Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Peter pushed the door to the apartment open with his shoulder, feeling it stick slightly before giving way. He stepped inside, the familiar creak of the floorboards greeting him like an old friend.

He held the door open for Wanda, who hesitated at the threshold. Her arms were wrapped tightly around herself, as if shielding against the worn walls with peeling wallpaper and the faint, musty odor that lingered in the air. “It isn’t the greatest place,” he said, forcing a smile, “but it was affordable. I’m paying under the table, it’s convenient because I didn’t have an ID when I first got here.”

She glanced around, her eyebrow arching slightly. “You’re sure we come from the same universe?”

Peter tilted his head, feeling a mix of confusion and hope. “Well, I’m not certain, but everything seems to line up enough. Especially with what happened in Germany with Captain America and Mr—” He trailed off, the name catching in his throat like a pill.

Mr. Stark. His mentor. The man who had sacrificed so much, who had trusted Peter, only to be lost because of him. The weight of that loss felt heavier in the cramped space.

Wanda’s gaze drifted from him back to the bare apartment. “I vaguely remember Tony having someone new help him during that fight. If what you say about Strange is true, then it would make sense that I wouldn’t know more than that.”

“Even if you're not from my universe, although, I think you are because of how events have matched up—” Peter paused. He could feel the tension in the air, a fragile connection forming in the dim light of the room.

“I’ll still help you because I know you-or at least a version of you. I understand your situation, and it’s probably better that I found you before the other heroes here did. They don’t have a good track record with metas or magic—”

Wanda leaned closer, peering into his empty fridge. “You live here alone? You’re still so young.”

Peter stepped in front of her, gently pushing the door shut. A wave of shame washed over him as he hung his head for a moment, the weight of loneliness settling in. He straightened up. “I just got here, like you. I didn’t really have a choice-not that I have anyone left to turn to anyway.” He glanced away, the silence heavy between them.

“How did you get here exactly?” Peter asked after a moment, trying to change the course of the conversation.

Wanda closed her eyes tightly, memories flooding her mind. “I am not proud of what I have done. I made a mistake—I have made many mistakes since I lost Vision and my boys.” She opened her eyes, a flicker of pain crossing her face.

“I thought I was finally going to do the right thing. I tried to sacrifice myself by bringing down the Darkhold castle on top of Mount Wundagore. But just before it crushed me, my magic... it fell into me and saved me.” She paused, her voice trembling slightly. “It should be impossible that I am here, Peter. I do not know how I did it.”

Beside them, an old walkie-talkie cackled to life, interrupting the moment with news of a possible robbery. Peter quickly stripped off his hoodie and sweatpants, revealing his suit beneath, and tugged his mask over his face.

“I’m sorry, Miss Wanda, but I really need to check on this. Make yourself at home until I get back,” he called, pulling open a window and leaping out before she could voice any objections.

He knew it was wrong to seek an excuse to escape, but the reminders of his old universe were suffocating. Each sight felt like another piece of what he had lost.

As he swung through Gotham, the weight of grief began to lift. Instead, he focused on the sounds of the city—the wailing sirens, the lingering scent of gunpowder, and the murky sky where the smog thickened like a shroud.

In no time, he reached the bank in question. The chaos outside had settled, police were scrambling around, and a man in cuffs was being hoisted into the back of a police car.

Heavy steps from boots approached him from his left, and light, practiced ones from his right. It was the two people he was hoping he wouldn’t see for a while, Batman and Nightwing.

“We just want to talk to you,” Nightwing started, putting his hands up in a surrendering position.

“I don’t have time for this right now—” Peter replied. They had him cornered in an alley. Subconsciously, he looked up, knowing he could probably escape with his webs if needed, but he didn’t doubt they would chase him.

Nightwing approached him slowly, as if he was worried about startling him. “We tested your DNA,” he said, “from a blood stain you left behind after you were shot during a confrontation with Two-Face.”

Peter felt his heartbeat quicken, he didn’t like where this was heading.

“Your DNA has been mutated with spider venom," he paused, his gaze intense.

Nightwing continued, "Which explains your powers, doesn't it?"

Peter took a step back, his mind reeling. "I'm sorry, but I really don't want to talk about this right now." He raised an arm to aim his webs, ready to bolt.

Before he could fire, Nightwing shouted, his voice cracked as he spoke, "We did a paternity test as well! We found out your father is a man called Richard Grayson—"

"Nightwing," Batman warned, cutting him off with a sharp glare.

Ignoring Batman, Nightwing pressed on, "He knows about you. He wants to meet you, and he wants to help you, Spider-Man—Richard doesn't want you to do this alone."

"Leave him out of this," Peter said firmly, his voice hardening. "I don't want him involved in anything. It isn't safe, and he doesn't know what he's getting into."

Looking up, Peter saw Red Robin standing on the rooftop, effectively cutting off any escape. A knot of dread tightened in his stomach.

"We didn't want to do it this way, but you need to come with us this time," Batman said, his voice low and devoid of emotion. "We have a lot of questions and a lot to talk about."

This should have worked. This was how they were supposed to finally catch Spider-Man. Instead, a swell of red, magical energy erupted around him.

Spider-Man looked up, confused. "What's happening?" he asked, a tremor in his voice before he vanished in a flash of scarlet light.

Nightwing lunged, fingers outstretched, but it was too late. Spider-Man was gone.

"What the hell was that?!" he shouted, his voice echoing in the space where his son-or clone-had just stood.

Red Robin landed beside him, a grim set to his lips. "Matches the reports from last night. Someone called it in—said a woman appeared out of nowhere in a burst of red energy. Spider-Man was patrolling nearby and handled it before we could respond."

"So, teleportation?" Nightwing ran a hand through his hair, trying to keep the panic at bay. "And he didn't just... vanish for good?" He took a shaky breath. "He's alive, then?"

Batman placed a hand on Nightwing's shoulder. "I believe so. I also suspect he may know this woman. We need to find her, quickly. She's clearly powerful."

Dick shrugged off the touch, scrubbing his face with his hands. "I'm staying in Gotham. I need to work this case. I have to make sure he's alright."

"We don't know anything about him, Dick. Caution is still paramount," Batman warned, his voice firm.

Nightwing rounded on him, anger flashing in his eyes. "He needs our help! Do you know how many times he's almost died? We took a blood sample from when he was shot—by a villain he took on alone. He's a kid, Bruce! Trying to help people-even Robin still needs backup."

Even with the mask, Nightwing sensed Batman’s expression soften.

He studied Nightwing for a moment. “I promise we’ll do everything we can for him, and you know you’re welcome at the manor while we figure this out.”

Nightwing nodded, offering a quick thanks before grappling away into the night.

The city hummed with a restless energy, oblivious to the anxiety simmering back within Peter's apartment. Streetlights cast long shadows through the window, painting stripes across the cluttered space.

Wanda shifted on the worn couch, a sigh escaping her lips. Half an hour. It had only been half an hour since Peter had dashed out. Now, boredom wrestled with a growing unease. The mundane surroundings, the mismatched furniture and half-finished projects, did little to soothe her nerves.

Suddenly, the walkie-talkie on the kitchen counter crackled to life, jolting her upright. A strained voice cut through the static. "...robbery handled… but Spider-Man…cornered. Batman, Nightwing, and Red Robin… nearby. Police…do not engage."

Without a second thought, her hands ignited with crimson energy. The air crackled around her as she focused, picturing Peter, his apartment, the need to get him here, now. With a surge of power, she ripped a hole in reality, the apartment momentarily shimmering with scarlet light. Then, with a thud, Spider-Man collapsed onto the floor, a bewildered look on his face.

"Are you alright?" Wanda asked, her voice laced with concern. "I heard you were cornered—I wanted to help, like you helped me."

Peter tugged off his mask, closing his eyes in relief. "Thank you for that—" He pushed himself up from the floor. "They've been after me for a while now, and they'll probably be even more persistent now that they tested my DNA."

Wanda tilted her head slightly, following Peter as he moved to the kitchen. She watched as he slumped into a chair at the table. "What did they find?" she asked.

Peter bit the inside of his cheek. "My DNA is mutated with spider venom. They can understand my powers now…" His gaze fell, a shadow crossing his face. "They also did a paternity test. Apparently, my dad is alive in this world and wants to meet me—but I can't let that happen."

Confusion flickered across Wanda's face. "You have the opportunity to meet your family, and you're going to pass it up?"

"It's not like that," Peter said quickly. "He's not my dad. I mean, biologically, yes, but he's not the man who raised me-or the man who should have raised me. Not to mention, with this whole Spider-Man thing, I'll only put him in danger, just like with Mr. Stark and Aunt May. I can't have anyone else get hurt because of me, especially him."

Wanda considered this, her expression thoughtful. She didn't respond immediately, weighing his words.

Wanda had shattered realities, defied fate, all to reclaim her sons. Yet, here stood Peter, presented with a chance she'd sacrifice anything for, pushing it away because he wasn’t selfish like she had been.

"And what of your mother?" she asked, her voice was low and laced with a certain tenderness.

He met her gaze, anguish flickering within his eyes, and offered a slight shake of his head. "She's not here. None of them are. May, Ben…."

A sigh escaped him. "They took me in when I was just a kid. Five years old. My Aunt May and Uncle Ben," he explained.

"You carry their fate as your own," It wasn't a question, she recognized the haunted look in his eyes.

"It was my fault," Peter insisted, his voice barely a whisper. "Everything that happened to them…it's on me. If only I had been more…aware. They wouldn't be gone." The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken regret. "I can't let that happen again."

This time, Wanda let the silence linger. Instead, she reached out, her fingers gently threading through his hair. Then, she cupped his face, it was a maternal gesture, something she wished she could do for her boys one last time.

"You look tired, you should rest," she suggested, her hand falling back to her side.

Peter hesitated but gave a short nod and retreated into his cramped room. Wanda surveyed the apartment once more, her gaze lingering on the peeling paint and threadbare furniture. She began to assess what needed to be done.

When Peter woke from his nap, the first thing he noticed was a vibrant quilt draped over him.

The air was thick with the savory aroma of stew, a welcome departure from the apartment's usual musty odor.

He sat up, his eyes widening in disbelief. Was he still in his apartment? The old walls now boasted a fresh coat of warm, inviting color, and colorful tapestries adorned with intricate embroidery hung from the ceiling. New furniture filled the space.

He walked into the kitchen, equally transformed. Strings of dried peppers and garlic hung from the rafters, their pungent scent mingling with the simmering stew. Hand-painted ceramic plates lined the shelves. Wanda stood at the stove, stirring a pot of stew with a ladle.

"I hope you don't mind that I changed a few things around here and moved into the spare room. It was… very small and dirty, but I fixed it up." She said as she stirred the pot.

Peter gave her a few quick nods, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "No, that's fine—all this is amazing. The apartment looks great, but how did you…do all this?"

Wanda gave a small chuckle and raised her hand, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Magic," she reminded him gently.

"Oh," he said simply, his gaze drawn to the bubbling pot of stew.

Chapter Text

Peter hunched over the 'dining table', a chipped, stained thing he'd rescued from beside a dumpster that barely fit two people. Tiny screws and disassembled camera parts were scattered across its surface. He'd dropped his camera during a Spider-Man photo op gone wrong and was now trying to resurrect it.

Wanda, who had been flipping through the Gotham Gazette, a bemused look on her face, said, "So, you're a photographer in this world?" She tapped a photo credited to Peter Parker. She'd seen him with the camera, but hadn't connected the dots until now.

"Yep," Peter said, carefully setting down a tiny screw. "Freelance for the Gazette. They didn't dig too deep into my fake ID. And the hours are flexible, which is good, because I'm thinking about going back to school." He paused, fiddling with a lens. "I mean, I graduated early back home, but things are different here. Might be useful."

Wanda's brow furrowed slightly, a thoughtful expression on her face. "I think you should, Peter."

He flashed her a quick smile, then returned to his camera. "There's Gotham Academy. Amazing chemistry program, state-of-the-art labs, the works, like my old school. Passed the entrance exam already, but then there's the money thing. I applied for a Wayne Foundation scholarship. If I get it, great. If not… Well, there's always Gotham North."

Peter, finally satisfied with his camera's repair, slung it around his neck. "Alright, I'm heading out. Need to snap some photos for the Gazette. Daytime's usually quiet, but sometimes I catch Signal in action. If he’s not out then, there's always demand for exclusive Spider-Man shots."

"Be careful," Wanda called after him as he left the apartment. She sighed and returned to the newspaper, scanning the job ads. She knew technically that she could continue to use her magic for basic things, but she needed to build an identity in this world, and it would be nice to have something going on for her.

As she was considering it, one restaurant caught her eye, it was close to Park Row, or "Crime Alley," as Peter called it, and they seemed to be desperate for workers.

She circled the ad with a pen, making a mental note. She'd come back to it if she didn't find anything better. Even if the area wasn't ideal, Wanda knew she could handle herself.

Meanwhile, across Gotham, Dick sat hunched in front of the Batcave monitor, a shadow of his usual self. Dressed in rumpled clothes, dark circles underscored his tired eyes, and he looked like he hadn't slept or showered in days. A lukewarm coffee sat beside him as he pored over files on Spider-Man, a mix of their own intel and the GCPD's.

The elevator doors slid open, and Alfred entered, carrying a breakfast tray laden with pancakes, eggs, and sausage.

Dick raised an eyebrow, his voice raspy. "Breakfast? Isn't it-?" He glanced at the clock, a small sound of surprise escaping him. "Oh. Right. Morning already. Thanks, Alfred."

Alfred gave a curt nod, setting a newspaper in front of Dick. "You must remember to take care of yourself, Master Dick." He cast a pointed look at Dick's disheveled appearance. "Though I understand this situation is... unsettling."

Dick paused, scrubbing his hands over his face. "It's just... there's so much I don't know. His age, whether he's a clone, or if he's somehow actually my kid. Then there's his powers, and the fact that he's out there every night, alone. And I haven't even found a single solid lead."

"If I may offer some advice," Alfred said, tapping a photo in the paper. It showed Spider-Man suspended from a lamppost by his webs, waving jauntily at the camera. The picture was credited to Peter Parker.

“I've been seeing a lot more of this new photographer for the paper lately. While he tries to photograph all the local heroes, most of the shots don't come out as clean as the ones of Spider-Man. It's like the photographer was only a few feet away, and the other heroes don't seem to 'pose' for photos like this,” Alfred said.

“Do you think the photographer knows him?” Dick asked.

“It's possible, especially considering that Peter Parker is the only one who has been able to get a photo of Spider-Man that is in such good quality” Alfred replied.

Dick nodded as he quickly scarfed down his food. "Thanks, Alfred, you're the greatest. I'm going to go check this out now." He set the plate down and headed toward the elevator.

"Master Dick–if I could also suggest a shower before you go-!" Alfred called after him, only to be met with the closed elevator doors.

-

Peter's days were settling into a rhythm, almost lulling him into a false sense of security. He'd even managed to get some shots of Signal published, the flash of his camera cutting through the city's haze. But even as he developed the photos, a nagging feeling tugged at him, things never stayed like this with his luck.

"You take good pictures, kid," Ms. Vale said, glancing over from her computer. "That old camera still works?"

Peter nodded, a familiar warmth spreading through him as he looked at the worn leather. "It was my Uncle's. Means a lot to me." He was grateful he'd managed to grab it from May's apartment before Strange had sent him away, along with his Stark Industries hoodie and photo album.

He should have known better than to think he could catch a break. As he left the office, a figure caught his eye – a younger version of his dad, sporting a mullet that seemed straight out of the '80s. Peter froze, his camera slipping from his grasp and hitting the pavement with a sickening thud.

"Oh, shoot—! I didn't mean to startle you, Mr. Parker," the man said, rushing to help him pick it up.

"It's alright, and, uh, just Peter is fine." Peter picked his camera up from the ground. He looked up as he realized the man had said his name. "Um, do you know me?"

"We haven't met officially, but I follow your work in the paper—I'm sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. My name is Richard Grayson, but you can call me Dick. I actually have some questions I wanted to ask you... about Spider-Man." Dick explained.

Peter paled, instantly regretting publishing those photos. He should have known it could lead back to him somehow.

Peter swallowed hard, his throat tight. This was it. Nightwing had told him his father was searching, and this confirmed it. All this was, was a man grasping at straws to find his kid. A hollow ache bloomed in Peter's chest, a painful reminder of what he'd lost.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice wavering despite his best efforts. "I can't help you. I don't know who he is." He hated the lie, the way it tasted like ash in his mouth.

The way Dick narrowed eyes told Peter he wasn't buying it. Dick sighed, running a hand through his hair..

"Listen, Peter," Dick said, his voice softer now. "I swear I'm just trying to help him." He paused, his gaze intense. "How about we grab lunch? Let me explain."

Peter's mind raced. He should repeat his denial, insist that Spider-Man was just a friendly face. He should run. But Peter Parker could be selfish, especially when it's a brief look into what could have been his dad. So against his better judgment he agreed.

Lunch with Dick Grayson was, strange, to say the least. They’d gone to a popular chain restaurant called Big Belly Burger. Dick was surprised to learn Peter had never eaten there before.

Coincidentally, they ordered almost the same meal—aside from Peter asking for extra ketchup, a habit he'd picked up from his Uncle Ben.

“You know, that’s how my brother eats his burgers too. I personally think it’s kind of gross,” Dick commented absentmindedly as he slid into one of the booths.

Peter sat across from him, brow furrowed. “Your brother?” he asked—almost too quickly.

Dick nodded. “Yeah, uh—my adoptive brother, Jason. He puts…”

Dick kept talking, but Peter felt himself zone out.

Jason. Not Ben.

It was his own fault, really—for getting his hopes up.

“You okay?” Dick asked, snapping Peter out of his thoughts.

Peter blinked and looked at him. “Yeah-sorry. I was just thinking.”

A slight frown tugged at Dick’s mouth, and he sighed. “So, if it’s alright, I’d like to get back to Spider-Man…” He paused, watching Peter carefully. “If there’s anything you could tell me, it would really help. You need to understand-he’s putting himself in dangerous situations with no backup. We analyzed the blood sample from when he was shot. I just want to make sure he’s safe.”

Peter took a bite of his burger and turned to look out the window, watching the city blur past.

“Why are you so interested in him?” he asked quietly, even though he already knew the answer.

“Because he’s my-” Dick caught himself, biting his lip. “Because I’m a police officer. It’s my job to be interested in vigilantes,” he said, but it was clearly a lie. He wasn’t even an officer in this city.

Then, something shifted. Dick followed Peter’s gaze to the window and caught their reflections in the glass—side by side.

That’s when he saw it.

The dimples. The jawline. The nose. His own features mirrored in Peter’s. He wasn’t just talking to someone who knew Spider-Man.

He was talking to Spider-Man.

There was no test. No proof. But he felt it.

Dick’s jaw slackened as he stared at their shared reflection. Then he turned, scanning Peter’s face again—but now, he was looking for himself in it.

“I-I just can’t help you,” Peter said, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s better if you don’t get involved.”

He picked up his food and stood.

“But uh-thank you for lunch-”

“Wait-!”

Dick stood abruptly and grabbed Peter’s arm. A few people turned at the sudden shout.

“Er-sorry,” he muttered, releasing him. He fumbled for a pen and notepad from his pocket.

“Listen, Peter,” he said, scribbling something down. “This is my number. Give it to Spider-Man. If he ever needs anything–anything–tell him not to hesitate to call.”

He handed Peter the teared paper.

Peter hesitated longer than he should have then tucked it into his pocket. “Thank you. I will.”

He left without looking back.

Dick remained in the booth, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Technically, he still had no proof—nothing he could take to Bruce or Tim. And that was good, in a way. The last thing he wanted was for them to violate this kid’s privacy, to go digging for evidence.

No. This one... this one he needed to handle himself.

Wanda wasn’t there when Peter got back. Instead, there was a note on the table explaining she had gone out. She’d also made him lunch and left it in the fridge.

He took comfort in Wanda’s presence in the apartment, even though he hadn’t known her well before she moved in. Since then, he’d settled into a new routine. Still, it had been hard adjusting to no longer living alone after several months of solitude. He knew he still kept her at arm’s length, it was just hard for him to open up again.

Eventually, Wanda decided to apply for a job at the diner on Park Row.

It was a small, slightly run-down place with a few boarded-up windows and old, peeling booth seats, but it had a certain charm. The owner was an older woman with a halo of curly white hair, deep wrinkles, and heavy eye bags that hinted at years of early mornings and late nights.

“Welcome in, feel free to sit anywhere! I’ll be with you in a minute,” she called out as Wanda stepped inside.

“Actually, I’m here about the job listing in the paper,” Wanda began.

The woman’s eyes lit up as she bustled around the counter. “Oh, you’re here for the interview? Wonderful! We can do it right now.”

She led Wanda to a booth and began asking a few questions.

Wanda had a résumé ready, something Peter had helped her put together, along with crafting a convincing false identity.

The interview wrapped up quickly. The woman clapped her hands together with satisfaction. “Alright, Miss Wanda, everything looks good. In fact, if you’re ready, I can have you start today.”

The shift started slower than Wanda expected. The older woman—who introduced herself as Carol—walked her through the basics, how to operate the old register (you had to jiggle it a bit to open), where the silverware was kept (in mismatched drawers under the counter), and how to read Carol’s barely legible handwriting on the order slips.

By mid-morning, Wanda had already wiped down every table twice and was starting to get the hang of balancing plates on her arm. The rhythm of the diner was oddly soothing, coffee brewing in the corner, the clink of forks on ceramic, the occasional laugh from one of the regulars.

“You’re a fast learner,” Carol said, handing Wanda a fresh apron. “Just don’t let the lunch rush scare you. They come in all at once, like a bunch of hungry wolves.”

Wanda smiled, tying the apron tighter. “I’ve handled worse.”

Carol raised a brow at that but didn’t ask.

By noon, the diner was packed. People crowded into booths, the bell above the door ringing nonstop. Orders stacked up, coffee flowed like water, and Wanda moved fast, weaving between tables with refills and plates.

She was rounding the counter when someone whistled at her, loud, long, and unmistakably aimed her way.

“Damn, sweetheart. You sure you're not on the menu?”

Wanda stopped in her tracks, the coffee pot still in hand. Her shoulders tensed. Grief, exhaustion, and frustration tangled in her chest like barbed wire. She turned sharply toward the man, mid-thirties, grease-stained jeans, a smug grin, and opened her mouth, ready to shut him down-

“Back off. She’s working, not performing.”

The voice came from a nearby booth. A man leaned back in his seat, one arm resting along the top of the booth. His hair was black with a sharp streak of white through it. His green eyes were calm, but his tone carried a quiet weight that silenced the room for a second.

The catcaller muttered something, but he didn’t argue. He slunk back in his seat and kept his eyes on his plate.

Wanda turned to the man who’d spoken. “I didn’t ask you to step in.”

He didn’t flinch. “Didn’t say you did.”

Her brow furrowed slightly. “I can handle myself.”

“I’m sure you can,” he said evenly. “I just don’t like jerks talking over my lunch.”

Wanda blinked. That… wasn’t the response she expected.

There was no smugness, no condescension in his voice. Just quiet annoyance, directed entirely at the disruption, not her.

She exhaled slowly. The tension in her spine eased, just a bit. “Right. Okay. Well… thanks, anyway.”

His gaze flicked up to meet hers. “You’re welcome.”

Wanda gave a small, reluctant smile, then turned back toward the counter, the coffee pot still warm in her hand.

Either way, she had tables to get to.

The afternoon wore on, and the rush began to thin. The clatter of plates quieted, leaving only the hum of conversation and the soft clink of mugs being refilled. Wanda moved through the space with more confidence now, her body already adapting to the rhythm of the diner.

Carol handed her a small paper bag near the end of the shift. “Leftover pot roast special. Still warm. You want it?”

Wanda hesitated, brushing a few loose strands of hair from her face. “Yeah… I’ll take it home.”

Carol gave a nod. “Got someone waiting on you?”

Wanda opened her mouth to answer. “Yeah, my so—” She caught herself mid-sentence. Her voice faltered for the briefest second. “A friend.”

Carol didn’t press. Just gave a knowing little smile and turned back to the register.

Wanda held the bag tighter in her hands, the warmth of it seeping into her fingers. She wasn’t sure why she’d almost said it. Peter wasn’t her son. She knew that. But she’d been taking care of him for weeks now—watching him quietly spiral and try to piece himself back together. Making him meals. Giving him space when he needed it and a push when he didn’t.

She hadn’t meant to slip into that role. It had just… happened.

Her instincts kept surfacing when she wasn’t paying attention. That need to comfort, to protect, to mother. It used to be so clear—Billy and Tommy, their laughter, their little hands reaching for her. That life had been torn away, and yet her hands were still reaching out, searching for someone to hold.

Peter wasn’t her child. He never would be. Nothing and no one could ever fill the space her boys had left behind. But the ache in her chest didn’t care about the difference. And caring for someone—it didn’t feel like betrayal. It just felt… necessary.

Maybe it was selfish. Maybe it was survival.

She looked up as the man from earlier—the one with the green eyes and white-streaked hair—stood from his booth and slipped on his coat. He paused near the counter, then glanced back at her, giving her a simple wave. Not flirtatious. Not expectant. Just a quiet nod of respect.

She returned the gesture, a little softer this time.

When she went to clear his table, she spotted the check tucked under the coffee mug. Her brows lifted slightly.

The tip was generous. Way more than it needed to be.

He hadn’t done it for attention. He was already gone.

Wanda pocketed the bill and slid the rest into the till before grabbing her coat and the food. Outside, the evening air was cool against her skin, the sky tinged gold with the fading sun. She took her time walking.

Peter didn’t know she was working yet. He’d seen the hints—the scribbled résumé, the late nights whispering about cover names and fake addresses. But bringing home food… that was something more deliberate.

That was something a mother might do.

She swallowed the thought. No. She couldn’t think of it like that. It wasn’t fair—to her, to Peter, to her boys.

But she couldn’t stop the feeling. That ache in her chest that softened when she saw him sleeping on the couch with a book half-fallen from his hands. That quiet relief in making sure someone else didn’t go hungry. She couldn’t undo the part of her that needed to care.

She missed being needed.

She missed being someone’s mother, she hadn’t had nearly enough time with her boys.

And if this-if Peter helped her feel a little less hollow, then maybe that was okay.

just for now.

Chapter Text

Since their lunch, Dick had been looking more into Peter Parker. He tried to be discreet, but it was tough when he was surrounded by the world’s greatest detectives who also happened to share the same workspace.

At one point, Dick went upstairs for a coffee. As he stepped out of the elevator, he saw Tim sitting at his desk, flipping through the files he had out. "Is that a lead for your… case?" Tim asked absently, not looking up.

Dick set his coffee down, his eyebrows raised. “Uh, yeah. I think this photographer might be connected in some way. I met with him yesterday.” He moved in front of his brother, stacking the files and putting them away, out of Tim’s view.

“He seemed like a good kid, but he didn’t give me anything I could use,” Dick said, trying to be brief.

Tim pursed his lips. “His name was Peter Parker, right? I think he just applied for the Wayne Foundation Scholarship. His essay was persuasive, and I was going to give it to him.”

Dick tilted his head. “I think you should. Like I said, he seems like a good kid.”

An uncomfortable silence fell between them as Dick continued to clean up his desk. Tim shifted nervously before putting a hand on his shoulder. Dick flinched.

“Hey, man, are you okay?” Tim asked, his hand hovering awkwardly before dropping away. "It's been a while since I saw you this wrapped up in a case. You're also not letting anyone help, which I'm assuming is making things a lot harder.”

“I’m fine,” Dick said, running a hand through his hair. "It's just stressful. We hardly have anything on him, and then there's Peter—” He cut himself off.

Tim’s brow furrowed. “What about Peter?”

Dick bit the inside of his cheek and looked up at the ceiling, which had suddenly become much more interesting. With a sigh, he stepped closer to Tim, lowering his voice as if he didn't want anyone, least of all Bruce, to overhear.

"He's a photographer for the Gotham Gazette," Dick began. "He's known for getting quality pictures of the city's vigilantes, especially Spider-Man. Spider-Man always looks really friendly in his photos." Dick paused before continuing. “I met with him. I tried to find anything, really, but it was weird.”

Now he had Tim’s full attention. “Weird how?”

“He never denied knowing him,” Dick explained. “Instead, he told me the same thing Spider-Man told us, that it was too dangerous for me to get involved and that he couldn't help us.”

Tim nodded. "So what? You think they're friends?”

“Like I keep saying, he seemed like a good kid, but he didn’t hesitate to say no, even when I tried to tell him how serious it is that Spider-Man is out there every night without backup. He didn't even flinch, which kind of makes me think-” Dick gave Tim a pointed look.

“You think he's Spider-Man,” Tim said, a statement rather than a question.

“I don’t have any proof-” Dick started.

Without another word, Tim took the files back from Dick and began flipping through them. It only took a moment for him to find something.

“You do, though,” he said, pausing on some of Peter's photos. He held up a picture of Duke on a rooftop, a bit far off.

“The angles on these are insane,” Tim continued, stopping on another photo. "This one literally had to have been taken from him hanging off a streetlight. He’s either incredibly committed, like Jimmy Olsen committed, or you're right and we just found out who Spider-Man is.”

“I need you to keep this between us until we have something solid,” Dick said, his voice low. “I don’t want Peter dealing with Bruce until he absolutely has to.”

Tim winced slightly but nodded in agreement.
“It’s kind of funny, actually,” Tim mused. “Spider-Man has no idea everything he’s stirring up between the family.”

The tension visibly left Dick as he leaned back in his chair. "Are he and Jason still arguing about this?”

Tim smirked. “Oh yeah. Jason still thinks Bruce should leave Spider-Man alone and stop being such a control freak.”

“Bruce isn’t wrong, though. Spider-Man still doesn’t have any backup,” Dick countered.

Tim shrugged. “I tried to argue that, too. But Jason thinks that if he really needed our help, he’d find a way to get our attention. That it's not hard to—”

“Does Jay know about the whole paternity test thing?” Dick cut in, his voice soft.

Tim shook his head. “No, only you, me, Bruce, and Alfred know. Alfred convinced Bruce that you should be the one to share it, if you decide to.”

Dick ran a hand down his face. "Good. That's good."
He absentmindedly glanced at the time before getting up. “I should get going. I told Damian I’d take him to school today. Just leave this alone until I get back, okay?”

Tim opened his mouth to protest, then shut it, letting out a frustrated sigh before muttering, "Okay."

​A few days later, back near Park Row, Wanda found herself getting ready for her evening shift. She was in the bathroom, staring at her reflection. She almost hated how quickly she’d fallen into a routine here.

​It was odd to be in a place where her past mistakes couldn't reach her. She'd been given a chance to start over completely, but she wasn't sure what to do with it.

​When she finished, she went into the kitchen and made herself something small to eat. Her eyes landed on the refrigerator, where Peter’s acceptance letter to Gotham Academy was held in place with a magnet.

​She was proud of him, truly, but the more time she spent with him, the more the familiar ache in her chest grew. She never got to send her own boys to school. They had grown up too quickly, and she hadn't had enough time with them.

​Sometimes, she wondered if Peter would get along with them. She was sure he would—sure that he would fit right in. Thinking about all of them together, laughing and joking, almost made it feel like Peter wasn't a replacement for what she had lost. But then she’d snap out of it, and the absence of her children would cloud her judgment all over again.

Wanda glanced back at the closed door to Peter’s room one last time before stepping out of the apartment and heading to work.

​The bell above the diner door jingled as she entered. Carol greeted her with a warm smile. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes. We just started getting busy,” Carol said, her gaze drifting toward the back of the restaurant. A small smirk touched her lips. “Almost forgot, that young man back there was asking for you again.”

​Wanda followed her gaze and saw the familiar face of the man with the white streak in his hair. Jason, she learned. He had become a regular customer, and she saw him more often than not. He never ordered much, usually just a coffee, maybe a breakfast plate on occasion, but that was it.

​Today was just a coffee day.
Wanda had put together that he must have worked nights or something, considering he was drinking coffee so late.

Just like every other day, when he was finished, he left more in tips than his bill.

​"You don't need to leave so much," Wanda said, calling out to him as he walked toward the door. "Your coffee wasn't even five dollars, and you left me a ten."

​Jason merely shrugged. "Maybe the service here is just really good."

​Wanda sighed, a small smile playing on her lips. "Thank you."

​He simply nodded and stepped out of the restaurant. As he pulled out his phone, he saw a flurry of missed calls from Barbara and a few urgent messages telling him to get to the harbor.

​"Damn it," he muttered, breaking into a jog toward his bike.

​Jason wasn't sure what he was getting into when he got to the harbor, but whatever was going on had definitely hit the fan.

​He put on his helmet and tuned into the comms. Oracle's voice was urgent in his ear. A deal was going down in one of the warehouses between the Maronis and the Falcones. Nightwing and Robin were scoping it out, but their plan went south when Spider-Man showed up. He moved too soon, and now they were in a full-blown mess.

​Apparently, someone trying to burn evidence had set the building on fire. Robin was busy apprehending criminals trying to escape, while Nightwing was still inside, searching for Spider-Man, who was presumed to be injured.

​Jason burst into the warehouse, the heat and smoke a punch to the face. He couldn't find anyone at first, but the frantic sound of Nightwing's voice cut through the noise. He followed it, finding his brother at a dead end, staring down at a mountain of collapsed debris.

​"This building is coming down!" Jason yelled over the roar of the fire. "We have to leave. Now."

​Nightwing didn't move. "We can't leave Spider-Man. He's hurt—what if he's trapped?"

​A low groan of frustration escaped Jason's lips, but he didn't argue. He began to help Nightwing search, their voices hoarse as they shouted the kid's name.

​When they finally spotted him, he was unconscious, beside a heavy steel beam, and a dark stain of red was spreading across his suit. Jason quickly lifted the boy into a fireman's carry and ran for the nearest exit, the sound of the collapsing roof close behind them.

​Spider-Man groaned as Red Hood set him gently on the ground outside. Above him, he heard the two heroes arguing.

​“We need to get him to the Cave,” Nightwing insisted.

​Red Hood’s body went rigid. “Hell no. That’s the last thing he needs. Besides, I have a safe house closer than the Cave.”

​“He needs medical help, and Thompkins is still out of town. We have to get him to Agent A.”

​“Doesn't he have a healing power or something? We both know that taking him right to Br–Batman is not a good idea.”

​Spider-Man interrupted them, his voice weak. “Please don’t take me anywhere. I’m not really supposed to go with strangers, you know.”

​“This isn’t the time to be joking! Look at you!” Nightwing’s voice was sharp, “None of this would have happened if you had just communicated with us like we've been trying to get you to.”

​“Maybe I don’t appreciate how pushy you’ve been,” Spider-Man shot back, “like sending that cop to the Gazette.”

​Red Hood’s head snapped toward Nightwing, but he said nothing. He turned back to Spider-Man. "Listen, we're just trying to get you help now. Is there anywhere I can take you?"

​Spider-Man hesitated for a moment. Finally, he gave them a street name.

​"Robin's with Commissioner Gordon, and they have everything handled for now," Red Hood told Nightwing, relaying the info Oracle just sent him. "I'll take him."

​"I'll be tailing you."

​Red Hood opened his mouth to argue, but something in Nightwing’s expression told him not to. “Fine. Let’s go.”

​Jason immediately recognized the street name Spider-Man had given them. It was the same one his favorite diner was on.

​Spider-Man slipped off his bike and stumbled into the alley behind the building. Despite wanting to, neither Red Hood nor Nightwing followed him.

​Peter slumped against the back wall of the diner, right next to the back door. He didn’t have to wait long. For what felt like the first time ever, luck was on his side. Wanda walked out with a trash bag in her hands, and she dropped it the moment she saw him.

​"What happened to you?" she asked, kneeling beside him, her hands gently hovering over his wounds.

​"There was trouble at the docks—I'm sorry, I didn't know where else to go."

​Wanda shook her head and immediately began to use her magic to heal him, red wisps of energy blooming from her hands. "Don't apologize. You should come to me when you get hurt."

​After he was healed, Wanda used her magic to change him out of his suit and back into his casual clothes. It made her feel better to see him out of the suit, especially after seeing him so beaten in it.

​"Wait here," she said, before quickly slipping back inside the diner. "I'll be right back.”

​It didn't take much to get Carol to let Wanda leave early. She understood that it was a 'family issue' and the diner was slow anyway.

​"Can we… walk home?" Peter asked, his voice weak. "I think I might throw up if we teleport."

​Wanda tensed, but nodded quickly. “Yes, we can walk, Peter."

​Even though Peter was out of sight, Nightwing and Red Hood still stuck around.

​“Why do you think he had us bring him here?” Nightwing asked, his brow furrowed in thought.

​Jason shrugged, slumping forward lazily. He was about to reply when something caught his eye, the waitress he was used to seeing.

"Guess she must've gotten off early," he muttered to himself.

​"Huh?" Dick asked.

​"That waitress. Her shift is normally longer."
​As Dick glanced over, he stiffened immediately. The woman had her arm around Peter Parker, their main suspect for Spider-Man.

​"What's with that look?" Jason asked, his tone sharp.

​Dick glanced at him, then looked away. "That kid she's with? His name is Peter Parker. At this point, I'm certain he's Spider-Man. I've had my suspicions since I talked to him at the Gotham Gazette. He’s a photographer there."

​"Is that what he was talking about? You visited him out of costume?"

​"In my defense, I didn't know it was him. I was just following a lead." Dick paused, his eyes narrowing. "Hey, you said you know her, right? Do you think you can get closer to her? Maybe ask her on a date and get some information out of her-ask how she knows him."

​Jason snapped his head toward his brother, eyes wide with disbelief. "Excuse me?”

​Dick fumbled with his words. "Look, I'm sorry. That was a weird thing to say. It's just that I'm grasping at straws here, and I just need to know what's going on with him."

​"What's with all of you trying to figure out who he is?" Jason snapped. "I thought we all agreed to leave him alone."

​"Something happened, and things got complicated!" Dick shot back, his voice rising with a mix of anger and desperation.

​"What could possibly be so important that it's keeping you in Gotham for this one case?" Jason demanded.

​Dick looked at his brother, then at the street, his resolve breaking. "I matched as his father when B did a paternity test!"

​The silence from Jason was deafening. He just stared at Dick, his mind unable to process the words.

​"Just so you know," Barbara's voice suddenly chirped in over the comms, "I'm still hooked up to this frequency, and that was a hell of a conversation to just walk into."

​Dick buried his face in his hands and let out a long groan.