Apparently, freelance photography paid a lot better in Gotham than it did in New York. Granted, it could be because (as in, it 100% was the case but Peter's ego didn't want to take that sort of hit) Batman photos were worth more than ( sob ) Spider-Man photos.
But also, Peter had made Spider-Man into an easily accessible resource for himself. Batman, however, had done the opposite. But Batman also obviously had a shit ton of money and didn't need to worry about paying the bills.
Peter didn't have to worry about paying bills either, but for the opposite reason.
Point being , even though the Glazer was tight on money, Sherry had been more than willing to pay up.
The whole spiel ending up being very satisfying. Sherry had been the first one to arrive at the Glazer at a sharp five in the morning, and may have almost maced Peter when he accidentally startled her.
"What the hell are you doing here? " Sherry nearly shouted, scowl rivaling Batman's in its ferocity.
Holding the camera out like a shield (even though Peter would rather die again than have it get destroyed), Peter quickly jumped to justify his presence, "Sorry! Sorry! I got the pictures you wanted. And I'm mega-tight on money, so like, please look at them! Sorry again, I didn't mean to scare you!"
Sherry sniffed as she attempted to regain her composure, and unlocked the building, "It's alright. Let's go look at these miraculous photos of yours, then. Don't expect to pull one over me, though. I can tell the difference between real and fake, and a blurry photo of someone in the dark will not be good enough."
The first photo alone (the backlit Batman swing, which Peter personally liked because of the artsy vibe, but knew wasn't great for news stories due to it not showcasing any exciting action), Sherry had been willing to pay two hundred dollars for, claiming she didn't need to see any others since that was front page material. Peter had scoffed, "C'mon, this is the least exciting one," and Sherry sat right back down. Peter then proceeded to flick through the rest of the photos, and Sherry's jaw dropped lower and lower with each one. The shining star of them all was (surprise, surprise) the moment Two-Face had been disarmed, and Peter may have nearly cried in relief when it came out even better than he'd hoped for. In the end, she'd decided to buy every single one of the Batman photos, giving him a hundred dollars straight from her wallet in order to get her hands on them sooner, with a promised three hundred later. Peter also officially had a "job" - although it was still technically freelance work - with them agreeing on two hundred dollars per collection of photos in the future, unless it was an absolute showstopper and included multiple of the Bats and Rogues: hence the Two-Face Takedown! photo being worth two hundred dollars on its own. All in cash. Sherry had been pretty amenable to any of Peter's requests as long as he agreed to only provide the Glazer with photos. He'd even been able to weasel a better camera out of her, although he kept the cheap one, too, as it had the pictures of Cass on them.
(And they did have better cameras on site! Sherry admitted to giving him a cheap one just in case he ran off with it! Peter loved being right.)
He'd also relayed the entirety of the night's events to Sherry (minus his impossible roof climbing, and citing his knowledge of their movements as a lucky guess. Sherry didn't question it.), enabling her to write up an article on the spot. Peter had been thinking about how the article could be written for the past couple hours as he waited for the Glazer to open, so much of the wording ended up being Peter's own, and although he refused to be quoted on the article, Sherry insisted on citing him as a source - "For my own writer's integrity."
Overall: Peter was riding on cloud nine. He would have a solid (ish) source of income as long as he could continue taking good photos of the Batcrew (…and great. Batman infected him with his horrible naming practices. Batcrew . Christ Almighty, kill Peter now before he gets worse), which was the best Peter could have asked for. As well, being four hundred dollars richer (once Sherry gave him the rest of the money. which. well. she appeared to be a pretty standup person, but who knows) put Peter in a very good position, as he could now… still not rent an apartment! But he could at least… buy lunch? For a few days?
Because now this is where things get tricky ( as if they hadn't been this whole time) . Peter had $165 and some change on him - the $77 from his short stint of manual labor, minus the $10.88 (plus tax!) backpack, and then the $100 from Sherry, with a promised three hundred on the way. If, impossibly enough, Peter could get at least one cluster of photos for the Glazer a week, that would be at least two hundred a week, if there wasn't a showstopper. But - it would be difficult to rely on that alone as a source of income, as he could simply get unlucky with his timing, nothing exciting may happen that kicks off his danger-sense, or the photos could simply turn out blurry. As well, the more often Peter took photos of the vigilantes, the more alert they would be, which didn't bode well for Peter's anonymity. Photography wasn't a guaranteed paycheck. At best, Peter could probably rely on two clusters a month (and Sherry had made it clear that she didn't expect him to come in every night with photos - just when he managed to get good ones), which would put four hundred dollars in his pocket a month. A shitty apartment in a shittier neighborhood probably ran two hundred dollars a month minimum. Maybe more if Peter had to pay them to Look The Other Way for his lack of identification and potentially incriminating hours of activity. So, that might end up with him potentially forking out three (maybe - hopefully - not four) hundred dollars a month for a studio or something, leaving… potentially nothing for everything else . Totally doable.
Not.
Peter's paid for an apartment before. He's lived on his own, and while housing in New York is significantly more expensive than in Gotham (unless he's looking at the high end places here… which Peter is most definitely not ), the fundamentals were still pretty much the same: life is best (or at least not impossible) when housing cost 50% or less than the total income Peter brought in. Ideally, according to most websites, it should be 30%, but HA - Peter wasn't made of money! Now. Had Peter been able to manage that on a freelance photographer's salary back in New York while also being paid pennies? No. That is why Peter did other things for money - found odd jobs, picked up a day shift at a restaurant, et cetera, et cetera: he's made his point. He'd have to do the same thing in this universe.
Because , even though this job might pay more per photo, the Bats were not an easily accessible resource.
(Peter would have been too powerful if it was… A shame. He supposed it was this universe's trade off: more money per picture but less pictures, as opposed to home , where pictures were easy to come across, but he wasn't paid as well for them. Law of supply and demand and fricken equilibrium prices! strikes once more! Peter's true arch nemesis.)
Which led Peter to his next conclusion: he needs another job. A day job, perhaps, if he wishes to be able to move freely at night.
Unless…
Unless!
Peter nodded to himself as he made his way to the shelter for breakfast and to assure Nic that he is, in fact, still alive and well.
Because the fact is: moving freely at night would always be impossible with the Bats around. For once in his life, Peter's movements might be more free during the day… where instead of forty million vigilantes, there was only one daytime hero: Signal.
And. Well. Peter's gotta respect that. One dude against the world? Or, well, Gotham City , not necessarily the world , but hell, Gotham is so chaotic that Peter didn't see much of a difference. Signal is one person facing up against a massive city like Gotham during the day, which is most admirable and very confusing, 'cause like… why did none of the other previously mentioned forty million vigilantes decide to skip out on the graveyard shift and see the sun?
As admirable and ballsy this Signal fellow is, he is, as previously mentioned, one (count it: ONE!) whole guy . And Peter can probably avoid him and help with the daytime shift at the same time as Spider-Man. It's the least he could do - really. Gotham probably didn't need another nighttime masked weirdo. The day, however? Watch out, world! Here comes Peter!
But… not yet.
First , he needs that job - a night job , perhaps - to free up his day for illegal vigilante activities.
Fun!
And so that was what brought Peter here: standing in front of the Iceberg Lounge, fiddling with the straps of his backpack, feeling cleaner than he had in days and yet still being horribly outclassed by the fine establishment in front of him. During breakfast he'd expressed the fact that he'd like to wash his clothes, and asked if there was a laundromat nearby. Nic had scoffed at him, rolling his eyes, "Pete, lemme tell you something fun: Big-Bucks Wayne sponsors this shelter, and pretty much all the other philanthropy shit in this city. He's outfitted them all: washing machines and dryers are down the hall from the bathrooms."
Peter vigilantly (haha) watched as his two outfits went through the washing machine and then the dryer, sitting in his boxers and feeling horribly exposed in the process. Still, he wanted to wash everything he possibly could, and the handful of other people doing the exact same thing reassured him that he wasn't being a total weirdo.\
Speaking of (thinking of?) weird: the thing about having a healing factor (and Peter swears this train of thought is , in fact, relevant) is that despite all of the hardship Peter has gone through - despite all of the injuries and broken bones and bruises and bullet wounds he's obtained - none of it ever sticks . Nothing lasts. In his own mind, Peter is riddled in scars and stories, hence the feeling of being utterly exposed . It feels impossible that people can't see the marks of violence that mar his body, despite them no longer physically being there. So when Peter enters the laundry room and no one bats an eye, his first thought is, "Oh, I guess scars aren't that uncommon in Gotham," followed quickly by, "Parker, you dolt, remember?"
But Peter never remembered - not when he can remember every injury that should have killed him in startling detail. Not when he feels the constant ache in his bones and in his limbs, not when he can trace the lines of visually unmarred skin and remember the claw marks the Vulture had left on him. Not when he can feel the phantom ache in his arms from holding that ferry together.
But Peter digresses.
(Sometimes he wishes his scars lasted. Sure, their non-existence might make his civilian life a helluva lot easier, but Peter longs for a day where there was physical proof of all that he has endured . Sometimes, on Peter's worst days, it feels like all the bullshit that has happened to him was just in his imagination. That his life hadn't really been that bad - no injuries lasted, after all! - but it was, in fact, that bad. Peter did go through hell. And sometimes he wishes that other people knew that, too, instead of seeing some smooth skinned boy who's never faced a single hardship.
Because he wasn't .)
The important thing, however, was that Peter was blessedly clean , and that maybe-hopefully the Iceberg Lounge was actually super-duper desperate to hire anyone, and they'd look past the fact that Peter was carrying his entire livelihood on his back and also didn't have an ID.
Y'know, little things that prevented most of impoverished America from being able to find reliable work.
Haha.
Anyway-
Peter approached the door to the Lounge, but before he could even knock , the door opened, and an intimidatingly tall man greeted him. Or, rather, looked him up and down, gruffly questioned, "You here for the job?" in the deepest voice imaginable , to which Peter nodded quickly, tightening his grip on his backpack straps.
"Head over to the tables. We'll conduct the interview there," the man (and he needed a nickname. Peter, personally, felt like he embodied the name Big Boy, and so he was christened thus) instructed, moving to the side so Peter could pass by, While Big Boy was intimidating as all get out (for a normal person ), Peter's danger sense didn't so much as twitch at his presence, and worse case scenario, he'd be able to take Big Boy in a fight, especially since Peter couldn't sense anyone else in the building. Sliding right by, Peter took in the dining hall.
Which. Was nice. Sort of.
Peter's eyes traced the crinkle in the tablecloth as he sat down, at the vague layer of dust on the unlit candle set in the center of the table. While Peter personally thought that the restaurant was very nice, for the real upper class, this place would be almost shabby . It had everything available to make it something truly posh and way-too-expensive for Peter to even look at, but the tiny details spoke of either carelessness or an overall lack of experienced oversight.
Or, at least, Peter would assume . He'd never been to a super nice restaurant (or late-night-lounge? or nightclub? or whatever this place was supposed to be-) like the Iceberg Lounge before, but the whole vibe still felt off. He couldn't imagine someone like Tony Stark frequenting this place (okay so maybe Tony was a weird rich person to reference, considering his inclination for burgers and small donut shops, but still. Tony would have never had a fancy dinner here, so the point still stood!), or, god forbid, someone like T'Challa. A King certainly deserved more than dusty candle holders and wrinkled tablecloths.
Big Boy cleared his throat, and Peter became awkwardly aware that he'd been staring at the little flaws of the Lounge with a very judgemental look. Ducking his head for a moment, Peter gathered his wits about him and made eye contact with a prize-winning smile, "My apologies, you have my attention."
He tried to summon his inner Karen. Not the I-Want-To-Speak-To-Your-Manager kind - the Helpful-AI-Assistant type of Karen.
(He missed her.)
It must have worked (or maybe Big Boy wanted Peter to be judgmental of the (mild) disarray?) because his shoulders relaxed, and he seemed ( seemed , HA! as if Peter had any doubt about Big Boy's feelings - it felt practically impossible to be, with how loud his expressions were) pleased, "What's your name?"
"Ben," Peter answered, like a liar, something in his gut telling him to do so. That something, of course, potentially-maybe-definitely being the gun that rested comfortably at Big Boy's side.
Okay, so obviously the Iceberg Lounge was some kind of front. It was too nice of an establishment in too much of a crime ridden area, and even though Big Boy didn't spark Peter's danger sense, that didn't mean that the place wasn't dangerous .
…
Peter didn't think that he really cared. As long as he wasn't personally asked to do anything illegal, then really , wasn't he just taking money from whatever asshole ran this place?
(Peter should probably look into who owns the Lounge, before he gets all cocky.
Or not. Peter felt pretty comfortable with handling whatever ended up coming his way.)
"Describe yourself, Ben. Experience, skills… anything else you think is important for me to know," Big Boy asked (ordered), leaning back in his own chair as he stared Peter down. Undeterred, Peter pursed his lips, pretending to think about the question, "Well, I have had experience with being a waiter before. I'm in need of a job, and I believe that the Iceberg Lounge is someplace where I can be successful and useful while working."
Peter nodded to himself, making sure to project a face and posture that was entirely unconcerned with the gun, that seemed aware of what happened behind closed doors, "I'll be honest, Sir, there are a couple of things keeping me from getting a… professional job, but I want to keep my hands… clean . I'm simply looking for a steady flow of income and a job with straightforward requirements."
The interviewer's entire demeanor shifted , and the little goblin in Peter's mind twiddled its fingers with a barely restrained glee, having successfully hit the nail on the head in one go, "You need this job?" Big Boy's voice edged on something that would have been scary had Peter not faced worse threats before, and also had the slope of his smirk not edged too far away from viciousness and into the realm of piqued interest, "Yes, Sir."
"Sometimes, Ben, the… customers … get rowdy. We have a strict no weapons policy inside the dining area… an' sometimes they don't always follow those rules."
Peter pretended to be thoughtful, "Well, I do have some experience in martial arts. I'm sturdier than I look, Sir. If I'm allowed to get physical and actively engage the… rowdy customers … then I can assure you, I'll take care of any situation that may arise."
"And you've been a waiter before?" Peter nodded in confirmation, "Good. You'd've probably had the job even if you didn't say you had experience . Got enough folks on staff that can break up a tussle , not enough with real restaurant experience. So, Ben," Big Boy nodded to himself, "You have yourself a job. Now let's talk about shifts-"
Walking out of the Iceberg Lounge, Peter didn't even care if the interviewer (who had never given his name) saw him: he fistbumped triumphantly on the sidewalk, and strutted away beaming and employed!
(Illegally.
But still employed!)
Peter was on what Big Boy had called a "Trial Basis" for employment - meaning that they needed to make sure he would be able to handle himself and "fit in" at the Lounge. Which: reasonable. After a two week period, Peter, if nothing went wrong, would be an official employee, and begin being paid the full extent of his paycheck.
Speaking of paychecks!-
Peter had a paycheck!
Official employment would come with a salary of $32.00 an hour (a number which had Peter gawking , but apparently was so high because it included hazard pay for dealing with customers that could potentially consist of Gotham's most infamous rogues). There was also a possibility for a bonus if someone disarmed or handled an issue with minimal fuss and no injuries on the part of other customers. According to Big Boy, any injuries obtained by the "rowdy customer" in the process of subduing them were excused and could not result in legal action being filed against whoever did it, because there was a warning on the door about what could happen if someone caused a fuss.
So that was cool. Sort of. (Ish.)
The trial pay was 50% of the official pay, which, while a steep decrease, was still reliable money and a fuckton more than what Peter made being a waiter back in New York.
(Guess crime does pay.)
Immediately after his mega-successful interview, Peter beelined to the Gotham Library. He'd promised to send Cass the pictures he took of her and he intended to follow through with it.
The first time Peter had gone to the library he'd been swamped in a feeling of existential dread and panic. This time, he only dipped his toes into those feelings - which tended to align with Peter's constant state of being, so really that meant that he was totally fine - and could properly take in the library this time.
It was gorgeous. The gothic architecture that made up the entirety of Gotham's vibe , while overall pretty tacky in Peter's opinion, really worked in the library's case. The pretty redhead (who? set off his danger-sense like no regular civilian ever did? but Peter promptly ignored it) at the front desk greeted Peter as he walked in. Like the smooth legend he absolutely was, Peter tripped over his own feet and garbled out an unintelligible response and pretended he didn't notice her trying not to laugh. Y'know. Normal things for Peter. Totally not extremely embarrassing and making him want to die (even more so than normal). No-sir-ee.
Peter hid himself in the back of the library.
Downloading the pictures off of the camera was easy, as was putting them all in a file to send to Cass. He didn't have any photo editing software available to him, so Peter hoped she liked the raw versions. Personally, Peter thought that they looked great, but he was also probably biased and prideful about his art.
What ended up being difficult was deciding how to send the pictures. Like, obviously through email - duh - but Peter didn't know if he should just include the photos, or send a note too, or ask if maybe Cass was maybe a goddess sent to Earth to prove that humans are inherently inferior for requiring words to express half as much as she does with a single shoulder tilt-
Decisions, decisions…
In the end, Peter simply attached the file and wrote out a simple message, hitting send before he could overthink it too much.
Now… Peter should probably research the Iceberg Lounge.
Hi Cass, here are the photos! I hope you like them :)
I hope this doesn't sound weird, but I wanted to thank you for everything. Yesterday felt like a breath of fresh air.
-Peter
…
Cass: Sent an image attachment
Steph: omg omg omg?
Steph: u look so good omg? when did u get prof pics taken?
Dick: those are very good cass!
Bruce: Very nice. I can have them printed.
Cass: Not a professional picture - I met a guy in the park yesterday.
Damian: Is that why you disappeared for a few minutes? I saw you leave, but did not follow since Titus wanted to play fetch.
Cass: Yes. He knows body language like I do. He is my friend now.
Steph: i wanna meet him if u like him ! can he take my pics 2?
Cass: Maybe.
Peter's new position started right away. Surprisingly (or, actually, unsurprisingly? If this was supposed to be some big-shot-baddy's above-ground business?), the Iceberg Lounge followed along with typical US nightclub regulations, despite New Jersey law technically not requiring it. That meant the club closed at two in the morning, coinciding with the last call for alcohol. Opening at six in the afternoon, the Iceberg Lounge served both the late night crowd as well as elegant and opulent dinners to a more refined one earlier on in the evening. The switch over from extravagant dining to a more nightclub-esque scene occurred at around ten, which is also when the first shift for workers ended.
Monday through Wednesday, Peter worked the first shift, while on Friday and Saturday, he'd been assigned to the club-shift. As far as Peter could tell, Friday and Saturday were when the rowdier patrons tended to show up, meaning that his late night shifts were pretty much just a test to see if he could handle himself. Depending on which shift he had - first or second - Peter also needed to arrive or stay for an extra half hour to either set up or clean up, which all made sense to him. That meant that in one week Peter would work twenty-two (and a half!) hours, which would be guaranteed $720 a week (once he made it past the first two trial weeks, and started making the official salary amount).
(And that amount wasn't even counting what money Peter could be making for stopping incidents from happening! Which Peter - or Ben - happened to be very good at .
OH! And tips!)
The only the slightest bit fraudulent (haha, whoops ) part came down to how Peter was paid, because he didn't have an identity that could be paid above-board. But when Peter had expressed those concerns during the interview, Big Boy had just told him to not worry about it , which is such a terrifying concept for a definite-mobster to be talking about.
So. That's fun.
But at the very least, things seemed to be turning up. There was hope .
For Peter, at least.
Gotham , on the other hand, had found itself to be a tricky situation.
Apparently - and, surprise, surprise! - when a massive fucking prison break happens and half of Gotham's very! volatile! villains! (" A triple-V catastrophe," Peter solemnly muttered to himself) escape, that tends to create some issues . While all had been quiet in the first few weeks of their escape (an event that preceded Peter's own arrival to Gotham), Two-Face had only been the beginning of a long series of attacks.
But, well, that is a problem for the night crew.
Peter, however? He had the day shift.
About two and a half weeks into his job at the Iceberg Lounge (which was half a week into being paid the official amount, after Peter passed his trial run with flying colors! and really (sidebar time!) the place wasn't that bad. Sure, on days when Peter had the first shift he had to sprint from the shelter where he ate dinner with Nic's crowd (Nic himself was almost a rare sight nowadays. While he showed up with some regularity at the beginning of Peter's time at the shelter, he'd started showing up less and less. Peter hoped he was alright) to his job in order to be on time… but that was all totally fine), Peter was jogging to his Wednesday shift when his danger-sense pinged . On a scale from banana-tossed-at-his-face to Green-Goblin-is-about-to-fuck-shit-up, it registared as a solid 2 (don't question the scale!) so Peter decided to just let it happen. The danger was aimed toward him , after all, not anyone else.
Barely restraining himself from looking around, and pretending to be oblivious, Peter couldn't help but wonder what the fuck was setting off his internal alarms, despite his blaise nature about it. It was barely 5:20 on a Wednesday evening . Which, in New York, wouldn't have been entirely abnormal , as most crime tended to occur (statistically speaking) between four and seven in the afternoon. In Gotham , though?
Peter mentally shrugged. He pushed his confusion out of his mind - remembered that Gotham had a daytime hero for a reason (Go Signal!) - and let himself be grabbed (but seriously what the hell? The area wasn't even deserted for Thor's sake - at least make sure there aren't any witnesses, idiot!) by thick hands that snatched at his backpack and pulled him into an alley.
Being entirely honest, if Mx. Snatcher hadn't immediately let go of Peter's bag (in favor of slamming him against the wall and pressing the meat of their forearm against his throat, properly cutting off Peter's airways), he might have broken their hands in a deranged and protective panic over the notion that his backpack was going to taken from him.
Bodily harm, however? Chump change. Peter wanted to see where this was going.
"You!"
Normally, Peter would have cheekily responded, "Me!" but whomp-whom p he was currently in the process of being suffocated. Thankfully his face must have said it, because Mx. Snatcher slammed him against the wall again (Peter thanked Thor that he splurged on a better camera case. The two cameras were practically locked in a safe , whose sharp edges stabbed into Peter's back at the rough treatment), "You're going to tell me all you know about the Penguin!"
Okay, pause . There were two ways to play this. One was to be honest and say he didn't know anything about anybody, and the other was to be a little shit and maybe have a murder attempt on his hands (towards him, of course). Peter weakly clawed at the person's arm, trying to convey the message, " You fucker I can't speak if I'm choking," to which the idiot thankfully understood.
While Peter was not , in fact, out of breath or weak, he played his part beautifully (in his opinion), his enhanced hearing picking up the sound of someone else approaching, "Well, a group of penguins - when on land, and only on land, mind you - is called a waddle. In the water they're called a raft!" Mx. Snatcher tried to grab at Peter again, but he slid to side in a movement that was all teenage gangly limbs and accidental success, "Some penguins can also launch themselves like nine feet in the air coming out of the water," a trip over his own feet in an attempt to stand up straighter has Peter ducking right under Mx. Snatcher's fist, "Hey, hey, question for you: what do you call a penguin in the desert?" Mx. Snatcher had just enough time to growl out, "The hell?-" before they dropped like a rock, the new person looming behind them. Retracting their fist and turning towards the handful of hopeless goons that had been watching, Peter noted that they were wearing a domino mask with their hood pulled up, as if they had just haphazardly thrown together a temporary disguise. The dude was built like a brick shithouse, which made sense for why Mx. Snatcher dropped like they did: the guy probably punched like a powerhouse!
Peter looked down at Mx. Snatcher's body, completely ignoring the rest of their lackeys as Brick Shithouse laid into them, "You didn't even try to answer the joke, asshole," Peter nudged their body with his foot, hands absently tightening the straps of his backpack, "The answer is lost , by the way . "
Snickering to himself, he squatted down beside Mx. Snatcher and checked their pulse, even though he could hear their heartbeat. The pulse just confirmed what Peter was hearing: the person was knocked out cold, but still alive. Yay!
"What'd they want with you?" Brick Shithouse demanded, and in the distant corner of Peter's mind he noted that the guy had torn through the lackeys like they were paper . When Peter didn't answer right away, he swore, hand moving to run his hands through his hair before realizing that would disrupt his hood, which somehow (?) had not moved in the entire scuffle. Or maybe it had - Peter hadn't really been watching, afterall, too busy mentally berating himself for his idiocracy.
"Hey, Pete. C'mon, give me anything here," Peter blinked, looking up at Brick Shithouse, "Ah. Um, sorry, what was the question?"
"What did they want with you?" The guy was being pretty patient for how airy Peter was acting, so he decided to throw the fella a bone, "Oh, um, they wanted to know about my… employer? I dunno. The person who owns the place I work at."
"Which is?" Seriously: angel in disguise here, guys.
After a momentary consideration, Peter figured that he trusted Brick Shithouse enough to share, "I work at the Iceberg Lounge as a waiter," shrugging, he purposefully looked around BS (Brick Shithouse) to avoid reading too much into the guy's responding facial expression. He already heard the sharp intake of breath, which pretty much summed up the response that any sane person would have to that sort of comment, "But, sorry to the poor schmucks you conked out, I know absolutely nothing about anything that's not, well, being a waiter . I'm just there for the good pay, y'know?" Peter hadn't felt the need to defend his actions in a long while. It was both a nostalgic and annoying sentiment.
BS stared. Or, at least, Peter was pretty sure the guy was staring, what with the whole… unblinking domino mask vibe he had going on, "Okay, lemme get this straight," and wow he was pissed off , "Y'have a job working in a lounge openly owned by one of Gotham's most notable crime lords , which frequently hosts other criminals and assholes who tend to get trigger happy at the slightest inconvenience?"
Well, when put that way-
But Peter was undeterred, "Weapons are left at the door," he offered, and if anything, that seemed to frustrate BS more . Good to know Peter's charm hadn't faded over the years, "And like, I've been working there for a bit now and it's been pretty chill. People actually tip really well, and because of the constant addition of hazard pay, I'm making bank ."
"You-" BS seemed like he wanted to yell very loudly, but Peter looked down at his nonexistent watch, "Ah, look at the time. I better get going, or I'm going to be late for my shift. Thanks for the save!" Before BS could say anything else, Peter took off sprinting , making sure to remain just within the capabilities of a normal human, but still much too fast for BS to catch up with. The guy's composition was more suited towards being a tank as opposed to running like his life depended on it.
Lucky for Peter , he had experience in both!
Peter was only a few minutes past his designated 5:30 check in, but his coworkers didn't say anything about it, having found out quickly that Peter was the only one of them with any prior experience working in a restaurant. Maybe not a place this opulent, but if nothing else, Peter's always been spectacular at bullshitting with the best of them.
It was only once his shift was over that Peter let himself be angry.
Or annoyed. It took a lot to make Peter angry nowadays.
Not important - Peter was disappointed in himself. He'd been delaying Spider-Man, claiming that it wouldn't be a sustainable practice while still being without a home - that he just needed more time , and then he could continue acting as a vigilante once more.
But crime didn't wait - and even though these weren't his people, no one deserved to be afraid to walk down the street on a Wednesday afternoon for fear of being snatched into an alley. The Bats did a lot during the night - Peter didn't deny that - but in the day, Signal was alone , and sometimes… sometimes people needed a lot more help than just having someone to fight crime . That's what was so important about the Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man: he didn't just make people feel safe… he made them feel important . It didn't matter if it was carrying someone's groceries, offering math assistance to some middle schooler crying over their homework, shooing away bullies, or getting cats from trees. Every single action was neighborly . And with every neighborly action Spider-Man… no - with every neighborly action Peter did, the less afraid others were to be neighborly themselves. Laughing together over his Fail Compilation on YouTube, pleasant conversations with neighbors they'd never thought to talk to before, watching out for their youngest residents… it made every drop of blood, every bullet wound, every graze that Peter ever obtained worth it .
And Peter knew he was allowed to be selfish - MJ and May and Ned (and later Johnny) had attempted to drill that into his head over and over again - but being Spider-Man? It didn't - he couldn't - have room for selfishness. It was one thing to take a break in New York, when his turf would be safe in the meantime due to the constant effort he put into maintaining its peace… but Gotham? Not only was it selfish of Peter to try to pretend like crime wasn't happening, it was cruel.
Sure, waiting to get back onto his feet was a smart idea. That part, at least, wasn't selfish - not in the least. It was practical . But what Peter was doing? Justifying his own inaction and turning a blind eye to the real and present issues Gotham was facing? That wasn't herolike - that was being a shitty person .
So Peter ducked into a grocery store that was thankfully still open at a little past ten at the night, browsing the shelves until he found all that he needed.
The cashier definitely thought he was planning a burglary, or was at least a little strange, as he unloaded his cart (consisting of, just to list a few: rope, metal rods, a Minecraft hoodie with a zip up face, zip ties, and a bunch of socks and thin gloves), but since he (sadly) forked over the cash to pay for it all, she simply wished him a good night and moved on with her life.
Or maybe it was just a Gotham thing, considering she didn't even make a face - even to Peter's hypersensitive eyes - at his collection. What a brave soul. Peter would have judged him hard in her position. Maybe. Or maybe not. Probably not, actually, considering this was a Walmart.
On nights when he worked, Peter obviously wasn't able to sleep at the shelter. It was unfortunate, but that's just how the cookie crumbles! or some shit. What he had ended up doing on those nights was wedging himself in the corner of some random dilapidated roof ( with a roof access!). The little blanket given to him by the shelter ended up being a lifesaver when it came to comfort, but what really saved him was that the weather had been blissfully mild so far. Winter was soon approaching, though (and with winter came the two year anniversary of May and Peter Parker's deaths), but Peter just needed to finish this first week of post-trial period working and get his weekly paycheck. After that, he would be able to afford a (very shitty) apartment. There had only been one time when someone else had stumbled across him snoozing on a roof… but Peter wasn't exactly keen on repeating the experience.
It had been a normal-ish night about a week ago, when it happened.
It, of course, being Peter's unwelcome visitor.
It wasn't like Peter didn't know that during the night a swarm of bat-themed vigilantes invaded Gotham's rooftops and alleyways. He'd quite literally taken a picture of such an occurrence, and had partaken in the joys of swinging through cities and fighting crime himself. No, no, it's just that Peter is stupid and likes to ignore the fact that it was highly likely for some Bat to stumble across him because of his cute little "Fuck it, we ball," mentality.
No more fucking it. No more balling. Not after Peter aggressively and damn near violently woke up to the sound of someone landing on his abandoned rooftop. Like, what the hell, dude? Can't a guy get some sleep in a mega sketchy location in peace ? But alas, no dice.
The person landed in a run, damn near booking it to the corner where Peter had been (un)comfortably curled up, and when Peter apparently had the audacity to mumble, "D'fuck?" the guy's - no, wait thats a kid… oh fuck that was Robin! - body language turned ten shades of bewildered, "You ignoramus, get up! This building is under attack!"
Robin thankfully didn't immediately start grabbing at Peter, which was a good thing, because half-asleep Peter tended to not really know his own strength, and might break Robin's little kiddo hands in what might have been a simple attempt to gently bat them away, "But there are stairs?" Peter offered, sitting up anyway and folding his blanket neatly. Something obviously had the kid upset, and Peter figured he'd go along with it. Someone was talking to Robin in his earpiece, which he pretended not to be able to hear.
"Robin, report: is the building evacuated yet?"
Which, whoops, that happened to be a voice Peter recognized - she sounded like the nice redheaded librarian from the last time Peter went to the Gotham Library - but Peter was really good (an expert even!) at pretending he doesn't know people that he totally does know , so that accidental information drop would be totally fine and kept under wraps.
(Hopefully. Maybe.)
But aside from the fact that Peter's danger-sense was screaming at him, and every hair on his arms was standing upright… he seriously had no idea what the hell was going-
Shooting to his feet and flinging the blanket into the air, Peter shoved Robin to the side. The kid tried to stand his ground - startlingly alert and aware of Peter's movements, even when they should have been unexpected - but he had no chance against Peter's super strength, of which he allowed the slightest bit to seep through. Bowling both of them over, Peter kept his head down, trying to avoid giving Robin a good look at his face. Peter had managed to move them out of the way just in time, a spray of bullets decorating the area where the vigilante once stood, ripping Peter's blanket to shreds ( nooooo!) in the process. He didn't need to look to see it was just some low level goon (wearing a Joker mask?), and darting to his feet, Peter momentarily let his instincts kick over, ignoring the shout of protest from Robin, approaching the goon on fast feet. Like a baseball player sliding home, Peter used his momentum to skid down and under the gun as the guy reloaded, taking out his knees and bringing him to the ground.
Thanking Thor that Peter had the foresight (or the paranoia) to grab his backpack in a firm hold before moving, thus saving it from being both a) riddled with bullet holes and b) left behind as Peter leapt off of the building.
Poor Robin was definitely going to have a hard time explaining that one to the big boss, but by the time he arrived at the edge (and wow , that kid was fast!), Peter was already out of sight - but thankfully not dead on the concrete, thus alleviating Robin of the potential guilt of driving a guy to leap off a building in a more splatty style.
In a truly stupid fashion, Peter circled around and brought out the camera, taking a few snapshots through broken windows of the furiously fighting Batman and the one-and-only Joker!
The totally real Joker!
But unlike with Two-Face, Joker happened to be a lot more prepared. There was no epic-takedown photo this time. Instead, there was only a super-dramatic photo of the Joker in the process of throwing down a gas bomb, with Batman's hands outstretched towards the villain as if to stop him. Batman didn't quite manage to stop him in time, but did have a breathing-thingy on him, which enabled him to continue the fight. As the gas wafted towards the window, Peter dropped down a few stories. It was just in time too as a goddamn clown helicopter (clown-copter?) almost smashed into the side of the building. There would be no possible way for Peter to remain out of sight of all parties then, so settling for snapping a few pictures from below, Peter stayed where he was. Although the angle was awkward, Peter did manage to get a few of the Joker leaping out of the window and into the clown-copter, and a truly spectacular one of Batman dangling from the clown-copter, having been able to attach a grappling hook to its bottom. With no way to follow, Peter dropped down to the ground and focused on fleeing the premises.
Gotham Glazer -
"Batman versus the Joker - A Constant Game of Back and Forth That Spells Tragedy for the Citizens of Gotham!"
Article Written by Sherry Rite, Photos by an Anonymous Submitter
"Father, I believe I know who took the photos."
All heads swiveled to Damian, and he attempted (no , succeeded , Damian can never fail at anyth-) to maintain a confident facade. In a moment of rare cooperativeness (aka: the effect of Alfred's heavy handed disappointment), a not-insignificant portion of the Bat-Crew had gathered for a Sunday dinner. Early, of course - because come Sunday evening , there would be more bats flooding the street than usual.
Jason frowned, pointing his fork at Damian, "Eh? Y'talking about the new pictures the Glazer had?" Damian sniffed, "Of course, Todd, what else would I be talking about?"
"'Cause when it came out a few days ago, y'didn't say anything," Jason grumbled, and when Damian didn't respond right away, impatiently gestured, "Well then, out with it, c'mon I'm curious."
"Well, I was in charge of evacuating the building, and I… did not include something in my report."
("I cannot show how unsure I am. Let me come out with the full truth, and let them see why I made the choices I did!" Damian thought to himself, setting his jaw stubbornly.
His mother said the movement always made him look like his father .)
Father raised his eyebrows, but surprisingly, didn't say anything, letting Damian continue. Or, maybe not surprisingly. Richard was , after all, giving Father the stink eye, as if daring him to interrupt, "On the roof, there was a person. Male, I believe. I did not see his face, but he knew I was on the rooftop before my feet had even touched down, and I know that I did not make a sound. He seemed completely unaware of the Joker's invasion of the building - a perfect profile of a homeless teen - yet also…" Damian hesitated, hating to admit to his own moment of weakness, but the need to share the truth had him throwing his pride to the wind, "He pushed me out of the way of an attack that likely would have likely resulted in my death. I do not believe he was hit by any of the bullets either. He then crossed the distance between us and the shooter… far too quickly. He took out the perpetrator, and then jumped off the roof."
Richard inhaled quickly, and everyone at the table seemed to tense. Father could no longer hold his silence, "You reported that the building had been abandoned, and we found no casualties. You're saying someone jumped off of the building, and no one found their body?" His voice was stern - gruff - but had an underlying note of confusion , which is the only reason why Damian felt comfortable continuing his explanation.
Damian shook his head, frowning "No, that's why I didn't mention it before. Because I… when I arrived at the edge, the man was gone . There was no fire escape, no ledge, and he was not on any other side of the building. I didn't arrive at the ledge more than seven seconds after he jumped, but he had completely vanished. The only thing I found was… a piece of what looked like a spider's web, but the sample I took disappeared by the time we arrived at the Cave."
Damian stared hard at his plate, as if it would provide him with answers, "I was not sure… how to explain it at the time, especially considering I lacked proof of my encounter, so I omitted it from my report. I had no way to prove what I saw - and the only evidence vanished from my possession within hours. I went back to the building the next day - I wanted to see the bullet marks from where the shots missed me - and they were not there … I thought I might have been exposed to something - some hallucinatory chemical - which is why I requested a blood panel be done soon after. But nothing came back, and I felt as if I was going crazy - imagining a presence where there was none - until the photos showed up."
Looking up near-desperately, Damian turned to each of his family members , "Someone was there - this mysterious photographer - and I do not think he is human. Or, at the very least, he is enhanced, and both fast and strong. I didn't- I did not know what to do, so I feigned ignorance and waited until we were all gathered to share my… hypothesis. "
The family went silent. Damian stirred in his seat after a few minutes, which seemed to draw Father out of his own mind, "Next time, report everything that happens, even if it does not seem feasible," he lectured, but then imperceptibly softened, "But I understand your hesitance. Thank you for your insight - this is the best clue we've gotten so far."
"This all sounds like some meta on the loose, which could explain their disappearing act," Steph spoke up for the first time, leaning on her fist, "But what I'm stuck on is… how did the bullet marks just disappear?"
("Aye, Ben, whatcha doing?" Peter's coworker, who had introduced himself proudly as Mace, but Peter suspected of being a Mark , at most, asked. Looking up from his self-appointed task, Peter gestured towards the floor in the kitchen, a now-smooth concrete, "Cook kept complaining about the cracks in the concrete tripping him up, so I got a concrete patching compound to fix it!" It was the end up Peter's Friday night shift, merely a few days after the Joker incident, and he'd decided to patch up the floor as a surprise for the older man who called himself The Cook - a name taken after his newfound profession.
"That's a real nice thing for you to do!"
Peter shrugged, "I had some on hand.")
But Peter digresses. While someone may have only stumbled across him once so far , that doesn't mean it won't happen again , which made Saturday all the more exciting. This Saturday - as in today-Saturday! - would mark the end of Peter's first full week working at the Iceberg Lounge, which, in turn, also means that he gets paid!
While Sherry did end up delivering on the promised three hundred dollars, and another two hundred for the Batman v. Joker pictures from a week ago, something in Peter's gut told him to wait until he received his first paycheck to get an apartment. This time, that something was probably nothing more than Peter's own anxiety (the non-spider-one) about apartment hunting and the need for a sense of financial stability before committing to renting an apartment.
All Peter needed was a quiet and peaceful Saturday shift to round off his week, so he could then spend Sunday starting on an apartment hunting spree (and he might just have the perfect idea for how to do that!).
Of course, Parker Luck dictates that Peter's "quiet and peaceful Saturday shift" was doomed from the start.
His shift began easily enough, which should have been a sign that things were going to go downhill fast, but fuck it , Peter was trying to be optimistic for once in his life! It went as such, like it always did: patrons want bread for the table, Peter gets bread for the table. They want a refill, oop! look again, Peter already handled drink refills before they could even think about wanting one. Patron wants him to put on a silly little hat and do a dance, well golly gee!-
Peter's made his point.
But about an hour into his shift, Bruce Wayne (yes, the Bruce Wayne! - billionaire-and-adopter-extraordinaire!) rolled up to the Lounge in a car that cost more than Peter's entire existence, disrupting his easygoing flow. Without hesitation, he hands his keys to the valet and opens the passenger door for one of the most elegant and gorgeous women Peter's ever seen, and his danger-sense pricks as they strut into the building.
Thankfully, Peter isn't their waiter. It's Mace , and while Mace may have a silly name, he's shaped up dramatically in the time Peter's been employed, growing to be a true example of Proper Customer Service(™) under Peter's guidance. The rich-folk will be fine, and even as they continue to loiter later into the night - even passing the midnight marker - Peter doesn't really concern himself with them, despite feeling their eyes on his back on several occasions. But as midnight ticks over to nearly one, a sharp sense of doom travels down Peter's spine, and a new car pulls up to the front of the restaurant.
Every molecule of Peter knows that this is shaping up to be Bad News , but there isn't much he can do about it aside from attempting to mentally prepare himself for any possibility. When none other than the Joker spills out of the car, Peter's dream for an easy night is properly shattered, and he makes sure to be the one to greet them at the door, shooting a look towards one of his other coworkers that said "Don't worry, I'll handle this."
The tension drained out of his six foot something, well-built coworker, (who the staff called Big Ben. Of course, Peter had soon been dubbed Little Ben , which is…whatever, he supposes) and Peter knows he's definitely just screwed himself over.
Alas, there is nothing more for him to do other than greet the Joker and Co. (which turns out to just be some poor schmucks he's dragging along for shits and giggles) and politely ask if they've removed all of their weapons, to which the Joker - miraculously! - doesn't immediately try to murder him for. Great. Peter would rather have an outright murder attempt on his hands than some shittily drawn out long game. But still, the guy hadn't technically broken the Lounge rules yet, and the Penguin, annoyingly enough, tended to get along with the jerkwad, so Peter led the clown crew to a table - on the opposite side of the room from the more civilian brand of patrons, although most of them had left (lucky ducks) before the midnight marker - and began praying.
Brucey-boy and his partner (who Mace had called Ms. Kyle - Peter called her out of his league) had stayed, however, and Peter really didn't want to get sued for allowing a patron to be injured on-site. So he kept his ears tuned towards the table for any sign that chaos was brewing, catching onto a few very interesting snippets of conversation:
"So, boys!" The Joker cackled, somehow managing to keep his voice low at the same time, "Ol' 'Crow's got big plans a week from today, alright? My job is to keep Bats away from it while he does the deed."
"Oi, boss! What're we doin' 'ere then? Shouldn't we be preparing some jokes for the Big Bat?"
This time, the Joker's cackle didn't stay quiet, ringing out throughout the restaurant, "Why!" and Peter didn't need enhanced hearing to hear him now , nor a danger-sense to tell this whole scene was about to go tits-up, "This party is about to ge-"
"Hello, can I help you with anything else?" Peter interrupted, and he both felt and heard the entire restaurant go silent as the Joker turned to look at him, smile twitching, hand at his waist. Before the Joker could even respond, Peter continued on, "Maybe you would like to see the desert menu?"
The Joker's smile turned less maniacal and more feral, and his hand twitched. Peter pretended not to notice, "Eyy, boy, didn't anyone ever tell you to mind your own business?" Peter smiled his patented Customer Service smile, "Sir, my job is to meet a patron's every need. Do you need the desert menu? Or perhaps the drink menu?"
"What I need is a new server!" And the Joker's hand moved - to draw out his gun, most obviously - but before it could even be fully drawn Peter's hand was moving, and the Joker's years of experience in utilizing firearms was simply no match for Peter's sixth sense and finely honed reflexes. C' mon , Peter's been doing this for years now, too. The Joker started laughing, and Peter's own smile never budged. Perhaps this was a form of insanity, too, "You've done it now - boys, get 'em!" But the poor losers were about as aware as rocks, and Mace and Big Ben knew how to handle punks. With one on each, the losers were subdued near instantly, and before the Joker could think of his next move, Peter moved around him, grabbing his arm and twisting , pushing the clown to the ground and firmly keeping him there, one of his feet pinning down his free hand. Try as he might, the Joker couldn't budge Peter (Joker: 0 Super Strength: 1). There was a wiggling sensation in Peter's mind that told him "This isn't over!" and as he turned to look at the entire crowd (oh great , people were videoing-) , his spine zipped when his gaze locked on a seemingly innocent patron sitting nearby to the Joker's table, and cocked his head. The fellow must have known he was caught and been unnerved by it - he must have been inexperienced with guns, too - because the first shot went wide and only grazed Peter's side rather than digging into his gut. There was no second shot, because in a move that was inspired purely by the Two-Face Takedown!, Peter nabbed a knife off of the Joker's abandoned table and threw it with a deadly aim.
Or, it would have been deadly, had Peter's intention been to kill. Instead, it simply knocked the gun out of the man's hand, and he was soon being swooped up by Cook, who had heard the commotion and came running. The gunman was blabbering - something about his kids and family being threatened if he didn't - but Peter wasn't really listening. That was a Police-Level task. The Joker was murmuring something about Crows and Gas and Water (whoops! Peter might have slammed him into the ground too hard!) but Peter paid him no mind either, "Has anyone called the cops?" Peter questioned the room in a faint voice, firmly ignoring the growing wet patch at his side. He hoped getting a replacement uniform was free, because the blood was not going to be coming out of that white shirt.
It was none other than Bruce Wayne who recovered from his shock first (although Peter had a sneaking suspicion the guy hadn't been shocked into stillness, but rather uncomfortably forced to remain idle), "Police are on their way," he reported, even as he hustled his way across the restaurant, dainty little napkin in hand. He pressed it against Peter's side, forehead wrinkling in concern. That, at least, wasn't faked, "You knew he had a gun?" It wasn't really a question, and as Peter used his free hand (his knife throwing hand!) to hold the little cloth firmly in place, he still clarified, "Which gun?"
That must have answered Mr. Wayne's question, because he simply bent down to the Joker's level and felt for his pulse. The answer he found in the clown's heartbeat must have been satisfactory, because some of the tightness in his shoulders fell away, although he was still much too wound up for a supposed lazy and relaxed billionaire.
No matter, Peter was losing quite a good amount of blood - a fact that had gone unnoticed by about no one - but Peter didn't trust the Lounge's handcuffs to be able to hold the Joker (even a dazed and concussed one) so despite encouragement from his coworkers, supervisor, and fricken Bruce Wayne , Peter stayed resolute, only requesting that Mace bring out a thicker towel.
Really , the bleeding wasn't even that bad. Peter had been on the receiving side of much , much worse in the past. He was pretty sure half of the reactions were only at the extent that they were because of the man Peter had pinned beneath his foot. A civilian had just taken down the Joker , after all, gotten shot in the process, and still remained perfectly calm and collected enough to disarm a gunman without even flinching.
It was, all in all, a pretty miraculous event.
…
If Peter hadn't been moonlighting as a vigilante for the past… dunno: five plus years! And had super strength and enhanced senses too, on top of a sixth sense that let him know when danger was coming.
So, not that impressive for Peter - his skills had actually gotten rusty if he hadn't figured out about the presence of the gunman until much later - but for a civilian? Peter was basically like a fucking superhero to them. Great. This better not stay trending on the internet for too long, because it was undoubtedly going to make the news.
Peter tried not to roll his eyes.
Thankfully the police and an ambulance showed up pretty quickly - someone must have called the police right at the start for them to have made it so soon - so Peter was soon relieved of his self-appointed Joker-holding duties by some specialty-made police restraints. The medics attempted to whisk Peter away as well, but he'd refused, stating he only needed on-site attention. He could not afford a hospital visit - both because it would be all too easy to find out about Peter's nonexistence AND (more importantly) because they would probably try to keep him overnight, and come morning when the bullet wound (it was barely even a graze, after all) disappeared, it would open up too many questions that Peter really didn't want to answer.
So in the back of the ambulance Peter peeled off his work shirt and let the professionals clean the wound. It didn't even really need stitches - more so just needed to be properly bandaged. In a show of true companionship and care, Mace solemnly promised to "Burn all the fabric with your blood on it," before being ushered away by an apologetic Big Ben for making Peter take care of the Joker. Mace's offer was met with an enthusiastic thanks, and Big Ben's apology with a smile - genuine, this time, not the horribly fake one from before - waving away his words with a, "Nah, it's okay. I knew what I was signing up for."
Peter's nonchalance set them both at ease. Being interrogated (or was it interviewed?) by the police was easy too, but Peter's anxiety ramped upwards when Mr. Wayne appeared. The crinkle in his forehead had not gone away, but instead appeared to have gotten worse since he last saw the guy merely a few minutes ago, "Why hasn't the ambulance left yet? He needs proper medical attention," he demanded, talking right over Peter's head, to which Peter rolled his eyes, "Why don't you ask him that question?" he snarked, figuring fuck it , he's off company time by now - he's allowed to be rude to the patrons, "But for your information, it is because I do not want to go to the hospital."
"Why? The Wayne Foundation can take care of your medical costs, if that is the concern," Peter waved the guy's words away, "Nah, that's not it. Well, like, it is , but not really. I just don't see the need to go. It might not cost me money, Mr. Wayne, but staying the night at the hospital would screw me over more than it could ever help."
"At least let me drive you home," he offered, and wow he sounded like a dad. Peter almost felt bad about denying the (rich, successful, privileged - yeah nevermind about that whole thing about feeling bad thing-) fella, "I don't have a home, Mr. Wayne. I stay the night at the shelter when I'm not working, and when I am, I find a bench until morning."
(Probably best to not mention sleeping on rooftops, if any one of Peter's multitude of theories ended up being correct.
One of which included Batman being Bruce Wayne's sugarbaby. It was improbable, sure, but Peter refused to take it back.)
Mr. Wayne looked like someone pissed in his cereal, but Peter paid him no mind, simply hopping to his feet once the medic said she was done, unmindful of her hasty warnings about not straining himself, "Thanks for the treatment! Feel free to bill the Wayne Foundation if that was supposed to cost me something!" Peter tossed over his shoulder, balling up the bloody shirt in his hands. Mace would have a fun time burning it. Police were swarming the scene, but goddamnit, Peter's backpack was in there! So he tossed the shirt to Mace, who was being interrogated/interviewed, much to the man's delight, and mindlessly slipped past the police when they weren't looking. Inside the Lounge was a pretty exciting sight - a colony of Bats had invaded the Penguin's Lounge! Peter recognized Robin on sight, and the tall guy next to him must be Red Hood - an assumption based largely on his aptly named red helmet . Which, actually, screw Peter's early comment because that is not , in fact, a hood! But whatever. The third person had Peter actually pausing in his tracks because, well: that's Cass.
Peter can say whatever he wants about the other people - can pretend to be as blind as he wants - but Cass was Cass , and even though not an inch of her face was shown, he knew her as instinctively as he knew how to breathe. Cass knew that he knew, too. She wasn't surprised - more relieved to see him up and about and hmm- now wasn't that strange? How three of the Batcrew had managed to show up nearly at once? If Peter didn't know any better, he'd say they'd been waiting , and oops .
Cass was here. Right. And she knew what Peter was thinking before he even thought it, so it became a silent stalemate of staring until Red Hood and Robin - who were arguing amongst themselves - noticed they no longer had Cass's (Peter didn't know her vigilante name. He imagined that was because she was too good to be seen and discovered in her work.) attention. Those two didn't know what they knew. How could they, after all?
Red Hood transformed into a den mother before Peter's eyes - if he could tear them away from Cass, that is - and snapped to attention, "You! You shouldn't be here, this is an active crime scene, and you were injured!" Robin looked at Red Hood like he'd grown a second head.
"I, uh," Talking felt unimportant - irrelevant - but Peter made himself do it anyway, "Backpack. My backpack is in the Employee Room, and hospitals can kiss my ass."
(Goodbye Filter, Peter will miss you!)
"Y'were shot-"
"Barely!"
Red Hood definitely wanted to strangle Peter, " Still shot! And shirtless, were y' walking out front like that? Fuckin' hell, the paps are gonna eat this shit up-"
As Red Hood bemoaned Peter's lack of common sense, Peter waved goodbye to Cass - who really didn't want him to leave, not until she could check on his injury herself and make sure he was alright - and then booked it.
"-like really, did y'seriously think- what? Y' motherfucker!-"
Bye bitch: Peter out .
That night the Batcave, Bruce called an emergency meeting. He filled everyone in - which included both Dick and Barbara on a call line, as well as an in-person Steph and Duke - on the events of that night, still in his formal suit, completed with bloodsoaked sleeves. Blood that belonged to a civilian who had taken down the Joker by himself .
Sure, two other waiters had taken care of the Joker's henchmen, but the kid himself - Ben - had single-handedly defeated the actual Joker after the clown had escaped Batman just a week prior, and then disarmed a gunman in a move that felt pervasively similar to Bruce's own techniques. Feats that then went on to include outmaneuvering Jason, Damian, and Cass after getting shot and refusing hospital treatment.
It all felt wrong.
The air was abuzz with confused and nervous energy and hummed curiosities, but one voice silenced them all.
"He knows my identity."
Every head whipped around to face Cass, who looked thoughtful, and not at all concerned like she should have been.
"Wh- what?" Tim spluttered incredulously, " How?"
"That's Peter.
"No, that's Ben," Bruce corrected slowly, sort of understanding what Cassandra meant but still wanting to hear her say it.
"Maybe he said Ben, but that's Peter, who took the pictures of me. My friend. He knows me and I know him, and he knows that ."
Barbara frowned, "So Cass's friend and the guy Jason saved in the alleyway are the same person, then?"
Because right - it had been Jason who insisted that they check out the Iceberg Lounge for any concerning activity, citing a run-in with one of the employees as the reason why.
Cass glared playfully at Jason, "He was my friend first , though. We exchange emails. "
"Hmph."
"We… need to figure out how much this Peter knows," Tim grumbled, which Bruce conceded to with a nod, "Agreed. It seems like the list of people who know too much keeps increasing - first that caller, then the photographer - who might be a meta - and then this Peter kid, who knows Cass's identity, and may very well know ours too."
A solemn silence filled the cave, heavy with the weight of that implication. Like a prisoner headed to the gallows, the vigilantes felt as though a metaphorical noose was being drawn around their secret identities. A sense of helplessness permeated the air - for what could they do when there was nothing to be done?
… Unless-
"We are not interrogating my friend."
Gotham Glazer
"Saturday Special! Joker Thwarted: Teen Saves the Day - Exclusive Interview with Ben Jones-Watson!"
Article Written by Sherry Rite
P-
I can not believe that you do not have a favorite dance. I can teach you.
Also, want to come over for dinner? My family would like to meet you, and Steph loves your photos.
-C
C-
I have no rhythm, but I can try. And sure, what day? Tell Steph I can bring my camera and that I'm excited to meet her after hearing so much.
FYI: I eat a lot.
-P