timeflysbye

by Lazydaily

marvel peter gotham

4. Chapter 4

The plan, as they always tended to start out, was simple: don't fuck up.

Plan B, created at the recognition that obviously he was going to fuck up, was a lot more realistic: fuck up, but still work it out anyway.

It , of course, was getting an apartment. ( No, it wasn't the ever looming threat that angering the Joker and drawing attention to his civilian self would probably result in issues later on (most likely violent ones). Certainly not. Peter definitely didn't absolutely hate seeing his own picture ( unmasked !) online.

The silver lining was that by agreeing to give Sherry an interview, he could better control the spread of information. By throwing out the red herring of his name and little irrelevant snippets of personal information, it would hopefully heed off most of the vague curiosity felt by the public. Plus, anything that got the Glazer more subscriptions and viewership would benefit him in the long run, so it had been dubbed a worthy (if anxiety-inducing) risk. )

Apparently, Peter's little stunt with the Joker - despite the Penguin being on semi-good terms with the asshole - had garnered some rather positive attention to him amd the Iceberg Lounge. According to Gotham's (really freaking weird) standards, it didn't matter so much that a gun had been pulled at the Iceberg Lounge so much as the fact that Peter had stopped it before it could get out of hand. That sense of security had people - civilians - lining up outside of the Lounge the very next day, before it even opened, to proclaim their appreciation. In a show of good grace - which also garnered public appreciation - Peter had been given the week off to "recover" (nevermind the fact that he'd healed overnight), and was still being paid while doing so.

Letting Sunday and Monday pass - and going back to his don't fuck it up plan for getting an apartment - Peter had only started to seriously look for a solution to his housing situation on Tuesday. It had only taken a brief skimming of local ads online (and an email reply to Cass agreeing to meet her family?) at the library for Peter to realize: yeah, that wasn't going to work.

That's where "The Plan" came in. So far, the phone numbers from Peter's home-world had matched up to a similar sort of situation in his present universe: the job at the Glazer and the Bugle , Daredevil and Caller Number One both being secret softies with external anger issues, Fake-Ass-Fury and (in a dramatic twist for Peter's naming practices!) an English butler named Alfred… okay so maybe Peter didn't totally understand the connections, but his point still stood: there was something that tied the two together. Maybe.

It was a working hypothesis.

But it was still worth a shot, at least, to try and see if another phone number could save him from this sticky situation.

Now, there were two choices. On one hand: call Peter's landlord and see what other (probably) shitty landlord Peter got hooked up with ( if his hypothesis was true) OR - and this was a wild one! - Aunt May.

Peter's mind unhelpfully screeched! to a halt. He… hadn't thought about that as an option until his (unhelpful! rude! sentimental!) mind tossed that idea out there. It was a possibility - one that Peter was more willing to think about now than he had been at the beginning of this unexpected adventure - but something in him still balked at the idea. Peter wasn't quite ready to face… anything about that. Being let down by who May's number now belonged to, the person not answering… or maybe worst of all, them sounding like his May, but not knowing him .

Shady landlord it was!

Maybe one day (and wasn't that interesting… a month ago he'd have never even considered trying to call May) he would do it. For now, Peter punched his (ex?) landlord's digits into his little flip phone and prayed to not fuck up "The Plan" - which, in this context meant, not letting whoever this person was know who Peter was. Time for secret identity number… uh… was this three? Maybe? That is, if being a photographer counted as a secret identity. Peter was inclined to say no , but then again he was marked as an "Anonymous Submitter" soooo….

The phone picked up, and Peter shut off that rambly train of thought, "Hello!" Peter greeted cheerfully, then, going out on a limb, followed up with a very bold, "You have apartments for rental, yeah?"

If someone's breathing could be mistrustful, this person had it nailed . A low, throaty (ew!) exhale later, and the person started speaking, "So what if I do?" And damn that was a deep voice. Feminine, with a hardcore rasp that would be epic in a rock band - if it was real. Whoever was on the other end of the line was projecting their voice a lot deeper and raspier than what is really was. But also - what?

"Well, if you do, I'd like to rent one?" Peter didn't know why he phrased it like a question. Maybe it's because that is such a weird response to him asking about apartment rentals. "So what?" - well! Peter wanted to rent it! He'd already mentioned that-

"Who sent ya?" Who sent- How the hell was this a practical business model! "Look, I'm wanting a place on the down low - and the person who sent me wants to stay that way too," Perfectly vague: Daredevil would be proud, "So do you have a place or not? Cash payment."

The lure of cash was a powerful one. Rock'n'Roll Granny rattled off an address - one so out of the way that Peter had to look up the street on Google Maps - and told him to "Come alone."

If Peter got murdered by a shady Granny with bad business practices he would be so embarrassed.

Peter cleared his history then logged off of the computer, waving Goodbye! to the red-head at the counter (a perfect representation of someone who definitely didn't know anything about another person's secret vigilante activities!), and exited the library.

The place Peter now stood in front of was… decidedly not an apartment. In fact, it looked more like a sort-of rundown suburban house. Rock'n'Roll Granny, on the other hand, was about what Peter had pictured - white hair, evil little eyes, a love for money - only about a food shorter. She was around five- nothing and one of the most insane people Peter had ever met. Opening the door with a gun in hand, Granny gave Peter a once-over, took in his wet-cat vibe (of course it had started raining as Peter was walking over), and apparently he must have passed a test, because she let him inside with only the faintest amount of grumbling.

Apparently, the newly re-nicknamed Gun Grandma did not, in fact, have apartments for rental (which, well, was obvious now ), hence her being absolutely confused and (rightfully) suspicious of Peter over the phone. Instead, she was genuinely just some old lady who had gotten a super suspicious phone call, and had been ready to "take care of" any suspicious fellow (maybe that wasn't normal-) who'd been given her contact information - a landline she hadn't shared the phone number of since the nineties.

What Gun Granny did have, however, was a basement that her knees couldn't handle the stairs to go down to, and a nose that hated the smell of must wafting into her living area from the unlived in space. In a broad and sweeping character assessment that was based pretty much purely on Peter looking like a drowned and pathetic rat (Gun Granny's words exactly), she'd decided to not rain down judgment day, and instead offered Peter her basement. The catch? He'd clean the basement (reasonable), be in charge of getting groceries for both of them (she'd only pay for hers - also reasonable), and make himself scarce on Thursday nights (something she did not explain, but had Peter wondering about the legality of, especially from a gun-toting and bizarre grandmother such as herself). He'd also pay a hundred dollars a month for use of the space, and would need to pay for all of his stuff, too. In return, Peter would have free run of the kitchen (as long as he didn't use her groceries) and its appliances, and the ability to come in and out whenever, as long as he wasn't loud when she was sleeping. The basement was also closed off with a door, which Gun Granny had told Peter he could change the locks on if he wished - either way, she wasn't going down there.

It was a really freaking strange situation. It was also better than Peter could have ever anticipated. Sure, his new housemate was literally crazy for allowing him to be there (and had Peter wondering once more about any ulterior motives from her …) but whatever. Peter would take it. He'd also take his valuables along with him whenever he left, but clothes and the like could be left here, which would lighten the load of his backpack.

Not that it was heavy. But it would be less cumbersome, and would give Peter the space to store his vigilante gear inside (after it was, well, made ).

The basement had a bathroom and a bedroom - and miraculously! - an old computer. The thing was old even by this world's standards - not just Peter's more advanced ones - but Peter was pretty sure he could soup up the computer to run at a much better rate with a couple of spare parts.

And wow , it felt crazy to be able to even consider doing something as fun as improving an old computer - to have the money to even dance with the idea of doing so. Gun Granny only requiring a hundred a month was two hundred dollars less than what Peter was expecting, and would give him a lot more wiggle room regarding his money.

Gun Granny had only asked a few (far too few!) questions.

"Now, who was it that actually gave you my number, luv?" The posh Australian accent kept throwing Peter off. It was a stark contrast from the deep and raspy voice she'd been projecting on the phone, but Peter supposed he would also be suspicious of strange calls where there were normally none.

"Would you believe me if I said that I guessed it?" The raised eyebrow was a resounding No , and Peter shrugged helplessly, unsure of how to play this, "I dialed the wrong number for an apartment listing. I was a few digits off - my flip phone keypad is really small."

"Why lie and say you guessed it?" Good question, Peter doesn't know , "I- I don't know, Ma'am."

"Why are you attempting to stay off the radar?"

This one was easy, "It's not so much that I'm trying to stay off the radar, but rather, I don't have the ability to legally get an apartment due to… a couple of reasons. The primary one being lack of identification." Gun Granny huffed, "No criminal record?"

Peter shook his head, "No, Ma'am. A fire burnt all of my records back in New York, and I unexpectedly found myself in Gotham without any money. I've managed to get a job, but I can't legally get an apartment for myself."

Gun Granny's fingers twitched like she expected a cigarette to be between them, "Alright then, luv. You can stay. There are a few rules, however…"

And that was that. Somehow.

For once in Peter's life, "The Plan" worked: he called, he came, he conquered. Caesar would be proud. (That probably shouldn't be his goal, considering the guy was, well… stabbed quite viciously. But! He was on top of the world for a little while there. Peter could be the same.)

Moving into Gun Granny's (Granny Gun's?) basement ended up being pretty anticlimactic. He went back to the shelter that night to inform the volunteers and Nic's crowd - which! surprise, surprise! Nic was there! - that he probably wouldn't be coming back.

Sitting down at the table with Nic and his - really, they were Peter's friends now, too - companions, Peter grinned cheerfully. The group thankfully either didn't look at the news or didn't care, because they never asked Peter about the Joker incident. Or maybe they couldn't see his face well enough in the pictures that had gone around. Who knows - either way, it was a relief to not have to explain to them the fake name, the suspicious job, and his abnormal ability to take down some asshole villain.

"What happened?" Nic asked pretty much immediately, clocking Peter's pleased expression in seconds.

"You won't be seeing me around here anymore, hopefully," Peter announced, and now the rest of the table was looking at him, "I managed to snag a stable job, and I found some housing today. I didn't want to just vanish, though." When Nic vanished for nearly a week, Peter had been wrecked worry, despite the rest of the group telling him it wasn't a big deal. When Nic came back, Peter had barely restrained himself from shaking the older guy, or maybe smothering him in attention to make sure he wasn't hurt. Sue him . Peter had lost way too many people in his life. After that, Nic had told Peter that if he was ever going to leave again for an extended period, he'd find some way to tell him. Now that Peter was the one leaving, it would be hypocritical of him to just disappear. Nic looked happy for him, and said as much, with only the slightest tinge of anxiety in his voice, "Nice job, Pete. Y'did good." Out of all the people in the group, Nic was the only one who definitely knew about the Joker. Peter was nearly positive about that, especially with the way Nic had been nearly frantic in his questioning of Peter the day after it happened (weirdly, it was even before the articles about the events at the Iceberg Lounge had even dropped). Peter had dodged the questions, avoided the well-meaning steel grip that wanted to drag him to the free clinic, and promised hand-over-heart that he really, truly , was alright.

The point being, Nic was most definitely doubtful about Peter's opinion on what was considered "safe" and "alright," so Peter tried not to take it to heart when he heard the anxiety in his voice. He was trying to be supportive, at least, which Peter appreciated.

A round of congratulations circled the table, and then the conversation flowed normally, if slightly aimed to make Peter laugh as much as possible. It felt… warm. Safe. Happy. When dinner was over, and Peter mentioned that he was going to head over to his new location, Nic pulled him to the side, "Hey, Pete," There was an undercurrent of urgency, probably hidden even to Nic himself, that had Peter piling his full attention onto him, "Be safe, okay? If anything goes wrong - ever - call this number. I'll answer, promise. Hell, not even if something is wrong. Just. Just call , okay?" Nic handed Peter a little scrap of paper - pushed it into his hands, really - and Peter clenched down on it, a strange sense of urgency in the air that was entirely his own, this time, "Okay. I will. I… I promise."

And strangely, Peter felt like he meant it. That he wasn't just lying to reassure Nic. The little scrap of paper in his hands felt like it weighed five tons, weighing down his side. The care - genuine care - in Nic's eyes (like that of a brother … like that of Ned . Endlessly supportive. Careful. Cautious. Protective .) had Peter reminiscent of a better time. It had him wanting to latch onto this proffered achor like an unmoored ship lost at sea.

But.

But he couldn't.

(Why? The voice inside Peter's mind wanted to scream, Why can't we latch on?

And Peter didn't have an answer for that.)

"Thank you."

They didn't hug. Peter's gaze dropped down to his tightly clenched fist, "Thank you," he repeated.

And then Peter left. It was all he could do.

(Walking back to Granny Gun's house, Peter unfolded the little scrap of paper and huh . That number… was a little more familiar than Peter was expecting.)

So… maybe he wasn't going directly back to Granny Gun's house. There were some things he needed to pick up, after all. A quick stop to two different stores provided Peter with all he needed: cleaning supplies, a couple groceries (all stuff loaded with preservatives and that he could store in the basement without fear of it rotting), and - there were the items that required a separate store - a heavy duty deadbolt (for the inside of the door) and different type of handle that only he would have the key to. It wasn't that he doubted Granny Gun's truthfulness about her ability to climb stairs - the woman looked to be pushing ninety, after all - but having a secure door would do wonders for Peter's own sanity.

When Peter arrived back at the house, Granny Gun was perched in the living room watching TV on an old bulky setup. She seemed pleased enough, though, yelling at Jeopardy , so Peter left her to it and headed down the steps to his new place.

While it wasn't moldy or too nasty, Peter could smell just as well as Granny Gun the stench of must and general unuse. He set about cleaning the place first, an artificial lemon filled the air - barely better, but still an improvement. He did a deep clean, using his sharp nose and eyes to track down any hint of dust or dirt or mildew that remained. The sheets were dubbed clean, and nothing about the room screamed murder scene! so as the hours rolled by, Peter still hearing the Jeopardy music alongside his upstairs neighbor complaining about the "Goddamn idiots!" he figured now was as good a time as any to install his new security.

It didn't take long - necessity had demanded that Peter become at least semi-familiar with basic tools and home-repair - and as he slid the deadbolt closed (then immediately reopened the door because the artificial lemon was downright nauseating in an enclosed space) something settled beneath Peter's skin that he hadn't known was thrumming.

It wasn't midnight yet, and as Peter crawled into his own bed (wow. just… wow…), he allowed his mind to wander. Particularly, he let ot wander towards his goals for tomorrow, as foolish and naive as they might be.

It was about time for Spider-Man to make his reappearance.

Well. Sort of.

Maybe more "man" than "spider."

Actually, there was no "spider" at all, considering Peter was wearing one of those Minecraft creeper hoodies with a zip-up face, with a ski-mask underneath "just in case." He may also be running around in only socks and gloves, and overall looking probably more than a little crazy.

Actually, scratch that: definitely crazy.

It was also daytime, too, which made his fun little get-up all the more exciting. The doom and gloom of Gotham's night decreased marginally during the day (the gothic architecture did NOT help!) but Peter also wasn't really trying to hide. Far from it, in fact. He wanted people to recognize his stupid little costume - to see someone visibly doing things to make Gotham better .

Of course, Gotham being, well, Gotham , someone strutting around in a weird-ass outfit meant either one of two things: Bat or Rouge, both of which often brought along pain and/or misery and/or financial loss, so Peter couldn't blame civilians for staying clear.

The first day - Wednesday - Peter wasn't expecting much. He had to be practical. After all, Rome wasn't built in a day!

(In this sense, Rome was a metaphor for trust.

…He really had to stop it with the Ancient Roman references.)

Peter ended up catching someone's loose dog, halting a purse thief, de-escalating a mugging, and helping change a person's tire ( after chasing off a much-less well meaning tire helper). In the afternoon - right before he was going to clock out - Peter spotted someone attempting to heave a giant trash bag into a dumpster, and dropped down to help out. After almost getting tased (rightfully so! he scared the living crap out of the poor person!), Peter managed to calm down the situation and heaved the bag into the dumpster easily.

"Oh," was all the young woman said at first, staring into Peter's meshy masked eyes, "Thanks, I guess." Peter shrugged, "No problem."

She looked up at the three store buildings that surrounded the alleyway she'd been standing in, "How did you-"

Peter was already gone by the time she looked back down.

It was annoying to not be able to use webs. Annoying, but not detrimental. Peter's superior strength enabled him to be able to fashion a type of grappling hook by bending the steel pipes he had purchased from Walmart not too long ago, then attaching his little monstrosity to a rope. It didn't work as well as his webs, and he couldn't swing from them, but by throwing the grappling hook onto higher ledges (once again taking advantage of his enhanced strength) he could swing over to a neighboring building, or rappel down from a taller one. For the most part, Peter generally just relied on his parkour skills and sticky hands and feet to move around, and for his danger-sense to guide him towards trouble. If there wasn't trouble, however, Peter just watched and listened and waited, and helped where he could.

At the end of his day, Peter grabbed his backpack from where he had (nervewrackingly) hidden it away on the top of a random building in a corner, thankful that he had decided on a black one. He'd lost too many backpacks in the streets of New York to feel safe. It had been another very anxiety-inducing moment to decide to hide the money in a now-empty can of soup (Peter's breakfast) taped to the underside of his bed. Perhaps not the best hiding place, but it was all Peter had at the moment. It was better than taking it along with and risking it getting stolen along with his backpack.

(For some reason that Peter couldn't quite explain (he blamed the paranoia) he kept the original fifteen cents and gum wrapper on him. It felt important. Plus the lint. Peter didn't transfer that between pockets, though. It just stayed in his jeans pocket. It felt a bit too weird to be clinging onto lint, even as Peter staunchly refused to remove it.

Oh. And, of course, his flip phone.)

Having his own computer once more was a genuine lifesaver. For one, it made emailing Cass a lot easier, and two, it made researching this universe a lot less, well, horrible . When he'd been in the library there was always this little wiggling thought in the back of his mind that the librarian would be able to see his search history, or that someone would come up behind him and ask why he was searching up the origin of the Justice League or the economic reports of Wayne Enterprises.

Going back to point one, though, after a long night (wait, no, correction: Peter had been out and about during the day this time) of running (ish) around Gotham, it felt nice to just sit down and check his email.

P-

Do not worry about food. There will be a lot.

Steph is excited about your camera. My other siblings will also be there. Does Thursday work? Short notice, sorry.

C-

C-

Thursday is perfect. Address?

Can't wait to meet them. You've only mentioned Steph by name so far, so I am excited to put stories to faces and names.

-P

Cass would get back to him eventually. Even though worry about meeting her family tomorrow (especially considering this offer came after he saw her in costume and instantly recognized her) gnawed its way down Peter's spine, he decided to simply ignore the issue in favor of passing the fuck out.

After a shower.

And then it was bedtime. Hopefully no exciting Bat-shit happened tonight, because Peter would not be there.

As expected, Peter woke up the next morning to an address ( holy fuck that was Wayne Manor?) in his email, which resulted in him sending back a singular thumbs up and then shutting down the computer.

Breakfast. Breakfast would make this better! Peter's fingers itched to move, but his groceries consisted of soup cans, crackers, bread, and beef jerky. Not exactly sustainable in the long run, especially considering Peter was now actively burning calories and potentially needing to expend excess energy to heal injuries, but he'd been eating pretty consistently the past few weeks (working at the Iceberg Lounge helped, too, since Cook would make up a little to-go bag ( little being a gross underestimation ) for him, on top of breakfast and dinner) so there was a little bit of wiggle room for time. Peter could honestly afford groceries now. What held him back was the vice grip of possessiveness on every single item that he's managed to obtain in this world, which included every dollar bill he earned.

But. But Peter's fingers twitched aggressively, and he wanted to punch down a wall, and that meant that making something would help . He couldn't use concrete crushing strength on a circuit board, on an egg, on a desk. A certain amount of caution and care had to thread its way through his hands, and as their tremors subsided, so did the shakiness in his heart.

In order for that to happen , though, there first had to be breakfast. Granny Gun was already in the kitchen when Peter emerged, standing impatiently in front of the coffee maker. When she turned her (surprisingly steady) glare onto him when he just stood off to the side watching, Peter tentatively spoke up, "Would you maybe want me to make breakfast? For you? I don't have the ingredients so it can just be for you and, uh. Yeah."

Her face wrinkled up even further, "That was a grammatical mess, luv. 'May I make breakfast for you.' Try again," she corrected. Peter obliged, "May I please make breakfast for you?"

Granny Gun pondered, considered, frowned, then nodded, "Yes. I like all types of breakfast food, and drink my coffee black." She then took a seat at the two person table wedged in the corner of the room, watching Peter with an eagle eye as he rummaged through the cabinets.

Soon, the ingredients for pancakes were laid out across the counter, and when the first sniff of the cooking batter hit the pan, Granny Gun huffed in the corner, "Make enough for two," she ordered, and Peter beamed despite himself.

They weren't his best pancakes. But they were still delicious and the tremors in Peter's hands had steadied after grabbing the first egg. Breakfast was silent save for when Peter offered to pay for the groceries he'd used. Granny Gun just held up a hand in response, "No, luv. This is better…" she paused, and Peter kept his eyes trained to his plate, giving her all the time she needed, "This is good," is what she settled on, "I appreciate it. Thank you. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen." It was an amending of the rules from the first day, despite it being only two nights that he'd spent in the house. If Peter had to guess, he'd say that she was lonely, not that the old woman would ever admit it. If he had to make another guess, Peter would say that she also hadn't had a home cooked meal in a while. Peter could relate, and so they ate in peaceful silence for much longer than it would reasonably take a person to eat breakfast.

Neither commented on it.

After breakfast, Granny Gun reminded Peter that Thursday nights he needed to make himself scarce before leaving (likely to watch Jeopardy) , which had Peter's initial reason for panic crashing over his head once more.

Washing the dishes was a perfectly mindless task, and one he took to with a vigor.

The issue , at its core, stemmed from Peter remembering his thoughts about Batman when he first arrived in Gotham: that the guy certainly had to be wealthy to be able to afford… well, fuck, all of the shit that he had.

And who, after all, was the richest person in Gotham? With, coincidentally (NOT!), a boat load of kids and a company that came out with some of the more advanced tech in this world…

And where had Fake-Ass-Fury's phone number led, if not to Wayne Manor , to a butler whose cadence and intonations remarkably resembled one Bruce Wayne at the Iceberg Lounge, who didn't hesitate to get his hands bloody, who didn't flinch at the sight of a gun despite having every reason to. Then there was the way those three vigilantes were at the Lounge before the police had even arrived… and the massive guy in an alleyway who knew his name , despite Peter never introducing himself.

Peter stilled. Bruce Wayne, who hadn't hesitated to get his hands bloody. Bruce Wayne, who left the scene with his suit still on: Peter's blood still on the sleeves. Mace couldn't burn that bit of fabric.

And suddenly, every what if slammed into Peter at once: a horrible, terrifying fear that he'd been discovered before he'd even begun. A fear of what his blood might reveal. A fear that seized his lungs, seized them tightly , and made breathing feel impossible.

What if Wayne sees the differences in Peter's blood - how unhuman, how unnatural it was.

What if Wayne tries to identify his DNA.

What if he finds no answers.

What if he does .

If Daredevil and Johnny and Fake-Ass-Fury have their phone number counterparts in this universe, who's to say it doesn't go further? It should be genetically impossible - it's damn near unreasonable - but Peter isn't thinking about reason and feasibility right now.

What if they know - and they had to, if Cass shared anything at all - that he isn't Ben Jones-Watson. That he's Peter - no last name - but also no one that matches his face (oh god , pictures of his face were online-) exists.

What if the Wayne Foundation keeps better track then they claim to. If they know where Peter has slept, where he has stayed, what-

What if, what if, what if.

But . But-

But what if-

What if this world's tech, in all its ancient glory, fails him . If it isn't capable of analyzing Peter's blood. Stark tech hadn't been able to, not at first. Not until Peter told Stark what to look for. Blood. Blood said a lot , true. It said everything, in fact, but it also said so much that without a big neon sign pointing Look Here! it could very feasibly be quite difficult to see what , exactly, was wrong. Was different .

Sure, Peter's blood wouldn't be normal , but that can be explained away by radiation exposure or some other unfortunate backstory that wasn't necessarily, "I got bit by this funky lil spider and now I'm sticky."

Fuck, Peter couldn't breathe. He was grabbing the plate too hard - he knew he was grabbing it too hard - but the monotony of the motion and the pressure from Granny Gun's presence in just the next room forced Peter to finish washing the dishes. Once he was done, however? Peter brushed his teeth with enough force applied to the handle that it shattered in his hands (the head of the toothbrush was carefully placed on the edge of the sink while the rest went in the garbage), and then he was gone , skirting out of the house feeling like there was a fire nipping at his heels. It all felt too much - too overwhelming - and maybe it wasn't just the Wayne-blood-identity mess. Maybe he hadn't been over at a friend's house in two years and it felt too much like Ned or MJ.

(That was a lie. Peter's been over the Baxter Building (masked, of course) for movie marathons with Johnny, and once or twice (or ten times) had been roped into game nights or family dinner alongside the rest of the Fantastic Four.

But that was also Spider-Man . And Spider-Man was a lot braver than Peter Parker.

Spider-Man was a lot more wanted than Peter Parker, and-

(No, no, no, no, A voice that sounded suspiciously like May soothed in the back of his mind, physically beating back those thoughts with a broom. May had that sort of magical ability to make all of Peter's problems feel like they could be brushed away like a clump of dirt or a spec of dust.)

-and it felt different-yet-the-same, and maybe Peter also felt guilty for being excited. For making a friend when there were friends waiting for him back home. When he'd been planning on going to family game night with the Fantastic Four ( with Johnny and Ben and Sue and Mister Reed (Peter was so used to calling him Mister Fantastic in the field that dropping the "Mister" felt like sacrilege, much to Mister Reed's dismay), because they were more than just a superhero team: they were- ) the day after he'd been initially fallen to his bed back in his home universe in a disgruntled heap and woken up elsewhere .

Peter was certain that his absence had been noted almost immediately because of that. Because he was going to be missed . And does… Does Peter deserve to feel happy about a "Dinner with the family" when his family (...maybe not quite yet. But they could have been. Could be .) was waiting for him?

The answer to that question evaded him.)

It probably said a lot (in a negative connotation) about Peter that when he "came to," he was on a rooftop. In a hopefully-not-a-red-flag-in-disguise-sort-of-way (Peter apparently had a lot those, according to the book on mental health that Sue had shoved into his hands on their second meeting), the feeling of being so high up - of seeing the world unfold out in front of him in its infinite and endless glory - was grounding in a way that cooking or coding or building could never match up to. The higher Peter got, the more he felt like he could breathe . In a way, back in New York, it had been the moment where the line - the chasm - between Peter Parker and Spider-Man had been thinnest. Spider-Man could never be as low as Peter Parker inside an empty apartment or feeling pathetic in the library, and Peter Parker could never fly on webs or protect a city like Spider-Man. What both could do, however, was enjoy a view. They - and that separation between the two, most definitely, was one of those secret red-flags-in-disguise (although this one wasn't really disguised) - were most nearly one, in those moments. Spider-Man could reach heights no one else could, and Peter Parker could sit there, perched on the edge of a roof, on a balcony, on a ledge, and watch the world exist below him.

And so in times of crisis - when Peter's mind was running far too fast for him to handle and everything seems insurmountable - Peter gravitates upwards. Higher than his thoughts, higher than his troubles: high enough that no one can reach him.

Or, well, almost everyone.

"Hey there." Peter didn't startle. Even if he hadn't heard the person arrive - hadn't sensed a presence behind him - the voice was too gentle to be scared of. It was nervous, too, "How are you doing?"

Peter shrugged, "I'm okay now."

The person behind Peter was hesitating, "Can I sit with you?"

"Sure."

There was movement beside Peter on the ledge, someone sitting down, and for the first time since he'd become aware, Peter tore his eyes away from the scene in front of him. He wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting there. Must have been a while, though, since the sun had moved enough to be noon, rather than morning. The building Peter was perched on was tall - tall enough that he could actually see where the tips of the buildings met the sky: this man-made horizon.

The person sitting beside Peter was probably high school age. Much older than Peter when he'd first started this gig, but still young in a way that felt too raw, "Signal, right?" Peter clarified, taking in the bright yellow suit and the telling bat splayed across his chest.

Yellow wasn't the right descriptor: it was golden. Golden and black and striking. He looked like a hero, more so than his nightstalking counterparts.

"Yeah. What's your name?"

"Peter," the name slipped out of his mouth, but Peter couldn't find it within himself to regret it. Ben belonged to the Iceberg Lounge, Anonymous Submitter to the Glazer, and he was someone to all of the people he'd called. Maybe he'd be "Masked Menace" once more to the public when his neon getup gathered some traction. He was unnamed to Granny Gun, just as she was nameless to him.

But Peter was Peter at the shelter. He was Peter in his head. And, as of now, he was Peter to Signal.

"It's nice to meet you, Peter," Signal greeted steadily, and Peter smiled - genuine - before returning his gaze to the horizon, "It's nice to meet you, too."

The silence didn't last long. Signal was good at projecting confidence and calmness, but Peter could hear his heart jackhammering in his chest. He wondered why.

"So, what brought you up here?"

And Peter considered. He genuinely did. But this was also someone who was younger than Peter, and who didn't need Peter complaining about his existential crisis, "I like the view," is what he settled on, eventually, "It makes me feel calm. Like the world slows down enough for me to catch up."

He'd puzzled Signal, but the jackknifing slowed down. Steadied a bit, "Anything in particular drive you up here?"

"What a strange question," is the first thing Peter thinks. The second is, "Oh, wait, fuck-" and Peter turns quickly to face Signal, lifting his hands up in a placating way, "Shit, dude, it's not like that."

Peter thinks that Signal would be raising an eyebrow if he wasn't wearing a helmet. As it was, the guy was very purposefully tilting his head to the side to show his confusion, "And what would 'that' be?" It wasn't judgemental. If anything, Peter would say he was genuinely confused, "I'm not gonna jump. That wasn't - fucking hell - I'm genuinely up here for the view."

As if to prove a point, Peter turned to the side and rustled through his bag - pretended to not notice Signal tensing up, as if preparing for Peter to either slip off the ledge or pull out some weapon of mass destruction - grabbing his camera case. Peter took it out ever-so-carefully, quickly placing the band over his neck so that any accidentally un-sticky fingers wouldn't result in the camera plummeting to its death.

"See?" Peter held up the camera, as if trying to drill it into the hero's head that Peter was not considering taking a leap, "Photographer. Well, sorta. It's more of a hobby. I like…" now Peter was hesitating, but the sight of the kid in front of him - who Peter had accidentally given a heart attack - had him refocusing, and pushing aside his own comfort, "I like to 'chase' views, I guess. I keep on thinking that maybe one day, I'll get the photo, y'know? Or, well, I guess you don't know," Peter amended, "But it's never enough. My best photo can always be one-upped."

Signal opened his mouth, as if to placate Peter, but stopped when Peter smiled. Not with his mouth, but with his eyes, the corner of them folding into the start of a wrinkle, even though Peter was still young. It looked like how he remembered Uncle Ben's eye smile - the crinkling at the corners. It had always felt so… kind, when Uncle Ben smiled. Like nothing could ever go wrong.

May had the same eye crinkles, too, when she was bleeding out. So incredibly kind. It's a horrible memory and yet when he recalls her face, Peter doesn't feel scared anymore.

Maybe one day, someone can look at his eyes - at the crinkle - and know he's smiled enough to develop them. Maybe one day, he can be as good as them .

"I like that about photography," Peter wasn't really talking about photography anymore. Well, he was , but also not , "I mean, if there is always something better out there waiting - something more - than I better never stop taking pictures, right?"

And Signal… Signal did something amazing. He settled , sinking into his own bones, and turned his own gaze to the horizon, "It is a pretty view," he agreed.

They sat there for a while. Peter only took one photo. He silently pulled the strap from around his neck and handed it to Signal. The hero wouldn't let the camera fall.

Looking at the picture, Signal was quiet. He looked up and down a few times, from screen to view, and Peter swore he heard a sniffle, "How'd you manage to make Gotham look so kind?"

Peter took back the camera, packed it away, and shrugged, "I dunno. I think it's always been kind, eh? Maybe it just… takes fresh eyes."

Eventually, Signal had to leave - had to get back to keeping the city safe - and Peter waved at him from three feet away from the ledge of the roof, with the promise to climb back down. The hero trusted him - believed him - but didn't want to take any safety risks. Peter understood. He'd never want someone to feel like they had his blood on their hands.

So he climbed down the stairs even though he could have swung down, even though he could have put on his hoodie and gone on a patrol of his own, even though the idea of him falling felt laughable.

But Peter knew how it felt to be the one in the mask. To meet someone - see someone doing okay - and then he leaves and the next day they are dead. Or injured. Or a villain.

Maybe that's another reason for Peter to never become a villain. It would let down Signal.

It seemed like as good a reason as any.

In honor of Signal, Peter even kept his green hoodie inside in his bag, forgoing the second hopefully-not-a-red-flag self-soothing action that he partakes in. Which, of course, was crime fighting.

But what Peter wouldn't do, however, was ignore shouting from one of Gotham's numerous alleyways. Zeroing in on the sound, Peter picked up his speed, dodging around pedestrians and nearly rocketing into the alley. Now, Peter wasn't stupid. He didn't barge into the scenario - that could put any civilians caught up in the mess at risk - but waited right around the corner, peaking only when his danger-sense snagged into a lull.

It looked to be a normal snatch 'n grab. Luckily no guns - just a lanky young dude who looked like a sneeze could blow him away being held at knifepoint by two assholes. The guy was shaking in his boots as he protested handing over his laptop - that he needed it for college - but the perps were unrepentant. The one closest to the guy swung the knife out in a posturing sort of intimidation (it was working), and Peter took the opportunity. To differentiate, Peter named them all in his head; there was Computer Boy, Posturing Asshole, and Short Asshole. It all felt very fitting. Peter grabbed the lid off of a trashcan and whistled, feeling very much like a generic brand Captain America, "Hey, douchebag!" Computer Boy looked like he was about to piss his pants, but got the unspoken message to back off when both assholes turned to Peter. Turns out the little fucker was fast on the uptake.

That's good, at least.

In a very Captain America-esque way, Peter threw the lid like a frisbee, nailing Posturing Asshole in the gut, causing her to double over. Four short strides later Peter was in her space, picking up the trash can lid on the way and using it to redirect Posturing Asshole's knife away from Peter's body. He grabbed her wrist in a vice grip, twisting it so that she let go of the knife. It clattered loudly on the ground, but even then it was still overshadowed by Posturing Asshole's groans of pain from the metal lid to the gut. One down, one to go, and Peter was slipping out of the way before he could be sliced by Short Asshole. It was almost nothing to redirect their hit as well, then slammed them against the wall. Peter's danger sense sparked again - almost like an absentminded thought - before his hearing picked up on it. It, of course, being the sound of Computer Boy seemingly finding his balls at the worst possible moment. Posturing Asshole had started to get up - barely, Peter would have finished the fight before she could have done anything - and apparently that set Computer Boy off, causing the bastard to jump into the fray holding a pipe that would definitely do more harm than good. Peter let go of Short Asshole and stepped between Pants-Pissing Computer Boy and Posturing Asshole, who had been seconds away from getting her skull smashed in by a pipe if Peter hadn't caught it, "Go home ," Peter bit out, as gently as possible, to Computer Boy, and Peter's danger-sense rang out again. Thinking Computer Boy was about to start something else Peter focused his entire attention on this truly unfortunate college student when a dull pain rippled through his calf and up his leg. Looking down, it seemed that Posturing Asshole had managed to get ahold of her knife again and promptly decided to stab Peter in the leg with it.

"Jerkwad, I just kept you from getting brained," Peter complained as finally ( halleluyah !) Computer Boy left. It only took a few swift movements after that to have both Assholes unconscious and zip-tied. It only took a few more minutes to call the police and report a mugging, with the two perps being tied up, and a pretty accurate (if Peter did say so himself, which he DOES) description of Computer Boy.

Not one to stick around for the police to show up, Peter used Short Asshole's (actually kinda nice) sweatshirt - and that's another thing! Who mugged people in a "Gotham State" sweatshirt? - to mop up the blood in the alleyway, and then (mournfully, because it really was a nice sweatshirt) ripped off the sleeve to staunch the blood flow in Peter's goddamn stab wound .

Peter knew the Roman Empire references were going to bite him in the ass. Or rather: stab him in the leg.

It all felt very fitting.

It also felt very annoying , because like, what the fuck asshole, these were Peter's nice jeans that he arrived in Gotham in, and he was going to a fricken billionaires - as in, he was literally on his way to Wayne Manor in this exact current moment! - for dinner and didn't have another pair of pants to change into, because he left his sweatpants back at Granny Gun's, and there really wasn't time to take the detour.

So, here Peter was, an annoyingly long walk later (a solid two hours - it was ten to four in the afternoon), at the big ol' doors of Wayne-freaking-Manor , wearing his nice sweater and a pair of jeans that had also actually not been too shabby before the goddamn stab wound in his calf. There was only the slightest bit of dark red staining around the entrance hole, though, and Short Asshole's sweatshirt sleeve was wrapped around the wound underneath his pant leg. Thank god for straight leg pant style and MJ, who swore she would murder him if he ever wore skinny jeans.

Peter took her threat seriously to this day . He wasn't entirely sure that MJ - even though she has no memory of that promise - wouldn't show up somehow with the intention to kill him if he wore skinny jeans. Sometimes he debated - because then, hey, maybe he could see her - but then the fear of Peter-Two's best-friend-turned-villain story sort of sneaks its way into the back of Peter's mind, and he dismisses the idea of tempting fate in that manner.

He does that just by existing , after all.

Point being , Peter hoped that these folks don't notice the cute little bloodstain on his jeans or maybe Peter's minor limp (hey, wounds didn't bother him - that doesn't mean they don't affect his ability to move). He also hopes they can just look past the backpack and don't ask to search it.

(Peter had no idea if that was a thing rich people did.)

Because if they did, then they'd find a couple hundred dollars, half a dozen granola bars, and a crumpled up green hoodie and a strangely high amount of gloves and socks, and also - potentially the most incriminating - a balled up bloody sweatshirt, sans one sleeve.

(Peter was hoping he could wash out the bloodstains (he was really good at that!) and sew back on the sleeve once this was all over.)

According to Peter's flip phone, he was roughly ten minutes early - even with his accidental delay - for once in his life. There was a momentary debate about waiting, but Peter figured that even if this family wasn't somehow (hahahaha) heavily related to Batman, cameras out front weren't abnormal. So Peter knocked, debated about whether he should have done that and if ringing the doorbell now would be embarrassing, when the door swung open.

A gentleman who Peter would be hesitant to describe as anything other than distinguished greeted him, "Hello, welcome to Wayne Manor. My name is Alfred Pennyworth, the butler."

And. Well. Alright then.

"Thank you, Sir. It's an honor to be invited into your home. I'm Peter."

"Alfred, please," Mister Pennyworth (hell would freeze over before Peter would drop the Mister . It was even more unlikely than Peter dropping the Mister in front of Reed's name, which had a 0.00% likelihood of ever happening) opened the door wider, so that Peter could walk inside. He did, immediately toeing off his shoes. May and Ben had been firm on that - no shoes in the house! - and it felt even more important in such an opulent (because holy fuck this place was big!) manor. Alfred lightly cleared his throat, "Mister Peter, there is no need. I can clean any mess."

Peter's head whipped around, incredulous, "Uh, but Sir, the floors are freshly cleaned, and I've walked all over Gotham in these shoes. It's so totally not cool of me to track dirt and dust inside. Unless socks bother you more, then I can put my shoes back on, but these socks are clean, I promise. Brand new, actually." Peter was rambling. If he wanted to delude himself, he'd say that Alfred looked almost fond, "Well then, thank you for your consideration Mister Peter. I have no issues with socks."

Nodding decisively, as if this was the end-all-be-all, Peter neatly lined up his shoes beside the door - where there were no other shoes to be seen , these heathens! - and allowed himself to extend his attention past the entryway, where he could hear multiple heartbeats. Cocking his head in that direction, Peter puffed out a half-laugh, lightly saying, "I'm not going to run away if I meet more than one person at a time."

Then Cass is cheerfully slipping around the corner, unrepentant, with a few others sheepishly at her back. Most notably is Bruce Wayne himself, although he doesn't look sheepish. Peter thinks that emotion would look completely out of place on him. Wonky.

"Well," When no one immediately said anything (Peter got the feeling that he was being studied, and restrained the urge to hide his injured leg. Where would he hide it? Exactly. Hence why the urge was being restrained), Peter took charge, "You probably overheard my name, but I'm Peter."

"Not Ben?" And ha! Sucks to suck, Wayne, Peter already been preparing his answers the entire walk over, "Ah, no Sir. Ben, uhm - Benjamin, actually - is my middle name."

"Oh?" And that oh was a silent demand for an explanation, but Peter had run through this song and dance too many times to be intimidated. If Wayne wanted answers, then he could ask the questions.

Peter shrugged, "Yep."

It was a challenge. How could it be anything else? But it was an innocent one - not one based in distaste or anger or defiance - and Wayne knew that, "Why did you go by Ben, then?"

Now Peter would answer, and he leveled Wayne with a look , "I mean, it's pretty obvious, right? The Iceberg Lounge is a front for some bit- uhhh," Peter backpedaled, it felt rude to curse, "For some jerkwad crime lord. It feels pretty dumb to give him my first name. My coworkers didn't give their real names either: I'm surrounded by a Mace and a Cook and a Big Ben. Granted," Peter waved his hand in a so-so gesture, "That's probably for a different reason, but my point still stands."

Cass blinks, and somehow that's enough to draw Peter's attention to her, "You knew?" Snorting, Peter bites back the snarky comments he could make, "Um. Yeah. Tablecloths were wrinkly, silverware was wonky, the guy who met me for my interview was literally armed," he listed out the reason on his fingers, and doesn't mind when Alfred shoos them into a sitting room so they aren't just loitering in the entryway. Peter sits down comfortably on a loveseat beside a blonde who's radiating curiosity while Cass is perched on a chair that is obviously hers by the way she drifts to it instinctively, "It's suspicious, to say the least, and then looking up the owner is a simple Google search."

"Why work there, then?" Wayne pressed, and Peter raised his hand like he was in school again, "First things first, before you start interrogating me," Interestingly enough, Cass glared at Wayne when he said that, "Can you please introduce yourselves?"

The blonde beside him jumped at the chance to do so, "I'm Stephanie, but call me Steph. The pictures you took of Cass were gorgeous." Pleased, Peter nodded along, "Thanks. Cass told me a bit about you. I wouldn't mind taking your pictures, if you want." Steph agreed instantly.

The youngest one was next: "Damian Wayne."

He didn't offer anything else, and Peter looked at him carefully before venturing, "You have one of the coolest looking dogs I've ever seen." It was true. Peter didn't know a lot about dog breeds, but the big one at Damian's feet looked especially fancy.

"Tt. Of course he is," Damian scoffed, but it was a sentence this time, and Peter took his wins where he could get them.

"Ah, Tim Drake," His arm was in a brace, but he still held himself like he was ready to fight at any given moment, "I have a quick question. Promise it won't take long."

Peter nodded for him to go along, and Tim leaned forward in his seat, "Jones-Watson?" Something in Peter's hard shuttered a little, but the reminder didn't hurt as much as he thought it would. He'd panicked when Sherry had asked for a last name - refused to give Parker, and couldn't think of one on the spot and-

("If we get married, you're taking my last name," MJ announced without preamble, and Peter choked on his water, "What?"

She looked at him like he was the odd one, and hell, maybe he was, "I'm MJ, after all. There is no 'J' without Jones, plus Michelle Parker sounds boring. And also too much like your aunt, and while I love your aunt, but I don't want to have a similar name, 'cause that feels gross."

"Fair enough," Peter had rasped, still reassessing his entire life, "Peter Jones-Watson has a good ring to it. I can be PJ."

"Never say that again."

"No, yeah, you're right, PJ was horrible."

"You said it again."

And it had devolved into a tickling fight and them laughing and Peter had been on top of the world-)

-and Jones-Watson had spilled out. Something about seeing it on the front page of a news article had… soothed something in Peter's heart. An ache of what if and lost chances. And something like that must have run into Peter's face, because Tim looked ready to back off, "My, ah, girlfriend's last name. She- she passed away, two years ago. Hated ass- uh. Jerks. Jerks like the Joker, always thinking they can trample over anyone and everyone. Lost her to… to something like that. It was a…" Peter looked at his hands, and a grief filled smile danced across his face, "A tribute, if you will." Looking up, Peter tried to show Tim that he hadn't stepped too far, "She'd have loved it."

The mood had plummeted, and Peter took it upon himself to lift it again, "Your name?" he nodded at a dark haired and handsome man - older than the rest of them, but probably not by too much - and mentally logged the flash of surprise in his eyes, "Richard Grayson. But I go by Dick." His face was still distraught, as was the rest of the group, and that simply wouldn't do, "You thought I would recognize you," Peter noted, "Why?" Dick startled, smiling awkwardly, "I've sort of been in the public spotlight since I was a kid, especially in Gotham. It was just surprising, that's all."

"Oh. Well, I've only been in Gotham for a couple of weeks now, so that would explain it," Peter offered, then headed off the expected next question with, "I'm from New York."

"What brought you to Gotham?" Steph questioned, and Peter flubbed for an answer, "Well, uhm. It was sort of a crazy situation. I don't think I can really… explain it. At all."

"Try," was all Steph responded with, a challenge of her own, and Peter genuinely did try , "Uhh… this building exploded," In response to their horror, Peter waved his hands frantically, "Not my fault! This annoying guy had a bomb and blew up my aunt's boyfriend's - ex-boyfriend's? - apartment's lobby and kinda my aunt too," Fuck , keep going, "And then there was this whole thing with like, lizards? Or, a lizard. On the Statue of Liberty. Me and my… brothers?" Fuck, Parker, why the hell was that a question, "Had to… catch it. Yeah. And then they… left. Forever. And my aunt's ex-boyfriend… got amnesia. And a fire destroyed our apartment. And all of my stuff. And now I'm in Gotham."

Crickets.

"Haha, just kidding ," Peter's voice was strained, "I lived in New York and then I moved here and there is no more to the story."

(There. That was the perfect thing to throw them off of his trail. What trail? Peter didn't know, but the influx of information that couldn't possibly ever mean anything to them would confuse these sneaky little bastards. It also established Peter as an unreliable source, and made any future statements of his inherently unable to be taken at face value, just in case Peter fucks up anywhere.

He had this private moment of success when Cass is exchanging horrified looks with her family, then shoves it to the back of his mind when she looks at him again, searching for the truth.

And, well, it is the truth, and it isn't, so Cass sees something and Peter only feels a little bit bad, considering she did invite him over to get interrogated.)

This time, Wayne breaks the silence, even his voice strained, "We've already met, but I'm Bruce Wayne. I'm relieved to see that you are healing up well. Two others will be joining us later: Jason and Duke. They can introduce themselves more when they arrive."

The air is stiff. Introductions are over, and everyone hates the world, and Peter is so pleased with himself for throwing off their plans for interrogation. Steph claps her hands (bless her, she definitely regrets asking him that question now), "Okay, Bruce, shoo. We're going to play games until dinner and hang out with Cass's new friend and we don't need a lurker ."

Bruce was hastened out of the room, and Steph dragged Peter over to sit on the floor, facing a frankly oversized TV. Who needed a TV that big? And this was just in a casual sitting room? Peter internally fretted about his little stab wound bleeding on their carpet.

He was placed in the middle, back against a coffee table, Cass and Steph flanking him on one side, with Tim on the other. Damian and Dick remained on the couch, observing them. Or, Dick observed them, and Damian pretended not to care.

"Have you ever played Meta Party ?" Peter gaped in abject horror at Tim. He'd yet to research video games in this world, but please, God, Thor, anybody who was listening: please tell him that Mario Party hadn't been replaced with fucking Meta Party . Kill him now, if that was the case.

Tim took that as a no , and pulled up the game (oh god , it was Mario-) to explain the rules, saying that if he didn't like it, they could switch games. Damian and Dick decided not to play this round, meaning it was just the four of them, and as Peter settled his hands on the controller and absentmindedly listened to Tim's explanation, he made a decision:

Peter was going to murder them in this Mario Party wannabe.

(Peter won the entire game in a sweep, causing them to switch to Meta Karriage, which, yes , was a shitty version of Mario Kart, except instead of fun little cartoon fellas it was actual superheroes. The Wayne's had the eighth addition and nearly all of them fought over who got to be Wonder Woman - including Dick, who had joined, and sans Damian, who smugly claimed Batman - while Peter immediately gravitated towards Plastic Man.

Sue him. It reminded him of Mister Fantastic, and back in his world, there was one specific glitch that could be achieved with Mister Fantastic in the ONE SINGULAR hero based Mario Kart spinoff that had been made. And even then, it was called: Mario Kart: Hero Edition . Not goddamn Meta Karriage , which honestly felt damn-near offensive.

The entirety of the Wayne crew (save Damian) tried to convince Peter to not pick Plastic Man, which totally clued him into the fact that they did not know about the gitch, or else they would have picked him themselves.

God, Peter hoped it existed in this universe.

In the first round, Peter manages to use Plastic Man's parachute ability (which is supposed to make turns sharper, but also has an unintentional slingshot mechanic when in the air) paired with a perfectly placed feather that has his character rocketing more than halfway across the map and into first place, pleased as the cat who got the cream.

They have to stop playing competitive games after that when Damian nearly tries to strangle Peter.)

Tim informed Peter that dinner would be at six-twenty "On the dot" and they had spent nearly two hours playing video games with still no sign of this mysterious Duke or Jason. At six-fifteen, a panting teen slid into the room, "I'm on time!" He proclaimed triumphantly, before freezing at the sight of Peter.

Unfortunately for Signal - or, well, Duke - Peter recognized him too, but unlike Duke, he gave no hint that he'd ever seen the other before this.

"Oh, hello! What's your name? I'm Peter," he introduced casually, while Duke floundered like a fish, much to the confusion of the rest of his siblings (because they were all siblings, weren't they. Blood didn't matter, and even though Peter could sniff out strained relations a mile away (and to think he was only a few feet, at maximum) it didn't stop them from being family ). To his credit, he recovered rather quickly, "I'm Duke. Uh, Duke… Thomas. You're Peter? Cass's Peter?"

Peter just nodded, amused, "Yeah, I guess you can say that. I'm also just Peter-Peter."

Duke seemed a bit numb, but his "Nice to meet you," was genuine, so Peter figured it would just take a bit of time. Duke's arrival signified to the rest of the Wayne's that it was time to get up and go to the dining room, so Peter trailed after them, gawking at the high ceilings and chandelier and art that cost more than his life.

At six-nineteen, there was still no sign of this elusive Jason, but none of the others seemed surprised. Cass only offered, "He'll be here."

And sure enough, at six-twenty, the sound of the front door opening reached Peter's ears, and heavy boots clomped down the hallway. Something felt familiar about that, but nothing could have prepared Peter for what greeted him when Jason walked into the room.

Dick called out a greeting, but it fizzled out when Peter made a sound like he was choking, openly gaping at Jason . He suddenly felt a pang of kinship with Duke, and marveled at the guy's ability to pull himself together quickly. To be fair, Jason also froze, apparently realizing that Peter knew him.

"You?"

And for the first time since coming to Gotham, Peter felt totally and completely blindsided and confused .