timeflysbye

by Lazydaily

marvel peter gotham

5. Chapter 5

Now don't get it twisted - it wasn't like surprising things never happened to Peter. Finding out Darth Vadar was Luke Skywalker's dad, for one, was pretty surprising. Or when May and Ben had gotten Peter the kiddie chemistry set for his birthday he'd been caught completely off-guard. Or when Peter woke up one day with above-perfect vision and abs. Or when he'd walked in on Tony-fucking-Stark having snacks with his aunt.

But after a while (and this could probably (definitely) be attributed to the whole vigilante thing), surprises become less, well, surprising , and more like "Well fuck I guess this is happening now." And after a while of that (at least in Peter's case), he'd eventually found that being surprised is quite tiring . It was just easier to know what was going on at all times, so Peter made a list (and it was really quite an impressive one - dating back years - so it really sucked that if anyone saw it they would definitely think he'd lost it) of anything that had ever surprised him.

And, well, seeing it all laid out, it was pretty easy to see the sort of patterns that emerged. Peter had come up with a simple list of rules that would help him avoid getting surprised ever again.

1) Memorize voices, because Joe-Smoe who you ran into on Tuesday could easily (and probably will) end up being the next villain of the week, and knowing the backstory of how you probably fucked them over is helpful for knowing why you are now being targeted. That, or it turns out your lawyer is also Daredevil.

That was how Peter had figured out that Nic and the hooded man in the alley (Mr. Brick Shithouse) were one and the same - their voices had matched up perfectly. Plus the hooded man had called Peter "Pete." No one else called him that. Caller-Number-One's and the Red Hood also had the same robotically modulated voices, although Caller Number One's was subtler. Still, the intonation which the two spoke in were pretty similar, so it wasn't too hard to tie them together.

2) Going back to screwing over Joe-Smoe: keep track of who you apparently fuck over, even if it is as simple as letting a door close on them. Anyone can have a bad day, and they'll probably take it out on you later.

It's why Peter won't be surprised when the Joker eventually comes for him as Peter Parker . He embarrassed the man pretty badly according to the media.

3) Know what information people should and shouldn't know. Most likely they know more than you, because you are ill-informed and sad, but it's still good to catch them here if you can.

Now this one was unfortunately wordy, but also helped clue Peter into the fact that Nic wasn't just Brick Shithouse, but also the Red Hood and Caller Number One. After all, Nic shouldn't have known about the events at the Iceberg Lounge so soon, so he must have been there . And knowing that, it wasn't too difficult to make the leap to the one person that shared his build and whose voices (the voices!) were similar enough.

4) Don't be surprised when you don't know everything, because you never will, and you'll always be surprised by something even when you think you can't be: the goal is to not let it affect your concentration.

Easier said than done.

Because Nic might have been like half the people Peter met in this world, but the fact that he's also Bruce Wayne's son? Or something? was genuinely quite the shocker. He'd thought that Nic was the real person, who happened to gain Batman's attention to be given gear. Not… not this.

Peter knew his jaw was gaping unattractively and probably inappropriately for the setting. And maybe he shouldn't recognize Nic as being Jason - some aspects of him had changed that, looking back on it, must have been hair dye and contacts and some really fucking expensive prosthetic makeup. While Peter had known that Nic's face wasn't entirely his face, Peter also hadn't felt the need to pry into the other man's business.

He still didn't feel the need to pry, but screw it, was this Jason half the people that Peter had been talking to these last few weeks? And not Nic? The distinction, on the surface, was only a name, but deeper down (and Peter was trying desperately to keep those feelings deeper down) there was the sharp sting of betrayal.

"You!" Peter spluttered out again, and Nic looked like he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, but only for a moment. He pulled himself together surprisingly quickly, "Do I know you?"

Fuck , if Peter had doubts before, he didn't now. That was the same voice! Peter almost grabbed at his flip phone but then thought better about it, his gut telling himself not to reveal his cards too soon. Flitting his eyes away from Nic briefly, Peter noticed how tense the rest of the family had become in spite of their attempts to hide it. Shit , Peter was going to dig himself into an inescapable hole if he didn't play this right, "Hey Cass? Can I borrow your phone?" She handed it over with ease, glancing between the both of them curiously. Peter pulled out the scrap of paper that he'd refused to remove from his pocket and heard Nic's breath catch in his throat, "Recognize this?" Peter asked lightly, punching in the number and then hitting the call button firmly.

There was a single moment of silence where none of them even twitched, and then a ringing sound started from Nic's pocket. Peter silently stared at him until he sighed, defeated, pulling out the phone and ending the call when it became apparent that Peter wasn't going to do so.

"So… Nic," Peter grinned only a little bit, because if he didn't think this was funny then it would start to feel like the person he'd started to see as a brother had lied about his entire existence to Peter (which was hypocritical, Peter knew , but he never claimed to be a saint), "Funny seeing you here." Peter took his seat as Nic-Jason grumbled and found his own chair. Wayne, from his seat at the head at the table, was the hardest to read, but he primarily appeared frustrated that he didn't know what was going on. Everyone else openly ranged from curious (Tim), to concerned (Dick), to even gleeful (Steph).

"What gave me away?" Nic snapped, but it wasn't as mean as it could have been - more bluster than bite, and everyone knew it.

"I'm an absolutely brilliant detective and you're a fool for thinking I wouldn't recognize you?" Peter offered cheekily, laughing when Nic (Jason! This was Jason!) cursed him out (this was new) and then responded anyway (in typical Nic fashion), "Ha-ha, sure. Real answer?"

Shrugging, Peter responded, "Your shoes - they sounded the same when you walked in. And then seeing them, I'm obviously going to recognize those ratty ass monstrosities with the horrible blood stains. I mean, dude, none of us at the shelter have shoe-money either but like… let them die. They've served their time."

It was a well-hashed out argument - if it could even be called that. It was a line of teasing that their table at the shelter enjoyed bringing out whenever Nic-Jason came clomping in late:

"We can hear you coming a mile away!"

"Or smell those shoes!"

The Wayne's were a lot less forgiving of an audience. They looked scandalized. Nic-Jason laughed. The tension broke.

Peter steamrolled on, practically throwing himself backward in his chair in a picture of faux annoyance, "And now here I am, finding out you do probably have shoe money, so now I'm totally lost on why the hell you keep those things!"

"They are good shoes!"

"They were , until you danced around in someone's blood in them!"

"So-" Dick interrupted as Peter and Jason began to gear up, both wearing slightly-too sharp smirks. Their typical lighthearted joking had been thrown out the window for something more hostile. Peter, trying not to show how much Nic being fake affected him, and Jason, who probably felt far too exposed right now, "How do you two know each other?"

Jason huffed, ignoring the question, so Peter answered, "We met at the shelter. I've been staying there up until recently, and Nic - or, well, I guess Jason - has been too, occasionally," Peter cocked his head curiously, rotating his attention back to Jason , "Now that I'm thinking about it, why were you at the shelter?"

Peter knew, before Jason even opened his mouth, that the answer was going to be some half-truth bullshit. There was a dismissive tilt to his mouth, and the trace humor in his shoulders were lost to a wave of stiffness. It passed over soon enough, but it was still there , and so Peter took the explanation with a grain of salt, "I was… looking for someone. And I didn't want my real identity to be out there."

(Because he's supposed to be dead, right? And Jason was certainly not looking very dead.)

It was easy to accept the lie and nod as if he believed him, so Peter moved on, not willing to stress their rocky relationship. Because the thing was: Jason and Nic - despite being the same person biologically - were… different. Jason was all hard edges and hidden landmines, ready to blow up yet almost aching not to. Nic… well, there hadn't been a single thing that could rile him up. He had almost been brotherly. Or, well, the type of brother that Peter had seen in the movies. The type that cared, that worried, that still supported him even when his decisions seemed stupid. That would always be there.

It stung a little (a lot) to see that person - the one person that Peter had talked to regularly in this fucking universe - disappear under a harsher layer formed by grit and necessity. Still, it felt impossible to blame Jason for the "death" of Nic - not when "Jason" was built around the persona he must have needed to survive. Maybe Nic - kind, caring, considerate Nic - was the version of Jason that could have been.

But that wasn't fair.

…It still hurt.

Peter's attention snapped back to the present, senses tingling, and whipped his head to the side, body already tensing. But it was just Cass, her hand outstretched like she had been going to tap him on the shoulder. Manually forcing his body to relax, Peter smiled at her concerned look, then turned his attention back to the table, "Sorry, what did I miss? Lost in thought."

Tim had apparently been trying to ask Peter a question, which he repeated patiently, "How long have you been at the shelter?"

Making a so-so gesture with his hands, Peter hummed under his breath, trying to account for the time and finding his recollection lacking. Trying to hide how much that stressed him out, Peter tried to go for nonchalant, "Maybe like around a month now? Minus a little? I dunno, the days all tend to run together.

There was a noise from the head of the table, and Peter turned in that direction to find that Wayne had grabbed his napkin too-tightly, causing the silverware inside to clang together lightly. It was a rough action for someone as uptight as Wayne ( Wayne, Wayne, Wayne, because calling him Bruce felt too strange and Mister too polite, at least in Peter's own mind), but he soothed himself quickly, smoothing out the napkin to lay neatly on his lap just as Alfred emerged from the kitchen, carrying the first round of trays. Noticing Peter's attention on him, Wayne seemed to grasp the opportunity with a weird vigor, "You're still staying at the shelter?" It should have been a question but it was said like a statement.

"Nope!" Peter popped the 'p' and Jason coughed to hide his laughter, "I actually found somewhere earlier this week!"

"Where?" Wayne's voice was oddly tight. Peter ignored it.

"It's a strange story," Peter warned, but when Wayne didn't stutter in his tightly focused attention, Peter shrugged,"Alrighty. So there's this old lady, right? And I accidentally called the wrong number for an apartment listing and called her instead and she was super cryptic. Like instead of telling me I had the wrong number she just gave me an address," Peter could see Dick's arm muscles clenching. He was probably gripping his own legs tightly. Tim was over-shredding the chicken on his plate. Duke didn't try to hide his own concern, watching Peter anxiously, "So I went, obviously."

Wayne opened his mouth, thought for a second, then closed it, lips pursing tightly, and Peter continued like he hadn't seen it (like he hadn't seen any of them), "And she opens the door to her little suburban house toting this shotgun and ready to kill me, but apparently I looked rightly pathetic enough and so now I live in her basement."

Peter hastened up the end of his story as Alfred placed platters of food near him. Muttering an enthusiastic "Thanks!" he began to load up his plate with a heavy heaping of everything. Fuck it: Peter wasn't here to make a good impression (although that would be nice). He was here for a free meal and so Cass wouldn't get blamed for exposing her secret identity, even though it was really more on Peter than it was her.

"What?" Jason wasn't as amused as he should have been. Peter thought his story was pretty fucking funny - after all, gun-weilding grandmas weren't exactly the rage nowadays (or maybe ever?) - so the anger in Jason's voice felt very misguided.

In Peter's humble opinion, of course.

"You- That's where you're- You went to-" He spluttered through the start three different sentences, none of them coherent, but Peter just nodded along, too focused on the food, "You bet. And it's cheap, too!"

There was a thud from beside Peter - who grabbed a bread roll from the basket in front of when no one was looking and slipped it in his bag (hopefully it wouldn't smell like blood later from the whole blood soaked sweatshirt, but Peter's also tasted enough of the stuff from his bloody noses that it probably wouldn't bother him as much as it should) - as Cass thumped her fist on the table aggressively, "You are foolish." The three words had more impact than Jason's anger, but even then, Peter was undeterred, although he nodded his head in agreement, "Yeah, I've been told that before."

"You decided to stay with a stranger-"

"Yep."

"-Who threatened you-" And wow, the emphasis she placed on the word threatened really made it sound like she was more indignant and frustrated on his behalf rather than just drilling in how reckless he was.

"She definitely did that."

"-Because it was cheap?"

"I needed a place to stay. She had a basement. We're both chronically lonely," Peter shrugged, "I made pancakes this morning for the both of us. It all worked out."

"But," Tim butt in, eyes wide and looking genuinely stressed, "You didn't know that it would work out. Strangers in Gotham can be incredibly dangerous - you can't just- just do that!"

"I mean. I did. Do it. Plus you all invited me into your home and I've only met Cass in person once," Peter defended, placing another roll onto his plate and then sliding it into his bag when his senses felt a lull in his many observers' attention, "Pot, kettle. Or something. I wasn't the best at English. If that is even an English topic."

"That's different," Tim protested.

"How?"

"It's Cass."

"And?"

Peter already knew the answer. Cass was enough of an answer. But he was feeling belligerent and vaguely annoyed that he kept on getting asked questions when all he wanted to do was eat.

"And… and-" Tim was probably scrambling for ways to justify his claim without revealing what they all already knew.

" And Cass knows how to read people," Peter filled in smoothly, answering his own question, "But so do I. There was no real danger. And I've been shot before, so like, it wouldn't be that big of a deal."

That… was probably not the best line of reasoning to support Peter's argument. Jason stabbed his chicken extra hard, jaw grinding like he was about to start yelling again. He had a tic there, where the muscle jumped a bit too hard.

"At the Iceberg Lounge?" The cool voice - unconcerned, more curious than anything - kept Jason from speaking out. Across the table from Peter sat Damian - Robin, who Peter had kept from getting shot the other night - and Peter didn't like lying to kids.

"That was just a graze," Peter dismissed, but then hastily backtracked, "But yes. Yes, that was definitely what I was talking about. It hurt a lot," he tacked on at the end, as if to remind people that he'd just been recently shot so please take it easy with the interrogation! At everyone's collective wince - even Damain's, although it was more of him glancing down at his plate, refusing to show that he was affected - Peter snatched another bread roll and stuffed it in his bag.

"Which you didn't go to the hospital for." Wayne sounded so incredibly stern that Peter almost wanted to laugh. No one had talked to him like that since Tony, when he'd taken the suit away.

(Look at me now, Tony. Back to the basics, but still Spider-Man. It was never just the suit. It was always me. Why couldn't you see that?)

"Didn't feel the need," Something occurred to Peter, belatedly, that had him wondering just how much of a coincidence it was that Wayne had been at the Iceberg Lounge during Peter's shift. Eyes sliding over to glance at Jason, Peter held back a frown as he connected the dots. He'd just run into Jason (as Brick Shithouse the alley man) and mentioned working at the Lounge, then the Bat-fucking-Man in civilian form shows up with three other people as backup not too long after. Had Jason been supplying them with information on Peter? If so, how much?

Fuck , he'd gotten emotionally compromised. Retreat, retreat, retreat, "But anyway. We might as well address the reason you wanted me here." Considering some people at the table had been looking away in an attempt to give him privacy, his comment brought their attention back to him, even though, in reality, it had never left, "You wanna know what I'm going to do now that I know Cass is like, a superhero or something." Multiple faces at the table winced at the word superhero , Cass included, and Peter silently apologized. He knew firsthand how that label tended to fit like a too-small coat on a good day. On a bad day… Well. Hopefully today wasn't a bad day.

Wayne hesitated - it was fabricated, uneasy in a way that fit Wayne awkwardly. Peter had handed the power back to them; this was what they'd been preparing for, after all, "Well… yes. You must imagine that we are… concerned… about what you'll want for your silence."

Want. What an interesting word. Peter wanted his old life back. He wanted (maybe. he was trying to want, at least) to go back to his universe. He wanted to not be in pain anymore - to not have countless phantom aches that never seemed to go away. He wanted to know where his next meal was coming from. He wanted his aunt.

"I don't want anything. I only recognized Cass because she's, well, Cass. "

Cass understood what he meant - because of course she did - and before anyone could try to pry what the hell that meant when Peter didn't even know how to begin to explain either, she stepped into the conversation, "We understand each other. Easily. It is not like that with the others." And therein was the core of it: the others. Less so of a fabricated dividing factor and more of a simple, solid truth: body language and all of the nuances (yet astoundingly clear in their plainness) that came with reading it, was not something that could be understood unless one was willing to see in the first place.

Cass could see. Peter could see. Sometimes, when looking at him at the right angle, Peter thinks that Wayne could see, too, if there wasn't a block in his heart.

Because to see others' body language for how they are at heart, one must be willing to be read in turn. Peter was a cheater in that regard: this gift, a manufactured one. He could see and read because his eyes and senses and every aspect was attuned to every single microexpression a person could make. It made it easy to lie and hide his own truths.

Cass doesn't know that, though.

(Peter thinks so, at least.)

She doesn't know he is a liar at his core. But that's okay. Because it has to be.

"Because we can read each other, no masks or costumes could hide our identities," Cass clarified, and suddenly Peter realized that what each and every one of the people in this room were terrified of was that Peter knew their own secret identities.

And, well, he did know, so their fears were totally valid.

Peter slipped another bread roll in his backpack while the table's attention was on Cass, then lightly coughed to draw it back to him, "I know you don't trust me. This is about your family, after all," As annoying and a pain in the ass to deal with as it was, Peter got it , "I've had my own fair share of secrets. If," Peter hesitated, forehead scrunching up in anxiety, "If I share something of my own that I would never… that would ruin me, if it got out… would that make it fair?"

"Not really," Tim replied plainly, and hey, Peter appreciated the honesty, "Because it's your life versus the entirety of our family hiding and aiding an illegal vigilante. We have a lot more to lose."

"And a lot more money to pay for lawyers."

Steph jumped into the conversation, her grin playful and teasing, "I mean personally, I am totally game to hear what secret you think is an equal exchange for knowing about our resident nightstalking vigilante."

"Does also being a sort-of nightstalking vigilante also count?"

And with that, they were hooked .

Obviously Peter wasn't about to tell them about Spider-Man. One: dumb, two: there was no proof of him in this universe so it would look like a massive lie, three: Peter wanted to crawl out his skin at the idea of it.

"Yeah, I was sorta-kinda part of this organization headed by this rich dude as extra muscle when necessary. This was a couple years ago, though, so I didn't do too much… hard to take someone like me seriously when I was all star-struck and gangly limbed and idyllic," Peter explained, gearing up to tell them the massive bold-fucking-faced lie he'd been preparing on the way over. However, all the best lies were grounded in the truth, so he kept the relation to the Avengers sort of similar.

"What sort of organization?" And wow , Jason was ready to murder someone , huh. Hopefully not Peter, "I mean, I mentioned it being sort of like vigilante stuff? Not like all the Bats and stuff here, but smaller things. Or," Peter hesitated, as if he was trying to explain it, "It was sort of under the table and sort of not. The guy leading it was doing good work, just behind the scenes of his real and legal work. I helped out, when I could. When he'd let me. He didn't want my blood on his hands. Or anyone's blood, but sometimes that's just the way it ended up," That's right. Tony had wanted to just be a dad, in the end. He'd been done with the blood and the death, Peter's mind unhelpfully added, But he'd risked it all to bring back the dead. Specifically, because of Peter's death, he's later found out. In space. When he turned to itty bitty bits of dust and scattered in the wind.

Anyway.

"I probably didn't have to join, but I wanted to make a difference. I lost my uncle to violence, and I wanted to be part of any movement that would do something to stop that from ever happening again," Peter ducked his head, pretending to be embarrassed, but all he had to think about was fucking "Underroos!" which, god , Tony, that had to be the worst nickname ever, and the embarrassment was suddenly very real, "I didn't realize how much it would cost, in the end. I wouldn't have changed anything." Otherwise Peter's horribly massive guilt complex would have eaten him alive.

(He would just change everything, if it was possible. Not Peter's choice to be a hero… but fix all the carnage that had wrecked his world.)

Dick was so incredibly gentle when he spoke up. Later, Peter would wonder if he was using his "comforting a traumatized civilian" voice, but it wouldn't rankle like it might have from anyone else. Weird, but, "What did it cost?"

"Ah, everything, I guess. My life sort of horrifically crashed and burned, my house literally burned, and now I'm in Gotham. So maybe I lied early, when I said there wasn't any more to the story. Sorry, I guess," Peter very firmly ate his chicken, daring someone to call him out on his bullshit.

Because here's the thing : Peter was never going to pass as a normal teenage kid. He'd had that chance taken away from him the moment that dumb spider bit him, the moment the world forgot who he was and suddenly being an adult - which had seemed so far away - was big and here. Being forced to grow up too fast meant a lot of things, but most of all, it meant that Peter would never be able to play his life off as normal ever again. He would carry that weight with him - the weight of the life he's led - until he dies.

And the Waynes knew it.

There would only be so long that he could fool an entire family of detectives (especially when one could read his every thought and move before he even made them). Considering that Peter had absolutely no intention to reveal his real background - his not quite, let's say, normal status - he needed to give up something that would throw them off his trail. A potentially shady organization indoctrinating teens into crime fighting that crashed and burned? Well, that would certainly explain Peter's ability to take down the Joker, wouldn't it? And it would give him a reason for not blinking twice at the Granny Gun, at not flinching when shot, and why he didn't have an identity. Why he refused to be associated with his old identity.

Sure, it made Peter's past look about three shades more illegal, but fuck it - vigilantes had been illegal too, so they weren't any better. There was also something about this family (and perhaps it was Wayne's tendency to adopt troubled kids at the drop of a hat) that reassured Peter that he could tell him this fake version of his past, and not only would they accept it, they would feel bad for him, and hopefully stop prying.

Pity tended to be weird like that: it was compromising to feel, itchy to be the source of, and so, so incredibly useful.

No one dared to speak. Silently observing them (even as Peter never stopped adding more food to his plate), Jason's white knuckle grip on his silverware, Wayne's massacre of his chicken, Cass's concerned frown, and all of them radiating some sense of worry , Peter tried not to feel too satisfied that his plan worked.

Unsurprisingly, even after eating in an awkward silence for a few minutes, Duke asked another question. Honestly, it felt more surprising that they all weren't jumping to ask follow-up questions, but Peter wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth or whatever, "Wait. How old are you? Like when this was all going down? Because you said a couple years and I didn't think you were that much older than me."

"Well, yeah. I'm not. I'm nineteen right now."

Dick's fork clattered loudly against his plate, "You mean to tell me," he began, all types of righteous fury (and damn, it would be uplifting if it wasn't so necessary) finally bubbling over, "You were in high school? When this shit was happening?"

"More or less, yeah. Freshman year maybe? But things didn't pick up too much until later on," Peter dismissed, "The real big stuff happened my junior and senior years, I guess. Well, during my junior and almost all of my senior - I never actually graduated, since I, y'know, had to leave."

And he still hadn't graduated in this world, Peter noted, annoyed, attention wandering in the following silence. Taking all those GED courses just to get his high school diploma back in his world was all for naught, if he ended up staying here. Would he have to do them again? Could he be satisfied working as a waiter and photographer for however long he managed to live, or would Peter's drive for more! overcome him? Ah, but those were existential questions best saved for a later date.

Unlike the last time Peter's attention wandered, Cass didn't try to touch him to gain his attention. Instead, she waved a hand in his peripheral vision, and Peter pulled himself out of his musings and back to the present, "Tim can help you with school," She offered, surprising both Peter and Tim, although Tim gathered his thoughts faster, "Yeah! I can totally help out." He didn't even appear to be lying , and Peter vaguely wondered if they would be this gentle with him if he had told them the truth. Probably not.

(But maybe they would, Aunt May's voice echoed, and Peter could hear the smile in her voice, People are kind, Peter. You just have to let them in.

And. Well. That might be true, but the idea of letting someone in felt more terrifying than traversing universes with the possibility of never being able to return home.

(Aunt May wouldn't be very happy to hear that. She'd always believed in the people, even when it led to her death. With great power comes great responsibility .

It also, apparently, led to trust issues.))

"No, no, it's okay. I didn't flunk out, just never got the opportunity to finish," Peter allowed a small, proud smile to slip onto his face, "I was gonna go to MIT. Got in and everything."

"What were you going to study?" And here Wayne comes with the million dollar question! Congratulations, he was the one to ask the orphaned (although they didn't know that) high school drop out about the details of his once-upon-a-time dreams.

…

Peter was feeling oddly spiteful. But only a little bit, because he answered anyway, "Ah, probably biophysics? And biochemistry?" Although it was phrased like a question - with the air of uncertainty - in reality Peter used to dream about going to college and had practically planned the whole thing out years in advance.

Alas. Here he was, "I've dabbled a bit in engineering," like his web shooters and fixing Alternate Doc Ock's control over his mechanical limbs, "But I wouldn't get a degree in it - it's more of a side hobby. At least - when I have the ability to do so." AKA: the space, money, and materials. The Fantastic Four's lab had been very nice to play around in.

Peter's most recent feat of some bastardized "engineering" (if it could be even called that) was his modge-podged together grappling hook. It didn't mean much compared to the fabrication of his Spider-Man suit or building the mechanisms to reverse the alternate universes' villains or even the other countless little gadgets and gizmos (aka bombs and chemical warfare tools) that he'd had to dismantle from whatever scheme he came across in the two years after the world forgot him, where for some fucking reason , people with access to weapons of minorly massive descruction came crawling out of the wood shed at every turn.

5) Always assume that there is some massive weapon that could destroy New York (or at the very least, a building) at hand, and that he will have to stop it with seconds remaining. Don't even assume, actually: expect it. Because then when, on some magical day, there isn't an imminent time crunch looming over his head, it will be like a vacation. This is especially true with getting involved with the Fantastic Four, because apparently geniuses like Mister Fantastic are like a magnet for genius villains. One would think they'd pick fights with, say, literally anyone else, rather than one of the few people who can rival their intelligence. (But maybe that just proves that Mister Fantastic is smarter than them, so whatever.)

In front of him, Damian unconsciously reached out for a bread roll, frowning when his hand didn't touch anything. Peter very firmly ignored it.

"Do you have any experience with coding? That's what I enjoy the most," Tim asked, and Peter lit up , "One of my old friends," Peter's heart didn't hurt as much as he thought it would when mentioning Ned. In fact, he felt warm , "Is way better than I am at coding and programming, but I'd say that I'm no slouch."

And from there, the dinner got easier. There was no longer an air of interrogation hanging over him, or worry about what Cass's family might think of him. Certainly they couldn't trust him, no matter how real their smiles seemed to look, but they seemed to - at the very least - believe him when he said that he'd never tell a soul about Cass's secret.

Dining with the Wayne's was different eating with the Fantastic Four. With Johnny on one side, Mister Reed and Sue at the heads, and Ben across from them, it felt familial . It felt like Peter was one of them . It might have been because, despite the secrets between them (one of the primary ones being Peter's civilian identity) there still wasn't a need to hide.

(Sort of. Peter wasn't exactly telling them about how he caused a multiversal clashing and the forgetting and the spells. But he told them about May and his Ben, without naming names. About his high school friends. About his time with the Avengers.)

He could be himself with them. Or, the self that was Spider-Man : the vigilante, which tended to make up the vast majority of Peter's essence these past two years. Even if he let things slip on accident, they never used that information to dig into Peter's personal life. They just accepted it and moved on.

With the Waynes it was different. There were more secrets, more lies, more things Peter had to pretend not to know or notice, all while they were trying to discern what every little movement of his meant. They were trying to uncover his secrets, while in his world, Johnny only ever playfully joked about wanting to know Peter's civilian identity.

(If - when - Peter got back, he was going to meet Johnny and tell him. Tell him everything. Who Peter was, what had happened.

Johnny would understand. (Right?) Or at least, he would listen. He wouldn't judge. In all likelihood, he'd laugh at Peter and tell him "You worry too much!" and Peter would pretend like his heart wasn't trying to jackhammer its way out of his chest from anxiety.)

6) When working with other superheroes frequently, accept that you'll get attached. You'll try to not - say that it is just a professional relationship - but then you're having family game night, getting takeout, asking about legal drama just to hear them speak… And one day you'll realize you have a family again and it'll be the scariest moment of your life.

But there were also similarities. Jason's presence - while acutely different from Nic - still felt brotherly . He was so attuned to Cass's body language that her feelings - her sense of companionship toward him - were impossible to remain hidden. Duke seemed at ease, too, and Tim had been eager to engage in a conversation about anything under the sun when it came to picking Peter's brain on science and math. They were all (save for Cass) closed off, but it still felt like an olive branch. An offering of peace: of a possibility that maybe, one day, Peter might really know them, if he was willing to take that first plunge into being known.

He wasn't ready. Not yet. Maybe not ever, but Peter wasn't as sure of that as he might have once been. After all, everything outside of simply making it through the day felt impossible when he first arrived in this universe. And now Peter was sure - was positive - that he could feel safe revealing his identity to Johnny. That he could tell the Fantastic Four and nothing would change, except now he wouldn't have to keep the mask rolled up to his nose at dinner, and maybe they would make fun of his mask hair. That didn't happen before this misadventure. It probably would have never happened, and Peter Parker would die unknown and unloved while Spider-Man was mourned by people he'd never realized truly cared about him.

(But Peter Parker would have been loved, because he is Spider-Man.

He is. )

Eventually - impossibly - Peter felt full . He stopped sampling more of every dish and sat back, and on some silent cue, Alfred emerged from the kitchen, sweeping away plates in with an elegance that Peter had never associated with taking away dishes before.

(Maybe he'd get better tips at the Iceberg Lounge if he moved like that?)

Desert was brought out and Peter managed to find the space to eat more. By now, Peter had been at the Wayne's for hours: dinner started at six-twenty, but now, as Peter ate the final bite of his delicious pie, it was nearing eight thirty.

"I should probably head out," Peter offered, setting down his fork with a note of finality, "It's getting late."

The responses were immediate:

"No fucking way I'm letting y'walk back now! I'll drive."

"Alfred can drive you."

"No."

"I can drive you."

"It's so late! Just have a sleepover at thi- ouch! "

Peter blinked, watching Steph rub her side where she'd been elbowed by Tim, " Unfortunately , we have some business to attend to tonight, so some of us won't be here. You're welcome to take a room, though."

"No thanks?" It came out like a question, and Peter hastened to correct it, "I mean, no thank you. I appreciate the offers, but I can walk back just fine. I mean, I walked here, after all."

Wayne cleared his throat, drawing everyone's attention to him. He'd been silent throughout the majority of dinner, only speaking up to ask the odd question here and there, prying in the way the other questions weren't, with a strange urgency hidden behind his eyes, "It is much too late to walk back. Please, I must insist on Alfred driving you. Or, as Dick and Jason offered, so can they."

Placing his foot down, Peter very firmly shook his head, "No, Sir. I can walk."

"With that limp?" Damian had, for the most part, stayed silent, preferring to watch what was going on and input the occasional snarky comment, much like any other young teen boy. Peter had paid him no mind, just letting him say what he wanted. Turns out that was a mistake. All heads turned to Damian, and Peter silently prayed for the kid to stop talking. No dice, "You must have walked the whole way here on it. That won't heal an injury." The kid sniffed haughtily, and in any other scenario Peter might have felt warmed by the idea that the kid seemed to actually care about whether Peter was injured, and this was his way of showing it, but it was really fucking inconvenient right now.

Standing up swiftly, Peter laughed lightly. All of them could probably tell it was forced, "Well, I was just shot not that long ago, so I'm not walking at my best, but-" he hastened to add, seeing half a dozen indignant faces open their mouths, "I'm fine. Just stiff. Walking feels good."

Peter grabbed his bag (which he had hastily zipped in his urgency to get out of here ) and swung it over his shoulders, a movement he belatedly realized was probably too smooth considering he'd just gotten shot less than a week before. He waved (why the fuck did he wave?) and started backing up, "I'll see myself out then - bye! Thanks for dinner!" And Peter was speed walking his way to the door, ignoring everyone else, when he was stopped in his tracks, jolting backward. Jason had sprung to his feet and managed to grab the strap of Peter's backpack, which he quickly let go of (probably remembering how possessive Peter was over the thing from his time as Nic ), "You are bleeding." It was said slowly, in a rough (and angry?) way, and Peter would have been pissing his pants if he wasn't nineteen years old and had already been taking care of his own stab wounds for years, thank you very much .

"Yep!" No point in denying, and Peter would have laughed at the baffled expression on his face, had a deep rooted sense of paranoia and claustrophobia not been closing in on him the longer he stayed now that he'd been found out , "And I'm taking care of it. It's my stab wound, after all. Don't worry about it."

"I'm not-" Jason cut himself off, breathing heavily through his nose, "Y'need to get that taken care of. Professionally. Or let Alfred do it."

"Hard pass, no thanks-"

"-No option," Wayne cut in, his large bulk blocking Peter's exit, and now he was really feeling the claustrophobia.

7) Something will trigger you: those feelings of panic you thought you left behind. It isn't fucking fair but that's life, so get up and keep going. Spider-Man always, always gets back up.

"I don't trust you , okay?" Peter snarked, words sharper than he intended them to be, if the way Wayne seemed to almost flinch back was any indication. Peter took the moment of weakness as an opportunity, darting forward in a sprint and dodging underneath Wayne's arms, which outstretched just a moment too late.

Once he was past the big guy, all it took were a few easily memorized turns and Peter was snatching his shoes (not bothering to put them on) and booking it.

Shouts and protests followed behind Peter, but even with a stab wound in his leg, they couldn't keep up. Maybe Peter should have added being a cross country runner to his fake backstory. The thought - despite the probably bad impression this was leaving - had Peter grinning maniacally. The claustrophobia slipped away underneath the open night sky and as the adrenaline kicked in, and yeah, maybe he'd have to write an apology email to Cass, but Peter had also not felt this light since he came to this universe.

Of course a simple interrogative dinner ends up with me sprinting away, Peter thought wryly, and that simple thought ended up being his breaking point. Peter threw back his head and laughed: boyish, youthful, and happy .

(When had he last allowed himself to be happy?)

Alfred had heard a commotion coming from the dining hall, but elected to ignore it, figuring his charges would be able to manage themselves well. When the commotion grew louder and more distant - towards the door - he sighed to himself, and followed. Gathering out on the front steps of Wayne Manor was the entirety of Alfred's charges, and looking past them, he saw a figure growing increasingly smaller as they fled the premises.

"What could you all have said to get him to run away that quickly?" Alfred remarked, lightly scolding. The young man had been taking the interrogation well - as if he knew exactly what they were doing - yet still managed to direct their attention elsewhere and keep many of his secrets from being revealed. Alfred knew that his charges would soon be itching with the realization that they came away knowing far less about Peter than they had hoped too. Cass, at least, would be pleased and proud. As would Jason.

"I just mentioned his limp," Damian grumbled angrily, although it was more internally directed, "I didn't think he'd leave."

"It's okay, Damian. If Bruce," Dick glared at the man, "Hadn't tried to block him in, we probably could have solved the problem and gotten him medical treatment."

Alfred tried not to frown when many of his charges swiftly devolved into petty bickering to hide their frustrations, knowing that someone like Peter (who could have easily been one of them: alone, struggling, wanting to help others) didn't want (or couldn't accept) their help.

Duke was trying to tell them all something about meeting Peter earlier in the day while Jason and Dick ripped into Bruce, while Steph and Cass were simultaneously bombarding Jason with questions about how he knew Peter.

Only Damian and Alfred remained out of the commotion. As Alfred watched, Damian went to the edge of the steps and picked something up. Incredibly, it looked like one of the bread rolls he'd just served for dinner. He could only see the side of the boy's face, but Alfred could lip read among the best of them:

"I knew no one else grabbed bread."

Which was strange, because the bread basket had been empty when Alfred had retrieved it, and there had been roughly twenty rolls in there.