Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Peter stares at the clock on the wall, and the clock stares teasingly back, the painted grey hand taunting him with every tick tick tick.

Michael is shouting at them again, spittle flying from his mouth as he jabs a pointed finger into Adam’s chest. The older boy sits casually; one arm draped over the armrest with a nonchalance that further infuriates their caregiver as warm brown eyes clash with a simmering blue.

At the age of seventeen, Adam is the oldest of the four of them and has become increasingly rebellious the closer he gets to ageing out of the system. A snarky comment here, a stolen cigarette there. Peter would respect the teen’s resilience if it were not for the fact that Adam has a penchant for dragging the rest of them down with him.

“You lazy fuckers,” Michael spits and there’s a faint tingle at the back of Peter’s mind before a glob of phlegm lands directly on his cheek. His muscles twitch but he dares not raise a hand to wipe it off lest he attract his foster father’s attention.

He hears Adam scoff derisively in response and thanks his lucky stars that Michael doesn’t appear to notice. The last thing they need now is for things to turn violent. Again.

And as much bravado he puts on, Peter can feel the slight tremor run through Adam’s body. He’s just as scared of punishment as the rest of them.

“Using my resources, eating my food,” he licks his lips. “Good for nothing delinquents, useless enough that not even your own parents want you around.” Adam tenses and Peter sees Finn flinch from where he sits on the other side of the table next to Ibrihim, both stiff as statues.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

The kitchen clock edges closer and closer to half-past seven, Peter silently urging time to move faster, to no avail.

He curses the day he was bitten by a genetically mutated spider, right now he’d give pretty much anything to have been attacked by a pocket watch instead. He’d call himself ‘Minute Man’ and fast forward through Michael’s tirades at twice the speed.

Alas, Parker luck dictates that no such event shall occur and he is forever doomed to endure the lectures and screaming fits. When Michael flies off the rails there’s really no stopping him, face like a tomato and voice so loud he’s amazed there’s been no complaints. Though from the five months he’s been stuck here, Peter has certainly learnt how uncaring Gothamites can be.

Prime example: Michael Cardew.

“Tell me why I even bother keeping any of you alive. That money ain’t worth shit for all I have to put up with.” Michael glares at them each individually, his eyes settling at last on Peter who does his best not to squirm under the scrutiny.

Michael looks him up and down and sneers at whatever he finds. “What about you then? You’re supposed to be one of them clever ones ain’t ya? With your fancy school and expensive uniform.” Peter swallows, avoiding eye contact, his skin crawling and senses prickling as Michael leans closer to him.

Hot breath brushes against his face and Peter resists the urge to jerk back. “You mute now, boy?” he hisses.

!!!!!

Michael snatches his thin arm in an iron grip, his wrist barking with pain at the rough treatment. He shakes him violently, “You think you lot are worth this shit?”

Peter shakes his head mutely, biting his tongue and focusing on Ibrihim whose wide, dark gaze is fixed firmly on his face. Ibrihim subtly shakes his head in silent warning to not poke the hornet’s nest. Next to him, Adam sits ramrod straight, a slightly guilty look painted on his face as he glances at Michael’s bruising grip around his wrist.

Last night, Adam had broken into the liquor cupboard and emptied half a bottle of scotch by himself. Come morning, Michael completes his regular checks and lo and behold discovers his diminished stock. Only problem is that Michael can’t prove it was Adam, so his ire is directed at all four boys.

More notably, on Peter at this point.

With a quick motion he yanks Peter’s arm up above his head, the socket protesting at the strain. Wincing, but not all that surprised, he uses his other hand to clutch onto the rickety table in order to balance himself on the tipping chair.

Fight. Defend. Protect.

He slams a lid over the screaming spider sense, forcing it into submission. He hates it when it gets like this, when it talks to him as if it has a mind of its own. Since arriving in Gotham, his senses have become more alert, alive even. Just like how it was in The Before. Peter cannot allow that to happen again. He won't.

Michael sniffs noisily before abruptly releasing him and Peter slides back onto the stool, grateful to have avoided a confrontation.

Tick.

Tick.

The clock watches them all.

“You should be licking my boots in thanks, ya know. Look at all them street kids selling drugs and whoring themselves out to survive.” He looks between them and grins speculatively, a sickening smile pulling at his lips. He rubs a hand across the stubble on his chin in a mocking gesture as he pretends to ponder on something. “Maybe I should sell one of you for the night, might make me a pretty penny.”

Peter goes rigid, breath stuttering out of his chest, but he’s not the only one. Finn audibly gasps in the otherwise silent room and Michael smirks at him, making the twelve-year-old pale even more.

Tick.

Breathe.

Tick.

He’s just riling you up.

Peter knows this, but it doesn’t stop the horror from sweeping through the kitchen, each of them trapped in their own nightmares. The imagination of a foster kid is no joke.

And Gotham fosters take the gold medal in trauma.

He knows Finn’s mother died when he was young, and that his father couldn’t look up from his drink long enough to notice that his young son was going into school reeking of body odour and alcohol. Authorities were called, teachers interviewed and a month later, at the ripe age of eight, Finn was lost in the drowning system. Just another faceless child passed on at the earliest convenience.

Ibrihim’s story is a sad one; parents who love him more than anything, but condemned by a life of abject poverty and homelessness. They’d had to give their little boy away, unable to keep him alive and healthy and seeing no other option but to let him go. A kindness in their eyes, but one Peter knows Ibrihim resents. None of the boys know Adam’s background, and no one asks.

Certainly not Peter, also remaining tight-lipped about his experiences.

Too impossible to explain, too improbable to believe.

Peter himself struggles some days to come to terms with it. And who wouldn’t? His life should be fiction, an unfinished screenplay written by a madman and a drunkard, never to be performed onstage.

Dimension travel should not be possible.

And yet it is and here Peter is: in a city that doesn’t exist, in a world that is not his own, sitting at an old kitchen table as an old clock tick tick ticks.

A sudden bang startles him, the others jolting in surprise alongside him. Michael slams his palms down on the wooden surface once more and scowls threateningly.

“If I catch any one of you so much as breathing wrong again, I’ll make damn sure that you disappear forever, got it?” Peter nods, as do Ibrihim and Finn. Adam stays still, fist curling and lips tightening, though not a word slips past.

“Now get the fuck out of my house.”

They can hardly move quick enough, grabbing bags and coats and making a beeline for the front door and into the glorious, polluted Gotham air. As usual, the sky is grey and overcast but Peter can’t help but think it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen as they walk silently through the winding streets. As he walks, Peter can practically feel the tension bleed from his body and his shoulders sag in relief.

It would’ve been rotten luck to start his first day at a new school with a black eye.

With a quick nod of goodbye and plastered on smile, Peter splits off from their little group to dart towards the bus stop.

“Good luck!” Ibrihim’s voice shouts out and Peter sends him a thumbs up in thanks, nerves fluttering around in his stomach.

Adam sends him a cursory glance, “don’t get your head dunked down the toilet.”

Down the toilet??

Peter hadn’t even been thinking about that! He adds it to his mental list of do’s and don’ts.

Get your schedule. Make it to class on time. Don’t draw attention to yourself and definitely don’t get your head dunked down the loo, God knows what bacteria festers away in a Gotham sewer.

His senses hum in agreement at that, tamed once again.

Peter spends the entire forty minute bus ride tugging anxiously at the collar of the school-issued uniform of Gotham Academy. The sleeves are too long and he had to turn over the waistband on his trousers several times before they would even consider staying on his hips.

Problem numero uno with lying about your age, the uniform is way too big.

Designed to fit a fourteen-year-old beginning his freshman year, it swamps Peter’s slight frame almost comically. It’s not like he’s small (Peter would rather die than admit to being short) but years of food restriction have taken their toll. Though, he is happy to report that he is taller than most girls his age. Most of them. Some.

He’s not that far off fourteen anyway. Only a year off. Maybe two years. Three at most.

A sixth grader can totally pass for a high school student, that’s what he tells himself at least. There’s plenty of smaller kids out there. Short kings unite and all that.

Besides, he needs this scholarship and if lying to a billionaire is what it takes to get a free meal and a good education then just sign Peter up for acting lessons. It’s not cheating, he aced that exam and this is the reward.

A promise of a warm lunch and six hours away from Michael is enough to turn even an angel into a criminal.

Eventually, the bus rolls to a juddering stop and a wave of students spill out of the doors, elbows flying everywhere as the teens push and shove at one another. No one notices the little eleven-year-old slipping through the gaps in the crowd and through the towering doors of Gotham Academy.

The hallways are bustling with life, friends gathered together in clumps, catching up after the weekend. Whispers of parties gone wrong and Killer Croc reach Peter’s enhanced ears and he vaguely recalls seeing Adam’s newspaper headline claiming ‘Killer Croc on the Loose: Bats in Pursuit!’

Five months in this hellhole and Peter still can’t quite comprehend the sheer absurdity of Gotham’s recurring villains and vigilantes. If anything, the names are just embarrassing.

Peter ignores the groups of students and heads towards the admin office where he was told he could find his schedule. He knocks softly on the door, only entering after he hears the murmured ‘come in’.

The office room is painted a warm cream, a large oak desk placed on a bright red rug. Perched on a squashy looking chair behind the desk, a middle-aged woman smiles, eyes crinkling behind tortoise shell glasses.

It’s not her however that grabs Peter’s attention, it’s the two other heartbeats occupying the small space; one fast-paced and angry, the other calm and collected.

He flicks his gaze over to see two boys sat on hard plastic chairs, one of them holding a bloody wad of tissue to his gushing nose. He’s scowling angrily at his fellow student who, in turn, appears completely and utterly unbothered as he smooths down the front of his crisp blazer.

His attention is abruptly pulled away when the woman begins to speak, her lanyard identifying her as ‘E. Stacey’.

“Hi there! You must be our new transfer student, Parker was it?” she glances down at a sheet of paper in front of her.

“Yes Ma’am. Peter Parker,” he smiles back and tries not to fidget underneath the gaze of the two teenagers. His senses buzz in awareness, and it’s definitely not nosebleed guy making his hair stand on end.

Ms Stacey looks at Peter then back at the boys, mouth tugging slightly down with displeasure. “Ignore them Mr. Parker, these two are the only kids who have managed to earn themselves a detention before eight in the morning,” she rolls her eyes and hands him a sheet of paper.

“This is your schedule with the electives you chose, feel free to come back to me should you wish to have any of it changed. I’ve colour-coded the different buildings for you to hopefully make things easier.”

Well that’s a relief, this place is huge.

Peter smiles warmly at her, offering a small, “thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now, Malcom here,” she gestures to the brunette boy with blood dripping down his chin, “was supposed to be your guide for the week.” Ms Stacey sighs with exasperation, like this is the thousandth time that Malcom has been sent to her office for fighting. “Instead, Damian is going to show you around.”

Damian?

The black-haired boy makes eye contact with Peter and he’s momentarily startled by the intensely vivid green hue. For a heartbeat, the two boys study each other and Peter can’t help but feel a twinge of familiarity at the arch of his brows, the slope of his jaw.

Strange.

“You’re in most of the same classes anyway so it works nicely, it’ll be good for the both of you to get to know some other people,” she raises a pointed eyebrow at Peter’s newly appointed guide.

Damian looks like he disagrees.

Yet he says nothing, simply standing up and exiting the office with a short nod. Peter hurries after him, throwing another quick smile to Ms Stacey, and practically has to jog to catch up with Damian who is already halfway down the corridor.

Green eyes cut to him as he sidles up next to the teen and he makes a small tsk sound that Peter isn’t overly sure how to interpret. “Do you always look like this?”

What?

“What?” Peter is confused and somewhat put off by the seemingly random remark. Damian huffs again and gestures at Peter’s entire body. “Do you always look this unkempt?”

Wow, okay. Rude.

Peter knows he’s no runway model but come on! If this is what Damian thinks within five minutes of meeting him then he has no chance at this fancy ass school. Head dunked down the toilet indeed.

Peter wrinkles his nose, making sure to express his annoyance at the situation. “This is a fashion choice, I’m making a statement.”

“Is that statement to declare fealty to the rats who drown in the sewers each year? Because that is what you currently resemble. A drowned rat.” He repeats it twice, as if Peter hadn’t understood the implications the first time around.

“Haven’t you heard? It’s all the rage now.” He glances at Damian’s clean white shirt, sparkling shoes and perfectly combed hair. “You’re missing a trick here.”

With no warning, Damian comes to a sudden stop, a sea of students parting around him without question. Thanks to his stickiness, Peter doesn’t fall flat on his face (yay him) but it is most certainly a close call. In an abrupt move, Damian’s hands shoot out to Peter’s neck.

It’s so similar to the events of this morning that Peter can’t help the minute flinch that travels through his body, a reflexive action. He thinks he hides it pretty well, disguising it as a cough, but Damian examines him closely, lips pursed.

Slowly this time, he reaches out and adjusts Peter’s crooked tie until it falls flat and smooth against his somewhat rumpled shirt. Damian nods decisively. “Better. If I am to be assigned to you, I shall not have you walking around like a beggar.”

“Uh, thanks?”

This might be the weirdest interaction Peter’s had since arriving in Gotham, and that’s saying something. The first week he was here he could’ve sworn he saw a man dressed all in blue clutching a bottle of mustard like a weapon. At the time he chalked it down to dehydration. But now? Doesn’t really surprise him, New Jersey is weird.

“Now come, it’ll reflect poorly on me if you are late to your first class.”

And with that, Peter lets Damian drag him towards his first lesson at Gotham Academy.

Chapter Text

On reflection, this may not have been the best decision of Peter’s life.

Why?

Damian won’t stop staring at him.

His eyes are burning through the back of Peter’s skull like laser beams, but every time he twists to the left to catch him in the act, Damian’s gaze is firmly focused on his page of notes. He’s pretty sure he can make out a beautiful cursive script and turns to stare in dismay at his own chicken scratch. He clutches the cheap biro nicked from Michael’s office and does his absolute best to ignore the itching sensation of being watched that returns as soon as he looks back to the front.

The classroom is probably one of the nicest he’s ever been in, no peeling paint or frayed carpet in sight – obviously well-funded. Peter feels remarkably out of place in this carefully decorated room, like a single smudge on a glass pane.

Having a standard uniform is supposed to make everyone equal here, but Peter saw the judging looks exchanged as he walked into the class. One boy, reminding him painfully of Flash Thompson, even sneered right at his face when he walked past, clearly eyeing up the cheap material of his blazer and his deteriorating loafers.

Sue him, he found them at a clothes bank.

Now, Peter is well accustomed to jeering insults and condescending glares from his fellow peers, apparently it’s a universal requirement. What he is not used to however, is  a pair of annoyingly green eyes tracking his every move.

It’s incredibly frustrating, not to mention extremely unnerving. His first lesson and already his plan has taken a nosedive out of the nearest window, so much for not drawing attention to himself.

Still though, how bad could it possibly be? Damian is just one kid with potentially stunted social skills, certainly nothing to fret over.

His senses whisper at the back of his mind, locked behind the steel door that Peter keeps soundly closed. Whatever that means.

As soon as the lesson comes to a close, Peter hurriedly shoves his notebook and pen into his ragged backpack and darts for the door, determined to make it out before any particular black-haired teen can catch up. He makes it as far as a few doors down before belatedly realising that he has absolutely no idea where to go. The hallways are a maze and the signs hanging up on the ceiling may as well be written in Latin for all that Peter understands them.

With a reluctance befitting a man walking to the gallows, he trudges back to the physics classroom where he is met almost instantly with an expression of disapproval. Though, to be fair, Peter has yet to witness a different emotion cross his prison warden’s face, a natural misanthrope for sure.

He grins sheepishly at the older boy, pairing it with his best imitation of puppy dog eyes. “Sorry! I got lost.” Peter is extra careful to make sure his dimples are on at full strength, it’s all or nothing.

Damian barely even blinks. “You got lost…walking out of the classroom?”

“I’m directionally challenged, it’s a very serious condition.”

Peter watches as Damian pinches the bridge of his nose in a weirdly familiar gesture, blowing out a breath through his nostrils. He can tell it’s taking every ounce of Damian’s self-control to not snap something back at him and mentally applauds him when all he does is roll his eyes in consternation.

“Very well. Follow me.” He strides off with his ridiculously long legs and Peter bites his tongue against all the curses that want to slip free as he tags along obediently like a bouncing Labrador, before a thought occurs to him.

“Hang on! How’d you know if we’ve even got the same class?” Peter will never recover if he gets called out for being in the wrong lesson. His tombstone will read ‘Here lies Peter Parker, who tragically succumbed to embarrassment because he was insecure and had self-esteem issues’. Or something like that. Idly, he wonders if he’ll even be given a gravestone when he dies, Michael certainly wouldn’t pay for it.

Damnit, should he be planning his own funeral arrangements??

“- it remembered.”

Peter jerks out of his spiralling thoughts to cast a questioning look at Damian’s profile. He should probably make more of an effort to listen when people talk to him, he can practically hear May scolding him to be kind, Petey. Something in the cavernous space of his chest twinges painfully. Focus.

“Remembered what, sorry?”

Damian sighs again, sounding very much like a put-upon old man stuck inside a teenager’s body.

“I have your timetable memorised, do keep up Parker,” he says. Peter can barely stop his jaw from hanging wide open at the revelation.

“When did you even do that?” Peter hasn’t even taken out the schedule from where he’d buried it deep within his bag. Hell, even he doesn’t know what class he’s supposed to be in, he’d fully planned on just winging it.

Damian hums noncommittally, choosing not to answer as he guides them through the labyrinthine corridors. Peter finds himself very disturbed by Damain’s efficiency and briefly considers the possibility that Damian is a secret agent sent to hunt him down.

Which is completely absurd considering Peter didn’t even exist in this universe until five months ago.

He’s not dismissing the idea though, placing it on a shelf at the back of his mind for now. A good scientist always tests his hypotheses thoroughly.

With that, he silently follows Damian into a pastel blue room with a bunch of Shakespeare quotes tacked on the walls, not protesting when the other boy drags him into the seat next to him. Right at the front like a nerd.

Peter stares forlornly at the empty back row and resigns himself to an hour of feeling like a trapped animal in a zoo as the rest of the class packs in around them. At least with Damian sitting right beside him he doesn’t have to worry about being stared at constantly. Small mercies.

When the bell rings to signal the start of second period, Peter can’t help the full-body shudder as the screaming alarm rakes its claws into his brain. He can tell Damian is glancing at him from the corner of his eye, but he concentrates instead on the jangling of keys as their English teacher enters.

He takes a deep breath to centre himself, allowing the cool air to settle him, unclenching his fingers from where they latched instinctively onto the desk. He prays no one notices the tiny finger-shaped indents he leaves behind.

Peter dips his attention in and out of the lecture, occasionally jotting down relevant pieces of information and making a valiant attempt to stop comparing his illegible scribble with Damian’s stupidly perfect calligraphy. He tells himself it’s only because Damian’s got one of those fancy fountain pens that he’s not jealous of at all.

All in all, this lesson seemed to be going much better than the last and Peter feels rather smug about it.

Key word: seemed.

As in past tense because there’s absolutely no way that, in his second lesson on his very first day, they’ve just been asked to pair up for a joint assignment.

And it just so happens that Damian is currently the only other student who has not paired up yet.

Peter glances at Damian who remains as unruffled as ever, not so much as a strand of hair out of place. Peter, in comparison, feels every bit the ‘drowned rat’ that Damian claims him to be.

“Are you boys working together on the project then?” Mr. Russell looks expectantly between them, pen poised over a sticky note. Peter would like to know that as well.

“Um…” he says eloquently.

“Yes,” Damian cuts in smoothly  and he isn’t sure if he should be relieved at the interruption or if he should have an existential crisis. Something in between perhaps?

“Excellent!” The jubilant teacher is clearly not reading behind the lines, ironic for a literature teacher. “I’ll be assigning you Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. Remember the deadline’s in three weeks so best get started on reading as soon as you can.” With a cheery wave in farewell, he heads over to the next pair, leaving Peter and Damian alone once more.

Brilliant.

“You will need to collect a copy of the book from the library,” Damian breaks the silence that had fallen between them. Right.

“What about you?” he asks and begins to pack away his stuff. “I shall obtain a copy from my brother,” Damian replies in his steady voice. Surprised, Peter shoots Damian a quick glance; he would’ve bet his non-existent money on Damian being an only child.

“You have a brother?”

“Yes.” Peter waits for the rest but is met only with the sound of shuffling school bags. Guess that conversation’s over then.

This time Peter doesn’t bother racing ahead to escape Damian, accepting his fate of trailing after the teen as they pass from class to class until, finally, they have to split off to attend separate lessons. Peter is forced to repeat back Damian’s instructions on how to reach the cafeteria until the boy is certain he will not get lost on his way to lunch. And, for the first time today, he gives another human being his full undivided attention. There’s no way Peter is missing out on his free food. He can practically feel his ribcage jutting out from underneath his shirt.

It happens to be a rather unfortunate turn of events that Peter does in fact get lost.

He kicks himself for turning left instead of right, now faced with a stretch of shiny red lockers, no one nearby to ask for directions and not a single morsel of food to be seen. He debates using his enhanced sense of smell to help direct him towards the cafeteria, but in the end, it reminds him too much of a sniffer dog. There are some lines that Peter won’t cross, even for a hot meal.

He takes to wandering through the corridors, amazed at how each one seems to replicate the one before it until he’s met with the dizzying sensation of being stuck in a hall of mirrors at a fun fair. Peter runs a frustrated hand through his dark curls and turns around the corner, glaring petulantly down at his peeling shoes.

!!!!

Peter barely has time to react before he slams directly into another person, his hands instinctively shooting out to steady himself before a rough shove sends him sprawling to the hard ground. Bewildered, he peers up at his assailant, coming face-to-face with the boy from first period. The one who looks like he’s swallowed a lemon.

He looks decidedly angry, Peter thinks to himself.

“Watch where you’re going, freak.” The amount of venom spat out in that one sentence is definitely unwarranted and his senses give a little flutter of panic when the boy’s meaty fist closes around Peter’s shirt. His eyes widen as he’s hoisted into the air like a sack of potatoes, back slamming painfully against the wall.

Peter raises his hands in the air as a sign of surrender. “Sorry, I didn’t see you,” he attempts to placate the seething boy and gasps lightly when he’s shoved harder into the wall, the edges of a display digging into his spine.

“Don’t know what you’re playing at charity kid,” he sneers, a concerning level of vitriol in his voice. “People like you don’t belong around here, why don’t you go back to whatever hole you crawled out of?” He gives him a harsh shake.

Peter knows he could easily take this teenager. Yet, in his disorientated mind, for just a single moment, it’s not a fourteen-year-old standing before him, but Michael towering over his prone body. Punch! That voice hisses in his head and Peter slams his eyes shut, desperate to reign it in and unwilling to hurt someone weaker than him, forcing himself to remember that this high school bully isn’t a real threat. With great power comes great responsibility.

He’s so focused on trying to silence his mind that he barely notices a third heartbeat joining them in the hall. This one is strong and beats slightly quicker than normal, angry perhaps? Peter can only hope it’s not anger directed at him.

“What’s going on here?” His voice is deep, deeper than he had expected as stunning blue eyes shrewdly take in the scene unfolding before him. He’s tall and lithe with a mop of black hair and is clearly older than Peter’s attacker. A senior?

Peter has no idea who this new person is, but his classmate clearly does and releases his shirt before taking a healthy step away from the newcomer. In a swift move that belies his hulking frame, the boy takes off, leaving Peter to teeter unsteadily at the sudden change of position.

A hand grasps his elbow before he can collide with the wall for the third time in less than five minutes, his saviour sending him a small but comforting smile.

“You okay?”

Peter lets out a breath of air. “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks for the save.”

Thankfully, the older boy just dips his head in acceptance of his answer, making no attempt to pry for more information. Whether it’s out of disinterest, understanding or pity, Peter doesn’t know.

“Where were you headed? I’ll walk you there,” he offers and, normally, Peter would vehemently deny any help, but he really is lost and is dying for a sandwich or anything to sate the black hole that is his stomach. One of the downfalls of being enhanced, or meta as they call it in Gotham, is the voracious appetite.

“The cafeteria, I kinda got lost,” he admits and scuffs his shoes against the ground. The boy nods knowingly and gestures for Peter to follow him as they head in the opposite direction he’d initially been heading in before his little encounter. “Are you new?” Peter glances up at the question.

“Yep, only started today.”

“Makes sense. I’m Tim by the way,” he introduces himself and holds out a slim hand for Peter to shake.

“Peter.”

Tim grins mischievously at him, leading them to an area that he can hear is bustling with much more activity than the halls had been. “So Peter, aren’t you supposed to have someone showing you around?” A set of grand double doors appear in front of them, a sign proudly declaring it as the ‘Dining Area.” Fancy.

He swears his feet feel lighter the closer he gets to the promise of sustenance. “Oh yeah, Damian’s around here somewhere,” he remembers to answer, waving a hand around vaguely.

“Damian?” There’s a speculative gleam in Tim’s eyes that Peter doesn’t quite understand but he’s so distracted that he just hums in agreement and makes a beeline for the lunch queue, Tim filing in behind him.

Much to his disappointment, it would seem that school food is still school food, no matter how rich the attendees may be. But, not to be deterred, Peter piles his plate high with the lumpy looking mash, accompanied by several sausages and a large spoonful of salad that has Tim raising a brow.

Grabbing the tray, he takes a few steps into the main eating space, scanning for an empty seat where he can enjoy his meal in peace. Tim, apparently, has other ideas.

“C’mon Peter.” He doesn’t even bother waiting for Peter before he aims purposefully for a small table in the corner, thus not hearing – or choosing not to hear – Peter’s sputtered protests. Groaning internally, he follows along behind Tim as he plops himself down across from another boy his age and…Damian?

Damian, unsurprisingly, scowls up at him. “And where have you been? Were my instructions not sufficient enough for you,” he says it in such a dry tone that it hardly sounds like a question at all.

Peter absently twines a curl around his finger. “I told you I’m directionally challenged,” he shrugs and digs into his food.

Absolute bliss.

Damian opens his mouth, no doubt to let loose some snarky comment about Peter’s incompetence when he’s interrupted by Tim. “He was being harassed by some kid in your year.”

Peter feels his cheeks redden with embarrassment at the reminder of how pathetic the whole thing must have looked to an outsider and determinedly avoids Damian’s searching gaze, his green eyes sharp as blades.

“Who?” His voice is calm.

Peter shrugs again and his fork scrapes against the plate in a screeching sound that makes him wince. “How do you two know each other anyway?” He gestures with his cutlery between Damian and Tim.

“We’re brothers,” Tim answers when Damian predictably ignores him and Peter blinks in surprise. What are the odds of that happening?

“Duke as well,” Tim adds on, nodding at the other boy at the table who shoots him a lazy, but kind, smile when Peter turns to face him. “Ah,” he says cleverly, not quite sure what to make of it all. Not one brother, but two.

He’s about to ask more about it when a throat is cleared from across the table. “It seems I need to repeat myself. Who was it?” He stares Peter down, reminding him of his ‘Damian is a secret spy’ theory.

He can tell that the other boy, for reasons unbeknownst to Peter, isn’t going to let this go. “I don’t know. Some guy from first period, blond, kinda stocky,” he describes. “Really, it isn’t a big deal.”

“I will decide what I think is a big deal. You will tell me if Brandon Smythe bothers you again.” There’s something in his voice that hints at violence on the horizon, his jaw set in determination. For the life of him, Peter cannot figure out what could possibly warrant such a reaction.

Duke has gone back to scrolling on his phone but Peter watches as Tim’s gaze swings between both Peter and Damian, a contemplative look etched on his face.

The rest of lunch passes with relative ease, Tim making idle chat with Peter, Duke and Damian intermittently joining in. It’s surprisingly easy for Peter to engage with people like this, something he hasn’t had to do in a very long time. The closest he’s come is conversing with Adam, Finn and Ibrihim and, even then, the shadow of Michael looms over them all. They’re being fostered together, sure, but none of them are close enough to claim the title of brother.

So it’s nice sitting at the little table and listening to the teasing remarks they send back and forth at each other, it reminds Peter of what a family is supposed to be. Something he hasn’t had in three long years.

The feeling of wistfulness never quite leaves him throughout the rest of the day, clinging on like a heavy layer of mist. Time passes in a blur and before he knows it, Damian is showing him to the school’s library, the musty smell of used books breaching the fog in his mind.

Ah right. Frankenstein.

Peter makes his way to the classics section, scanning through the shelves and hoping to just be done with the day. Next to him, Damian is also searching, though Peter is certain that Damian must have much better things to be doing, and tells him as much.

“I have been tasked with ensuring your wellbeing,” Damian looks at Peter like this is something obvious and not at all blown completely out of proportion. “That includes helping you locate a book needed for our project.”

Peter huffs indignantly. “I appreciate it, but honestly Damian, I’m fine on my own.” He stands straighter in a bid to look taller, receiving an unimpressed look in response.

“And how do you propose reaching the book,” he jerks his head at the copy of Frankenstein that sits innocently on the top shelf, taunting Peter from its lofty perch. The bastard.

Damian has that look that practically screams ‘I was right’ and like hell is Peter letting him have this one. Checking no librarians are going to come swinging down on his head like some vengeful book ninja, he balances a foot on the lowest shelf, preparing to haul himself up like some undignified squirrel.

Well he would have, had Damian not reached out a stupidly long arm and plucked the book straight from the shelf with a self-satisfied smirk. If he weren’t such a dedicated pacifist, Peter would deck him right here and now. Though, from what he saw in the admin’s office earlier, it may be a wiser decision to not poke this particular bear.

He mutters a very insincere expression of gratitude and checks out the book, walking ahead of Damian the entire way out from the school. He’s more than happy to split off from Damian who he’s pretty sure is heading for the insane-looking car parked on the kerb but is stopped by a hand closing around his wrist.

He jerks in surprise and can’t help the small grimace as the fingers just so happen to wrap around the bruise from this morning. Before Damian’s hand can accidentally catch on his sleeve and expose him, he twists out of the hold and stuffs his own hands into the blazer pockets.

Damian observes him carefully, like he’s done several times throughout the day. “I need your mobile number, so I can contact you.” Huh?

“About the project,” he adds belatedly which Peter supposes makes sense. Only one teeny tiny problem though.

“I don’t have a phone.”

Damian pauses and his brows knit together in a dark slash. “That’s inconvenient. We will have to make arrangements in person then,” he decides and Peter shoots him a thumbs up and cheerful smile.

“Sounds like a plan! We can talk about it tomorrow.” With that he waves in parting, ignoring Damian’s protests, and sprints, at a hopefully normal human speed, for the bus stop.

And at the bus that is now tearing away down the street.

For God’s sake. Looks like he’s got a long walk in front of him.

It takes ages to get back to the house, the wind cutting straight through his pathetic jacket and settling deep into his bones. He takes a few wrong turns and, by the time he arrives, the sky has gone dark and Michael’s busted Toyota is waiting ominously in the shadows like a bad omen.

Shit.

Peter holds his breath as he gently clicks the latch open, one of the boys must’ve left it unlocked for him. He dares not make a sound, avoiding every creaky floorboard as he creeps towards the stairs.

His heart feels like it’s wedged deep in his throat, his pulse thundering frantically at the almost unnatural silence. It’s too quiet, as if the house itself is waiting for something to happen.

It doesn’t have to wait very long.

His senses blare out a warning before Michael comes barrelling into the narrow hallway, knocking him into the banister as he begins screaming in his face.

“What fucking time do you call this?” he spits out, more enraged than he was even this morning. Peter swallows against the dryness of his throat, Michael’s hand reaching up to grab a fistful of Peter’s curls and tugging at them painfully.

“I’m sorry, I missed the bus – “

Michael’s fist slams into his cheek with the force of a truck and his face explodes in pain as he drops to the floor, clutching a hand to his burning cheek. “I don’t give a flying fuck about your excuses. If I say be back by five, then you be back by five, even if you have to invent goddamn time travel to do it.” His right leg rears back and Peter can’t raise his arms quick enough before Michael’s foot connects with the side of his face, then his chest and ribs before finally spitting on him in disgust.

“Pathetic,” he mutters. “Get off the fucking floor.”

Peter scrambles upright, his body positively screaming at him as he races for his and Finn’s shared room. Finn doesn’t say anything to him, but Peter can feel his heavy stare from where he collapses onto the thin mattress.

His eyes prickle with unshed tears but he holds the sobs in with a hand pressed harshly against his mouth. He refuses to cry – not because of him.

Unable to sleep and desperate to forget, Peter cracks open his copy of Frankenstein and begins at chapter one.

Chapter Text

It’s two in the morning when Peter gently closes the dog-eared novel and stands up from the rickety bed, careful to remain silent in the hush that has befallen the small bedroom.

Every little movement sends a violent stabbing sensation to his chest, his breath ragged and shoulders hunched over like a man bowed by decades of living. The room is coated in a heavy darkness, the black seeping into each crevice. Peter’s keen eyes pick out faint outlines that would be lost to most, spying Finn curled up beneath the worn blanket. But the furthest corners of the room remain impenetrable even to Peter’s sight and a set of claws wrap around his throat as he stares into the shadows.

Anything could be hidden within the folds of darkness, lurking. Waiting.

An almost visceral reminder of The Before that has Peter choking on the air in his spasming lungs. He needs to get out now.

As quickly as he can with his trembling fingers, Peter sheds the constricting uniform, haphazardly pulling on a pair of soft trousers and a fraying hoodie before forcing his aching body to the small window that overlooks the barren street. He cracks open the window and slips out into the brisk Gotham air with nary a sound, Finn remaining sound asleep in his bed.

Peter has no idea where he could possibly go, no safe destination in mind and no one to run to. Though, in a place like Gotham, safety is a currency that most are not afforded. At least at this time of night.

Despite the hour, Peter is far from alone out here, whispers of hissed threats and illicit drug deals reaching his unwilling ears. His heart thuds in time with his throbbing face as he eases cautiously down the street, the fist clutched around his windpipe loosening with every step that carries him away from the house of horrors.

Open and bright, gleaming with a pearlescent light, the moon acts as a beacon to illuminate the cracked pathways and graffitied walls that he passes by. In his more philosophical moments, Peter often thinks that the moon is the one constant throughout all the differing universes. She’s always there, watching from her perch amongst the inky-black sky – something he finds great comfort in. People grow old, worlds keep spinning, but the moon never changes.

Peter wishes he could be like the moon.

He wraps a single finger around a lock of hair, tugging gently on the strands, pretending it’s someone else’s hand gently carding through the soft tresses. Too exhausted to navigate, he hands the reigns over to his spider sense, for once permitting it to take complete control over his actions. It seems to hum in response, pleased to have at last been brought out under the beautiful light of the moon.

Peter weaves in and out amongst alleyways, breath clouding around him, his instincts leading somewhere he hopes is out of harm’s way.

Up.

Tired and not mentally present enough to wrestle the voice back into its cage, Peter simply obeys and sticks to the crumbling brickwork, gently making his way towards the roof of the building. With some effort, he manages to haul himself over the edge, greeted with an unobstructed view of his surroundings that, while once unknown and terrifying, were now seeped in an odd familiarity.

Peter stands upon a decrepit apartment building, peering out at a narrow side street littered with shards of glass. The faint echo of memory floats up on an invisible breeze, brushing against his mind.

He was confused. So very confused.

Peter awakes slowly, eyelids fluttering in protest against the harsh brightness burning his irises. His brain is a jumbled mess of half-formed questions, random puzzle pieces flying around at a speed so great that he can’t possibly hope to catch one.

His body throbs a painful rhythm, just as it has done these last horrible months, but something about it seems different. Off in a way that he cannot explain, like his organs have been displaced and replaced by bits of metal and wire that don’t function quite right.

With a groan, Peter uncurls from the ground, pushing himself onto unsteady legs as he wavers, forced to grasp onto a nearby wall. Glass crunches underfoot as he takes a few stumbling steps, the golden ring still clutched fiercely in his hand.

It’s a miracle he managed to hold onto it at all.

He tucks it instead into the pocket of his issued uniform, the paper-thin fabric doing little to ward off the chill that seems to permeate his skin. He’s bewildered at such an unseasonably cold day, he’d been so sure they were still in the midst of summer. It’s a little hard to tell sometimes, being kept underground so often, but Peter’s sensitive hearing manages to catch the odd conversation or two before the blockers dampen all sound.

Peter breathes in his first lungful of fresh air in months before immediately gagging on the thick scent of gun powder and iron. Blood.

His senses perk up with an awareness Peter hasn’t felt in weeks, causing a bolt of anxiety to shoot through him. He closes his aching eyes, searching for answers that slip beyond his reach.

Where is he?

How did he get here?

And, beyond all others, is he finally safe?

Judging by the piercing screech of police sirens and the overwhelming tension that strangles the air, that answer is one he can probably figure out for himself. Peter sighs, gripping his hair in frustration as his dazed brain attempts to play catch-up.

Nothing else for it then.

With a healthy dose of trepidation, Peter exits through the mouth of the alley and into the somewhat deserted street beyond, blinking spots out of his eyes as he goes. A black cat yowls at him as he staggers forwards, all his concentration going towards placing one careful foot in front of the other, the pounding in his head reaching a crescendo.

He half-walks and half-trips his way through the sprawling maze of avenues, absently eyeing a hanging sign that declares him to be in the Bowery; he doesn’t recognise the name. He’s not quite sure how long he travels for, but by the time he nears some form of civilisation, his feet are crying out for relief, blisters stuck in an endless loop of forming and healing.

A myriad of people brush past each other, not a smile or nod of greeting to be seen. This suits Peter just fine considering he’s pretty sure that he resembles an escaped prisoner from the psychiatric ward. Though, he supposes, the term ‘escaped prisoner’ isn’t too far from the truth, depending on who’s telling the story.

Accustomed to keeping his head down, Peter is forced to go against his instincts in order to take a cursory sweep of his surroundings, searching desperately for anything that might clue him in as to his whereabouts. Other than an alarming number of creepy gargoyles, nothing in particular stands out.

But this is definitely not New York, of that Peter is certain.

New Yorkers, while brash and oftentimes rude, lack the tension that is etched into every expression Peter observes. It’s also not commonplace to be carrying around an assortment of weapons, as a lot of these citizens are doing judging by his twitching senses.

They glance at each other with blatant distrust, hands firmly gripping onto bags and mobile phones. Peter himself receives more than his fair share of unsavoury looks, likely due to his haggard appearance. Clearly, the people of this city don’t discriminate by age if even a child is gifted the same suspicious treatment. Albeit a very feral looking child.

He does his best to ignore the heavy weight of strangers staring at him as he meanders through the mid-morning (???) rush, extra careful to avoid brushing against anyone and flinching away from any sudden moves.

Gradually, the dreary landscape begins to brighten, roads notably cleaner with a variety of shops lining the streets with lively colours and extortionate prices. He spots a couple of vendors setting up for the day, heavenly smells reaching his nose. Peter checks his pocket for money, an utterly futile action, his hand bumping into the ring stowed securely away from sight.

He does a mental re-cap of his situation: no money, ergo no access to food and clothes; no shelter or running water; no idea where he is; and no one to call for help.

What he does have, however, is a can-do attitude! And a concussion, probably.

Peter slips easily through the crowd of shoppers, dodging wandering hands and avoiding the shady backstreets whenever his senses tingle at him in warning. He garners a bit of attention as he walks, no doubt due to his age and the prison-like uniform he is sporting - definitely not a fashionable choice on his end.

It’s as he’s passing by a nearby butcher’s that it happens.

!!!!

A thunderous boom echoes around him, the ground shaking from the impact and bits of rubble flying through the air. Screams erupt, men and women dashing for safety, knocking into each other in the chaos that ensues. Peter pants heavily, hands grasping at his ears that screech in agony, a faint ringing sound invading his hearing.

He spins around frantically, his muddled mind trying to – for the second time today – piece together what just happened. Across the street, a florist has gone up in flames, a searing heat stinging his face as the flames lick at nearby buildings. He thinks he hears a high-pitched laugh emerge from somewhere, but Peter is rooted to the spot, his feet as heavy as cement as the sight of the blazing inferno nudges and prods at his memory.

He can do nothing but watch with a detached sense of horror, feeling useless and weak.

Out of the corner of his eye, a glint of gold blurs past, darting straight into the blaze. Peter trains his eyes on the building, thick smoke making them water painfully, waiting for that same flash of gold. It emerges not five seconds later, dragging an elderly woman along behind it.

Not an it then, but a he.

A man dressed in a black and gold suit, a white shape stretched across his chest that Peter can’t make out at this angle. The man crouches down next to the woman, speaking in soothing gentle tones, evidently used to calming a panicked civilian.

Peter’s brow furrows with confusion. Now, he knows it’s been a while since he’s had the chance to catch up with all the latest news, but Peter is pretty sure he’s never seen this hero before, nor even heard so much as a whisper about him. He wonders if it’s a new vigilante, or if he really is lost in some faraway land. The people here speak English, at least.

“Are you okay?” Peter’s damaged ears still manage to pick up on the soft murmur of voices as the hero lays a comforting hand on the woman’s arm.

Without warning, Peter is yanked into a memory of a different golden hero, this one immediately recognisable in his armoured suit as it steadies him.

“You okay, kid?”  

It’s one small fragment of recollection, but it’s enough to send Peter spiralling into incoherent flashes of smoke, blaring alarms and shouting guards. A rescue attempt, his mind distantly supplies.

One that had gone horribly wrong. Because Peter isn’t in a nice, warm home somewhere, drinking hot chocolate and curled up beneath a fluffy blanket. He’s cold and in pain, now a witness to a crime he doesn’t understand.

A faint clattering sound echoes through the deserted street and Peter drags his heavy gaze towards the partially blackened sign that lays before his feet.

‘Welcome to Gotham!’ it reads.

And what a welcome it had been, Peter muses as he dangles his legs over the edge of the building, staring down at the alley he first woke up in.

It looks the same as it had back then, but evokes a strong feeling of wrongness. He knows that it’s him that’s wrong, it’s him that has changed so drastically.

He’d thought at the time that he’d already reached his breaking point, he was wrong.

Peter blows out a small breath, pressing his hands against the rough surface of the roof, grounding himself in the here and now. He shivers violently, his body not cut out for Gotham’s plummeting temperatures – especially with no coat to keep him warm. He has a thin jacket waiting for him at Michael’s, but Peter can’t bring himself to head back to that suffocating house.

Instead, he wraps his thin arms around his body, pulling his knees in towards his chest in a move that sends a pulse of pain through him. He sits for a long while, chin resting gently on his legs, the moon his sole companion.

Until he hears a strong heart come join him on his rooftop.

Peter tenses, shoulders curled defensively, and slowly turns towards the newcomer, ready to flee at a moment’s notice. Strangely, his senses remain quiet for once, content to let the scene play out. They must be broken.

Peter stands cautiously and the intruder twitches towards him, a hand reaching out as if to yank him towards his broad frame, a hand that Peter ignores when he spots the dark blue suit and bird emblem stretched across a muscular chest.

“Hey, do you think you could step away from the edge for me?” His voice is light and playful but with an undercurrent of tension that belies his casual tone. With a start, Peter realises that it must look quite bad, him standing on a rooftop gazing solemnly at the ground.

“I wasn’t going to jump,” he rasps out and takes a few tentative steps closer to the masked vigilante, who visibly relaxes.

Nightwing, for that is who stands before him, holds out his hands again. “Okay, I’d still appreciate it if you could come a little closer though. You might accidentally trip.”

Peter shrugs with a nonchalance he definitely doesn’t feel, “I’d live.” Maybe. His healing factor really hasn’t been up to scratch lately since it requires a ridiculous amount of food to function effectively. A ridiculous amount of food that Peter doesn’t have access to.

“Right.” Nightwing doesn’t sound like he believes it either.

“What are you doing up here anyway?” he questions and places his hands on his hips like someone’s disapproving father. The thought tugs Peter’s lips upwards but he stops when his bruised cheek shouts in protest.

He makes a show of waving his arms around in a wide circle, encompassing the filthy alleyway and crumbling roof. “You know, just sight-seeing.”

The hero sighs quietly, muttering something under his breath that Peter doesn’t catch, too distracted by the long sticks poking out from behind his back. “What’s your name?” It doesn’t sound threatening, just curious, so he doesn’t really see the problem with divulging that information.

“Peter.”

“And how old are you, Peter?”

Ah. Now that he is most certainly not answering.

Peter sticks his chest out and straightens up to his full, very limited, height and says with a feigned confidence, “eighteen.”

Nightwing levels an unimpressed brow at him that reminds him vividly of Damian. “Sure kid, and I’m sixty.” Peter views the pure sarcasm in his voice as a challenge to be met head on.

He looks him up and down, squinting at the man’s face still covered by the shadows and shrugs again. “You could be sixty.”

Nightwing guffaws, “I am not sixty!” He sounds so genuinely put off that Peter can’t help the small huff of laughter that escapes him, much to his ribs’ annoyance.

He holds out his hands placatingly in a mirror of Nightwing’s earlier move, “It’s okay. I’m not ageist!”

There’s a small groan from the maybe-sixty-year-old-man as he edges closer to Peter, close enough for him to make out warm blue irises with his enhanced eyes. The man is tall with wavy black hair, obviously very strong beneath his suit. Yet he feels no twinge of panic at his proximity, clearly the hero simply saw a kid who looked like he needed help and decided to be the one to provide it. No ulterior motives, just a kind heart. At this realisation, Peter feels himself soften considerably, he can hardly fault the guy for caring.

“I really am fine,” Peter tells him.

Nightwing nods, about to speak when a grumbling erupts from Peter. His hands immediately fly to his stomach as if holding it will prevent the embarrassing growling sounds from escaping. Peter’s face flushes red as the vigilante chuckles softly at his predicament.

“You wanna get some food? My treat.”

Peter is sorely tempted to reject the offer, but his mind flashes briefly to the locked cupboards and refrigerator at Michael’s. The school food from yesterday afternoon is the only thing Peter has eaten in the last twenty-four hours and he begrudgingly admits to himself that he’s starving.

Still, he hesitates.

Nightwing seems to pick up on his reluctance and gestures for Peter to follow him down the creaking fire escape that he hadn’t noticed before. “Consider it an apology for interrupting your sight-seeing,” he calls over a shoulder as Peter makes his way back down the abandoned apartment complex with careful movements.

“Besides, I’ve been patrolling for hours, I could do with some food myself.” He grins at Peter mischievously, both of them still encased in shadows.

He swallows nervously, lifting a hand to curl a finger around his hair. “Sure,” he relents and listens to Nightwing’s chatter silently as he’s guided towards a small, cosy-looking diner. It’s a bit ramshackle, but the scents wafting from the kitchen smell absolutely divine and his stomach somersaults in anticipation.

“I’ll order for us if you grab a seat.” Peter nods at the older man, confirming that he has no allergies (other than mint and lemon which he feels is irrelevant in this situation) and settles down in a corner booth, the red pleather sinking under his weight.

He’s staring at the checked table, wondering how on Earth he came to be sitting in Sally’s diner with a Gotham vigilante, when a cardboard box is placed down in front of him. He looks up at Nightwing and grins with unabashed delight.

A choked gasp escapes from the man, his eyes widening with horror.

Too late Peter realises that this is the first time they’ve been able to see each other under bright lighting, meaning that Nightwing has a clear view of Peter’s face.

His bruised to high hell, currently looking like he’s been run over by a truck, face.

Nightwing’s expression grows dark from beneath his domino mask, his hand curling into a fist atop the table. When he speaks, his voice is measured and calm, but Peter can hear the storm brewing under it.

“Who did that to you?”

                                                                          *****

The kid’s face is a fucking mess.

He hadn’t seen it before, but under the harsh lights of the little diner, the black and blue bruises stand out with sickening clarity.

The kid, Peter, doesn’t answer for a long minute and Dick watches him twirl an untamed curl around a tiny finger as his face turns pale. God, he couldn’t be older than twelve, despite his earlier claims.

When he’d first seen the boy hunched over at the edge of a building, his heart had leapt into his throat and he’d grappled over as quickly as possible before the child did something he couldn’t take back. He wasn’t even supposed to be in The Bowery that evening, but he’d promised Bruce he’d check up on the growing reports of Killer Croc sightings that ended up being fakes anyway.

As he sits across from the kid now, he’s grateful that he decided to do one last perimeter check before heading back to the cave for a well-deserved rest. If he hadn’t, he never would have met this fragile, but unendingly sassy, child.

He lets Peter take his time answering, not rushing him despite the screaming urge to go hunt down whoever did this to such a thin, world-weary kid. At last Peter speaks up, his voice wavering slightly but undeniably strong as his hazel eyes meet Dick’s with a grim determination.

“I got mugged on my way back from school,” he says calmly and with such conviction that Dick almost believes him. But then he glances down at Peter’s hand still tangled in his hair, tugging anxiously at the black strands, and knows that he’s being lied to.

Dick frowns, concern tugging at chest, brotherly instincts roaring to life as Peter clocks where his attention had been and instead redirects his hands towards his meal. There’s a stubborn set to his jaw that Dick is intimately familiar with, having seen that exact expression on his youngest sibling’s face a million times before. With a deep certainty, Dick knows that Peter – like Damian – wouldn’t say a word.

“Have you had your head checked out? You might have a concussion,” he probes carefully, not wanting to scare the kid off before he even has the chance to eat.

Peter nods a little too quickly. “Yep!” He pops the ‘p’ cheerily and digs into the kid’s meal with gusto. Dick dips his head back in acknowledgement, not believing a word spilling from his lips, but knows not to press for more.

In lieu of the answers he desperately wants, Dick settles for a light chatter, trying to find as much as he can about this boy who looks oddly familiar. Dick, from the second he saw him on that rooftop, felt a deep connection to him. An instinct that he knows not to ignore.

“Where are you from then? You don’t sound like a born and raised Gothamite,” he remarks.

“New York,” he replies and snags another chicken nugget, shovelling it into his mouth at an impressive speed. It’s like he hasn’t eaten in over a month and, judging from his thin frame, that may even be true.

A New Yorker then. He suspected as much, there’s no hiding that accent. He files the tidbit of information away for future examination.

“You’re a long way from NYC,” he comments and takes a bite of his burger in an attempt to make it sound less like an interrogation and more like a friendly chat. Peter wrinkles his nose cutely, face scrunched up like a disgruntled kitten. “I know, in Jersey of all places.”

He seems so disgusted by the prospect of living in New Jersey that Dick feels the laughter bubble out of his chest, feeling extremely triumphant when a tiny smile plays on Peter’s face. “You go to school here?”

Peter sends him an incredulous look, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Are you a stalker?”

Dick splutters indignantly, backtracking immediately as not to send the kid running. “No, of course not!” he denies the accusation vehemently.

“Really? So you didn’t follow me to a rooftop in the middle of the night and then decided to take me out for food? Feels like grooming to me.” He bites casually into a nugget.

“Well, I –”

“Relax, I’m messing with you.” Dick’s sigh of relief is audible.

Cheeky kid, he’d fit right in at the manor. The thought startles him for a second, but doesn’t feel wrong. In fact, the more he talks to Peter, the more sure he is that he was meant to pass by that building. Like a stroke of fate.

Suddenly, Peter pulls something small and fluffy out of the box and Dick remembers that the kid’s meal usually comes with a figurine or stuffed animal. He’s about to apologise but pauses, watching as Peter’s fingers stroke reverently through the soft fur, a suspiciously wet gleam in his eyes.

Dick didn’t think it was possible for his chest to ache any more at the heart-wrenching display of youth, staying silent as Peter tucks it gently into his hoodie pocket and excuses himself to go to the bathroom.

As soon as Peter is out of sight, he presses a button on the side of his comm, opening up the channel between him and Babs.

“Oracle, I need you to look into something for me.”

                                                                    *****

Peter sneaks out of the toilet window the moment he locks the door behind him.

Guilt eats away at him, but he knows he can’t stay with the kind vigilante. He’s not stupid, the man will want a real answer as to what happened to him. Answers that Peter is not prepared to give.

Nightwing might think he’s subtle, but Peter could hear his rapid heartbeat fluttering around inside his chest. The epitome of calm on the outside, the insides telling a completely different story.

It feels wrong, to be turning his back on such generosity, but it doesn’t stop Peter from jumping to the ground and taking off back the way he’d come. He runs as quickly as his damaged body will allow, feeling some strength return to him after the meal. If he’d gone back out, Nightwing would have insisted on walking him home and it would’ve been very difficult indeed to shake him.

There’s no way he’s leading a vigilante back to Michael.

By the time the house appears in his line of sight, Peter’s breath is like shards of glass in his throat, lungs failing to expand as much as they should be. He gasps like a fish out of water, bending over his knees in an attempt to compose himself before clambering up the side wall and back through his bedroom window.

He collapses onto the bed, heart hammering from the adrenaline rush.

Slowly, he pulls out the little stuffed rabbit from his front pocket, the light-grey fur tickling his nose as he presses it against his face.

And if he snuggles into the rabbit all night, then that’s no one else’s business but his own.

Chapter Text

Peter blinks blearily, staring into his glass of water like it will reveal the universe’s deepest and darkest secrets, so long as he keeps observing the sloshing liquid. Next to him, Ibrihim snorts, sipping his own water that serves as their breakfast each morning.

“Why you so tired?” He doesn’t mention the bruises on Peter’s face, nor questions the slumped posture he has assumed. Under Michael’s roof, it’s better to not know.

“I only had three hours of sleep,” he mumbles back and rubs at his eyes, trying to get them to open fully without much luck. It’s like a toddler sneaked up on him in the middle of the night and papier-mâchéd them shut.

Ibrihim shakes his head in mock disappointment. “A growing boy such as yourself should have at least eight hours, leave the late nights to the adults.” He points to his chest proudly.

Peter glares at him sullenly. “You’re fifteen,” he reminds the boy.

“You’re all foetuses to me.” Adam comes swinging round the corner, bag shoved clumsily onto one shoulder and Finn trailing him like a duckling. He’s not sure if he imagines it, but Peter’s pretty sure that Finn sends him a suspicious look, lingering on the dark shadows beneath his eyes.

Now, Peter thinks he was subtle about his little midnight adventure last night (this morning?) but he’d seen the other boy watching as he packed his school bag, deciding at the last minute to stuff the rabbit in. A rabbit that he definitely didn’t have yesterday.

Finn hadn’t said anything though, so Peter won’t either.  It’s the unspoken rule between all four of them, borne of necessity and the urge to survive. Don’t let Michael find out.

Just then, as if summoned by the very thought, a fifth set of footsteps thuds down the staircase. Each one sends a jolt of dread through him, chest burning anew. The other boys halt their light teasing, straightening up as the room falls unnaturally quiet.

When Michael enters the kitchen, it’s not a pretty sight. His greasy hair hangs limp across his face, hands fumbling to do up the cuff of his rumpled suit jacket that looks nearly as old as him. He doesn’t usually bother them in the mornings, unless it’s to shout abuse, so this unexpected event has them all waiting with bated breath. Michael seems calm enough, considering the events of the prior evening, but the man can go from zero to a hundred as quick as a flash, with no discernible triggers.

“Parker!” He barks. Peter jumps a mile high, heart galloping at being called out and suddenly feeling very awake. “Do my cuff up,” he orders harshly.

Okay. Okay, he can do that. He just needs to get close to him.

Peter swallows against the dryness of his throat and steps uneasily towards his guardian. He takes a steadying breath, but his hands still tremble something fierce as they grasp the button, sliding it carefully into place. He’s hyper-aware of a pair of sharp blue eyes scrutinising his every move, watching him like a hawk circling its prey.

Peter can’t help but compare them to Nightwing’s eyes, which had seemed so gentle and comforting.

At last, the button slips into place and Peter hastily retreats to his initial position, the boys swapping wary glances at the odd behaviour.

Michael inspects his sleeve closely, likely for smudges of dirt; imagined or otherwise. He smooths down his front and pivots so he’s facing them, forcing them to make uncomfortable eye contact.

“I’m away on business tonight. You know the rules.” He glares at them until they nod obediently, though a sinking sensation that has nothing to do with bruises presses down on Peter’s chest. “I’ll be watching through the camera so don’t you dare try anything. I’ll give you a good thrashing if you do.”

With that last warning, he picks up a small duffel bag and heads out of the house, slamming the door shut behind him. The sound, at least, seems to break the spell that had fallen over them and Adam groans. Loudly.

“Great,” he mutters and strides out of the kitchen. Peter, Finn and Ibrihim follow and not another word passes between them as they each make the arduous journey towards their respective schools, lost in thought.

Peter makes sure to keep his face pointed towards the ground as he walks through the school building, not wanting to attract attention.

He should’ve known it would never work on Damian.

The second he walked into their first class of the day, Damian had clocked that something was wrong and he was just not letting up.

He’s like an interrogator, eating away at Peter’s resolve with every barbed question thrown his way and cementing his suspicions that Damian is part of the FBI - which would be cool if all his deadly spying experience wasn’t currently aimed at him, a feeble-minded eleven-year-old from Queens. Peter runs a curl through his fingers and is struck by the inexplicable urge to pull out his rabbit from within his bag. He scolds himself for the childish thought.

Alas, there’s nothing for it in the end. He can’t very well spend the whole day talking to Damian with his nose stuck to the ground and he can’t hide either, the teen would just sniff him out like a bloodhound. Eventually, he looks up and prepares to face the music.

But Damian says nothing.

His eyes drink in Peter’s face, seeming to catalogue every injury as the bright green orbs turn into ice chips. Other than a slight tightening of the mouth, his expression remains the same, though Peter wonders if the older boy notices the white-knuckled grip he has on his fancy pen. He’s worried Damian will break the beautiful stationery.

Peter clears his throat uncertainly. “Uh...you good?”

Damian stares at him.

Then, with precise and deliberate movements, he slowly and gently grabs Peter’s chin until his eyes clash with Damian’s own.

“You will tell me what happened, and you will not leave any details out.”

Peter is momentarily struck by how stupid he had been. Damian isn’t ice, he’s fire. Emerald flames seer Peter’s skin under Damian’s burning gaze, but he doesn’t allow him to squirm away from the heat.

Peter sighs almost imperceptibly, unaccustomed to the level of concern he has received in the past forty-eight hours. He feels like his world has been turned upside down again, and nothing makes sense anymore. He can no longer walk around with a busted face and expect no questions about it. Now he has to lie to someone he actually knows and likes, and Peter hates lying.

“Are you telling the truth, Pete?” Uncle Ben is crouched in front of him, his large hands resting on top of Peter’s slim shoulders.

Peter nods his head vigorously, not wanting to get caught out in the lie. He feels bad for lying to Ben, a horrible feeling swirling around in his tummy that he knows Auntie May would call guilt. Still, he’s in too deep to back out now.

Unbeknownst to the seven-year-old, the evidence of his chocolate-filled escapade was smeared across his face, as obvious as his uncle’s flashing police siren.

Ben raises a disapproving brow at him and Peter tries not to look directly at his face, certain that his uncle can read minds.

“Lying isn’t kind Peter. You’re kind, aren’t you?” The wrinkles around Ben’s eyes crease further with his soft smile as he nods again in agreement.

Uncle Ben carefully tucks a stray hair behind Peter’s ear. “Kind boys tell the truth, and you’re the kindest little boy I know.”

Peter guesses he’s not very kind anymore, because he hardly blinks before spewing out the same lie he told to Nightwing.

“I was mugged.”

Technically not a fib, Peter supposes, waiting for Damian’s reaction. He has been mugged before, just on a different day. In a different universe…

Same thing.

Besides, this is Gotham, it would be weirder to not have been mugged at least once in five months. The only reason he’s avoided it is due to a lovely mix of spider senses and being a complete recluse who avoids all human interaction. Until two days ago, apparently.

“Do you take me for a fool, Parker?” Damian sounds just as disbelieving as the vigilante had been. Honestly, they could be related.

Peter decides to play innocent and sticks out his lip in a small pout, a trick that either has people falling in love or earns him a fist in the face. It has a 50% success rate. He’s working on it. “What ever do you mean, kind sir?”

He gets a grumpy scowl at that. “This is Gotham, Parker. If you were mugged, that also means you have been shot or stabbed.” He drags his eyes over Peter’s body. “Are you telling me that you are hiding a life-threatening wound underneath those ridiculously over-sized clothes?” He seems doubtful.

Peter briefly entertains the idea of stabbing himself with Damian’s compass, just so he has a reliable cover story. But he thinks Damian might notice him impaling himself.

“It was a nice mugger?” he tries.

“Is that a question or a statement?” Damian arches a perfectly groomed brow, steepling his fingers together and leaning forwards into his personal space. Peter will eat his own foot if Damian isn’t a spy.

“A statement?” Damnit. That didn’t come out right at all.

The classroom door creaks open and Peter diverts his attention to the new arrival in an effort to avoid Damian’s searching gaze. When Brandon Smythe walks in, Peter has to hold back his surprise.

The black eye stands out harshly against his pale skin, the surrounding skin looking puffy and swollen. Nothing like Peter’s own face, but he could certainly give him a run for his money. Not that Peter has any money.

Brandon avoids looking in their direction, heading straight for his seat at the back, but Peter glimpses an enraged gleam lurking behind the submissive stance. He’s practically an expert at spotting hidden anger at this point.

“What did you do?” Peter has no doubt that this is Damian’s work, he doesn’t seem surprised in the slightest.

“He was mugged,” Damian replies smoothly with a pointed look at him. Peter keeps his mouth firmly shut, he can hardly argue against that without screwing himself over and Damian knows it.

“Rest assured, I am quite certain this ‘mugger’ will be found and dealt with promptly.” Peter doesn’t think they’re still talking about Brandon and wisely remains silent.

They continue with their little game of cat and mouse throughout the school day, Peter expertly dodging Tim and Duke’s concerns like a pro. Physical Ed in last period poses a slight problem and he so very nearly manages to worm his way out of it by citing his lack of gym clothes. But of course Damian would have a spare set of newly washed clothes, ones that Peter absolutely drowns in when he changes in the cubicle. He spends the entire hour wincing and cursing internally at his luck, doing his best to dribble the ball that just wants to run away from him. Peter doesn’t blame it, he very much wants to run away too.

By the time they finish with the endless drill exercises, Peter could kiss the ground with joy. Except he won’t because he has standards, thank you.

He heads over to the toilet in the boys’ changing room to get dressed when Damian stops him by grabbing an elbow. “Don’t bother,” he tells him and offers no explanation as he drags Peter through the halls and into the crisp Gotham air.

“But I’m wearing your clothes,” Peter feels the need to point out. He’d offer to wash them, but he doesn’t think Michael even owns a single bottle of cleaning agent, let alone a washing machine. Peter just cleans his clothes in the sink with a bar of soap when Finn tells him they’re stinking up the room.

“As usual, your powers of deduction astound me.”

Peter nods sagely as he’s led down a series of winding streets, each one fancier than the last, “I’m very intuitive.”

“About as intuitive as a sea cucumber, perhaps.” Peter doesn’t know what a sea cucumber is, but he chooses to believe it’s an extremely intelligent being and takes it as a compliment.

Peter is guided down a more affluent area of Gotham, somewhere he hasn’t been before for obvious reasons. A row of high-end shops line the sides of the street, a grand-looking library laying ahead of the path. Damian turns right at the library, striding purposefully down the pavement and entering a modern building flooded with fluorescent lights that hurts Peter’s eyes.

He casts his gaze around, becoming even more confused than before.

“Damian? Why are we in a gym?” His nose scrunches at the over-powering stench of sweaty men. The women at least know how to use deodorant.

Damian stops at the edge of a large, blue mat that stretches across the floor and spins to face him, taking both their bags and tossing them to the side. Peter flinches internally at the thought of his poor rabbit being flung around so carelessly.

“If you are going to continually find yourself being ‘mugged’, then you are going to learn how to defend yourself.” Without further ado, he steps onto the mat and gestures at Peter expectantly.

“Hit me.”

Yeah, no. Peter won’t be doing that.

“I’m afraid I’m deathly allergic to fighting, if I do it I break out in hives,” Peter informs Damian solemnly. He’d promised himself months ago that he would never hurt anyone ever again, not like he had to back there.

Damian’s eyeroll could win him awards in sheer sassiness. Though he doubts Damian would appreciate being called sassy. “Fine,” he sighs out. “I suppose we can work on defensive manoeuvres for today.” He seems strangely disappointed that Peter doesn’t want to punch him in the face, but brushes himself down as Peter approaches nervously.

“We will begin with an easy move to free yourself from a hold. Pick a wrist,” he instructs. Peter holds out his left arm, the one that Michael hadn’t grabbed a couple of mornings ago, it would do him no favours to have to explain that injury as well.

Damian wraps his hand around Peter’s thin wrist in a firm hold, replicating that of an attacker. “You are small, so you have little chance of physically over-powering your opponent. Instead, you must be quick and agile and use precise movements.” Peter huffs indignantly at being called small. And he could technically over-power someone larger than him, he does have enhanced strength after all. He just locks up in the moment, too scared to hurt somebody weaker than him, even if they will hurt him instead.

“You need to rotate your wrist until the thinnest part of your wrist aligns with your attacker’s thumb; this is the weak point that you must exploit.” Peter turns his wrist obediently and Damian nods approvingly, focusing intently on his teaching role.

“Acceptable. Now twist sharply towards your own thumb and pull your arm back in a straight line.”

Peter does as he’s told and is surprised when Damian’s hand drops from his, he hadn’t been expecting it to work if he’s being completely honest.

“Now you can run in the opposite direction.” Or climb up a wall, Peter adds mentally. “Otherwise, you can use your new-found momentum to deliver a strike to the solar plexus or the groin, if your attacker is a male.” Peter nods in agreement to show Damian that he’s still listening.

“How do you know so much about fighting anyway?” he questions curiously.

Please admit to being an undercover agent.

“I am well versed in the art of Karate, Taekwondo, Judo, Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu and Baguazhang.” He says it in a very matter-of-fact manner, as if that isn’t an insane thing to admit to. Peter is sure there’s more that he didn’t even mention.

“Over-achiever?”

Damian blatantly ignores him and recaptures his wrist. “Again.”

Peter sighs.

They end up staying at the gym for three hours and by the time Damian finishes teaching him a series of defensive moves, he’s completely flopped onto the sweaty, horrible mat, his chest aching and muscles screaming at the unwanted workout. Annoyingly, Damian looks completely put together, not a hair out of place. He’s starting to suspect it’s a wig.

“You did well for your first session,” Damian remarks and types something into his phone. Peter throws him a weak thumbs up from where he’s lying dead on the ground.

He’s too incapacitated to stop Damian when the older boy tugs open Peter’s backpack to hand him his water and, much to his horror, the rabbit comes tumbling out in a blur of grey. The toy face-plants the floor, and his face heats up in embarrassment as he sits up, waiting for a scornful comment that literally any fourteen-year-old boy would make in this situation.

He forgets that Damian isn’t exactly normal.

Rather than laughing at Peter’s childishness, he gingerly picks up the rabbit and carefully brushes off a bit of dirt, inspecting it in detail. Peter doesn’t really know what to say, but Damian doesn’t seem to require an explanation as he gently tucks the toy next to Peter who grabs it immediately. The soft fur calms him down and he runs his fingers through it in a repetitive motion.

“What’s its name?” Damian’s question is as soft as it is unexpected. Peter shrugs in response, he hadn’t really thought about it much.

Damian frowns down at him, hands planted on his hips. “An animal deserves to be gifted a name, Parker. If you won’t bestow one upon it then I will have to.” He considers the grey rabbit, eyes studying the floppy ears and stitched-on mouth.

“How about Fitz?”

Peter snorts with amusement. “Fitz? That sounds like a name a butler would have.” He glances between Damian and the rabbit, debating.

“You dislike the name?” For the first time since Peter’s known him, Damian sounds unsure, though he masks it well and Peter hurries to reassure him.

“I like it!” he exclaims. “Fitz the butler bunny, it has a nice ring to it. He should come with a bowtie.” He laughs at his own joke, because that’s the kind of rock’n’roll person he is.

Damian nods agreeably and a comfortable silence falls over them as they pack away. Peter places the newly christened ‘Fitz’ into the front pocket, making sure his face doesn’t get squashed and leaving the zip ajar so he can breathe.

It’s dark out by the time they leave, but Peter isn’t worried. Michael isn’t going to be home tonight, there’s no need to hurry anywhere. In fact, the more he can drag this out, the better off he’ll be. He plucks at the oversized hoodie and considers his next move.

“Richard is waiting for us.” Damian intercepts his train of thought like a great big tree on the tracks and starts for a silver car parked on the opposite side of the road.

Wait, what?

“Uh. Who’s Richard and why is he waiting for us?” Damian really needs to work on his information-sharing abilities, the amount of times he’s been left in the dark these past few days is frankly ridiculous.

“My eldest brother,” he calls out over his shoulder and gestures impatiently for Peter to get in. Not willing to turn this into an argument, he slides into the leather seat, wondering if he’s about to be kidnapped for a fourth time. If he is, then it’s definitely the nicest kidnapping he’s ever experienced, there’s even heating blasting through the vents and it warms Peter’s heart until it’s toasted like a marshmallow.

This mysterious Richard turns around in his seat behind the wheel, smiling up at the boys. For a split second, something flashes across the man’s face when he faces Peter, and his senses make a weird chirping sound that it’s never done before. He finds it weird, but guesses that the bruises probably caused such a strange reaction. They’re hardly subtle.

“Hey, I’m Dick,” he introduces himself, blue eyes shining. “I’m Damian’s brother.”

Peter turns to Damian and incredulously asks, “how many brothers do you have?” Surely there’s a limit to how many siblings one person can have.

“Too many.”

Dick rolls his eyes fondly, no hint of malice, just affection shining through. Peter’s chest tightens painfully.

“I’m Peter,” he belatedly remembers to introduce himself and they exchange pleasantries once again. Dick starts the car and moves off into the road, Damian huffing as he stretches over Peter to click his seatbelt into place. Oh yeah. He grins sheepishly at the boy.

“So where am I taking you, Peter?” Dick asks him, flicking his gaze towards Peter through the mirror. It’s a casual question, but he can’t help but feel there’s more to it, a curious intensity behind the man’s words.

Peter really hadn’t thought this through.

“Oh um… Down by the school is fine, I can walk.”

Damian and Dick shoot him twin frowns, though Dick’s is decidedly less threatening than the spy master’s. “I’d rather drop you off at your home Peter, the road name will do.”

Damn.

“Oh okay, thanks.” He pauses awkwardly before throwing out the first name he can think of, “Richter Alley.” Judging by the look on Dick’s face, he probably should have chosen somewhere less dodgy. He could hardly give them his own address, he’s not even allowed to stay there tonight. None of them are.

Michael doesn’t trust them to stay in the house without his supervision, so whenever he goes on one of his ‘business trips’, they’re expected to hole up somewhere else for the night.

It isn’t the first time it’s happened, and it certainly won’t be the last.

Peter wouldn’t dare sneak in through the bedroom window either, he wouldn’t put it pass Michael to have set up cameras in each of their rooms to catch them in the act.

They know the drill.

Adam can pass for an adult and spend the night at one of the safe shelters and Ibrihim and Finn can bunk with friends for the night. Peter usually just wanders until he finds a relatively safe spot to rest and uses a public toilet to clean himself up the next morning.

It’s fine. At least it’s not snowing.

Dick chatters on in the front seat, pulling them into a conversation about their school project on Frankenstein that they haven’t begun working on.

“You could always use Gotham Library, Babs would be happy to help out,” Dick tells them.

“Or you could work on it at home,” he offers.

“I will consider it,” Damian replies and Peter feels oddly excited by the prospect of visiting Damian’s house. He bets it’s super fancy with a gate and everything.

The polar opposite to the neighbourhood they currently find themselves in. He’s really regretting not naming a street from the fashion district.

“That’s all I ask for, Dami.”

An elated grin pulls at Peter’s mouth, “Dami?”

The glare that Damian sends Peter could melt icecaps. “Don’t you dare call me that,” he threatens and Peter holds out his hands placatingly, still grinning madly. “I won’t call you Dami,” he promises.

Dick chuckles as he pulls the car to a gentle stop next to a dilapidated sign reading ‘Richter’s Alley’, or at least he assumes so, considering half the letters are missing. He peers out into the gloomy night and mentally prepares himself for the bitter cold, tugging at the handle.

“Thanks for the ride!” he chirps out.

Please don’t watch.

“That’s alright, we’ll just wait until you’re safely inside,” Dick smiles at him warmly and Peter struggles to not let his face drop. Jinxed it.

“Bye Dames!” He shuts the door and sprints away to the sound of Dick’s laughter before Damian can throw something very sharp at his head. He jogs into a nearby apartment building, grateful for the lack of security, and hides in the stairwell until he can no longer hear the car engine.

Peter groans at the chill that brushes against his skin the second he steps back outside, huddling into Damian’s hoodie like a tortoise.

He sticks a finger through the gap in his bag and strokes his rabbit’s soft ear, “looks like we’re going on an adventure Fitz.”

With that, Peter sets off to find a bench to curl up on for the night.

                                                                            *****

Damian contemplates the events of the past few hours as Dick navigates them back to the manor, having just dropped Peter off outside a crumbling block of apartments that Damian suspects has nothing but mice living within.

Peter’s first training session had gone rather well, the boy quick to pick up on the instructions and stronger than his diminutive frame would suggest. That, paired with his obviously sensitive hearing and eyesight, indicates to Damian that his charge could potentially be a Meta. Whether Peter is aware of this remains to be seen.

“I met Peter last night,” his brother tells him and Damian lifts an eyebrow, as much shock as he will allow to show on his face. “On patrol,” he clarifies.

“Did he already have his injuries?”

“Yeah. Didn’t see them until I took him to get some food though, poor kid looked starving,” he remarks and Damian knows Dick well enough to hear the concern threaded through his voice and hidden behind the tight grip he has on the steering wheel.

Peter seems to have that effect on people. He hasn’t known him for very long at all, but Damian’s instincts never lead him astray, he’s honed them to a sharp point like one of his blades. And his instincts are telling him to protect the smaller teenager.

“What happened?”

He will get to the bottom of this if it’s the last thing he does. Damian will not accept the paltry excuse of a ‘mugging’, he has been trained by the league of assassins and Batman himself, he knows when someone is lying to him.

Dick sighs heavily, sounding infinitely older than his thirty years. “I found him on a rooftop in the Bowery,” he starts and Damian tenses, thoughts flying through his head and none of them overly pleasant.

Dick notes how stiff he’s gone and is hasty in his correction, “he said he wasn’t going to jump and I believed him. I think he was just up there to get away from everything.” Damian forcibly relaxes his tensed muscles and nods for him to continue.

“We chatted for a bit before heading to that diner Jason told me about. Annie’s, is it?”

“Sally’s,” Damian corrects and starts to build a mental picture in his head of everything that happened last night.

“Right. When I saw his bruises I questioned him, but he just told me that he got mugged and wouldn’t say anything else about it. I didn’t want to scare him off so I dropped it.” He runs a frustrated hand through his hair, a sure sign of his frustration, “then he went to the bathroom and didn’t come back.” His voice is resigned.

“Unsurprising,” Damian comments. Peter isn’t the sort of person to accept help easily, he’s amazed he got into the car, even if he did provide them with a fake address. He’ll have to strap Peter down in a chair to get him to stay put. An extremely enticing option.

“We’ll have to keep an eye on him. I don’t know what it is but there’s something about him – ” Dick trails off and turns into the circular drive of the manor.

Damian simply hums, keeping his suspicions to himself for now.

He leaves Dick to lock up with a quick thanks and heads into the warm manor, gunning straight for Alfred’s bedroom.

He has a butler’s wardrobe to ransack.

                                                                           *****

Peter thumps his head against the cool metal of his locker, his muscles twitchy from a long night of fitful sleep on an exposed park bench in the middle of absolute nowhere. He sniffs at his armpit surreptitiously, praying he doesn’t smell too badly. He’d overslept and, as a result, had no time to wash up anywhere.

He hasn’t even seen Damian since second period, who was called into the office and has yet to return. He’s been sitting alone in his classes all day, content to let the hubbub of the school wash over him. It could almost be considered peaceful if it were not for the murderous glares that Brandon Smythe shoots his way.

Peter bangs his head against the locker one more time for good measure before turning to face the little posse of pockmarked teenage boys.

“Can I help you?” he asks tiredly, wanting nothing more than to crawl into his creaking bed and mattress with its sharp springs that dig into his back. He doesn’t resist as one of the boys grabs his wrist and jerks him towards them and has to actively clamp down on both his wailing senses and stickiness to stop himself from reacting.

A flash of Damian’s lesson enters his mind, of how to get out of this exact hold, but they’re circling him like vultures now and any move to defend himself will surely be met with more violence.

“Look at what we have here boys,” Brandon stands front and centre, a malicious smile on his banged up face. Peter’s eye twitches, and he’s proud of himself for not rolling them heavenward like he so desperately wants to.

“What do you want now?” Peter sighs out, forlornly accepting his inevitable fate as some rich asshole’s punching bag.

“What I want is for you to leave my school,” he spits derisively and the boys surrounding them jeer obediently. “Sucking up to Wayne, getting him to fight your battles like a prissy bitch. Not here to protect you now, is he?” he sneers.

Peter blinks tiredly, he has no idea who this Wayne guy is and is completely ready for this interaction to be over.

Before he can snap back and tell them to just get on with it, a ginger boy standing behind Brandon snatches up Peter’s bag, undoing the main compartment and scattering his meagre belongings across the hall floor.

His heart starts hammering, his mind screaming, as something grey topples out.

For a second, everyone stares at the teddy, processing the scene. Taking advantage of the distraction, Peter lunges forwards to grab Fitz but is yanked cruelly back by a hand in his hair.

His eyes water from more than just the pain in his scalp. “Please.”

“Please don’t hurt him.”

He’s all I have.

The group bursts into raucous laughter, wheezing at the sight of Peter’s horrified face as a tear springs free and rolls slowly down his face. Brandon seizes Fitz by the arm, dangling him out of reach from Peter’s shorter arms.

“Look boys, the baby brought his friend to school!”

They begin throwing Fitz around, laughing hysterically at Peter’s flailing attempts to snatch him mid-air, a callous rendition of piggy-in-the-middle. He feels white-hot anger slowly coalesce within him, his rage bubbling up like a volcano ready to explode.

There’s a ringing in his ears, their jaunts of baby and wimp occasionally bursting through the mist of fury that surrounds him.

Hurt, the voice demands. Hurt! HURT!

Peter breathes in through the nose, out through the mouth, regulating his heartbeat. These boys have no idea what they’re provoking, at what he’s having to hold back, like a dam that’s about to break. His head clears enough that the chanting no longer invades every crevice of his brain, but it still lurks in its ever-present state.

“Charity boys like you don’t belong in my school,” Brandon’s saying and tosses Fitz to a boy across the hall.

Only, Fitz doesn’t quite make it there.

A large hand reaches out and plucks the rabbit mid-flight, stone blue eyes slowly taking in the scene playing out before him. His face is deathly calm, not an emotion to be seen.

“Your school?” The man looks to Brandon who pales dramatically. “I wasn’t aware that it was you who funds this place, how odd.” His voice is impossibly deep and even Peter shrinks back as he steps closer, his broad figure intimidating and oozing confidence. Not even the toy bunny clutched in his hand detracts from his authoritative persona.

The bullies around him are clearly terrified, staring at one another with a growing horror.

The middle-aged man surveys the group, settling on Peter’s main attacker with a cold look that reminds Peter vividly of Damian. “Tell me your name,” he demands, leaving no room for argument.

“Brandon Smythe, Mr. Wayne.” Brandon’s voice is a whisper, and even Peter has to strain his ears to hear him, distracted by the thudding heartbeats raging around him.

Mr. Wayne?

Peter thinks he must be a teacher here, to garner such fear and respect so quickly. The name sounds vaguely familiar, but Peter can’t place it beyond Brandon’s unhelpful commentary earlier.

“Brandon Smythe,” this ‘Mr. Wayne’ muses. “I shall remember that name,” he promises and Peter spots the shudder working down Brandon’s spine at the eerie words.

“Now don’t you boys have somewhere more important to be?”

They could hardly get out of there quick enough, scrambling over each other and darting for the exit, trampling over Peter’s notebooks in the process. Peter himself remains affixed to the floor, now the sole focus of Mr. Wayne’s piercing gaze.

Wordlessly, the man crouches down and he watches in abject fascination as his belongings are gathered into a neat pile and deposited into his backpack which is then placed at his feet. Then he presses Fitz into Peter’s hands, his arms instinctively curling around the fuzzy creature and stroking the fur to calm himself down, the panic and anger having receded like waves on the shore, leaving him with an oddly empty feeling.

“If you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting to get to,” he tells him and Peter nods mutely.

Mr. Wayne watches him for a second longer, taking in his features, eyes softening at whatever he finds. “If those boys bother you again, go find one of my sons. Timothy, perhaps,” he tells him.

“Take care and look after that rabbit of yours.” He continues down the hall, leaving Peter absolutely flummoxed. He presses a kiss to the top of the bunny’s head, whispering an apology before storing him safely in his bag once again.

He spends his last few classes in a daze, Damian never making appearance, presumably taken home by a parent due to some misdemeanour that Peter can guess has something to do with Brandon.

The hazy fog follows him to the bus and again into Michael’s house where the man sits watching the television, completely ignoring the children residing in his home.

Peter floats up the stairs and into his shared room, Finn not yet back from school, and drifts to his bed. He absently unpacks his stuff, pulling out the chemistry worksheet he needs to complete before next Monday, rifling through the contents of his bag for a pen.

Unexpectedly, his hand brushes against something silky.

He pulls it out and comes face to face with a little black bowtie, perfectly suited for a butler bunny called Fitz. Peter slides it gently on, making sure it’s not crooked.

“You look very smart,” he whispers down at him. Fitz doesn’t reply, but his glass eyes seem to sparkle in the dim lighting, as if he too knows exactly who this gift is from.

Despite himself, Peter smiles.

Chapter Text

It was cold in his room. So very cold.

Peter huddles in the corner, back pressed against the cool metal of the bedframe. It leaches all the warmth out of him, making him shudder as he blinks at nothing.

Aunt May and Uncle Ben must have forgotten to pay the heating bill.

Peter nods to himself absently and hugs his knees to his chest, curling around himself as his breath fogs around him. He tells himself that the hard cement floor is because they had decided to take the carpet up, the drip drip drip just a leaky tap that Ben has yet to fix.

He rocks himself backwards and forwards in a repetitive motion and presses chapped lips together, beginning to hum a broken tune. Peter couldn’t quite remember the melody, the memory stored at the back of his mind from before he was found wandering the streets of New York as a little boy.

The sound erupts from his raw throat, rasping and warped - absent of the warmth he so desperately seeks. Still, Peter keeps humming, drowning out the endless dripping of the tap.

He pretends the figure in the corner is one of his old school friends, their name lost to the trials of time. They’re having a sleepover, which is why the other boy isn’t moving.

He must be asleep, so Peter keeps silent as not to wake him.

The boy’s head hangs listlessly to the side, completely consumed by his dreams as he twitches every so often, random spasms that Peter can barely make out. His hair is red now, they had been experimenting with May’s dye, Peter’s hands stained red with it. May had been furious, and rightly so, sending them to bed early without dinner and barely a goodnight.

He knows May will feel bad about it in the morning and will have gone out shopping for a large breakfast. An assortment of cereals perhaps, or maybe even some of those little golden pastries that Ben adores. Peter practically salivates thinking about the buttery crust, hopefully it will mask that terrible coppery smell that permeates his bedroom from when he showed his friend his precious coin collection.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

On second thought, Peter thinks the perpetual dripping is resonating from the boy himself, the red dye splattering from his head and onto his carpet-less floor.

They should’ve followed the instructions properly.

That’s what they tell Peter when they come for the boy, lifting him off the ground in one fell swoop. They’re dressed in white coats stained with red, funny little metal rods resting in their pockets.

There’s two of them standing in his room now, both of them with streaks of grey cutting through their hair. Peter thinks they must be the boy’s parents, home from their jobs as doctors or dentists, arrived to collect their son from his first ever sleepover.

His mind tells him that they must be safe, because Ben and May wouldn’t have let them in otherwise. His body, however, never ceases its rocking, eyes fixated on the pool of red dye laying across his room where the other’s head had rested in his slumber. There’s no dripping anymore, so he stops humming.

When they bark at him to stand, he obeys without question, having learnt the importance of instructions and following orders.

They pass by a series of metal bars, Peter wondering when his guardians had found the time to add extra security to their little apartment. There are other people resting beyond his reach, some of them still like the boy, others emitting soft sounds as they toss and turn. The neighbours’ kids, surely. He thinks there must’ve been a fire or a flood, and only the Parkers’ residence remained intact which is why they’re all here in the first place.

Peter is led into a brightly lit room, medical equipment strewn around haphazardly, another man with rumpled clothes scribbling furiously into a notebook, a displeased frown tugging at his lips.

He feels his heart speed up with anxiety and his palms begin to sweat, worried that something might be happening to May or Ben to warrant all this machinery. He asks them, voice quiet and subdued, if his family was alright but no one answers him. It’s like he’s a ghost, floating around aimlessly as he waits for May to come home with his pastries.

They sit him in a padded chair and draw straps over his arms and legs. His muscles twitch in protest, but he feels too cold to object when they bring out the needle.

He’s never been to the doctor for anything other than regular checkups to monitor his mild asthma, never anything involving needles or blood. Peter feels his pulse start to race with nerves alongside an annoying beeping sound that speeds up in tandem. He’s scared it’ll hurt, and he wants someone to hold his hand, for Ben or May to stroke his hair and tell him that it’s okay and they forgive him for opening the bottle of dye.

But Peter’s not little anymore, he’s old enough to do this by himself.

That doesn't stop him from flinching when they insert the needle into his vein, nor from whimpering when an icy sensation rushes through him.

He feels his blood begin to move sluggishly around his body, heating up his cheeks in a burning fever despite the huge tremors that wrack his body. The doctors monitor him, their stares penetrating and uncomfortable.

Peter thinks he might be crying, might be sobbing or begging for them to help him, but there’s a ringing in his ears now, thick liquid cascading from the canal and running down his neck.

The dripping returns with a vengeance.

Peter is lost within this inferno, alternating between the fiery depths of a volcano and huge glaciers cutting through burning cold waters. His mind grows foggy, thoughts flying around as his body grows numb and useless. Only one thought sticks out to him, like gold shining in a pile of rusted metal.

I want to go home.

Because he knows this isn’t his apartment in Queens with the leaky tap and broken radiator. Ben isn’t at work, he isn’t having a sleepover with his friend.

And May won’t bring him breakfast in the morning.

A heavy thump echoes through the room and Peter shoots up, nearly toppling off the wooden chair he finds himself precariously perched on.

He glares at the book lying innocently on the marked desk and then redirects it towards Damian who slides into the opposite seat, hair styled to perfection and posture as regal as ever.

“You were asleep,” Damian informs him, as if he weren’t the one to jerk awake from said sleep.

“Obviously,” Peter retorts, hoping his voice sounds casual and unstrained. He sits up further, soothing his hands through the nest on his head and doing his best to shake off the cobwebs of his dream.

Nightmare.

Memory.

He takes a deep breath, watching Damian flip through a textbook and centres himself. He’s in the public library, with Damian, and it’s warm.

Peter pulls the other text towards himself, stifling a yawn, flicking to the section on Mary Shelley’s life. Their unfinished notes lay scattered around them in a disorganised mess, or at least they are on Peter’s side. Damian seems to have some sort of binder that he whipped out of thin air like a magician. Peter makes a mental note to pursue the theory that his new friend has magic, if the whole spy thing doesn’t work out.

“You have drool on your face, Parker.”

Peter hurriedly swipes a hand across his cheek, flushing with embarrassment as he removes all evidence of his little catnap. He narrows his eyes at Damian, daring him to say something.

He doesn’t, thank God, but there’s a little spark of mischief hiding behind those green eyes that Peter has begun to notice over the past several days. Damian is finding this funny; he groans internally.

They sit in companionable silence for a while, the rustling of pages and the scratch of Damian’s fancy pen the only sounds uttered between them. They’d made a lot of progress on their project already, having split up the tasks easily amongst the two of them.

Though Damian had been somewhat reluctant to leave him to his own devices, which Peter has to admit is fair considering he spends most of their English lessons doodling little spiders in his margins.

In the library, however, he thinks his focus has been impeccable if you ignore him falling asleep with his cheek pressed against the open pages of the novel. He closes the textbook, having already taken any notes he needs, and grabs the book from where he’s shoved it away from the ever-growing pile of balled up paper.

He gives it a cursory glance, not that interested in continuing with anything today, before one line snags his attention.

‘I was benevolent and good; misery made me a fiend’

Peter blinks rapidly and slams the book closed, trying to rid the burning sensation behind his eyelids.

He doesn’t look up, but he can feel Damian’s gaze pressing on him, observing him like he so often does.

“We should finish here for the day,” he tells him and begins meticulously placing his notes back in the folder, careful to ensure that nothing becomes creased. Peter doesn’t share those same concerns and merrily shoves his battered notebook into his bag next to Fitz. He gives the rabbit a little stroke on the ear before zipping it back up again, grateful for the opportunity to distract himself.

A soft rolling sound edges nearer and Peter glances around before a woman emerges from around the corner, toned arm muscles flexing as she wheels herself towards them with a little smile.

Peter peers up at the clock on the wall, noting the late hour. The library closes early on a Sunday, and they only have ten minutes before it locks up for the night. She looks friendly enough, but Peter guesses she’s probably come to kick them out.

“Sorry,” he apologises once she’s within earshot, “we were just leaving.” He gestures to the cleared table and their packed bags.

“No problem,” she chirps happily and Peter staunchly avoids looking at her red hair, his dream still fresh in his mind. “I actually came over to say hello.”

The librarian holds out a slim hand to him and Peter shakes it, mildly confused at her lack of irritation at them. “I’m Babs,” she tells him.

“Barbara is a family friend,” Damian intercepts and gracefully slings his bag over his shoulder. Peter nods at the explanation which should make perfect sense, he ignores the annoying hum of his senses that hints there’s something else he’s not being told.

Shut up he tells it.

Peter swears up and down that it hisses back at him.

Babs stares up at him expectantly, clearly waiting for something, but Peter has nothing to offer. He’s not the world’s best conversationalist, this one or any other planet scattered throughout the universe.

Damian sighs with exasperation and pinches the bridge of his nose, a move which he has come to interpret as ‘Peter is being stupid again’. An expression that Damian wears rather a lot now that he really thinks about it.

“This is Peter,” Damian introduces for him. He realises belatedly that he never gave the woman his name. Whoops.

“Nice to meet you, Peter. How’d you know Damian?” She seems curious, but her eyes look like she’s trying to solve a puzzle that only she can figure out. Peter supposes it’s not that unusual to be interested, he doesn’t think Damian has any friends, he spends most of his lunches with his brothers anyway. Peter can hardly judge him for that though, he spends most of his own time just talking to himself.

“We’re paired up for an English assignment.” He doesn’t offer anything else, let her make her own conclusions. Babs nods as if she already knew that, gaze flickering from Peter to Damian and back again.

He’s just glad that the bruises decorating his face have mostly faded, now a faint yellow that you’d only notice if you were very observant. Peter thinks this mysterious librarian might fall under that category, her shrewd eyes missing nothing.

“Well, I won’t keep you boys.” She begins to wheel away back to reception, adding over her shoulder, “make sure to head out before it gets dark.”

Damian mutters something under his breath about not needing to be babied but complies nonetheless and they head out into the cold, waving goodbye to Barbara as they shove pass the heavy double doors of Gotham Library.

A light layer of frost crunches beneath their feet as they head towards the school, Damian insisting he’ll get the bus back to his house, wherever that is. Peter’s pretty sure the route only goes around some of the less well-kept areas, and there’s no way that Damian lives in the Bowery of all places.

“You really don’t need to get the bus with me,” he tries to persuade the older boy.

“And risk you being ‘mugged’ again?” he retorts and Peter is grasped by the overwhelming urge to bash his head against a brick wall. If Damian gets on the same bus as him, it means he’ll have to get off close to where Dick dropped him last week. Which means he’ll have to sprint back to Michael’s if he wants to make it before curfew.

“That was one time and besides, you’ve been teaching me self-defence.” Which isn’t a lie, they’d been to the gym twice more to learn evasive manoeuvres, Peter had even let Damian teach him how to throw a proper punch without breaking his hand, though he’d flat out refused to try it against Damian himself. He hopes it will be enough to convince him.

But Damian is just as stubborn as he is. “You’ve had a total of three lessons,” he says plainly and his tone communicates what his mouth is not saying. That Peter would lose any fight he enters, including this one.

He grumbles, knowing when to accept defeat. “Fine. But when someone steals your fancy watch, don’t blame me.”

Petty? Yes.

Peter doesn’t care.

Damian folds his arms in his signature move of disapproval, “I’d like to see them try.”

And there they were, the magic words.

Later, when Peter calms his racing heart, he’ll remind himself to sock Damian over the head for tempting fate like that. For now, he tackles him to the ground when something decidedly unfriendly whizzes over their heads, accompanied by a sharp scream of his senses that warned him just in time.

They land in a graceless heap of limbs, Peter’s elbow digging into Damian’s chest while his own stomach is poked at by the teenager’s stupidly pointy knee. Peter struggles to untangle himself, his forehead colliding with Damian’s as he thrashes.

“Stop wiggling,” Damian hisses through gritted teeth and yanks them apart, hauling them both to their feet just in time to see three burly-looking men gather around them. He doesn’t need spider senses to tell him that a gun and two knives pointed at them is bad news.

Peter straightens his back, not daring to take his eyes off of the men for even a second. His inner turmoil rages within him, to fight or not to fight.

Peter had made a promise to himself to never be violent again, the thought of going back on that making his stomach churn uncomfortably.

But then the goon with the gun chuckles, a horrible scraping laugh, and Peter realises that he can’t let Damian down like that. He’ll fight, if he has to, to protect his friend.

Even if said friend seems remarkably calm given the circumstances.

“We have no quarrel with you, leave us be,” Damian demands in his cold, authoritative voice. His fists rest loosely at his side and he appears abuzz with suspense, as if fully prepared to leap into the fray.

A man closest to them, a dirty cloth tied around his lower face, sneers at Damian.

“What you gonna do, posho? Call Daddy?”

The three of them begin to edge closer, backing them towards the brick wall behind them as they advance. Damian remains rigid, throwing a sturdy arm out across Peter’s chest as if that small action would stop a bullet to the head.

!!!!

Peter barely blinks before he grabs Damian again and forces them to duck beneath the glint of silver that flashes even in the dimming light. Damian grabs the back of Peter’s hoodie and yanks him so he’s standing behind Damian, greeted by the back of his head.

He ignores the other boy’s cutting look as he steps back around him, his muscles tense and prepared.

For Damian, he’ll punch these suckers right in their yellowing teeth.

Though Damian doesn’t seem to want to wait for him to act.

With an agile leap, Damian nimbly crosses the small expanse separating their two sides and kicks out a leg, sweeping the gunman’s legs out from under him. The man topples to the floor with a resounding crash, his head slamming against the concrete, out cold.

Holy shit.

Peter doesn’t have time to get over his shock before the masked dude comes sailing towards him, wielding the knife like this isn’t the first time he’s had to use it. Judging by the suspiciously red stain, Peter can be sure that he and Damian aren’t their first victims.

He dodges to the left, nearly colliding with a nearby dumpster, before spinning around once more to evade the sharp blade. The man curses at him in such an imaginative string of swears that Peter is momentarily impressed by the creativity. Until the knife swings at his fucking face.

“Peter!” Damian’s voice rings out, echoing off the walls from where he’s tussling with the other attacker. The warning comes a fraction too late to completely avoid the knife and it slices into his cheekbone, leaving a biting pain and a warmth spreading across his face.

It’s Peter’s turn to swear now, cradling a hand to his injured face. He can’t help the irritation that builds up in him, the boiling anger and residual anxiety combining in a powerful force.

“Hey!” he shouts, “my face has just healed!”

!!!!

Peter ducks under the next swing and twists at an unnatural angle, his body contorting in ways it shouldn’t be able to. He takes advantage of the man’s shock and grabs his wrist with his hand, applying just enough pressure for it to hurt, but not so much that he snaps the guy’s arm. Peter yanks the arm to the side and then pushes it high up the man’s back in one smooth move that he’s practised with Damian, pressing him against the dumpster face-first.

The man struggles viciously, tossing his body to and fro until Peter’s forced to use a bit of extra strength just to stop him from squirming. He’s not sure what he’s actually supposed to do now, having never incapacitated a criminal before –

“Duck!”

DUCK! The voice agrees.

For the second time today, a loud bang reverberates around the alley and Peter finds himself sprawled awkwardly on top of another human being, only this time, the other person is actively trying to stab him in the jugular.

Lovely.

He ignores the ominous thudding from behind him as a body is thrown into the ground repeatedly and can only pray that it’s not Damian being tossed about like a raggedy doll. Instead, he grabs a fistful of the man’s disgustingly greasy hair and pulls it hard, eliciting a sharp cry of pain before he’s being tackled onto his side, the harsh grit of the street nipping at his exposed hands.

Peter throws his head back, smiling grimly when he hears a distinct crunching followed by a rush of expletives as his face is pressed harshly against the ground by a large adult hand. Peter reaches out blindly, attempting to grab some loose fabric or anything really when all of a sudden, the weight is lifted off him.

He rolls quickly onto his back and can only stare at the mammoth of a man before him.

His chest is huge and he towers above Peter’s attacker with the air of someone who isn’t afraid to break a few bones. It takes him a second to realise that the other two men are lying motionless on the ground, one with something sharp sticking out of his left knee.

Is that a compass??

“The fuck do you think you’re doing,” the man’s voice is impossibly deep, distorted by the red helmet encompassing his head as he roughly shakes the man, the voice modulator doing nothing to disguise the underlying fury. He starts to stammer, a suspicious stain spreading across his trousers.

“N-Nothing! We ain’t done nothing, th-they attacked us!” he declares in a shaky voice, trembling before this behemoth. Damian scoffs derisively from where he’s magically appeared next to Peter without him noticing, his hand gripped tightly onto Peter’s sleeve.

The helmeted man tilts his head mockingly, “really, now?”

“Y-Yes...” comes the stuttered reply. Peter can’t see his mystery saviour’s face, but he’d bet the anger in his eyes could melt ice.

“I don’t believe you.”

He doesn’t let the man make any more paltry excuses, simply starts dragging him away, shooting a look at Damian that Peter can barely comprehend right now because said boy is currently fussing over him like a mother hen. It’s disturbing.

Damian doesn’t fuss.

He swats gently at the slim hand dabbing at the cut on his cheek, “I’m fine,” he reassures before grinning shakily. “At least this time you’ll believe me when I say I’ve been mugged, silver lining.”

Damian narrows his eyes at him, still checking over his body intently as if he could possibly have missed a gaping wound. “Are you hysterical?”

“Possibly.”

Honesty is the best policy. Peter is feeling a bit hysterical, but who wouldn’t be? The adrenaline ebbs from him slowly, leaving him with a faint tremble that he does his best to ignore. He’s surrounded by two men lying prone on the ground, both of whom were taken down by the boy standing in front of him and by a piece of stationery no less, then a giant appears and takes another man away, possibly to murder him and chuck him in the river. He’s also bleeding and definitely going to miss curfew at this rate.

Sue him, he’s a little overwhelmed right now.

Damian studies him, his green eyes scanning Peter once more before he turns sharply on his heel and goes to collect their discarded bags.

Peter’s thankful to see Fitz unharmed, if a little squashed by the scuffle, and pulls him out to run his fingers through the soft fur, the soothing motion calming his heart rate. He’s a little annoyed at his own reaction, he’s been through much worse before, so why is his body choosing now to freak out?

Peter doesn’t even bother arguing this time when Damian pulls him into yet another expensive car with yet another brother.

He’s so massive that Peter marvels over his ability to fit behind the steering wheel.

There must be something in the water here to make all the men so bloody ginormous.

Peter stares sullenly at his twig arms and legs, certain that he’ll never grow again. Even Damian is significantly taller and he’s only three years older! He debates asking Damian’s brother what he eats, but he doesn’t seem like the talkative type, only asking if they were okay and falling silent after he presses a clean bandage into Peter’s hand.

This suits him just fine, if only he could get Damian to stop his incessant fretting.

A distraction it is.

“So,” he starts. “You’ve been hiding something from me.” Damian doesn’t outwardly react, but something very close to panic sparks behind those luminous eyes. His brother, Jason apparently, goes stiff in the shoulders, glancing in the mirror back at them. Well, he certainly hadn’t been expecting that reaction.

“What would that be?” Damian asks coolly and scowls when Peter lifts the bandage from his cut, reaching out a hand to make him reapply the pressure. Peter scowls right back at him, the cut is hardly even bleeding anymore.

He barrels straight into it, “you’re a secret agent.” He says it with confidence and an unwavering stare.

There’s a strange choking noise from the front of the car but Peter keeps his eyes trained firmly on Damian who looks as unimpressed as ever. “Really, Parker?”

“Really really,” he replies cheekily and cheers silently when Damian finally stops smothering him, deciding to direct Jason to Peter’s ‘home’ instead of dealing with his ‘childish antics’. He doesn’t think he was supposed to hear that part but what can you do with enhanced hearing? Can’t turn it off.

He grins, though his hands still shake. Peter one, Damian zero.

He slides out of the car when it stops in front of the same block of flats as last time, bidding them both a farewell and not-so-accidentally cutting off Damian’s rant on proper ‘wound care’.

Clean it, Parker.

Use antiseptic to wash it out.

Use a fresh bandage, not an old one Peter, I mean it.

Peter passes the time by mimicking Damian in his head, only leaving his hiding spot until five minutes have been and gone. He stores Fitz carefully away in his bag and then bolts back the way they’d come, the sinking sun informing him he hasn’t got much time left.

Peter throws caution to the wind and runs as fast as his enhanced, but malnourished, body can manage, relying on the dark to be his friend should anyone spot him. Peter truly has no idea if he’s late or not, considering he doesn’t own a phone or even a watch, and holds his breath as he gently knocks on the front door.

A minute passes. Then two.

He shifts his weight from foot to foot, not knowing what awaits him on the other side of the deceptively normal wooden door. Suddenly, the old thing swings open with a creak from the protesting hinges and Peter feels himself relax when he spots Adam holding it open for him.

“Hurry up, before he notices you were late,” he mutters quietly and Peter nods in thanks. As he steps over the threshold, he can’t help but glance back into the street, a heavy weight pressing down on him at the sensation of being watched crawls over his skin.

But there’s not a soul to be seen.

“Where is he?” he whispers once he’s in the hallway, eyeing the shadows like they’re about to snatch him up. His body hasn’t stopped trembling, and this growing anxiety is not helping matters.

Adam shrugs, “asleep on the sofa I expect.” They peek into the living room and, sure enough, Michael is spread eagle on the couch, a bottle of something clutched to his chest. Peter backs away with a jolt, assaulted by the memory of having a similar glass bottle thrown at his head his very first night here.

Adam looks at him knowingly and gestures for him to enter the kitchen where a brown paper bag resides on the table. The smells emanating from it are heavenly and his unfed stomach growls with excitement.

“It’s yours,” Adam nudges him to a stool which Peter sinks onto gratefully. “Got it free from work. I’ve eaten mine and so has Ibrihim.” Peter reaches for the bag, finding a misshapen burger and small bag of fries.

“What about Finn?”

Adam frowns and rubs a hand across the back of his neck, “he’s not here.”

“Why? Where is he?” Concern gnaws at him, Finn is the least likely out of the four of them to go against Michael and for him not to be here is unsettling at the very least.

Adam blows out a breath but doesn’t sound too worried when he says, “he’s probably staying with his friend again. I’m sure it’s nothing.” He heads to his room after that, leaving Peter to his own turbulent thoughts.

He finishes the meal quickly and efficiently, not leaving so much as a crumb behind, making sure to crank one of the windows open so Michael doesn’t smell the food when he wakes.

Peter crumples the wrappers into a little ball and hurries up the stairs, shutting his bedroom door behind him. He glances nervously at Finn’s bed, at the spot where the twelve-year-old usually keeps his school supplies.

Adam’s right, he’ll be fine.

There’s a tingle at the back of his head though, something nagging at him as he stares at the unfinished homework resting quietly on the unruffled duvet. He swallows what little moisture is left in his mouth and eases over the creaking floorboards to their shared wardrobe. Even between the two of them, it’s only half-filled, a stark reminder of their position in life.

Peter crouches down and gently lifts up the old board at the back of the space, uncovering the hiding spot he’s kept secret for five long months. Anything he can’t have Michael see, goes in here.

Including food wrappers, apparently.

He can’t risk putting it in the bin for him to find, so this will have to do before he can sneak it out of the house. Damian’s not the only one with secret spy skills.

He’s about to drop it into the little hidey hole when he realises it’s empty.

Empty.

Peter flings himself forward, fingers scrambling around the small space, eyes desperately straining to catch a glimpse of shimmering gold.

His hands touch nothing but splintered wood.

“No, no, no!” Peter chants over and over and over again, running his hands once more over the bottom of the wardrobe, but knowing that the outcome won’t change no matter how much he begs.

Because it’s not there.

It’s gone.

The ring is gone.