A Long Way From Home (And No Way Back) - Vivia_wants_boba (2024)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

“Okay, okay, but the third Shrek is objectively the worst,” Tim said, lifting his traveler cup to his lips and sipping the hot coffee from it. Jason, who sat across from him in a bean bag, shook his head with his arms crossed.

“Nope,” he said with finality. “The third one is the best.”

Damian nodded in agreement from his spot on the floor. The Lego set he was building was almost complete, a small diner-like building standing almost finished as he worked on the roof. Jason smirked as he saw a small frown set up on his youngest brother’s face and watched as the young teenager looked around at the pieces surrounding his crossed legs.

“Something wrong baby bat?” Dick asked as he entered the room, immediately coming to lean against the back of the couch where Tim sat.

“I’m missing a piece,” Damian said shortly, his sharp gaze still searching the pieces around him.

“Oh,” Dick said, his mouth quirking slightly and his gaze finding Jason’s. He raised an eyebrow. “Wonder how that happened.”

Damian, who had not been looking up and had not caught the look, groaned in frustration, standing up and looking down at the floor again.

“I don’t understand,” his face set into a frown. Tim, taking another sip from his cup, shook his head.

“I’m sure you’ll find it,” he said as he stood, wavering a little when he reached his feet. Dick, ever the worrier, stepped forward.

“Maybe you should get some sleep Timbit,” he reaches for Tim’s arm, but the young boy just shrugs him off.

“I can’t,” Tim says through a yawn. “Got really important stuff to be doing.”

“Stuff like what?” Dick crossed his arms over his chest, and the sight made Jason snort. His older brother shoots him a look but returns his gaze back to Tim. “Like monitoring the patrol that you and Jason are supposed to be getting ready for,” Tim looks at his watch. “And leave in like 5 minutes.”

Jason checks his own watch and sure enough, the replacement was right.

“sh*t,” he says, pushing himself out of the bean bag and tossing the small Lego piece clutched in his hands down to the floor. “Guess we better go get ready then.”

He rushes out of the room with Tim snickering behind him, the sounds of Damian frustrated yells echoing down the manor halls.

Patrol was one of Jason’s favorite parts of the day.

It was freeing, and the feeling of his bike running smoothly beneath him and the wind ripping through his clothes made him feel alive. Which was something he felt more and more now. (Even though he isn’t alive.) He also liked the feeling of flesh under his knuckles and fresh bruises on his hands but that wasn’t the point.

Sometimes, it was the beauty of the city that made it all worth it.

Now, don’t get him wrong, Gotham wasn’t the prettiest of cities. Its skies were dark and gloomy, rarely ever letting the sun peek through, and the air was never clean. The streets were dirty and dark, with creatures and figures lurking in the shadows alike, and it wasn’t safe to walk around alone at any time of the day. Kids ran in dirty clothes and matted hair from corner to corner asking for change that no one gave and adults too tired to move sat against walls and gazed out upon the streets with dull eyes.

But underneath all the grime and corruption, hidden behind the crime was something that Jason couldn’t describe. Gotham was his home, no matter the terrible experiences he had gone through here, it was where his family is. And it is where he always finds himself, despite his wish to stay away.

Crime Alley has become his home away from home and holds his own apartment along with a couple safe houses. It was where he went when he didn’t want to deal with his family, or they were all busy doing something else and the manor was empty. The drive from his apartment to Damian and Tim’s school was long, but he still found it in himself to go to all their stupid science conventions and art fairs. He even went to a play that Damian was in and recorded it. He found ways to meet up with his family, even if he really didn’t want to, he pushed himself to. He knows they’re the only ones he has left, the only ones who understand. And besides, they’re family.

But patrol with family?

Annoying.

Annoying as hell.

Especially when the whole lot of them went out. Right now, it was just him and Dick out, with Tim at home monitoring them and surfing through security cameras to check for crime. Bruce had some sort of meeting at Wayne Industries, and Damian was stuck at home with Alfred because he was grounded. For what, Jason wasn’t exactly sure. All he knew was that it involved glitter glue and one of Tim’s favorite hoodies.

He grinned into the night at the thought, remembering the look on his baby brother’s face when he came to complain to Dick that night. That has been one hell of a conversation.

“Hood,” Tim’s voice crackled over his com, causing him to pause as he vaulted over a roof’s air conditioning unit.

“What’s up Red?” Dick stopped next to him, shaking out his hair. Jason snorted at him.

“I’ve spotted something weird near Crime Alley, it’s about a block north of your safehouse,” Tim’s voice was complemented by the sound of keyboard keys clacking quickly. Jason hummed, already turning towards his home turf.

“Got any more information than ‘weird’?” Dick asked as they made their way across the rooftops, hopping between the buildings with ease.

“There’s an apartment flowing green?” Tim’s voice sounds unsure, and Jason can feel the low growl form in his throat.

“Green,” he repeats. “Anything else? You know, maybe like exactly what we’re supposed to do about it?”

“Apartments don’t just glow green, Timbo,” Dick speaks up as he passes Jason, taking longer strides to lead the way. Jason’s not sure why he does it, after all they are heading into his territory.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m checking on it.” More clicking and clacking. Then a tired sigh. “I can’t see into it through the cameras, the window is small and is high up in the wall. I’m guessing maybe a bathroom window?” There’s some low muttering that is too rushed for Jason to understand. “Heat seeking isn’t working, and I’m running a toxicity test right now so hold your horses.”

Jason sighed, leapt over a random garden and continued running, following his brother.

“Aha!” Tim exclaims over the com a minute later and there’s some shuffling that grates on Jason’s ears. Silence.

“Well? Are we dealing with some new toxin or something?” Jason tries to keep the gruffness out of his voice, but they are nearing the location and they do not have nearly enough information.

“What? Oh no, uh not that, no,” Tim’s voice trails off unsurely. Jason doesn’t like his tone. Neither does Dick apparently.

“Tim,” the oldest says with a bit of an edge. “Got something to share with us? Since we’re the ones out here? Do we need to call Bruce?”

“Well,” Tim draws out and welp that’s not good. “Depends on if you feel like dealing with another zombie on your own or not.”

That has Jason stopping in his tracks. “What?” He demands back, a sinking feeling in his gut.

Green, neon toxic green that filled his dreams, his mind, his eyes-.

“What do you mean, Tim?”

“The toxicity levels match the ones we got from the Lazarus pits, Jason,” Tim says. “It’s, well it’s not exact, but definitely replicating it. I think someone tried to make a homemade one?”

Jason, despite himself, snorted. “Yeah, ‘cause everyone has access to the chemical mumbo jumbo that makes up that hell liquid. And the knowledge on what it is even.”

“I’m going to ignore that you just called it hell liquid and go ahead and say that I genuinely have no idea what’s going on, but you should probably check it out.”

Over the com, Jason heard Dick sigh. He snickers, stepping to catch up with his brother. “Not feeling like chasing around a zombie, Dickwing?” he teased as he ran.

“Not really,” Dick answers back. “I already have one I need to keep an eye on.”

“Haha,” Jason returns, shaking his head amused. “Let’s see what this is all about huh?”

The building was a normal looking apartment building, at least as far as Crime Alley goes.

Steps led up to double doors that led to apartments further in the building. The front lights were dim, one of the glass fixtures shattered and the other cracked. A few of the windows were lit dimly, all of them with curtains pulled right over the glass, a couple of the others broken and covered with boards. Up the building about halfway was the small window Tim found. Even from where they stood across the street in an alley, Jason could see the glow.

“Alright Timbo,” Jason says to the comm, eyes glancing down the street for any stragglers. Normal people knew better than to wander the streets of Gotham after dark, even with the Bats around; but that doesn’t stop the druggies or drunks. Although he doesn’t really need no one to be there, it does get rid of the list of witnesses in case something goes wrong. “Got any information about the apartment?”

There’s the sound of soft keyboard clacks and a thunk of a mug hitting a table before Tim is talking again. “Building was built in 1897 and was shut down until a few years ago due to a mold problem. The units are cheap and kinda shabby, each for about 700 dollars a month.”

Dick, who was leaning against the alley wall next to Jason nodded, hands tapping a slight rhythm to his knees. Jason thinks it’s the Mario Kart Theme.

“According to the building blueprints, the apartment you’re looking for is unit 4E. It’s listed under a man named Lucas Welling, I’m running the name right now.”

“Alright,” Dick says, pushing himself from the wall. “We’re heading in now, so keep us updated.”

The two of them rushed across the road, eyes peeled for anything lurking in the shadows, carefully scanning any of the empty looking windows. Jason still has a twisted feeling in his gut that screams trap, but he keeps close to his brother’s side, and they enter the building without problem. The front entry is empty, a simple room with a table pushed to the side with mailboxes in the wall above, a set of stairs against the far wall, and an elevator with big yellow tape stretched across it sat on the empty wall. The carpet was stained, and the walls yellowed, but it didn’t smell like most of the shabbier aparmtents did in Gotham.

Jason led as they passed the elevator to the stairs, their footsteps silent as they made their way up the staircase. The building is mostly silent, only the occasional beat of loud music or a baby crying making its way down the hall as they pass the floor. Jason was, embarrassingly, already out of breath as they reached the fourth floor, which Dick found incredibly amusing.

“Really, Red,” Dick snorts, shaking his head. “Maybe we should add climbing stairs to the workout rotation.”

“Shut up,” Jason grouches back, straightening out his jacket as they creep down the hallway, towards a door that read 4E in brass lettering. “If you do, I’ll tell Alfred to take away your cereal privilages.”

Dick pouts but says nothing more.

“So,” Jason starts casually, both staring at the unassuming door with wary eyes. “What exactly do we do now.”

Personally, he thinks his plan of breaking the door down and aiming his guns at anything that moves is the best choice. Although he hasn’t told Dick of that plan, he’s fairly sure Dick will shoot the idea down the minute he opens his mouth. So, he looks at his brother with an eyebrow raised.

“I mean,” Dick starts, raising a fist to the door and holding it a few inches away. “We could just knock?”

Jason levels a flat stare at his brother, trying to push the idea of how bad that sounds through his eyes, but Dick seems to not notice. Or care. Instead, he smiles a white flash and knocks twice, loudly.

At first there’s no sound from inside, only the gentle pound of Jason’s heart in his ears and the sound of Dick’s even breaths, but then there’s the almost invisible soft thuds of footsteps nearing the door. Jason is pretty sure that whoever is in the apartment, be it the Welling dude or not, is most certainly not going to open the door to two vigilantes. So, he’s surprised when the door handle moves and clicks, the door opening no more than two inches and allowing him only a sliver of view of the unit inside.

It’s dark inside, everything bathed in a sickly green light that leaks out of an ajar bathroom door deeper inside the room. From his spot, Jason can see the edge of a rusty tub filled with something that looks almost like Nickelodeon Slime, and a pile of towels strewn across the floor stained green.

“Lucas Welling?” Dick asks and Jason looks down from where his gaze had been only to blink in surprise. There’s a kid blocking the doorway’s small opening. His brown hair, streaked with grey down the front, is partially dried and curls around his ears. Eyes, only one visible, but still toxic green and visibly red rimmed, peak out from around the door suspiciously. A large grey shirt falls past his hips onto blue basketball shorts that are a little too baggy. The kid - although kid might not be the right word as Jason studies him more - is short, maybe 5’ 4’’ and probably 130 pounds soaking wet. Jason could be wrong though, as more than half of the teenagers(?, he’s still not sure) body is hidden behind the door.

“Lucas Welling?” Dick repeats, and Jason’s eyes cut to his brother’s face. Satisfied to see that Dick is examining the kid as closely as he had, he looks back at the boy.

“Ah,” the boy says, voice a little deeper than what Jason was expecting. The kid couldn’t be much older than 16, Jason figures. “No?”

Jason raises an eyebrow just as the comm in his ear clicks.

“I’ve got that information on Lucas Welling,” Tim says, and is that a Rubik's cube Jason hears? He raises a hand to his ear, eyes never leaving the kid who watches him with the same level of apprehension and clears his throat.

“Go ahead R,” he says.

“Lucas Welling is 38 years old and lives on his own. His parents died a couple years ago in a nursing home and Welling works at a local hotel as a housekeeper. No siblings, kids, or social media account, and anything I can find hints that he wasn’t close with people.”

Jason hums. “No kids, huh,” he repeats, looking down at the teenager in the doorway.

“Can I, uh, help you?” the kid, until Jason knows his name that’s what he’s calling him, asks, and the door closes just a tiny bit.

Dick nods, shoulders shifting just slightly. “We’ve noticed a bit of a light coming from the window,” he starts, nodding to the apartment behind the kid. “Saw it was coming from here and decided to check it out, y’know? Make sure everyone is alright.”

The kid’s eyes narrow despite the relaxed smile spreading across Dick’s face. “What’s it to you? Who even are you?”

Jason raises an eyebrow. A Gothamite that doesn’t recognize him? Dick, he can understand. Afterall, Nightwing makes most of his rounds in Bludhaven, only the occasional one in Gotham as a stand in or around a holiday. But Jason is Red Hood, someone whose face, well, helmet, is recognizable to citizens and crooks alike. Some people of crime alley considered him their protector, and even those who don’t still recognize him. With a slowly growing unease in his gut, he manages to put a small smile on his lips.

“The name’s Red Hood,” he sticks a gloved hand out and feels satisfied when the kid doesn’t so much as flinch. “Vigilante of Gotham.”

The kid doesn’t take his hand, sadly, but his eyes do widen slightly at Jason’s words. Jason juts a thumb at Dick, who waves.

“This is Nightwing, my annoying friend.” Dick cuts him with a sharp glare, despite the domino mask, but turns to look back at the kid.

“We’re both vigilantes,” he says. “But we might as well be heroes by now, with all the stuff we have to deal with.”

Jason elbows him.

“Uh,” the kid says, the door opening just slightly more, revealing a somewhat disgusting looking kitchen. “Okay. But you guys didn’t have to come here or anything, I’m alright. Everything’s okay. SO yup, no need for any vigilantes or heroes or anything. Yup.”

Jason shakes his head, letting out a sigh. “Nice try kiddo,” the kid’s nose wrinkles up and yeah, the nickname’s gonna stick. “But you can’t expect us to just leave after coming all this way. Especially not with that tub of goo just sitting in your bathroom.”

“Oh,” the kid says, head turning to look back at the bathroom. “It’s fine. I’ve got it figured out.”

Dick’s face pulls to a pinched expression, shaking his head slowly. “As much as I’d love to believe you, I can’t. That stuff can’t just be emptied down the drain.”

The kid’s own face scrunches this time. “Why not?”

Jason has a feeling this kid doesn’t remember quite as much of his experience in the pit as Jason did himself. With a sudden jolt, Jason realizes this kid might not know he’s dead. Great.

“ It’s, well,” Dick looks to Jason and makes a gesture with his hands that Jason doesn’t understand. Does Dick really think he knows how to deal with this situation better than him? A sudden shout from down the hall makes him jump, heading spinning to look down to the staircase. Another shout echoes from farther down, and heavy footsteps start. Despite it most likely being a couple or friends returning from somewhere, especially since the footsteps sound a little too drunk to be normal, Jason can’t shake the feeling of unease that makes goosebumps spread across his arms.

“Kid, can we come in?” The door closes a bit again and Jason refrains from sighing. This is taking too long. Dick, thankfully, seems to think so too.

“We know it’s not your apartment, kiddo,” Nightwing says, flashing a small reassuring smile that he gives to victims on a daily basis. “We also know that you probably have no idea what’s going on or where you are. You can trust us, promise.”

Green eyes, still looking a little untrusting, look both of them up and down a couple times before they narrow. Then, with a grumble of something that sounds suspiciously like screw stranger danger, the door opens, and they enter the apartment.

The smell is what hits Jason first. A mix of spoiled milk, dirty socks, and Sulphur. For a brief moment, he’s surrounded in green liquid again, before he blinks and he’s standing in the apartment. Dick, ever the observant brother, gently squeezes his shoulder before moving through the apartment to the bathroom. Jason follows, leaving the kid sitting on one of the sagging couch cushions.

Dick stands slightly to the side, giving Jasona good view of the bathtub, old and dirty, filled with the toxic liquid. It looks almost the same as Jason remembers, only slight differences showing. The thickness, shininess, and color were all just slightly off, but it smells just as bad as Jason remembers. He glanced around the rest of the room, taking note of the liquid sloshed to the ground, the several towels lumped on the floor, and the dust that covered most of the surfaces. A cracked bar of soap sits on the sink edge, and a toothbrush sits in a cup next to it. With a huff, the two leave the bathroom and head back to the main area. Dick goes to sit down next to the kid, and Jason heads to the kitchen.

The kitchen, much like the bathroom, isn’t the cleanest room. The counters were covered in a thin layer of dust, dirty dishes piled in the sink, and a can of open beans was sitting next to the microwave. The trash had obviously not been emptied in a very long time, and Jason only lifted the cover long enough to peer at the contents inside. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he closes it with a gag and moves to the cupboards. Again, he finds nothing of interest, other than a pack of half-eaten Oreos, which he puts back in their spot. He catches Dick’s eye and gestures to what he can only assume is the bedroom door and waits for Dick to nod before he makes his way over. He can hear his brother and the kid talking, the exact words are lost to him as he enters the bedroom, but he thinks he hears Peter. Must be the kid’s name, he huffs.

The bedroom, again, has nothing that says I work for an evil organization, and this is why. Jason goes through the drawers, pulling out laundry and tossing it back in, finding only a single edition of Playboy hidden in the socks. Nothing is hidden under the bed, or in the pillowcase, and the desk only holds pencils and a stapler that’s empty. Again, a thin layer of dust has settled over everything, and now coats Jason’s gloves. He lifts a hand to his comm, waits for it to click, then speaks.

“Hey, R, you said this guy works at a hotel nearby?”

“Yup,” Tim answers. “It’s like a 10-minute walk.”

“Has he been missing shifts lately or anything? Taken vacation recently?”

Tim hums, and clacks on his computer for a minute or so. “Nope,” he answers after a minute or so. “He clocked in this morning and clocked out at his normal time. Why? Something wrong?”

Jason hums, taking a step and looking out of the window and to the street below. Still empty.

“His apartment looks like it hasn’t been lived in for a while.”

“Well,” Tim sighs. “That’s not suspicious at all.”

Jason snorts, shaking his head and leaving the window, turning back to the living area.

“Look into will ya? Dick’s talking to the kid right now, and has probably made a plan of some sorts, so I’ll talk later.”

“Alright,” Tim says, and there’s a click of the comm turning off. Jason runs a quick hand through his hair before he’s opening the door and making his way over to where Dick and the kid were sitting. Dick’s expression lights up upon seeing him, and Jason suddenly has a feeling that whatever plan his older brother has devised is probably going to piss someone off.

“Hey Red,” Dick greets. “Peter and I were just talking.”

“Mhm,” Jason hums, cutting a glance at the kid, Peter, and nods. He looks back to Dick and raises and eyebrow. “Talking about what exactly?”

“Oh, just about our good friends the Wayne’s. And about how good Alfred’s cooking is.”

Oho. Jason might actually like this plan.

“Really now?” Jason questions, sitting on the coffee table with a grunt. “Alfred’s cooking really is good, kiddo, especially his hot chocolate.”

Dick nods. “Rich, creamy, chocolate goodness.”

“Ya like hot chocolate kid?”

Peter nods slowly, eyes brightening slightly. Jason suddenly needs a blanket to burrito this kid into.

“Well, then,” Jason shrugs. “Guess that settles it, huh. Let’s go.”

With another grunt, geez he really needs to stop getting old, he stands and brushes off his pants.

“Go?” the kid echoes, standing with Nightwing. “Go where?”

Jason pats down his pocket for his subway pass, finding it along with a twenty-dollar bill, and hands it Dick. Dick smiles, pats Peter’s head and starts his way to the door.

“The Wayne’s of course, silly,” Dick says as they leave the unit, closing the door quietly behind them. The hall is silent. “You need to go and try Alfred’s hot chocolate.”

Peter almost trips as he hurries to follow Dick, Jason following behind. With a glance down, Jason realizes the kid does not have shoes on, and his bare feet are standing on a quite frankly disgusting carpet.

“Really kid?” he mutters, shaking his head and calling out a few words to Dick.

Twenty minutes later and the three of them are sitting in an almost empty subway car, hip to hip. Peter is sat between the two vigilantes, both of the men’s large arms crossed and faces settled into a stone cold almost-glare that sharpens anytime someone gets a little too close. Peter, who was currently occupied by examining the dollar-store shark slides Jason had bought for him, hadn’t seemed to notice yet. Jason counted this as a win, and that he has finally solidified the ‘older brother don’t mess with us’ look. The only other people still left on the car is a very high looking college student, a young lady dressed in a waitress’ uniform, and a middle-aged woman who held her young daughter tightly against her side.

“Why does it have a tongue sticking out?” Peter mutters, his feet flopping around enough for Jason to see that yes, in fact, the slipper does depict a pink tongue sticking out of rows of sharp teeth.

“Something wrong with that, kid?” Jason grunts out quietly, noticing just how large his combat boots seem sitting next to Peter’s own feet. The kid really is small, and Jason idly thinks about the possibility of malnourishment.

“Sharks don’t have tongues that can stick out of their mouths,” Peter answers back, rolling his ankle back and forth to examine both sides of the shoes. “Their tongues are called basihyal, which really isn’t a tongue at all, and it’s on the bottom of their mouth. It can’t stick out of their mouth.”

Jason sighs, an exasperated hand running over his face as he realizes he has brought another Damian into the house, and smiles. At least he knows the two will be able to bond over something.

“Don’t worry, kiddo,” he raises and hand to ruffle Peter’s now dry hair, which has curled and poofed to its maximum. “Those people in design probably just didn’t do their research.”

Peter only shrugs.

A few minutes later, the three of them are hopping out of the taxi they hailed for after leaving the subway and are making their way down a dark street. For safety’s sake, they made the taxi drive almost 5 miles past the manor, with many turns in between. But now, they had to retrace those steps, as exhausting as it was.

The manor’s entry and kitchen were lit when they approached, and Jason grinned as he knew that Alfred had already risen for the day and was probably preparing breakfast. Meaning he would also be the one to answer the door, and not possibly Bruce, which settled a weight off Jason’s shoulders. He felt much more comfortable dropping a random kid off into Alfred’s arms. The butler wouldn’t question it, not until later at least, and it’s Alfred. Everyone likes Alfred. Bruce, as great as he was, was admittedly intimidating. Not that Jason isn’t confident Peter wouldn’t be able to handle it, after all, the kid handled two vigilantes knocking on his door at God who knows o’clock. And whatever he went through before they got there.

He just doesn’t want Bruce scaring the kid off before he even stepped foot into the house.

When Alfred opens the door to them, his eyes widen, and his mouth opens but closes the minute he sees Peter it closes again. The warmth of the manor is rolling out in waves through the open door, cutting gently through the cold morning air and bringing the smell of soft Belgium waffles to Jason’s nose. The butler straightens his body out, nodding his head in greeting.

“Good morning, Master Hood and Master Wing,” he greets, British accent thick as ever. “How may I help the three of you this fine morning?”

“Hello Alfred,” Dick greets, obviously keeping his smile stuffed down, but failing. “We’ve collected a stray we thought you might be interested in.”

Peter waves and Jason snorts. Alfred looks down at Peter, expression softening, and wrinkles shallowing.

“Why hello there, young Master,” Alfred nods in greeting again. “Are you per chance hungry?”

Peter nods, arms coming to cross over his chest, each hand tightly grabbing the other’s arm. Dick, seeming to notice the kid’s growing anxiousness, reached forward to place a light hand on Peter’s shoulder.

“It’s alright Peter,” he says, gently pushing Peter forward. “You’ll be okay.”

Peter nods, more to himself than anything, and steps in to follow Alfred as he leads him through the door and into the grand entry. Peter’s shark slides squeak on the marble floor.

“Will you two be joining us for breakfast?” Alfred asks, directing Peter to take his shoes off and place them in the holder next to the door. Jason smiles but shakes his head.

“Afraid we’ll have to head back home soon,” he says, and Alfred nods. Peter’s head shoots up and he looks at them with strangely wide eyes. Jason smiles, stepping close to ruffle the kid’s hair again. “You’ll see us again, kiddo, don’t worry.”

Dick nods, bouncing on the backs of his feet. “We’ll pop in for some cookies sometime soon, alright?”

Peter nods, smiling shyly. “Bye,” he says shortly, lifting a hand to wave as they turn away from the door.

“Bye kiddo, be nice to Alfred and the others alright?”

Peter nods and starts to follow Alfred; the image being cut off as the door closes. For a second, the two of them stand in silence before Dick starts to giggle. Jason sighs, smacking his brother on the head as he turns to make his way around the side of the manor.

“How angry do you think Bruce is gonna be?” Dick questions, both hands coming to rest behind his head as they walk.

“Initially? Pissed,” Jason grins, the smile softening a little. “But once he realizes how cute the kid is, he’ll get over it.”

“He’s probably not gonna be happy someone made a zombie teenager in their bathroom,” Dick points out. “We’re gonna have to deal with him being all sporadic and overly parental again.”

Jason shrugs. “As long as he lets me get my hands on whoever put that kid in the pit, he can wrap me up in as many hugs as he wants.”

Dick smiles, but says nothing more, his eyes glinting darkly.

Jason’s words have double meaning of course. Whoever put the kid in the pit, whether they were the ones who killed an innocent (because Jason can’t imagine a kid who knows about sharks' tongues as anything different) teenager, or the ones who raised someone from the dead at all. Jason knows that Peter might have died a natural death, but that only angers him more; someone went out and raised the soul of a teenager who should have happily been spending the afterlife with his past loved ones. Whatever happened, Jason will find the truth, and those responsible will be dealt with accordingly, Bruce’s no killing rule be damned.

Chapter 2

Chapter Text

Damian Wayne followed schedules.

7:00 AM – Wake up, take a shower, get dressed

7:30 AM – Head down to the kitchen and sit in the third barstool away from the wall, leaving the one on the end for Richard

8:00 AM – Eat the breakfast Alfred made (the old British man had finally convinced him to call him by his name; Damian was still getting used to it)

9:00 AM – Train in the gym with Richard and Todd

12:00 AM – Eat the lunch that Alfred prepared (Sometimes Richard or Todd would take him out for lunch, usually dragging Drake with them. Damian denied that he enjoyed it)

1:00 PM – Free time for him to do as he pleased, he usually spends this time in the library

3:00 PM – More training, usually with Richard

5:00 PM – Depending on what Alfred was serving for dinner, Damian sometimes eats a snack around this time, before he heads to his room and paints

7-8:00 PM – Dinner with his family

8:30 PM – After finishing dishes, he usually retires to one of the living rooms, and lounges about with his brothers

10:00 PM – Despite his protests, he usually finds himself in bed by this time, unless he’s busy doing patrol

Damian Wayne was a man of schedules, lived by schedules, breathed by schedules. If his schedule was disrupted, it always seemed to cause a chain reaction of ruining his mood for the rest of the day. This was a fact his family had been quick to learn, and they usually seemed to be flexible enough so that he didn’t have to be. When the school year inevitably comes around again, as it does every year Damian has come to learn (read hate), he simply creates a new schedule to live his life by. OF course, there are certain days that he does not live to this schedule – such as Christmas or his birthday – but he is usually too invested in the day’s activities to be worried about the schedule. One time, he was stuck in bed for three days due to the flu, and that was one of the worst times of his life. He was too sick to do anything and hovered in the weird blurry state between awareness and asleep, but he was awake enough to spend 8 hours staring at his alarm clock, watching the hours tick by. It has killed him to just sit there, knowing there were so many other things he could be doing, but he really couldn’t get up an do them.

So. He was a man of schedules.

Which is why, when he opened his eyes to find that the sun was already shining brightly through the gap of his curtains, he couldn’t help but pause in his action of sitting up. His eyes wandered the ceiling, taking in the lightened material with a hint of confusion, eyeing the ceiling fan that spun slowly. The sun was hitting the dark blades every time they rotated into the splash of light. It was... strange. Usually, when he rose, the sun was just beginning to peak through the curtains, leaving a streak of sunrise-orange leaking onto the wall opposite the large window. The sunlight never touched the ceiling when he was in his room. So why was it now?

Gripping his bed sheets tightly in his hands, he sat up and blinked around his room. Everything was the same; the dresser tucked gently against the wall with souvenirs and postcards taped around the large mirror that stood upon the top, his pair of slippers that sat near his bedroom door, even the rumpled sweatshirt that he had left on the floor near the end of his bed.

He reached up and rubbed one of his bleary eyes, turning to look at the alarm clock with a huff of breath only to freeze. The numbers 8:33 blinked hazily green at him, and he blinked blankly back. On the bottom of the screen face, next to the little print of ALARM, was an unlit circle. Damian was 100% sure it was lit when he closed his eyes last night.

Someone turned off his alarm.

And someone was going to pay.

With a growl, he pulled himself out of bed, taking only a minute to righten the bedding into its proper place, and moved to the dresser. He dressed simply, since it was a Saturday and he had no plans to go out today, putting on a pair of black slacks and a dark blue sweater. He didn’t bother slipping on socks, and instead pushed on his slippers. He did, however, go to the bathroom and fix his hair, which had become a slight array of puffy black tufts that his older brothers would no doubt ruffle. His hair had grown longer than ever, now just brushing the tips of his ears and being able to be parted the middle, though he made no move to do so. Instead, he simply wet it and slicked it back against his head.

Soon he was padding down the halls, his slippers softly hitting the dark floor with little sound. After a short stroll through the halls and down the stairs, he neared the kitchen. As he neared the room, his father’s voice became more distinct against the white noise of the manor, and Damian paused.

His father was actually in the kitchen?

Damian glanced at the grandfather clock sitting in the small hall he stood in, raising a small eyebrow. His father was in the kitchen at nearly 9 o’clock in the morning, on a Saturday no less? Usually, the man was tucked away into his office or the Batcave, working on either company paperwork or a case file respectively.

Curious.

Alfred was standing in front of the stove, calmly stirring a pot of what looked to be strawberry sauce, a simple white waist apron wrapped around his hips.The wooden spoon in his hand was stained red almost all the way up the handle, and a half-empty package of strawberries sat on the counter next to a cutting board. A plate stacked with waffles sat on the kitchen island, a small syrup dispenser and a can of whipped cream next to it.

“Good morning, Master Damian,” Alfred greeted with a smile. “The waffles are ready, and the strawberries will only be a couple minutes yet.”

Damian nodded at the man, stepping around him to reach for the cupboards with plates only to pause, eyes catching on the sight in front of him. Through the small door opening in the wall that led to the breakfast nook, his father was visible. Bruce was wearing a pair of dark slacks, and a large grey sweater, much like what Damian was wearing. The man’s large frame was tucked into the booth like table and bench combo, his forearms resting on the dark brown surface, and a cup of coffee in his hands. Next to him sat a boy, although he seemed to be around Damian’s own age, if only a couple years older. For a second, before he tamped it down furiously, a spark of excitement filled him.

He, of course, had never witnessed it himself, but he had heard many stories of his father’s protective tendencies. Damian, being the youngest and newest addition to the family, had always thought he would be the last installment to the Wayne household. But now, as he watched the boy who looks eerily similar to Jason, he realizes that fact might not be true.

“Sleep well, Master Damian?” Damian, jumped slightly, knocking the cupboard door closed and just catching his father’s eyes before looking over to Alfred.

“It was,” he searched for a word, “satisfactory.” He opens the cupboard again, grabs a plate and turns back around without meeting his father’s gaze. “Although I do wish it had been kept to my original schedule.”

Alfred hummed from his spot by the stove. “Whatever do you mean, Master Damian?”

Damian speared a waffle with a fork and tossed it onto his plate, handing already reaching for the syrup. “One of those baboons you insist I call my brothers turned off my alarm,” he complained, snorting in displeasure. “I work up 93 minutes later than I should have.”

Alfred, again, hummed, but seemed to have no comment other than: “They are your brothers, Master Damian. One would not think to call them baboons unless they truly act like one.”

Damian snorts, swirling whip cream atop his syrupy waffles, and shakes his head. He murmurs a quiet thank you before heading over towards the nook. He hesitates by the door, unsure of whether his father’s guest would be comfortable with his presence and meets his father’s gaze.

Bruce looks... tired. The bags under his eyes seem to have an age to them that Damian is not sure he’s ever seen before, like canyons cut into a barren desert. There’s a furrow between his brows that shows usually when he returns from a board meeting or something of the sorts, and the crow’s feet that edge his eyes seem extra deep. There’s a line of tension, hidden well but not well enough, in his father’s shoulders that has Damian reevaluating their guest.

Small, with nimble looking shoulders and a sharpening jawline. Brown, fluffy hair curls around his ears and streaks of grey frame his freckle touched face. Green eyes, looking toxic enough to be the Lazarus pit water themselves stare down at a half-eaten pile of waffles, and blink tiredly. His clothes are loose and dirty, and he wore no shoes or socks.

“Good morning father,” Damian manages to push out, eyes still latched onto the Jason-look alike. There aren’t many similarities beside the hair and eyes, but Damian figures those traits are out of the oridinary for them to be similar enough.

Bruce hums and leans back in his spot, arms resting on the tabletop. “Morning, Damain. Sleep well?”

Damian’s eyes cut to his father, narrowing. Of course the man would notice Damian’s late arrival to breakfast. “Yes,” he says simply.

Bruce nods, taking a deep breath. Then he stands, awkwardly shuffling his large body out from the booth and gestures to where he had just been sitting.

“Why don’t you sit down and eat?” He pulls his mug from the table. “I need to talk to Alfred for a minute.” And with that, he brushed past Damian and left to the kitchen. Damian could hear the low mutter of voices strike up a conversation, but it was too muffled for him to make anything. He stood, shuffling a couple times, before he swept forward and took the spot his father had vacated. The boy next to him said nothing, only picked up his fork and cut into what was left of his waffle.

It wasn’t awkward, not really, but there was something close to apprehension in the air. Both teenagers eat their waffles in silence, neither one making any move to start a conversation. Damian is curious about many things, but he feels that the answers may not be the best coming from the boy. His eyebrows furrow slightly, his fork nudging a piece of waffle into a small puddle of syrup.

He figures he should be a little more upset about the notion of having a random person sitting in his breakfast nook and eating Alfred’s waffles, but he really can’t find the emotions to be so. There’s already a slow simmer of anger in his stomach about his alarm being turned off, but that is already turning into a need to get revenge. He doesn’t feel any negative feelings at the other teenager sitting next to him, especially since he seems to be doing his best impression of a kicked puppy. Richard has told Damian many stories of his brothers coming home, of the emotions that the eldest brother felt when he was a new member of the family, had been accepted into the household, usually without his input. They are brothers now, despite how much Damian loathes the other two and the decisions they make; he will still send them stupid animal memes at lunch and call-in case he needs them. With a quick glance to the side, Damian figures that the relationship he will have with this new addition might be the same. That is, of course, once they open up about the whole ‘vigilantes who run around in spandex much later than they should’ thing. Damian is going to assume until he is told otherwise that he doesn’t know about that.

“Well, good morning!” Richard practically bursts into the room, a plate piled with waffles and strawberry sauce heavy in his right hand, a tall glass of milk in his left. He’s wearing a pair of red flannel pants and a worn-out shirt that used to have the Playboy bunny printed on it but is now a weird looking blob. His hair is pulled into a low bun, the front half loose but kept in place by a simple black headband. He smiles, pearly white teeth flashing, and slides into the seat across from Damian. His oldest brother turns to the mystery character and slowly holds out a warm hand. “The name’s Richard, though I go by Dick for short.”

The teenager blinks at him momentarily, a flash of something in his eyes only for a second before he raises his own hand and links it with Richard’s.

“I’m Peter,” he says, blinks a couple of times, then releases Richard’s hand, pulling his arms back towards himself.

Richard just smiles, immediately tucking into his breakfast and filling his mouth up as quick as he could. Damian, deciding whether this was the time to introduce himself, glances over to Peter only to glance away when his eyes meet green.

He coughs, rather awkwardly, but nods his head in greeting. “I’m Damian.”

“Ah,” Peter says, nodding.

There’s another small bout of silence, in which Damian spots his father leaving the kitchen and Alfred starting the dishes, and the grandfather clock chimes quietly from the hall. Damian finishes his waffle, sets his fork down on the plate with a quiet tink , and looks up to Richard with an eyebrow raised. Richard simply raises an eyebrow in retaliation, shrugging almost imperceptibly. Damian huffs, looking back down to his plate.

He’s... unsure of what to do. It's not a usual occurrence for him to be so indecisive, and it is leaving his brain in a slight turmoil. Does he leave and bring his dishes with him to give to Alfred and retire to his room, or does he stay with the guest, Peter, as his father had seemed to hint at before? Richard had obviously been briefed about the teenager or had some sort of information of the kind, as he had not looked at all phased by the sight of a random teenager sitting at the breakfast table.

A clatter brings his head back to the kitchen doorway and his eyes narrow in on Todd. The man walked through the opening, a waffle held between his teeth and his phone busily being typed on in his hands.

“Manners, Master Jason!” Alfred’s exclamation was half exasperated and half strict and was accentuated by the sound of plate being stacked into a pile. “We have a guest!”

Jason barely blinked up at Peter before his eyes were glued back to his phone, and he shot back some muffled words at Alfred. Then he’s sliding into the spot next to Damian, effectively cutting off his escape route and places his phone down.

“F’ey, Dami,” he mutters, tearing off a chunk of waffle a swallowing it down. “Mornin’.”

Damian hums, fingers moving to fidget with the fork on his plate. He really wishes Jason had sat next to Richard instead.

“Oi, Dicky,” Jason says, reaching a piece of his waffle to scoop up some of Richard’s strawberry topping, to which Richard squawks at. Jason’s hand is slapped away, the waffle smacking the table and leaving a smear of strawberry sauce before it’s shoved into Jason’s mouth.

Richard glares at Jason and wraps a protective arm around his plate. “What?”

“You feel like going grocery shopping later?” Jason’s voice is even, nothing odd, but Damian narrows his eyes. He knows Alfred and Tim just went out shopping for groceries last weekend.

Richard raises an eyebrow, his eyes flicking to Peter for the quickest second. “Today?”

Jason hums, eyes landing on Damian’s plate which still held a small swirl of whipped cream from where Damian scraped part of it off. Gently, he pushes his plate towards his brother. Jason smiles, ruffles Damian’s hair (to which Damian definitely does not lean into).

“I already talked to pops about it,” Jason answers, scraping the whipped cream with what was left of his waffle. “’Said it might be little chilly, though. So pro’lly best we wear some hats and scarves, make sure no one gets sick, yeah?”

Ah. Damian didn’t doubt that it was chilly out, after all, fall was beginning to descend on them. The leaves outside the window were tinged with red and yellow along the edges, and they seemed to shiver from the breeze that gently blew through them. But hats and scarves weren’t necessary, not yet.

With another glance to Peter, who was now staring at Jason with a strange light in his eyes, green eyes examining similar toxic green eyes, Damian concluded that Peter’s existence was either something the public could not know or was some other Bat secret being held. It would make sense that Peter had something to do with Jason and Richard’s late-night patrol the previous evening, especially since neither of them seemed all that concerned about their father snatching another ‘chick’.

“You kids wanna come with?” Jason leans an elbow on the table, his bare skin landing only a few inches away from the strawberry sauce smear, and he smiles crookedly. Damian looks at Peter, why exactly he’s not sure, and finds the teenager looking at all of them in turn.

“Grocery shopping?” Peter echoes, fingers twisting in the cuff of his shirt, he glances down to his clothes with a heated flush in his cheeks that spreads to his ears. Damian realizes that they are probably the only clothes Peter has with him, and he feels a rush of guilt flow through his heart at the slight frown on Peter’s lips.

“We should have some extra clothes for you to change into,” Damian assures him, and Richard smiles while nodding. Damian’s face darkens and his smile turns a little sharper. “And if not, then I’ll just steal some from Drake.”

Richard sighs. “No, you won’t.” He leans forward onto his arms; eyes boring into Peter. “We’ll maybe run to the department store, too, and get you some clothes and hygiene stuff.”

Peter rushes to wave his hands out, shaking his head quickly. “No! You don’t have to do all that,” he insists, words stumbling out of his mouth. “I don’t need all that stuff. I don’t even think I’ll ever be able to pay you all back for what you’ve already done for me!”

Richard’s eyes narrow, and he sighs. “Peter, it’s alright. You don’t have to worry about paying us back, okay?”

Peter opens his mouth to refute but Richard raises a hand and cuts him off. “Nope. And besides,” he sends a look to Jason. “You’ll probably be staying with us for a little while longer. You’ll need at least the basics.”

Jason huffs, leaning back and nods. “Dicky’s right, pumpkin,” he slides out of the seat and reaches to take all the dishes into a pile. Peter just sits there, mouthing pumpkin over and over. Jason snorts and turns to the kitchen.

“Alright,” Richard clasps his hands together, and smiles. “Why don’t we all get ready for the day out? Peter, you can come with me, and we can go find you some clothes, yeah? Dami, meet back by the entry in let’s say, half an hour?”

Damian nods, pushing himself out of the booth. He’s already mostly ready for the day, but he still returns to his room. He lays on his bed, atop his covers with his legs over the side, and pulls out his phone. After spending nearly 15 minutes playing Stardew Valley, in which he spent the whole time watering his crops and bringing a gift to Sebastion, he sits back up and busies around the room. He slips on a pair of socks, straightens out his sweater, adds just a little bit of gel to his hair, and heads back down to the entry.

Jason’s already waiting by the time he gets down there, laying dramatically on the small bench that sits by the shoe rack. It looks a little funky, mostly because the bench can only seem to hold about 1/3 of Jason and the rest of him just hangs off the sides, including all of his legs and his left arm. Jason’s dressed in his usual fit of black jeans and a dark red sweatshirt. His black leather jacket in draped over his body, and for once he was wearing a pair of simple Converse sneakers. Alfred is busy sorting through a small plastic tub he had pulled from the entry closet, and a pile of matched scarves and hats sits next to him on the floor.

“Ah, Master Damian,” Alfred smiles, leans down and scoops up a small bundle of dark green cloth and hands it to him. “Would you mind giving these to the rest of your brothers? I’m afraid I must go and settle one of the guest rooms.”

“Of course, Alfred,” Damian answers, grabbing the scarves and hats and shuffling over to Jason’s side.

“I want the red ones,” his brother says without opening his eyes.

“You’re a child,” Damian retorts, dropping the bright red garments onto Jason’s face, huffing in slight disappointment when Jason doesn’t do so much as flinch. “Is Tim coming with?”

Jason grabs the scarf and hat, swings up right and pulls the hat on. His hair sticks out weirdly, but Damian doesn’t comment.

“Timbo is a bit busy with a project from dad,” Jason answers, swirling the scarf around his neck. It looks absolutely awful, and Damian helps him straighten it out.

“About Peter?” Damian guesses.

Jason nods, humming and glancing around the room. Confirming that they’re still alone, he sighs and leans back against the wall with his arms crossed.

“Lazarus pit?” Damian asks, pulling his own hat carefully over his head, making sure his hair was carefully tucked under the edge. “The eyes and the hair....”

“Yeah,” Jason huffs. “Tim’s busy running Peter’s face and name through the systems. Missing persons, obituaries, court cases and investigations, you name it. Kid’s not from Gotham, that much we know.”

Damian nods, mouth set in a straight line as he leans into one of the mirror’s view to tie his scarf. He’s not quite sure what they will do once they get their answer, maybe he’ll be put on a short investigation case, or maybe he’ll never hear of anything past ‘Peter died and now he’s a Wayne’.

Footsteps echo upstairs and Damian looks up in time to see Richard and Peter descend the stairs. Richard had changed into a pair of blue jeans and a bright orange jacket pulled over a white T-shirt. Peter was dressed in black sweatpants and a light purple hoodie. He looked a little awkward and kept pulling the slightly too long sleeves back up when they slipped down over his hands, but other than that he looked fine.

“Here,” Damian said shortly, handing Richard a white hat and black scarf, then handing Peter a fluffy bucket hat and matching white scarf.

Peter immediately pulled the hat on his head, glancing in the mirror a couple times to adjust it, then let Jason help wrap his scarf around his neck. Once finished, the scarf sat nestled just under his chin, thick enough to fluff by his ears and big enough for Peter to duck his face in. Damian was only slightly jealous.

“Alright kiddos,” Jason said as he herded them to the door, pulling Richard away from the mirror as the eldest started fixing the scarf that was wrapped around his own neck. “Who's ready for some shopping?”

Chapter 3

Chapter Text

The drive to Aldi was filled with lots of screaming song lyrics and bickering. Dick was responsible for that first part, as he sat happily in the driver’s seat, fingers tapping on the steering wheel as he sang slightly off tune to the Disney song playlist he had pulled up on his radio. Jason, who was entirely unamused, sat in the passenger side with his arms crossed and an occasional glare at Dick when he sang a particularly high note. Dick would just smile and make sure to sing the next note about 8 octaves too high. Damian, who sat behind Jason, had made a game of kicking the seat in beat to the song, to which Jason retaliated by chucking pieces of white cheddar popcorn from a bag he found in the car door pocket. The seat kicking only became more determined.

Occasionally, Dick would glance in the rear-view mirror at Peter. For the first 20 minutes or so, Peter spent his time staring out of the window, a hard expression on his face. His eyes would jump around to things outside, whether it be buildings or houses, businesses, or billboard signs. The longer they drove, the more Peter’s expression grew confused, and the more his eyes looked lost. Dick wasn’t sure why, maybe the teenager was finally realizing he really didn’t know where he was? Jason and him had talked about it with Tim and Bruce earlier that morning, about how Peter didn’t recognize them, nor seem to know anything about Gotham at all.

It wasn’t that strange, after all the teenager may have been kidnapped or something, so the fact that he didn’t recognize Gotham wasn’t that far out of reality. But still, something sat heavily in Dick’s stomach, a feeling of unease that he wasn’t quite sure what to do with.

Eventually, Peter turned away from the window, tucked his face into his scarf and watched as Jason and Damian argued over which popcorn flavor was best. Although it was small, and practically hidden in the fluffy white fabric, a smile peaked out from Peter’s mouth, and slight amusem*nt colored his purple bagged eyes.

That was another thing they had discussed; the side effects of the pit. Of course, they knew of the physical changes, like his hair and eyes. They also knew of possible emotional traits that could come out of this, thanks to their own experiences with Jason. Although Peter seemed docile now, and pretty much went with the flow with everything, that was now. For all they know, the nice teenager might disappear behind some sort of pit-rage consumed zombie. Dick really doubts that will happen, but they needed to plan for it anyways.

Peter’s room was going to be between Jason and Dick’s, which was in an entirely different hall than the younger two brothers’. Even though they didn’t know Peter's situation, where he lived before hand or if he any family searching for him, they know it won’t be exactly easy to give him back. After all, normal people don’t have to deal with pit madness or side effects from being dead, and if Peter’s death was natural and no one knows that he’s not in the grave he’s supposed to be, they can’t exactly hand him back to his family.

And besides, Dick is already attached.

In the backseat, Peter pulls his hands into the sleeves of his sweatshirt and scrunches up the cuffs to enclose his hands completely. Dick frowns as he looks back to the road, turning on the blinker and pulling into the turning lane. He wonders if that’s another side effect, or maybe Peter just runs cold. Either way, he makes a mental reminder to keep the heat a little higher on their way home.

“Alright,” he announces, pulling into an open parking spot on the edge of the parking lot. “We’re here kiddos.”

He turns the vehicle off, grabbing his bright blue lanyard from the cup holder and hopping out of the car in one swift movement. He keeps the driver’s door long enough to make sure Jason actually gets out of the vehicle and not lock himself in and closes it with a slam. Peter climbs out next to him, and Dick waits until the younger man has straightened himself out before reaching over and closing the door for him. He sends Peter a smile, hoping the teenager sees it as its face value and not anything deeper, pleased when Peter sends a small smile in return.

“Come on Richard,” Damian calls from where he was following Jason like a brooding kitten towards the cart return.

“Yeah, yeah,” he calls back, shifting his body to allow Peter to slip in between him and the car, and moves to follow Peter. He makes sure to lock the car before they get too far though.

Jason procures a quarter from who knows where and uses it to unlock a cart that he pushes through the automatic doors. They pass into the warm entry, and Dick reaches to snag a ‘Sneak Peek at Today’s Deals’ paper from the small stand.

The front doors open to the produce section, with a wall full of the refrigerated fruits a vegetables like cucumbers, lettuce, and cauliflower, and there were large wooden stands where the vegetables like onions and potatoes sat. One of these stands held stacked containers of berries, and Dick immediately snatched a pack of blueberries and of raspberries. Continuing down the wall from the produce was the bread and sweets, along with things such as crackers and chips, all the way down until the corner. From there, it was the dairy section.

“Can we get muffins?” Damian asked, already snatching a package of blueberry flavored ones and placing them in the cart. Jason snorts from where he’s leaned over the handle of the cart.

“Make sure Alfred doesn’t see you eating those,” he warns, reaching down and grabbing a package of mini lemon poppy seed ones for himself. “ The betrayal.”

Damian scoffs, shaking his head and continuing down the aisle with Jason in tow, both heading down to the snacks. He turns to stand in front of the refrigerator wall, arms crossed as he glances at the produce displayed. Next to him, Peter appears, hands still tucked away in his sleeves and his face in his scarf. Dick smiles softly, eyes checking the teenager for any shape of uncomfort. Finding none, his gaze turns back to the veggies.

“Anything you want, Peter?” he asks casually, grabbing a package of radishes for himself.

Peter shrugs, though his eyes linger on a small package of mango chunks. Dick sighs a little, really just a slightly heavy exhale, and grabs a few more things from the shelves. He hands the objects to Peter and instructs him to put them in the cart, which is now on the other side of the store where Damian and Jason are now arguing about cheese. Peter takes them with a nod and shuffles away. Dick follows him but snags a package of mango and a bag of biscotti. He’ll need something to bribe Alfred with to ignore the muffins, and the old butler could do nothing to refuse a nice bag of snacks.

“Richard,” Damian says the moment he’s within earshot of the kid’s almost too loud voice. “You must tell this cretin that cheddar cheese is absolute blasphemy.”

Dick scrunches his nose up, trying to keep reign of his laughter that threatens to burst at the faces his brothers are making. Peter, who was tucked close to Jason’s side and seemed to be examining a package of cheese sticks, smiled a bit.

“Those are some big words for your little mouth,” Jason grumbled, leaning onto the cart and tossing in a block of extra sharp cheddar cheese.

Damian glared at him, teeth baring slightly. Dick placed a hand on his baby brother’s shoulder, shaking his head.

“Come on kiddo, cheddar cheese ain’t that bad,” he raised an eyebrow, eyeing up the cheese held in Damian’s hand. “And you do know that white cheddar and cheddar are the same thing, right?”

Damian shook his head adamantly, thrusting the cheese into the cart where it fell on top of the muffins. Dick sighed, giving Jason a flat look to tell him to drop it. Jason huffed but stood up from where he leaned; he started to push the cart towards the cereals.

“Peter,” Damian said, seemingly marching up to the teenager's side. Peter tensed slightly, shifting his stance with an almost invisible slight of his foot, a move that Dick almost didn’t see. Almost. “ Are we getting those?”

Peter opened his mouth, closed it, then smiled sheepishly, gently handing the pack into Damian’s awaiting hand. Damian tossed it into the cart, then reached over to grab the sleeve of Peter’s sweatshirt.

“Let’s go check and see what they have for deserts,” Damian says, gently pulling Peter away from where Jason was heading, slow enough that Peter could escape should he want. But he doesn’t, only sends a quick glance to Dick who smiles and waves them on, then he follows Damian towards the ice cream freezers.

The rest of the grocery shopping goes quick, especially since the store was pretty much empty; people don’t really go grocery shopping at 11 in the morning. Jason and Dick grab the remaining ingredients that Alfred requested, leaving room in the cart for Damian and Peter to put their stash whenever they finished gathering it. It almost wasn’t enough room. Although he had known for a while, Dick sometimes forgot that Damian liked to show his love through food.

Damian never showed affection easily, even with someone like Dick, who he was closest with besides Bruce. When he first got to the manor, things were hectic; people were always busy doing something, Dick would have to go back to Bludhaven and Jason to Crime Alley, Bruce was going through his own things and Tim never really got along with Damian anyways. Dick wasn’t sure why, used to think it was because of how close they were in age, but Dick thinks differently now after seeing Damian and Peter.

Damian would spend time with Alfred, who would spend every Sunday morning in the kitchen cooking a large breakfast that everyone would sit down and attend, no matter what the problem (besides the occasional prison break). Damian would spend that time with Alfred, where he learned the ‘art of cooking’ as he called it. From then on now, Damian would show emotions, love, forgiveness and concern through the dishes he would make. A hot bowl of broth when Jason came down with the flu after he was caught out in a blizzard, a plate of chocolate chip cookies when he accidently knocked one of Tim’s cameras to the floor and cracked the lens, a plate of breakfast waiting for Dick and Bruce when they returned from a harrowing patrol early in the morning.

So, it was safe to say that Damian’s love language was giving food. Which was why when the two boys returned with arms full of boxes and bags, Dick just smiled and helped them dump it into the cart. There was a wide variety of things, some obviously picked by Damian, but some things that Dick’s not sure have ever even been in the manor. Namely, a package of birthday cake ice cream and an entire frozen cherry pie. A large amount of baking supplies was also poured atop the groceries, and Dick hid a laugh in a cough.

“That everything?” Jason drawled, raising an eyebrow. Damian’s shoulders straightened and he nodded.

“Can I have the keys?” he turns to Dick, holding out a hand expectantly. Dick hums, digging the lanyard out of his pocket and handing it into his baby brother’s waiting hand.

“Make sure you lock the doors,” he calls as Damian and Peter head back towards the entrance, shaking his head ruefully when Damian just waves him off with a ‘tt’.

Jason and Dick head to the checkout lane, and immediately start to place the groceries onto the belt. Their cashier, a middle-aged woman with purple hair and a dozen piercings, smiles at them and starts to scan everything.

“Find everything alright?” she asks in an accent that isn’t quite Gotham, quickly typing a code into her screen as she places the berries into the cart next to her.

“Yup,” Dick responds brightly, leaning onto the balls of his feet while Jason tugs his wallet from his back pocket. Dick watches the green numbers of the total tick upwards, past 100, and then past 150. Soon all the groceries are back in the cart and Jason’s card has been swiped, the bill paid. Dick walks next to Jason as his brother pushes the cart out, receipt in hand.

The drive to the department store was a little more subdued than earlier that morning; with Jason scrolling through something on his phone, Dick only humming to the songs playing, and the two boys in the back talking quietly about school.

Damian, who would be starting 8th grade in less than a month, was explaining all the classes he was taking and how much he loathed the teachers that taught them. Currently, he was talking about Life Science, which he had taken the previous year, and he was explaining how he had to dissect a frog. Peter just sat and listened, watching as Damian gestured vaguely with his hands.

“Mrs. Creez’s instructions were not clear, I do not believe she had proper schooling,” Damian was saying and Dick winced slightly at the reminder of the old science teacher. She certainly was one of a kind. “Nor did she properly supervise us.”

He then went to explain about how a student sent a frog flying through the air and how it had landed on another kid’s backpack, which had caused a classroom brawl in which Damian definitely did not participate in.

“I immediately went to report it to the teacher,” he said, puffing his chest out slightly. Dick glanced to Peter, who was raising an eyebrow incredulously, and snorted.

“Hey Dami,” Dick said and his brother’s eyes snapped to his in the mirror. “You’ve got your school supplies right?”

Damian shrugged. “Alfred picked up some of the things that were required, but I still would like a couple more things.”

Dick hummed, bopping his head slowly to the beat of the music. His eyes cut to Peter. While he wasn’t sure how long Peter would be staying with them, as that was a matter to be figured out when they learned of his identity, he figures a few notebooks and pencils couldn’t hurt.Even if Peter doesn’t end up staying with them, and heads merrily back home - which Dick, as much as it tears him apart, highly doubts – then he’ll still be able to use any of the clothes and supplies they buy for him.

In the mirror, Peter’s cheeks turn rosy, pink as Damian asks something that Dick is too distracted to catch. Peter’s answer is mumbled too softly for Dick to hear, but judging by the disapproval that sets Damian’s eyebrows, it wasn’t something good.

There’s a little worm of doubt that lingers somewhere in the back of his mind, something that makes it impossible for his stomach to settle. Peter hasn’t said anything . Nothing about himself, or his parents, where he lives or even his age. Bruce had talked to Dick briefly before he had gone into the kitchen and had explained that even getting Peter’s last name had been quite the task. It was strange to say the least. Children who wake up in an apartment not their own and are suddenly dragged off by vigilantes they also don’t know, don’t usually just stay quiet about everything. No, a normal child would be sharing everything about themselves, trying to call their parents to come and pick them up, or at least contact the police. It is possible that Peter doesn’t remember, possible that something went wrong with the already messed up procedure that is the Lazarus Pit. But Dick isn’t getting those amnesiac vibes from the teenager. Maybe, just slightly, but it’s more an air of confusion that surrounds the boy sitting in his back seat.

Dick doesn’t know why Peter isn’t saying anything. It’s possible the kid doesn’t want to go back to the life he lived before, that there may be abuse or something deeper going on. But it’s also a possibility that the kid is simply bait, perhaps a spy. Dick hopes not, but they can’t help but air on the side of caution.

Peter, somehow unsurprisingly, picks a combination of graphic tees and sweatshirts with some jeans and sweatpants thrown into the mix. Damian helps him select three pairs of shoes, even though Peter very obviously rejects the idea of them spending that much money on him, they assure him that their father is indeed a billionaire and can in fact afford a pair of $150 shoes. So, Peter buys a pair of nice running shoes that are bendy in the sole and a lot like the types of shoes Dick wears himself while he does parkour. Jason helps Peter select a pair of sneakers, to which Peter picks a pair of red and white air force ones, and then Dick picks out a pair of nice dress shoes.

A few packs of socks and underwear are thrown into the cart, followed by a dark blue rain jacket, thick black winter coat and a couple sets of athletic wear. Dick had leaned onto the cart and tilted his head when Peter hesitantly laid the hanger onto the pile of sweatshirts.

“You like working out?” he asks, watching as peter lays a pair of leggings on over a pair of bright red shorts.

Peter shrugs. “Kinda. I’m more into running around than like lifting weights or anything.”

Dick smiles, an idea blossoming in his chest. Jason, apparently, catches on.

“Dick, no,” he grumbles from where he’s looking at a pair of shorts.

“Dick, yes,” Dick says. “Peter, have you ever tried gymnastics?”

“Um, kind of?” Peter shuffles on his feet. “I can do some flips and handstands. I haven’t really, ah, tried anything for real?”

Dick waved his hand. “Don’t worry ‘bout that. I can teach you.”

Peter’s eyes brighten and he seems to bounce in his spot. “Really? Oh my gosh that would be so cool! Are you self-taught or did you go to school for it or like a gym- wait do you guys have a gym you go to? Or, or actually, how will you teach me? I’m very good at learning stuff but I’m really not good at listening to instructions-.”

“Alright, alright,” Dick says, placing a hand on Peter’s shoulder and stopping his words mid rant. He’s a little shocked, as this was probably the most he had ever heard Peter talk in one time, and definitely the most excited the kid had looked since Dick ever laid eyes on him. “Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

Peter’s expression twists, almost confused, and Jason groans.

“Oh my god, Dick, you’re so old,” his brother grumbles, and Damian snorts.

“Oh stop,” Dick shoots back, glaring slightly when Jason just rolls his eyes. He turns back to Peter. “Yes, we have a gym to use. I grew up learning gymnastics. I can teach you, no matter how difficult it is.”

Peter nods his head quickly. “Okay!”

Dick smiles, gently wrapping an arm around Peter’s shoulder and pulling the small teenager to his side. “Now that that is settled, why don’t we finish up here so we can head back to the manor?”

Peter nods, leading the group around the store as he picks out the rest of the items he needs. Shampoo, body wash, toothpaste and deodorant. Dick suggests a few types of cologne, to which Peter wrinkles his nose at every single one of them, except a type that Damian hands him. A vanilla with ‘hints of leather’. It smells sweet, and strangely, like a fresh cup of tea, and Peter apparently loves it. Peter picks out a big fluffy blanket that is covered in bat symbols, which has Jason coughing loudly into his elbow for a minute. A pair of slippers and some other personal effects get added and then they’re soon out of the store and back in the car.

By the time they’re back on the road, it’s lunch time and the kids in the back seem to have tired themselves out. One minute, they’re both staring out of their respective windows, and the next Damian is leaning his head on Peter’s shoulder and Peter’s head is tilted back against the head rest. Both of their eyes are closed, and Peter’s mouth hangs open slightly, small snores escaping his lips. Dick just smiles softly, glancing to the side to see that Jason too had fallen into a doze while leaning up against the window.

If he takes the long way around to avoid potholes, no one will know.

He wakes up Jason as they pull into the driveway, and his brother opens his eyes the minute Dick touches his shoulder.

“Mh?” he hums, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

“You wanna wake the kids while I grab the bags?” Dick asks, pulling up the driveway and parking as close as he can to the door.

Jason just huffs, closing his eyes again and leaning back against the seat. Dick furrows his brows, a wink of concern blooming in his chest for his brother. Today was definitely a nap day.

Dick is opening up the front door by the time Jason opens Damian’s door, and he’s already brought in all of the bags – taking a total of 3 trips – by the time the rest of them shuffle into the entry. Alfred calls a warm greeting from somewhere in the house, to which Dick echoes back.

“You wanna head up and take a quick nap?” Dick asks his brothers, Peter included. The three of the nod sleepily, and begin to make their way up the stairs and to the bedrooms. Dick leaves the bags in the entry, lined up against the wall, and he moves to head to the kitchen to fix up a snack when his eyes catch his father’s.

Bruce looks tired, and maybe just slightly angry. It’s a strange expression, one that Dick is not used to seeing on his dad, but one that isn’t too entirely unknown. Bruce gets like this during investigations, especially when something ends up not giving him the answer he wanted. Dick suddenly has a feeling he knows what this is about,

“The DNA results come in?” he asks conversationally, grabbing a bag of frozen foods and slowly walking to the kitchen with his father in tow.

Bruce just grunts and Dick sighs. He pulls open the freezer and piles in the ice cream.

“What’s wrong?” he says, knwoing there’s no way to get around this.

“Where are the others?” Bruce asks in response. Dick nods to the stairs through the doorway.

“Taking naps upstairs,” he smiles. “They were tuckered out.”

Bruce’s lips lift into a smile, and he sighs, hand reaching up to pinch his brow.

“Think you can come down to the cave right now?”

Dick sighs. “Lemme put away the rest of the groceries, and I’ll be down there.”

Bruce nods, sighs, and smiles tiredly. Then he’s gone and Dick is left to figure out how to fit all the ice cream Damian chose into the freezer alone.

“Great,” he whispers, closing the freezer door with just a little too much force. He doesn’t know what he should hope for when he goes down and the truth gets revealed.

Should he hope that Peter is just a missing kid who was kidnapped, murdered, and then resurrected and has a family waiting at home for him? Or should he be praying that Peter doesn't have a family waiting, that he was a street kid that may have died for a random reason, and that they get to keep him and love him?

Dick sighs, leans his head on the kitchen island for a minute, enjoying the cold touch of marble to his skin, then pushes himself up. Time for the truth.

Chapter 4

Chapter Text

Peter was running; feet pounding on the sidewalk, a heavy slap every time his bare foot landed on the rough texture. Large buildings grew from the ground around him, pillars of glass and concrete that seemed to spiral forever towards the heavens. Sun glinted off the windows, reflections rippling across into one another and creating a never-ending mirror. The sidewalk was warm from the light of the sun, and the pale color seemed to almost glow.

Peter runs.

There’s no one around, the streets empty and the sidewalks barren. It’s silent, besides the pounding of Peter’s feet and the harsh, ragged rushes of breath that leave his lungs. No car engines rumbling, no voices chatting or babies crying or people screaming for help-

Peter runs.

His chest hurts, a result of the short gasps that he keeps forcing through his dry throat, and it feels as if his heart is going to pound through his ribs. His head throbs, something sticky is running down his face, and every so often his vision dims before it steadies again.

Peter runs.

He... doesn’t know why. But there’s a loaming terror behind his back, his spider-sense is screaming at him in all directions, and something is just urging him to go. So, he does.

Peter runs.

There’s a loud boom behind him, a wave of heat that coats his back like a blanket, and a wave of chaos explodes behind him. He’s knocked to his knees, hands bracing and scraping harshly against the pavement, searing in pain as he rips them from the ground and spins onto his butt. A roasting puff of air breathes past his face, blowing the hair that was sticky with sweat away from his skin. A few pieces of shrapnel land around him, some small and others large, most consisting of broken pieces of wood and a few crumbled bricks.

There’s a large building in front of him, broad and tall, with almost gothic-like accents. Flames lick outside the blow windows, climbing quickly up the old vines that hung from the roof, and seemed to be slowly creeping out onto the sidewalk. They crackle and roar, quickly consuming everything that Peter sees in the warehouse, covering the windows in a sickly orange glow.

Peter blinks and suddenly everything is dark, and he’s soaked to the bone.

Rain pitter-patters around him, forming puddles on the now-dark sidewalk, reflections catching the light of the steady blaze in front of him. The water drops in the air sparkle like jewelry, and land heavily around him. Water trickles down his forehead, rivulets streaming down the bridge of his eyebrows and down his face, into his eyes and past his chin.

He’s numb. Unmoving. Just sits there in the rain, watching as the building in front of him continues to burn despite the immense effort the rain was giving. He watches as a few of the wandering flames get snuffed, watches the small patches of burning debris peter out into smoldering ashes.

He continues to watch, even as a low rumble slowly grew behind him; the sound of an engine being pushed to its max. He continues to watch as a vehicle, motorcycle he thinks breify, pulls up beside him.

He only looks away when the sound of scrambling reaches his sensitive ears.

Black jacket, red helmet, ashes and smoke, death, bullets and pain-

Grey hair and green eyes, large arms that tuck him closely by their side, a low voice talking slowly-

The large body is quickly pulling themself off the bike, foot catching as they yank it over the seat, and they hobble as they keep their balance. Peter can hear their breathing – ragged, sharp, much like his earlier – and the way that something seems to be held back. He watches the red helmet, which reflects the fire almost like blood, as the figure steps shakily away from motocycle. They take a few halting steps forward, a hand lifting slightly as if reaching out, and a whisper escapes from their mouth.

“ Peter.”

“Peter.”

Peter blinks open his eyes to find a dark brown ceiling meeting his gaze back. A large ceiling fan, holding a far too intricate glass light, spins lazily. Its purpose was more for keeping the air moving, rather than cooling or heating. The room is lit up, not from the ceiling light but instead from the myriad of lamps that somehow connected to the third light switch by the door.

A blanket is pulled up to his chin, and he finds that his face is snuggled into it. The fabric smells like lavender and everything clean, soft to his touch, and he can’t help but tuck his face closer. There’s a chuckle from above, a touch to his arm and he is slightly shaken.

“Peter, come on bub,” the voice says. Dick, Peter thinks with a soft sigh. He really wants to go back to sleep, but he knows there’s no way he could not listen to Dick. The guy was too nice, and one flash of his puppy eyes that Peter knows he has (he’d bared witness when Dick had handed him the purple sweatshirt) would have Peter getting up anyways. So, he huffs, then pulls the blanket away from his face slightly.

Dick looks slightly pale, Peter thinks with a single blink. The older man is smiling, white teeth sparkling as usual, but there’s a heavy something in his eyes that makes Peter’s gut churn with anxiety.

“Everything okay?” he asks without thinking, sitting up in one quick motion that pushes the soft blanket away from his chest. It lands on his hips, and his hands twist the fabric between his fists.

Dick, who’s perched on the side of the bed, blinks, pausing momentarily. Then the heaviness seems to be wiped away from his shoulders with a single breath, and it's as if nothing happened.

“Yep!” he chirps back, swiftly pushing himself to his feet. “Just came to get you for some snacks.”

Peter’s the one to pause this time. “Snacks?” he repeats. It’s not entirely strange, he supposes. It’s just odd. Odd that they would come and wake him up from a nap just to eat a snack. Peter’s not used to snacks, living in a one income household, with his aunt also having to pay for his schooling. No matter how large of a scholarship he managed to get, there just usually wasn’t enough money to get ‘snack foods’. They had groceries of course, never really struggled with that after May had managed to get a good nursing job, but never had the luxuries of packaged cookies and chips.

Besides, Peter preferred May’s homemade slightly burned chocolate chip cookies instead.

“Snacks,” Dick repeats, nodding his head. “Come on, Damian’s already scooped some chocolate ice cream for you.”

“Oh,” Peter says, pushing himself out of the bed and stumbling slightly after Dick. “Okay.”

Dick leaves the room, leaving the heavy wooden door open for Peter, and his footsteps start down the hall. Peter takes only a second to slip on his slippers, the dark red ones and not the shark ones, before he’s also leaving the room.

There’s a shiver that goes down his spine as he leaves, and he pauses, hand on the doorframe. He turns back, looking the room up and down. There’s nothing off, he realizes with a slight tick of his mouth.

“Nope,” he whispers, closing the door quickly. “Nope, nope, nuh uh, no haunted mansions today, nope.”

Later that night, when his dreams are filled with choked gasps and green eyes and the haunting laughter of something sinister, he wishes that that was what he had to deal with.

Chapter 5

Chapter Text

The sound of a candy wrapper crackling was the first hint to Tim that he was no longer in the cave alone. His back, firmly sunk into the padding of the large chair he sat in, was facing the stairs, keeping his attention on the task at hand. Currently, one hand sat on the large keyboard, the other placed gently on the mouse and gently clicked the left-click every so often. His wrist was starting to ache, as was his neck from looking up at the screens in front of him.

While a few of the monitors were off, many of them were busy with something. Two of them were busy scrolling through social media pages; snapchat, Instagram, Facebook, news sites and reports, and other blogs. Every so often, a name or image would ping and get pulled to the main screen, where Tim would scroll through and eventually click out because he could find nothing. One of the screens that was searching missing persons databases and records of hospitals was having the same luck. The screen below that was currently paused, screen stopped on a file from a small school in the countryside of Minnesota. Tim had yet to check that one, but it was next on his list. A screen that was transmitting data from the small lab computer was still busy, a constant cycling circle with the words DNA Detection Sequence in Process printed beneath. Tim was really just waiting for that to finish, since it would hopefully give him the answer that he sought immediately.

“B,” he said in lieu of a greeting, waving a hand behind him. There’s some more crinkling of wrappers, the sound of a takeout box being tossed into the trash, and a huff from Bruce. “Sorry about the mess.”

Bruce huffs, disbelieving, and Tim grins.

“Anything new?” Bruce asks, pulling up an extra chair and plopping into it with a grunt. He leans back, crossing his arms, and quickly scans the screens in front of him.

“Not yet,” Tim responds, exiting out of the screen he was on and pulling up the school profile. Bruce hums and Tim can almost feel his father’s eyes center on the lab screen. There’s an air of anticipation – one that’s been present for a while – that is starting to thicken. Tim doesn’t know when the test will be done, but he knows it will be soon.

The school profile ends up being a dead end too. Peter Strohm, who is the center of his high school football team, was definitely not the person they’re looking for. 6’ 1’’ and 210 pounds was not their Peter’s physique.

Tim closes the window with a soft sigh, falling forward and thunking his head onto the table in front of him. Bruce huff-laughs, setting a warm hand on Tim’s shoulder, gently squeezing it.

“Don’t work yourself too hard,” Bruce warns softly. Tim feels the chair he’s sitting in being pulled back, giving him no choice but to lift his head from the desk lest he wants to face plant to the floor. He sits back, giving Bruce a slight glare, and huffs.

“It’s fine,” he says, waving Bruce off flippantly and scoots the chair forward again. “I’m fine.”

“How much sleep did you get last night?”

Welp.

Tim side-eyed his father, lids narrowed. “Enough.”

Bruce, 100 percent used to this argument, just sits back down in his chair with another huff. “Not an answer, Tim.”

“A few hours,” Tim shoots back, turning his attention back to the screen, clicking open another waiting tab. He’s not lying, not really. He really did get a few hours of sleep; it just depends on how you define hours. See, Tim defines it as anything more than a single hour – therefore turning it plural – which means that his one and a half hours of sleep means hours. But Tim is not oblivious, and he knows his father’s perception of the word ‘hours’ is not the same as his.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tim sees Bruce’s eyes narrow.

“And how many hours, exactly, is ‘a few’?”

Tim cringes, hands pausing their typing, mid-way. “One... and a half?”

Bruce sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers tightly, and Tim, big mouth Tim, continues talking.

“It was just really busy last night Bruce, you know? With Jason and Dick’s patrol, and then Peter coming into the manor. And I immediately started on this, and then I was too focused and then... yeah,” he finishes off trailing. A blush flushes his ears, and he looks away from his father as Bruce’s eyebrows furrow. “It’s fine, really,” Tim insists, doing his best to pour his attention back into the screen.

“I think you should take tonight off,” Bruce says, and immediately Tim shakes his head.

“Nope, can’t,” Tim gestures to the bat computer. “Not until this all gets figured out.”

“Tim,” Bruce’s voice is serious now. “This could take days, even weeks. We have no idea when-”

He’s cut off by a beep from the computer, and both of their eyes lock in onto the one screen they were waiting for. Lab Results Ready, Printing Commencing is now printed underneath the spinning circle, which is unfortunately still spinning. Tim swears under his breath before he’s busily typing and pulling the screen up onto the center monitor, pulling up a small window and doing his best to unfreeze it. Bruce gets up from his spot and makes his way quickly over to the lab, the sound of the door swishing in the sudden silence of the cave. Tim works busily, clicking and clacking on the keyboard, but also waiting for the sound of the door opening. If the screen wasn’t unfrozen by the time Bruce came back through, he would give up. He would rather have the paper copy of the results in his hands anyways.

A couple windows pop up, only to be closed right away, and Tim continues to type again for a solid minute or two. His hair is falling into his face, coming untucked from behind his ears and he itches to tuck it back, but his fingers are in a rhythm, and nothing will stop them until -

“Aha!” he exclaims, nudging the mouse to click the reload button that appeared. Another spinning circle appears, this one green instead of blue, and Tim can’t help but stare at it with wide eyes. A door swishes, opening a few thoughts into his brain. Namely: how long does it really take to grab a few pieces of paper from the printer? “Hey Bruce, I got it.”

He glances over to his father, pausing when he finds the normally stoic man staring at the piece of paper in his hands like he was just handed a bomb. Which, for reference, Tim has seen. “Hey, Bruce, what-?”

The screen next to him flashes and his eyes jump over, immediately focusing on the large words printed along the bottom. Probability of Paternity: 99.9996%. And after that, the names listed in dark, bold ink that spread across the top of the page.

Mary Fitzpatrick

A name Tim was not familiar with, and one his fingers immediately started typing into the bat’s database, while his eyes skimmed the rest of the column. There were numbers and letters mixed, most of it being jargon that Tim had no knowledge of, and it only lightly brought back some terrible memories of 10th grade biology class.

But the name that sat next to Mary’s was one that Tim did recognize, and it had him freezing on the spot.

“Bruce,” he says, unsure of what to say in addition.

“I know,” Bruce says, voice low, and Tim knows his dad is staring at the same name he is.

Richard Grayson

“How, this,” Tim starts again, but he stops when Bruce raises his hand. His father’s eyes are sharp, calculating, and look more like Batman than Bruce when they meet Tim’s.

“Research the woman,” he instructs, already making his way towards the stairs back to the manor. “Get me everything you can on her.”

Tim immediately turns to the computer, fingers hovering over the keys. “What will you do?”

“I’m getting him,” Bruce said shortly, feet clunking up the metal stairs. Tim watches as he reaches the door, opening it in one swift move, before looking back to the computer. He blinks a couple times, clearing the confusion that clouds his eyes for a while, and his fingers start to type away.

He puts the name through the police systems first, knowing it’s a good place to start. Many people end up involved in an incident with the police at one point in their life; whether it be a speeding ticket, traffic accident, situation with another person, or some other way. It doesn’t mean he will get an answer – Mary Fitzpatrick might be a good lady with no criminal background or incidents to speak of – but it is always the first place he checks. He runs the name through, waits a few seconds and watches as a list of matches pops up onto the screen.

The bad thing about finding someone he doesn’t know is the fact that he doesn’t know them. He has no picture to reference, has no idea what Mary Fitzpatrick looks like, no idea where she lives, no idea about anything. For right now, he does his best at eliminating any possibilities that don’t work. A couple of the citations involve people who are dead, and Tim puts them in a separate folder to investigate later. There’s a Mary Fitzpatrick who was currently 5, and Tim clicked her profile away immediately.

The door to the cave creaks open, and Tim doesn’t turn around while he listens to a heavy pair of steps come back to his level.

“He coming?” he asks, reaching over to a small box of prepackaged snacks that he kept tucked under the desk. His fingers close around the crinkly plastic and he pulls out a small package of frosted animal crackers. His nose crinkles slightly, but he tears open the package with his teeth and tosses one of the sugary cookies into his mouth.

Bruce hums. “He’s finishing up putting away the groceries.”

“Groceries?” Tim questions, spinning idly in the swivel chair. Bruce just snorts softly, his lips even, and continues to peer down at the paper he held in his hands.

“Did you find anything on the woman?”

Tim shakes his head, tossing back a couple more cookies. “There’s not much I can do without a picture or description. I mean, we can ask Dick if he knows her,” he shrugs. “But he might not.”

Bruce nods and leans back against a table that sits to the side of Tim. He crosses his arms, paper still held in one hand, and stares at the bat computer. Tim watches as his father scans the information on it. Though there isn’t much, Bruce’s expression grows more tired the more he reads.

There are footsteps on the stairs again and Tim glances to see his oldest brother descending the stairs with quick but steady steps. Dick already looks nervous, and Tim can only imagine what is going through his brother’s head right now. Bruce probably had a hand in the way Dick’s heart was probably thundering, Tim catching the heavy look on his father’s face. Dick had aways been, well sensitive is one way to put it, but he has always been very attuned to their emotions. He was the first to always notice when Jason’s rage was more pit than him, and always seem to schedule a trip to the zoo when Damian has a bad day. Even with Tim, who likes to think of himself as the most emotionally unavailable, has always given something away to Dick that always makes his brother’s eyes focus on him in a new light. Dick could detect hidden emotions better than Ace could, which was surprising considering Ace had now been trained for that kind of thing.

Too bad Dick was terrible at hiding his own emotions.

“So,” Dick says, breaking the awkward silence that had gathered in the room... cavern... whatever (Tim was still unsure of how to refer to the area). Tim clears his throat, glancing away from Dick the moment his brother’s eyes landed on his own, and instead looked to Bruce. Their father sighs, pinching his nose once again, before he pushes off the table. Holding out the paper in one hand, Bruce gently pushed Dick into one of the empty chairs. Dick took the paper, holding it gingerly between his slender fingers, and started reading.

Tim couldn’t help but cringe slightly when Dick’s expression turned from confused-concerned-worried to blank, almost in the blink of an eye.

“You’re joking,” Dick says, his normally cheery voice falling flat. He looks up to Bruce who is standing beside him and then to Tim. Tim just shakes his head, his bottom lip starting to be worked between his teeth.

“You, you’re,” Dick starts, looking back down at the paper in his hands. “How?”

His voice is so distressed that Tim’s heartstrings are strung.

“We don’t know yet,” Bruce says, his voice calm. A large hand settles on Dick’s shoulder and Bruce meets his oldest son’s eyes.

“I can’t have a son,” Dick says, his voice still disbelieving. “I-I can’t. He’s, God Bruce, he’s like 16 years old. I would have been 10. I can’t, he can’t...”

“Well,” Tim starts, and, ignoring the sharp look his father sends his way, continues to plow along. “He might not be...” Unsure of where he was going to go with that train of thought, he shakes his head and tries again. “I don’t think he had a normal childhood.”

Dick’s glare cuts through him like a hot knife through butter. “Well, no, really? Not like he had his dad or anything,” Dick’s voice cracks and he leans forward onto his knees.

“Chum,” Bruce says, and Dick sighs. Bruce looks up at Tim, eyes curious. Tim takes that as a cue to continue going.

“Well, just think of it this way,” he starts. “Dick was, like he said, too young when Peter would have been conceived. So what other options are there?”

Dick lifts his head and furrows his brows. “You think he’s... not normal?”

Bruce clears his throat pointedly, and they both look at him. He gestures to the screen, where he is pulling up the screen Tim had clicked away a while ago. The DNA results appeared again, but this time Bruce scrolled past the first two pages to one that had a bolded title. UNKNOWN DNA SEQUENCE FOUND. How did he not notice that?

“Experiments?” Tim says before he can stop himself. Dick looks at him, a slightly sick expression on his face.

Bruce considers for a minute, then sighs. “We can’t be sure, not until Peter shares something with us, or we find something while investigating.”

“So, what?” Dick says, sitting fully up and leaning back. “My, son, whom I have had no knowledge of was what? Kidnapped and experimented on and somehow aged far faster than he should have?”

Bruce and Tim both send a look to each other and Dick’s face falls.

“You think that’s actually what happened,” he says, not questions. “That’s... no,” he shakes his head, rushing to his feet and tossing the papers from his hands to the desk. “There has to be another option.”

Tim leans back, tilting his head thoughtfully.

Experimentation was his first guess. With the weird mix of DNA, and the fact that Peter should physically be impossible, it was an option that made sense. Whether Dick had a brief relationship with a woman he couldn’t remember now – perhaps on purpose – or some villain got hold of Dick’s DNA and made a test tube baby out of him was in the air. Although the second option did pose a threat to Dick’s identity, especially if the DNA was collected from Nightwing and not Dick Grayson. HE told his brother and father as such.

Bruce’s eyes lit up. “You think someone may have taken Nightwing’s DNA and made a child with it?” his voice isn’t skeptical, but only just from it.

Tim shrugs though, since he really doesn’t know. “Maybe they were trying to make a clone, someone to fight Nightwing one-on-one.”

Dick’s expression was growing more tired the more words that left Tim’s mouth. “Who though?”

Tim appreciated the fact that Dick wasn’t completely tossing his idea out of the cave, and it made something warm flutter in his chest for a second. But Tim tamped it down, overlying thoughts burying it beneath.

“That’s the difficult part,” Tim confesses.

Bruce looks back up at the DNA sequence lit up on the screen. “We should find out what that other substance is,” he looks at Tim, and Tim takes that as he is going to find that out. Which he’s completely fine with, to be honest, as it gives him something to do other than read the notes for his marketing class for the eightieth time.

“You got it,” he shoots finger guns at his dad and scoots his chair back towards the keyboard. Dick just sits there and stares, which Tim thinks is relatable. If he had just found out he had a son, a teenage son no less, he feels he would be a little shell-shocked too.

“I, I think I’m going to head upstairs,” Dick says finally, pushing himself up and making a short step towards the stairs, but Bruce is in his path immediately.

Tim doesn’t watch, but he does listen as short words are exchanged between them. A few are you okay’s, and some I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, but soon Dick is going upstairs with Bruce by his side.

“I’ll get you for supper,” Bruce promises, waving slightly at Tim. Tim can’t help but wave back, a stupid smile creeping onto his face before he turns around and he’s alone again. He sighs, looks up at the screen in front of him and cracks his knuckles.

“All right,” he says, grabs an animal cracker, and begins his magic.

Chapter 6

Chapter Text

Jason was late for supper, arriving after his brother’s had finished, Bruce long gone into his office for the night. Alfred was just about to start placing the food in Tupperware when Jason walked through the doorway. The old butler had given him a look, one similar but not identical to the one Jason gets when he comes home with bleeding knuckles and a split lip, but Jason ignores him and slides onto one of the island’s barstools.

“Thanks for saving me some,” he mumbles, dragging an already-dished plate of pasta towards him.

Alfred hums. “Of course, Master Jason.” He collects the rest of the meal into the red lidded containers, labels them neatly, and places them in the fridge. Then, while Jason scarfs down all the food he can fit in his mouth, he stacks the dishes next to the kitchen sink and starts the tap.

“It’s delicious,” Jason compliments, scraping the last bit of the cheesy sauce with his fork, and licks it clean. Although simple, Alfred’s mac-and-cheese was one of Jason’s favorites.

Alfred’s eyes twinkle. “Of course, Master Jason,” he says again, and this time Jason snorts, nodding his head. “You are not the only one to enjoy the meal.”

Jason raises an eyebrow. “New kid like it too?”

Alfred nods, a pleased look painting his face. “Master Peter was quite pleased with the dish. Although he seemed too interested in what I grew in my garden to really appreciate the meal,” he muses. Jason chuckles lowly, nodding in understanding.

The small informal dining room where they usually ate their family meals branched from the kitchen. Its walls were light grey, and it had a cozier feel to it than the rest of the manor, especially with its floor to ceiling windows that spanned an entire wall. Outside of the windows, whose curtains were usually pulled open, was the large garden that Alfred had been growing ever since Jason could even remember. In fact, he remembers, with a slight pull in his chest, asking Alfred himself what the butler grew when he first came to the manor.

The answer was easy: Alfred grew whatever the heck he wanted. Watermelon, squash, cucumbers and zucchini, pumpkins, corn, tomatoes, beans, onions and garlic, even okra. Every year for Christmas, Jason and Dick would team up and buy a five-gallon pail full of different seeds and sprouts for Alfred, and they would spend hours together with Tim and Damian cleaning out the garden and the greenhouse for the coming spring. There were also some small wooden garden beds that held herbs like basil and rosemary tucked against one side of the fenced area, each well-kept and weeded.

It wasn’t that surprising to Jason that Peter was curious about the gardens, especially when the kid seemed curious about literally everything. Jason knows the kid’s got a large brain, and chances are he’s a lot like Jason was when he was a kid. Young, curious, top of his class, nose stuck in books, and a brain that couldn’t seem to stop soaking up knowledge at any possible moment. Throw in the fact that Peter still seems to have no idea where he is, and still hasn’t told them anything about the past (a painful fact that Jason hasn’t wanted to bring to the front of his mind, fearing just what he’ll learn), and Jason’s sure that the kid probably isn’t really interested in what Alfred grows.

Unless the kid really has a green thumb.

“What’d you tell him?” Jason hands the dish over to Alfred, who has filled the sink and is now placing a couple cups into the small dishwasher.

“A little bit of everything,” Alfred answers, a playful twinkle in his eyes. He pulls on a pair of bright pink rubber gloves and dunks his hands into the sink.

Jason nods, lips pulling into a half smile. He snags a towel from the rack and makes his way to Alfred’s side, only to be pushed away with the towel being yanked from his grip.

“Master Dick wanted to talk to you,” Alfred said, hanging the towel over the sleeve of his jacket. “He said he would meet you in his room.”

Jason raises an eyebrow, but Alfred doesn’t react further. The butler nods and turns back to the sink, grabbing a plate and dunking it in the water. Jason sighs but begins his way out of the kitchen. He knows better than to ignore instructions from Alfred, and he definitely knows not to ignore his older brother. Last time he did, he ended up with a glitter filled shampoo bottle and food coloring in his toothpaste, both of which were a major pain to get out.

So, wisely, he makes his way up the stairs and to Dick’s bedroom, ideas of why his brother would want to meet up this late at night. Actually...

Jason checks the next clock he passes, because he unfortunately left his phone on his bedroom nightstand and spies the time. Seven thirty, which, by all standards, really wasn’t that late. But Jason has this night off, they all do except Bruce, and he has plans that involve him and his very comfortable bed. Namely, sleeping a full 8 hours.

But Jason is loyal as much as he hates it, and he finds himself opening the bedroom door to Dick’s room.

As soon as he enters, he knows something is wrong. Let it be known that Jason Todd is not a man of emotions. He’s not like his youngest brother, who seems to know what people need the most, or his oldest, who can tell what someone is feeling just by how they breathe.

Jason is the kind of person that feels the atmosphere, takes in how people stand and how their face twitches, the kind of person to know what a person is about to do right before they do it. He’s also the kind of person to do nothing about it. But there’s something that seems to suck all the air out of his lungs the moment his eyes land on Dick.

His oldest brother – Nightwing, strong, brave, brave, brave – is sitting on the floor, his beck pressed against his bed. His knees are pulled up to his chest, his face buried into his knees, and his arms wrapped around his shins. There’s a shake in Dick’s shoulders, one that speaks of crying or shaky breaths.

It’s the most vulnerable Jason has seen his older brother in a long time.

A tinge of green vignettes his vision, but he swallows it back with a thick gulp. Getting emotional won’t help, and it is definitely not what Dick needs at the moment.

“Hey,” he says, gently. Well, as gently as he can; his voice isn’t really one to be used on the emotionaly unstable. He walks slowly, feet rolling to avoid any harsh noises, and stops a couple feet away from his brother. “You alright, big bird?”

Dick’s head rises slightly, showcasing red rimmed blue eyes. Dick nodded despite his appearance, and his head ducked back down.

Well...

“Alright if I sit down by ya?” Jason already knows the answer, but he’s still hesitant. IT would kill him if he hurt his brother doing something that he was sure was okay. Because then he’d never be able to do anything again because he wouldn’t know if it’s okay and he’ll be afraid to hurt them and

Dick nods and Jason huffs a breath. He shuffles next to his brother, plops down onto the plush rug, and leans his back up against the ruffled blankets behind him. He splays his legs out, grunting when one pops painfully, and sighs. Dick doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move and barely seems to breathe.

“So,” Jason drawls, leaning his head back to stare at the motionless fan above him.

Dick snorts quietly, and his head rolls to the side to peer at Jason. Jason doesn’t look at him though, only watches out of his peripherals. “You’re terrible at making people feel better,” Dick says quietly, voice a little rough. Jason wonders how long he’s been sitting here, alone. Which brings up the main problem; why exactly has he been sitting here all alone?

“What’s got you so down, huh?” he huffs, leaning his head back forward and tilting it slightly.

A myriad of emotions passes through Dick’s face, his hands fidgeting with the loose fabric of his sweatpants. His eyebrows draw closer together and his lips pull uncomfortably. “How,” he starts but stops, biting his lip. He seems to steady himself, Jason waiting patiently, and starts again. “How would you feel if you suddenly found out you have a... relative... that you didn’t know ever existed, and you find out they probably had a terrible life, and they’re all alone, and you’re their only relative probably, and like, they don’t know you know, but I don’t know if he knows, and I just-”

“Whoa, whoa, let’s take a deep breath here, big bird,” Jason grips Dick’s wrist with his hand, carefully pulling his older brother’s hand into his own. “What’s going on? You’re not making any sense.”

Dick takes a deep, shuddering breath, stops, looks at Jason, and promptly bursts into tears.

“Whoa, okay, okay,” Jason stutters, pulling Dick’s body to his chest. He doesn’t really deal with the crying, usually that’s when Dick or Bruce takes over in a situation, but he knows the basics. Comfort, of course. Dick likes contact, Damian likes his hair to be played with and tussled, and Tim prefers someone to just be there and talk.

Dick will always be clingy, has been since Jason first walked into the manor. He’ll constantly grab wrists, hands, pull on fingers, sling his arms over shoulders, and a whole other range of options that Jason can’t even think of. If any of the brothers need a hug, they go to Dick, because they know he’ll always be willing to reciprocate. Although he’s never stated it aloud, Jason is pretty sure this stems from his circus upbringing. It’s hard not to be clingy when you’re constantly clinging to someone else. (There’re also his parent’s deaths too...)

Damian has been growing his hair out for some time, pretty much ever since the rest of them started. When they were younger, Bruce and Alfred kept their hair trimmed and neat, took them for fresh haircuts every month at a small barbor in a posh neighborhood. Jason knew it was for the press, knew they needed to keep up appearances to ensure that no one knew about their ‘rugged lifestyle’ that happened behind closed doors. But then Jason died and came back (he has to remind himself of this more than he thinks he should), and he simply hadn’t needed to keep it short anymore. After all, Jason Todd-Wayne was dead, and Red Hood didn’t need to keep up with the noble folks’ ideas of societal norms. So, he grew his hair out, let it loose and sometimes tied it in a low ponytail. With his helmet he couldn’t let it grow too long, and kept it trimmed so it fell a little beneath his chin. Now he keeps it in a buzzcut, top short and sides shaved, as a reminder that he isn’t the murder-revenge-crazed person he used to be. Dick started growing his out after he moved out, and Tim soon after. Damian, who had obviously become inspired by his older brothers, had marched into Bruce’s office one afternoon. Jason, Dick, and Tim had waited outside of the door, each of them trying to guess what their murder baby was so determined to happen. When Damian had marched out about 5 minutes later, proudly stating that he was going to grow his hair out, they had all just smiled and ruffled his then-short hair. Now he keeps it still trimmed, but a little longer than what it used to be, instead it fell around his ears rather than the little duck-butt of a floof that stood before.

Tim and Jason don’t get along well, better than they used to, but there’s still a rift that seems to never close. Despite this, Jason will sometimes find Tim sitting on his bed when he returns from patrol, holding a book. They will then spend the next few hours together, with Tim leaning against Jason’s headboard, Jason himself either on the other end of the bed or in his desk chair, and Jason will read aloud. It wasn’t something talked about on a later date, and it wasn’t something they had ever brought up to anyone. IT was a simple thing, but it was their thing.

“Come on, big bird,” Jason says, tucking Dick’s head under his chin. It’s a little uncomfortable, especially when the pungent smell of Dick’s lavender-scented shampoo burns his nose, but he bears with it. Something he’s found, very annoyingly he might add, is that he’ll deal with a lot of crap if it means his brothers are okay. “You gotta talk to me. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Dick draws in a shuddering breath, his shoulders shaking. Jason can feel his shirt getting wet, which, first of all, gross, and second of all, Dick has a box of tissues sitting on his nightstand. Oh, the things he will do for his brothers.

“Peter,” Dick whispers, but it seems to echo in the suddenly quiet room.

Jason opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again. “He’s... related?” The words Dick had rushed out earlier are ringing in his ears. ‘Had a terrible life, are all alone, didn’t know they existed... “He’s, Peter’s related to you?”

Dick’s head shifts against his collarbone in what Jason’s concludes is a nod.

“How?” Though he tries to keep the incredulousness out of his voice, Jason can’t completely. Dick’s family is dead – had no living relatives – one of the any reasons Dick had been taken in by Bruce in the first place. If all of Dick’s relatives had been dead when he was only a kid, than how in the world was Peter alive? Unless it was very distant, but that wouldn’t account for the level of distraught that Dick was experiencing.

“He’s,” Dick starts, but again, seems to have words to complete his thought. Jason waits, figuring he had a little time for Dick to work through the internal crisis he was experiencing. If his brother ends up falling asleep before he gets the answer, then Jason will find Tim; he knows that the little computer-nerd definitely has the answer. In fact, he was probably the one to tell Dick in the first place.

“He’s my son.”

Which...

What?

Jason bluescreens, his thoughts fizzing out like the carbonation in a shaken soda. Which, in simpler terms, means explosively.

“What?” he exclaims, a little too loudly for such a small room. He yanks Dick away from his chest, keeping his hands firmly pressed against Dick’s shoulders, and levels their faces. “What the hell?”

“Look, Jason,” Dick starts, his bottom lip trembling. “I don’t, we don’t know... Tim and Bruce think he might have been like... a clone,” his voice cracks. “I don’t, there’s unknown DNA, Jason, he’s not fully a human, and I don’t... I don’t know what to do.”

Jason pulls Dick back to his chest, though he finds his arms are a little more like noodles than limbs.

“I’ve missed so much, he’s missed so much,” Dick continues, his voice gaining strength. “First steps, first words, first everythings, Jason. He, he didn’t have a childhood, he didn’t have a dad. He probably grew up like Damian, or, or worse, and I don’t-,” his voice breaks and so does Jason’s heart (more than it already is).

“It’ll be okay,” he rushes to say. He knows it won’t be, at the beginning at least. If what Dick is saying is true, than Peter’s life was probably one hell of a sh*tshow, and now they’re left with the ruins.

But Jason knows his family can handle it, especially Dick and Bruce. And Alfred, bless the man. After all, they had already dealt with himself.

How hard could another zombie be?

Chapter 7

Chapter Text

It’s Peter’s first night at the manor when Damian finds him wandering the halls late at night.Which is a surprise, yet not at all surprising.

He’s in his pj’s, with soft slippers tucked onto his feet, and is padding softly around the halls with his arms tightly crossed over his chest. He looks tired, with deep purple bags under his eyes and a haunted look in his expression that has Damian almost running to get Bruce. But he doesn’t, instead he invites his new brother down to the kitchen to get tea.

Peter blinks at him, jolted from whatever illusion he had been previously stuck in and nods.

Damian was up because he couldn’t sleep, and tea always helps him. So, he figures why not?

They sit across from each other as the leaves steep. Peter’s mug is clasped tightly between his hands, as if he’s trying to soak in the warmth, and his body is tense. Damian leaves a finger hooked through the handle of his own mug and leans back in his chair.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he murmurs, voice low. The atmosphere around them is soft and gentle, the breakfast nook illuminated only by the light of the kitchen the seeps through. Damian isn’t one for conversations, but Peter is his brother, and this is what brothers do. At least, this is what his own brothers do when he can’t sleep.

“Mhm,” Peter hums, taking a cautious sip from his mug.

“Nightmares?” Damian wonders aloud, feeling almost regretful when Peter winces.

“More like,” Peter pauses, eyes seemingly years away. “Bad memories.”

And-

…

Since when did Peter have memories?

Damian winces at himself, realizing that despite Peter probably not knowing he’s dead (they figure that, though they’re not quite sure and they’re too afraid to ask) he probably does remember his old life. Which causes Damian to wince again.

Richard had called a family meeting the night before, after Peter had been tucked away under his thick fuzzy blankets. There, he had explained everything they had found – in which Damian realized he was the only member of the family except Alfred to not know that Peter was actually Richard Grayson’s biological son. It made him slightly upset, a little angry if he thought about it, that everyone else knew except him. But once he realized that Tim was probably the one who figured it out, Bruce most likely there too, and Jason is practically Richard’s emotional support human, it makes sense. Damian’s still upset.

But right now, Damian is going to focus on the present. Or, in other words, Peter; whom he now considers a brother (despite the literal fact that he is his nephew, and the little worm in his head that screams spy, fake, and kill). He knows that the older members of the family are already working on Peter’s identity, finding out who he was before this, and he is inclined to let them. Right now, he’s excited, not that he’ll ever admit it, that he has a brother closer to his age.

Peter’s only a couple years older than him, which is a couple years younger than Tim. And though Damian does tolerate Tim nowadays and sits with him and his ragtag group of friends during lunch at school, it’s not the easiest to enjoy spending time together when they are so apart. Tim and Damian have completely different ideals, pleasures, hobbies, and specialties. The only thing they both like is art, but even then, they’re different; Tim likes photography and Damian enjoys painting and sketching with charcoal.

Peter doesn’t necessarily look like he will enjoy those topics, but at least he’s close to Damian’s age and won’t be practically an adult in a year. Damian says practically, because there is no way he will ever see Timothy Drake as a responsible adult.

“Bad memories,” Damian mumbled, watching carefully as Peter ducks his head. Idly swishing his tea around in his mug, Damian tries to imagine just how bad Peter’s memories are.

Damian’s own childhood memories are... less than ideal. Traumatizing, echoes Bruce’s voice in his head. Yes, they were traumatizing, and yes Damian still struggled with some day-to-day ideals such as morals; however, he would not trade it for another childhood. Not that he doesn’t think growing up with two loving parents and equally loving siblings wouldn’t be nice. No, in fact, he sometimes does dream about what having a ‘normal childhood’ might have been like. But he would not trade the life he has now for a life he could have lived.

Not with the Friday night movie nights, where Jason would pop about 10 bags of popcorn and Tim would buy out the local convenience store of all their M&M’s. Or the trips to the zoo with Richard that lasted the whole afternoon and ended with a stuffed animal from the gift shop. Even the late-night run ins with Tim when both of them should definitely be asleep but neither one was.

Damian can’t imagine what Peter’s childhood would have been like if he had grown up in a lab. And that begs a different question as well. Did Peter even have a childhood? Damian is inclined to say yes, just from the behavior that Peter emits and displays. His actions, the looks he gives to the others, the way he watches everyone carefully.

“Yeah,” Peter’s green eyes, similar yet entirely different from Jason’s, move along behind Damian’s head. If he was to guess, he’d say Peter was eyeing the weird print of tiles that stretched under the cabinet. “I don’t like water.”

While that was seemingly out of nowhere, it gives Damian some information that he’s sure is not privy to the rest of the family. Peter doesn’t like water. As obscene as that statement is, there must be some sort of reasoning behind it. Well, of course, Damian hopes there is. But Peter is related to Richard, who is terrified of bees for no particular reason, so maybe it is a family trait.

For now, Damian is pleased to spend even just a little alone time with his new brother.

Trauma can be figured out in the morning.

Peter goes missing from his bed on the second night.

The day had gone by well, Jason spending his time crammed into the corner of the library couch, a pile of books growing by his side. He was alone for most of the day, only seeing Tim when he went to grab lunch, and Damian and Peter when they scrambled into the library looking for paper to paint on. Jason, with a smile hidden in a cough, told them there were a couple of canvases on his desk they could use, and they scurried off again.

After that incident, Jason let himself delve into the world of Huckleberry Fin, and let real life melt around him. It wasn’t often he got to do this, as he still spent most of his days bustling around Crime Alley or other parts of Gotham. But with the new addition to the house, and Dick’s need to get out and get some air, Jason was left with the house. Not that he minded. He wasn’t complaining.

He was complaining, however, when it was just him and Alfred in the house that night when he found Peter’s bed empty.

It was late, Bruce and Dick were only 10 minutes away from the manor when Jason decided to do his rounds of bed checks’, as Damian liked to call them. Call him protective, call him overbearing, but all Jason sees is a big brother who’s checking on his siblings. It takes 2 minutes at most, a little longer now with Peter’s room in the mix.

It’s simple, just a creak of the door opening an inch or two, a couple seconds for Jason to peer in and make sure his brothers haven’t died somehow, or started their room on fire, and then he’s moving onto the next room. Tim is usually still up, as Jason makes his rounds around ten thirty at night, but there’s the unusual occasion when he is that has Jason tiptoeing his way in to place a hand on Tim’s forehead. It has caught sickness multiple times, which makes Jason’s reasons to check ever more important. Tonight, Tim is still awake, hunched over computer with a travel mug of coffee trapped in one hand. He doesn’t look at Jason, doesn’t take his eyes off what looked to be old Psychology papers, but raises his empty hand in a wave.

“Getting ready for the new school year, Timber?”

“Get out,” Tim flicks a finger up and Jason chortles, backing his way out of the room.

“Go to bed before 1,” he calls in, chuckling when all he hears back is Tim’s grumbling, and the door shuts.

Damian is next, and it’s no surprise the demon baby is already fast asleep when Jason gets there. His blankets are pulled to his chin, his face smushed sideways into his pillow, and his hair creates a near halo around. Jason leans on the door frame for a minute, his head knocking slightly on the dark wood. Damian just looked so soft, and Jason was half tempted to take a picture.

“Am I interrupting, Master Jason?” Alfred clears his throat and Jason barely tilts his head to the side.

“Nah,” he waves his hand, keeping his voice low. Alfred appears to be carrying a freshly washed stack of towels, a small basket of toiletries sitting on top. “I was just taking a gander.”

Alfred snorts, eloquently if you would believe it, and takes a step closer to peer inside of the room as well. “Like an angel, does he sleep.”

Jason snorts, not so eloquently. “Like a demon, when he’s awake.”

Alfred just nods sagely, stepping back into the hall to let Jason close the door. Together, they start towards Peter’s room, which is a little farther down the hall. It sits between Jason’s and a guest bedroom, with Dick’s room almost straight across. Tim and Damian’s rooms are down the hall and to the right, with a small staircase to the left that led almost straight down to the library.

Even through the light of the hallway, Jason can tell that at least one light is on in Peter’s room; a lamp he guesses, judging by the faintness of the glow. Peter might still be awake, which wouldn’t surprise Jason. After all, he spent his own nights awake and curled in a ball while trying to scream away the terrors that flooded his dreams. Jason can't hear any screams, or sounds of struggle, so that’s at least a point in favor towards Peter. Damian had already told Jason of the late-night tea-time they had had the previous evening, and of the discovery that Peter does not like water.

Perhaps he drowned.

Jason opens the door slowly, too weary to knock in case Peter really was asleep. Lightly lit walls appear, and a ceiling covered in glowing stars stretches overhead and for a moment, Jason remembers with almost terrifying vividity that Peter is a child. Teenager. Whatever.

He was right about the light, of course he was; the lamp to the left side of the bed was lit, and a half-empty glass of water sat beneath the white shade. The dark blue blankets of the bed are thrown slightly down on the bed, leaving an open patch of white sheet to peek through. Jason blinks, tilting his head.

“I thought Peter went to bed,” he says, unease already rippling through his stomach. He turns his head to look at Alfred, who stands right behind him. Alfred’s furrowed brows do nothing to abate his worry.

“Master Peter did retire to his room quite a while ago,” Alfred responds, pushing slightly into the room and peering past Jason to the slightly ajar bathroom door. The unlit room was empty when Jason checks it, still empty when Alfred enters to set the towels on the closed toilet seat. “Perhaps he went to the kitchen for a snack.”

“Yeah,” Jason says, ready to agree with any idea. He runs his hand through his hair, shaking the bangs out of his face as he does.

He’s never lost a sibling before, not counting that one time with Tim at the art museum.

“I’ll go ask Tim if he’s seen him,” then they’re both walking out of the room swiftly. Jason knows that teenagers like alone time, that they tend to seclude themselves a lot more than a normal person should. But he also knows that Peter could be suffering from some sort of unknown effect that the Lazarus Pit gave him, which means that finding him is of upmost priority.

“You lost him?” Dick’s screech echoes through the cave, and he can see Jason flinch from the volume. Dick doesn’t care, yet he does, because the words that just tumbled out of Jason’s mouth are still swirling in his head. “How the hell did you lose a teenager?”

Jason sighs, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. Beside him, Tim’s frazzled expression blinks heavily and Dick sighs. He sucks in a deep breath, hands quickly working to undo the top of his suit. The quicker it was off of him, the sooner he could be up in the manor looking for Peter. For his son. Who his brother just lost.

“ Tim,” he says sharply, and Tim’s head jerks up at the call. Dick’s eyes soften just slightly, and he smiles gently. “You can go to bed, hmm?”

Tim suddenly looks unsure, eyes flicking between Bruce and Dick’s forms, both of which are working quickly to change into their civies. “You sure?” he asks between two yawns.

Dick answers with a hand wave and Tim is soon stumbling back upstairs to his room. Dick turns to Jason, who shrinks back slightly, despite his large stature. Guilt floods Dick’s chest, overflowing the worry and anxiety that beats with his heart, and he sighs heavily while pulling on a pair of black sweatpants.

“How did you manage this baby bird?” He leans forward and ruffles Jason’s hair, who squawks and leans out of striking range. Bruce tosses him a white t-shirt that he pulls over his head and his suit is haphazardly thrown next to its case.

“Chum,” Bruce says exasperatedlybut Dick waves him off.

“I’ll clean it later.”

Bruce makes a humming noise in the back of his throat as he leans down to pick up the suit himself. His father grabs his own suit and starts to meander over to a table. “Go find Peter,” he calls over his shoulder. “I’ll check the cameras and see if I can find anything.”

“Thanks, B!” Dick calls back, looping his arm with Jason’s and starts up the metal stairs. The minute they’re back in the manor, Dick turns sharply to Jason. “Explain, now.” He doesn’t care that his voice is a little rough, Jason can take it. In fact, it makes his brother think better, as is evident by the crystal sharp look his brother’s green eyes take.

“I was doing my rounds and had already checked on Tim and Dami,” they’ve left the study and are now making their way to the grand staircase, the cold marble freezing on Dick’s bare feet. “I opened the door, and he was gone. The lamp’s left on, the blankets aren’t really a complete mess, kinda looks like he just stumbled outta bed or something.”

Dick sighs, leaning his head on Jason’s shoulder despite them still walking. “I thought skipping the toddler stage meant I wouldn’t have a kid leaving bed when he’s supposed to be asleep,” he complains, plastering himself to his brother’s side. Anxiety filled butterflies are dying in his stomach and instead are being filled with bees that bumble around painfully. It takes him a moment to realize that he’s scared.

Jason scoffs, his arm pulling on Dick’s to turn them around the corner. “Yeah well you skipped right to the rebellious teenager phase, so don’t be so hopeful. For all we know he’s sitting up on the roof smoking.”

They both pause in step, balking in their stride.

“Have you...?”

“Not yet,” Jason replies. “I didn’t really think of it till now.”

They both stare into Peter’s room, which is just a little bit farther down the hall.

“Although I’m not sure where he’d get anything to smoke from,” Dick’s face scrunches as he speaks. He knows Jason quit a couple years ago, really once he started coming around the manor again. And around Damian. It was one of the couple rules Dick had placed on Jason’s homecoming; no smoking around Damian or Tim. Damian, who was still young and younger at the time was still developing and secondhand smoke is just as bad as smoking a cigarette them self. And Tim, who already had an abundance of addictions including caffeine, did not need another dish added to his plate.

“Teenagers can be creative,” Jason grumbles in response and Dick levels a look at him. Jason sighs and untangles their arms, pushing Dick towards the bedroom. “Check and see if you can find anything, me and Alfred never really checked the room itself. I’ll go check the roof and balconies.”

And with that, Dick is left in the empty bedroom.

Peter is warm, cozy, surrounded in something that feels awfully like an Aunt May Hug™. He can almost feel the soft tickling of her hair on his shoulder and neck, the warm puffs of air as she laughs on his skin and the way that he can feel and hear and just know her heartbeat.

But that’s not right. Because May isn’t here, not in this... world. May’s gone.

Or maybe he’s gone?

Peter’s... not sure...

And also he’s comfy. Like suuuuuper comfy. And warm.

Something soft is wrapped around him, pressed against his face and smelling like fresh laundry and it’s making him so sleepy that he just curls up tighter wherever he is and snuggles deeper.

There’s water in his lungs

He can’t breathe-

He’s-

Air-

There are hands on his shoulders and he’s being pulled upright even though he’s pretty sure he wasn’t laying down. The soft stuff falls away from his face and the sudden coldness had Peter blinking awake sharply. There’s talking, he realizes, loud talking that almost has him flinching away. But the voice sounds important, and insistent, and Peter’s a good guy who listens to people, wait, actually that might be Spiderman.... but Peter is Spiderman so therefore he has to listen.

Right?

“-...in the closet?”

Peter blinks his eyes open from their halfway drawn position – huh he hadn’t actually opened them – and comes face to face with a man.

Wait.

He knows this man.

Nightwing.

Wait.

Nope.

Dick.

That’s his name. Peter blinks at his own line of thoughts, shaking his head slightly to get rid of them. Nightwing?

“ N’at?” he mumbles, confident in his sleep drawn haze that he was asked a question. Whether or not he answered it correctly did not matter because the soft thing is still tucked around his waist and his hands are still furrowed deep into it.

The man, Dick, Peter reminds himself, furrows his eyebrows. His hands, which are the hands on Peter’s shoulders, are warm and they squeeze slightly. Peter squeezes the soft thing in his hand accordingly.

“Why are you sleeping in the closet?” Dick asks, and

Oh.

Wait a second-

Maybe that’s what finally wakes him up, or maybe it’s the sudden appearance of another person behind Dick that has Peter looking around him, with a sudden jolt of clarity he realizes that, yes, he is in fact sitting in a closet. The soft thing in his hand is the funky looking blanket he had found when he went shopping, and he’s wearing his pajamas.

“Oh,” he says, wow, so eloquently in front of the rich people, Parker, he winces. “Um.”

He looks up to the almost painfully worried face of Dick’s, whose eyes are scanning him up and down as if looking for injury.

“I don’t know?” He answers truthfully, because really, he has no idea. Maybe it’s because the room they have him sleeping in is so damn big that it makes him feel like he’s sleeping in a cave? Or maybe because the room is freezing, and he doesn’t want to be a popsicle? Peter shivers as the ceiling fan blows in yet another gust of the frigid air and he scrambles to pull the blanket back up around his shoulders.

Dick’s eyes soften, if that’s even possible, but there’s still a worried edge around them. Peter finds himself being pulled up from the ground, stumbling a little when his still asleep legs fumble a little like a foal. He’s led back to the bed, where he sits down, and another blanket is draped over his shoulders. The weightfeels nice, and Peter’s eyes start to droop.

Which, in all honesty, is weird. He’s never this tired, normally. He’s barely done anything all day except some art and taking a walk out on the lawn, and he’s already this exhausted? What’s he supposed to do when he starts Spidermanning again?

Come on Parker, he tells himself, pulling the blankets closer around him. You’ll figure it out. You always do.

“ Why don’t you go back to bed, and we can talk in the morning?” Jason, or at least Peter thinks it’s Jason, pipes up from where he’s standing by the door. Dick and him seem to be having some sort of important conversation, one that Peter is obviously not privy to, but he’s turned to look Peter straight on.

“Um, sure,” Peter mumbles because really, he would rather go to bed than eavesdrop on a conversation that’s almost definitely about him. So, he scoots more onto the bed, not even trying to get beneath the covers, and collapses face first into the blanket.

He’s out in seconds.

Chapter 8

Chapter Text

Peter was running away.

Or at least, he was trying to; however, he was very bad at it.

Hence, right now, where he is crouched in the hallway, with one foot held above the tiled floor of the entry. There’s a backpack slung over his left shoulder, and his right arm is pressed against the wall in hopes to keep him balanced. A picture frame just brushes the fringe of his bangs, and his breath hits the wall only to come back at his face. The lights are off, except for the warm wall sconces of the entry, and the light that falls down the stairs from the hallways above.

Voices follow the light, loud enough for Peter to hear but quiet enough to be indecipherable, and Peter keeps still. The voices track back and forth through the hall, deep and somewhat hushed.

He’s not sure why two members of the family are walking up and down the hallways at 2 in the morning, but who is he to judge? After all, he’s sneaking out of the house wrapped in an all-black outfit that includes a sweatshirt he stole from Dick’s dresser. His backpack is full of some of the clothing Dick had bought for him, a couple notebooks, a small hard-cover book he found of Gotham’s history, a water bottle, and a box of granola bars he snuck from the pantry. The bag is full and had taken nearly 5 minutes to completely zip up, but he did, and it stayed closed.

The entry door is in his vision, close but out of his reach, and he stays frozen. He desperately needs to not be caught, because if he is, what in the world was he supposed to say? Hey, thanks and all for all the money you spent on me and the affection and love that I totally did not deserve, but I’m pretty sure I do not belong here and you are not who I would like to spend my life with, no matter what those two vigilantes who I’m pretty sure are two of you, said, I am fine and would totally like to return to my family now.

Peter snorts, and his hand comes to clasp over his lips immediately after.

Yeah, that would go so smoothly. Peter knows they must have ran tests, or at least gone to the police with his picture to investigate missing person cases; which is why he doesn’t understand why May hasn’t been called, and why he isn’t home yet. There’s no reason May wouldn’t have filed a report, not with how protective she is of him, the minute he hadn’t come home that night.

That night... Peter still couldn’t really remember what happened, but he knows he should have gone to his and May’s apartment after... whatever he was doing.

Which now feeds into the never-ending washing machine cycle of anxiety that tumbles in his stomach. If May hadn’t reported him as a missing person, then was something wrong with May? Had something happened that Peter couldn’t remember? He remembers some things, like eating breakfast and going to school, but when he thinks about anything too specifically, or tries to recall a certain date, it gets scrambled. Like eggs.

The voices from above fade a little more than they have in the past ten minutes, and Peter takes this as his chance, quietly shuffling forward across the entry. His hand falls onto the handle of the door, and he twists it open. For only a second, he thinks back to the post-it note he left on his pillow, the few words scrawled along the neon green paper, but he shakes his head.

He was just a kid that happened to stay with the Wayne family for a couple days. Nothing more, nothing less. Being the millionaires, or billionaires, that they were, they would forget about him soon. Even Damian.

Maybe Peter would call them when he got back to New York, back to May, and let them know he was okay.

Or maybe he wouldn’t.

The voices are back, growing with every second that Peter sat hesitant, and they are the final push he needs to go. The air is cool, and a misty rain stings on his cheeks, but the heavy door closes behind him and he’s gone without another thought.

Chapter 9

Chapter Text

“Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid,” he mutters. Peter is so goddamned stupid. How could he ever think that he could do this?

Currently, huddled under the plastic awning of a bus stop, his soaked sweatshirt sticking to his skin and his hair clumped together in frigid fringe, he rethinks all his life choices. More specifically the most recent ones.

Why the heck didn’t he just ask for a phone to use? He knows May’s number by heart, way better than he knows his way around this city, which, by the way, he is almost 90 percent did not exist a week ago. But according to the book that he had just shoved back into his bag, it had been a city in New Jersey for quite some time.

Peter knows he passed geography with a B+, but he isn’t sure that it was because he completely ignored the existence of a city as big as New York, if not bigger. Especially since it's only a 20-minute train ride away.

Peter has a folded 20-dollar bill that he found in the hoodie pocket stuffed into the fist of his hand, and a bus pass that had been left on the kitchen counter. Thankfully, the bus passes didn’t have a picture tied to them, meaning Peter could scan in as Dick Grayson and no one would know the difference.

He’d mail it back when he got home. Along with the change from the twenty, and a thank you card.

There’s no one else at the bus stop, which could be either from the time or the weather. The mist from before had quickly become a steady pour of showers that left puddles in the streets and Peter shaking from shivers. His feet are almost numb, but still sort of ache in a weird way, and his tennis shoes are soaked to the point of squelching every time he steps.

But it’s fine.

He’s going home.

It’ll be fine.

It’s not fine, it’s totally not fine.

Peter is standing in front of an apartment building that should not be there because there’s supposed to be his own apartment building there and if his apartment building is not here then where is it and where is May and-

“You alright, kid?” a gruff voice breaks his thoughts and Peter jumps forward, spinning around. An older man, dressed in what looks like a restaurant uniform, is hesitantly standing with one foot on the curb and one in the street. He’s got a jacket slung over his arm, an umbrella open over his head, and a mustache that could rival Tom Selleck's.

Peter realizes that he probably looks a little less than ‘alright’, with his all black clothes, messy hair, and probably pale skin, but he nods anyways.

The man looks him up and down, as if taking in Peter’s small, soaked, and shaking form, before his arm extends with his jacket. Peter blinks at it but doesn’t reach forward. I don’t need anyone else to pay back.

The man, apparently adamant that Peter take the coat, huffs and shuffles forward. With a quick swish, the coat is slung over Peter’s own shoulder, the fabric warm against his bare neck. “Just take it kid.”

Peter hugs the jacket close as the man walks away, taking in the warmth and dryness it provides. Before long, it’s wrapped around his frame. Thankfully it’s big enough to fit over his sweatshirt, and even has a hood that he hikes up to cover his head. Now, without the rain in his eyes, he takes a moment to shakily peer up at the building in front of him.

It’s not his apartment building, and he knows it.

Which doesn’t make sense, because how in the world does an apartment building just up and walk away.

Buildings don’t have legs.

…

With a nod, Peter pushes his backpack back up and takes off down the street. May is somewhere, and he knows it. He just has to find her.

Like a giant game of hide and seek.

She’s not at her work, the hospital still stands in the same place but has a different feel. According to the nice lady at the desk, there is no May Parker that works there.

Delmar’s doesn’t exist. Peter checked, walked back and forth across the street, up and down the sidewalk as if that would cause the restaurant to appear. It doesn’t.

Midtown High School is an empty parking lot of a mall.

The old GameStop he and Ned used to stop by is a laundry mat with fortune telling on Tuesdays.

His old grocery store is now a gym.

He’s not freaking out, (he totally is) which Peter finds strange, because normally, Peter freaks out. But he’s not. He’s just... kind of numb.

He can’t feel his fingers as he types out a phone number in a booth, can’t feel the probably cold metal buttons on his skin. His hand shakes as he brings the receiver to his ear, listening to the dial tone as the call goes through. Rain gently hits the glass side of the phone booth, leaving tiny explosions of water droplets on its surface, and he watches them.

Watches them even as the automated voice repeats back the same message that he’s been listening to for the past 5 minutes. OR was it 10?

‘The phone number you are trying to reach does not exist. Please check the number you have typed in and try again-’

‘The phone number you are trying to reach does not exist. Please check the number you have typed in and try again-’

‘The phone number you are trying to reach does not exist. Please check the n-’

‘The phone number you are trying to reach does not-’

‘The phone-’

“Please,” he whispers into the phoneclutching the metal contraption close to his face. The phone beeps, a different voice telling him his call will be redirected towards a help center and he places it back in its hook. He stares at it, numb fingers slipping into his pocket and gripping the money and bus card still in it.

There’s a number written on the bus card, scribbled out right next to a sticker that reads: ‘If lost, please call...’.

Peter knows he could pick up the phone. Knows he could call and go back to the warm house and the hugs and the love that strangers had shown without worry. Back to probably one of the safest homes he would even be in in his life.

“May,” he croaks, leaning to press his face against the glass of the phone booth. It’s disgusting, he knows, but he kind of just wants to feel something right now. “What do I do?”

He looks down at the phone; at the metal buttons that have faded numbers and dirt in between the cracks. His fingers close around the card in his pocket and he pulls it out, holding it in front of his face.

He’s so stupid.

“Oi.”

Dick leans into Jason’s room, hand on the door frame and feet nearly slipping on the floor. Jason is busy pulling on a shirt, trying to keep his wet hair from soaking the collar completely. He’s fresh from the shower, smelling like pine needles and lavender, with skin clean from the blood of the night’s patrol.

“Have you seen my sweatshirt?”

Jason barely spares his brother a glance and grabs the water bottle from his nightstand. “Nope.” He takes a swig, grimacing at the room temperature water, but takes another drink anyways. He wipes the remains of water from his lips and turns to find Dick going through his laundry bin.

With a growl, Jason yanks him up and away, plopping him right back by the door. “What are you doing? Last I checked, that’s my laundry and not yours.”

Dick pouts, sticks out his tongue, and then leans back into Jason’s room to peer around again.

“Would you,” Jason pushes Dick out again, hand against his shoulder. “Get out? Why are you looking in my room anyways? Check, Dami’s. He’s the one that likes to steal your clothes.”

Dick huffs, leaning against the door frame despite Jason’s warning scoff. “I already did. And Tim. And I asked Alfred if he put it in the wash, but, nope,” Dick raises his shoulders in a shrug. “So I figured I’d come check your room.”

Jason sighs and leans opposite of Dick. “Wasn’t me.”

Dick doesn’t look very troubled by the statement, if only a bit bothered. “Okay,” he sighs, turning on his heel back toward his room. “I should go check my room again.”

“Did you check Peter?”

Dick freezes, almost unnoticeably, before he fumbles to a stop and turns to look back at Jason. “Why would he have it?”

Jason groans, pinching the bridge of his nose at his own brother’s stupidity. Nothing new. “Dick, the kid is literally yours. Why wouldn’t he take your clothes.”

Dick narrows his eyes. “He... doesn’t know he’s mine?”

“He’s related to you,” Jason reminds him, as if it was needed. “If anyone in this family could be a bigger clothes thief than you, it would be your son.”

Dick’s eyes widen, as if he hadn’t thought about that before, and he brightens. Without another word, he’s walking over to Peter’s room with a slight bounce in his step. Jason watches until he gets to the door, before he turns into his own room, determined to make it to the bed.

Patrol was tough; it was sweaty and bloody and far too exerting for a midnight run through the city. His bed looked so comfy, with the blankets straightened and the pillows fluffed and Jason could already feel his eyes drifting closed and he wasn’t even on the bed yet-

“Jason!” Dick is in his room, holding a small sticky note in his hand and Jason knows... he knows something is wrong.

Peter dials the number, despite the inner turmoil that is raging inside of him. His arm shakes, not just his hand this time, as he slips a few quarters into the machine, the rest of the coins nearly slipping from his fingers as he sets them on the little counter built into the wall.

This time, the ringtone goes, a comforting buzz in his ear.

Once.

Twice.

Three-

“This is the Wayne residence; how may I help you today?” Peter hasn’t been reassured by an old British man before, but he thinks that this is a good feeling. A little warmth spreads through his lungs, springing up to his eyes. His throat clogs, and he can barely let out a squeak of air.

“Hello?” Alfred’s voice asks again, his tone taking one of a bit of impatience.

“’m sorry,” Peter cries out, sinking to his butt immediately and shoving his face into his knees. His shoulders shake with cries, and it’s almost painful with the coldness in his limbs. He clings to the phone, listening to the words that Alfred spits out but not comprehending them.

It’s not until a much deeper and rougher voice talks into his ear that he becomes more present.

“-eter, you’re okay,” Bruce’s voice was saying. There are noises other than that, other than the ones that still echo in Peter’s ears from the city; noises of people talking in the background, fabric shuffling and car doors closing.

“Bruce,” Peter pitifully cries out, wrapped his free arm around his legs and pulling them closer to his chest. “Bruce.” He doesn’t know what else to say.

“It’s alright Peter, you’re okay,” Bruce repeated, then repeated again. The mantra continued for a while, until Peter’s breathing evened somewhat out, and the tears stopped leaking from his eyes.

“’m sorry,” he mumbles, sniffling and wiping his nose on his sleeve. It’s gross, but he’d rather not have snot dripping down his face.

“Don’t be,” Bruce’s voice responds calmly. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I ran away,” Peter mumbled back, fingers reaching to fiddle with the long cord of the phone. He twists it between his thumb and forefinger, looping it around his pinky and then unlooping it again. “I just wanted to go home.”

There’s an intake of breath, sharp but shallow, and Bruce doesn’t respond for a little bit. Peter wonders idly what sort of information that gives the billionaire; what sort of insinuations will the man make? No doubt they will be wrong, especially since Peter isn’t sure what world he’s in. Or if he’s even in one.

This would be one hell of a fever dream.

“Where are you right now, Peter?” Bruce is back.

“Um,” Peter glances around him, trying to find a familiar restaurant or landmark before he freezes. Right. No familiar landmarks.

Everything’s gone.

The phone booth he’s hunkered down in is one of three tucked against the wall of an old appliance store. He can’t see the name from where he’s sitting, but he can see the small café across the street.

“Um, near uh, Sally’s Breakfast,” he sniffs again, lifting a numb hand to wipe his nose again. The little café has clean white bricks and a few windows. The red and white striped awning flaps a little in the wind, and the lights glow gently from inside. Peter can see a few people busying themselves around inside, and he can vaguely smell a small waft of fresh pancakes that makes it to him through the rain. His stomach growls, and he swallows thickly.

“Sally’s Breakfast,” Bruce repeated, and Peter hummed, eyes locked onto the small restaurant. He still had a couple dollars, maybe enough for a small muffin. He could really go for a cinnamon muffin.

“Peter?” Bruce’s voice breaks off Peter’s musing, and he turns his attention back to the phone, and subsequently the man on the other side.

“Yeah?”

“Where are you?”

Peter’s face scrunches, eyebrows furrowing. Didn’t Bruce already ask him that? “I, near Sally’s Breakfast?”

Peter’s 99 percent sure that Bruce had repeated it back to him, but who knows? Maybe Peter heard him wrong? Or maybe this all really is a dream or he’s going crazy or-

“Yes, Peter I heard that,” Bruce sighs, but Peter takes no offense. He’s also disappointed in himself. There’s another break of muffled car noises and some low chatter before Bruce is back again. “You’re not in Gotham anymore, are you?”

Peter snaps his mouth shut, and apparently that’s all Bruce needs as confirmation.

“New York, right?”

Peter hums in response, tilting his head back towards the café. He bets inside is really warm, and he can almost imagine the feeling of his fingers wrapped around a steaming mug of hot cocoa.

“Right,” Bruce says, more of a huff than a word. Again, there’s shuffling, but this one is louder than the rest. If Peter could guess, he’d say Bruce has his phone pressed against his chest in hope of muffling whatever conversation he was having. Peter hopes Dick is in the car. “Alright, Peter, you still there?”

“Yeah,” he shuffles a little to stretch his legs out a bit. They tingle strangely, and the muscles shake until he finally sets them flat onto the ground.

“What kind of phone are you using right now? A phone booth? Or are you borrowing a phone?”

“Booth.”

“Is there anything to write on in there, and a writing utensil as well?”

Peter looks up to the small counter, spies a pen and a small pack of note cards, and he tears them down from their spot. The note cards spill all over, but he pushes them into a semi-decent pile in the corner and uncaps the pen.

“Listen to me closely, okay? I’m going to repeat a phone number for you to write down.” Bruce goes on to then slowly list off a string of numbers that Peter carefully copies down with shaky lines. The man has Peter repeat the number back to him to double check it.

“Peter, we’re going to be there in about an hour and a half,” Peter hums back. “But you need to listen to me and do what I say, alright?”

“Yeah.” Peter leans his head onto the glass behind him.

“You’re going to hang up the phone, and you are going to go into the café, alright? There you are going to find a seat and wait for us, maybe see if you can get something to drink or eat. Ask one of the waitresses if you can borrow a phone, and then you need to call me back at the number I had you write down,” he pauses. “You got all that?”

It was quite a list for Peter’s tired brain, but he’s pretty sure he’s got a good grasp on what he’s supposed to do.

“Repeat it back to me.”

What was with this man and repetition?

“Go into the place, sit, get phone, call you,” Peter grumbles out.

“Do not leave until we get there, Peter.”

“Mhm,” Peter wants to go inside now, please and thank you. “Bye.”

He hangs up the phone, stumbles to his feet, and shoves the piece of paper into his pocket. It crumples a little, but he doesn’t care. As long as he can read the numbers, it doesn’t matter how crumpled the paper is; the same rule applies to his homework.

The first waitress to spot him is the one that was working behind the front counter. Sally’s Breakfast is a very old-fashioned café, with black and white tiled flooring and those weird metal stools. Antique-looking plaques hang on the walls, and the lights are just as warm as Peter thought them to be. The waitress, who was pulling out two white mugs from beneath the counter, pauses when the bell jingles as Peter fumbles open the door.

Her name tag says Sarah, in black letters. She’s probably 50 years old, with just greying brown hair and soft green eyes. Crow's feet crinkle around her eyes, and smile lines are etched into her face.

She reminds him so much of May that he almost turns right back out the door. But he promised Bruce he’d stay here, and it's too cold outside.

“Hi there, hon,” Sarah greets, a warm smile tilting her lips. She’s glancing him up and down, no doubt taking in his soaked appearance and slightly shaking frame before she’s looking back at his face. “Anythin’ I can help ya with, sweetheart?”

“Um,” Peter’s hand pulls out what was left of his crumpled bills and scattered coins and gently pours it all onto the linoleum counter. “Can I get anything with this?”

It’s not much, and he knows it. A few 1-dollar bills and a random assortment of coins probably won’t get him much more than a cup of coffee, but anything warm would be welcomed.

Sarah wipes her hands on her apron, before carefully picking through the money. With soft hands, she scoops up all of it up and drops it into her apron pocket.

“Why don’t ya go sit down in that booth, over there, hon,” she gestures to a small booth that’s in the direct sunlight, clean and warm looking. “I’ll get ya some grub.” With a wink she’s pushing through the swinging doors to what Peter assumes is the kitchen.

He sits without a second thought.

He’ll ask Sarah if he can borrow a phone when she gets back, hopefully with some food. Right now, all Peter was focused on was letting the sun soak into his skin, and to drift as he stares out at the waking city around him.

If this is a dream, it’s a pretty darn good one.

Chapter 10

Chapter Text

True to his word, Bruce showed up an hour and a half later, bursting through the café’s doors with an unnecessary amount of concern written on his face. He was wearing a semi-expensive looking outfit, his outside clothes as Damian liked to call them. Over the shirt that probably cost as much as Peter’s yearly school tuition, Bruce wore a heavy trench coat that went nearly to his knees. An umbrella was clutched in his hand, closed but dripping on the floor. As he moved out of the doorway, another person appeared.

Dick, who was dressed in less formal attire, was already turning his gaze to search around the room, presumably for Peter. His hair was soaked, despite the rain jacket that was slung over his torso, and the hood that lay flat against his back. A coat, heavy and warm looking, was slung over his arm, held tightly in his grasp.

Sarah, who was now behind the counter again, smiled at them before nodding his head towards Peter’s table.

When she had returned with a plate of bacon and eggs, along with a large cup of hot cocoa, Peter had asked if there was a phone that he could use in the café. Surprisingly, Sarah had pulled out her own phone and handed it to him with a gentle smile before she left to wait on a couple of newcomers. Her phone, an old-style flip phone with a slightly cracked screen and a peeling flower sticker had felt heavy in Peter’s hand, but he tried to ignore the feeling.

He called Bruce, reassured him that he was inside the building now and was eating something, before he hung up the call and focused on his food. Which was delicious.

But now, with the food heavy and warm in his stomach, and the weird numb feeling turning into a fluffy weightlessness, Peter’s struggling to keep his eyes open and his head up.

“Peter,” Dick breathes, his shoulders looking as if a thousand pounds has been lifted from them, and he’s suddenly squatting next to Peter with his hands pressed to Peter’s face. Evidently not happy with what he finds, what exactly Peter’s unsure of, Dick tuts his tongue and immediately starts pulling off the coat that Peter threw on over his sweatshirt.

Peter’s glad the café is practically dead, with only a few other people sitting in booths on the other side f the room or waiting in line patiently, because he certainly did not want people to see him being manhandled around like a toddler. That’s what he feels like at least, watching Dick pull his arms out of the soaked sleeves and push on the new coat.

It’s warm.

Very warm.

“You get something to eat?” Bruce asks from his spot behind Dick, arms crossed and eyes scanning the street behind Peter. Despite the thick coat, Peter can tell Bruce works out, and has been for quite some time.

He wonders if Bruce takes part in his sons’ nightly escapades.

“Mhm,” he hums back, pushing the empty plate a little towards the man. “Got some breakfast.”

“Good, that’s good,” Bruce nods.

“What’d you have?” Dick pipes up, now pulling on a pair of mittens that Peter vaguley recognizes from a couple days ago. He’s not sure where the man summoned them from, especially since Peter’s pretty sure he only saw Dick carrying a jacket, but he’s not complaining. The man slowly rubs some warmth back into Peter’s fingertips then places the fuzzy glove on.

“Some eggs and bacon,” Peter patted his stomach solemnly. “It was really good.”

Dick hums, whether in agreement or in understanding, and leans forward to pull a hat over Peter’s head. He’s close, so close that Peter can feel the warm huff of Dick’s breath on his face, but Dick’s blue eyes are focused on the task in front of him. For a minute they do nothing, as Dick toys with Peter’s hair to make sure none of it sticks out funny.

But then Peter’s being pulled to his feet, tucked perfectly under Dick’s arm and pulled close to his side. He sighs at the warmth that radiates from the man, seriously, he’s like a heater, and he leans his head against the wet shoulder of his coat. Peter is led outside, a little bit down the side walk and towards a car that was left still running on the sidewalk.

“That’s stupid,” he mumbles, face smooshed.

“What’s stupid?” Dick asks, leaning forward to open the back door of the car. It was a nice car, one of some brand that Peter didn’t recognize, with sleek black paint and heavily tinted windows. It looked like a celebrity’s car.

“It’s gonna get stolen.” Everyone knows not to leave a car running without someone in it. Especially in New York.

Dick laughs lightly, gently sliding Peter into the car’s backseat. The interior looks just like the exterior, sleek and black. Black leather with black stitching.

“Don’t worry about that, Peter,” Dick says as they both shuffle into the spots. Peter’s hands can’t buckle himself up, and he’s too tired to complain, so he lets Dick fasten the seat belt for him. Dick sits next to him, in the middle seat, and buckles himself up as well, as does Bruce in the front. Peter is tired, and full and warm and he really wants to sleep. So, he leans his head over onto Dick’s shoulder, and snuggles in closer to the man’s side. He can feel the man chuckle, can feel the shake of his shoulder and can hear the huffs and puffs of air through his lungs.

The city is loud, but inside the car is quiet, and that’s all it takes for Peter to go to sleep.

Chapter 11

Chapter Text

“Peter, I am your father.”

Silence. And then...

A snort of laughter behind him that has Dick glancing away from his own face in the mirror. Behind him, leaning into the small bathroom, was Tim. The dark bags under his eyes had faded, unlike the growing pair beneath Dick’s, and his face seemed to have more color. He’s gotten some sleep, Dick concludes.

“What are you,” Tim says, sauntering his way in with shuffled slides of his feet. “Darth Vader?”

Dick frowns at him, a pout barely hidden, and he tears his gaze back onto his own face. He certainly feels like Darth Vader; a father who was never there. Although Dick supposes that he’s a bit better than Vader, since he hasn’t actively tried to kill his own son yet.

“I’m,” it takes him a moment too long to think of an appropriate excuse. “Practicing my grammar.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Tim’s owlish blink.

“You are an idiot,” Tim says blankly, and Dick can just feel the disappointment radiating from his younger brother. “A complete, utter idiot.”

Dick sighs and leans forward to rest his forehead on the cold glass of the mirror, his hands gripping the rim of the porcelain bowl sink. “He’s going to hate me,” he murmurs. The mirror fogs where his breath hits, and slowly fades from the edges. Tim doesn’t say anything, even when Dick waits until the fog is long gone.

Finally, a long-suffering sigh erupts from behind him and sweatshirt covered arms wrap around his waist.

“Stop worrying,” Tim says shortly, the grumble of his voice a rumble on Dick’s back. “It’ll be fine.”

Dick desperately wishes that to be true, with all his heart really, but there’s just a liver of doubt that has somehow weaseled its ways into the back of his mind.

“You already run it by B?”

Dick snorts humorlessly. “He’s the one who told me to get ready for it.”

It had, in fact, been the first words to leave Bruce’s mouth after they left the diner in New York. Bruce had caught his eye in the review mirror, during one of the short times that Dick’s attention wasn’t focused entirely on Peter.

“We’ll need to explain some things to him when we return,” Bruce had said, only to have Dick blink blankly back. “To prevent this, or something worse, from happening.”

It made sense, Dick supposes, now that he’s had time to think about it. Peter ran, thinking his ‘home’ was somewhere else. Why exactly, they didn’t know, but Bruce intended to find out. It was a problem that needed to be addressed sooner rather than later; they couldn’t exactly have Peter running off whenever he wanted to, now could they?

Fake memories were what the two of them had quietly discussed in the car over the hour or so of the car ride. It was the most logical reason why Peter wasn’t currently a traumatized 16-year-old, and was a functional, almost normal teenager.

He says almost since most teenagers haven’t been murdered and then brought back to life.

IT would make sense that fake memories had been implanted into Peter’s head as some sort of experiment – even thinking that makes Dick want to throw up – especially if it had something to do with the Lazarus Pit. Bruce thinks they may be connected, but exactly how he didn’t explain.

Sometimes Dick really wants to strangle his father.

Dick sighs, watching his breath fog the mirror once more before he pushes himself back and off the glass. There’s a smudge where his forehead had rested on the glass, but he leaves it there; he’s too tired and anxious to care at the moment.

“Is Peter...” he starts, unsure of where to go. Tim, thankfully, seems to know what he’s trying to say.

“Alfred and Bruce were just taking him out of the bath, last I checked,” Tim says, unwrapping himself from Dick’s back. “They said his temperature was almost back to normal.

Dick nods, relief spreading through his heart. Despite his best effort to warm Peter up, the kid was still freezing to the touch by the time they had reached the manor. Jason had cursed when he first touched Peter, as he met them when they came through the door. Dick hadn’t wanted to hand off Peter - his son - but when Alfred approached with a large blanket, he had relented and pawned Peter’s limp body into Jason’s awaiting arms. Bruce had brushed by him then, a heavy hand sat on his shoulder for only a second, before he was following Alfred up the stairs.

Dick has been in the bathroom since then.

“It’s alright to be nervous, y’know,” Tim says offhandedly, leaning up against the white tiled wall and pulling a hand up to pick at the fingernails. “I mean, I would be if I was meeting my son who is half my age.”

Dick smacks him upside the head and leaves the room into the ajoining bedroom, relishing in the squawk that Tim emits.

“Just stop overthinking it!” Tim’s voice calls from behind, and Dick flicks him off on his way over to the door to the hallway. Easy for you to say, he grumbles. When he’s out in the hall, he turns right and walks for a minute before reaching a slightly ajar door. He can hear his father’s voice before he even reaches it.

“Peter, you’re okay, you’re just sick,” Bruce’s voice mumbles deeply. Dick spots him sitting on the edge of Peter’s bed, holding a small plastic cup filled with a deep red liquid. Fairly sure that it’s some of the vile cough syrup, Dick wrinkles his nose. Funnily enough, Peter seems to be doing the same. Peter looks even worse than before. His pale skin had now flushed red in patches on his cheeks, a sickly sheen of sweat sticking to his brow. His eyes, dazed and always fluttering around the room, look almost filled with pain. He sits listlessly against Jason’s side, who sits opposite of Bruce, with his head pillowed onto Jason’s shoulder. His nose is scrunched, almost like a bunny, and his brow is furrowed.

“No,” he says shortly, turning his face into Jason’s neck and snuggly momentarily. His legs kick at the blankets covering him, only causing the thick fabric to bunch up near his feet. Hearing the depth of Alfred’s sigh, Dick concludes that this is not the first botched escape attempt. Weakly, Peter’s arms push away from Jason’s body to which Jason responds by wrapping an arm around Peter tightly.

“Hey, Dickie,” Jason calls, barely moving his head in time to dodge Peter’s flailing fist. “Mind taking my place?”

“Uh,” he balks for a moment, unsure. Then, cursing at himself for being so hesitant, Dick comes forward and slips around the side of the bed. “How is he?”

Bruce sighs, still attempting to pour the cough medicine down Peter’s throat. “His temperature came back up, but now he’s running a fever.”

Dick hums, sliding by Jason and taking his place. Peter’s body presses into his side immediately, and Peter latches onto his arm. Jason leans over Dick and swipes the sweaty bangs from Peter’s forehead.

“Kid really got it didn’t he?” he mutters, retracting his hand the minute Peter turns his head away. The teenager, despite his small stature, really is wiggly.

“That’s what you get when you spend how many hours in the rain?”

“’m sorry,” Peter mumbles tiredly, pushing Bruce’s hand away once more. The old man just sighs. “Just wan’ed t’ go home.”

Dick cringes, sending a questioning glance to his father. Bruce just tiredly meets his gaze and shrugs helplessly.

“I know, bud,” Dick says, the words falling out of his mouth quickly. He just wants to comfort. “I know.”

Peter doesn’t respond beyond a few slurred mumbles, and he’s snuggling into Dick’s side, nuzzling his sweaty face into the sleeve of Dick’s shirt. Bruce, apparently giving up on the whole medicine debacle, sets the plastic cup aside and leans back.

“We’ll see how he is in a couple hours,” he says. He lifts his watch up and checks the time, before turning to Alfred. “Don’t suppose you could make some of that chicken-noodle soup?”

Alfred smiles, places the blanket he had currently been folding, and makes his way to the door. “It should be ready by lunch.”

“What do we do if his fever doesn’t settle?” Jason asks, moving to pick up some random clothes on the floor.

Bruce sighs again. He leans over, resting his should against the large wooden head board and stares down at Peter’s sleeping form. “We’ll need to call in Leslie if it gets worse.”

Dick winces, shifting himself to be behind Peter more, rather than have him leaning against his side. Peter still snuggles in close.

“This isn’t normal,” Jason declares, staring down at Peter with a hardened gaze. “Even if he was resurrected in an offbrand Pit, it shouldn’t be this bad.” He looks at Bruce. “Right?”

Their father shrugs. “I’ve got Tim running some more DNA tests, but we’ll see when we get there.”

Dick hums, leans back and closes his eyes. For right now, all he cares about is the gentle raise of Peter’s chest every time he breathes, and the thrum of a slightly too fast heartbeat beneath his fingers.

Chapter 12

Chapter Text

Bruce calls a family meeting about an hour after lunch, which brings Dick down from where he had been sitting vigil next to Peter’s sleeping frame. The teenager had woken up for about 10 minutes and downed half a bowl of soup and refused more medicine. His temperature, fortunately, had not increased since then.

Alfred came into the room as Dick was running his fingers through Peter’s sweaty hair, carrying a small bowl of water and a rag.

“Master Bruce calls for you in the kitchen,” he says gently, taking a spot next to Peter opposite of Dick.

Dick hums in response, spending just a little more time looking down at Peter, his son, before he’s brushing his hands on his pants and making his way to the door. He doesn’t ask what Bruce wants him for, just nods to Alfred as he exits the room with only one last glance at Peter.

He has a feeling what this meeting is going to be about, and anxiety is already starting to bubble in his gut.

Something’s wrong with his DNA. Because really, what else would there be to call a family meeting about? If there wasn’t something wrong with it, Bruce would tell that to Dick personally, as there would be no reason to involve the rest of the family with there being nothing wrong. But if Tim found something strange, something abnormal, in Peter’s DNA, then there would be reason to group the family and discuss.

Everyone is already in the kitchen when Dick enters the room; Tim and Jason and pouring over an array of papers spread on the table with Bruce peering over their shoulders, Damian licking away on a popsicle on one of the barstools. His youngest brother nods at him when he meets his gaze, and Dick just smiles back his way.

“Hey ‘wing,” Jason says, not taking his eyes off of the table. His hand ghosts over some of the printing, and a furrow appears on his brow. His attention switches back to Tim again. “What does this mean?”

Tim has a similarly scrunched face. “The blue?” Jason grunts, hand reaching for another piece of paper and pulling it aside the other. “I think it’s some sort of radioactive poisoning,” Tim bites his lip and Dick’s stomach plummets. Radioactive poisoning? “ Possibly from the pit, but I’ll have to do more tests to confirm that.”

Dick doesn’tlike the thought of that, a feeling that Bruce seems reciprocate.

“I think maybe we should hold off on any tests that involve Peter directly,” their father says, crossing his arms over his broad chest. Bruce’s eyes are examining whatever is on the papers – graphs, numbers, paragraphs full of numbers Dick doesn’t understand – and shakes his head. “If what you’re saying is true Tim, then Peter might be wary of us running any tests around him.”

Tim nods. “I should be able to run this one without anything from Peter – just run the sample I have by the Pit’s signature.”

Bruce nods like he understands, but Dick’s confused. Beyond confused really.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he holds up his hands, eyes flicking back and forth to Bruce and Tim. “What exactly did you find in Peter’s DNA?”

Conversation halts, as does all the motion in the kitchen, and Dick feels like he’s just picked up a bomb.

And the timer is already at zero.

“Peter’s, well,” Tim uncomfortably starts, hesitation clear on his face. His blue eyes flicker to Bruce and Dick’s stomach shrivels more than it already has.

‘Radiation poisoning’ Tim had said earlier; something that may have come from the Pit. From what Dick remembers, Jason never had any sort of poisoning. Sure, the Pit had affected him in many ways including physical – his hair, his eyes, the way his skin never really seems to be healthily colored – but Dick’s almost sure that the words ‘radioactive poisoning’ were never said during his recovery. If Peter’s sick, then what-

“He’s not human,” Jason’s words shock Dick out of his stupor, and his eyes find Jason’s green ones. There’s wariness hidden in there, Dick finds as he stares into the murky depths for a few seconds too long as his brain catches up to what Jason said.

“Not,” Dick’s brow furrows, matching his brothers’. “Not human? So, he’s...”

He can’t help but steal a glance at Bruce’s face; he feels no less assured when he spots Bruce’s normally stoic façade as strong as ever.

“A meta?” Tim finishes for him, pushing a paper away from the rest and tapping rapidly on the printed surface. “There’s something in his DNA, and it’s absolutely coated in radioactivity that it’s difficult to tell exactly what it is.” Tim shrugs, but his posture is stiff. Dick knows it’s difficult for his brother to admit that there’s something he can’t do; it is for everyone. Tim sighs and leans back. “It’s something not human, that’s all I can tell for now.”

Dick tries to make sense of the science sitting on the paper in front of him, but it’s been a while since he took biology, and he really wasn’t good at it in the first place. He smiles painfully at Tim. “I have no idea what any of this means,” he says with a gesture to the papers.

“Experimentation, Dickie,” Jason says shortly, leaning back into his own chair. “Peter was experimented on. Genetically, forcefully, most likely without his consent.”

Dick glares at him, sharp. “Yes, Jay,” he grinds out. “I get that part. I’m confused about this,” he circles the writing on the paper.

Tim leans over, catches sight of what he’s pointing at and nods. “Basically, it’s just a makeup of whatever is in his DNA, and it’s some results as to what could be mixed in with Peter’s blood.”

“Which is?”

“Another animal,” Tim says shortly. “I’m thinking not a mammal similar to humans because there’s a few discrepancies. It’s possible that whatever DNA has been mixed with his has mutated somehow through the homemade Pit, but I’m almost eighty percent sure that it’s some sort of bug.”

Dick stares at him.

“I have a bug son,” he says, andgood God he wants a f*cking nap.

Tim shrugs and Damian snorts from his spot by the bar. Dick guts a glance to the baby-bat and notices that Damian’s grabbed a new popsicle and has made good progress on it.

“Bruce told us about your hypothesis,” Jason starts, nodding to the man. Bruce nods and leans to pull a chair out from the table. Dick feels left out being the only one standing, so he follows suite.

“Despite the possibility of having fake memories,” Bruce starts. “I doubt that everything has been hidden. It’s already hard enough to plant fake memories, much less a full lifetime. Especially since Peter definitely wasn’t born 16 years ago.”

Dick pointedly ignores the quick glances his brother’s send his way, stomping down the red that burns at the tips of his ears. He’s not sure why he’s embarrassed, especially when nothing happened, but he supposes even the insinuation is enough.

“So, you think there’s gaps.” Dick isn’t exactly surprised to hear Damian’s voice cut in, but he sure as hell wasn’t expecting it. Damian, surprisingly, wasn’t one to make his opinion known in conversations. Unsurprisingly, he liked to lurk in the shadows and listen in on everyone else. Dick’s not sure where he gets it from; his mom or his dad.

“I think there’s a chance Peter remembers some of his experience with wherever he came from,” Bruce reedifies. “He remembered enough to go to New York.”

“And he called us, sobbing, hours later,” Dick points out, feeling a flourish of something – protectiveness? - burst through his chest. He turns sharply to his father. “Are you saying you want us to interrogate Peter about his most likely absolutely traumatic past? Right after he’s just started to trust us?”

Bruce sighs. “Now might be the only chance he’s willing to say anything.”

“He’s sick!” Dick exclaims, standing quickly enough that the chair screeches along the tile flooring. “I’m not going to interrogate a sick sixteen-year-old!”

“I will,” Damian offers from his seat, but everyone rounds on him the minute it leaves his mouth.

“No,” they all chorus together, Bruce’s voice a little more brittle than the rest.

A trained-assassin-from-birth-child-soldier trying to interrogate-genetically-enhanced-possibly-trained-child-soldier both of whom are traumatized and literal children? No way in hell.

There’s a collective silence across the room, awkward and heavy, in which the only sound is Dick’s heavy breathing and the grandfather clock ticking away from the hall.

“Big bird, come on,” Jason sighs. “It’ll be better for you to do it, since you’re already his favorite. And that way you can be as gentle as you want.”

Dick sighs, heavy and loudly, and lets his shoulders drop. Slowly, he pushes his chair back into its correct spot before he turns back to his father. “I still don’t support this,” he says for the record as if they keep one. “But.” He pauses, takes a deep breath, and shakes his head. “We do need some answers.”

“I know,” Bruce calls to his back as he leaves the kitchen.

Humans blab when they’re inebriated, whether that’s with illness or another substance; Dick knows this. It’s a tactic that he’s used in the field many times with goons and homeless people alike. It makes getting information easy, especially if they mistake you for someone else. But this is different, Dick argues back with himself as he makes his way to Peter’s room. This is his son, a child, and a sick one at that. It’s also a traumatized child, and Dick’s going in without any idea of what Peter's triggers might be. On one hand, Dick infers that Peter probably will not feel comfortable in a medical facility, especially if he remembers any of the genetic modifying and if it happened in a medical facility, but that’s only if....

There’s a lot more ‘ ifs’ than Dick is comfortable with.

Peter is sort of awake when Dick enters the room, which startles Dick enough that he smacks his hand against the door frame. He says sort of because while Peter is sitting up in bed, eyes open and hands fiddling with the blanket in his lap, he’s got this air of haziness around him, and his eyes are half-lidded. Dazedly, he blinks at Dick in the doorway but doesn’t say anything.

“You okay, bud?” Dick asks gently, trying to determine if Peter is awake or if it’s one of those weird sleepwalking things. Tim does it, more often than is probably healthy for a highschooler, but at least Dick now has experience with what to do. Except Peter’s already in his bed, so there’s not really much for him to do.

Peter blinks at him as he approaches the bed, eyes alit with fever and his cheeks flushed. “Hmm?”

A smile touches Dick’s lips and he settles down next to Peter on the bed. He grabs one of the extra pillows and pulls it onto his lap, needing the strangely comforting weight it has. “How are you feeling, Peter?”

Peter blinks at him a couple times before his eyes wander the room behind Dick, flitting across the empty space for a few seconds before they center back on Dick. “Where’s Aunt May?”

Welp, Dick’s confidence in this situation gets tossed out of the window without a glance back, leaving him opening and closing his mouth like a goldfish as Peter waits patiently for his answer. So, Peter is not awake, Dick’s brain decides after a few moments; or at least he’s not aware enough to realize what is going on. Which means, as gross as Dick may feel about it, this is likely the most opportune moment to complete his ‘mission’.

Time to start.

“She’s at work,” he says, eyeing Peter’s face and body language for any hints against his words. He’s going into this blindly, treading in dangerous waters with no land in sight.

Thankfully, it seems to be a good start. Peter just nods mutely, his head bobbing around lopsidedly. “’kay.”

“She, uh, wanted me to order her some food,” his eyes never leave Peter. “But I couldn’t remember the address. Do you remember?”

Peter flops back against the headboard, thunking loud enough that Dick winces.

“’H’spital,” he waves a hand, and it flops back to the bed.

Hospital. The f*cking hospital. The first person Peter looks for when he wakes up and doesn’t know where he is just so happens to be an ‘Aunt May’ who probably doesn’t exist and supposedly works at a hospital. Peter, a genetically enhanced human who has been involved with resurrection with a chemical concoction that a normal person wouldn’t have access to. A person in the medical field however....

Dick’s going to need Tim to run some names and tests.

Peter lists to the side, flopping onto the empty side of the bed with an ‘ oof’.

Dick leans over enough to spot his closed eyes before he leans back with a sigh. Maybe now wasn’t the best time to question Peter, not with how in and out he was. Perhaps it would be better to wait until the kid was at least semi-conscious. With a steady hand, Dick swipes Peter’s bangs from his forehead and gently runs his hands through the curls.

The heavy conversations can wait; for now, all Dick wants to do is study every freckle on his son’s face and burn the image into his brain.

He won’t let anything happen to him.

Family protects family.

Chapter 13

Chapter Text

Peter doesn’t remember much of his parents.

He knows things, of course. He knows they were geneticists. He knows they were young when they left him with Ben and May and died on a plane. He knows they loved him (they had to have). He knows their birthdays, and when they graduated highs school. The date of their wedding and their funeral.

He doesn’t remember the funeral, just like he doesn’t remember what they look like.

His father used to have a big, wooden desk in his office upstairs. It was heavy, with dark wood and brass knobs that were intricately carved and blemished on the edges. There was a stain on the right-hand side, a ring of wood that was lighter than the rest; the spot his dad would rest the cup of coffee he brought up every day. There was a lamp next to the stain that was dark red and didn’t work, yet his dad somehow convinced his mom to let him keep it.

Peter’s mom made the best chocolate chip cookies that had ever entered Peter’s mouth. To this day, he’s still never been able to find ones that are better, or even come close. ‘Your father’s recipe,’ she used to say, and Peter can only imagine what her voice sounded like. His dad never made the cookies, this he remembers distinctly. His mom was the only one that could cook in the family.

There’s a photo of the three of them in Peter’s closet, buried under journals and other keepsakes that Peter had picked from his house after the funeral. He doesn’t really remember the last time he looked at it, but he knows it was shortly after the funeral; shortly after Peter started at a new school and was living with Ben and May. Looking at a picture of his broken family had been too painful when every other kid around him spoke happily of their trips to the movies or summer vacation at their grandparents’ cabin.

May and Ben don’t have any pictures of them either, so it’s not really a surprise that their faces have faded with time. And as horrible as it sounds,Peter doesn’t really mind.

They died when he was young, and any memories that his 5-year-old body held were soon replaced by new ones made with May and Ben.

Some of them resurface occasionally; like how his dad’s favorite movie is Chicken Run. It popped right up when Peter sat down to watch it for the first time after his parents passed, and it hasn’t ever left.

That didn’t happen often though.

Which is why when Peter wakes up with a mumbled ‘Mom?’’ on his tongue, he freezes.

Old, gentle eyes crinkle with a kind smile above him, and Alfred’s hand pauses from where it rests on Peter’s forehead. “I’m afraid not, Master Peter,” he says softly.

Peter, appropriately mortified – goodness gracious he hasn’t called someone mom since.... well... since he had one? – scrambles up from where he’s lying down until he’s sitting instead. His head swims with the motion and the room tilts until he closes his eyes tightly. His throat throbs as he swallows thickly, mouth dry and lips chapped.

“’m sorry, Mr. Pennyworth,” he croaks out, blinking open one eye.

The butler is sitting on the edge of the bed Peter is on, one hand empty and the other holding a tall glass of water. He’s wearing the same suit that Peter remembers seeing him in when he first met him, a fitted coat and tailored pants with a black bow tie positioned perfectly around his neck.

“It is quite alright, sir,” the butler says richly, his British toned voice gentler than any other elder person Peter has ever heard. It kind of makes Peter want to cry. “But please, call me Alfred.”

“Mmh,” Peter hums. That’s definitely not happening. Not until the man stops calling him ‘Master Peter’. A cough escapes from his throat sharply, causing him to wince, and he sniffles his nose weakly.

Wordlessly, Alfred passes him the cup. The glass is cool in his fingers, and the water feels like ambrosia going down his throat. Peter downs the glass in less than a minute, barely taking a breath as the water in the cup slowly goes down. Alfred smiles as Peter abashedly hands back the glass, heat flaring to his cheeks.

“Would you like some more?” Alfred asks, making to stand from the bed. Peter shakes his head, which causes Alfred to frown slightly, but the expression is swiftly wiped from his face. “Never the matter, sir. I shall be back soon with some medicine for you.”

Peter sits in the bed, silent for an entire minute after Alfred leaves, closing the heavy door behind him, and just gazes around the room. It’s not any different from when he left in the first place, other than perhaps a bit cleaner. There is still the cup of paint brushes Damian lent him sitting on the desk, the watercolor painting of a tree he had attempted next to it. The clothes hamper that is tucked nicely against the giant dresser has been emptied and a freshly folded pile of clothes waits patiently on the dresser’s top. A pair of tennis shoes that Peter doesn’t recognize sits next to it. Against the foot of the bed rests the backpack Peter had run away with, unzipped and flapped open. Despite the weak feeling in his muscles and the fuzzy feeling in his head, Peter crawls from blankets and grabs the fabric strap of the bag. He pulls it to the bed and shakes it out, emptying its contents on the sheets.

The first thing he notices is that the bag’s been searched through – nothing is where he had left it before. The box granola bars he’d stuffed in a pocket on the inside had opened and spewed into the main pocket, despite the fact that they should have been zipped inside their own pocket. The clothes he’d packed in were gone. Peter would bet his two front teeth that they were among the ones folded on top of the dresser. Everything else is still there; the notebooks, the water bottle, and the book on Gotham all fall to the bed with soft thumps. Peter grabs one of the notebooks and sets it aside then swipes everything back into the bag and sets it aside on the floor.

There’s a pen sitting on the nightstand, for what reason Peter’s not sure, but that does mean he doesn’t have to get up to grab one. It’s a fancy pen, heavy and metal, very unlike the cheap 99 cent ballpoint ones he’s used too. It feels almost uncomfortable in his hand as he adjusts it between his fingers, but he’ll have to make do since he’s not feeling like getting up and finding another one.

The notebook is empty, the front page fresh and blank when he opens it. He lifts the pen, puts the point to the paper and pauses, blinking at the page.

What do I do?

Plan, he thinks. Plan for what? Hm, maybe the fact that May’s apartment building apparently doesn’t exist and he has no idea where she is? Except, what exactly is he supposed to plan about that? Maybe he should start with some theories.

Time travel is what he writes first. It’s the first thing that comes up in his science fiction brain, but it’s also the first thing he scratches off. While time travel would explain the sudden change of buildings and the fact that May is just gone, it gets skewed when literally any other factor is put in. Peter doesn’t remember much from the car ride back to the manor, but he does know that the cars aren’t anything fancy or modern. The phones and other technologies are also the same; in fact, they seem a little less advanced than back at home.

Dimension travel he writes next. That would account for the random city he’s never heard of just popping up out of nowhere, along with a team of vigilantes he’s never met before. And it would explain why May is just gone, and why Peter Parker apparently doesn’t exist. That has to be why the Waynes hadn’t let him go or tried to bring him anywhere. They know he’s not supposed to be here.

The green bathtub also has to do with something, he’s sure of it. Peter quickly scribbles a drawing of the tub and circles it a couple times, making a bulleted point list beneath it. Toxic waste-looking, smells like actual feet, way thicker than it should be, he lists, blinking away any resurfacing memories about waking up drowning.

When Jason and Dick, well at the time they had been Nightwing and Red Hood had found him, Peter’s brain was too tired to really do anything except follow them and keep going. After all, they were fellow vigilantes and had seemed helpful enough. And when Peter first heard Dick talk back at his first breakfast, he knew immediately that he had been Nightwing. Which further led to Jason being Red Hood. Peter’s not too sure about the rest of the family, but he’s pretty sure they make up the rest of the team of vigilantes that roam the nights in Gotham.

They are all way too observant to simply be a ‘frivolous rich family’.

But all of that means that Peter knows they have contacts elsewhere, or some ‘person in the chair’, meaning they had to have already run Peter’s identity. And since Peter was not currently tucked away in his own bed in his and May’s apartment, which doesn’t exist, it means that they must have found something.

Or nothing at all.

Peter sighs, exhausted, and the pen falls to the page of the notebook quietly. All he wants is to hug May, is that really too much to ask?

“Peter?”

His head shoots up to the door, hand closing the cover of the notebook with a snap. He winces, attempting a smile as Dick takes a step farther into the room from where he was standing in the doorway. The man’s eyes flick down to the notebook on Peter’s lap for a second before they flick back up to Peter’s face, meeting his own. Peter glances away after a second, feeling a heat flush to his ears.

He silently curses his spidersense which just gently hums in the back of his skull, not at all alerting him to anything.

“Whatcha doing?” Dick’s voice is innocent, deep, and warm, leaving a fuzzy feeling in Peter’s chest that he quickly stamps down. Now is not the time to get attached.

“I, um,” he scrambled his brain for any sort of excuse. He curses himself for closing the notebook like he had; if he hadn’t than Dick would have no need to be suspicious. Unconsciously, his hand curls around the corner of the notebook, tightening on the pages.

Dick’s expression softens even more, which should be impossible. How in the world was this guy a vigilante?

“It’s okay, Peter,” he says gently, walking across the room and sitting lightly on the side of the bed. “I was just wondering. You don’t have to share.”

And since when was Peter comforted by a stranger’s words? Especially when said stranger talked to him like some traumatized five-year-old. He can feel his face scrunch up.

“I was just wondering how you were feeling,” Dick explained placidly, his eyebrows dipping with concern. He might not look it, but Peter knows that the man wants nothing more than look into the notebook Peter currently has clutched in his hand. After all, why would a stranger, no matter how nice he is because Dick is definitely one of the nicest people Peter has met, care for someone they don’t know?

“Oh,” Peter said. “I’m fine, I guess.” He shrugs as if to emphasize his point, but Dick doesn’t look convinced.

“Right,” the man says, taking a deep breath and looking around the room for a minute. A semi-awkward moment pauses where neither one says anything, and in the silence, Peter takes a moment to really examine the man in front of him.

Dick isn’t really large, he’s buff, sure, but Peter’s pretty sure he’s 5’ 10’’ at the tallest. His hair is dark and is cut into an almost wolf-cut like shape, with soft curls around his neck and face that are just a touch greasy. Dark circles lie beneath his eyes, and tiredness seems to cling to his shoulders along with something else that Peter can’t identify.

“Why are-”

“So Peter’”

Both of them pause, their eyes meeting for a second before they break contact and glance around the room.

“Sorry, what were you going to say?” Dick starts, looking back at Peter but Peter refuses to meet his gaze. It’s just so awkward.

“I was wondering why you were here?” He knows it sounds slightly rude, but there’s no other way of saying it. Peter has never been really that eloquent with his words, and he’s really curious.

Dick, on the other hand, doesn’t seem that keen to share. He nods slightly, not saying anything, and his eyes flicker around the room again, landing on the notebook minutely before finding Peter’s face.

He takes a deep breath, and Peter suddenly regrets ever asking.

“Peter, I,” he glances away again. “I know you might not really understand what’s going on and you probably have a lot of questions,” understatement of the century, “but there’s a few things that I need to share with you before, well, yeah.”

“Um.” Peter pulls the blanket farther up his lap, clenching it between his hands. “Okay?” Dick’s probably about to say that they don’t have Peter’s identity or can’t find his parents or some crap. But that’s okay because Peter already knows that. And then they can exchange ideas-

“I’m your dad.”

Peter blinks once, twice, feels laughter bubble in his chest and it almost escapes his mouth until his eyes catch Dick’s.

“You’re, what?” Peter breathes a breath, trying desperately to not scream or cry or laugh because the look on Dick’s face is 100% genuine and Peter’s not sure what he’s supposed to do about this. One breath turns into two, which turns into 3, which soon turns into Peter choking on his fourth.

“Whoa, hey, it’s okay,” Dick is suddenly right next to him, one hand one his cheek the other pressing Peter’s own hand against his chest.

And that is exactly what sets it off.

The warmth of Dick’s hand is so familiar against his face that suddenly Peter isn’t in the bedroom at Wayne manor, he’s in his own childhood room crying from a nightmare. His dad is kneeling in front of him, holding his cheek gently and wiping tears that leak from his eyes. His dad, whose face is suddenly clearer than it’s ever been in 10 years, is staring at him fondly with a cloud of concern. Brown eyes, dark hair and olive skin and such a bright smile as he gently shushes Peter’s cries. Peter remembers asking his dad why Peter didn’t really look like him, why Peter had lighter hair and lighter skin and different eyes, why he looked so much like his mom and not his dad. His dad had laughed and scooped him from the floor and promptly brought him to the bathroom to stand in front of the mirror only to point out everything that made them alike.

‘Genetics are weird,’ is his dad had said. ‘We might not have the same skin or eyes, but just look at that face, bud.’ The cheekbones, the sharp nose, the long limbs and smile that seemed a little crooked.

Peter blinks and he’s staring at the face of Dick Grayson. Richard Grayson, who is trying to get Peter to breathe with him and looks much too concerned for a stranger. Except he’s not really a stranger is he; Peter supposes. Guess he knows what they really found in those DNA tests.

He can’t help it anymore.

Peter takes in a sharp breath, deep and heavy, and he screams.

Chapter 14

Chapter Text

Tim is Officially Done™ with taking notes. When he first sat down to transfer the notes Dick had taken in his senior year, he was excited – happy to be well prepared for the school year that is rapidly approaching. After making sure the Bat computer was busy running the name May Parker – the last name Bruce managed to drag out from Peter - through all medical and personnel databases, Tim grabbed one of his new notebooks and a pack of pens and settled down in Jason’s room. Why Jason’s room, one might ask, especially since they were probably the two siblings people expected to like the most. Jason’s room was in fact the quietest. Dick constantly had music playing or was humming a tune himself – he was also preoccupied with Peter at the moment. Damian’s room was nice, but he had too many animals that made too much noise or wanted to cuddle.

Which left Tim’s own room, Jason’s room, or a common room in the manor. While Tim loved his bedroom, as it was his after all, there was something that made him feel anxious when he tried to stay in it alone for long periods of time. Separation anxiety, Bruce told him once. Tim has elected to ignore it. With his own room off the list, that left only Jason’s room or another room like the library.

And Jason’s room had something the library didn’t; a bean bag chair. The very spot Tim finds himself now, legs curled up, notebook on one knee with his laptop on the other. The notes on one page are neat, with highlighted parts and circled words, a couple printed diagrams taped in professionally. The next page, however, looked a little more like a third-grader's homework. He’d accidentally smeared his pen ink on one of his first bullet points, which left a blue smear down a quarter of the page. Being as the notebook was a composition notebook, he could not simply tear out the page and start again. So, he dug through Jason’s desk until he found a bottle of whiteout and then started to painstakingly paint over the smudge. It ended up looking splotchy and off white compared to the paper beneath it, but it’s the best Tim can do so he tries to ignore it. But then he misspells a word, followed by another smear down the page and he’s chucking the notebook across the room. It hits the wall with a smack, the papers flying a little, before it falls to the floor and lands face down, no doubt crinkling the pages.

“Jeez,” Jason remarks from the doorway he’d apparently just been entering. “What’d the book do to you?”

Tim glares at him, chucking his pen halfheartedly at Jason’s head and sighing when it misses completely. “Schoolwork sucks.”

Jason laughs. Tim glares a little bit more.

“Sorry Timbo,” Jason says, plopping down on his bed and kicking off his slippers. “But if you think school sucks, just wait until the real life.” He spreads his hands, jazzing them a little.

“You don’t even have a real life,” Tim mutters. “You just mooch from Dick and Alfred.” He ducks to the side, barely avoiding the slipper aimed very strategically at his face. “Beating up baddies doesn’t count as real life.”

“Why the hell not?”

Tim waves his hand. “The normal human population doesn’t do it.”

Jason harrumphs but doesn’t continue with the argument. “Well, what about-”

He’s cut off by a shrill scream that echoes down the hall, high pitched and terrified. It stops almost immediately after it starts, leaving the air with a seemingly stale taste. Tim meets Jason’s narrowed eyes, the green orbs focused entirely on the slightly opened door.

“Was that Peter?” Tim finds himself asking, pushing himself off the bean bag and making his way to the door, setting his computer on the floor along the way. There wasn’t any reason Tim knew why Peter should be screaming like that, which was giving him some unease. Last he had checked, Peter was still sleeping away what was left of his illness in his bedroom. A nightmare perhaps?

Jason follows him out the door and a little down the hall to Peter’s bedroom, both approaching the ajar door with quiet footsteps. As they near, Tim starts to hear the low hum of his eldest brother’s voice. Just under it, he can hear quiet gasps of crying. Without a second thought, he turns on his heel and takes a step away from the door, intent on getting out of whatever emotional roller coaster is going on in the room – because it is no doubt a roller coaster if Peter is related to Dick and shares litterally any of his traits – but Jason’s heavy hands have him turning right back around.

“Yeah, nope, sorry Timber,” Jason grumbles, pushing the both of them to the door. “We both know how bad Dick is when he gets overly emotional, he’s probably crying his eyes out over nothing already.”

Unsurprisingly, Jason was right. Dick is in fact crying, big, fat tears streaking down his face. He’s sitting on the edge of Peter’s bed, one leg curled up on the top and the other draped down on the floor, with his arms wrapped around Peter, who is face planted into Dick’s own chest. Peter is crying, large aching breathes not being steady enough and borderline hyperventilating, and his hands grips the sleeves of Dick’s sleeves tightly. Dick’s gently patting Peter’s back, his lips mumbling out soothing words of comfort, but his eyes look a little lost.

“You want Peter or Dick?” Jason asks softly, catching Dick’s eyes when they dart over. A pleading expression takes over Dick’s face, and he mouth ‘Help’.

“ I’ll take Peter,” Tim finds himself replying. He loves Dick, he really does, but a blubbering Dick is not one that Tim wants to spend time within close vicinity. Not that he’s sure Peter’s any better. Jason sighs.

“Alright Bigbird,” Jason says, approaching the crying duo and laying a hand down on Dick’s shoulder and gently peeling him apart. Peter, unfortunately, seems intent on clinging to Dick’s front. He falls more heavily onto Dick’s chest, his hands letting go of the sleeves only to wrap around Dick in a tight hug.

“Yeah, don’t think he’s too keen on lettin’ me go,” Dick says softly, placing a hand on Peter’s head and ruffling his curls. “Peter, come on, bud.”

He tries to gently pry the teenager away, but it’s as if Peter’s glued to him – he doesn’t even budge. Jason and Tim find spots on the bed beside Dick and Peter, keeping close to offer comfort. Tim gently pats Peter’s arm, a rhythm kept to pace his breathing that Peter soon follows.

“I, uh, I told him,” Dick says, eyes not meeting Tim’s nor Jason’s. “About the whole parent thing.”

Ah, Tim supposes that makes this a little bit more of an appropriate reaction. On a scale of one to ten, one being no reaction and ten being a mental breakdown, Tim’s pretty sure this only marks as like a 6, maybe a 7. Although he’s been told he’s emotionally constipated so maybe this is what a mental breakdown looks like on a semi-normal teenager.

Except Peter’s a traumatized, possible experimentation teenager so maybe this isn’t even close to an emotional breakdown.

“Good job,” Jason says, clapping Dick on the shoulder hard enough to send him rocking forward slightly. “Congrats, it’s a boy!”

Chapter 15

Chapter Text

Peter isn’t really sure what’s happening anymore. The world around him seems a little unreal; the people like ghosts that whisper on the edges of his vision, the feeling of fabric beneath his fingers as if he was feeling it through gloves, and the air that escapes his own breaths feels stale and yet unused. The colors seem muted but bright at the same time, names of the vibrant hues slipping between his fingers like water.

He feels strange, feels a feeling he can’t name. It’s not bad, not really, it’s just... strange.

He thinks he should feel a little more than what he’s feeling now, because right now what he feels is absolutely nothing, despite the fact that he was just sobbing into Dick’s shoulder just a few minutes ago.

Dick. His dad.

Peter hasn’t had a dad in... How many years has it been? 8? 10? Peter hasn’t had a father figure in 2, and that is probably what makes this harder. It’s been Aunt May and him for a while, even when Ben was around, because he was working and was pretty much only there on the weekends. Don’t get him wrong, Peter loved Ben. Ben, who taught him how to throw a baseball, Ben, who made soup when Peter was sick because May can’t cook for the life of her, and Ben who died in front of him like-

Like everyone does.

Peter hopes this time is different, because Dick seems nice, as does the rest of the Wayne family; Alfred included.

Dick left though, had said something to whoever else was in the room shortly after Peter’s sobs had tapered and his emotions wisped out of his body, leaving a shell of him left. Dick left, leaving Peter’s body cold and lonely, with no one to lean on and no shoulder to cry on and-

The other person in the room – Jason, Peter thinks, it’s Jason – hasn't said anything, hasn’t moved from where he’s perched on the bed. He’s close enough that Peter could reach out and touch him, and Peter almost does. He craves contact, needs it, wants something to tether him to the real world – the hell is wrong with you Parker - but his limbs are so heavy and he’s just a shell of a person left and he’s-

Someone else is in his vision now; an older face with just-barely-there wrinkles and the beginnings of salt-and-pepper hair. Bruce, the man of the house, Batman. Peter’s done his research to know that Mr. Wayne is a very powerful man day and night, suit and tie or another suit entirely (at least that’s what he read in the book he took with him to NY). He’s ruthless, hunts down his enemies and beats them black and blue. But he doesn’t kill.

Batman doesn’t kill – Spiderman doesn’t kill.

Bruce looks friendly enough, seemingly staring into the cold depths of Peter’s soul when he locks eyes with him. There’s a worried line forming in between Bruce’s brows, his eyes appearing darker than Peter remembers. A scar sits on Bruce’s face, right above his left eyebrow. It’s thin, straight, and just slightly raised enough that it catches the light differently. Peter stares at it, a million possibilities popping into his brain about how Bruce could have gotten it. A punch, perhaps, someone with armored gloves or a knife in their hand, perhaps he hit his head on something and split the skin.

Peter’s healing factor makes sure he doesn’t have scars.

Not visible ones at least.

Fingers snap in front of his face sharply, but Peter doesn’t flinch. Instead, his eyes focus onto the large hand sitting in front of his face, skin battered and calloused and covered in even more scars. He wants to ask Bruce why he has so many, why he fights so much, but his tongue feels too heavy and swollen in his mouth.

Slowly, Peter’s eyes glance away from Bruce, who seems to be saying something, and towards the door of the room. Jason’s left sometime while Peter lost time, but Dick is back. He’s standing by the door, arms crossed over his chest and shifting his weight back and forth. His hand is by his mouth, his teeth chewing anxiously on the skin of his fingers, while his eyes flicker between Bruce and Peter.

Peter can’t help but stare at him, trying to sink in his looks and how he stands and how his shoulders shift with every breath and how he-

How he’s alive.

He can’t help but think about how young Dick looks, no matter how old his eyes seem to be. Peter knows, he knows, that this Richard Grayson – Parker, whatever – is not his dad. This Richard does not have a brother named Ben, this Richard is not a genetic scientist, this Richard doesn’t have a wife and a son named Peter Parker.

This Richard has 3 brothers and a loving father and butler – grandfather? Peter’s yet to test that theory – who are all vigilantes that roam a city late at night. This Richard lives in a city that shouldn’t exist. This Richard is funny and warm and nice and buys him snacks at the grocery store and helps him pick out sweatshirts.

This Richard isn’t dead.

No, instead he’s standing in the corner of a room and is watching his son-but-not-son get trapped in his own mind.

Maybe that’s the boost Peter needs; the thought that his dad is waiting for him to come back, is waiting for him to come and be alive.

Peter knows that’s it's not really his dad. That this Richard is someone else’s family and that Peter’s not actually where he’s supposed to be.

But May’s not here, and Peter wants to be a little selfish for once in his short life.

He focuses on Bruce again, and, despite how difficult it is, he tries to make out what the man is saying. It’s so hard, and the cold hands of tiredness are pulling him backwards back into the void again. Still, he can slowly start to feel his body settle back a little bit, and he can feel his heart thudding in his chest.

Alive, he reminds himself, not knowing why. I’m alive.

“-eter. You are sitting on a bed in your bedroom,” Bruce’s voice is a little husky, as if he’s been speaking for a while. “I’m sitting here in front of you, Dick is the only other person in the room. You’re safe, Peter, you’re safe.”

Peter feels his face scrunch up, confusion flooding his brain. Why does Bruce think Peter doesn’t know he’s safe? He’s literally sitting in a room with two trained vigilantes; he’s probably one of the safest people in all of Gotham.

Bruce smiles. “Hey, Peter.”

Peter blinks at him, slowly. “Hi,” he croaks in response, lifting his hand an inch above the bed.

He needs to hold onto something, or he fears he’s going to float away again. And now that he’s actually feeling a little bit more of his emotions, he’s now realizing just how terrifying it was to just not feel. Bruce, fortunately, seems to understand. He gently takes Peter’s hand in his own and grips it a little tighter than probably normal.

“Do you know where you are right now?” Bruce asks calmly, his eyes studying Peter with a sharp gaze.

Peter finds himself glancing around himself, despite knowing where he is, he just needs extra reassurance. He is in his room, just like what Bruce said earlier, sitting on his bed with his back against the headboard and his legs tucked underneath a blanket that he’s never seen before.

Now that he thinks about it, it does feel a little heavier than a normal blanket should.

Dick is still standing in the corner of the room, but he does look a little more relieved than before. A gentle smile graces his lips when Peter’s eyes meet his, and it seems that that was what the man was waiting for. He almost immediately glides across the room and takes a spot in the armchair next to Peter’s bed.

“My room,” Peter answers Bruce, glancing back at the man –his grandfather? - and then looking straight back at Dick.

His dad.

Deep down, Peter knows this isn’t going to last. He knows he’s going to wake up from this dream some day and he’s going to go back to coming home to an empty 2-bedroom apartment in Queens. He’s going to spend his afternoons at Decalothon practice with Ned and MJ, and his days dodging Flash in the hallways. His nights will again be filled with leftovers heated up in the microwave and the anxiety of waiting in his bed for the sound of May coming home.

If this is an alternate dimension, then Peter can’t stay. He’s read too many books and watched too many shows to know that messing with these kinds of things never end well. And he can’t just not go back. His friends and May must already be waiting for him to come back. New York must be waiting for their neighborhood Spiderman to come back.

But New York also has the Avengers.

And Peter doesn’t feel like letting go of this new family just quite yet.

He knows it’ll get harder the longer he stays here. But for once, Peter wants to feel loved.

“-with us, bud?” Peter’s head snaps over to Bruce, whose expression has darkened a little again.

“Huh?”

“You spaced out a little bit, kiddo,” Dick responds, leaning forward and gently laying his hand on Peter’s free hand. “But it’s okay. You’re okay.”

Peter just nods, blinking at them a little. Another wave of feelings ebb at Peter’s mind suddenly, and he nearly chokes on a sob before he swallows it down painfully. When was the last time someone called him kiddo? Ben, his mind responds, many years ago.

“Peter, I know that you’re probably exhausted, and you probably don’t want to talk right now,” Bruce starts, shifting slightly and causing the bed to dip a little more. “But I think there’s a few things we need to talk about soon, alright?”

Peter shuffles uneasily in his spot. “I’m fine,” he says, nodding reassuredly. “We can talk now.”

Both men’s expressions fall slightly into a look that Peter doesn’t recognize.

“Peter,” Dick starts gently. “You just experienced quite an... episode. We don’t want to over stress you right now, okay?”

Peter opens his mouth to argue that he is fine, but Bruce lifts a hand.

“Don’t argue with us on this,” he says with finality. “We can talk later tonight or tomorrow, or even the day after that. There’s no rush.”

With that, Bruce stands up. He ruffles Peter’s hair gently, squeezes Dick’s shoulder quickly, and then he’s heading out of the door with a short ‘I’ll be in my office’.

“I’m hungry,” Peter says the minute Bruce is out of the room. He feels it now, a sick twist in his stomach that feels a grumble away from eating itself. He’s not really sure when he last ate something, now that he thinks about it.

Dick huffs in laughter, short and breathy. “Will you be alright if I leave you for a few minutes to grab something from the kitchen?”

Peter’s brow scrunches. “I can go down to the kitchen with you.”

“Nope,” Dick says, shaking his head firmly. “You’re going to stay in bed and rest.”

Peter wants to refute, wants to prove that he’s really okay, but Dick cuts him off with a look before he even starts.

“Don’t even try, Peter,” Dick says. “You’re going to stay here and rest, alright?”

He doesn’t want to, but Peter finds himself nodding. It brings a smile to Dick’s face, so he thinks he made an okay choice. Dick squeezes his hand for a second, his eyes focused entirely on where their bodies meet, before he stands and makes his own way out of the room. If he thinks Peter doesn’t catch the way he looks back into the room before he closes the door, he’d be wrong.

Peter takes a deep breath, and it’s a little shakier than he wants it to be.

Don’t fall apart, Parker.

Not yet.

Chapter 16

Chapter Text

“Is it really that difficult to make a sandwich?” Peter grumbles from his spot at the breakfast nook. Damian, who’s sitting right across from him, snorts into his glass of orange juice.

After about 5 minutes of waiting for Dick to come back from the kitchen with food, Peter was sick of waiting. So, he had climbed out of bed, and shakily began his way down the hall and to the room where he could get the food himself – Dick's orders be damned. Which, he realized halfway down the stairs, wasn’t as good of an idea as he thought. His legs still were a little more distant than he thought they were, and the room around him shrunk and grew in a very unnatural way that made him a little dizzy. That was where Damian found him, leaning heavily on the railing and trying to figure out if sitting down meant staying on the stairs forever. His... nephew?... had helped him up with more strength than a thirteen-year-old should have and brought him to the kitchen where Dick was standing in front of an open fridge.

Dick really wasn’t happy with Peter after that stunt.

Then there was aten-minute lecture on why it was important for Peter to listen to Dick and to not push himself to hard and ‘Peter if you don’t feel good you shouldn’t leave your bed’ and ‘Peter, I’m your dad, listen to me’. That last one had brought a semi-awkward taste to the air and made Dick promptly turn around to go back to surveying the contents of the fridge, leaving Peter staring at Dick’s back and Damian snickering by himself.

“Forgive me for not being able to make my way through this monstrosity that someone calls organization,” Dick’s glare is directed back to Damian, whose amused expression falls into a familiar looking scowl.

“It is organized, Richard,” Damian grumbles, taking a bite of his own sandwich that he had constructed a little while ago. “You are just stupid.”

Dick mutters something that is too quiet for even Peter’s super hearing to hear and turns back to fridge. Seconds later, he sighs and leans back, closing the door with a huff. “How does a bowl of cereal sound Peter?”

Peter, not a picky eater, is ready to eat dirt right about now. “Sounds good.”

Dick nods and shuffles around the kitchen, opening cupboards and pulling out things that he placed on the large island. Peter mentally reminds himself that he’s going to need to learn where everything is in this place, because there’s no way he’s making someone get him food every time he’s hungry.

“Peter,” Damian says, pushing his plate away from him and sitting a little straighter in his chair. Peter hums in response, slouching a little farther in his own spot. “Willy you be starting school with me and Tim?”

Peter for one, doesn’t know how to answer that question because 1, he’s not sure if he can even go to school if he doesn’t technically exist (which is a theory he still hasn’t been able to test), and 2, doesn’t actually know the answer. So, he looks at Dick. His dad. The person in charge of whether he’s going to school or not.

This is so weird.

Dick, paused halfway through the doorway with two bowls in his hands just shrugs. “Not sure yet, Dami. Me and Bruce still need to figure that out.”

“It’s ‘Bruce and I’,” a voice corrects from farther in the kitchen. Jason, with wet hair and still wrapped in a bathrobe, peaks his head into the room, nose scrunching at the bowls Dick has in his hands. “Froot Loops? Really?”

“Hey,” Dick says, moving from the doorway to the table and sliding in next to Peter. “Froot Loops are delicious.”

Jason snorts, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl and chomping a bite out of it. “Yeah.” he says, a chunk of apple flying out of his mouth. “If you’re like, 5 years old.”

Dick sticks his tongue out at him and scoops a spoon of cereal into his mouth. He chews it very slowly, very obnoxiously, with lips smacking and mouth moving like a cow’s as if he really is 5 years old. Peter can’t help but snort, stuffing his own spoonful into his mouth.

“Haha,” Jason says blankly, slipping into the booth next to Damian, much to the younger siblings’ protests. “Very funny.”

Dick smirks back.

The library is a library, which, for some reason, surprised Peter. When Dick had said Bruce wanted to talk to him, and sent him up to the library, Peter was expecting a small, but fancy, room with a few bookshelves surrounding it – similar to what most people called their ‘library’.

Peter was not expecting a large room with an open ceiling to the floor above it, with shelves lining the walls and more shelves springing up in neat rows along a few of the walls. Ceiling to floor windows covers a wall, a spiral staircase is tucked away in a far corner, wall sconces light the room up only a little and lamps sit on every flat surface. The room smells like old books and cinnamon which, strangely, has Peter’s stomach rolling. In the center of the room are two couches, positioned to face each other with a long, intricately carved coffee table sitting in between. A few armchairs that match the couch are spread around the room, most tucked into corners and in pairs, a few with blankets tossed over the arms.

Bruce is sitting on one of the couches, a newspaper in one hand and a mug of something steaming in the other, with a pair of reading glasses sitting on the edge of his nose. His brow is scrunched into concentration, and his eyes skim the paper with speed telling of someone who reads a lot. Peter, not wanting to interrupt whatever the man was obviously busy reading, just stands by the door that Dick had pushed him into, hands clenched, and lip worried between his teeth.

He’s not sure how long he just stands there, but soon enough his feet start to feel tingly, and his legs shake.

Which is stupid because why is he so weak he’s supposed to be Spiderman-

“You can come a sit down if you’d like, Peter,” Bruce says, not looking up from his newspaper, but taking a sip from his mug. Tea, Peter presumes, probably responsible for the cinnamon scent. He scrambles forward, coming to a stop at the edge of the large rug that sits beneath both couches.

It’s a really large rug, flat, fuzzy, with red designs mixed with brown, and Peter can’t help but wonder just how much that single rug cost. The rug he and May had picked out for their own apartment floor was probably a quarter of the size of this one and was $50 at a local yard sale; it even came with a coffee stain the size of a dinner plate. He can’t even imagine how much this one would cost brand new.

“Peter?” Bruce’s voice has Peter’s eyes snapping up from the rug his feet still haven’t touched to the man who is sitting patiently on the couch. His newspaper has been folded up and is resting on the table, his mug beside it. “Would you like to sit down?”

Right, Peter kicks himself mentally, cursing himself for being distracted by a rug of all things. “Um, yeah,” he says lamely, sliding cautiously into the seat across from Bruce. The old leather is smooth beneath his palms, and it barely makes any noise, worn by probably many years of use. He can’t help but sit on the edge, not fully letting himself sink into the probably very comfortable cushions. Bruce doesn’t seem to notice (he does).

“So, Peter,” Bruce starts, leaning forward and resting his arms on his knees, a serious note taking over his tone. Peter suddenly remembers that not only is Bruce a billionaire businessman but also a vigilante that basically protects a city on his own, and that Peter is going to have to do his best to not lie.

Good thing Peter Parker is great at half-truths.

“I know that today has been tiring and very overwhelming, but there’s a couple things I wanted to go over,” his voice is smooth, rehearsed well. Peter’s already building a list of things he definitely cannot say around this man. “Dick explained the DNA match, right?”

Peter shrugs. “Kinda,” he responds, wringing his hands together. Bruce nods, grabbing his tea a taking a sip. His eyes stay on Peter the whole time, which is a little unnerving, but Bruce doesn’t seem to notice the tension it puts on Peter’s shoulders.

“Would you like some tea, Peter?” Peter glances down at the tea, feels a roll of nausea at the thought of drinking cinnamon tea and shakes his head. He tucks his hands under his legs, determined to hide their shakiness.

Bruce nods. “The two vigilantes who brought you here told me they found you in an apartment on your own,” he says. He lifts an eyebrow. “Can you tell me anything about it?”

Alright Parker, time to shine. Thankfully, the first question is easy. After all, he really doesn’t know much about the apartment.

“I, uh, I woke up in a bathtub?” He thinks that’s a good place to start, since it’s the earliest thing he remembers. “And, I got out of course, but there was like, no one else in the apartment. I stole some clothes, which like, is bad of course, but mine were kind of soaked and gross, and I was just kinda camping out on the couch when the, uh, vigilantes came.”

“You woke up in a bathtub,” Bruce repeats. “Was it empty?”

“Nope,” Peter says matter-of-factly. “There was some sort of green stuff in it, smelled horrible.”

Bruce nods. “Have you seen this, green stuff, before?”

Peter scrunches his nose in concentration, thinking back to all the patrols he’s been on and tv shows he’s seen. Even though the memories are a little hazy, he’s pretty sure he’s never seen any glowing green goop around. He shakes his head and Bruce hums.

“Can you tell me anything you remember from before the apartment?” Bruce is watching him carefully, and Peter’s stomach clenches.

Half-truths are better than lies, he tells himself. It’s easier to keep track of what truths you’ve said then what lies you’ve spun.

“I, I remember New York,” he starts with, eyes flicking to Bruce’s face only to go back down to the table. “Um, I don’t really know what exactly, just, a feeling I guess? I just, I felt like I needed to go there and I didn’t belong here or something? It was, I don’t know really.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Bruce tilt his head; he’s not really sure what to make of it.

“Do you know someone named May?”

Peter can’t help it – he freezes. When did he let her name slip?

“May?” he repeats, trying his best to keep voice steady. “I, uh, I don’t think so?”

Bruce is looking at him, Peter knows it, he can feel the man’s eyes on him, but he can’t bring himself to return the gaze. There’s a resounding silence, only broken by the shouts of what sound like Jason and Tim from down the hall, before Bruce sighs.

“Alright,” he says, his tone the one that says ‘we are not done talking about this’. “Anything else you can tell me?”

Something, Peter tells himself. He needs to give the man something that can lure him down a rabbit hole and give Peter some time to figure stuff out on his own. But what?

“Uh,” he says, simply to stall for a second. Bruce looks at him steadily, seemingly waiting ofr an answer, and Peter scrunches his face in lieu of concentration. Come on Peter, think! Something suspicious but not suspicious! Suddenly, his brain flashes of a memory of a dream he had a couple(?) days ago. “I think I remember water? I was in water maybe?”

Thankfully, Bruce looks more thoughtful than he does concerned. “In water,” he repeats, eyebrows furrowing slightly. Peter nods. “And that’s all?”

Peter, hesitantly this time, nods again. Bruce nods as well.

“Alright,” Bruce smiles at him gently, and Peter is, for some random reason, suddenly reminded of the fact that this man in front of him is his grandfather.

He’s never had a grandpa before.

“I think Dick wants to talk to you about school,” Bruce says, slipping into Peter’s thoughts and bringing his attention back.

“Oh,” Peter says, moving to his feet. A wave a cinnamon puffs by him and his stomach rolls again. “Uh,” he says, pointing to the door. “I guess, I’ll uh, find him then.”

He leaves the room way quicker than he entered.

Dick is in the kitchen when Peter finds him again. He’s standing by the stove, placing raw cookie dough circles onto a pan carefully, a recipe card held in one hand. Judging by the sheet half-full of cookies, he’s taking the ‘place 1 to 2 inches apart’ very literally.

“Hey Pete,” he says when Peter comes through the doorway. Peter hums in response, making his way to the barstools and sliding into one. He leans forward onto the counter and cushions his head onto his arms. He closes his eyes, sighing as the quietness and the scent of chocolate chip cookies take place of the cinnamon that seems to coat his throat. He doesn’t know why, but he has a feeling he should stay away from spices for a while.

“You feeling okay?” There’s a clatter of a metal cookie sheet hitting an oven rack, and the beeping of a timer being set before Peter lifts his face from its hiding spot.

“Yeah,” he sighs. Dick is looking at him with some concern, and it fills Peter with warmth. For some strange reason, Peter suddenly doesn’t want to find his way back home. But he blinks and he remembers May and Ned and he smacks himself back to the present. “Bruce said you wanted to talk to me?”

He’s a little sick of being sent back and forth to different people who want to talk to him.

Dick smiles, hand rising to rub the back of his neck. “Yeah. I know I said that me and Bruce had to talk about school, but I texted him a bit ago and we went over a few things. So,” he shuffles into the spot across from Peter and leans down to see him eye-to-eye. “What do you think about it?”

Peter blinks at him. “What do I think about what?”

“School,” Dick says, excitement barely hidden in his voice. “There’s lots of options you can choose from. Online, Alfred could homeschool you, there’s a few private academies around, some public ones too, but I don’t know if I’m comfortable sending you to one of those.”

Peter blinks at him, slightly taken aback. He doesn’t think he’s ever had that many options for schooling before. When Peter had gotten the opportunity to go to Midtown Tech, that was the only other option than the local public high school.

“Where, uh, where do Tim and Damian go?” Damian had mentioned that they both go to the same school, right?

“They go to Gotham Acadamy, the new term starts in a couple weeks,” his face pinches. “I think if I called soon, I might be able to squeeze you in.”

He nods, already pulling out his phone, before pausing and glancing up to Peter. “Do you...” he fades off looking at Peter unsurely and bites his lip.

“What?”

“Do you remember having any schooling?” Dick says, apparently done figuring out what he wanted to say.

Peter doesn’t really know what to say, so he shrugs. He’s not really up to lying, but he can’t straight up say: ‘Yeah I went to this really cool school for nerds that doesn’t actually exist.’

“Maybe?” he says instead. Dick just sighs, and nods.

“Well, I’m going to warn you, there’s probably going to be an entrance exam. Gotham Academy isn’t exactly a normal, mainstream school. And since we don’t have any records of your schooling....” He turns, checks the timer on the oven, and turns back. “We’re saying you’ve been homeschooled, that’s why there’s no records. And, once we talk to Gordon, you’ll officially be in my custody.”

Peter blinks at him. “You’re, you’re taking custody of me?”

Dick tilts his head, from gracing his lips. “Yeah? Why wouldn’t I be?”

Peter opens his mouth, but no words come out. He’s not sure why that’s what surprised him – the fact that his father wants custody of him. Even if said father is from a different dimension. Does it surprise him that someone actually wants him?

“But.” Peter licks his lips, desperate to move past that last thought. The look on Dick’s face says he’s not quite done with that conversation. “But I don’t, do I even like...” how does he say this? “How are...”

“Deep breaths, Pete,” Dick says warmly, leaning forward and placing his hand on Peter’s own. He taps it a few times, a steady rhythm, before he continues. “We’re figuring everything out, okay? You don’t have to worry about anything anymore. You leave all that worrying to us adults, alright?”

Peter blinks at him and nods.

There’s no way he’s leaving all that worrying to the adults, not if it’s his problem and not something they need to be dealing with; but if agreeing is what keeps them off his back, then he can do it.

Dick smiles, and behind him, the timer goes off. “Alright! Who wants some cookies?”

Too bad they were all burnt.

Chapter 17

Chapter Text

Just a notice to all my readers, I will not be updating this week due to Christmas and the holidays.

New chapter will be up maybe next weekend possibly the one after.

Merry Christmas and happy holidays!!!!!

Chapter 18

Chapter Text

Peter is sitting on the floor of his room, his butt on the edge of the large rug and feet tucked underneath himself as he dug through the clothes in his closet, when Jason opens the door. It’s a soft sound, a click of metal moving and the near-silent squeak of hinges, but it has Peter’s head turning to the door the minute it moves. Jason – the man that looks strangely like Peter in all the wrong ways – pokes his head in and immediately narrows his eyes in a strange mix of confusion and worry.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice low and soft. It’s only then that Peter realizes the hallway light behind Jason is off, only the light from Jason’s open bedroom door is illuminating him from behind. He’s wearing a stained pair of jeans, with a large sweatshirt pulled up on his arms.

While yes, Jason was right, and Peter’s anxiety was making it difficult for him to put his mind to rest – that wasn’t the whole truth. If he could just find something to wear for tomorrow, then he might be able to calm down enough to sleep.

But he can’t and it’s driving him crazy.

May always told him ‘First appearances are everything’, and it’s a message he takes to heart. When he went to his interview for Midtown, he wore his best shirt and pants, his hair slicked back and teeth brushed, determined to get a good standing with the principal. And it had taken him a week to prepare that look, weirdly enough. Which is why, when Dick told him that he would be taking a placement exam the following morning – after he had agreed to go to school that very evening, Peter found himself sorting through the limited supply of clothing he had acquired throughout his week here.

“I can’t find anything to wear,” he says, picking up a brown t-shirt and setting it aside in the pile of not-that-bad-but-not-good-enough, right on top of a pair of black slacks. He can hear Jason take a breath, then his feet shuffling into the room. The door closes with a soft click, a whoosh of air flowing.

“I see plenty of clothes, Peter,” Jason says, slowly lowering himself to the floor with a grunt. His knees pop more than once loudly, and Peter lifts an eyebrow at him – momentarily distracted from his current task.

“I thought you were like, 20, not like, 80,” he laughs, dodging quickly as Jason leans over to flick his forehead. “You sound like a rice-crispy bar.”

Jason sends him an offended look, splaying his hand on his chest and gasping dramatically. “How could you, my own blood calling me a cheap preschooler snack.”

“I’m not wrong,” Peter shoots back. Anyways, everyone knows rice crispies are the superior lunch box treat.”

“Nope,” Jason pops, leaning back onto his hands, folding his legs criss-cross. “That’s where you’re wrong. Cosmic brownies are the best.”

Peter wrinkles his nose. “Those aren’t even top 5.”

Jason shakes his head and sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and shaking his head. “This generation... really....”

“Hey!” Peter exclaims. “We’re not that bad!”

Jason hums, shaking his head with a smile. Slowly, his eyes fall to the mess that Peter’s room is and he tilts his head. “So,” he starts, shifting to push a leg out from their positions. “What tornado caused this?”

With a sigh, Peter drops his smile and examines the clothes in front of him. “I can’t find anything to wear for tomorrow.”

“You’ve got plenty of clothes, kid,” Jason says, lifting a blue polo shirt Peter had already discarded, and drops it only to pick up another. “Not really sure what the problem is. Aren’t ya just taking the placement test tomorrow?”

Peter nods, unsure of why Jason doesn’t see the issue. After all, the Wayne’s are a very rich family; they definitely should know to dress-to-impress. “Nothing is...” Peter trails off, then gestures vaguely with his hands. He can’t say nothing is nice enough, because all of his clothes are very nice and very expensive. “It’s not dressy enough.”

Jason blinks at him. “Dressy enough?” He repeats, face screwing into confusion. “Peter, what in the world are you talking about?”

This time, it’s Peter’s turn to blink. “The, well the placement exam....” He’s not sure where he’s supposed to go with this anymore, not with the look Jason is giving him. “Isn’t this school like, really prestigious and whatnot?”

Peter knows it is, he did his research on a computer Tim lent him. For a half-an-hour he poured over the school’s official website, and on news articles about the smart, ‘gifted’ students who attended. They wear school uniforms for God’s sake.

“Peter,” Jason says, holding up a hand. “The school, yeah it’s nice, whatever, but that doesn’t mean you need to wear a three-piece suit. I bet half the kids there will be wearing sweats anyways.”

Peter doubts it. “Still.... I want to wear something nice.”

Jason huffs, rolling his eyes, and digs a hand into one of the piles of clothes. He pulls out a random green sweatshirt and tosses it at Peter, quickly followed by a pair of black jeans. “There,” he says, standing up and brushing his hands off. “Something nice.”

Peter looks at the clothes in his arms and cringes slightly. “Jason-”

“Nope,” the man says, making his way to the door. “You’re wearing that. No complaints.” He opens the door, steps out into the hall and starts to pull it closed only to pause, sticking his head in quickly. “Make sure you get to bed soon and close your window.” He wrinkles his nose. “Why do you even have it open?”

Peter glances to the other side of the room, catching sight of the slightly fluttering curtains and the cracked open window. It was a sliding type, up and down, with dark sills and almost frosted glass. Honestly, he had opened it to see if there were any alarms. Seeing how no one had come running to his room, and apparently didn’t know he had opened it, that answers that.

“I needed some fresh air,” he says, eyes darting away from Jason’s face to keep the man from seeing his lie in his eyes.

Jason doesn’t seem to catch on, thankfully, and he just nods a little slow. “Alright Peter. Get some sleep, okay? I’m heading to bed, so if you need anything just come knocking.”

Peter nods. The minute Jason closes the door he sighs, dropping onto his back and wishing to melt into the floor as if he was Oobleck. He lifts the sweatshirt, looking at it, and the design on the front, before dropping it back to his chest. At least it’s soft, he thinks, holding it close and feeling the texture beneath his fingertips.

With a huff, he sits up and makes his way to stand only to pause, eyes focused on an article of clothing peeking out. A red sweatshirt, he realizes as he slowly pulls it out from underneath a pair of pants and a jacket. The top half of it was red, the bottom a dark blue, it was almost black, and a thin white strip cut across the waist and around the arms. He lifts it up carefully, eyes scanning the rest of his clothes quickly. A pair of dark blue leggings he spots are sitting on top of his bed, a matching set of shorts he knows sitting in his dresser. His eyes slide over to the open window.

A moment of silence passes, before Peter practically throws the sweatshirt across the room.

“Stupid, stupid, Parker,” he mutters, standing quickly and moving to close the window. Now was not the time to be thinking about Spiderman. Except when he placed his hands on the windowsill, and the gentle, cold wind of fall gently brushed against knuckles, blowing past his face with a whisper of what it felt like to just soar through the air, Peter couldn’t help it. His heart thundered, feeling almost in his throat, and he lifted his fingers away from the wood.

He would be back soon enough to get some sleep.

He just wanted to explore.

And didn’t that just bring a smile to Peter’s face.

Chapter 19

Chapter Text

He’s regretting it before he’s even left the manor.Well, not the manor itself, but the property. Partially because he had been half-way hopping out of the window when he remembered he did not in fact have his web shooters, and then promptly fell 20 feet to the ground. He was fine, obviously, but the landing did jar his sneaker-clad feet a little, causing his toes to go numb as he scampered across the ridiculously manicured lawn.

He’s regretting it now when he stares at the spear-top iron fence that lines the property, standing nearly 8 feet tall and leaving him gawking in its shadow.

“What the heck?” he whispers in complaint, gently placing a bare hand on the freezing metal and hissing with a jolt back. Frost has already coated the metal in delicate designs, the spot where he fingers brushed melting away with great speed.

Peter also regrets not grabbing gloves. But, he thinks with a glance back to the darkened manor, it’s too late now.

He wipes a spot right above his head with his sleeve, brushing off as much of the frost as he could. Taking a deep breath, he backs up a step or two, then takes a running jump at the fence. His hands only touch for a moment, long enough for them to feel a very sharp spike of pain-that's-way-too-freaking-cold before he’s pushing his legs up and arching his back over the fence. The bottom hem of his sweatshirt clips the spiked tip of the fence as he slips over it, and his heart pounds in his chest when it pulls slightly.

Fortunately, he clears, and the fabric slips off before it can really catch. His feet slam into the ground, the grass cushioning his fall just a little, but he doesn’t stumble like he did jumping out the window.

“Hehe,” he slides down the sidewalk with quick strides, shooting finger guns at a non-existent crowd. “Still got it.”

Gotham is like NYC in ways that make Peter’s mind spin.

The sounds of cars honking in the distance, people chatting and tv’s running in apartments, and the feeling on hard concrete beneath his feet all make it seem as if he is leaping from building to building in his own home; rather than some random city in a universe not even his. Now, as he settles on the roof of a small business and looks out into a park with tree leaves gently blowing in the wind, Peter can’t help but feel as if he’s looking out into Central Park back home.

Even some of the businesses were similar; McDonald’s somehow existed in this universe as well. But, eh, Peter’s not complaining.

There are differences, of course; things that jolt Peter back into reality and remind him that he isn’t home. The Avenger's Tower doesn’t loom on the skyline, instead replaced by many other skyscrapers that tower among the others. There’s a pungent air that seems to pervade among the streets, and shadows that followed Peter on sidewalks and through alleyways. The city was darker, a heavy layer of smog covering the highest floors of highrises and skyscrapers. It was more rundown than Queens with more boarded windows and shattered streetlights than Peter’s familiar with seeing. Gotham was a lot more gothic – haha, Peter wants to gag – with gargoyles on more than one building within his view.

It was more evil.

Peter spends the first hour or so of his ‘patrol’ just running along the rooftops and clambering up fire escapes. It’s chilly, but he’s sweating soon, breath coming out in short gasps as he looks out into the park. Robinson Park is embossed in a small wooden sign that sticks out of the ground, worn and dirty from standing out in the weather. A small pond snakes around a flat area, and a beaten path follows the edge closely. A couple benches are sporadically placed around the park, more than one with some sort of huddled person sitting on it.

Sirens seem to never stop ringing, and people’s screams echo through the streets more than once, but Peter can never seem to be close enough to pin where exactly they come from. It makes his heart ache, knowing the fact that there are people out there needing help and he’s simply scampering along in a sweatshirt without a care in the world.

Then he remembers that he also lives with a family of vigilantes, and it puts his nerves a little bit at bay; only to restart them again when he realizes that at least one of said family members is most definitely out on the same rooftops as he is.

The city is big, he tries to reason with himself, hopping across another alleyway and rolling to a stop. He’s up and running across this rooftop, vaulting over vents and then he’s leaping onto the next roof. The minute his feet touch down this time, a scream erupts just from the street down from him.

He slips in his haste to scramble to the edge, slamming a knee and elbow onto the concrete before he manages to put both feet beneath him and make his way to the ledge. The street beneath him is as barely lit and dirty as any of the others he’s seen in his night out, but he can still make out the pair of people standing almost in the alley across from him.

A woman, young and pretty, wearing a dirty waitress uniform is backed up against the cold bricks of a dark building, clutching a small purse close to her chest. Her frizzy hair is falling out of a low ponytail and a terrified expression adorns her face, tears glistening on her cheeks in the low light. The man, dressed in dark clothes with a hood pulled over his head, was standing a few feet in front of her, swaying slightly and holding a knife out with a wavering hand.

Peter can hear his slurred voice demanding the purse. With a huff, Peter pushes himself over the edge and drops down onto the street with a thud. Neither of them notices as he slinks his way towards them.

“-please, I don’t have anything,” the woman is begging, further wrapping herself around the purse, eyes darting around for an escape.

“Just hand over the bag,” the man shakes the knife a little.

“Hey, c’mon man,” Peter pipes up from behind, stopping a little way away from them. “That’s not nice.”

The man jerks around to face Peter, knife hand jabbing out despite the distance. Peter manages to lock eyes with the woman, and he winks, smiling a little. She just stares, wide eyed and mouth agape, before a layer of gratefulness graces her face. She smiles, lightly, just a twist of her lips, before she sprints down the street towards who knows where. The man, apparently not expecting his catch to make a break for it, stumbles a step or two after her before growling and turning back to Peter.

“Whoa there, dude,” Peter raises his eyebrows, stepping back when the man swipes at him with the knife. “Those things are dangerous. You can’t just swing it around like that.”

“Shut up!” He stumbles sideways one step, then forward two, all while swinging the knife widely.

Peter just blinks at him, stepping a few feet back. “How much have you had to drink tonight, sir?” He asks patiently, crossing his arms.

He swears he hears the man mutter not enough and he can’t help but snort, which was a mistake he realizes, blinking open his eyes to find a fist inches away. He turns away, ducking slightly, and manages to dodge by millimeters, feeling the air brush against his cheekbones. He ducks under the arm of the man, sidestepping to the left and ending up behind him as the guy twists with his punch. Peter places his hands on the man’s back, giving him a gentle shove forward. The guy goes stumbling, fumbling to the ground and the knife goes skidding across the street. With a glance back to Peter, the guy scrambles forward to reach for it, but Peter pulls him back with foot hooked around his ankle.

“Come on man,” Peter complains, shaking his head. The guy rolls over onto his back, dazedly looking up at Peter, and Peter just sighs. There’s nothing he can really do about the guy, since he doesn’t have his webs to tie him up or a phone to call the police on, so he just kicks the guy’s shoe. “Go home.”

Then he skips around to scoop the knife from the street, slipping it into the pocket of his shorts. Smart? Nope. But he wasn’t going to leave it out for the man to just snatch up and go harass someone else.

Said man is already making his way down the street, leaning heavily on walls the entire way.

“Good,” Peter muttered to himself, huffing a breath and looking to the buildings around him. The one right next to him has a somewhat stable looking fire escape clinging to its side, and he takes a step towards it only to pause as an engine rumbles down the street. Peter takes one glance at the motorcycle, spots the cape billowing from the back, and takes a running start to the metal ladder.

He’s not sure which one of them it is, but Peter is sure as Hell he doesn’t want to meet them; not out here, alone when he’s definitely supposed to be in bed sleeping. Since he does have an exam in, like, 7 hours.

Hopefully, they won’t notice his body climbing up the fire escape and will keep going down the street to where there is more crime. Like a vigilante should do.

Except said vigilante doesn’t, and Peter hears the motorcycle slowing down at the mouth of the alley. His heart is pounding, fingers just touching the top rung of the ladder and he’s so close and please don’t notice him-

“ Peter!”

And Peter almost slips down the ladder before he secures himself, sticking to the rungs and whipping his head around to look at the figure. Tim, he thinks, is still on the bike, bracing himself against the ground with one foot and looking up at Peter through a domino mask with furrowed brows. Peter wishes he remembered Tim’s vigilante identity, because that would probably have stopped him from shouting out the boy’s name in response.

“Tim?” And the minute it leaves his mouth, Peter's hand clamps over his lips, eyes widening to match Tim’s now wide stare for a solid 10 seconds. Tim visibly stutters, lips moving but no words coming out, and a hand raising to point at Peter.

“You are in so much trouble buster,” Tim eventually chokes out, weight shifting to pull himself off the bike. Peter, responsible and not at all like a five-year-old, lifts a foot up a rung the minute Tim takes a step forward.

“Peter,” Tim warns, eyebrows raised and hands splayed out. He doesn’t take another step forward. “What are you doing out here?”

“How did you know I was out here?” Answer a question with a question, Peter’s learned at least that much while watching lawyer shows.

“Did you really think we didn’t have sensors around the yard? Especially after you ran away the first time?” Tim squawks, head turning to look down the street to his left, then to his right.

Peter blinks at him until he turns back.

Tim sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose with glove covered fingers. “Just get down so we can go home.”

Peter, ever the child, shakes his head. “No. I’m not done out here yet.” He’s telling the truth; he still had a half an hour he had planned before heading back to the manor.

Tim mutters something to himself that Peter can’t hear, and then takes another step forward. Peter climbs up another rung, his upper body now over the height of the rooftop next to him. Tim shakes his head, a silent warning that Peter ignores as he places his hands on the cement surface next to him.

Tim’s hand drifts to his waist, to grab something or to communicate with others, Peter’s not sure, and he doesn’t stick around long enough to find out. He hears Tim’s aborted yell as he pushes himself up and over the edge, before he’s booking it across the roof.

He just runs for a while, not looking back and not having a plan mapped in his head other than: run. For a while, he thought it worked. He doesn’t hear the hum of an engine following him through the streets below, or anyone yelling his name. That is, however, until he hears the footsteps behind him and the breathing that was most definitely not his.

The pounding of footsteps, timed almost perfectly with Peter’s, are barely there. But they're just so slightly heavier than Peter’s own steps that he can tell they’re there. And the breathing sounds a lot different than Peter’s now unsteady puffs of air; sounding steady and way more trained than it should be.

He’s too afraid to turn back and see Tim, who is gaining on him as the time and rooftop passes, so he doesn’t. He knows he’ll get caught eventually; after all, this is a chase between a highly trained vigilante and one who barely even got a suit. So he just... enjoys it. The feeling of exhilaration, heart pounding and legs burning. The feeling of air whipping past his face and hair, pushing his hood back and whipping the strings on his sweatshirt into his face.

He enjoys it because it feels like it’s been so long since he’s done this.

And he’s not sure when the next time he’ll get to do it will be.

Chapter 20

Chapter Text

In the end, the chase ends when Peter biffs it and eats dirt. He’s been running for nearly five minutes now, leading Tim down an intricate path that has no pattern other than evade and zigzag. There’s a close call halfway through that almost has Peter reeling off the side of a building, but he managed to righten himself and duck under Tim’s extended hand to lead on the chase.

This time, however, he wasn’t able to save himself.

It’s stupid – the way he actually goes down – in equal parts embarrassing and painful. One minute he’s running, arms and legs pumping, breathing steadily, and then there’s a brief flare in the back of his mind. Quicker than he can even process the warning his ‘sense is giving him, his foot catches on an even tile and the ground rushes to meet him quicker than it should.

There’s a brief second of ‘well shoot’ before he hits the ground with the grace of a two-year-old slipping on ice. Thankfully, he’s used to falling, and manages to turn himself into a roll that saves his face and instead sends his shoulder straight into the rough surface.

Tim curses loudly behind him, heavy footsteps falling close to Peter, heavy breaths escaping his lungs. “You idiot,” he mutters, poking Peter’s elbow with his boot.

Peter, trying to figure out if his shoulder really hurts or not, just groans and rolls onto his back. He winces, reaching to press his left shoulder with his right hand. Yup, definitely hurts. For a minute, he blinks up at the hazy, dark sky, sucking in air through his teeth before Tim leans over and blocks his view. With a groan, Peter closes his eyes.

He opens his mouth, unsure of what he’s going to say to help his case, but Tim cuts him off.

“I don’t want to hear a word out of that mouth until we get home,” Tim grouches, voice a little breathless. “Not a single word.”

Peter takes a deep breath, peeping open an eye to spot Tim’s face above his, screwed into an expression he’s unsure of. Peter, decidedly against being thrown off a roof by the other vigilante, just nods. “Kay.”

Tim stares at him for a few more seconds, the white eyes of his mask a little unnerving, before he sighs and crouches next to Peter’s side. “You alright?” His voice is gentler now and it gives Peter whiplash. “You took quite a tumble.”

“Yeah,” Peter mumbles, moving to push himself. He winces slightly when he puts weight on his left side, but it’s not as bad as it was before. “Just a little banged up.”

Tim swears again, holding out a hand and grasping Peter’s arm. Together, they push off the ground and rise to their feet. “Dick’s gonna kill me,” he mumbles, shaking his hair out of his face. “First I lose you a few miles into the city, and now you’re hurt.”

Peter pauses mid step as they make their way to the adjoining rooftop – back towards where Tim left his bike – and turns to Tim so quickly he nearly trips. “You followed me into the city?”

Tim raises an eyebrow, nearly invisible under his mask. “You think you can leave the manor without being tracked by cameras and tripping motion sensors?”

Well, there goes the whole ‘feeling like a super spy’, since apparently, he hadn’t been sneaking out at all. “Why didn’t you stop me?”

They’re at the top of a fire escape now, just about to go down, but Peter stops them. Tim looks at him, hand gripping the metal railing and sighs.

“To be honest, you almost did sneak out,” he confesses, looking mildly angry. Who it was directed to, Peter’s not sure. “If you hadn’t tripped the perimeter around the gate, you would've made it out without us noticing.”

Peter blinks at him. “Oh.”

“Which, by the way,” Tim’s attention is concentrated 100% on him now, mouth screwed in a downturned shape. “How did you get through the front door without tripping the alarm?”

“You guys alarmed the front door?” Peter doesn’t remember any alarm from his previous run away attempt.

Tim side eyes him. “Do you think we’re stupid? It didn’t go off the first time because it hadn’t been set yet.”

“Ah,” Peter nods in understanding. When he had left the first time, people were still up. This time, however, he had made sure everyone was safely in their beds before he left. “Well, I didn’t go through the front door.”

Tim blinks at him, uncomprehending. A furrow appears in his brow. “Did you leave through the kitchen patio?”

“No?”

“The parlor patio?”

“Nope.”

“The poolside door?”

“You guys have a pool?” Peter is definitely going swimming.

Tim glares at him. “Not the point, Peter. How did you get out of the house?”

“My window,” Peter says, tilting his head at Tim’s face spasms.

“Your window...” he says slowly. “Like, your bedroom window....”

“Yeah,” Peter says, leaning away as Tim takes a huge breath.

“Your bedroom window that’s on the second floor? You just, what, hopped out?”

Peter nods.

Tim stares.

“I-you-just, go. Just go,” he says sharply, pointing down the metal stairs of the fire escape. “Don’t say another word and just go.”

Peter raises an eyebrow, confusion blooming softly in his chest, but he moves to head down the stairs. Tim’s expression doesn’t look angry, more like a resigned calm that combats his next mumbled words.

“I’m dead, I’m so dead, dead, deadity-dead. No one's gonna find my body when Dick gets to me. So long senior year. Jason will help him. So will Damian. I’m done. Finished. Dead.”

His rant doesn’t stop until the motorcycle is in sight, when he finally takes a deep breath. Gently, Tim helps Peter secure a helmet over his head, clipping the plastic clasp under his chin and tightening it almost too tightly. Then he helps Peter sit on the back seat, pulling Peter’s arms around his own waist.

“Hold on,” he says shortly, starting up the bike and revving the engine. Peter tightens his grip, leaning more onto Tim’s back as the other teenager leans forward more over the front of the bike. Tim pushes off with one leg and they start moving.

The bike ride goes by quicker than Peter liked. It was exhilarating - similar to how he felt when running among the rooftops; wind whips his clothes, and his breath gets taken away as the surroundings blur.

But it seems that it ends almost as soon as it starts and they’re pulling up to the front of Wayne Manor. The motorcycle rumbling gently beneath him, Peter takes a minute to breathe a deep breath – preparation for the absolute berating he knows he’s going to get. Peter’s not stupid, he knows he has no shot at getting out of this, especially not with how protective this family he’s been swept into it. No doubt they’re all having some sort of meeting in the kitchen right now; if Peter knows his lighting correctly, then that is the kitchen light on.

“Go inside,” Tim orders, turning his head slightly to peer up at the mansion. “I’m going to go put the ‘bike away and then hop inside.”

“Is the door unlocked?” It would be so awkward if Peter has to knock and wait for someone to come and let him in. He snuck out of the house for God’s sake. Maybe if it isn’t unlocked, and everyone really is in the kitchen, he can sneak up to his room.

“Ha,” Tim forces out, turning to help pull the helmet from Peter’s head. “You’ll be lucky if you even reach the door before it opens.”

Peter swallows the lump of dread and anxiety bubbling in his throat and sighs. Just like ripping off a bandaid.

“Word of advice Peter?” Tim calls before Peter can even pass through the large, open, metal gate. The gravel crunches under his feet as he spins around to face his... uncle? “This family is very dramatic.” He wiggles his fingers into jazz hands and chuckles when Peter’s face scrunches. “Get going.”

Peter sticks out his tongue. “Aren’t you supposed to be putting the ‘bike away?”

Tim crosses his arms, gaze souring. “I’ll do that once I see you actually getting into the house.”

Peter sighs.

The walk up to the front door is more menacing than Peter remembers, especially with how dark everything is and the shadows the mansion casts, and it seems to be light years before Peter stepped up the front stairs. Not a second afterhis foot hit the top of the step was the door opening. Light pours out from the entry, warm air ghosting his cheeks, and a long shadow is breaking the light. Peter looks up and barely suppresses a flinch when his eyes meet Dick’s.

“Right,” Peter says, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck and his gaze flicking down to the steps. “So-”

Arms are wrapping around him so quickly he can’t even process it until they squeeze, applying pressure around his midriff. His face is tucked against Dick’s shoulder, his dad’s (it’s still so weird to say that) hair, and he can feel Dick’s steady breaths on his own shoulder.

“You are in so much trouble, kid,” his dad whispers warningly. But there’s too much air of relief in his voice to actually make it threatening.

Suddenly Peter is very much reminded of May wrapping him up in a blanket after one of the first nights he came home from Spidermanning. She hadn’t known then, of course, but she had woken up and noticed him gone and had panicked. So, when he came home later, sporting a split lip and a black eye, he let her comfort him; spewing a lie that he’d gone out skateboarding with some friends and knowing both knew it was a lie.

Horrifyingly, Peter can feel tears start to pool under his eyes. “I know,” hechokes back out, pressing his face into the soft material of Dick’s shirt. He sucks in a deep breath, steadying himself. Come on Parker, you’re not a five-year-old anymore!

Dick pulls back sooner than Peter would like; not that he voices it or anything. Without speaking, Dick gently pulls him inside and lets him toe-off his shoes, then practically drags him into the kitchen. Unsurprisingly, Bruce, Jason, and Alfred are all sitting around the kitchen island in varying stages of readiness.

Alfred, looking as prim and proper as he always does – does that man ever sleep? - is quietly drinking a cup of steaming tea. He nods at Dick when they enter, and simply raise an eyebrow at Peter, quirking a small smile. Bruce, nursing a cup of tea as well, is wearing a large sweatshirt and a pair of checkered sweatpants, which is by far the last outfit Peter would think to see him in. He, unlike Alfred, has a look of contemplation and thinking, one that only minorly softens when they enter the room. Jason is dressed in a flaming orange tank top with hot pink basketball shorts. Peter’s mind short circuits a little.

What is with this family?

“Why don’t you sit down, kid,” Jason says, leaning back in his chair and nodding to a barstool that’s been pulled out slightly.

Peter’s mind starts whirling the minute he moves to sit. If this goes how he thinks it’s going to – being more of an interrogation than an intervention – then he’s going to need to think up some excuses real quick.

He knows he can explain why he recognizes them in and out of the suit; since that one’s not really that strange. But how about why he went out in the first place? He doesn’t think that simply saying ‘I wanted to go exploring’ would fly by Jason, least of all Bruce, not like it did with Tim. Perhaps he could play into the fact that they think he’s just a poor, traumatized child they picked off the streets? Or at least that’s what he thinks they think.

For being big, bad vigilantes, they wear their hearts on their sleeves.

“For you, Master Peter,” Alfred says quietly, pushing a steaming mug of tea into his hands. It’s hot, almost painful to touch, and Peter quickly sets it down on the counter with a hiss.

“What’s wrong?” Dick quickly says, grasping Peter’s hands and holding them in his own. Belatedly, Peter remembers his scraped palms and tries to pull his hands away when the other man tutts his tongue. “Yikes, Pete. What’d you do?”

“Hopped out the window,” he responds before he can stop himself. The room goes quiet for a minute, until Jason finally lets out a strangled laugh.

“B, I told you we should’ve put sensors on his windowsill, but no~,” Jason turns on his father. “A teenager can’t jump out of a second-floor window my butt.”

Bruce rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his tea. “None of you did it. I assumed he would take one of the windows on the first floor, like the rest of you kids did.”

“What makes you think I didn’t go out my bedroom window?” Jason grouches the same time Peter sits up on the stool and says, “They ran away too?”

Jason waves his hand airily. “Runs in the family kid, I’m just surprised you got caught your second time.”

“Who said it was my second time?” Peter can’t stop himself because, well, that’s a very teenage answer. An answer that has all the heads in the room snapping to him.

“When else did you leave?” Dick demands, standing up with his eyes wide. “Why?”

“What, no, no, that’s not what I meant,” Peter quickly says, rising to his feet as well and waving his hands in front of him. “I didn’t mean it. I’ve only been out twice.”

No one looks like they believe him, but for some reason don’t continue on that area of discussion.

“What were you doing out there?” Bruce questions, tilting his head like a cat and it sends Peter blinking. How was this man the most feared vigilante in Gotham? He looked like he would cuddle with kittens all day; if you ignore his massive shoulders and square jaw.

“I-,” and well, shoot, Peter’s not sure how to answer that. Think Parker, think! Something to throw them off your trail.... Because he really has to do that if he has any chance of getting out again. “I-I....” Think Parker! “I don’t know?”

His eyes glance to Dick, whose expression has strangely darkened. “You don’t know?” His dad repeats, blue eyes flicking quickly to Bruce and then back to Peter. Some message must have been passed in the quick millisecond look, because Dick’s expression softens and his hand lands on Peter’s shoulder gently. “Okay, that’s okay,” Dick says. “Is this like when you ran away to New York, you don’t know? Or...?”

This is going better than Peter thought and had hoped. They must think he has memory problems or something. Well, Peter mentally cracks his knuckles, good thing I am a good liar.

“I, um, don’t really know. I just felt like I had to go out,” he shrugs, glancing a look to Jason who has a disturbingly dark expression on his face. “I don’t remember.” He looks at Dick with big, tired eyes. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, Peter.” Dick smiles, soft and lovingly and Peter’s heart cracks just a bit. Is this what he missed? All those years watching as other kids’ dads came a picked them up from school while he waited for Ben to get off shift and take him home. He loved Ben, really did, but Ben was an uncle. Not a dad. “Why don’t we get you into bed so you can get some sleep before that big test of yours tomorrow, hm?”

Oh. Right. Peter may have forgotten about that.

Welp, he’s done tests on all-nighters so this should be fine.

Chapter 21

Chapter Text

No update this weekend, sorry! I'm working on finishing up my other fic.

See y'all next week >:)

Chapter 22

Chapter Text

He is not fine.

Totally not fine.

When Peter opens his bleary eyes to his alarm blaring alarm clock, he regrets all his life choices. His eyes are dry, and he needs to blink several times before they’re clear enough for him to even read the time on his clock. 6:35 A.M. blinks back at him in neon block letters, throbbing in time with the loud beeps escaping the tiny machine. With a groan, Peter flops his arm over and smacks the top of it, leaving the room in silence as he burrows back into his warm blankets.

He basks in the soft covers formerely a minute, his eyes heavy and breathing just slowing when a loud knock on the door startles him into a jump. He sits up, too quickly, and ends up careening off the side of his bed when his hand slips from the expensive sheets. With a yelp, he rolls off the bed and lands on the floor with a soft thump.

The door opens and Dick’s head pokes in, a dark eyebrow raised. “You okay, bub?”

Peter just groans from his spot on the floor, flopping a hand at the man, before throwing it over his eyes.

Dick laughs. “We’ve got ‘bout 2 hours before we needto head out. I would’ve let you sleep more, but I figured you might want some time to take a shower.”

Peter knows that if Dick hadn’t knocked then, he would have been waking up to a ‘Are you ready to leave?’ three minutes before he’s supposed to be out the door. And, while personally, he thinks that two hours to get ready in the morning is kind of a long time compared to his normal if-even hour, this is alos the first time he can remember being woken up by a parent to go to school. Since May was almost always gone by the time he even woke up, he usually only got a note with a smiley face and maybe some barely edible pancakes.

The effort was appreciated.

“Peter,” Dick voice calls, tone saying he’s about 5 seconds away from pulling Peter out of his blanket cocoon on his own, and the door creaks open a couple inches more. Peter, very intent on staying the warmth as long as he can, groans but clumsily looks at his dad and lifts a thumbs up.

Dick raises an eyebrow. “I expect you to be down to breakfast in an hour.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Peter manages to finally wave Dick out of the room and leans his head back against the wooden floor, looking up at the spinning ceiling fan. He watches it spin around and around and around until his head starts spinning too; he drags his eyes close and presses the palms of his hands sharply into them. “Come on Parker,” he groans.

God he is not a morning person.

With a huff, he’s sitting up. And with another groan, this one more dramatic than the others, he’s pulling himself from the floor and back onto the bed.

He collapses onto the mattress with a sigh and pulls the blanket back up towards his chin. Only for a minute, because that’s all he allows himself, he sinks into the heat of the still-warm blankets and is happy with the soft arms of sleep. His eyelids are starting to get heavy, his limbs loose, but he fights it and forces himself to sit up in bed.

“Shower,” he tells himself, slipping out of the covers. “Shower, shower, shower.” He grabs the outfit he (Jason) picked the night before. It’s not really what he wants to wear, but he figures that Jason might know more about this place than he does.

The en suite bathroom matches the rest of the grandeur of the house, to no surprise of Peter. With white marble flooring and black tile walls, the whole room seems clean and modern. It’s also very... empty. The glass shower is without any bottles of shampoo or washcloths, the counter tops hlding only a fancy bottle of soap and a folded hand towel. The floors are dry and swept, a single thing mat in front of the toilet.

To Peter, it feels more like a hotel than a home.

He sets the clothes down on the closed toilet seat, thankful he has socks on to protect his feet from the frigid floor and makes his way to the cabinet nestled in the corner of the room. Like the counter, it is a sleek black material that is cold to the touch. Inside, stored in neat containers and piles, are a myriad of towels, washcloths, and small bottles of products. Since he’s not really sure where the shampoo and stuff Dick bought him earlier went, Peter grabs a handful of the small bottles and sets them on the floor of the shower stall. Seriously, were rich people too good for shower caddies?

He tosses a fresh towel on the empty rack hanging next to the floor to the ceiling mirror and flings his dirty clothes onto the floor beneath it. The cold air runs icy fingers over his skin and goosebumps erupt across his arms. It takes all he has to not reach and wrap a fuzzy towel around himself; instead, he steps into the shower and slides the glass door behind him.

After a couple fumbling minutes of him trying to figure out how the heck the shower faucet works, he somehow manages to get it working.

Does it shoot a straight column of freezing water that has him screeching like a child?

Yes.

But do be fair, the only thing he has to work with is a solid, black rectangle. Apparently, up means on, and then right means cold?

“Stupid rich people,” he mutters, finally getting a solid beam of hot water and stepping under it. He nearly melts. It’s been way too long since he’s taken a shower – days probably at this point – and it feels heavenly to just run his fingers through his hair under the hot water.

By the time he’s done, 30 minutes later, he smells like stupidly expensive shampoo and body wash, and has freshly brushed teeth. He’s dressed soon after, green sweatshirt and black pants and tall white socks – all name brands. He doesn’t do anything with his hair past combing it out and running his hands through it a couple of times – his usual. He steals a glance at his alarm clock on his way to the door and winces.

He’s only going to be a couple of minutes late, surely no one would notice?

“Thought I’d have to come up and drag you outta bed,” Jason greets the minute Peter steps foot onto the tiled floor of the kitchen.

“Oh come on,” Peter shoots back, sliding onto a barstool right next to the man. “I’m not that late.”

Jason shrugs, pushing a plate full of eggs and sausage over the counter. “Late is still late kiddo.”

Peter scrunches his nose at the nickname, but Jason just laughs, rough and low.

“Alfred’s busy doing some other stuff around the house, so I made you breakfast,” he says once the chuckles die down. “It’s simple and easy, but better than anything Dickie’ll give ya.”

“Hey!” a squawk erupts from just outside the kitchen. “I heard that!”

“I know!” Jason shoots back.

Dick appears in the doorway a few seconds later. He flicks Jason off quickly before he smiles like sunshine and daisies at Peter, sliding into the seat next to him. The man looks ready to go; he’s dressed in a pair of jeans and a simple green t-shirt on, but his shoes are tightened to his feet and energy with each breath. He’s the literal opposite of Peter right now.

“Ready for your test?” Dick asks, leaning backwards and grabbing something off the counter with more ease than should be possible. He comes back up, quickly pressing a fork into Peter’s hand.

“I, uh, yeah,” Peter stumbles, staring at the fork in his hand – the one he’s 90% sure was not on the counter 30 seconds ago, before he shakes himself back into his bones. “Super ready.”

Jason snorts next to him and Dick raises an eyebrow. “Nervous?” He props his arm up onto the counter and places his chin on his palm.

“Not really,” Peter shrugs, and sighs, scooping up a bite of his eggs. He shovels them into his mouth, chews, then swallows. Screw what Jason thinks, he thinks, these are delicious. “I’m just... I don’t know. I want to do well.”

Dick smiles, gently. “Peter, you don’t need to get genius level scores on this test, okay? It’s just a placement test. Let’s the school know what classes to put you in.”

“If I even get in,” Peter mumbles into his eggs, huffing. Peter hopes he gets in, especially since this was where, apparently, all of the Wayne kids went to school. It might be a little embarrassing to the family name if Peter doesn’t get in. But this is also not his world, and Peter’s not even sure what that means for schooling. What if their worlds are so different that their math equations are more random than normal?

“Peter,” Jason drawls out from beside him. Peter glances his way, catching the man’s green eyes. “You’ll get in. Trust me.”

Peter just shrugs, which, for some reason, elicits a sigh from Jason. He just sends the older man a glare and shoves another forkful of eggs into his mouth.

The testing room is a simple, empty classroom that is about as bland looking as the test instructor standing in front of the room. Grey sweat vest over a white shirt with grey slack, and some generic dress shoes – the man looked like a typical teacher. His brown hair – greying on the crow – is slicked back against his skull and his nose hooks sharply up.

Peter doesn’t do much than stand next to Dick as the man checks in with the nice secretary sitting at a desk near the door, and wave when she greets herself. Mrs. Peggy, she says, nice to see the family doesn’t just end with Damian after all. Apparently, she’s been there for all the Waynes, and Dick seems to know her well. Dick smiles when she hands them a bland manila folder with his name printed on it with slanted scrawl. An introductory packet. Great.

Dick pulls him out into the hall and gives him a quick hug. It’s awkward, just slightly, but Peter can’t help but lean into it a little.

“You’re going to do great,” his dad whispers into his ear and then steps back, smiling. Peter breaks apart and makes his way back to the room, a newfound determination settling in his chest.

He’s shown to his desk a couple minutes later and is handed a few sheets of scratch paper, two pencils, a pen, and an eraser. Other than him, there’s only a couple others taking the test; 3 boys and 5 girls are stationed around him, all of them spaced out to prevent cheating.

No one introduces themselves; no one says a word.

Peter can’t say he hates it.

“You will be given 3 hours to complete the 4-section test,” the instructor says, standing behind a tall podium. His voice is just as bland as Peter expected. “The first section is English, the second History, the third Math, and the fourth is Science. You may complete them in whatever order you wish, but you must finish the section before moving on to another.” He shuffles some papers in front of him. “You are not allowed to write on the test packet, only the scratch paper and answer sheet. You will be given a calculator when you begin the math section, and it will be taken back when you finish. Just raise your hand and I’ll bring you one.”

He clears his throat. “Cheating will not be tolerated and is punishable by barring your acceptance from GothamAcademy and it may stay permanently on your transcript. If you require any assistance during your test taking raise your hand.”

Mrs. Peggy makes her way over with a stack of papers, her polka dotted skirt flowing around her feet. “Your test starts when you receive your papers,” she explains and smiles. “Good luck!”

Chapter 23

Chapter Text

The first half hour that he waits in the beige hallway of Gotham Academy, Dick just scrolls through Twitter on his phone. It’s something to occupy his mind at least, even if it is mind numbing to read through posts he’s seen a million times already – but it can’t stop his leg from nervously bouncing up and down. He’s not sure why he’s nervous, especially since it's not him taking the test, but he supposes this is just one of the first steps to the mountain some people call parenting.

It was about an hour after the door to the classroom closed when his phone buzzes in his hand, startling him from the video of two kittens playing with yarn. A notification pops on the screen, a text message from Wally – something about plans they apparently had the following weekend? - followed by a random splurge of emojis that make no sense together. A smile touches Dick’s lips as he swipes to respond, only freezing when the app opens, and the keyboard raises.

Because, well, he never told Wally about Peter. His son. The son that might be a good thing to mention to your... best friend.

Dick sighs, dragging a hand down his face and setting his phone on his knee, the text screen still open. With a click, the screen goes dark, and he drags his eyes up to land on the wall opposite of him, its bland texture and color offending him enough long enough to pull his attention away. Seriously, why didn't schools realize having depressing colors makes depressed students?

“Excuse me, young sir?” His eyes snap to the right, sharply meeting the soft blue eyes of a middle-aged woman with a string of pearls and a bright blue paisley suit. Her hair curls around her face, big ringlets of hair-sprayed blonde locks, and her perfume hangs heavy around her.

“Ah, yes?” He glances to her side, noting a backpack that sits leaning against the chair. She must be a parent of one of the other kids, and, judging by the welcome packet held tightly in her hand, it must be her first kid at the school.

“Do you by chance happen to know where the bathrooms are?” she looks slightly embarrassed as she speaks, by smiles hopefully at the end.

Finally, a question Dick knows the answer to.

“I think they’re down the hall and to the left,” he replies mildly, with a smile. The lady nods, a quick thank you on her lips as she shuffles herself away.

Dick leans back, scooting farther down in his seat and pulling his phone back in front of his face. He swipes it open, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Wally’s text gleams blaringly at him. Ready for Saturday night followed by a flower, money symbol, Christmas tree, and skull emoji. As Dick stares at it longer, desperately trying to remember what they had planned, a bubble pops up with three dots. He’s typing, is a minute thought that panics its way through Dick’s head, but he just watches until the dots disappear and a new message appears.

I’m ready to buy the tickets online if ya want :)

“Ah,” Dick huffs. Mean Girls 2 was out in theatres that weekend, and Dick barely remembers setting up a time when neither of them worked or had patrol so they could spend some time together.

He supposes those emojis make more sense now.

Could we talk later? Because he’s A. terrible with emotions, and B. is a very blunt texter. He sends it before he can over think it and waits with bated breath as a typing bubble appears again. It goes on for a little bit, three dots just cycling over and over until it drops and doesn’t appear for a few more seconds. It does this a couple times before a text finally pops up.

Are you okay?

Dick’s heart squeezes and taps away. Everything is okay. But we should talk later.

Again, the bubble appears and disappears a few times. Okay. Wally sends back, and nothing more. With a sigh, Dick opens Twitter again and starts scrolling. He'll just have to remember give Wally a call, otherwise the man will come bursting into his room later that night – freaking out.

He has before.

Peter and the other kids all exit the room at the same time, each of them parting throughout the hallway to meander with their parents down to the front entrance. Peter looks a little rumpled, at least to Dick he does. His hair is fluffy and staticky, as if he had been running his fingers through it constantly, and his bottom lip is red with worry. He still smiles when he sees Dick though, and it makes his chest light up.

“How’d it go?” he asks, gently nudging Peter down the hall with a hand on his shoulder. Peter shrugs.

“It was okay.” His hands fiddle with the sleeves of his hoodie. “I think I did good on the math part, and the English and writing,” he pauses, glancing out a window as the sun rays reflect off his eyes. “But the history part was kinda rough.”

Dick smiles as reassuringly as he can. “Don’t worry about it, bud. I’m sure you did fine.” He hopes Peter did fine – not that he doubts the teenager’s intelligence – but deep down, hidden in the dark depths of his chest, he just wants Peter to be normal. He knows it’s a bad thought to have, but he can’t help it. If Peter somehow doesn’t get into Gotham Academy for some reason, it’ll probably be difficult to convince him to even try for another.

The make their way out of the front entrance and down to the street ahead, where Dick’s car has been parked by a meter for a while. He slides into the driver’s seat, starts up the engine, and waits patiently for Peter to finish buckling himself up.

“Do you wanna stop for lunch anywhere?” he asks, checking his mirrors before pulling out into the street. “Maybe hit up a Kwik Trip for some snacks?”

“’m not really hungry,” is the reply, and Dick sends a side glance at Peter, who’s leaning up against the window with his hood up. “Just wanna sleep.”

Dick snorts humorlessly, flipping on his blinker and dodges an old lady who definitely should not be driving still. “Well maybe if you weren’t running around and were in bed like you were supposed to be, you wouldn’t be tired.”

He can feel the glare his son sends his way, but he keeps his eyes on the road. Peter huffs, shuffles in his seat, but stays in his leaned over position. Dick just keeps driving.

Chapter 24

Chapter Text

The only thing Peter wants to do is to crawl in bed and never get out; however, the minute he walks into the manor’s entry, there’s a hand on his sleeve.

“Whoa, there, hotshot,” Dick says from behind him, gently leading him away from the stairs and over into one of the sitting rooms. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Peter blinks at the man as they enter the room, spotting Bruce and Jason already lounging comfortably on the couch. “Bed?” he says hopefully, because he really wants to face plant into those lovely comforters again. But the look on Dick’s face says that that wasn’t happening.

“Not yet, kiddo,” he says, pulling him into what Peter has dubbed ‘the blue room’. The couches, armchairs, wallpaper, carpet, and even the flowers and the vases are all different shades of blue. The curtains, however, were a dark brown that matched the wood accents of everything, and Peter appreciated them more than he probably should.

He’s led to sit on a cushion of the couch, Dick taking the spot on the other end of the couch, leaving a cushion in between the two. The man pulls a leg up and shifts himself so he’s facing Peter a little more and a frown curls his mouth downwards. Peter cringes, preparing himself for the oncoming lecture he thought he could maybe escape.

“We need to talk about last night, Peter,” Dick leans back and the couch creaks quietly – Peter wonders if Dick even heard it. “I know it might be difficult, okay? So, we’re just going to go slow. You don’t have to share anything you don’t want to. If you want to stop and take a break we can, alright?”

Peter suddenly feels a little under-prepared. “Uh, yeah, sure.”

“Last night, when I asked you why you left, you said you didn’t know why. Right?” Dick looks a little uncomfortable. Good, Peter thinks, at least it’s not just me. “ And you also said that about New York.”

“Yeah,” Peter’s voice cracks embarrassingly, and his ears feel hot.

Dick nods, eyes drifting from Peter to the windows that show the front yard. IF Peter could guess, he thinks the man is focusing on the hedges that line the property edge.

“Can you explain that a little better?”

“Like, like feelings or...” Peter’s not sure how to explain a feeling he never felt. Parkers are bad liars; his brain reminds him. Well good thing I’m apparently not a Parker anymore, he shoots back. Dick just nods at him eyes focusing back onto his own. “Well, I guess it was just a feeling that I needed to go out? Like, like I knew something was out there and I just needed to go, or, or something. Yeah,” he finishes lamely.

Somehow, this makes Dick look a little more worried. “Did you have control when you felt like you had to leave? Or was your body kind of forcing you?”

Oooh, options.... The question now is which one will cause less problems for Peter in the future. “I had control. It didn’t feel like I was being forced to go out.”

Judging by the look on Dick’s face, that was the right answer to pick. He nods, eyes narrowing slightly in thought. “Have you felt like this about anything else?”

“No,” Peter answers, honest for once. Dick sighs, relieved, and moves to stand.

“Promise me you’ll tell me if you feel any urge to do something that is weird, okay? Like leaving in the middle of the night or,” he pauses, brow furrowing. “Or anything else weird, alright?”

Peter wonders what the man was going to say before he cut himself off.

“If you can’t find me or I'm not home at the moment, because I do go on patrols, as I’m sure you know now,” he sends an amused smirk to Peter, that he can’t help but reciprocating. “Find Jason or Bruce.”

Peter nods, knowing he will do absolutely nothing of the kind.

Dick smiles, eyes crinkling slightly. “Alright, time for you to head to bed. I’ll get you up in a couple hours for some food.”

Peter nods, exhaustion rolling through him quickly. He slides past Dick with a grateful smile, stumbles up the steps of the large staircase, then flops onto the tops of his covers. He’s asleep before he even climbs under the blankets.

Somehow, later that evening, Peter finds himself sitting on a chair in the pool room. Apparently, Tim found it upsetting that Peter hadn’t been showed the pool before, and therefore, after Peter woke up, ate food, and read a book in the library, tossed Peter some swimming trunks and dragged him to the room.

The pool wasn’t huge, about 1/3 of the size of a school pool, but that was impressive on its own. The walls a entirely glass, peering out into the small flower garden on one side, and the other overlooking a large patio. Tim assured him when they stepped in that the windows are tinted and reflective, meaning no one can look in and see them, but Peter can’t help glancing out at the glass every few minutes. He’s sure Tim and Damian, who had joined them on their way to the pool – somehow already dressed in a matching set of shirt and swimming shorts, both noticed but said nothing about it. Damian is swimming laps, a different stroke every four lengths, and is currently doing a breaststroke but upside down. Tim is standing on the shallower end of the pool, leaning on his arm and doing his best to get Peter to actually get in the pool.

But there’s a problem: Peter doesn’t really go swimming very much. Memories of younger him are hazy at best, May and Ben were too busy to take him to the public one a few blocks away, and the school phy-ed unit had enough loopholes in it that he managed to skip being in the pool at all; meaning his knowledge of how to not drown was about 0. That didn’t seem to dissuade Tim.

“C’mon, you don’t even have to actually swim, you can just chill with me,” Tim pouts, gesturing to the empty area of pool around him. The water gently moves as Damian nears their end of the pool.

Peter shakes his head, pulling his legs up to his chest and leaning his head on his knees. He’s sure that the water would feel refreshing, especially with the humid, hot air of the pool clinging to his skin, but there's a nagging thought in the back of head. A thought of water pressing, filling his lungs, and he can’t breathe-

He’s not sure if it’s his spideysense telling him something, or perhaps something else, but he’s not really motivated to find out.

Tim somehow – maybe his vigilante senses – seems to know there’s something more to Peter’s hesitancy than just refusal. His pout turns into a thinly veiled concerned frown.

“Do you not know how to swim?” he asks, barely glancing at his brother as Damian surfaces with a pop and a deep breath. “Because that’s not an issue. I promise. I could teach you if you wanted.”

That’s not it, not really, so Peter shrugs. “Nah,” he waves a hand, trying to dismiss their concern. “I’m just fine here.”

Tim apparently can’t take a hint, and his eyes narrow. “Is something wrong? Do you feel sick, or are you hurt?” He places his hands on the pool deck, as if preparing to pull himself out of the pool and check on Peter himself. Startled, Peter scrambles up, shaking his hands.

“I’m fine!” he exclaims, taking a few steps towards the pool. He looks at the glittering surface, and feels something deep settle in his stomach, a sick feeling rise to his chest. He doesn’t remember feeling like this before, not about water... water filling his mouth and his throat and his lungs –

“ There’s no reason to force yourself if you are afraid,” Damian’s voice cuts through his thoughts, startling him enough to cut his eyes over to his youngest... uncle. That’ll never not be weird.

“ I, I’m not scared,” he bites out, because he’s not.

...not really.

Damian’s eyes narrow, dark and sharp, and he tts before ducking under the surface and continuing his lap. Peter watches him, impressed by the way his small body moves so fast and coordinated in the water, but moves his vision back to Tim, who is now sitting on the edge of the pool. The teenager is slowly kicking his feet in the water, but his eyes are focused on Peter, a furrow in his brow. Peter’s not sure when Tim got out of the pool and sat down, but he’s not going to question it.

“I’m sorry,” Tim says, his face an emotion Peter can’t place. “I didn’t mean to force you to do something you didn’t want.”

“It’s okay,” Peter finds himself saying. “It’s not like you could have known.”

Tim smiles at him, painfully. “Yeah, right.”

Awkwardly, they both stay in those exact positions for a few minutes; Tim lazily kicking his feet back and forth, staring at the way the water moves intently, and Peter standing with his arms wrapped around himself, watching Damian and his periodic breaths.

“If you want,” Tim starts, breaking Peter from his stupor. He looks to see Tim still glued to the water, legs moving slowly. “You could try by putting your feet in.”

Peter bites his lip, glancing down at his own feet standing on the cold wooden floor. He imagines feeling water around them, the cold feeling it will bring, the weightlessness. Somehow, it doesn’t bring the thoughts of before, and all he can think of is how relaxing it would be. With stilted steps, he makes his way to the edge of the pool, stopping right next to Tim.

Tim looks up at him, a smile set on his face, and holds up a hand. Peter grasps it, using it to balance himself – even though he knows he doesn’t need it, he can walk on his hands after all – and lowers himself to sit on the deck. Slowly, he dips his feet in.

It is, unsurprisingly, just like dipping his feet into water. Very anticlimactic.

However, when he looks at his legs slowly kicking in the water, hand still clasped tightly with Tim’s, Peter can’t help but feel like he accomplished something grand.

“Nice,” Tim says, leaning back on his free hand. He smiles easily, and Peter matches it with his own.

“Nice,” he parrots.

Gotham Academy is, probably due to its status, reputation, and wealth, very quick with getting results out.

Peter wakes up to Tim bounding into his room, laptop in hand, some sort of online shopping site pulled up. His uncle... brother, Peter decides, blearily looking at the screen that’s been shoved in his face, he’s going to refer to Tim and Damian as his brothers. Dick is obviously his dad, Bruce his grandpa, and Jason can get the rights to scary uncle privileges. Alfred is family, and nothing more is needed for him.

“Wha?” he mumbles, half listening to whatever Tim is spewing out of his mouth and focusing on what he realizes now are backpacks.

“You made it in,” Tim flips his hands. “Not that that was a question. But now you need to get school stuff so you can actually go.” He scoots onto Peter’s bed and settles on his stomach next to Peter. “Bruce wants you to order everything by tonight, apparently.”

Peter blinks at him, Tim’s first sentence finally connects. “I made it in?”

Tim nods, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah, you did like, really well on the math and science parts. Pretty good on english, and history... well...” he side-glances at Peter. “Let’s just say you cut it a little close on that one.”

Peter sighs, flopping onto his side. “Thank God. I was certain I was going to fail that one.”

Tim laughs. “Well, you didn’t. So now you have to go to school like the rest of us.”

Peter groans dramatically and pulls the computer into his view. He scrolls for a minute, glancing at Tim once, only to find the other teenager typing out something on his phone. The prices of the backpacks are exorbitant, and it makes Peter almost feel uncomfortable just looking at them. None of them are brands he recognizes, but he’s sure they’re this universe’s version Coach and Gucci. Seriously, who needs a designer backpack for school?

“Tim?” he asks, afraid to even click on an option. $550, is listed underneath one, $329 under another. “Um, do I have to get one of these?”

Tim takes his eyes off of his phone, refocuses on what is on the screen, and narrows his eyes. “If you don’t like any of those, I could find another website, or we could talk to Dick and get him to drive us into town.”

Peter shakes his head. “No, not, not that. I just... is there anything cheaper? Maybe?”

Tim blinks at him. “Cheaper?”

“Uh, yeah,” Peter can feel himself flush in embarrassment. “I just, isn’t five hundred dollars a bit much for a backpack?”

Something passes Tim’s vision, and his face clears of confusion. A gentle look overtakes it, understanding dawning. “Peter, trust me, to this family, five hundred dollars is a perfectly reasonable price to spend on a backpack; it’s cheap, actually. Bruce has enough many you could ask him for a car, and it’ll be in the driveway the next morning, no matter the brand.”

“I know it might be weird spending money like this if you’re not used to it but trust me when I say I would not show you anything that you can’t get,” he smiles. “And trust me when I say that if you don’t have one of those backpacks at the Academy, you’ll get singled out very quickly.”

Peter bites his lip. So, Gotham Academy won’t be any different than Midtown Prep. Good to know. Except this time, Peter will be walking in with a designer backpack, and not one he found at a garage sale for $10.

Eventually he picks a leather bag with a tan color, brown leather accents, and a green and red strip down the center of the bag. He doesn’t even look at the price, just hands it to Tim and tells him that’s the one (although he’s certain he spotted a comma in the price). Tim just smiles and compliments him on his choice. Within a minute or so, Peter’s being handed back the computer, this time with a bunch of school supplies. He groans; this was going to be a long day.

Chapter 25

Chapter Text

Gotham Academy is more oppressive with students filling the halls, believe it or not. Although Peter stays by Tim and Damian’s side, the minute he steps out of the car Alfred drove them in his head is swamped by the senses around him. Teenagers, ranging from the age of Damian to older than Peter himself, clump into small groups around the school yard. They bunch together in small groups around the large concrete sidewalk, some sitting on benches, others on the ground, and they laugh and push each other around.

Just like Tim had said, every kid there has some fancy backpack and new shoes, perfectly shaped hair and freshly ironed uniforms. Peter matches them in all respects except one; his hair.

Dick had suggested he get a haircut, but Peter politely refused. He liked it on the longer side when he was younger, but Aunt May had always taken him to get it cut before school began. One time, the day before he started fifth grade, she had tried to cut it herself to ‘save money’. Peter came home crying the next day, his shaggy bowl cut hair hanging just below his ears. She had taken him in to get it fixed, but they ended up having to cut it a lot shorter than he liked. Currently, his hair is a little shaggy – just enough for his curls to actually show up – and he can shake it in front of his eyes for prime ‘avoiding teacher looks’.

He’ll have to cut it soon, especially if he designs himself a mask similar to his old Spiderman one.

“We have second hour together,” Tim reminds him from his side. Peter glances down at the schedule he has pulled up on his new phone. It had taken him a minute to figure out how the device worked, and eventually Tim had sat him down and showed him the features – it was a lot different from his old Stark phone. “I can show you to your first hour, if you want.”

Peter nods, eyeing the room for his first hour; Art. He had been given a quick choice of electives, some of which were interesting and some of which were not, and Art had been top of his list. Not only did he find himself enjoying the calming hobby the more he practiced with Damian, but photography was also a unit they would be covering and that was one of Peter’s favorite hobbies back in his world.

“-and lunch is at twelve fifteen,” Peter zones back in onto what Tim is saying and they make their way to the large front doors. “Me, Damian, and a couple others usually eat by the windows, but we’ll see if someone beats us there or not.”

“They know better than to,” Damian says shortly, his eyes wandering over the roves of students around them. He holds open the door for Peter and slips in behind him. Tim snorts.

The inside of Gotham academy seems to change depending on what hallway you’re in. Some have hardwood floors and gothic carvings in the wooden doorways, but others have linoleum flooring and simple, plain walls. Must be renovated.

Peter is led down a fairly empty hallway, and ignores the glances sent his way by the other students. One group of girls whisper and giggle as they make their way past, and Peter can’t help but feel a spark of anxiety ignite in his chest. This isn’t like Midtown, this isn’t like Midtown, he repeats over and over, mindlessly following Tim down the hallway. At some point, Damian breaks off from them with a short goodbye and peels down a different corridor.

“Here we go,” Tim says as they near a doorway tucked into a corner. The area they are in seems to be newer, with tile floors and white walls, the door a simple wooden one like any other school.

The art classroom is, unsurprisingly, exactly like what Peter thought it would be. There’s a teacher's desk in the front corner of the room, angled at the clusters of tables that are scattered about. A counter runs along the back of the classroom, 3 sinks spaced evenly along it, cupboards above. There’s a myriad of different art pieces hung up around the room, all at varying levels of skill. A color wheel is painted onto the wall behind the teacher’s desk, primary and secondary colors labelled. All in all, it’s a very average looking classroom.

“I’m not sure where Ms. Crysty is,” Tim says, nodding to the teacher’s desk. “But she should be here soon.”

The idea of waiting in an empty classroom just so he can meet the teacher makes his stomach flip, so he shrugs. “Could you help me find my locker?”

Tim hums and leads him out of the room.

His locker, by some strike of dumb luck, is the locker to the right of Tim’s own. It takes a couple tries for the combination to work, and he has to kick it to get it unstuck, but after all that it opens just fine. He hangs his backpack up, then his jacket, and takes out his pile of notebooks, computer, and pencil bag. He hefts them into his arms, double checks everything he has, triple checks through his mental checklist, then waits patiently as Tim unloads his own stuff.

“You want some hand sanitizer?” Tim asks right before he closes his own and holds up the small bottle for Peter to see. A whiff of the strong alcohol scent wafts by Peter’s face and he cringes back.

“No thanks,” he shakes his head. Tim shrugs and tosses the bottle into the top of his locker; he slams the metal door shut.

“You want me to walk you back or are you good?”

Peter glances around him and finds the hallway they had gone down. “I should be good,” he knocks his shoulder against Tim’s. “See you soon.”

Tim pushes against his shoulder, knocking them apart, and turns to head towards one of the staircases. “Don’t get lost, and text Dick if you need to leave early,” he calls over his shoulder. “Or go to the nurse and take a nap.”

Peter shakes his head with a huff, the advice sliding into a mental file he’s started keeping track of a few days ago.

The Wayne’s have all been, well, very interested on how Peter feels, what he thinks about this, what emotion is he feeling right now, and it’s okay if you don’t know-

To be frank, Peter’s just as sick of it as he is confused about it. He gets that he’s new, and he’s seen enough documentaries, movies, and tv shows with foster/adopted kids to know that they might just be seeing if he’s settling in right. But on the other hand, he thinks this is going a little bit beyond that. The conversation with Dick week ago was weird enough, but now the man constantly asks him how he feels about things. It’s been “Peter, are you upset about this?” and “Peter it’s okay to ask for anything” anytime Peter has expressed even a bit of emotion other than happiness. Thankfully, it's just Dick that acts like this; the others at least have enough tact to do it covertly.

There are a few students in the classroom when Peter finds his way back, and the teacher is sitting in her chair, busily typing away at her computer. She looks like a very typical art teacher, red hair, big glasses, and a long shawl over a dress, but she has a gentle aura that Peter has come to realize is a rare thing in Gotham.

“Hi, Ms. Crysty?” he starts, standing in front of her desk patiently. She looks up, blinking at him over her glasses. She smiles.

“You must be Peter,” she says, leaning back in her chair a smiling while nodding. “I heard there was a new student joining my first hour.”

He nods. “That’s me,” he states awkwardly. “I was wondering if there’s a seating chart or...?”

Ms. Crysty shakes her head, large hoop earrings smacking her neck. “Nope, sit where you want.”

“Okay,” he nods. “Thanks.”

He finds a spot in the back corner of the room, near the wall with the door and at a table that will only hold two students, unlike the other larger ones. He’s near one of the sinks, and by a small clay sculpture of what he thinks is supposed to be a clown, but it looks a little bit demented. He sits there for a minute, twiddling his thumbs and examining the room, before he pulls out his computer and opens it up.

Tim had shown him the school website, and where to find the activities and spots teams. He told Peter that he didn’t have to join anything, but that it would look good on a college application if he was in something such as debate or student council.

Peter was dead set on not joining either of those. Not only did they sound like torture, but he also did not plan on being in this universe long enough to go to college.

Though that wasn’t a thought he liked to dwell on very long; it only took up a line in his notebook.

Because leaving here means leaving everyone here behind.

“Is this spot taken?”

For the millionth time, Peter curses his spideysense for being dumb, and hides his flinch as he looks up at the student standing next to his desk. The guy is wearing his uniform without the jacket and vest, leaving him in a white dress shirt, khakis, and a loose tie. His jacket is draped over his arm, and he’s holding a pile of material similar to Peter. There’s a smile etched onto his face, white teeth contrasting his dark skin, and his hair is shaved down on all sides beside the top. His chocolate eyes flicker around Peter, as if he’s trying to not meet Peter’s own eyes. Maybe he’s just as socially awkward as Peter was.

“Uh, no, it’s all open,” Peter responds, stopping his gawking. He pulls his notebooks farther onto his own side of the table and nudges his laptop over a few inches.

“Cool,” the guy’s smile brightens even more, if that’s somehow possible. He plops down on the chair next to Peter and sets his stuff down. “Duke Thomas,” he says, turning to Peter quickly.

“Oh, uh, Peter,” he manages to push out. “Peter Wayne.”

Duke’s eyes light up with understanding, and Peter cringes away from the expected answer; Tim had told him enough stories on the way here to know that kids don’t take Bruce’s family with the best reactions. Charity case, he’s told will probably be a popular nickname. However, he’s politely surprised when Duke leans forward with a smile.

“Are you Tim’s brother?” Duke purses his lips, leaning back and examining Peter with a critical eye. “I can see it.”

“Ah,” Peter smiles slightly. “Yeah.”

It’s a cover story - because they can’t really release the fact that Bruce Wayne’s oldest son apparently had a child when he was younger than 10 – and it isn’t one that’s hard to believe. Bruce likes to snatch strays, so would it be so strange if he picked up another?

Duke nods. “Cool. Are you excited about school?”

Peter raises an eyebrow and Duke laughs, nodding. “Right, right, stupid question.”

“Well,” Peter starts, shrugging and leaning back in his seat. The classroom is almost full now. “I’m kind of excited to take this class.”

Duke raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

Peter nods. “I like art. It’s nice.”

“It is,” Duke nods up front to the teacher. “Ms. Crysty’s nice too. Probably nicest teach in this school, just warning you.”

Peter nods. “Figured.”

Duke snorts. “You have any bad teachers back at your old school?”

“Ah,” Peter starts. Time for him to start spinning his web. “I was home schooled, actually.”

Duke frowns thoughtfully. “You don’t say. Cool.”

Peter shrugs. “It was fine. Kinda boring.”

Duke barks a laugh. “Just wait till you get to history, Peter. Mr. Lark will have you zoning out in less than ten minutes. Sleeping in twenty.”

Peter groans and Duke laughs. With a bright feeling, Peter thinks he’s just made his first friend.

Chapter 26

Chapter Text

Dick is running laps around the gymnasium when Wally calls. His phone isn’t on him, he left it on the floor next to his water and sweatshirt, but he’s got his smartwatch on, and it vibrates with the notification. As he stares at the small screen, eyeing the small green and red buttons respectively, Dick ponders on whether he can risk declining the call.

On one hand, it would most definitely hurt Wally’s feelings, especially since Dick had no decent excuse to use. On the other, declining it might send Wally running to the manor, freaking out and in a panic.

He sighs, slowing to a stop and swipes the green across the screen, hitting the speaker phone option the minute it appears.

“Hey, Walls,” he greets, starting his way over to the bench by his stuff. “How’s it been?”

“Pretty good,” Wally responds. His voice is a little rough, as if he just woke up. He pauses for a second. “So... What’s going on, Dickie? Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Dick reaches the bench and falls onto it, leaning backwards so he lays across it with his feet still on the ground. “I’m fine. Really.”

“Okay?” Wally drags out. “Then what’s going on? Is there a chance you got busy this weekend and didn’t want to break my heart by canceling our plans?”

Dick snorts. “No. Not that.”

He can practically hear Wally sigh. There’s a sound of crinkling, and the sound of a package of Oreos being opened (and yes, Dick knows that sound by heart).

“Then what’s going on. For real this time, ‘wing.”

How the hell do you tell your best friend you acquired a teenage son?

“There’s a uh, new addition to the family,” he starts off slowly.

“Oh,” Wally’s voice lightens. “If you want to spend the weekend with your new brother or whatever, that’s fine. You could even take him with you if you want! I could buy another ticket even.”

“That’s not, no, Wally,” Dick wants to scream into his pillow like he used to when he was younger. “He’s not my brother.”

There’s silence on the other line, and Dick just knows that Wally’s running possibilities through his head and they’re all probably wrong.

“Your cousin?”

“No.”

“Is Jason getting married?”

Snorting at the image of Jason getting with anyone, Dick responds. “That’s funny, but no.”

“Tim’s getting married?”

“No, my God, Wally.”

“Hey,” Wally shoots back. “With your family, you never know.”

Dick feels his brow furrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Wally’s voice is muffled as if he just shoved a handful of Oreos into his mouth. “Nuffing. Don’ worry ‘bout it.”

Dick sighs but settles. “No one is getting married.”

“Alright, alright.” There’s another bout of silence. “I have no idea then. Did you guys just get a random person join your family or something? Does Alfred have a secret son somewhere?”

“Not... not Alfred,” Dick starts slowly. There’s not going to be a better time is there?

“Jason?” Wally’s voice sounds a little incredulous. Dick can hear another handful of cookies being shoved into his mouth and cringes. “Can’t really see him as a dad.”

“Me,” Dick says quickly before he can redirect the conversation again. “I, uh, can you see me as a dad?”

Wally is silent, for once, and Dick hates it. They should have video called. That way Dick could at least see his face.

“Look, I know this is weird and-”

“You’re having a son?” Wally’s voice is calmer than Dick would've thought it would be.

“Have,” Dick corrects before he can think about it. “I have a son.”

“Oh.” Is that-is that disappointment Dick hears in his friend’s voice? “I didn’t know you were with someone.”

“I’m not,” Dick rushes to say. “I’m not with anyone.”

“But you were?” Wally sounds confused now, hints of something underneath. “Or is this like, a one night stand you got a random baby dropped on your doorstep kind of thing?”

“He, well, he’s actually not a baby.”

“Toddler? Had a relationship a couple years ago I don’t know about?”

“He’s a teenager, and we’re like, ninety-five percent sure he’s a test tube baby.” Dick rushes out, pushing himself to sit up and grabs his water bottle.

“Oh,” Wally’s voice sounds relieved, even with that one word. “That seems a little more worthy of your family.”

“Hey!” Dick exclaims. “Rude!”

Wally chuckles on the other side of the line. Dick can feel his own mouth ticking up into a smile of his own.

“Alright, alright,” another crinkle of Oreo packaging. “So, you didn’t want to go to the movies with me because of your test tube son, is that what I’m hearing?”

“His name is Peter by the way, and yes, kind of.” Dick leans against the wall, feeling the cool brick against his face. “I’ve got a lot to explain to you, Walls.”

Chapter 27

Chapter Text

“We’re going straight home - nowhere else,” Jason grouches, hands gripping the steering wheel and eyes carefully watching the three gremlins currently climbing into the back seat of his car. Damian, the first of the gremlins to enter, who is now seated behind Jason, huffs. Tim, the last in the car – leaving Peter squeezed in the middle – barks a laugh.

“How’d Alfred convince you to pick us up?”

Jason flicks on his blinker, checks over his shoulder, then pulls out into the street before he answers. “Said he’d bake me cookies.” He takes a swig from his coffee-filled traveling mug sitting in the cup holder and grimaces at the bitter taste.

“They better be chocolate chip,” he hears Damian mutter, and because he’s an evil and petty older brother, smiles back at the three in the back.

“I’m going to ask for oatmeal raisin.”

Immediately, two cries of outrage start up, both Tim and Damian voicing their opinions on just how bad that idea is, and Todd you had better be kidding, and I will smother you in your sleep if you do not change your decision, but Jason ignores them.

“I like oatmeal raisin cookies,” Peter speaks up, glancing away from his phone for the first time since he entered the car. His nose scrunches. “Just no cinnamon.”

A strange request, but Jason’s finally got someone on his side, and he’s not about to lose him now. Especially not when he can rub this in Dick’s face later. So, he nods. “Chill,” he responds. “I can request no cinnamon.”

Peter smiles, sticks his tongue out at Tim who squawks, then turns back to his phone. Conversation dies down for a little while as they drive, leading to blue and green eyes staring out windows at the passing cars on the freeway. Jason turns on the radio, leaving the volume loud enough to be heard over the rumble of road beneath the tires, but quiet enough that anyone could easily talk over it if they wanted. A couple minutes from the manor, the gremlins start asking each other about their classes, and Jason hears the complaints he was expecting. Surprisingly, Peter’s favorite class was art, but he already hated history. Damian already had plans on getting his English teacher fired, and Tim gave an intimate description of his lunch that made Jason a little more than hungry. By the time Jason pulled into the garage, his stomach was practically growling.

“Alright kiddos, get out,” he flicks off the engine and pulls out his key, sliding out of his seat and closing the door behind him with a slam. He doesn’t even wait for the others to get out, he just makes his way to the entry door and to the kitchen. He’s got some cookies to order.

He spends the rest of his evening in the gym, pounding relentlessly into one of the punching bags. His hands are wrapped, but he hits hard enough he can feel it still. Sweat beads his brow, creating rivulets down his face, but he blinks through it and continues to move to the beat of the song blaring through his earbuds.

It’s been a while since green has tinged his vision, especially after he’d come to move into the manor for a while, but sometimes he still likes to feel the rage that simmers low in his gut. No number of conversations with Bruce and warm meals from Alfred and late-night movies with Dick will ever get rid of that; but sometimes he needs that heat under his skin.

It makes him feel human again.

There’s a pause in the music, and he takes a second to lean forward onto the bag and catch his breath. His heart is pounding, and he presses his forehead into the vinyl, just taking a second to listen to it.

Sometimes, he just needs a reminder.

A reminder that he’s alive.

Later that evening, after he’s finished pulling on his suit with his helmet tucked under his arm, he shoves a few more cookies into his mouth. Tim, who’s sitting on the desk next to him dressed to go, gives him a disgusted look.

“I cannot believe Alfred actually made those for you,” he grumbles, carefully pasting his domino mask over his eyes, covering blue with white. Jason flicks him off, to which Tim reciprocates whole-heartedly.

“Stop it, both of you,” Dick calls over from his spot by the computer. He’s typing away on the keyboard, clicking through tabs and files almost as fast as Tim can. A scan of a driver’s license sits untouched in the right corner of the screen, and a small window sits underneath it, facial recognition running through CCTV clips of streets. Lucas Welling’s name is highlighted on the screen.

“Find anything new yet?” Jason asks, swinging his legs back and forth, watching his combat boots barely graze the floor.

Dick sends him a glare over his shoulder but turns back to the screen. “Like I told you five minutes ago, when you asked the same question, I will tell you when something pops up.” Then he goes silent and keys clacking echo through the cave again.

Jason sighs and leans back on his hands, flopping his head over to watch Tim check his belt. Jason’s already checked his, even added in an extra handful of ammo and a flashbang, before draping it over the seat of his bike. It’s something that he can quickly put on, and he would rather not do that before he has to.

A chime rings from the computer and Jason’s attention is immediately back onto Dick. There’s some typing, furiously fast, and then Dick’s voice rings out in the cave. “He just used his debit card at a convenience store a block away from the apartment. Looks like he’s heading back.”

Jason is up and heading towards his bike the minute his brother starts talking, and he starts up the engine the second he’s done. Tim is climbing onto his own, mirroring his position, and they both check their watches as they wait for the address. It’s been a while since they last visited the apartment, since they first had met Peter really, and Jason’s not sure he could find his way without GPS.

“Jason!” Dick calls before Jason can kick up the kickstand and head out. He meets Dick’s blue eyes and watches as his face sharpens. “Don’t kill him.”

Jason nods once, sharply, and flicks the stand of his bike up. The only thing he hears for a while is the rumble of the bike beneath him, and the one following close behind him.

They’ve been watching Lucas Welling’s bank account for a while. He’d taken out nearly $500 a month ago, and another $600 a couple days after that. Since then, there have been no transactions through his account, in nor out. This meant he was taking his paychecks and cashing them in himself, which is different from his usual direct deposit. Until today.

It was a simple purchase, a couple dollars' worth of food that is probably going to be the man’s supper - or maybe a late-night snack at this point. Maybe he thinks that his work is done, or he thinks no one’s watching him.

How unfortunate.

Jason knocks on the apartment door, a strange moment of deja vu back to that night that added another teenager to his already angst filled household (but also the night he found someone just like him).

Which reminds me, Jason thinks, leaning back with a hand on his waist and the other gently lying on the door handle, I need to talk to Peter about that whole... zombie thing. The damn kid doesn’t even know he’s dead yet.

For a minute, they stand there, both leaning out of range of the peephole, and watching the door with hawk eyes and ears. Footsteps pound softly in the unit but come nowhere near the door and Jason sighs. He gestures to Tim, who immediately drops to the ground and pulls out his lockpicking bag and opens it with the soft sound of a zipper. He messes around with the doorknob for a few seconds, jiggling it back and forth, pressing both pins into multiple locations before it softly clicks. He stands and backs away, leaving Jason to take the lead.

And take the lead he does.

The apartment doesn’t look much different from when Jason first came here, except the lights are on and the bathroom lacks the familiar green glow. There’s still a layer of dust on every flat surface, and a stale smell hangs in the air.

“Oi, mother f*cker!” Jason calls towards the bedroom, where sounds of activity emanate from. They stop, surprise surprise, and Jason takes the opportunity to stop loudly as he makes his way to the closed door. Tim follows behind him closely, snapping photos of the place as they make their way through. With little mercy, Jason practically rips open the door to the bedroom.

Lucas Welling himself is already halfway out of the window and struggling to get further. With a sigh, Jason pulls out his gun and flips it mindlessly in his hand, tilting his helmet covered head at Lucas. The man’s dark eyes widen at the sight of them, and they flicker down in fear at Jason’s hands. Quick enough that even Jason gets a little nervous, Lucas pulls himself back into the room and immediately falls to his knees.

“Please!” he pleads, pulling his hands up in a mock prayer. “I swear it wasn’t me!”

Jason blinks at him, turns to look at Tim and blinks at him as well, then back to Lucas. “What wasn’t you?”

He’s glad he turned on the voice modulator on his mask, because now his voice comes out sounding like some 50-year-old smoker instead of a 22-year-old smoker.

Lucas shakes his head, hands shaking. “Whatever you’re here for! I’m just the middleman, the messenger! I-I don’t run any of the operations or anything. I just get paid and do whatever they tell me to!”

“Jesus, this man’s got loose lips,” Jason mutters, and Tim snorts quietly. “Alright, then we’ve just got a few questions for ya,” he says louder, making his way to stand directly in front of Lucas. He crouches and leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

“You left your apartment for a very long time, took money out and didn’t come back until now. In that time that you were gone, your bathroom was used to make a very illegal substance and a f*cking teenager was dragged into this whole sh*tty mess. Wanna run that by me?”

Lucas nods quickly, leaning back slightly at Jason’s proximity. “I was contacted by my employer – I uh, do some odd jobs here and there for some extra cash – and I was told to just leave my apartment for two months. They had a hotel all rented out for me and everything! I just had to leave. So, so I did and then I came back when they said I could. I swear I had nothing to do with whatever they were doing here!”

Jason sighs, letting his gun flop in his hand gently. Unfortunately, the man seems to be telling the truth.

“Alright then,” he says, standing up. He searches the room for a writing utensil and spots a pen on the windowsill. He grabs it and rips off a sticky note from a pad sitting on the dresser. He tosses them in front of Lucas and tilts his head. “The name and number of your employer.”

Lucas looks down at it, then back up at Jason. With shaking hands, he grips the pen and paper and furiously writes down a phone number in shaky handwriting.

“I, uh, I don’t know my contact’s name,” he mumbles, holding up the paper hesitantly. “He just calls whenever he gets a job from someone up top and gives it to me, I swear.”

And that confirms his thoughts of this being much bigger than he really wants it to be; Jason internally groans.

“Any name will work,” Tim speaks up from where he leans against the door frame. The white lenses of his mask are focused entirely on the man kneeling on the floor. “Higher up or not.”

Lucas swallows hard and glances around him. “I uh, there’s lots of people that work for them, alright?” he says quickly, and quietly, glancing at the open window. “But there’s a woman on top of all of it, heard she’s wicked and crazy. I don’t know her real name but, but I do know what others call her.”

Jason raises an eyebrow, even though he knows the man can’t see it. Lucas leans forward.

“They call her May.”

Chapter 28

Chapter Text

Tim stares at the man kneeling on the floor. May? What kind of super villain goes by a name like that?

On the other side of his comm, he hears Dick choke on his next breath. There’s some serious typing, loud enough to be heard through the link and Tim worries a bit about the state his keyboard will be in by the time he gets home. He holds his hand out to get Jason’s attention, then juts his thumb at the door. Jason nods, waving him off with a hand. He’ll be able to hear everything through the comms anyways; Tim’s just not comfortable talking in front of the captive.

Out in the hall, standing so he can still see into the room through the slightly opened door, Tim raises a hand to his earpiece and taps open the comm.

“What’s happening Dick?” He leans onto the wall, watching idly as Jason kicks Lucas in the shoulder down to the floor. “You recognize that name?”

Tim doesn’t, that’s for sure. He’s a little worried because of that; how do they not notice some random crazy lady running around raising test tube babies, killing them, and then bringing them back to life in a moonshine Lazarus pit? There would be some talk of it at least, something in the streets or from one of Jason’s goons.

Dick clicks away on a couple more keys and the computer beeps. “Peter mentioned her name, back when he was sick and delirious and not really sure of what was going on. Bruce asked him about it later, but he said he didn’t know.”

Tim hums. Jason’s currently shouting at Lucas, gun waving around the room. But Tim doesn’t worry, since his brother’s finger isn’t on the trigger. “He mention anything about her or just her name?”

“She works at a hospital,” Dick says shortly. “And there are currently forty-five Mays working in hospitals round Gotham and New York combined.” He sighs. “But I don’t have anything else to go by, dammit.”

Tim nods, biting his lip in thought. Lucas really doesn’t seem to know anything more, as he’s now sobbing on his bedroom carpet. Jason managed to pull that he is only contacted through paper notes, all of which he burns on the spot. He’s never seen anyone’s face; no phone numbers and money has only been left in cash. The friend that introduced him to the business is dead, which is unfortunate on their part.

“I’ll start combing through them when I get back,” Tim offers, already mourning the loss of sleep that that’ll mean.

However, Dick snorts. “Yeah, hell no, Timbers. You’re going straight to bed when you and Jaybird get back. I can start looking through them, but I’m not really sure what I’m looking for.”

Tim leans his head back, eyes closed. This is by no shot Dick’s first investigation, but Tim knows it’s nerves. “Start off when anyone too old, older than sixty-five. Those with families, who are still alive, can get put into a separate folder. Any fresh from college or newly married into a different one and put anyone who doesn’t work a normal 40-hour week schedule into a different one.”

“Thanks Tim,” Dick mumbles. “I’ll start now I guess.” Keyboard clicks start up again.

Tim pushes off the wall, hand reaching forward to push open the door only to pause, hand resting on the wood.

“You know you’re going to have to ask him, right?” Tim says quietly. “We don’t know the full story, but if she put any false memories into his head ‘wing...”

Dick’s hands stutter audibly on the keys. “I know,” he responds flatly.

“Yeah,” Tim sighs, pushing open the door. Jason looks up from where he’s squatting on the floor, head tilted.

“Well Red?” He stands with a groan, knees popping loudly. “We bout to blow this popsicle joint?”

“Oh God,” Tim groans in his hands. “Don’t ever say that in front of someone ever again.”

Tim just knows Jason is pouting at him under the mask, and it makes him want to smack that stupid red helmet. He takes a step back, turning his body away to the main area of the apartment. “But yeah, I think we’ve got all that we need.”

Jason nods, sharply turning back to the man on the floor. “Now don’t you get into anything funny, alright?”

He leans down, putting his face only a couple inches away from Lucas’ tear stained one.

“Because I’ll know, alright bud?" He claps the man on the shoulder, sending a full body jolt, squeezes once, then follows Tim out of the door.

They get back to the manor about 3 hours later, trading places with Bruce and Damian who are out on a short patrol around the residential neighborhoods. Tim waves to Damian as he pulls into the Batcave on his motorcycle, watching the youngest member of the family hop into the driver’s seat of the batmobile. Damian sends him a maniacal smile and a short wave back before the door closes.

“Didn’t know ol’ Bats was letting the child drive,” Jason mumbles, shaking his helmet hair out. He slips off his own bike, lifting an eyebrow when Bruce huffs a sigh as he makes his way down the stairs.

“He’s insistent,” the man sighs tiredly, and waves a hand in the air. “Just wait till he tries to take the bikes out.”

Jason barks a laugh, a glint in his eyes. “We’ll see about that.”

Tim chuckles, pulling his gloves off and resting them on the seat of his motorcycle and nods over to the computer desk, seat empty.

“Where’d Dick go?” he shoots over to Bruce, who was about to close his own passenger seat door. Their dad nods back up to the door back into the manor.

“He’s cooking up something for your guys in the kitchen,” the door closes, and Tim turns away. Only to stop when the whir of the window sliding open. He turns his head back, catching Bruce’s face leaning out of the window. “Make sure to change,” he warns. “I think Peter’s awake.”

Tim shrugs. “Nothing he doesn’t know already.”

Bruce levels him with a look and Tim sighs. Jason chortles, and Tim flicks him off as he passes, already pulling off his jacket.

“Can we finally like, explain stuff to the brat or like are we trying to keep this on the down low?” Jason asks right as Bruce’s window starts rolling back up. Bruce sighs, turning his head back into the vehicle, obviously listening to whatever Damian was saying. After a minute, he turns back with his lips down turned.

“Explain some things, take him down here if Dick is okay with it,” he says, way more nonchalantly than Tim thinks is acceptable. Jason, apparently, agrees.

“You sure about that?” Jason’s eyebrows are raised, forehead wrinkled. “Isn’t it a little, soon for that? I was just saying like tell him we run around at night now show him we run around at night.”

Bruce nods. “Like you said, Peter already knows some things. He’s seen you in your uniform and out in the city. His life isn’t going to get easier from here on out, especially not with whatever’s brewing out in the streets,” for a minute, Tim thinks he sees concern in Bruce’s eyes, but it must’ve just been the light. “Showing him, this might get him to trust us more and open up, it also means he knows about a safe place to hide if he needs.”

“Dick’s not going to be happy if Peter wants to go out with us sometime,” Jason warns, yanking on a sweatshirt. “And you know that’s definitely going to happen.”

Tim nods in agreement. It’s a family staple, there’s no way Peter is not going to want to go out. Not with his history of running away, or his pit-rage that is probably bound to come. Which is another thing they need to discuss.

“Alright,” Tim exclaims, clapping his hands together. “I’m hungry, and you need to leave,” he turns to Bruce and salutes sarcastically. He practically rips off his uniform and throws on a pair of sweats as the batmobile roars out of the tunnel and into the city. Jason follows him up the stairs and into the study, where they stumble through the pitch-black room and into the lit hallway.

Dick, just as Bruce had said, was cooking up something that looked a lot like omelets. Though they were a little crispier looking than they should, Tim still grabs a plate from the cupboard and slides it next to the stove where Dick was standing.

“Where’s Peter?” Jason asks, leaning against the kitchen island with his arms crossed. He would look a little more intimidating if he wasn’t wearing Mario pajama pants, but it’s too early in the morning for Tim to care. “And why is he even awake?”

Dick shrugs, sliding an omelet off the spatula and onto Tim’s plate. “I found him wandering around the halls, I think he had a nightmare.” He pours another splat of egg into the pan, which sizzles immediately. “He’s over in the sitting room right now.”

Jason hums, sliding away from the counter and slipping around Tim to grab his own plate. “Bruce wants you to show Peter the Batcave.”

Dick snorts, surprisingly, and flips the omelet over. “Really?”

“If you wanted to,” Tim adds, shrugging. “He says it’s your choice, whether you want to just explain some things or show him everything.”

Dick sighs, and Tim shoves a bite full of egg into his mouth. As he chews, he meanders his way to the refrigerator and opens it. He grabs a carton of blueberries, plops them on his plate, and then pulls out a stool at the island and sits.

“Did he say what the nightmare was about?” Jason asks, taking Tim’s spot at the counter and leaning back.

Dick shakes his head. “Wouldn’t tell me.”

Jason sighs and pinches his nose. With a lowered tone, he says, “We are going to need to explain the Lazarus stuff soon. I’m not sure whether the dreams are from that or from something else-” fake memories goes unsaid, “but we need to help him figure that out. Just leaving him in the dark isn’t going to help either of us.”

Dick’s hand with the spatula stops, resting on the side of the pan. His head drops and his shoulders slump and Tim sends a look to Jason. The green-eyed man rolls his eyes but turns to look more at Dick.

“Look, I know you don’t want to explain to your own kid that he’s dead, or that any of his memories aren’t real,” Jason starts and Tim winces. His brother really isn’t gentle with words. “But what if they come for him, Dick? What if they come for him and he doesn’t know that they are going to hurt him? What if they come for him and they tell him the truth and he feels betrayed by us? Do you want another me?”

“No,” Dick exclaims, turning sharply on Jason and shaking his spatula at him. They stare at each other; Tim shoves more eggs into his mouth. In a few seconds, Dick deflates again. “No,” he repeats, losing his energy.

Jason nods. “Alright then, we’ll explain everything to him.”

“Not tonight,” Tim shoots out. His two older brothers turn to him. “It’s a school night,” he points out.

They all let out sigh, Tim’s heavier than the others. He checks his watch and groans, rubbing his eyes when he realizes he needs to be awake for school in a few hours.

“I can drag him back to bed if you want,” he offers, shoving the rest of his mouth with the last of his eggs. He places the plate and fork in the sink and lets some water run onto it before he shuffles his way towards the doorway. Dick slides the rest of the eggs onto another plate, nodding tiredly.

“Yeah, that’d be great,” he mumbles, setting the dirty pan on an empty burner, and scoops his own plate into his arms. Jason follows as Dick makes his way over to the breakfast nook, shooting back a look to Tim.

“ Make sure he gets to bed,” Tim mouths to his brother, and Jason shoots back a thumbs up. Tim steps out into the hall, the wooden floor cold beneath his bare feet, and makes his way over to the sitting room.

Peter’s sitting on the couch, leaning back against the armrest with his legs pulled up on the cushions. He’s texting someone on his phone, Tim thinks, his fingers flying across the screen. Tim is pretty sure he knows exactly who it is too, especially since Peter’s been chatting with him since they left school.

“How’s Duke? He good?” he asks, leaning against the doorway. He winces slightly as Peter jumps, whirling around and almost falling from the couch. The teen catches himself, blinking at Tim before he nods.

“We were, I was, I accidentally woke him up when I texted him,” Peter says, face flushing slightly in embarrassment. “And then he asked me a question on the science worksheet... and now I’m explaining the rest to him.”

Tim rolls his eyes with a huff. “Trust me Peter, Duke’s smart enough to figure that out on his own. He just wants the easy way out.”

Peter shrugs. “It’s okay,” he tucks his phone into his pocket. “I like helping people anyways.”

With a hum, Tim pushes off of the door frame and nods his head to the stairway behind him. “Well, anyways, we’ve got to go to bed.”

Peter sighs, long a dreary and Tim can’t help but crack a smile.

“Me too, Peter, me too.” They both snort, and head for the stairs. After they reach the top, and they both start to split into their separate hallways, Tim halts when he notices Peter stop.

“Why were you guys awake?” Peter asks, side eyeingly glancing at Tim. Tim cracks a smile, and flips his hand nonchalantly.

“Just some family business,” he starts down the hall to his room. “You’ll be in on it soon, trust me.”

Chapter 29

Chapter Text

Jason is sitting in his bean bag, playing Minecraft on the small TV in his room, when Bruce calls. It scares him at first, the buzzing noise vibrating the floor next to his feet almost sends the controller in his hands flying away, but he manages to grip it before it can.

“The f*ck?” he mutters, reaching down to scoop his phone off the floor and peers down at the screen. B is calling... lights up with a sliding button on the bottom and with a sigh, Jason answers the call. “What's up? You’re interrupting a very important binge of me killing villagers right now.”

There’s an irritated sigh and Jason smirks, pausing his game. “Okay, but really, what do you need?”

“The school called and told me Peter’s down in the nurses office,” Bruce’s voice speaks of exhaustion that sources only from a day filled with stress and meetings – a tone Jason’s very used to. “Dick’s busy right now.”

Jason sighs, but he stands and starts to the door, swiping a sweatshirt from the hanger on his wall. Dick well, Nightwing, is currently scouting out a few warehouses near the docks, looking for any clues on the homemade Lazarus pit. Unfortunately, that left either Alfred or Jason to pick up the kids from school, and if Peter needed to get picked up early.... Well, let’s just say that Alfred runs a tight schedule, and if he has someone else to do the ‘dirty work’ he will make them do it without a second thought. Especially if it’s laundry day.

“They tell you why he’s there?”

“Panic attack they think, Duke brought him down after he found him hiding in the bathroom.”

Jason hums, swiping his keys from the shelf. He waves to Alfred, who is calmly carrying a pile of towels to the kitchen and makes his way out the door and down the front steps. “Think today’s a good time to spill the whole ‘you’re-really-dead-but-so-am-I-so-we-can-bond’ beans? Pop a question about May in there as well?”

“Jason,” he can practically hear Bruce’s face of disappointment. “Can you try to be a little gentler about this? You’ve had a few years to work this out.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Jason concedes. “But seriously,” he pauses eyeing his bike and his car in turn. “Should I, or no?”

Bruce is silent, long enough for Jason to make the decision to climb onto his bike and start the ignition. He pulls on his helmet and switches over the call to the headset inside.

“Do it, gently,” Bruce reminds. “But it might be best to take him out somewhere... out of the public eye. And be careful mentioning May.”

In case he decides to go all Pit-mad and kill someone, Jason thinks, flicking up the kickstand. “Alright. The school know I’m coming?”

Bruce hums. “They’ll be expecting a Todd Jackson, a trusted family friend, to pick Peter up.”

Jason snorts, but nods to himself. “Alright, talk later. I’ll let you know if our chat goes a little sideways.”

He hangs up before Bruce can even respond.

The nurse's office is exactly how Jason remembers it. He enters through a door that is propped open (he’s already signed Peter out at this point, and they’ve given a pass to come and take him out). A stand holding foul smelling hand sanitizer sits right in front of him, standing next to a line of chairs, a couple of which are occupied. A little farther down the hall, the area opens into a space filled with a couple of desks and more chairs, a couple sinks and cabinets lining one wall. A young nurse is writing down on a clipboard at the closest desk, her hair tied back, and her scrubs printed with Mario characters.

“Hello,” she greets glancing up at him when he steps close enough. “Who are you here for?”

Well, at least she didn’t mistake him for a student like that old nurse the last time he had to pick up Tim from here.

“Peter Wayne,” Jason says politely, trying his best to keep up his I’m-a-concerned-family-friend face. The nurse smiles and stands, tucking the clipboard under her arm.

“Follow me,” she leads him down a little hall to the left and opens a door to a dimmed room. Beds line the walls,curtains hanging around a few. Simple blue sheets are pulled over the mattresses, and a flat pillow sits against the wall. A nightlight, plugged into the wall of the back right corner, lights the room with a soft, warm glow. Only one of the beds is occupied.

“Peter?” the nurse calls gently. The blob on the bed moves slightly. “Someone’s here to take you home.”

She smiles at Jason, and nods. “I’ll be back out there if you need me. Take your time.”

“Thanks,” he calls as she heads back down the hallway. With a sigh, he steps into the room and closes the door behind him softly. Slowly, he makes his way over to the bed that Peter is curled up on and sits down on the one next to it.

“Hey, kiddo,” he says conversationally, leaning back on his hands. “What’s going on?”

From his curled state, Peter’s muffled voice answers. “I’m not a kid.”

“Yeah, well, hate to break it to ya kid, but you are in fact under the age of eighteen,” Jason snorts. “Therefore, you are a child.”

From over his shoulder, Peter’s eyes poke out, narrowed and red-rimmed. “A minor,” he mumbles, slowly turning from one side onto the other so he’s facing Jason. “Not a kid.”

Jason tilts his head and raises and eyebrow. “Same difference.”

Peter mumbles something he can’t hear, eyes closing softly. He sighed a breath, a little shakily, then opened his eyes again. All the while, Jason sits there and watches him, eyes skirting around the room only twice.

“Why’re you here?” Peter asks next, blinking at Jason with a look that is minorly confused.

Jason raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t ya hear the pretty nurse? I’m here to take you home.”

“Oh,” Peter blinks at him. “Why am I going home? I still have classes, Jason, I can’t just leave right now-”

“Peter, they told Bruce you were found hiding in the bathroom,” Jason tilts his head, eyes roaming from Peter and onto the box of tissues sitting on the windowsill. He can still see Peter’s wince. “Wanna run that by me now or later?”

Peter blinks at him, mouth opening and closing much like a fish. “Um, later?”

Jason nods, pushing himself up with a deep sigh. “Alright then.”

Peter also pushes himself up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. His hair is flattened on one side, and Jason hides his snicker in a cough.

“Come on kid,” he says, standing and making his way to the door, ignoring the mumbled insult shot back at him from Peter.

Jason ends up taking Peter out of the city and to a small cafe that’s connected to a rundown motel. He’s been brought here before, many times, by both Dick and Bruce. The food’s good, cooked by the old couple that run the place, but it’s the location that Jason’s looking for. He knows from personal experience that about a mile down the road, there’s a small turnoff area that leads to a small picnic table in the middle of the woods.

A perfect place for a mental breakdown in his opinion.

Peter’s arms are tightly wrapped around him, Jason’s extra helmet pressing into his shoulder. At first, the teenager had been hesitant to get on the bike, especially before Jason pulled out his extra helmet. After that, anytime Jason would accelerate or brake a little too hard, the arms around his waist would squeeze a little too hard.

One time, he had to tap Peter’s hand to stop him from gripping his coat in a death grip.

Eventually, as the drive continued and they hopped onto one of the less busy streets, and finally started to cruise, Peter's grip relaxed.

Jason parks close to the building, in a spot next to a red car, and carefully tips to kick up the kickstand. The bike leans and he slips off it, taking his helmet off and hanging it from one of the handlebars. He holds his hand out patiently, in case Peter needs the help, but the kid manages to slide off without trouble. His hair sticks up a bit when he pulls his own helmet off, and Jason pats it gently back down.

“That was fun,” Peter gently admits as Jason holds open the front door to the cafe.

“Yeah?” Jason replies with a smirk.Dick doesn’t like motorcycles, but it doesn’t look like that trait was passed down. Score 1 for me. “ If you ever want to go on a drive just let me know.”

A middle-aged lady, the owner’s daughter if Jason remembers right, leads them to a table right next to an old pinball machine. Jason takes the seat that faces the door and settles down, smiling as the woman states she’ll be back soon to take their order. There are a few other people in the dining area; an older couple near the door, and family of 4 sitting in the corner booth, and a group of men that looked like they were coming back from a fishing trip. Jason eyes them up, checking them all for any faces he recognizes, or hidden weapons, but he deems them safe enough to turn his attention back to Peter, who’s seated across from him.

Peter’s eyes are scanning the area, much like Jason’s had a minute ago. The matching green orbs hover around the group of men, eyes catching on the vests under coats, and heavy boots that still drip occasionally. Jason watches as Peter turns his attention onto the family, then over to the couple. It would be strange for a normal teenager to do so; not just people watching, but the focus on their hands and their pockets and facial expressions.

But Peter’s not a normal teenager.

Idly, Jason wonders if Peter’s aware he’s even doing it. It is possible the kid doesn’t have memories of any training (torturing is probably a more accurate term), and he’s simply doing it by habit. Jason hopes that’s what it is.

“What would you like to drink?” The lady is back now, holding a pen in one hand and a little notepad in the other, and a smile on her face.

Jason skims the menu quickly. “I’ll take an unsweetened iced tea.” He looks up to Peter and raises and eyebrow. Peter, ever the polite teenager, waits until the waitress looks up from her notepad to him.

“Chocolate milk please,” he tells her. She nods, and then heads away towards the door to the kitchen.

Jason picks up the menu and looks over the options, although he already knows what he’s going to order; the same thing he orders every time he comes here. Instead, he glances up to watch Peter.

It’s... odd to see someone with such similar physical characteristics as Jason. To be honest, he’s never seen another victim of the Pit like this. Peter’s green eyes are almost the same as Jason’s; however, he thinks there’s a more toxic sheen to Peter’s. The streak of white hair is the same as Jason’s as well, same spot and same shade. There’s a crawling feeling under Jason’s skin, because Peter’s demeanor is so drastically strange than his that it’s... well... concerning.

Jason remembers the way the Pit had controlled his mind before; but he supposes there were other influences on that. Maybe Peter just is that gentle hearted and calm, so much so that the Pit cannot affect him. Yeah right.

It’s almost like there’s a rubber band being stretched, and Jason thinks it’s ready to snap.

“Do you think the pancakes are good?” Peter looks up from his menu.

Jason hums, setting his menu on the table and crossing his arms over his chest. “Pretty much everything here is good.”

Peter glances back down to the menu, double checking his choice before he sets his own menu down as well.

For the next 30 minutes, they idly chat about random things; Damian’s cat that Peter had only seen glimpses of, why Dick can’t cook, and Tim’s fascination with coffee. When the food comes, their conversation slows down, but Jason tries to keep up a steady pace of small talk. Thankfully, Peter seems to have gotten Dick’s insatiate need to keep his mouth going, and he never stops the constant rant about his school day.

So far, he hasn’t said anything about the panic attack or breakdown in the bathroom.

After they’ve finished their food, and Peter’s rant about the science classroom cupboards changes to how the art teacher organizes paints, Jasons tosses a few bills on the table – enough to cover the bill and a substantial tip – then slides out and heads to the door. Peter is hot on his heels.

“Are we, are we going to talk about it now?” Peter asks Jason’s back as they make their way towards the motorcycle.

Jason plucks both of the helmets off the handlebars and hands one to Peter, with a shake of his head. “Not yet, we’ve got somewhere to stop quickly first.”

Peter pulls on his helmet, and Jason double checks that he’s clicked it under his chin, before he pulls on his own. After they found themselves situated on the bike, Jason pulls out of the parking lot, careful of the loose gravel under his wheels, and heads further down the road. Just like he remembered, there’s a small turn off onto a narrowly paved road that is shrouded by trees. It winds and twists as they travel, with logs near the edges and hanging branches close to their heads. After a few minutes of relaxing drive time, the path opens to a small grass area surrounded by trees on all sides. The sun creates large, dappled patterns on the browning grass and the wooden picnic table. An old fire ring sits next to the single parking spot, filled nearly to the brim with ashes and old, burned sticks.

Jason parks the bike close to the tree line, and once again offers his hand to Peter, who once again declines the help. The air is fresh when Jason peels off his helmet, and he can’t help but close his eyes and take a deep breath.

“It’s so... pretty,” Peter breathes next to him. With one eye open, Jason watches as Peter slowly turns around in the serene area. “And fresh.”

Jason hums in agreement. Even with the cooling weather and the browning greens, the area is just as calm as it always is. Wind whispers through the leaves above, and it tussles gently with Jason’s hair, blowing across his face with a feather touch. Still taking in the calm, Jason starts his way over to the picnic table and sits down on the edge of the top.

“So,” he starts a little while after Peter sits near him. Take it gently and slow, he reminds himself, just like Dick and B did. “ Wanna tell me about what happened at school?”

Peter takes a minute to answer, his hands fiddling with the sleeves of his uniform that peak out underneath his own coat sleeves. “I was fine this morning,” he starts, staring at the trees in front of him. “And when I got to school. But after art, and then study hall, I was just, I don’t know, panicking.” His cheeks turn red in embarrassment, and Jason internally sighs.

“Did something happen to trigger the panic?” he prods as gently as he can. He’s not good with kids, much less victims, but he’s dealt with all his brothers in the midst of panic attacks, so he thinks he can maybe do this.

Peter shrugs and starts picking at the skin around his fingernails. “Maybe?” he mumbles. “I don’t really know.”

Jason nods, eyes catching on a bird that lands across the clearing with a flutter of wings.

“Peter,” he starts, tightening his hands on the picnic table. “Do you remember when me and Dick first found you in that apartment?”

Peter's nose wrinkles, eyes scrunching in what Jason thinks is confusion – maybe concentration, and he nods.

“Do you remember waking up in the tub? Or were you somewhere else in the room?” He trails off, leaving it for Peter to pick up. There’s some hesitation, visible in the way Peter's eyes flicker anywhere but Jason.

“I was,” Peter takes a deep breath and shifts so he’s facing slightly away from Jason, towards the open woods. “I was drowning. I woke up and I was drowning in the bathtub. I climbed out and dried off. The clothes were ones I found in the bedroom.”

“Have you ever seen that green water anywhere else? You might not remember where, but do you remember seeing it at all?”

Peter frowns with a shake of his head. “No,” he says slowly, finally meeting Jason’s gaze. “What is that stuff? It smelled terrible and you guys said it couldn’t be poured down the drain....”

Jason sighs and twists himself, so his feet are resting on the seat of the picnic bench, his elbows leaning on his knees. Slowly, he tells himself. “You know there are bad people out there, right Peter? Thieves and murderers and villains, who all do terrible things.”

Jason does not consider himself on that list.

“And sometimes bad people do bad things,” Jesus, he sounds like he’s talking to a five-year-old. “f*ck. Alright Peter, I’m going to say some things that aren’t going to make any sense, but I need to get a few things out of the way, alright? I promise I will answer all your questions afterwards.”

He looks at Peter until the teenager hesitantly nods. Is this a bad idea? Probably.

“The green water is originally from a thing called the Lazarus Pit. The water from the Pit can be used to heal people, can go even as far as resurrecting them from the dead. The water from that apartment wasn’t from the Pits, it was made by someone,” he gestures wildly with his hands, trying to display that that is most definitely a terrible idea. “A bad someone, who we are trying to figure out.”

He takes a breath and turns to look at Peter, who’s blinking at him with very wide eyes. The kid doesn’t say anything, so Jason keeps going.

“The Lazarus Pit leaves behind marks, changes in physical appearance. Green eyes, and grey hair,” he gestures to his own; watches as Peter’s hand raises to brush against his own grey fringe. “I was in it, when I was younger. There are mental aspects as well, changes in personality, violence, terrible thoughts, and memory loss.”

He stops, eyes focusing on the bird still high in the treetops. Next to him, Peter’s body is still, breathing steadily. But Jason would know better than to underestimate the way his mind must be thrumming.

“You,” Peter’s voice cracks a little. “Died?”

Jason nods, although he’s not sure whether Peter can see him or not. “When I was younger, and out on patrol.”

He leaves it at that, already trying to shove the memories into the back of his head.

“I’m,” Peter speaks up again, voice quieter. “Dead?”

Jason closes his eyes, pain squeezing his heart at the sound of loss in Peter’s voice. “Yeah,” he breathes, leaning back. “But not anymore, Peter. You’re alive now, it doesn’t matter how, okay? You’re alive and that’s all that you need to remember for now.”

A fox cries out in the forest, sharp and painful, and Jason almost jumps. Almost.

He’s too used to cries and screams in the distance to react anymore.

“No,” Peter says suddenly, ripping off the blanket of silence that had laid over them for a minute, maybe more. Jason cuts his eyes to the teenager, catches the way his hands are clenched white, and the tension in his shoulders.

“Peter,” he immediately tries to placate, sliding off the table and sitting on the actual seat instead. However, Peter slides away the minute he does, pushing himself to the farthest end of the bench.

“I, I can’t be dead,” his eyes are wide, and Jason wonders just how much green tinges his vision already. “That’s, that’s, I can’t be.”

“I know it’s hard to believe, Peter,” Jason gently says, remaining in his spot, but holding his hands out. “But it’s the truth, no matter how much you deny it.”

Peter’s already shaking his head before Jason finishes, tension growing. Jason can feel the kid’s panic rise, and he suddenly feels a little underprepared for this. Yeah, I am not bringing up May.

“ Peter, please,” he presses a hand to his chest. “Deep breaths kiddo.”

Peter doesn’t seem to hear him. He’s shaking his head, mouth moving in words that Jason can’t hear, and his body seems perched for flight. His chest heaves once, breath hitching, and Jason his sliding closer.

Bad idea, he realizes just seconds later, to approach a teenager in the middle of a panic attack from the side. Bad idea, he thinks a few hours later when he’s nursing his new black eye, to approach a teenager in the midst of a panic who has an unknown history that most likely involves torture or ‘training’ of the like.

It was Jason’s fault for underestimating Peter, that’s for sure.

Peter’s hand flies up before Jason can raise his own, catching him off guard and slamming fist-first into Jason’s left cheekbone. There’s a crack of pain, and Jason is thrown to the ground as if he had been shoved full force by Bruce. Rocks hidden in the grass scrape his hands and elbows, fresh scratches appearing on his skin.

Meta, his brain supplies as it struggles to comprehend exactly what the f*ck just happened. Unknown DNA, most likely from an insect, was found in his DNA. How the hell did Jason forget that Peter was enhanced?

He blinks back his vision, ignoring the throb of pain lancing from his cheek into his head and eye and snaps his gaze up at the sound of an engine starting. Through his slightly blurry vision, he makes out the shape of Peter hunched over his motorcycle, feet already in motion of kicking up the kickstand.

For some reason, Jason’s not angry about Peter stealing his bike.

He’s more upset at the sight of both helmets thrown to the ground.

The bike is tearing out on the small road before Jason can manage to get himself to his feet, and he only barely manages to stumble his way over the table.

Jesus f*cking Christ, how hard does that kid hit?

The screen of his phone hurts to look at, and Jason numbly realizes that this is the quickest he’s ever gotten a concussion.

Bruce picks up the first ring.

“How’d it go?”

Jason huffs a breath, glancing around the empty clearing and closes his eyes to prevent his headache from getting worse.

“You’re gonna want to get down here B,” he swallows back a wave of nausea. “And bring the crew.”

Chapter 30

Chapter Text

Peter’s not sure why he thought he would be able to drive a motorcycle; maybe because he thought Well, I can ride a bike, how hard could it be?

The answer is very hard indeed.

To be honest, he doesn’t remember a lot from the ride, his vision and memory overtaken by the over encompassing emotions that flared through his veins. Panic and anger mixing in a strange swirl of quick breaths and green tinged vision. He remembers the wind ripping through his hair, taking the tears out of his eyes the minute they appeared, and leaving sharp tingling across his face. His hands and legs go numb from the vibrations of the bike underneath, but he can hardly tell.

He’s pretty sure he was speeding almost the whole way, and probably swerving like some drunk.

Eventually, when he seeps a little bit back into his bones, he’s surrounded again by buildings. The bike is gently rumbling beneath him, and he struggles to balance as he slows to a stop and pulls along a random curb. The streets are fairly empty, and traffic sounds a way away. In an apartment nearby, a baby cries, and something is growling through the sewers beneath the streets. But these things are among the thoughts that Peter dismisses, instead choosing to focus on carefully leaning the bike so it’s standing on its own, and he checks the meter next to him, sighing when there’s still time left from the previous driver.

He may have just broken a bunch of traffic laws, but there’s no way he’s letting Jason’s bike get towed. Or stolen, he thinks as he pockets the key and turns to look down the street, eyeing up the dark and gothic looking library that sits on the street a little way down. It’s tall, with columns and an overhang that leaves shadows draping across the gargoyles that perch alongside the doors, but some of the windows are lit up with a warm glow.

Peter shivers, a gust of wind blowing up behind him and breezing through his coat, tumbling a few leaves along the sidewalk ahead of him. He purses his lips, flicking his eyes to assure that there is in fact no way around him, and then he starts forward.

I need to find May, he thinks, kicking a leaf that blows in front of his foot. He just needs to find his aunt, he’d even take Ned or MJ at this point, and figure out what the heck is going on. But if this really is an alternate reality, then he’s got a lot of research to do. But there’s no way he’ll be able to do that research as Peter Parker... Wayne... Grayson... whatever.

Spiderman really needs to make an appearance in Gotham.

The door is silent when he pushes it open, but his shoes make soft echoes as he crosses the large wooden entry area.

The library is just as grand on the inside as it was on the outside. A large, arching roof holds a paned skylight the brighten the beautifully coffered ceiling. Large chandeliers hang and emit soft lighting to the deepest corners of the large hall. The walls are covered in shelves, and any open space is decorated with oil paintings or wall sconces. Shelves are organized row after row in the open spaces, leaving small spots for armchairs or desks with computers.

“Hello,” a warm voice calls, and Peter turns to look at the librarian’s desk. A woman, young and far gentler looking than what Peter expected is tucked underneath the desk, her hands hovering on the keyboard sitting in front of her. Black-framed glasses sit on her nose, and her red hair if held back by a simple headband. “Can I help you?”

Peter glances around the library, with an interested look on his face. “I was wondering if I could get a library card?”

Panic still thrums underneath his skin, but his spidey-sense hums peacefully in the back of his head, and he forces himself to take a deep breath. Any memory of his previous conversation with Jason is currently being packed carefully into a box in the back of his mind.

The woman smiles and leans forward to grab a paper from a small file holder tucked against the counter. She passes it over, and gently pushes a cup holder of pens towards him. “Just fill these out and I can set one up for you right now.”

Peter grabs a pen and mutters a quick “Thanks,” then slips the paper closer to him and peers down at the information it asks for. Name, age, and address he can answer simply (Alfred made him memorize the address to the Manor the minute Peter started school), along with a phone number and email that he had committed to memory pretty quickly. He glances at the woman a couple times, instinct being too paranoid to not, but finds her always typing on her computer or looking at a paper next to her keyboard. Eventually he finishes the paperwork, making up any information he doesn’t actually know or have, and provides his school ID card for proof of residence, and then he’s handed a new card. He signs his signature on the back of it with pen, and the woman takes his sheet with a smile.

Soon, he finds himself sitting in front of one of the computers, his back facing the wall and the librarian’s front desk in his path of vision. The woman, Barbara he learns after she introduces herself to someone over the phone, doesn’t move from her spot. She alternates between typing something on her keyboard, writing something down in a notebook, or looking at her phone – with the occasional answering of the landline phone.

He occasionally glances up at her, just double checking to make sure she’s still there.

After logging into the computer using his new library card, the first thing Peter does is open up the web browser and types lazarus pit into the search bar. Unsurprisingly, not a lot of information pops up. There’re a few blogs, some people throwing theories about things they’ve heard on the streets, but everything’s empty or not related at all to what Peter’s trying to find. He clicks out of the tab and types in Red Hood into a new one. This time, dozens of articles and news stories pop up, most talking of gang violence, or something called Crime Alley. He delves into it with greedy fingertips.

He ends upwith not much more information than what he came with – well, at least information that he was looking for. He does, however, now know a lot about the history of his new family.

Batman appeared first, a fresh vigilante that served justice and gave way to a ray of hope in the darkened community of danger that Gotham had become. Then Robin, the first one, who Peter assumes is Dick and Batgirl. Then another Robin, and Nightwing and someone only referred to as “O”. Then Robin disappeared, Bruce Wayne's son Jason Todd was declared dead, and Red Hood appeared. And another Robin appeared (at that point Peter was tired of reading Robin). Then, another Robin, and then Red Robin, Red Hood, another Batgirl popped up somewhere along the line, “O”, Nightwing, and Batman.

A whole family of vigilantes.

At least with this information, Peter has thought of a way that he would be able to do research without sneaking out of the house. If all the other Wayne children got to be vigilantes, then why couldn’t he? Even the two people (apparently, he has aunts?) that he’s never even met got to be vigilantes.

It’s late when he finally clicks out of all the tabs and logs out from the computer. He tucks his library card safely into the back of his phone case and makes to stand up when the door to the library opens, and a tan, freckled face peeks into the main hall, deep red hair falling fluffily into his face. His face lights up when he sees Barbara, so Peter assumes he’s a friend.

“Hey Babs,” the guy greets, zipping through the door and making his way to desk with a pep in his step. “Dick’s still parking the car, so he’ll be in in a minute.”

Barbara raises an eyebrow and shakes her head. “I can’t believe you actually let him drive.”

The guys gasps dramatically. “I’m so telling him you think his driving sucks.”

“Oh, he already knows,” Barbara moves from her spot, and comes out from behind the desk. Peter only blinks once at the sight of the wheelchair. He knew it was a little suspicious of how she could reach everything around her so quickly. “There’s a reason he’s never allows to drive me.”

Wally snorts in amusem*nt, turning to walk by Barbara as she wheels herself across the floor – towards him, Peter realizes with a jolt.

“Hey,” the man greets, grinning widely. “You must be Peter, huh?”

Peter nods, figuring that Dick wouldn’t let just anyone approach Peter. Besides, his spidey-sense has stayed quiet the whole time.

“Glad to see you’re not dead in a ditch,” the guy snorts. Barbara elbows him sharply in the ribs.

“Wally,” she reprimands, eyebrows furrowing. “Seriously?”

“What?” Wally cries, hand rubbing against his side with a mumbled, “Ow.”

Barbara rolls her eyes as she comes to pause a few feet in front of Peter. “Don’t listen to him kid, he’s a bad influence.”

Wally squawks but doesn’t manage to say anything more before the library door opens with a bang. Dick, looking more frazzled than usual, struts in, making a beeline straight for the group they had made.

“Hi,” Peter says, waving his hand a little awkwardly. He’s unsure of what to say to the man, he’s just glad it wasn’t Jason. Dick huffs a breath and waves a finger at him.

“How’re you feeling bub?” Dick asks, passing Wally and Barbara to stand a little closer to Peter. He looks concerned, but also a little apprehensive.

“I’m okay,” Peter answers honestly. Because really, he is. He had his moment to panic earlier, choosing to fight then flight. Right now, he’s stuck in fix-the-problem mode. Dick raises and eyebrow with a sigh and shakes his head.

“Let’s get you home,” he waits patiently for Peter to stand up, then tucks himself near Peter’s side. Wally and Barbara make way for them as they pass, and Barbara waves goodbye.

“Call me later?” Wally calls out as they reach the door, and Dick gives him a thumbs up while holding open the door for Peter, who slips out into the cool Gotham air.

“So,” Peter starts as they make their way down the street to where Dick has parked the car – the same one Bruce had driven them back from New York in. “Is Barbara like your spy or something?

Chapter 31

Chapter Text

:(

Unfortunately, this is a notice of hiatus

*Cue me bawling in a corner*

School just ended, and with it finals season, but now I've got work and other responsibilities so I won't be able to update this fic for a bit

I'm not sure how long it'll be, but it will be no longer than late July, mid August when I come back!

THATS ALL FOLKS

ILL SEE YOU IN A WHILE

LOVE YALL SO MUCH

Don't be surprised if there's a random update though....might happen

Chapter 32

Chapter Text

When Dick gets the call, he’s flipping from one building to the next. He’d already hooked up his phone to his comms for convenience, and because there wasn’t anyone actually manning the comms.

“Call from Brucie Bear,” an automated voice reads out after the first two rings. With a soft swear, Dick changed his trajectory towards the rooftop of the nearest building and rolls to a crouch.

He answers the call with a single click to the piece in his ear. “Hey B, what’s up?”

While it’s not a certainty that something has gone wrong, Bruce knows better than to call Dick when he’s out in the suit.

“I just got a call from Peter’s school,” he says.

Dick leans up against the air conditioner unit, taking a steady breath. “Alright?”

At this point, Dick’s expecting anything. From Peter being sick, to him getting in a fight with another kid, or even skipping class, none of those would be any different from the experiences of the rest of the Wayne kids.

“Nurse said he may have had a panic attack, he’s down in their office taking a rest right now.” Bruce’s voice is accompanied by the sounds of rustling papers. Must still be at work, Dick figures, pushing off the AC unit and walking to the edge of the roof. He peers out over the warehouse district, paying close attention to the docks.

“I can’t really head in to pick him up,” Dick explains, heart aching. As much as he wants, needs, really, to be there for Peter in his vulnerable times, Dick is too far away from the school to be helpful. Especially since he’s out on business, and would have to stop by the manor to change.

Bruce sighs. “Yeah, I figured you weren’t going to be back by now. I’ll give Jason a ring,” a pen being uncapped and capped. “I would go myself but I’m aboit to step into a board meeting.”

One that he’s already postponed twice.

“Okay,” Dick agrees, because he has no choice. Besides, he trusts Jason enough to handle Peter.

Dick is never leaving Peter in the hands of Jason ever again. Or Bruce for that matter.

In fact, Dick doesn’t think he’ll be leaving him in anyone’s care, but his own, for the next gazillion years.

He found nothing at the warehouse, besides the usual junkies and homeless brave enough to stake out the area. Even the usual gang spots were devoid of activity, which, for it being the middle of the day, wasn’t entirely unusual. But Dick wasn’t sure that he'd covered everything, and with a case as important as this, he wanted everything double checked.

So he called Jason, as he normally does, mouth open to propose the two of them going out later that night when Jason cuts him off.

“Don’t freak out.”

Dick is already freaking out.

“What happened?” he demanded, scenarios already running through his mind. An attack at the school, the manor is compromised, Bruce tried cooking again.

“I, well,” Jason’s voice is wooly almost, more subdued than Dick is used to hearing.

“Are you okay?” Dick asks, making his way to his vehicle quickly, dread pooling in his gut. “Are the kids alright?”

Jason sighs a strangled sound. “Promise you won’t kill me?”

Dick stops short, on the very edge of the building he’s on. In the distance, he thinks he can see Wayne Tower.

“What did you do?”

Again, Jason sighs, then proceeds to mumble something to quiet for Dick to hear.

“Jason.”

“I kind of lost your kid.”

Dick blinks into the air.

“You f*cking what?” He doesn’t realize he’s moving until he’s already on the street. Feet pounding, heart joining the chorus, he finally reached his vehicle and turns it on. “Explain. Now.”

“Look, alright, so I picked the kid up from school right?”

“Right.” How does someone lose a child? Unless Peter ran away again, but that would not excuse the guiltiness Jason is feeling right now.

“And so me and him go out for lunch, right?”

“Right.” Dick has a feeling Jason’s about to say something that he really won’t like. Objectively, what he’s said so far isn’t bad. The kid had a panic attack, do his uncle took him out for lunch. That checks out. “And then?”

“And then…” Jason trails off, sounding unsure again. He mumbles something again, and Dick resists the urge to smack some sense into the man. Not that he can smack him through a phone call anyways.

“Jason, I swear to God if you don’t-“

“And then I told him he was f*cking dead and then he gave me a f*cking concussion and ran away.”

Dick blinks at the road ahead of him. “You… what?”

“Dick, listen, alright? I had talked to Bruce and he said it would be a good moment to… y’know….”

“Why the f*ck wasn’t I involved in this decision making?” Dick breathes out an angry breath and cuts off Jason’s excuse. “You know what? I don’t care, not right now, alright? I’ll deal with you two later.”

“Alright,” Jason’s voice sounds small on the other line, and Dick melts a little.

“I’m not-.” He’s not not angry, but he doesn’t think Jason need this right now. “Just. Yeah. Alright. How’s your head?”

“sh*t’s fine,” Jason replies. “Feels like a teenager socked me right though.”

Dick snorts. “Alright, I’ll be home soon. I’ll call up Wally and Babs and see if they can help.”

Hours later, when Peter is safely tucked into his side of the couch in the family room (the one with the game systems and popcorn machine), Dick doesn’t feel as angry anymore.

He's still pissed, don’t get him wrong, pissed at Jason for even suggesting it and at Bruce for allowing it and at the both of them for not okaying it with him first.

But, at the end of the admittedly very long night, Dick knows it was a conversation that had to be held. He just wishes he had been there for it.

“Psst,” a voice break the silence of the room. Dick looks up from where he was playing with one of Peter’s curls and finds Tim in the doorway. “How is he?”

Dick sighs and holds up his unoccupied arm, allowing Tim to dive into his other side.

“He’s alright, I think.” Peter seems to be sleeping peacefully, and he seemed fine when Dick has picked him up at the library. “A little wrung out.”

“Yeah, I imagine.” Tim is quiet for a moment, watching the muted TV play some documentary about space. “I think we need to stop him from running away.”

Dick snorts. “Yeah baby bird? And how are you gonna do that?”

He can feel Tim shrug. “Don’t know.”

Peter makes a noise and shuffles a little, but stays asleep. Idly, Dick wonders what kind of dream he’s having.

“Maybe it’s time we take him out instead,” Tim suggests quietly. Dick sighs, but he knows.

There’s only so much you can do to stop a Wayne from being in the streets.

It’s in their blood.

Chapter 33

Chapter Text

Duke is already sitting at their table when Peter walks into art the following Monday morning. It’s been 4 days since his ‘freak out’, as Tim dubs it, and Dick wouldn’t let Peter go to school Friday. According to him, it was so Peter had some time to relax, and some time to think about things. Peter really knows it was just so they knew he wasn’t going to make a run for it again. No matter how many times he reassured them, they still were twitchy any time he would so much as pass by the front door. All of Friday and Saturday there was almost no time when he was actually alone. One of the Waynes would always just happen to be in the same room; when he went to go water the plants in the greenery, Alfred had to check on his rosemary, when Peter wanted to read a book in the dark corner of the library, Jason just so happened to need some new material to read, and ‘oh, lemme just go grab my swimsuit’, when Tim walked by him opening up the door to the pool.

It was exhausting, but Peter could kind of see the concern in their faces so he decided to let it slide.

He was telling the truth, at least, when he tells them that he won’t run away again. While yes, his mind is still reeling from what Jason had explained to him, and yes, he doesn’t think he has really acknowledged that in the capacity it needs, he thinks he understands now that running away from a team of trained vigilantes is not going to get him very far in the world.

“Peter!” Duke exclaims, looking up from his computer. He smiles, pearly white flashing brightly, and he looks up and down Peter’s body. “How are you feeling?”

Peter laughs lightly, pushing away the hands that come to pat down Peter’s head and shoulders. “I’m fine Duke, really.”

Duke stops his examinations, and leans back into his seat. “You sure?”

Peter nods, and Duke smiles and sends him a thumbs up. Peter grabs his sketchbook and opens it, taking out a pen and uncapping it, and stares down at the sketch that is supposed to be the plans for a statue of a fish made from recycled cans. Except it’s looking more like a blobfish than the clownfish it’s supposed to be. He steals a glance at the computer model that Duke has already made, and then feels like he suddenly doesn’t belong in this class. Although another glance to the student in front of him says that maybe Duke is the one that doesn’t belong.

“So, uh,” Duke says a few minutes later, as Peter is furiously rubbing away half of his design with an eraser. “Do you, uh, have panic attacks often?”

Duke winces when he finished, and side eyes Peter a little awkwardly. Peter stops his erasing, and brushed off the shavings of rubber, shrugging his shoulders as nonchalantly as possible.

“No,” he says. “It was just...” he trails off, then shrugs again. “A little bit of a stressful week.”

“Oh,” Duke nods, and adds another wave to the skirt he’s designing on his screen. Peter watches as he clicks a few more things, switching between layers and adding more details, before he speaks up again. “Y’know, it’s okay if you have them,” Duke looks earnest, despite not glancing Peter’s way. “Like, it doesn’t make you weird or anything.”

Peter blinks at him, and can’t help the small smile that touches his lips. “I know,” he replies, and turns back to his own paper. He can feel Duke look over at him, can feel his warm chocolate eyes on his head.

“Good,” Duke responds, and they fall in silence.

Peter tries to redraw the fins and head of the fish, erasing and tracing over and over, only to have a hole torn in the thinning paper when the edge of his pencil drags across it.

“I swear to chicken noodle soup, I’m dropping out,” he exclaims, tossing his pencil to the side and putting his head down on the table. Duke laughs, and leans over to view the drawing’s remnants.

“Y’know.... Maybe a fish isn’t your forte.”

Dick is finishing up dishes when Tim bursts into the room with a manic look on his face.

It’s nearly ten o’clock at night, and dinner had been a late affair due to Bruce’s schedule and Peter hanging out with Duke after school. Peter’s asleep upstairs, well, he was the last time Dick went to check up on him, and Jason’s helping Dick put away the dishes that Alfred scrubs at with a pink sponge. Tim, who was supposed to be in bed, scuttles into the room with about as much grace as a giraffe wearing heels.

AKA, none.

He almost falls smack onto his face when his socks slip on the tiled floor of the kitchen, but he rights himself immediately, keeping the travel mug of coffee and his computer level. He’s got his pajamas on at least; Dick gives him that.

“I found her,” he says, eyes bright and caffeine infused, sliding to a stop by the kitchen island and depositing his computer there.

Dick raises his eyebrow, glancing at Jason who shrugs. “Found who, Timbit?”

Tim whirls his computer around, showing off a picture of a copy of a driver’s license. “I found May.”

Dick nearly drops the dish he’s holding, but manages to hand it off to Alfred who looks not one bit surprised. The butler resumes his washing, yellow gloves up to his elbows, and places the clean dishes in the drying rack. Jason slides next to Dick as he pulls the computer closer and leans on the edge of the island. Tim looks like he’s about to explode.

“Give me what you’ve got.”

With a deep inhale of coffee, Tim begins. “May Parker,” he gestures to the picture on the screen. “Is a nurse who lived in New York City up until about three months ago.” Nurse, New York, check. “She’s 39 years old, and a widow. Her husband was a member of the New York City Police Force, and his name was Benjamin Parker. He died 2 years ago when he was shot trying to stop a robber at a convenience store.” He reaches over to click into a different tab, holding a zoomed-up picture of a group of officers.

“They had a son,” Dick’s eyes shoot up to meet Tim’s.

“Let me guess,” Jason says dryly. “The kid’s name was Peter.”

Tim shoots finger guns at him. “Got it in one. But here’s the thing,” he reaches over to click onto another tab, this one a document of what looks to be a police report. “Peter Benjamin Parker died when he was seven years old at their cabin out of the city. According to the report, he fell through their frozen pond, and neither got to him in time.”

Dick swallows the lump forming in his throat.

“His body was recovered by first responders and they had a quiet ceremony,” Tim continues. “And then they had him cremated. After this, there’s some records of May going to therapy and seeking some prescription meds, but no prescriptions were actually filled, or diagnoses given.”

Dick looks over the report as the conversation lulls for a moment, checking the authenticity of it. At least to him, it looks pretty legit.

“So, Peter is someone else’s kid,” he says, words coming out of his unsure mouth. Jason nudges his shoulder with a shake of his head.

“Nuh uh,” he says, crossing his arm. “Kid’s got your DNA, he’s yours.”

Dick’s eyes fly to Tim. “Have you figured that out yet?”

Tim slouches, losing a little of his energy. “My best guess?” he pulls his computer back towards him. “May couldn’t cope with the loss of both her kid and her husband, she’s probably dealing with some mental health issues as well. So, she finds two people that looked like her and her husband when they were young so she could make her kid again.”

He turns the screen back, and Dick finds himself looking at a wedding photo of a young couple. They look happy, smiling widely as flowers bloom around them. Tim was right, a young Benjamin Parker looked a hell of a lot like Dick did. Jason hums next to him.

“So how was the pit involved? And how did may somehow become some underground overlord that we had no idea about?”

Tim shrugs and shakes his head. “That, I’m still trying to figure out.”

Dick nods, then smiles gratefully at Tim. He reaches forward and ruffles the dark locks of the kid, before gently pushing him away.

“Figure that out later, not on a school night,” he says, ignoring Tim’s huff of disapproval. The tired teenager pulls his laptop to his chest, and decidedly does not bring his mug back with him when Jason nearly growls. “Goodnight!”

Tim flicks them off.

Peter finds himself sitting in the library Tuesday evening, surrounded by reams of fabric and spools of thread, with Alfred seated across from him and Bruce beside. They both are trying their best to explain the properties of the different fabric and which may be better for him in the long run. Peter’s trying his best to pretend he doesn’t know each and every property of the fabrics he could never afford.

His first suit was sweatpants and a sweatshirt, he honestly doesn’t care.

“-breathable, but overall, a little less flexible. I generally have this put in parts of the suit that aren’t moving as much as the others,” Bruce explains.

Peter doesn’t know how to tell him that there isn’t any part of his suit that isn’t moving a lot.

So far, he’s selected a small collection of black, white, and some hues of blue fabric. The samples sit in a pile on the low coffee table, small in comparison to the pile of discarded fabric that sits on the floor. What can he say? Peter’s a little picky.

“How about this one?” Alfred hands over a small square of a reflective plasticky material that immediately has Peter handing it back. “Alright, then. This?”

Another reflective material, though this one is more of a mesh. Peter tests it in his hands, pulls and stretches it, then shakes it around to watch the lighting reflect off the metallic surface.

“Is it alright for me to have something reflective on me?” he asks, holding fabric limply in his hands and glancing up at Bruce, who waves his hand intermediately.

“If you only have it in some spots that can easily be covered by something like a belt, or a small enough patch to be easily smudged by dirt it should be fine.”

Peter blinks at him, then blinks at the fabric, and the rainbow ribbons of color that appear on it, before he gently places it in the keep pile. “I think I’m done.”

Bruce huffs and leans forward to examine the pile of fabrics Peter has chosen to keep, before nodding and tucking them into his pocket. Alfred starts to pick up the rest of the sample, shaking his head when Peter leans down to join him.

“It’s alright, Master Peter,” the man says in his accented British voice. “I think it’s about time you head to bed anyways.”

Peter tries to protest, but he’s ushered out of the room by Bruce’s hulking frame, and the fight leaves pretty quickly.

That night, as he lays in bed, all he can think about is feeling the wind blowing across his face once again. About the feeling of helping people, and the feeling of putting away the people that cause problems.

And, of course, the password he wrote down in his notebook. The one he saw Alfred type into the closet like storage room that held all of the fabric and tools alike.

Peter’s going to need to make his own suit somehow.