimacing at the intensity of the spell, desperately trying to keep control as it whirled around them, “It’s changed. I - I don’t know what’s going to happen to you.” That doesn’t sound good, and if Peter is being completely honest with himself, it is making this idea sound even worse than when he originally thought of it. “And I won’t remember - ”

“It’s okay.” Peter says. He isn’t sure if he sounds confident or defeated. This is his fate. He has to accept it. “If everyone’s going to be safe, it’s okay.” It isn’t okay, but Peter thinks if he says those words enough maybe he will believe them. Everybody is in danger because of him, it is only fair he makes the sacrifice to save them. “I’ll…uh…see you around, Doctor Strange.” He says half heartedly, but the joke doesn’t land.

“Stephen.” Doctor Strange says through gritted teeth, holding the power of the memory altering spell back with will power alone, “It’s Stephen.” He can’t hold the spell back for much longer. The will of the universe is a heavy burden to hold, and Stephen can only do it for so long. “I’ll see you around, Spider-Man.” 

Peter can only nod, relishing his last few seconds in the world with a person who can recognize him. Soon, he will be the only person in the world who knows Peter Parker is Spider-Man, just as it should have always been. “Hopefully under different circumstances.” 

They won’t. Heroes only come together for funerals and impending tragedies.

Stephen groans as he lets go of the spell, allowing it to seep into the foundations of this universe and all of the rest. He looks at Peter, trying his best to etch the young man’s face into his memory, despite already feeling the effects of the spell prying at his mind. He is no exception to the rule, despite his efforts. 

“Take care of them, Stephen!” Peter shouts as the spell roars around them, screaming its purpose into the hearts and ears of everyone it could reach. He wants to close his eyes, allow the chaos swirling around him to come to a natural end. Stephen mentioned it would deposit him back out on the street, outside of the sanctum. It’s safer if they try not to cross paths.

Stephen nods, “I will!” He is starting to lose memories. One by one. Little by little. Until there is nothing left of Peter Parker in his mind. It would be unnerving, disturbing to say the least, but the point of the spell is for the recipients to forget they even desired to forget anything at all. “Be safe out there, Peter.”

Peter opens his mouth to say something. An empty promise, because how would Doctor Strange know if Peter is being safe or not. He isn’t going to remember him in a few minutes. They are going to be less than strangers. Considering how the other heroes treated Spider-Man before the reveal, he highly doubted his popularity would ever be worth mentioning. 

He doesn’t get to say anything, a burning tendril of orange magic wraps around his legs and torso. Peter instinctively tries to dodge, but it looks as if the spell expects his resistance. He reaches out towards Doctor Strange and to his surprise the man grabs on to his wrist, “Is this supposed to happen?” Peter yells out, feeling the tendrils pull. 

Stephen shakes his head, “No! A portal is supposed to-”
“What the hell is happening then!” Peter screams, gripping onto Stephen’s arms for dear life. Where is the spell taking him? What is he supposed to do? “Make it stop.” 

“I can’t!” Stephen cries, “The spell is already in motion. Just hold on!” The shield on his memories is withering further. More moments are being erased by the dozen. With each passing second, it is taking more and more effort to remember. This is Peter Parker. Peter Parker is Spider-Man. This is Peter Parker. Peter Parker is Spider-Man.

His foot slips and the only thing keeping Stephen from being pulled into the void is his enchanted cape pulling him as best it can. “I’m taking you with me.” Peter realizes. He can’t take Stephen with him, regardless of wherever he is going. This world needs Stephen Strange more than it needs Peter Parker. “I’m going to let go.”

“No!” Stephen grunts as though his hands are actually capable of holding Peter Parker against the will of the universe. He keeps repeating the mantra. Peter Parker. Peter Parker is Spider-Man. This is Peter Parker. Peter Parker is Spider-Man. “Just let me-”

Peter smiles. It is full of sorrow and regret, but relief in a single fact. This universe will be safe. “Goodbye, Stephen.” He let go. Doctor Strange blinks and Peter Parker is gone. That isn’t how it was supposed to happen. He knows his spells. That one didn’t go the way he intended. 

He screams, “No!” The spell tears at his mind, ripping away memories of a boy he no longer can name, a face he will never be able to recognize, a hero that is nothing more than a mask and a rumor. Stephen finds himself tearing at the walls, tears running down his face, with an overwhelming feeling of…of…of something he couldn’t name. 

“Stephen?” Wong asks, poking his head in the room, “What are you doing here?”

Stephen Strange opens his mouth. There’s an answer. Somewhere in his mind, but it has flown away from the forefront of his mind. He looks at the floor and finds a ring. Weird. He doesn’t remember taking one of the focus rings out of storage. The sanctum is always peculiar, perhaps it wants to make him feel like he is going crazy. “I was looking for this?”

Wong cocks his head, “A ring?” He takes a better look at Stephen in the low light. “Are you okay?”

Stephen shrugs his shoulders, “Yeah? Why wouldn’t I be?” A little confused maybe, because he isn’t sure how he got here. He remembers leading the instruction for the sorcerers in training, then he ate lunch at a small local restaurant a few blocks away from the Sanctum, and now he is here, for some reason.

Wong gestures to his own face, “You’re crying.”
He wipes the tear tracks of his face. Unsure of why they are there, but it is dusty here. Maybe a cloud appeared in his face and caused a few tears? “I’m fine. We have work to do, Wong. Let’s get to it.”

Wong shrugs, “Sure. Whatever you say.”

Chapter Text

Peter doesn’t even get the chance to scream. One second he is being pulled through the fabric of the universe, spidey sense going haywire, unable to grab on to anything to keep himself from tumbling further. Faster and faster he spins, his falls, not getting a single moment to orient himself. 

There is no slowing down or moment of reprieve, Peter simply blinks and he is falling again. Except this time it is due to the laws of gravity. There is no void, instead he collides with a hard wooden floor, stained dark enough to look like the endlessness of space with the lights off. 

He stands up, reorienting himself with the area around him. A large bedroom, probably just as big if not greater than the apartment he shared with Aunt May. A king sized bed pushed to the northern wall, reminiscent of something an actual king or prince would sleep in. The bed posts nearly reached the ceiling, a different colored baseball hat hangs on each one. 

Peter carefully walks over to the wall, feeling for a light switch, maybe some illumination could give him some clues as to where the spell took him. It reveals a grandiose chandelier hanging from the ceiling, covered in lines of crystals. Peter has only ever seen one like that on his trip to europe. Whoever’s house this, they must like antiquing and have the paycheck to support it. 

There are old movie posters on the wall. Star Wars, a mixture of the original trilogy, prequel, and one of the sequels. Night of the Living Dead, not usually to his taste, maybe M.J. 

M.J…

Peter instinctually reaches for his phone, but it isn’t in his pocket. Of course it wouldn’t be in his pocket, what was he thinking? He sits back on his bed, although Peter isn’t sure why he instantly thinks it is his. This room feels too neat to be his, too tidy, no clothes on the floor or shoes in an odd pile in the corner. 

Aunt May rarely - 

His heart seizes in his chest. Aunt May…he wanted to go to her funeral but with the chaos of everything Happy will be the one to lower her coffin into her grave. Peter wonders if anybody else would go, May doesn’t deserve to be forgotten. He doesn’t have a picture of her, but he will try to preserve her memory from the thief of time.

Peter doesn’t know what to do now. He got exactly what he wanted, to be forgotten. He has no friends, no family, not even a villian to remember his existence outside of his Spider-Man persona. He’s alone. He’s been alone before, but not like this. Not with the burden of knowing there is no going back to the safety of the past.

He looks at the bedside table. There are a handful of items on it. A digital alarm clock showing it is one fifteen am in the morning, a picture frame containing a photo of two smiling young boys, a pair of glasses, an expensive watch, and a small box of what Peter assumes, and somehow knows, is jewelry.

Curious about the contents, Peter opens the box. Earrings? Peter doesn’t have - he pinches his ear lobes and feels several cold pieces of metal. Since when does Peter wear jewelry? Forget that, since when does he have pierced ears? His healing factor doesn’t even allow him to have tattoos, let alone piercings. 

The pieces in the box are equally familiar yet foreign to him. A pair of diamond stud earrings his father gave to him as a stocking stuffer for Christmas. Peter’s father is dead and nor did he have the money to just randomly buy a set of earrings as a stocking stuffer. 

A gold ear climber with rubies one of his sisters bought with their father’s money simply because it reminds her of him. Another problem, Peter doesn’t have any siblings or even cousins for that matter. Aunt May and Uncle Ben were the only family he had left after his parents died.

A couple of golden chains with various designs meant to go into his industrial piercing. Peter reaches up against and feels a thin bar at the top of his ear. It’s almost a game now, feeling what new alterations to himself have been done. Peter wants to feel sick, but there is a greater part of him who knows he is the one who asked for these. There wasn’t any mind control or body snatching.

In total, he has thirty four piercings in his ears, seventeen on each. Peter hasn’t even begun to count the ones on his face. How does a teenager even have this many piercings? Does he just have access to a piercing gun or something?

The answer comes to him immediately. His butler signs off on most of them. Key word is most. His father doesn’t have a say in what he does with his body. He is barely home enough to notice such things anyway. 

A butler? Aunt may likes-liked watching that Downton Abbey show, and occasionally he paid attention. People still have butlers in this day and age? Well…it would explain why his room looks the way it is. Tidy, but not sterile. Neat, but not barren. No dust on any of the knick knacks on his shelves, lots of lego models. 

At least that isn’t any different. There are so many sets he could never dream of affording, or even dare asking Aunt May to pay for, because she would try her damndest to get them. Even if it required several weeks of overtime in order to pay for them. 

Once again, memories wash over him, this time it is the satisfaction of completing each project. The larger, the better. He assembles each other with such care and precision within this very room, but none of them are ever put downstairs for others to see. The decorations in the manor only change for the holidays.

After a cursory glance, he finds his phone. Two of them actually. One his dad knows about and tracks. The other he has for the sake of his own sanity. None of his family members, just people from class and clubs, practically a work cell phone at this point. He isn’t sure why he bothers to keep the other one. It isn’t as if he is getting many texts or calls from his siblings.

Siblings. 

Dick Grayson-Wayne. A burdensome feeling of resentment curling into despondence. A hand reaching out only to be rejected or forgotten all together. There is love in connection to the name, but it is turbulent, a raging fire capable of burning as it is giving warmth. 

Jason Todd. Jagged layers of grief digging in his heart and soul. The first sign of the truth of his position with the Waynes. The first omen of the lonely future yet to come for Peter Grayson-Wayne.

Tim Drake. Futility. Not a replacement, but another distraction, another wall, another gentle shove towards the background. No anger, no resentment around this name, just bitter acceptance.

Stephanie Brown. An odd swirl of confusion tied up with an aching heart. Not enough. Never enough . No blame, not towards her, but at himself. She only reminds him of his own shortcomings. Too many to count.

Damien Wayne. Jealousy so sharp he could cut himself on it. There is no competition, but if there was one, Peter would be losing horribly. He knows the boy needs a patient and steady hand such as Dick’s. When Bruce disappeared for a year, there simply was nobody else to look after him. Peter just doesn’t understand how Damien of all people is closer to his own brother than Peter could ever dream of being. 

Barbara Gordon. Neutrality. Nothing bad. Nothing great. She is simply there. An odd reprieve in a sea of cloying rage and loneliness. There is an odd pebble of information in the back of his head, a pill he has swallowed plenty of times before. He likes Barbara well enough, but she doesn't like him.

Cassandra. Quiet. Seen not heard. Curious, wide eyes always watching, only speaking when there is something important to say. Fear, not because of a danger, but because she can see him. Not just see him, but see through him and all of his disguises and acts.

 Duke. New. Apprehensive. He knows about the stories of Peter from his classmates. All the worst parts of his personality, all of his thorns and jagged edges, but most people don’t bother getting past them. Peter can’t blame Duke or anybody else for being scared of being scratched.

There are no pictures of any of them in this room. The backgrounds on his phone are a default image, a photo of stars and another of the ocean. None of his contacts on his personal phone have pictures either. That’s frustrating. Peter knows why he has no photos of his immediate family members, but it doesn’t mean he has to like it.

All of the pictures on his phone are of other people, the city at different points of the day and night, and a couple of animals. Peter has a vague idea of how full his calendar is, but seeing most of his days start at five am and end at ten thirty pm every night does not make him feel hopeful or energized.

Avoiding the empty house and its echoey hallways. It never matters what time he comes home, nobody is waiting there for him anyway. He is half curious to test whether or not anybody would notice his absence, but for whatever reason, he doesn’t tempt fate. Whatever the truth is, Peter doesn’t want to know which reality he prefers. The one where his father worries about him for all the wrong reasons, or isn’t concerned for all the right ones. 

It’s strange, being saddled with all of these emotions. Each one equally foreign yet familiar as they settle in his chest. He remembers having disagreements with May, a few terse moments with Tony and Happy, but nothing like this. He’s never had a brother or a sister, as close as he is - was with Ned. Is this what siblings are supposed to be like? Is it normal to be this angry at someone who hasn’t even done anything. 

“This is so screwed up.” Peter whispers to himself, rubbing his face with calloused palms, but not for the same reasons Peter remembers in his previous life. Gymnastics, years and years of gymnastics, until his brother graduated and left Gotham. Now they are from participating in the rock climbing club: top rope, lead climbing, bouldering, and constantly belaying other people.

Notably not from his Spider-Man activities. 

While rubbing his face, trying to calm the confusion of whirling chaotic thoughts colliding inside of his head. Under his fingers, he feels more than just skin with a few patches of acne, but several metal pieces stuck throughout his face. Peter doesn’t even get the chance to be horrified or confused, because this other-Peter’s memories are already intrinsically intertwined, nearly overshadowing his own. 

He stumbles into the bathroom, muscle memory guiding his hand towards the light switch. The bathroom is no less grand than the bedroom, too much counter space, floor space, and cabinets for one person to possibly ever use. No hotel room, not even the one Tony bought while in Germany, could eclipse this grandiose old-money bathroom design.

Is that marble? Real marble? 

Hand carved, what wood is that - Lignum Vitae? One of the most difficult and expensive woods to manipulate? It has a 4,500 pound force rating on the Janka scale of hardness! An odd fact he remembers from taking woodshop at Midtown High with Ned, and oddly enough he recalls taking a similar class last year, but Ned isn’t the one sitting next to him cracking jokes when the professor turns away. 

He’s alone in a room full of people, like so many other memories settling on his shoulders and soul. Most people take woodshops because the teacher grades on participation, not on the quality of work turned in at the end of the day. Peter always tries his best, even if his projects turn out like wooden blobs or weird suggestions of the original prompt given. 

Peter is far better with codes, wires, and machines than glue, wood, screws, and circular saws. He still has a few of the projects, ones he intended as gifts for Alfred, Dick, and Bruce. The pathetic attempts at a little bird family are still hidden in his dresser underneath neatly folded pants. If Alfred has ever found them, Peter is none the wiser. 

The mirror is like any other mirror Peter has seen, except for the gaudy frame it lies in, yet just another thing that makes him think this should be some sort of luxury hotel. Gold, or perhaps golden paint over an equally expensive wood or metal? A regal pattern, the type of swirls associated with royalty and old castles. However, it makes no sense as to why Peter of all people would be living in a luxury hotel. He would be lucky to even afford a shoe box of a room to live in. 

He’s so startled by the design of his bathroom, and trust Peter with the distant yet all to real knowledge everything in his bathroom is his, that he forgets to take note of himself in the mirror he is inspecting. 

Peter gapes at his reflection. His normal dark brown, same short length all the way around, a bit longer on the top in order to comb it to the side, is gone. Instead he has bright pink hair, practically neon, maybe it even glows in the dark with how vivid the tone is. 

His hair looks haphazardly cut, like he took a pair of barber scissors and trimmed it himself and failed hilariously. Why would Peter… oh , right . The memory is right there, three years ago Peter was standing here, shaking with rage, wanting to scream at how invisible he feels. He has been in this god forsaken house for almost ten years now, supposedly a part of this family for the same amount of time, yet at every turn he is cast off. 

That night is supposed to be his night with Dick, one of their movie marathons. Peter would have been happy to have just one movie with himself and Dick, like the old times before their house became full of other orphans like themselves. Dick gets a phone call not even fifteen minutes into the first movie, sheepishly apologizes, and then leaves with an empty offer of ‘let’s try again next week’. Next week never comes, Dick only says it to make Peter feel less hopeless.

With his brother’s absence, Peter is left alone with his once simmering and now over boiling frustration. He asks for one night, one goddamn fucking night, and he can’t even have that! The boy knows his brother belongs to other people and sometimes unavoidable situations arrive, Dick can’t help it. Taking care of those situations is important, but is Peter not important too? 

This isn’t the first time something like this has happened. Peter being left alone for an unknown amount of time with nothing but a heart full of spite and a desperate lack of adult supervision. Pink isn’t the first color change, it’s the most current in a long line of color changes. Despite it being explicitly against Gotham Academy’s dress code. 

Needless to say he gets the reaction he wants from his adoptive father, an exasperated sigh, a hand pinching the bridge of his nose, and the classic line, “ We’ll talk about this later, Peter .” They never do, whether it is because Bruce is busy with other things and his son’s deliberate attempt to make him upset pales in comparison or because he simply doesn’t care - Peter will never know. 

Alfred is the only one who offers half a scorn, something along the lines of ‘ You could have simply asked me for a haircut, Master Peter. I would have been happy to oblige .’ Of course he would have, Peter has no doubt, but asking for permission has never been his preference. 

Going through Alfred is basically the same as asking Bruce for permission, the only difference being Peter actually feels bad when he disappoints Alfred. Bruce has never been around consistently enough to feel like a father figure, always off on ‘official Wayne Industry business’, sometimes even taking Dick or one or all of his other siblings with him. 

Sometimes when the news is in a lull they will comment about the amount of vacations Bruce goes on, which never made sense to Peter, because aren’t vacations supposed to be a family thing? Isn’t he supposed to be family? They went through the trouble of changing his name and everything, even going as far as putting him and Dick in front of cameras to confirm the adoption. 

Peter runs his hands through the uneven locks. A stray thought enters his head: his roots are beginning to show, he will have to re-dye it soon. It’s been pink for nearly six months now, he should change it, but isn’t sure what color to dye. Anything but black or brown, maybe green as well. The last thing he wants is to be confused as one of the Joker’s cronies.

Orange, maybe? He isn’t capable enough on his own to do a rainbow look, but a hair dresser could help. One of the perks of being the son of a billionaire, salon grade materials at your hands. Peter can skip rock climbing club tomorrow and go to the salon by -

Peter forceabley rips himself from the tangent thought. He needs to get his story straight before he meets anyone from this Peter's life. The last thing he needs is for another universe to be ruined by his presence before he can even try to live in it. At least he has memories of this world helping to guide his actions. Theories start to grow in his mind before Peter can try to quash them. That is so not the problem he needs to be worrying about right now. 

What did Stephen’s spell do, exactly? He said something about losing control of it, just like the first time he cast it, but instead of bringing other alternate universe versions of people into their universe, Peter is…here? Instead of rewriting everyone’s memories to erase the knowledge Peter Parker is Spider-Man, he simply never became Spider-Man at all. 

And also just happens to be the son of murdered circus acrobats, the rebellious adoptive son of a local billionaire, and self proclaimed black cat of the Wayne Family. 

Logically, Peter should be able to say his behavior is childish. Lashing at out at people who have adult responsibilities, isolating himself from his siblings because it’s easier than trying and failing to connect, and blaming other people for the issues he instigates or escalates. It’s an insidious trap he equally created and fell into by happenstance.

“Is this even legal?” Peter mutters to himself as he runs a hand over his piercings, as if he knows the answer and regulations around what tattoo parlors are allowed to do. The memories of this other-peter, who paradoxically is and isn’t him at the exact same time, appear before him.

Fake I.D. Of course, he has a fake I.D. Not for drinking at bars until the sun comes up, or buying crappy alcohol from the corner store for his friends to enjoy. No, he went out of his way to purchase a fake I.D so he could put metal in his face. Oddly enough, that does sound like Peter would do with Ned and MJ, or maybe that’s just the peculiar mixture of memories swirling together, becoming indistinguishable from one another.

People know of Peter Grayson-Wayne, but the last picture the media has of him is right before he started his freshman year at Gotham Academy, before his impromptu hair restyling and fashion style change. He hasn’t attended any of the galas or parties in years, and to his knowledge nobody has made a comment on it. They are more for his dad to raise money or…whatever it is rich people do at those kinds of parties. 

Peter needs a drink. Not alcohol, although he already knows what this not-him-yet-is-him prefers to order when the mood strikes. He slides on his fuzzy blue slippers, because Alfred doesn’t like them going barefoot, but the Wayne Manor (when not hosting a gala) is a leave-your-shoes-at-the-door kind of household. Well, not at the door, at the shoe closet. 

He chooses to carefully close his bedroom door, although he isn’t sure if any of his family members are home. They spend quite an awful amount of time out and about late at night, but refuse to tell Peter anything about it. He’s learned at a young age there isn’t any point in trying to pry the truth out of them. The more questions he asks, the more elusive their answers become. 

It doesn’t matter though. Nobody, not even Alfred should be in the little kitchen in the East Wing. The lights aren’t on, no dishes are sink, or any remnants of dinner on the counter. Meals are often made in the main kitchen though, and the only three souls allowed in said kitchen are Alfred, Jason, and Peter. Blowing up one of the smaller kitchens in the wings is fine, but it makes life much more difficult to temporarily lose access to the kitchen with the largest pantry, fridge, ovens and stoves. 

Peter prefers this kitchen, both himself and the odd twisting echoes of the other Peter he has become. It’s difficult to separate the realities, reminding himself both are true in their own separate ways. He knows this kitchen intimately. The pans are in the slim cupboard next to the gas oven. Pots are in the cabinet next to the sink. Cups are all neatly organized by color, pattern, and personalized effects in the top cabinets next to the sink. Plates, organized in a similar manner are in the cabinet next to them. 

Alfred re-stockes this fridge once every couple of days, depending on how many people are visiting the house. The only people who live at the manor full time are Damien, Bruce, Peter, and of course Alfred. All of Bruce’s kids have permanent bedrooms of course, but in truth, Peter hardly knows when people are here to stay, let alone how long they are here. 

Peeking inside the fridge it seems a few hands have taken a couple of the sports drinks, a couple of sparkling waters (because Alfred put his foot down about allowing soda in the manor years ago), and a handful of each of the snacks are gone. Most of the food here is for the purpose of snacking or grazing until a proper meal. By design of course, Alfred doesn’t want his hard work to go to waste. 

A few water bottles still remain, and Peter quickly takes one. For a brief moment, he wonders why bother with bottled water? It’s such a waste. Although there is no escaping microplastics or anything, and corporate greed pushing their guilt onto their consumers is a whole story and debate, why doesn’t Peter just use the tap or the filtered water from the fridge? 

The feeling of a memory correcting his thinking sends a shiver down his spine, the water isn’t safe , toxins, experiments, the horrors of Gotham herself can’t even bear witness to - that’s not weird at all, sarcasm implied. 

He sighs and tips the water into his mouth. Whatever Stephen’s spell did, it worked, but the weirdest way possible. Gotham exists, but it’s a village in England, not an actual city in New Jersey (New Jersey, really?). Of all the places to be magically shot to, and Stephen’s spell has to choose, it had to be New Jersey? Gone the down-on-his-luck-boy from Queens, New York, hello the preppy-daddy-issues-starter-pack boy from Gotham, New Jersey. 

“Peter?” A familiar voice questions.

He jumps at the sound, how is Dick always manage to be so quiet in this old manor? Even Peter isn’t able to avoid all of the weird creaky floorboards, and he’s lived here almost his whole life!

“Why are you up?” Dick asks.

“What are you doing up?” Peter shoots back as he closes the fridge door, a cool bottle of water in his hand.

Dick eyes him, his bruised orbital and split lip on clear display. Whoever he exchanged blows with got him good, but judging by his bruised knuckles, he gave just as good as he got. “You have school in the morning.” 

“And you have work.” Peter retorts as he opens the freezer and grabs one of the many ice packs stored on the shelves. Peter never understood why they have so many. He certainly has used a few in his time, but not that many. “Here.” He opens the bottle and takes a sip of water. “I had a bad dream. Woke me up, couldn’t go back to sleep.” Close enough to the truth.

”About what?” Dicks wonders. 

Peter’s initial thought is to be defensive. Since when is Dick curious about what Peter does? They go months without a meaningful conversation. He wants to lash out, make Dick feel just like he does. He just barely manages to swallow his spite and shrugs, “Depends, are you going to tell me who made you look like that?” He isn’t, but this is how their little game is played.

Dick chuckles as he gently places the ice pack on his bruise, “Pissed off the wrong drunk. You know how it is.” Peter, in fact, does not know how it is. He has never known ‘how it is’, since the first night his brother came home with an assortment of bruises and other injuries. How could he know since his brother will never tell him the truth, and Peter has given up trying to get it out of him.

“Sure.” Peter says unconvinced, another sip of water, and a moment of silence between the brothers. It’s strange how Peter doesn’t know how to communicate with his brother anymore, not without it devolving into fighting or being interrupted in some way. “Tell me what clubs you go to, so I know never to go there.” 

It’s meant to be a joke, but it doesn’t quite stick the landing judging by the frown appearing on Dick’s face. “I’m not going to clubs, Peter. It’s work. You know that.” Yeah. Peter knows plenty yet somehow absolutely nothing about his brother’s work, probably because the man refuses to say anything about it. “So what was your dream about?”

Changing the subject, classic Dick deflection. Peter expects it at this point. “I don’t know.” He shrugs, “Forgot it when I woke up.” Not quite a lie. Peter doesn’t know how he got here, but calling life in his original universe a dream is certainly not the truth. Then the question came to him, “You work in Bludhaven, what case do you have jurisdiction for in Gotham?”

Dick freezes. His face still with surprise. Peter doesn’t usually question the logic behind Dick’s work constantly bringing him back to Gotham. Ever since the major schism between Bruce and Dick, the two tend to stay in their separate cities. There is the year that Dick spent in Gotham after Bruce went on an extended business trip, or whatever excuse they made up to make his reappearance make sense, but Peter doesn’t count that. That was a weird year in general. 

“I can’t talk about it outside of the department.” Dick says wearily, a little bit too quickly. A lie. “Anyways, how is school? You're graduating this year. You haven’t said anything about where you’re applying for college.” Because Dick is never around long enough to have a conversation about the weather, let alone college decisions.

Peter shrugs, “I’ve sent a couple out. M.I.T, Stanford, U.C, Michigan, Gotham U too. Counselor said I should have a couple of safety schools, just in case.” He applied to all of the top engineering schools he could, wrote countless essays about why he should be considered. Maybe all of those extra curricular activities would prove useful aside from getting out of this house.

Dick’s eyes light up, “We should take you on a campus visit trip!” A nice thought, a kind offer really, one that not all parents or family members could afford to give their children or loved ones. Peter knows Dick means it when he wants to take him, but wanting to and actually doing it are two separate things. 

Peter nods, “Sure.” It isn’t going to happen, but the thought of it is pleasant. He could easily use his dad’s card and book the flights and hotels himself. He’s done it before and Bruce either didn’t notice, or he didn’t care. Both are also an option. “We’re getting a break next-”

”Dick.” Right on cue , a gruff voice says, “What are you doing? We need you in the-”

Dick’s eyes widen and he shoots up to a standing position. “I’m coming, Bruce, just saying goodnight to Peter.” He hands him back the ice pack with a sheepish smile, “Sorry,” he whispers, “we’ll talk later, okay?” He quickly walks out the door and to his dad’s side. Peter can’t hear what they are saying, but he doesn’t particularly care enough to try and eavesdrop anyway. A clear indicator his powers are gone, otherwise he wouldn’t even have to attempt to listen.

If the results of this spell didn’t suck before, Peter can definitely say now he thinks this is some sort of karmic retribution for all of his past sins he has committed and all of the ones he will commit. Of all the ways for this spell to rewind his life, this is the choice it had to make?

Peter knows anger well, but this feels like is barely keeping a lid on all of his rage. He can’t even reach out to the people who should care about him the most without feeling as though his hand is going to be slapped away. He just wants to hit something. Break a tangible object into a million little pieces before he snaps in two from frustration. 

Normally, he would go on patrol, swing his frustrations out. Not beat up, but turn in a few crooks here and there, get a few on liners in, and then go home. Here, he doesn’t have any powers. He is simply just Peter. A boy with no authority. A kid who is stuck. A person who is practically invisible.

Well your spell worked, Stephen , Peter grumbles to himself, In the worst possible way . What are all the sayings? Beggars can’t be choosers. You can’t have your cake and eat it too. Peter shouldn’t be picky about how the spell played out, but he sure as hell could complain about it to kingdom come.

Peter finishes his water and walks out of the kitchen, praying to all of the gods there are, to allow him to make his way to his room without any more small talk from any of his family members. Apparently none of them are paying attention, because his dad speaks up as he leaves the kitchen.

”Peter.” He says, “Why are you up?”

It’s an instinctual reaction. Peter could not have stopped it even if he wanted to, and trust him, he wanted to stop. The mannerism of this Peter in this universe is tied to his own, not a separate being or a noticeably different thought pattern. These thoughts and actions are his, even if he wishes they weren’t.

Peter rolls his eyes, “I was thirsty. So I got a drink of water. I wasn’t aware that was illegal.” He doesn’t have to be rude, but he relishes the slight twitch of Bruce’s eyes. Whatever he has been doing late at night this time, it’s taken a toll on him. 

“You have a school trip tomorrow.” His dad points out, as though it will somehow magically make Peter fall asleep right where he stands. 

“Yeah, Lex Corp, Metropolis, maybe the Daily Planet since a couple of the journalism tack students are tagging along.” Peter says with a dismissive wave, “We went to Wayne Industries last month. The engineering track students go to all the nearby tech companies.” He can’t say he is particularly fond of Lex Luther from all of the times he has fought and tried to kill Superman, but his scientists have made a lot of advancements. Not as advanced at Wayne Industries, but advanced nonetheless.

Bruce frowns, “I heard you failed to arrive.”

Peter raises an eyebrow, “When’s the last time you actually went to a board meeting and didn’t have Tim or Lucius go in your place?” The last thing he needs or wants is to hear are the whispers. Yes, Peter’s last name is Wayne, but considering how long it's been since has been involved with high society and actively sought to be a part of the Wayne brand. At first glance many people just assume he’s not Bruce Wayne’s son.

“Be careful in Metropolis.” Bruce warns, but Peter isn’t entirely sure if he is actually being serious, or if this is a thinly veiled warning to behave on his trip. “And don’t talk to Lex.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll just spit in his coffee and call it even.” Peter turns around and walks back towards the staircase, “Night, dad.” He doesn’t run. No, he simply walks very quickly up the staircase and doesn’t look back. Even when he hears Damien, awake at this ungodly hour as well for some reason, commenting on Peter’s presence. “Seems like everyone’s having a fucking party.” 

An unsettling feeling settles under his ribs, ones he knows very well. A snake of unnameable emotions found its home in his chest, squeezing his heart and lungs. Everything is always just out of reach. Too early. Too late. Too little. Too much. Always in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

So many memories of being alone in these yawning halls of old art work and creaking floors. Too many nights spent trying to force himself to stay awake, waiting for his family to come back from wherever they flee to during the night. It never pays off. They always look at him like he is inconveniencing them. 

Such a strange feeling, having such a large extended family, yet never knowing what it felt like to actually be a part of one. It never felt like this back in Peter’s original dimension, even when his parents died and Aunt May and Uncle Ben took him in. Even after Uncle Ben died, Aunt May channeled her grief into love and determination helping Peter find his own path through losing yet another lost parental figure. 

And now there is no one here to weather this storm with him.

I drew (well tried to draw is a more apt description) Peter in this world. Hopefully I will find the time to draw him again. For the record, when he does eventually become spider-man in this version, he does have his usually spider-man mask, the domino mask is there just in case he gets de-masked. And yes, his mismatching jewellery is on purpose, also ik who he looks like, but I was already too far in the process to undo everything. so we'll just say for the sake of the matter, Arcane exists in this world, and he's a really big fan.