Truthfully, Peter isn't entirely sure why Granny Gun has yet to set off a single one of his multitude of mental alarm bells. She definitely should , by all means: Peter's first meeting with her had been staring down the barrel of her gun, after all. Granny Gun's phone number had even been attached to Peter's landlord back home , too, who had been disinterested and strange at best and a downright scumbag at worst. He set off Peter's internal cacophony of alarm bells. He did so quite frequently, in fact. Yet Granny Gun - although she was just Granny , really, at this point, and Peter's never had a grandmother before, so he'll take any opportunity he can to think the term, to say it, to feel the shape of it in his mouth, to feel the care inherent in the familial term - with all of her chaos and weaponry and cursing and probably somewhat illegal Thursday gambling nights, set off none of those alarms. None.

Certainly, Peter has better reasons to trust Cass and Alfred (and Jason) than his (HIS!) gun-wielding-grandmother. Without a doubt, he would have been safe with them, had he stayed. But something in Peter revolted at the notion, had shriveled up inside of him and caused Peter to flee the scene at daybreak like a criminal. He hadn't meant to be caught by Granny upon re-entering her house, truly, but there hadn't been a single warning of her presence, and then suddenly she was there, berating him for getting himself into such a mess while simultaneously herding him toward the kitchen, where she then fed him food, called him silly, and guarded his back.

Being safe is an odd concept. Really. It's weird. Because to be safe is to be "unlikely to be harmed . " Not impossible to be harmed. Just unlikely . To be safe is to be protected, to be sheltered, to be unlikely to come to harm , and yet in Granny's kitchen, eating her homemade soup as every inch of his body ached and throbbed (bearable, sure, but only because Peter had learn to bear everything), he felt sheltered. Shielded. Safe , but more than just safe, because there had been, without a doubt in Peter's mind, absolutely no chance of harm coming to him as long as he remained within those four walls and beside a crazy old lady who, by all means, should not be safe .

Granny felt safe in the way that May felt safe, paired with Deadpool's mouth and Daredevil's wit. But that wasn't exactly fair, because Granny was Granny , not an amalgamation of Peter's past come to life.

…The point being that logically, Peter knows he is being illogical. That one can't be more than safe and that it is impossible to never be at some sort of risk.

Yet, here he was anyway, feeling more-than-safe as can be, three days later, sprawled out on the living room couch watching Jeopardy with Granny. She didn't quiet her shouts or mild her curses, but simply made room for Peter in her life, in her schedule, in her home . She's made it Peter's home, too. She made it home when, on that first day of Peter's recovery, Granny had knocked on his door in her normal abrasive way, despite having mentioned before that the stairs are difficult for her now, carrying a grocery bag filled with tupperware stuffed to the brim with food and water bottles.

"Eat up. My cooking isn't great but you can't afford to be picky," She had huffed once Peter managed to drag himself to the door. Had she come bearing anything other than food , Peter might have asked for a word of congratulations for making it to the door in the midst of his hazy existence of pain and exhaustion from healing such extensive wounds. As it was, he had been too busy digging into the meal, mumbling out a quick, "Thanks Granny," in the process.

Both of them had frozen. Granny found her words first, "You are welcome… Peter."

She didn't say anything about being Granny, didn't accept it verbally or address Peter's accidental slip up - Granny Gun going from a silly nickname in his mind to actually addressing her as such (something as familiar as Granny, even) - but the fond quirk of her lips and her gentle tone of voice (a break from its usual rasp and coarseness) when she said his name was enough. It was acceptance.

So Peter might have lost everything twice over, but now he had a grandma. It wasn't really an even trade, but Peter had never had a grandma before, so that was neat. As they watched Jeopardy and the (now cooled but once melted and now meld ed ) plastic-y synthetic fabric was disgustingly ejected right out of Peter's body by the newly healed skin growing underneath, causing him to shed kinda like a reptile, everything felt right, even though by all means, it probably shouldn't.

"I swear to fucking God, these fools couldn't guess their way out of a wet paper bag-!"

And Peter laughed, loud and harsh and choking and ugly and real , a perfect mockery of the first time he heard Granny laugh, and she laughed right back at him as Peter gasped for air and wheezed. Peter's smile never broke, even as his sore throat ached, even as his laughs made the pain worse.

Things were good.

Perhaps the most surprising thing to arise from the Wayne Enterprises Fire (even above Peter's rare instance of accepting of a person's kindness, which is really saying something both about the level of Peter's surprise and how frequently Peter lets himself be vulnerable, but that is neither here nor there) was that Peter had flooded the news stations in Gotham and social media. His reach even stretched beyond Gotham; apparently he had gotten a special mention in Central City.

Or, well, Mister Green had. It wasn't entirely unexpected - Peter knew that he would be making quite an impact with that final descent - but… still. Depending on the news channel Peter was either a hero or a freak, with very little range in between, but on social media? Mister Green was a person, and the people adored him. There were theory videos on his powers, accounts from people on the scene, from people he saved, from family members of those who died, along with messages of hope.

Repost if you want Mx. Green to come back soon!

Drop in if you've ever met Mr. Green and tell the story!

Sign this petition to protest the hunt for Mister Green because he's a meta!

The last one was especially interesting because Peter hadn't realized that he might be hunted down? Or something?

There were also edits.

Thirst traps, specifically. Those tended to be made from videos taken before the fire, thankfully, because apparently the people of Gotham wanted Mister Green's dumb dick (even in the goddamn Creeper hoodie?) as he lifted a couch over his head with one hand. It was both flattering and utterly horrifying and Peter hated the fact that the edits must be pretty damn popular if even Cass had seen them. That's how Peter found out about the edits. After two days of huddling up in bed and only leaving to eat, he had woken up on the third day feeling moderately normal (not really) and figured that it was probably time to tell Cass that he was alive.

She had sent him over twenty emails. In two days. Peter opened up the first one expecting some vicious scolding and was instead greeted with a video of him lifting a car with one hand to a slutty pop song. The nineteen following emails were about the same. Cass said that this was her revenge for him leaving without warning. Peter's response back contained a few phrases that Peter wouldn't dare to repeat in front of Aunt May, but that Granny would laugh at, after which he then promptly deleted all of the emails and attempted to wipe the memory from his brain.

The worst part was that the edits were really good . Who knew that people would go absolutely wild for the sliver of skin between the sleeve of his hoodie and his glove? Not Peter, that's for fucking sure.

The support wasn't new, exactly. It was in a new form in Gotham , for sure (unless the slutty Spider-Man edits had been kept from Peter?), but the people of New York, Peter allowed himself to concede, did care about him. They, too, got nervous when he wasn't seen around for a while and posted their well wishes online after a big fight. But that had taken years of work, of being a near-constant presence, of being a freak and a troublemaker and a menace .

Gotham's near instant support felt just as suspicious as it was relieving .

In the end, it took five days for Peter to leave the house and start going to work at the Iceberg Lounge again. While he had been healed - more or less - in four, the scars still remained for another day before they, in a move directly opposite of the fabrics' ejection, got pulled back under Peter's skin, and he is left smooth and new once more.

Physically, at least. Mentally… in a fun change of pace - and a good fun, too, not the bad kind that Peter tended to dabble (read: live) in - Peter was also doing alright. The fire at Wayne Enterprises and those sorts of injuries weren't anything new, and so Peter didn't feel the need to dwell on it too much. Sure, he blamed himself for not realizing what was going on sooner, for the people that died, for the people who lived but still lost anyway, but that sort of guilt wasn't new, and so Peter grinned and bore it and went to work. There was nothing else he could do, after all.

So Peter went through his shift listening to the early patrons fawn over that darling fellow and the later folks gripe about what another masked weirdo might mean for their business, and felt oddly put at ease by the duality. It is good to not be loved by all. If he was loved by all then that would mean Peter was doing something wrong. He is a-okay with not being loved by Drug Dealer Number Sixty-Five and Drug Lord Number Twenty-Three. Peter's chill with that. Completely and utterly chill.

The dawn of the sixth day after the fire, Peter finally sent an email to Cass that wasn't just him protesting the continuous influx of edits and thirst posts.

C-

Thank you for being there for me. I don't know what would have happened otherwise.

Sorry I couldn't stay. I was suffocating.

Please tell Alfred and Jason the same. I am extremely thankful and very sorry.

-P

Peter hit send (like a normal and calm person), turned off his computer (like a normal and calm person), and then launched himself onto his bed (this is also totally normal and Peter will not be accepting criticism, especially from himself).

Eventually, Peter flipped over to be lying on his back and pulled his flip phone out of his pocket. Snapping the thing open and closed mindlessly, Peter debated on his next course of action. Peter was, for once, feeling decently alright. He didn't like it.

In the end, with the sound of Granny's snores as soft backdrop to Peter's enhanced hearing, Peter dialed a number that he hasn't called in nearly two years, although not for lack of trying. LIke always, regardless of how long it has been since Peter last tried, the numbers come to him easily. Effortlessly. Peter wanted… Well, Peter isn't entirely sure what he wants from this call. Obviously he wouldn't reach the intended recipient, but that's alright. Peter had accepted that now. Maybe, in a truly self-detrimental way, the thing that Peter wants the most is for someone to bring him down from this high he is riding on: the high of being cared for and appreciated by the public, of having a home, of things being okay for once.

Ideally, Peter would have called Tony for such a reality check.

Peter wasn't being fair. Tony had tried. Truly, he must have tried. He had to have tried, because Peter couldn't handle the thought of Tony not trying when Peter had done so much in an attempt to get his mentor to see him. See him: Peter Parker. Not Spider-Man.

But Tony must have tried - he'd mentioned something about wanting to break the cycle, once, after refusing to believe that Peter was seriously onto something with the whole "alien weapons" debacle - because Tony had been there, once or twice, after all. He cleaned up Peter's messes, made him a suit (while putting far too many protective features into it without including a handbook), and apparently - maybe, possibly, probably not - invented time travel to get Peter back. Not to save the world, but to save Peter , and so he must have tried, because Peter thinks it has to take a special kind of love - however badly shown - to sacrifice one's life for another. To make a trade like that.

And Peter remembered that last - that first - hug, too. Tony had been desperate. He had to have been. And Peter… Peter had been confused, lost, scared… but he got to work anyway. He helped save the universe anyway.

But despite all of that - despite Tony being there (ish) and trying to be a mentor (was it enough? to just try?) - Tony had this way of making Peter feel small. Unbelieved. Suspected.

Because the Vulture - being crushed by a building, the way Peter genuinely thought he might die, not being believed - still echoes in Peter's mind at the most inopportune moments. Because Tony must have tried, must have cared, but he still took away the suit . Took away that protection - unnecessary as Peter might see it now, but gods above would have been useful then - at a whim. Left Peter at his mercy: to support or not to support, to believe or not to believe. And Tony might not have meant it… might not have realized , but when Peter closes his eyes and thinks of Tony he thinks of someone disappointed in him.

The worst part, in Peter's opinion, was the uncertainty of it all. The unanswered questions ("Do you regret it?") that will never be answered because… Selfishly, Peter thinks it is the uncertainty that hurt the most after Tony died.

Peter let out a shaky breath, bringing the phone to his ear as it rang.

Peter didn't have Tony's number. He'd always gotten in touch with Tony through Happy.

( Always . That makes it sound as though Peter ever got in touch with Tony, other than when Tony reached out first , because only he had that ability. Peter wasn't angry.

...But still. Peter can't help but think of the new little Spider-Man swinging around New York. How the kid had introduced himself by his name ( "I'm Miles!") unhesitatingly, like Peter wasn't an unknown stranger. Like that wasn't potentially dangerous. And Peter thinks of how easy it had been to give Miles his number and tell him where he lived, even if Peter couldn't manage to share his name. It had been so fucking easy. Instinctive, really. Because as terrifying as sharing that precious information had been, it was even worse to think about that new little Spidey - to think of Miles - swinging around New York without Peter having provided (not tried to provide , but provid ed) him with the best possible support that Peter could manage. Peter had finally understood Tony and all the fail-safes that had been in his suit as he sewed knee and elbow pads into the Miles's suit, as he reinforced that stupid thing from the get-go in all the ways Peter had been forced to learn by himself, as he stocked the kid up on so much web fluid so that Miles would never need to worry about running out mid-battle, as he taught the kid how to make his own web fluid so that he wasn't forever reliant on Peter for handouts. After gaining his own tiny (because god , Miles was so young - too young) protege, Peter both understood Tony better than he ever thought possible, and yet couldn't . Because how could Peter ever look at his kid and not want to smother him in praise and attention and tell him how good he was doing? How could Tony not have been able to do that with him ? With Peter?

There must have been something wrong with Peter. Yet…

(Yet even so… Peter can't imagine looking at Miles and not believing him. Or taking anything away, ever, especially the suit, because the suit provided safety. Or leaving Miles with that god awful uncertainty. Because Peter might have vanished like Tony did, but if Peter knows anything - if he had to stand his ground on one singular truth - it is this: Miles knows that Peter trusts him. That none of this was his fault. That Peter is proud of him. And that won't erase the hurt that'll come from Peter's mysterious disappearance, it doesn't mean that Miles won't worry that Peter abandoned him. But he will know, Peter is sure, that Miles did nothing wrong.)

But that was all the past.)

So, when the phone picked up, Peter smiled in spite of himself. May would have approved of Peter calling this person, because while they would be unhesitatingly honest with Peter, they wouldn't make him feel small . They'd just make him feel like Peter.

Of course, it wasn't MJ's voice that answered, but it was familiar.

"Yooo, hey there, random number."

Peter's small smile stretched into a grin, biting back an instinctive Hey Steph in favor of saying, "I could say the same about you, other random number."

"Nah, you called first. That makes you a random number and me an unfortunate victim."

"Victim!" Peter gasped in mock offense, "Hey there! I'm just a simple person who dials random numbers in their free time. So we're both random callers."

"Sure, sure," Steph drawled sarcastically, "But I'm not the one dialing up random numbers for funzies."

"I'd recommend it if you're bored. You wouldn't believe the people I've accidentally called."

"Oh?" Steph's curiosity was blatant, "Do tell."

"Mmm, I'll tell you one if you answer a question for me," Peter offered, and to give credit where credit is due, Steph barely paused before answering, "I probably can't answer some things but give it a shot."

"What do you think about that new masked weirdo running around Gotham?"

Steph was silent for a moment, but when she spoke again her voice had lost its playful edge, "You mean the brave person who rescued all those people from the fire at Wayne Enterprises?"

"Yeah, him. I'm trying to figure out what people think about him. Really, truly think. Because of course online people are gonna follow along with what's popular-"

"Shut up," Steph snapped, "Look, I dunno who you are, but that person jumped head first into straight up chaos and saved people's lives . Their literal lives. The Bats aren't out during the day, and if they were," Steph hesitated, and Peter belatedly wondered what Batman and Co.(™) had been doing during the fire, and why not a single one of them had been at the scene, "Well, let's just say it like it is: they weren't there . That guy? That Mister Green? They were . They were there. And that's more than anyone else can say, so don't you fucking dare try to… to!" Steph huffed in frustration, "Just don't. People are idiots if they think Batman is gonna try to run them out of the city or hunt them down. Or, if he does try," A dangerous note entered Steph's voice, "He will find opposition on many, many sides."

Peter didn't know how to say thank you after being berated without sounding creepy, but he couldn't hold back his laugh. It was shaky and sounded more like a sob, but god , "You're right, you're right," Peter conceded easily, "I think I'm just jealous. That people can be brave like that, and here I am: rotting away in my bed."

Steph snorted, "Of course I'm right. And… I dunno too much about this dude, but it seems like their whole thing is just… helping people. In broad daylight. I think… I think the whole point of this 'Mister Green' is just to… to show people that they can be good, too."

Spider-Man has always been for the little guy, after all.

"Yeah. Now, I promised you an interesting story," And Peter must have still been healing (he wasn't) or maybe exhaustion was clouding his judgment (it wasn't) or maybe Peter was just feeling mischievous (he was), but Peter smiled cheekily to himself, "I called this random number, right, and guess who it turned out to be? A news thingy. Managed to weasel my way into a job as a photographer. You might have seen my pictures: I work for the Gotham Glazer."

Silence. Dead silence.

Then:

"What the FUCK?!"

Peter hung up.

The second time around, Peter's uncontrollable laughter didn't hurt as much.

Inside Miles there are two spiders: one spider is currently freaking out about the fact that he is leading around three of the most well-known heroes/vigilantes/whatever-they-are in New York and that they were actually following him and Miles wasn't slowing them down. Like, seriously. Really, if anything they were trying to keep up with him. The Human Torch was carrying Deadpool like a cat under his armpits up above Miles while Daredevil - very reluctantly - was currently riding piggyback with Miles. Glorious days have come and Miles will never forget this moment!

The other spider in Miles wants to curl up and cry because the real Spider-Man is currently missing. It's very difficult (aka: impossible) to enjoy the moment when the reason why they were following him weighed heavily in Miles's heart. It was hard to be pleased when the only reason why Miles was even meeting these famed heroes was because Miles's hero was missing.

Not to diss Daredevil, Deadpool, and the Human Torch - truly! Miles thinks they're super cool! … Buuut Spider-Man has them all totally beat. It would be better, in his opinion, to have never met these three (even as Miles is slightly fanboying in his mind) if it meant Spider-Man wasn't gone .

But, as Spidey always said, "Shit happens. Sometimes you gotta roll with the punches."

Or, he would start to say shit then backtrack and say stuff , like Miles hadn't heard much worse at school already. Like he hadn't said worse at school already. But whatever. Miles didn't mind, because Spidey would pat him on the shoulder whenever he gave advice, and the seconds pause and correction meant a few seconds longer of a shoulder pat.

Miles is pretty sure Spidey doesn't like physical affection. No, wait, that's not quite right. Spidey doesn't know how to show physical affection. He's good at shoulder pats. He's good at shoulder squeezes. He's good at high-fives and low-fives and fist-bumps. He's astoundingly bad, however, at hugs and Miles has never met someone in need of a hug more than Spidey. The guy was a walking, talking, web-slinging mess of affection starved vigilante, so Miles did what he could. He instigated high-fives upon greeting, fist-bumps after a job well done, and worked hard so that Spidey had a reason to pat him on the shoulder in congratulations.

Miles is pretty sure - no, correction, absolutely sure - that Spidey had been getting better about casual contact too. He wasn't as stiff when patting Miles on the shoulder and even started to put him a playful headlock when Miles sassed him too much. Things had been going well .

That's why this whole mess was all the more dreadful.

As Miles landed on the fire escape outside of Spidey's window, he watched as Daredevil carefully broke in while Deadpool tapped his foot impatiently. He didn't say anything as the four of them piled inside, as the three older heroes froze at the same thing Miles had, once upon a time, frozen at the first time he'd been here.

The emptiness.

The place was practically barren. No decorations, no pictures… nothing. The walls seemed as though they were permanently dirty - though not for Spidey's lack of trying to clean, based on the scent of cleaning supplies that still hadn't totally faded even after months had gone by (at least to Miles's more sensitive nose) - and the room was ice cold. Daredevil moved to turn on the heat but Miles stopped him, "His place doesn't get heating."

Daredevil mouthed the words as though he didn't understand them, "Doesn't get…?" He repeated, and Miles nodded. After pausing for a second, Miles rolled his mask up to the bridge of his nose, wanting them to be able to at least partly see the expression on his face: the fact that he is just as torn up about it, "Yeah. That time that I was here… when I went inside… I was freezing and he just apologized and gave me his comforter. I was still cold. So-" Miles gestured towards Spidey's bed, "As a thanks-for-being-my-mentor gift I got him a weighted blanket. Glad to see it's being used. Or. Was," Miles winced at his own correction, "I was kinda worried that he wouldn't take it." It looked like Spidey had also been hoarding up more blankets too, though Miles smugly noted that his gifted blanket was still the coziest.

The Human Torch scoffed, "Kid, he wouldn't refuse a gift from you. I've just met ya and I can already tell that. From us? He wouldn't dare to take anything. From you, though? I just know that he wouldn't be able to turn down the puppy dog eyes I just know that you have loaded up under that mask."

"He accepts my gifts," Deadpool bragged. Daredevil smacked the backside of Deadpool's head, "Shut up. You get Spidey food; of course he's gonna accept."

"All I'm hearing is that I'm fucking great at gift giving."

"Go die."

" Gasp! You'll say that in front of Spidey's kid?! How dare you!" Deadpool put his hands over Miles's ears. It felt vaguely like he was about to get his neck snapped. Miles didn't have the heart to tell Deadpool that blocking his ears didn't mean much for not being able to hear, so he just stayed quiet and pretended.

From above him, Deadpool lowly muttered, "Spidey might have disappeared from his apartment, right? So it could be dangerous. Don't let the kid out of your reach or let him touch anything . This whole situation reeks of magic and if we lose the goddamn kid…"

"Spidey will murder us," the Human Torch finished, and the three heroes all nodded. Raising his voice, Deadpool continued on as he released Miles's ears, "And don't you forget it! We gotta set a good example!"

Miles laughed like he hadn't just eavesdropped on that entire conversation, and stuck like a gnat to Deadpool's side because he had , "We gonna look around or what?"

The apartment wasn't big and Spidey didn't have much, and all of them felt more than a little guilty at the gross invasion of privacy. The most obvious - and most expensive - thing in the apartment was a laptop that had been left open on Spidey's bed, right beside a Spidey-shaped imprint in the fluffy weighted blanket. When Torchy (Miles thinks that Spidey would have approved of that nickname - it might have even earned him a shoulder pat, and would have definitely gotten a high five) tried to turn on the laptop it was dead, and so he rustled around to find a charger to plug it in. The laptop booted up right away, but as the password screen appeared, Miles and the other vigilantes exchanged awkward glances. Except for Daredevil, who just sort of loitered off to the side. Eventually, Miles ventured, "Sooo…. No one has any guesses?"

"Knowing Spidey," Torchy sighed, although his voice was incredibly fond, "It's some random series of numbers that only he would be able to remember."

"I can try to break into it?" Miles offered, "Then maybe I can restore whatever tabs he was looking at before the laptop died. It might be a clue." Daredevil shrugged, "I guess it doesn't hurt. Go ham, kiddo."

"I'll need some stuff that's at my place in order to break in. Is it alright if I take this home with me then? I can message you guys once I'm done."

No one had any reason to not let Miles try, so they nodded and left the laptop to keep charging while they continued to scour the room. Miles was never more than an arm's length away from someone else at any given moment. Spidey would have probably approved. Well, approved of the situation aside from the fact that they were rummaging through his apartment. Though, if he had been taken unwillingly, Spidey would understand.

Eventually, Torchy called out, "Found something!" and everyone's heads snapped around to look at him. He was currently lying flat on his stomach next to Spidey's bed, reaching underneath it to pull something out. It was a box.

A pretty boring looking cardboard box, but Miles wasn't willing to write anything off, so he looked over Torchy's shoulder eagerly as he opened the lid.

For a second, all of them just stared at the contents. Then, they looked at one another (except Daredevil, who was waiting for someone to explain) because, well. Shit .

Miles knew that he was smart. He was! Spidey said so! And Miles's grades said so too!

But, well. What Spidey seemed to be dabbling with was totally beyond him - totally unheard of - and based on the overwhelming silence, Miles could guess that everyone else was also at a loss.

"What is it?" Daredevil snapped, and Miles found his voice first, "It's an, uhm. A box of notebooks.."

" And? What is in the notebooks?"

"Uh," Miles looked at the neatly labeled covers as Torchy pulled them out of the box. There had to be more than a dozen notebooks, "I think Spidey was figuring out… or maybe figured out … interdimensional travel. Scientifically. Not… not in a magical way."

Miles picked up one of the notebooks and skimmed through it, absolutely astounded by the detailed sketches, drawings, theories, and pages upon pages of calculations. He looked at the covers of the other notebooks:

Multiverse Conceptualized

Multiversal Travel Concepts #1-17

Multiverse Travel Concepts #18-26

Multiverse Travel Concept #27

Multiversal Travel Concept #27.1

Aside from the spiral notebooks, there was also a journal. This one didn't have a title, but as Miles flipped through the pages it appeared to be a documentation of his progress. Progress for what … whether it be the conceptualization of multiversal travel or the actual invention of it… Miles wasn't sure. The last page was dated around the time Miles assumed Spidey had disappeared, and he read it aloud shakily, almost afraid of what he'll find:

"Theoretically, I have figured out multidimensional travel. In a more practical application, however, the machine is still unstable. I don't know if I can handle waiting any longer.

What am I doing? Is this right? Am I going to fuck everything up again? What if things get worse? Can they get worse?"

Miles watched as the Human Torch's face collapsed in real time. Watched as his entire body collapsed, and he fell to the floor, boneless and pale. Daredevil remained icily calm, but Miles could see the way his hands shook and hear how his breath rattled in his chest. Deadpool clenched and unclenched his fists, seemingly fighting battles within his own mind.

"So. So he left on his own?" Miles asked the question that was rattling around in all of their heads. But Deadpool grunted, "No. No . I don't believe that shit. Spidey… Maybe he wasn't happy 'n I know he was hiding crap, but he wouldn't… he wouldn't just leave. Spidey's the best and worst kinda hero: the self sacrificing kind. He wouldn't… he wouldn't up 'n leave without making sure shit would be fine here."

"I dunno. Spidey…" Daredevil trailed off, "I just don't know. I hate this."

Out of the corner of Miles's eye, he saw something almost buried in the pile of blankets. Miles edged closer, unnoticed by Spidey's grieving friends. It was… Spidey's wallet? Why would he leave his wallet? He only left his wallet when he was in the Spider-Man suit, and as far as everyone was aware, Spidey didn't vanish while on patrol. In fact, they'd found the Spider-Man suit tucked away in the air vents.

"Somethings wrong about this whole situation," Miles murmured, voice cracking over the words, "Deadpool's right. I know Spidey, even if he would say otherwise. And I know that he wouldn't just up and leave. Not without introducing me to you three, at the very least. I… Spidey's a good mentor. He wouldn't just… leave me hanging. He's always been good about telling me when he wouldn't be available for patrol or when I should lay low if something big is going on. He.. he wouldn't-"

Someone laid a comforting hand on Miles's shoulder. It wasn't the Spidey. It wasn't the same. Daredevil squeezed his shoulder lightly before letting go, "You're right." His voice sounded stronger this time around, "Something isn't right about this whole situation. Maybe… maybe, for whatever reason, Spidey wanted to go, but he would have set… if not his own life in order, then at least made sure all the people he cared about would be alright."

Miles eyed the wallet, then reached out and snatched it up. Something fell out of the wallet and drifted toward the ground. Three sets of eyes snapped to it. The Human Torch reached it first. It was a business card, which he read aloud: " Big Joe's Storage Units!"

Deadpool cracked his knuckles ominously (although the ominousness could just come from Deadpool in general, since cracking one's knuckles wasn't exactly an odd thing to do), "Let's go pay Big Joe a visit."

Yeah no. That one was definitely ominous as hell.

The original plan - one haphazardly made in the few hazy minutes between waking up and actually waking up - was to simply buy another hoodie. It had been a little over a week since the fire at Wayne Enterprises and Peter was ready to go back out. As silly as the hoodie is, it had worked once the first time around (aside from the part where it burnt/melted, but that was in an extreme case so Peter doesn't really think that's a valid reason to ditch it), so there was no reason it wouldn't work again.

Hoodie shopping, Peter decided as he climbed up the stairs to start making breakfast, would be today's task.

While eating a delicious meal of eggs, toast, and bacon (Peter had six eggs. Granny had one.), Peter casually mentioned, "After breakfast Imma head to the store. Have any errands you want me to run?" Giving him the stink eye, Granny huffed, "What did you forget? You went grocery shopping yesterday."

"Well… I figured it was about time to go get another hoodie."

Granny wadded up her napkin and threw it at Peter's face. Thankfully it was clean, "You think I am going to let you run around in that crap!?" Peter could only stare at her, "Well, uh… It's my choice to go do this, so uhm. Yeah?" His words sounded more uncertain than Peter would like, so he repeated himself in a deeper voice, as if that would mean anything, "It's my choice to go out and help."

"Yes, yes," Granny dismissed, waving her hands, "That is not my issue. I am saying that I am not letting you do… whatever it is you do… in that monstrous hoodie."

"Well, I don't exactly see another option."

Granny narrowed her eyes at Peter, glaring at him, "You are making this quite hard. But, impatience is a youthful trait, I suppose. I was going to wrap it, but it seems as though waiting will be quite impossible for you. Look on top of the chair in my room. It's for you."

Half of Peter wanted to finish breakfast first just to spite the old lady and show him he can be patient, while the other half went what the hell and figured there was no point in trying to prove anything. She'd already seen him watching a rerun of The Great British Bake Off with far too much interest and enthusiasm. Plus, Peter never had anything to prove to Granny in the first place, so he walked at a totally normal and not at all hasty pace to her room to see what the gift was.

For a moment after opening the door to Granny's room - one that had always been closed - Peter just looked around in a state of semi-shock because, well, Granny Gun really did like her guns. She had a collection displayed across the entirety of one wall and another gun casually resting beside her bedside table, and for some reason Peter just… accepted it, after his initial surprise, and went over to the chair. Not his problem. Resting in the chair was… "What?" Peter muttered to himself, eyes nearly bugged out of his head. He grabbed the items and hurried into the bathroom, firmly ignoring Granny's cackles as he did so.

Unfolding the items - they were clothes - Peter examined the gift in his hands. The first piece was a long sleeved turtleneck that was reinforced with something in a dark green color. The pants - made of the same fabric, but in black - were semi-loose while not being breezy enough to reduce Peter's aerodynamicness by much. They were similar to footie pajamas (without looking stupid) in that Peter's feet would be protected more than with socks, but were still thin enough for Peter to be able to stick to surfaces. As Peter was unfolding the pants, two lighter green objects fell onto the floor of the bathroom, and upon picking them up, he realized that they were skin-tight gloves. Sweet.

The last item, as opposed to the other aerodynamic and flexible gear - yet still strong , much stronger than any normal fabric Peter's seen - was sturdier. It was a vest - light green, the same shade as the gloves - with a little creeper insignia over where Peter's heart would be while wearing it. The little creeper was frankly adorable and Peter was instantly attached. There were many pockets in the vest, too, which would be a nice change from his pocketless Spider-Man suit. It wasn't as sturdy as a bulletproof vest, but it would certainly be able to deflect any short range projectiles or sharp weapons. The vest - had Peter still been in his Spider-Man suit - would have been too bulky. As it was, Peter has been running around fighting crime and doing shit in a hoodie and sweatpants, so honestly anything was an improvement. Plus, Peter tended to be more on the ground nowadays than up high, which meant that Peter was fine with sacrificing his traditional sleek look for increased safety.

Peter put his new gear (!) on without a second thought. It fit - oddly enough - perfectly, and Peter was not going to think about how Granny knew his measurements or who she must have known in order to get practically military grade gear made in such a stylized way. Nope. He didn't wanna know. Not. At. All.

When Peter slid into the kitchen, he spread his arms out and turned in a circle while Granny teasingly applauded, "Mn," She noted, "As I expected. It is much better than that absolutely horrible green monstrosity. I hope you appreciated that I kept the green, since it is quite a signifier for your little hero persona now."

Peter grinned. Having a real suit again felt right . Like with his original homemade Spider-Man onesie, Peter couldn't find it within himself to regret the hoodie. Everyone has to start somewhere, after all, but a real suit… it was different. It felt good .

Granny pulled out something from her pocket. It was black and white and small , and she smirked wryly as she handed it over, "All the caped crews nowadays wear these silly little things."

In Peter's hand was a domino mask: the type he'd seen Robin wear, the type that Nightwing wore in the rare photos taken of him… the type this world's heroes wore. Peter closed his fingers around it gently. It would be easy to wear a domino. To assimilate into the styles of this universe's heroes.

But.

But .

"I'm not a domino kinda guy."

"...That's alright, luv. I have something else you can use."

"Can I help you with that?" Peter offered, coming over to stand by a group of three adults crowded around a truck, "Eh? Nah… that's- you!" Peter startled only a little bit as one of the people - an older man - pointed at him in a way that would be aggressive if this wasn't Gotham, "You! Mista Green! You're back!" Peter grinned sheepishly, although his smile wasn't visible under his mask, "Yeah, sorry for not being around for a bit, Mr. McNeil. Are you sure you don't want help? I can change that flat tire really quickly."

One of the other people - a woman probably in her late twenties, who Peter knew was Mr. McNeil's neighbor - shook her head, "No, no. I'm a mechanic, so I can take care of this no problem. And Mike here," She jutted her thumb towards the last person that Peter didn't recognize, but was likely another one of Mr. McNeil's neighbors, "Just went and fetched his tire jack. So we'll have her up and running in a jiff."

"It's good to see you back around," Mr. McNeil said sincerely, and his two other neighbors hurried to agree, saying, "Yeah! Yer a real brave one. Glad to see that you're alright!" and "We've got this taken care of - you don't worry about nothing!"

Peter hummed, "Alrighty! Have a great day Mr. McNeil, Ma'am, Sir!" A small chorus of goodbyes followed Peter as he headed off, giving a cheeky two finger salute before ducking around the truck and out of their sight. Continuing down the road, Peter waved hello to the people he'd been getting to know in this area and was pleased to see that for the most part, his help wasn't necessary, although everyone still seemed happy to see him. Over joyed, almost. So Peter waved back, shook hands, and nodded in appreciation as folks called out their thank you' s and told him how relieved they were to see him up and about. The whole situation was absolutely bizarre . Peter didn't understand it, but couldn't find it within himself to regret his slow meandering either. He wandered for a while, soaking in the pleasant atmosphere, before Peter figured that if this part of Gotham was doing alright, he might as well try out a different area.

Setting off in a random direction, Peter continued his easy patrol, helping out where he could, although that occurred less now that Peter was getting into a more commercial part of Gotham. Eventually, though, Peter's danger sense started to tingle, so he followed it, and stopping someone from breaking into a parked car was easy enough. That then led him to catching a purse thief - also easy - and helping retrieve a little kid's toy from where it had fallen into the gutter, which was less easy and also super gross. Fortunately, the mask he and Granny had fashioned covered his nose and mouth and also filtered the air, so it only looked gross. After his gutter diving adventure, Peter knew that he probably stank, even if he couldn't smell it, so he stayed away from the more populated areas and instead ventured into Gotham's back alleyways.

After a while, Peter's danger sense twinged - though really, it was less of a twinge and felt more like a bolt of lightning hitting him that was also screaming danger danger you're about to get fucked! - so, like a good little hero, Peter listened to his instincts and shot a spray of web fluid behind him. The person grunted, then immediately started complaining, "Okay, what gives Mista? I was quiet as a mouse!" Peter turned around to the person that had been following him, passively observing the gun and the hand that were now webbed to the side of the alleyway while the person themself tried in vain to yank their hand away. It would not work, "I have this, like, thingy , that can tell when danger's coming," Peter explained, drawing closer.

"Well," The stranger was stumped, "That's unfair."

"Probably," Peter admitted. The sense of danger was gone, so Peter thought it would be fine to engage a little bit. Plus, it's not everyday someone tries to shoot Peter (just most days) and the novelty has yet to wear off, "What's your name? Why'd you try to shoot me?"

The person - a woman, swallowed up in a big trench coat, heavily tinted glasses, and a fedora - shrugged, "Saw ya. Figured, hell, why not? And, as to who I am, I'm none other than…" She pulled off her hat with flourish, then shook off the sunglasses a beat later, "Harley-motherfucking-Quinn!"

Peter offered his hand to shake, just because it felt like the right thing to do, and Harley looked severely unimpressed by the gesture, "Where the fuck am I supposed t'put my hat if I go 'n shake yer hand?"

"Fair." Peter tilted forward, and Harley settled the hat on his head. She then gripped his hand tightly, shaking his hand in a very exaggerated motion, "Nice t'meet you!"

"Nice to meet you too. Sorta. That fact that you were gonna shoot me is kinda hard to get over."

"Yada, yada, yada," Harley groaned, "Who hasn't tried to shoot someone before? Or wanted to?" And Peter thought of Quinten Beck and shrugged, "I get where you're coming from, but also. Like. I was just walking."

"Eh. Schematics."

"Not really ."

"Potato, potato."

"You just said potato the same way twice."

"No I didn't."

"Yes you-" Peter sighed, "Alright. I should probably call the police now since I'm pretty sure Harley Quinn broke out of Arkham a couple months ago."

" Really? " Harley whined, "You're gonna turn me in? After I almost shot you! I didn't even fire the gun! And I gave you my hat."

"It is a very nice hat, Ms. Quinn," Peter agreed, pulling out his flip phone and dialing 911, "But, y'know. I really can't just let you go."

Harley sagged, held up only by the webs around her hand, "Fine, fine, call all you wanna. But! Lemme leave you with a treat!"

Vaguely, Peter's danger sense flared as she reached inside her coat with her free hand. Harley tossed out a handful of powder directly at Peter's face before he could stop her. Or, well, to clarify, he didn't really try to stop her. He just kinda let it happen. The two stared at one another blankly, until the person Peter called started to get impatient and demanded to know what was going on. That shook Peter back into action, "Oh! Hi there. I caught Harley Quinn."

"You what?!"

Peter covered the receiver with his hands and muttered to Harley, "How unprofessional."

She just stared at him slack-jawed. Fucking weird situation, this was.

"Yeah. She's restrained but I'd recommend being here sooner rather than later. And she also has some power thingy that she just blew on me so maybe watch out for that, 'cause I dunno what it is." Peter then rattled off their rough location, dusted some of the powder off the front of his new vest (Peter was not looking forward to washing the suit, which he would probably have to do very carefully considering Harley probably just threw an actual bioweapon at him), and fiddled around with his pockets until he found the zip ties.

"If the powder gets on you will you, like, die?" Peter asked, pausing mid-movement. At last, Harley seemed to collect herself, "Nah, it's only if you inhale it."

"Well. I kinda have a whole," Peter gestured to his face, which didn't have anything visible beneath the tinted goggle-like eyewear and the full face mask. It ended at Peter's hairline, although his head was currently covered by Harley's hat, "Face mask and air filtration thing going on. So… sorry that didn't work."

"I really wanna hate you."

"I get that a lot."

" Ugh , that's it. I give up. I can't hate you. Just stay and chat until the police arrive, though, 'cause otherwise I'll get bored and then I'll figure out how t'escape," Harley complained.

And. Well. Peter didn't have anywhere else to be, so now felt like as good a time as any to ask, "Hey, question. You're, like, partnered with the Joker, right?"

"Ex- partners," Harley corrected. Peter nodded, "Sorry, sorry. Ex- partners. Still - do you know what he's planning right now?"

"Why do you think he's planning something?" Harley challenged, which wasn't a no , so Peter continued, "Well, I mean. He got taken down by a waiter. That's gotta sting. And then-" No, wait, Peter cut himself off, recalling that he'd made sure Red Robin got all the credit for taking down the Mad Hatter. While the villain himself knew differently, Peter wasn't going to be the one to start rumors, "...Yeahhh…" Peter finished awkwardly.

Harley wasn't exactly amused, but she still humored him, "No doubt that asshole is probably scheming something up, but I wouldn't know what. I've partnered with someone new , who doesn't treat me like shit!"

"Congrats."

"Aww, thanks! We're really doing well together. Our anniversary of being partners in crime and in love is coming up soon. I'm looking forward to it, so sorry to say I'll probably be breaking out of Arkham prettyyy quickly. If she doesn't break me out first."

"Understandable, anniversaries are very important."

"See! You get it!" Harley turned towards the police that were rushing towards them, emphasizing her words, "He gets it!"

As the police took Harley into custody, she broke one arm free and everyone flinched. All she did, however, was wave goodbye to Peter, "Seeya toots!"

"Bye, Ms. Quinn," Peter waved back, sighing to himself quietly.

"Call me Harley!" She shouted over her shoulder as she was pushed into the back of the armored van, "Ms. Quinn is so lame!"

Despite himself, Peter laughed. It was soft and small and a pretty stupid thing to laugh at.

(It has been so long since Peter has been able to laugh this freely. That he found something to laugh at on patrol, at something so fucking stupid and ridiculous. At something that probably shouldn't be making him laugh. It has been so long since Peter's little laughs haven't been forced or awkward or done to break the tension. It felt, just a little bit, like coming home.)

The police then started heading towards Peter - not pointing their guns at him but still suspicious - Peter waved his fingers at them in a playful goodbye, mimicking Harley's tone of voice only slightly , "Seeya!"

Losing the police was - as always, no matter the universe - laughably easy, and so Peter did. Out of the corner of his eye, Peter caught sight of reflection in the reflective surface of a window, and his smile grew.

Fuck yeah , Peter was getting paid tonight.

Gotham Glazer -

"Mr. Green back on the Scene: Harley Quinn back in Custody!"

Article Written by Sherry Rite, Photos by an Anonymous Submitter

Bruce put down his phone. Alone, in the sanctity of his office, he allowed himself to express aloud the thoughts that have been running in his head nonstop since the unexpected emergence of a handful of new players in Gotham:

"What the fuck ."