Obviously, Peter was followed.
It would have been more surprising if he hadn't been followed, honestly, what with the duel life Wayne and his crew of children (plus an English butler) lived. Really, it would have been negligent of them to not try and follow him. Try being the key word: Peter had already shaken off two tails.
That didn't mean it wasn't horribly annoying, especially since Thursday nights - as per Granny Gun's rules - meant the house was "off limits." Seeing as it was a Thursday night, the shelter had already closed, and there were about half-a-dozen nightstalking vigilantes swarming Gotham on the hunt for crime and for Peter… It meant that Peter was in quite a pickle. Sort of.
He'd lost his most recent tail a few minutes ago, and could probably stay well off of their radar for the rest of the night with relative ease. But… well… where was the fun in that?
In a show of miraculously shitty decision making, Peter mentally shrugged, figuring fuck it , let's do this. It would be, at the very least, an interesting test to see how they would handle Peter's stab wound. Peter placed relatively even bets on any of three options: a) forget that they, as a random vigilante and definitely not someone who had been adopted by Bruce Wayne, would not, in fact, know about a civilian's itsy-bitsy stab wound, and subsequently blow their cover in the process, b) pretend to not notice but still watch over him annoyingly carefully (If one goddamn person treats Peter like he's made of glass and could break any moment, Peter will curb stomp them into next week), or c) pretend to not notice at first and then "suddenly" realize with differing levels of shock. Peter wasn't sure about who Steph's vigilante persona was, but he could easily see her throwing up her hands in faux shock with a, "Whaaaat is that? A stab wound!" in a completely unconvincing tone of voice. Damian - Robin - would point it out with the same almost-concerned-deadpan that he'd had at dinner. Everyone else was somewhere in the middle of those two on the broad spectrum of Potential Reactions to Peter's Not-Even-A-Big-Deal, Itsy-Bitsy, Baby Stab Wound (trademark pending).
Mentally resigning himself to a night without photos, Peter left his momentary shelter and started walking in a random direction. Someone would find him soon enough.
As much as Peter pretended to be annoyed, having company for a night didn't sound bad . In fact, losing out on some potential photo opportunities and gaining someone to hopefully talk to (or tease) seemed like a relatively even exchange, especially when factoring in the fact that accepting the tail's presence would mean that Peter didn't have to worry about actually being stalked all night by previously mentioned nightstalking vigilantes. It would also prevent Cass from worrying. Her worry felt too much like Ned's worry, which Peter had always tried to avoid at all costs back then , in the old days of Spider-Man. Peter was only scared a little by the similarity of the feelings.
Quietly, Peter wondered who would pick up if he called Ned. If he called MJ, May, or Happy. Even Tony's number briefly crossed Peter's mind. The thought - the idea - of doing so no longer seemed as distant as it once was. The fact that Johnny's number had been Dick Grayson (and Peter only recognized this now, in hindsight, looking back on the voice of the Caller Number Two - a person he hadn't thought much about) was… disappointing. And for those four… Peter was terrified of being… of hearing someone else's voice on the other side of those numbers.
Not that there was anything wrong with Dick Grayson! Just… he wasn't Johnny . It was that singular phone call that confused Peter the most about the phone numbers. Daredevil and Nic - Jason, that's Jason! - made sense. They just… did . It felt right. Fake Ass Fury and Bruce Wayne (because even if it was Alfred on the phone that one time - which Peter doubts, having heard his real voice in person now - it had still been a call directed to Wayne Manor ) also made sense: both were people that were too much in-the-know for Peter's comfort that also annoyed him to death with just how much they knew, and how much more they wanted to know about him . J. Jonah Jameson being Sherry? The connection was obvious. The same thing for Peter's old landlord and Granny Gun: they both provided him with a place to stay.
But Johnny Storm - Peter's Johnny? - being Dick Grayson? Peter would have honestly expected Cass over him . Maybe there was something that connected the two. Maybe . Maybe there was some fun loving nature that connected them. But for now? It felt wrong . The connection wasn't right , and something itched under Peter's skin at the thought of those two somehow being… the same.
It was because of that - because of that fear (because that's what Peter felt: pure and total fear ) of being disappointed, of calling someone that meant… everything… and then getting a stranger in response? - that Peter hadn't dared to call.
He wouldn't dare tonight, either, not with all of the Bats out and about - not with the apparent connection the phone numbers had with that family. It would be too risky, and for some reason, Peter didn't want to be associated with the caller. He wanted to be able to call up Caller Number One and have Jason-Nic-Caller-Number-One treat him like the perfect stranger he'd always been. Wonderful anonymity: Peter loved it in every universe.
But perhaps… perhaps facing that fear (accepting the disappointment, should it come (and it would, of course, because no one could ever be his Ned, his MJ, his May… his anyone, frankly)) would start the healing that Peter has always been far too afraid to face.
That breakdown, however, was meant for another night. Tonight, there were Bats overhead and alert, and Peter had no place to sleep nor the wish to test his luck with his ability to stay hidden while taking pictures with them all on such high alert. Tonight, Peter felt like being foolish and silly… tonight , he didn't want to be Spider-Man, with quips and jokes and bones that didn't ache because they couldn't .
Tonight, Peter just wanted to be Peter .
(This is the first time he's truly wanted that in…. a long while.)
Instead of taking to the rooftops, where the line between Peter and Spider-Man was the thinnest, Peter went to the place where Peter Parker reigned firmly supreme: the sidewalks. It was late at night, but Gotham was a city that never slept, much like New York. There were eyes on his back as he walked into a coffee shop, but Peter didn't flinch from them. He didn't flinch away from the returning presence and feeling of someone above, and let them follow him. Peter even pretended - very graciously, in Peter's mind - to not know that there was someone following him. He played this game for a while, not trying to lose his tail but also not going anywhere. Eventually, Peter began to wonder why the person never left - that if by them following Peter there were other people being neglected.
(Because Spider-Man never really left Peter Parker.
Or rather - because Peter Parker had always been Spider-Man.)
And so Peter deviated from his circular route, meandering around until his danger sense tugged, and like always (at least, when it came to the safety of other people. When it was his safety, Peter had developed the unfortunate habit of ignoring the warning) Peter followed. His tail left him, and a few minutes the tugging subsided, and Peter began to wander again. This happened three more times before Peter's shadow dropped down behind him (unsurprising, the poor shadow's heartbeat had been growing increasingly erratic as Peter wandered towards larger and larger tugging sensations), "Hey!" They greeted with faux cheerfulness. Or maybe it was real. It sounded sort of real, but also panicked and pissed and frustrated, so Peter couldn't tell if the person was actually happy to see him or if they were just ready for the chase to end.
Peter didn't turn around, only pausing to let the shadow catch up with him until they were shoulder-to-shoulder, and then continued on in his "random" direction. This tug felt pretty big, and Peter wondered if Red Robin - the slick cowl and multitude of belts gave it away; it was very accurate to a handful of different Twitter threads descriptions - would be able to handle it alone. He seemed pretty confident and prepared, so Peter kept walking. He couldn't ignore the danger, after all.
"Hi," Peter greeted, chirpy despite the late time. It was probably the caffeine, "What's up?"
"It isn't safe to walk alone at night," the vigilante scolded, "Especially in Gotham, even if this part of town is safer. Go home."
(This is the safe part of town? He wondered incredulously, trying so very hard not to pull a face.)
Peter hummed, debating on how much he should share, and turned left at the next intersection. The tugging got stronger, "Can't. The place I'm staying at isn't available to me Thursday nights. I mean, walking around has to be safer than staying in one place, right?"
If Peter had been anyone else, he wouldn't have heard Red Robin's under-his-breath complaint. Alas, Peter's ears weren't quite normal , and so it was very easy to hear the, "Not when you beeline towards danger!" But Peter wasn't supposed to be able to hear the complaint, and so he adjusted course, making another turn, and waited until Red Robin finally answered him. Oddly enough, he sounded hesitant, "There are people who'd be willing to help you. Friends." Peter wanted to scoff, but settled for a shrug, "Maybe."
Red Robin looked like he wanted to say more, but unfortunately for him, the tugging had grown into a full on torrent as Peter rounded the last corner, and someone slammed into his chest.
Following some random teen in Gotham - a city that Tim knew like the back of his hand - should not be this difficult. Honestly, it would have been embarrassing had Damian, in an act of kindness, interrupted Tim's grumble of self-flagellation with an annoyed huff over the coms:
"Red Robin, stop acting ridiculous. This isn't just a normal teen - we all saw the footage from Father's hidden camera at the Iceberg Lounge. He is more skilled than any of us are giving him credit for. Plus, he already outmaneuvered Nightwing and Spoiler."
It didn't stop Tim's pride from stinging, but his annoyance at his own failure faded… until it was transferred to be an annoyance targeted at Peter.
"I don't get it," Tim relayed across the coms, where the rest of his family had insisted on being kept in the loop when it became apparent that the only person Peter hadn't noticed following him was Tim. Bruce hadn't even been able to find him in the first place, "This is the fourth - I don't even know what to call them. Problems? Situations? Issues? I dunno - that he's walked towards." Already there had been a young girl who had gotten separated from her parents, two muggings, and a knife fight. Like a magnet, Peter seemed drawn to each of them, and Tim had raced ahead to take care of the problem before Peter could stumble across it. Considering Tim hadn't been out in a while - having been just recently cleared for active duty now that his arm was healed - it was more than he had been expecting to handle, although the strain was still light. After the fourth time, though, Tim's heart couldn't take the stress anymore and he dropped down behind Peter to convince him to go home. Peter, who… didn't flinch. In fact, Peter seemed entirely unsurprised and… had he known that Tim was following him? It should be impossible…
But whatever. There wasn't time for that now. Tim needed to convince Peter to go the fuck inside - even if it was to his crazy gun wielding landlord - and stop wandering into trouble. And then trouble, quite literally, ran into them.
A body, hurtling at full speeds, slammed into Peter before Tim even realized what was going on. The force would have barreled any of them over - barring Bruce or Jason - but Peter only rocked back slightly on his heels and brought up his hands, very pointedly not touching the person. The person - a girl, maybe their age or a little younger - screamed in fright. Tim's vigilante instincts jolted him into action (as did the commotion over the com-line, having heard the scream), but it looked like Peter's (good person instincts?) kicked in first, "Hey, hey, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Peter soothed, his arms up and out, not resting at his sides and very clearly empty, "My bad. It's alright, no one is going to hurt you."
The girl's breathing was erratic - panicked - and she pushed away from Peter violently, yanking pepper spray out of her bag and brandishing it with wild eyes. Her hands were shaking. Tim didn't know what was going on - what had started this - and doubted Peter did either. Common sense and years of experience told Tim to de-escalate the situation himself, but his gut told him to keep his hands visible, palm out, letting the girl feel in control of the situation, and let Peter take the lead. Peter stayed perfectly still, "I'm sorry," he repeated, "We aren't part of whatever you're running from, I promise. Red Robin here is a whole ass vigilante… that's kinda his thing: protecting the people. And my aunt would be turning in her grave if I went around scaring people for any reason."
Her hands steadied, and grabbed the can tighter. She knew how to use it, and wouldn't hesitate to. Tim wondered if Peter was about to get a faceful of pepper spray. He certainly seemed prepared for that possibility and didn't shy away from it, "Your aunt?" She questioned, and her voice trembled. She was terrified.
"Yep! Aunt May - the kindest person you'll ever meet. Couldn't ask for a better role model than her," Peter shared easily, and Tim wondered if it was the most honest thing he'd said all night. The girl also seemed to calm at the easy exchange of information, and peered closer at Peter, "Wait- wait. You're… are you the person from the news? That took down the Joker?"
Peter's smile was tight. Anxious, but truthful, "Yeah. I'm not looking forward to when that comes back to bite me in the ass, but what else could I do? He was threatening people." Something about Peter's phrasing - the way he made it sound like an obvious conclusion: the Joker was there, and so Peter had to act - settled something that had been flurrying under the girl's skin. Something that Red Robin's presence hadn't managed to convey, despite being a well known vigilante within Gotham. She didn't lower the pepper spray, but it was no longer a threat to them.
Peter's eyes flickered past her momentarily - the first time his attention had left her since she'd ran into his chest - something both Tim and the girl noticed, if the tightening of her hands on the can was any indication, "What's your name?" Peter questioned lightly, as if nothing was wrong.
"...Allie."
"Okay, Allie. There were some assholes following you, right?"
Allie nodded, and Tim wondered how the hell Peter knew that.
"Don't worry. Red Robin is a professional ass kicker, and I'm no slouch myself. Stay behind me, okay? You're safe. No matter what happens. I promise," the levity in Peter's tone made his words sound like an oath. Allie heard it too, and finally lowered the pepper spray. Right as she did so, a thunderstorm of footsteps rushed around the corner (how had Peter known?) and right before Tim leapt into the fray, he watched as Peter's lanky frame seemed to… grow. Not literally - not like Bane - but he straightened his back and steadied his shoulders, and Peter may not have been the tallest person around but his presence filled the alleyway despite that. Belatedly, as Tim threw himself into the fight, he realized that Peter had been keeping himself small for the entirety of the night. During dinner, he had seemed almost helpless and hopelessly unfortunate, like a kid (like how he'd described himself to be when his gun wielding landlord had decided to take him in - something he had shared with a wry twist of his mouth), and Tim hadn't been surprised that Jason's protective instincts had kicked in upon meeting Peter. He'd been small when he'd been telling them of his maybe-true-and-maybe-not backstory of working in some shady "organization." When he'd managed to convince them all - wholly and thoroughly - of his ability to keep Cass's secret. He'd even been small when strolling down the alleyway, nearly running into trouble far too many times while Tim acted like a guardian angel from above. And then he'd been small and gentle when Allie was terrified, running from danger and then faced with possibly finding it in front of her.
Peter had been, for who knows how long, keeping himself small and gentle. An unfortunate soul who'd been extremely unlucky in his life, yet still kept going anyway.
Yet- Tim swung his bo staff low, knocking several people off of their feet, -When his objective went from being safe to providing safety , he'd changed in an instant. Peter had become the person that Allie needed the most in both situations. Had he been doing that for them , too?
(Which one was the real Peter?
Were any of them?
Just who was this guy?)
There was something wrong with the people Red Robin was fighting. They didn't move naturally - more like a zombie hoard than a gang of people or even a gaggle of stupid goons - and the roaring of his danger sense didn't subside even as Red Robin took down more and more. The frown on the vigilante's face meant that he, too, had realized something was wrong.
"Allie," Peter kept his voice even so as to not panic her more, "Why were they following you?"
Allie's fingers tightened their grip on Peter's forearm, which she had latched onto right as Red Robin had sprinted away from them, drawing his weapon and yelling at them to stay back. Had he been a normal person, her nails might have even drawn blood, "I don't know ," her voice cracked on the last word, although she was being very brave. Peter told her as much, and her fingers dug into his arm even further, "I'm not a kid."
"Sorry."
"S'okay. I kinda wanted to hear that. And… I've been getting these notes. Calling me Alice, asking about… about rabbits and tea parties and other things. I've been ignoring them. Or- or trying to , I guess… But tonight all those… people were waiting for me outside of work when I got off today. And. And they're weird, right? 'Cause I'm not that fast of a runner but I can outrun them, even if they keep catching up."
'Alice' like from Alice in Wonderland? Peter frowned to himself, "You're right. And good job on staying away so-" There you are!
On its own, Peter's hand shot out, catching something that had been thrown in his direction. Both he and Allie took a second to comprehend what had just happened. The thing Peter caught was slim, metal, and hissing- Peter yelped, tossing it into the air in a flash of panic, like a hot potato. Time seemed to slow, and Peter took the moment to notice an open metal trash can off to his right. In a move reminiscent of a volleyball spike, Peter slapped away the canister and it crashed directly into the trash can with the loudest clang! known to man. "Fucking hell, " Peter gasped out, sprinting over to slam the lid on the trash can as the gas started spilling out of the canister. Applying some of his strength, Peter bent the middle lid down over the edges, much like one would tinfoil over a pan. Some of the gas would probably still leak out, but the danger of that particular object had faded.
Danger still hung heavy in the air, though, as a voice rang out at the end of the alleyway, crawling down Peter's spine in twisted rhymes:
"You think you are so witty, see
But you, silly boy, are no match for me!"
The person cackled like a madman, stepping out of the shadows.
(Okay. Pause. What the fuck. What is this dude's schtick? Leprechauns? Rhyming ?)
"Uhh," Is all Peter responded with.
"Alice, my dear, there is no need to fear,
I, your hero: the Mad Hatter, is here!
This fool interrupted my ingenious scheme,
Where you would run far, far away from that unruly team,
And into my strong arms, my sweet and lovely embrace,
Then I, the hero! Would gain the adoration of your kind face."
(Oh… it really was Alice in Wonderland.
What a creep!)
Red Robin was shouting something ("Fuck, stay back! Don't let him touch you!") , but it didn't really matter what it was. Something had to be done - this creepo-asshole-perv had done enough harm already, making Allie fear for her life and causing her to look like that.
(Like when MJ was falling off of the fucking Statue of Liberty. Like how Peter knows he looked when he was dying, crumbling to dust. Like how Mysterio - how Beck - had looked when he'd been faking his fear of Peter, right before sharing his identity with-)
She shouldn't be afraid. Nobody should ever be afraid to walk home.
(Walk home like how Ben should have been able to do, on his last day.)
The Mad Hatter didn't take another step toward Allie, who he had been slowly approaching, a creepy smile firmly in place, with every rhyming line. He couldn't: Peter body slammed him, going low and tackling hard . Allie had (unfortunately for Peter, but quite funny in the Mad Hatter's case) reacted at the same time, spraying her pepper spray generously. At least, until she realized Peter had also been caught in the spray.
Daredevil might not have been impressed by that tackle, but Deadpool would have loved it. He probably would have actually joined in, if Peter was being honest.
(Scratch that, he would have definitely joined in.)
Instinctively, Peter's hands rubbed at his eyes as he climbed to his feet, and they came away wet from tears. He was crying.
Not because of the memory, though. Pepper spray just fucking sucked ass .
"Shit!" Allie's voice rang out the clearest, but Peter focused past that for the moment. The feeling of danger in the air had faded, and listening closely, Peter could hear the slow heartbeat of the Mad Hatter. He was unconscious, but not dead.
"Hey, hey, uh- fuck, I dunno you're name. Are you okay?" Allie's voice was closer now, concerned, and Peter's own vigilante instincts kicked in: reassure the civilian and laugh, "I'm fine. You got me good, but it's no big deal."
"Peter!" Red Robin's voice swiftly approached Peter's side. He couldn't see much and just nodded in Red Robin's general direction, "Yum!"
"What? Fuck , did you get hit with anything? Drugs, gas, weapons?"
"Nothing, nevermind. Don't worry about it. And no, nothing other than Allie's pepper spray."
"Yeah!" Now that her creepy stalker was unconscious on the ground, the real Allie started to peek out a little, and she seemed to be someone energetic and cheerful, if a bit vindictive, "This dude, like, caught the gas thingy that douche threw at us and then immediately tackled him! Hat-Dude's head kinda conked against the wall and now he's…" Allie gentured toward his prone body, "Yeah."
Red Robin must have crouched down by the creep, because his sharp intake of breath came from lower than it had been. Speaking quietly into his com-set, Peter pretended not to be listening in as Allie poured water from her water bottle onto some tissues from her backpack for Peter to wipe his face with.
"He's gonna take our job at this point."
"What?" That was Wayne's - Batman's - voice.
"Took out the Mad Hatter before I could, since I was busy with the mind controlled helpers and my backup took too long."
"You're in one of the least patrolled areas of Gotham - crime rarely happens there, and everyone else's patrol routes are very far away from you. The Mad Hatter must have planned it out that way, so that no one would have realized what was going on until the poor girl vanished," The intelligent voice (paired with the faint sound of a clicking keyboard in the background) sounded like the badass librarian, "Fortunately, you were in the area."
"I wouldn't have been here if I hadn't been following Peter."
Wayne spoke up again, "We need more information about Peter."
"What the hell are y'insinuating 'bout Pete?" Jason's voice was like acid, on the cusp of spilling into a very real anger
Red Robin seemed to be ignoring his com-set now, lost in his own murmurings, "This is now two of the biggest Gotham criminals and he's just…"
"-Hey, Red Robin?" Peter interrupted, pulling out his flip phone, "Imma call the police, 'kay? Nice job on taking all of them down."
"Wait, but you were the one-" Allie started, and Peter turned his unseeing eyes toward her. Keeping his voice perfectly friendly, Peter emphasized his words once more, "Red Robin took all of them down. I've been pepper sprayed this whole time. Didn't see shit - so certainly no reason for my name to end up in the newspapers again."
"Ohhh," Allie nodded her head, "Yeah, totally. I accidentally sprayed you with my pepper spray right off the bat - heh -" Peter snorted with her while Red Robin made a vaguely confused sound at their laughter, "And then Red Robin took care of it all."
"Right, Red?" In sync, Peter and Allie turned to face Red Robin, one face squinting and pinched while the other guided a red tipped nail across her throat threateningly.
Red Robin agreed, and the police arrived soon enough, taking the Mad Hatter into custody while an ambulance helped clear out Peter's eyes and comforted the victims.
In the middle of it all - as Allie was explaining the situation to her very concerned girlfriend, who was driving over (like a maniac, if the honking Peter could hear over the line was any indication) to take Allie to her house while Allie's was checked cameras or any other creepy shit, and while Red Robin was explaining the situation to a silver haired man in a tan trench coat - Peter slipped away.
(But not before taking a few pictures of the scene: most notably, the trenchcoat man and Red Robin shaking hands, with the Mad Hatter being guided into an armored van that was perfectly framed between their bodies.
Perhaps not an action shot, but a pretty good picture none-the-less, if Peter wanted to toot his own horn. And, considering that he snapped the picture through half-blurry vision, he would be tooting it, thank you very much. )
Gotham Glazer -
"Red Robin Soars in to Stop the Mad Hatter: Gordon Knows All!"
Article Written by Sherry Rite, Photos by an Anonymous Submitter
"What the fuck! How the hell were they there again?"
Steph, amidst the chaos of several generations of Robins' exclamations of shock, examined the photo closely, brows furrowing in contemplation.
Cass, who sat beside her, only smiled widely, and sent off the email she'd been writing:
P-
Glad the stab wound wasn't that bad. Thank you for telling me about it.
Sorry again about the interrogation. Want to do dinner again? Next Thursday?
You could stay the night.
-C
For the next week, life was pretty normal. Or, well, normal enough for Peter. He'd gone back to work and the Iceberg Lounge was quiet (except for the fact that patrons now either asked for his autograph or made strange and ominous comments about clowns coming to get revenge. Which… was super weird). Peter's "Daytime Spider-Man Adventures" were also going well. He handled the occasionally little petty crime but mostly just offered a helping hand to the community. Peter's favorite part of his day, however, was making breakfast for him andd Granny Gun every morning.
It was nice.
The day after the Interrogation Party, when Peter came back to his little basement home, he arrived to an absolute mess on the ground floor. At his incredulous look, Granny Gun had croaked out, "Bingo night got wild. Turned into strip bingo and beer pong with the bingo balls when we all decided that bingo was boring as fuck."
And. Well. Peter didn't really want to know more than that, and completely understood why Thursday nights were Off-Limits; it was more for Peter's own safety and sanity that he had to flee the premises than there was a risk of Peter reporting any illegal activities being overseen by his landlord, as he had originally thought was the case.
Was this what Peter had to look forward to with aging?
Him and Johnny going ham-wild, playing strip bingo and beer pong? Peter's metabolism burning through the alcohol like its water and Johnny setting himself on fire to get rid of his clothes? Maybe Deadpool (Can Peter call him Wade? Is he allowed to be friendly like that?) would want to join them. He would probably quickly steer them off course and into doing something borderline illegal and Daredevil (Matt. That's Matt. Can Peter really do this?) would pretend to have some moral high ground about the situation but then be just as crazy - if not more so - than the rest of them. Perhaps Matt could convince Jessica Jones and Luke Cage to join them (Jessica and Luke) and by then none of them could give Peter grief for being the youngest again because he'll be able to call them ancient and old and it'll mean something.
(Can Peter really want this?
Is it allowed? To hope for this sort of future?
Will any of them even be allowed to grow old ? Their line of work was a deadly one. Sooner or later, something was bound to steal someone else away from Peter.
(Would it happen because he wasn't there to save them? Would Peter go back to his universe and find Johnny dead, and a missed phone call that had been begging for backup? Would Peter have accidentally left his (best friend?) to die? Would the Fantastic Four blame him? ( No. Peter can admit, in the quietest and most hidden parts of his mind, that he knows they wouldn't blame him. No . Sue would wrap him up in a hug and Ben would pat his back and Mister Reed would try to be strong for them all but his eyes would show everything.))
But… but can Peter even go home to begin with?)
As the days slipped by, Peter found himself reaching for his flip phone more and more. He… he was ready to be brave. One night, a week and a bit after dinner with the Waynes (and after a polite refusal and call for a rain check on dinner - Peter wasn't quite ready to deal with all of that again) Peter called up a number he hadn't touched for weeks.
"Oh thank fuck," Was the first thing Peter heard when the phone picked up after only two rings, "You're alive."
"Why hello there, Caller Number One."
" Caller Number- Well fuck y'too! You called me first, remember that, twerp?"
"Yeah but I thought you were my lawyer friend and then you weren't and what can I say? I latch onto comedy in times of grave distress."
"Y' were pretty distressed," Caller Number One (because it feels wrong to think about him being Jason-Nic-Traitor-Brother or someone totally different than a being that stood for complete anonymity) admitted, "Does it mean y're distressed again if y're calling again?"
And, thinking about now, yeah , Peter was feeling pretty chaotic inside, "I've been thinking about all my friends dying because I'm not there to save them," Peter admitted, "And then I realized even more recently that I actually wanna be able to grow old, so I'm sort of having a crisis at the moment. Which I didn't really know was happening until right now, so now I kinda wanna cry."
There was silence and then, "Wow , brat. Y'know I had been kidding before but it sounds like y'really needed to get that off of your chest."
Peter's laugh sounded more like a sob as it ripped its way out of his throat, "Yeah," he hiccuped, "I think I did too. I… I need someone to tell me that it'll be okay, I think."
The response was immediate. " You, " and Caller Number One enunciated the word clearly for once, instead of it slurring into his other words, "Are going to be alright. It may not seem like it now, but things will pick up one day. When y'least expect it, the people that care about y'will pick y'right up by the scruff of y're neck and drag y'to better days. They won't let y'stay in the dark forever."
Peter wanted to cry. He was crying, silent little tears that dripped down his cheeks and made everything feel horrible and almost-alright at the same time. " Okay ," Peter felt so small, sitting alone on this bed that wasn't his in a house that didn't feel like a home, but that he was grateful for all the same. Taking a deep breath in, Peter pictured exhaling out all of his fears, and while in the end it didn't erase them, it made living in the moment easier, "Okay," Peter said again, stronger this time, and Peter could hear the huffed smile from Caller Number One-Nic-Jason-Traitor-Brother-Friend- Safety 's end.
"I'm going to be alright."
"Fuck yeah, y're."
There was silence, and then Caller Number One cleared his throat, "Now, mind tellin' me where y'are and who y'are?"
"Hard pass."
"Figures."
Yeah. Peter was going to be alright.
Maybe now... he could be brave enough for the other call. The one that had been making his fingers itch all week. The one that...
One of the many that Peter was afraid to make.
That night, a moonless sky shone over Gotham. Had the moon even been out, it still would not have been seen, covered by the perpetual clouds and gloom. Like always (although he would never let them know of this) Alfred would stay awake until all of his charges either came home to him or arrived safely at their own homes. That did not mean that Alfred would laze around in the meanwhile, however. He'd been burning the midnight oil , so-to-speak, for the past several decades, both with Martha and Thomas Wayne, then with Bruce, and then for this new gaggle of children.
Food preparation, cleaning, worrying: Alfred did it all during the night as well as during the day. But the more tedious of tasks could be saved until after the sun had set, and the children (for Bruce would always be a child in Alfred's mind. His child, to be exact, while the other children were Bruce's and Alfred's) had all flown the coop to go save Gotham at the expense of their childhoods.
(Or had their childhoods been taken from them first, because of Gotham's cruelty, and now they sought to defend others from that same fate?)
Alfred busied himself with folding laundry instead of pondering that thought too hard. It was only because of the endless chores that came with maintaining the upkeep of such a large manor that Alfred could stay sane in these trying times. These trying years. Decades. Lifetime.
If risking one's life for the betterment of others was certainly the pinnacle of selflessness, then Alfred is inclined to believe that what he does - perpetually picking up the pieces and stitching them back together after another selfless hero is broken down - is the picture of insanity. After all: "Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results."
And, like Alfred mentioned before, he has been doing this for decades.
Alfred's own phone rang - the ancient thing he always kept at his side, in case his children should need him. He didn't hesitate to pick it up.
"Alfred speaking, who is this?"
"Oh, hey. Uhm, is this Wayne Manor?"
"While I am employed at Wayne Manor, this is in fact my personal phone. How may I help you? Did you intend to reach Wayne Manor?"
The person on the other side of the phone was quiet for a while, and vaguely, Alfred could hear sniffling, "No. I called who I wanted to. Are you happy?"
"Happy? Why, I suppose I am. I do not have reason to be otherwise, I think."
"Uhm. Yeah, I guess so."
"Are you?"
"Huh?"
"Are you happy?"
"N-no. I don't think so. I'm trying, though."
"That's good, lad. Trying is," Insanity, "All we can ever do, after all. Even when it seems hopeless or futile."
"Y-yeah. I… I agree. I don't wanna give up. I want to keep going. I want -"
"You want?" Alfred prompted, laundry forgotten as he sat down in the large chair in Bruce's bedroom. This used to be Thomas and Martha's room. This was Thomas's chair. Bruce refuses to sit in it, refuses to throw it away. And so Alfred sits here instead, and pretends that he forgot the one time Bruce referred to it as Alfred's chair .
"I want- I think I want… to go home."
"Oh, lad…" Alfred floundered for what to say, but the person on the other end of the call waited patiently, although the sniffles had devolved into sobs, "I'm sure… your home wants you too."
"They do," Alfred was momentarily surprised by the conviction in the lad's voice, "I know they do. I know they… That they love me. I just… don't know how to get back."
"You will find a way."
"You think so?"
"I know so."
"Thank you, Sir."
"You are welcome…" Alfred hesitated, "Peter."
There was a sharp inhale from Peter's side of the phone, "Uhm, I don't know-"
"I may be old but my hearing hasn't faded yet," Alfred chuckled lightly, "Do not worry. Your secrets are safe with me."
"Secrets, as in plural?"
Alfred smiled serenely, although he knows that Peter cannot see it, "They are all safe with me. Always have been, and always will be."
"You really are like happy, huh?"
How odd, for someone to sound so broken yet so fond at once, "Pardon?"
"Nothing, nothing. Just. Something from my home, that's all."