In the end, cracking the code for multidimensional travel had been as simple as… well. Nothing. Nothing about it had been simple , not by a long shot, but hacking into Tony Stark's private servers - now that there was no Tony Stark to notice the minuscule traces Peter left behind - had been easy. Too easy, really, and that felt weird , because Tony's security wasn't bad by any means, even without Tony .
Asking Mister Fantastic about his theories had also been easy, once Peter met him. All theoretical (heavy on the sarcasm) discussion, of course, but fruitful nonetheless. Reed's ideas tended to be more fantastical and, frankly, out of Peter's reach, but so were Tony's, and Peter had found those helpful, if unachievable.
It was good to know what didn't work, at least.
After all, Peter doesn't have multiple millions and billions of dollars to invest in building some sort of time-travel doohickey the size of a baseball court or maybe a small stadium.
Peter does , however, have a coupon for Big Joe's Storage Units! and a dream of leaving his current universal situation behind.
And so it starts, but not quite in that order.
Something changed within Peter after he had dared to call MJ's number in a probably (read: absolutely) masochistic way, and been firmly denied that self-torture by Steph.
(And wasn't that connection funny? Steph of all people: someone Peter barely knows. It doesn't make sense, not for MJ, and yet- )
There are memories and thoughts in Peter's head that feel unfamiliar and wrong . They're the desperate thoughts from a desperate man, and Peter doesn't recognize himself in them, yet they are undoubtedly his .
But Peter… Did Peter really want to leave New York that badly? He can't remember feeling that way, feeling so utterly…
Well. Not quite: Peter had felt alone - horribly alone - in New York. He felt unloved, uncared for, and like the distinction between Peter Parker and Spider-Man had been an endless chasm that was as impossible to cross as it was to describe.
(Yet here Peter was, describing that distinction: defining it , even. He couldn't do that before.)
And suddenly - but not suddenly , because Peter thinks he knew all along that he was changing in Gotham, that there was a chance for change in Gotham - there is a disconnection between those thoughts - between that Peter, the Peter who barely survived in New York and who came to Gotham - and the Peter of right now , because now, impossibly, Peter wants to go home. Now, impossibly, he has a home. He didn't realize he had home, until now.
(He can deny those feelings - that self - all he wants, can say "I don't recognize that person" over and over again. But the man in Peter's memories is the same as the one in the mirror, and Peter thinks he hates it - hates him - just a little bit.)
Going home means that Peter can tell Miles how proud he is of everything Miles stands for. It means he can tell the kid that he deserves more than what Spider-Man can offer, but that Peter won't ever leave him behind - not intentionally, at least.
He wants to tell Daredevil that the reason Peter never reached out before was because Peter had been terrified of relying on him too much, of having that comfort inevitably ripped away. That, when faced with a horrifyingly new situation, Matt had been the first person Peter reached out to: that all Peter has ever wanted to do is ask for help , he just didn't know how.
To tell the Fantastic Four his identity. To tell them that they feel like a home and like a family, and that Peter has been too afraid to accept it - to accept the fact that their arms are open and welcoming - because to accept the warmth means that now they are people he could lose .
But Peter lost them anyway, ending up an entire universe away.
Peter wants to tell Deadpool that talking shit and chowing down shitt er food with him was sometimes the only reason why Peter could get out of bed in the morning. That the promise of someone kept him going.
Peter wants to tell Johnny…
Peter wants to tell Johnny thank you , for making Peter feel normal again. Or, as close to normal as Peter would have ever allowed himself to feel, with the barrier of his mask and the way he kept everyone at arm's length.
Because Johnny felt like Mj. Like Ned. And he-!
And Johnny felt like he saw Peter, despite the mask. Because despite the divide between Peter Parker and Spider-Man, the line between the two blurred with Johnny. Because Peter could be Peter , the core of himself, with Johnny, and it was freeing and lovely and good .
So. Peter will tell Johnny thank you .
He will. He will . He will give Miles a real hug, not a side one, he will let Wade wrestle him into a headlock and give him a noogie, and he will tell Matt that he makes Peter feel so incredibly safe, and he will tell Reed and Sue and Ben that they feel like family. Like home .
New York - for all its flaws, for all its memories, for all that Peter cannot look at the Statue of Liberty or a certain coffee shop - is home .
And Peter will get back.
He will.
There is no other option.
When Peter can't sleep, he writes in the thin, spiral bound notebooks that he gets for a dollar each at Dollar General. They fill up quickly. Not just the pages of the notebook, but entire notebooks. He writes and writes and writes until his brain is too full of theories and postulates that Peter can't hear May's last breaths rasping in his ear, or Happy asking how he knew May at his own aunts fucking grave , or the echos of his own failed promises to Ned and MJ.
Peter bought a notebook. From Walmart. He splurged on a nice one - green, because he's a sappy fool - and makes himself comfortable on the couch with Granny while she watches Jeopardy and yells at the idiots on screen. At one point, Peter finds himself abandoning the notebook when some idiot can't answer "A flock of geese" for the category "Three G's."
"It's a gaggle! You fucking idiot!" The notebook is cast aside as Peter facepalms, "No fucking way these shitheads don't know what a goddamn gaggle is."
Granny points at the television sagely, definitely not knowing what a gaggle is either, "People these days," she shook her head, "Know nothing useful anymore."
Of course, Peter had to laugh at that one: at the absurd idea that knowing a flock of geese is called a gaggle could ever be considered useful information. And Granny laughs too, when Peter laughs so hard he starts wheezing and can't catch his breath.
The notebook is forgotten, for now.
Multiversal Travel Concept #27.13 seems feasible.
Multiversal Travel Concept #27.13 seems feasible!
Tomorrow is Greasy Food Festival! Thursdays, though, and Peter doesn't want to alarm Deadpool by showing up scattered-brained and thoughtless after 3 sleepless nights of frantic writing, and that is enough to urge Peter to sleep.
For now.
"Yellow?"
Maybe it was kinda stupid to answer a phone call on a rooftop, where the wind would muffle Peter's voice, but whatever.
Called Number Two - aka: Jason, aka: Nic, aka: the Red Hood - had called Peter. For some reason. He normally isn't the first one to reach out - except for that first day when Peter might have accidentally given the poor guy multiple heart attacks - so Peter hadn't hesitated to answer the call. But there was no answering voice and Peter vaguely wondered if Jason butt-dialed him or something.
"..."
But Peter could hear the sound of someone breathing, and his hearing was good, sure, but over a phone call he was (almost) like any other average person: he can only hear what the phone speakers manage to pick up.
So Jason must have the phone near his face. Cool cool cool.
Why the hell did he call?
"Yellow?" Peter ventured again, voice rising in pitch alongside his confusion, "Or maybe red? Green? Is ' yellow ' not workin' for you? Hello? "
Nothing. That should have gotten an exasperated sigh at least , and Peter's getting worried now, "Okay, seriously though, what's going on? Are you okay? Hey, hey, c'mon, say something!"
Jason's breathing was harsh. Not normal. Not an angry sort of harsh, either, but pained - maybe even anxious, "Where are you? C'mon, you've got this. I'm really fucking fast, I just need a location-!"
"... The docks… "
Peter had already stowed his camera away, webbing it to the roof, and silently apologized to Sherry in case the thing somehow managed to break or get stolen before Peter was able to retrieve it. Before Jason's call, Peter had been roaming the rooftops of Gotham to see if he would get lucky and catch a pic of some Bats in action when his phone had vibrated in his pocket.
Getting his bearings, Peter pulled the hood of his black hoodie up and over his head, tightening the strings and tying them tightly so that the hood wouldn't slip off of his face. Hopefully it would be enough to keep his face from being visible, as he'd already been seen web slinging as Mister Green , and Peter's civilian face would be unfortunately recognizable as the civilian who took down the Joker and who had been at the scene of the Mad Hatter's takedown. Plus, it would create quite an awkward situation for Peter's current employment at the Iceberg Lounge, considering that Mister Green had busted a few drug rings recently… ones that had been coincidentally run by patrons who frequent the Lounge.
As Peter readied himself at the edge of the rooftop, doing his customary check of his webshooters, the tiniest ping! of his danger-sense went off. Not so much because of any real danger , but as an alert that Peter had company. Peter didn't bother turning around - doing so would only reveal his face anyway - as someone landed behind him, the sound of a grappling gun retracting signifying their presence seconds after Peter first sensed them, "Step away from the edge," Robin's voice was tight, and Peter kinda hated to do this to him again , but alas: Jason was obviously in some sort of trouble, and Peter didn't have time to chit-chat. Peter lept, and in the seconds before Peter started swinging, tossed a shout of, "Head to the docks!" over his shoulder. Peter heard Robin's sharp inhale and the rushing of feet, but by the time Robin reached the edge, Peter was already mid-arc and shooting off another web, navigating the city with an organic ease of mobility that even Batman's years of grappling hook experience couldn't mimic.
As Peter left Robin behind, he heard the kid's com-set crackle to life as he activated it, although he stayed silent for a beat too long that Peter felt minorly guilty for being the cause of, "...Uh. The Green fellow. He's-"
And then Peter was out of range, and he wondered if Robin would put it together - a similar exit as one unremarkable stranger from so many weeks ago, the photos that had appeared the next day, the same movement style as Mister Green - and couldn't find it within himself to regret his choices. Not if it meant the difference between Jason's life or his death.
Oddly, or perhaps not, it was Steph's words which brought Peter the most comfort:
"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 , he will find opposition on many, many sides."
Regular Ordinary Civilian Peter Parker could rent a storage unit a lot easier than Spider-Man could.
So he did.
(The ache Peter felt while doing so obviously meant that this was the right decision. There could be no other reason for hurting the way he does.)
The irony of Jason being at the docks didn't escape Peter: from where the mystery of a strange photographer began is where that same mystery shall die.
From where he came to blah blah blah dust unto return. Or something.
(Peter fucking hates dust.)
But Peter doesn't mind that his secrecy has reached its probably-inevitable end. Mostly.
(At least, that's what he tells himself.
After all, it's quite hard to shake off years and years of having the need for secrecy ingrained within him. As long as the Bats don't connect Peter to his other personas (of which, Peter realizes only now, he has far too many of), he thinks that he'll be alright. Because if they know Peter , then that's one step closer to Granny , and Peter would hate to get into the habit of compromising the people he cares about through the reveal of his civilian identity.
Jason would be alright, though, Peter thinks quietly, in the corner of his mind. Jason would keep Peter's secret.)
Peter let his gut lead him as he arrived at the docks, up until the moment his gut very decidedly said nonononono fuck NO.
And. Well. If that wasn't ominous as hell…
The warning was loud enough that Peter should probably listen. He didn't, of course, and aimed his next swing to latch onto a large crane that was used to move the heavy metal storage containers on and off of freighter ships. As Peter swung over the yard of shipping containers, he scanned the area below for any sign of a red helmet, the smell of blood, or the sound of torture (?) and/or agony (?) and/or dramatic monologuing (?).
Peter never knew what to expect with Gotham. The city kept him on his toes, to say the… very least. The tiniest, most minuscule amount Peter could say without being dishonest, really.
No matter. Peter's danger sense kept up a steady siren of alarm blaring in the back of his mind, but a different - yet not dissimilar - tug in his gut had Peter landing lightly on top of a series of stacked metal containers. Something was here. Keeping low to the surface of the container, Peter closed his eyes and let out a low exhale of air. He let the tug in his stomach pull him, and when Peter opened his eyes, they instantly snapped to his left without any conscious action on Peter's part. Peter examined the scene for a heartbeat or two (or maybe five, Peter's heart was beating pretty quickly, after all) before his breath caught. There . A dent in a metal container, roughly the same distance above the ground as a human head. Peter crept closer while still staying semi-hidden far above the scene. There were faint specks of blood on the ground, and the cool air of Gotham's night had managed to preserve a small trail of wet boot prints, keeping them from evaporating.
The boot prints were very familiar , Peter mentally added, his enhanced eyes tracing the pattern. Based on the orientation of the clues, Peter figured that Jason would have been walking normally - the boot prints were spaced out in an average stride length for someone of Jason's height and build, and not as though he'd been carefully sneaking around - and crossed through a puddle, where his boot prints left traces for three… maybe four steps, when they suddenly disappeared, their vanishing perfectly aligned with the dented storage container than ran parallel to Jason's path. He must have been slammed into the side of the container, his helmeted head having gathered enough force to dent the metal, and done by a perpetrator strong enough to create that force. And quiet enough for Jason to not notice, either.
But that seems nearly impossible. Peter knew what people like Jason were like. Once he shed the persona of Nic - and truly, Jason's ability to act was astounding, since Peter could only tie the two distinctly different personas together because he was, well, Peter - the person that had been unveiled underneath felt entirely different. Sorta.
Now was not the time to rehash old realizations.
Point being : Peter knew how people like Jason lived. Hyperaware. Vigilant. Terrified of being caught off guard, and compensating for that terror by never being off guard.
And Peter looked closer at the footprints, reexamined their stride length, and maybe Jason hadn't been casually walking on patrol (or, as casual as one could be, when living in a state of hypervigilance learned through necessity). Maybe - just maybe, because now Peter was purely speculating - Peter overestimated Jason's walking stride. Maybe Jason's normal walk as though the world will fall out from underneath him if he steps too boldly. Maybe Jason fears every step will be his last, will be a mis step. Maybe Jason wasn't walking casually , but was instead rushing, his stride extending longer than normal in some sort of haste.
And maybe, in his haste, Jason's hypervigilance slipped. And he didn't notice until too late that someone was lurking, body-checking him and slamming him into the side of a shipping container with enough force to dent the metal, but hopefully not Jason's skull. But, of course, a slip in vigilance - while potentially catastrophic - is not the end for someone like Jason. There is a spray of blood, angled, Peter notes, in a way that would be impossible for it to be Jason's blood, if the blow had been struck right after Jason had been rammed into the container. The angle of the spray - thin flecks streaking the ground, and Peter can't pick up on the scent of iron from this far away, but if he got closer Peter knows that he could - looks like it originated from the perpetrator, their head snapping to the side with a small spray of blood spat from their mouth after Jason must have punched them, his fists strong and steady, even after a slip up.
But those were all assumptions. Not baseless assumptions, of course, and they were enough to tell Peter that Jason was actually in trouble, so that's all that really mattered.
The fact that the scene remained preserved - especially the wet footprints - meant that whatever happened, had happened recently. Over the phone, Peter had been able to hear Jason's heavy breathing. Not the wind, which was semi-strong tonight, and would have definitely carried over the phone like it must have from Peter's end. So they were in some sort of cover. And the breathing hadn't been echoey, so likely not in a storage container either. Vaguely, Peter remembers seeing an office building - a portable - located in the central area of the dockyard during his first nighttime escapade with Two-Face and his two bombs and his twin piers and probably a dozen other two-themed shitty schtick business.
It was as good a start as any.
Normally, teens start crappy bands in their parents' garage.
Alas, Peter doesn't have parents - or, better yet, his fucking aunt - or a garage. Or a house. Or friends to start a band with.
But Peter did just spend his first birthday (His eighteenth. There were no eighteen candles shoved into a cupcake and then set on fire in a blaze of glory. No Happy Birthday! texts. No Ned sending him the same shitty Happy Birthday Peter! YouTube video he'd sent for years. It was a tradition, and yesterday, it had been broken.) utterly alone, and gifted himself a fifteen-percent-off storage unit coupon (for the first three months of usage!) for a garage unit that he now plans to build a multiversal transporter in.
It had been eight months since Peter's life fell apart. Seven months and two weeks since he got his first journal. Six months since he started seriously searching for an answer. Three months since he got close, and one month since the miraculous Multiversal Travel Concept #27.13. Peter wasn't anywhere near ready to start construction, but he did need to begin the accumulation process for materials.
And the storage unit was proof of Peter's hope.
Still, he locked it up for tonight, because Johnny had invited him to the Fantastic Four's game night even though they had just met a few months ago, and Peter doesn't have a good enough reason to turn him down.
Fortunately, Peter's danger sense had stopped nagging him. The big chaotic warning upon entering the dockyard appeared to have been for naught (and Peter knew that wasn't the case, he knew his body was just trying to keep him safe, but Peter had never been good at listening to warning signs), and he moved through the air smoothly.
Hopefully, Robin sends Peter's message to the right people. Cass would be good. She and Jason must get along, if she'd brought him along on Mission: Save Crispy Peter. So Cass. And Red Robin seemed chill and non-judgemental.
Batman himself coming along - which was likely inevitable if Robin took Peter's warning seriously, but who really knows - probably wouldn't be for the best, but Peter wasn't about to touch this family's issues with a seven foot pole.
Yeesh .
There was someone like Peter.
Powers-wise, at least. Not anything else, but Peter's thankful about that (if a bit jealous), because he wouldn't wish his life on anyone: even his worst enemy.
(Okay maybe on the Green Goblin. Not Osborn himself… just the Green Goblin aspect of things .)
The kid - Miles - wants to be Peter, though. Or, rather, not Peter, but Spider-Man : he wants to be like Spider-Man , be a hero, and Peter doesn't know how to tell the kid the truth.
"Spider-Man isn't a hero. He's a failure."
"Spider-Man isn't someone to look up to. He's lost every fight that matters, because the real things that matter aren't decided by a fight."
"Spider-Man isn't you . You should be better than him. You have so much potential to be better than him. Don't waste it on trying to be Spider-Man."
"Spider-Man isn't good. He's me."
But Peter won't break the kid's heart like that, and if anything, Spider-Man does have countless tips of the trade and Peter would rather rot in hell and live through that first month of torturous loneliness than have Miles running around New York without everything Peter has to give.
…Peter supposes it is quite fortunate that Miles has such a good family. Otherwise he'd obviously have to take Miles in and the coupon for his sweet sweet fifteen percent off was ending in a month, which would be an increase in living expenses that Peter probably can't afford. Especially with a kid.
To clarify, Peter thinks to himself as he writes down the most recent progress with his transporter. For some reason, progress has slowed down drastically, I don't want a kid. I don't. And he has a family: a great dad, a great mom, a great uncle. I'm just here to make sure he survives long enough to realize how much he has.
Before Peter leaves this universe, he'll have to make sure to introduce Miles to Daredevil and Johnny. Miles is a bright kid and would benefit from connections to the Fantastic Four. Maybe before Peter leaves, they can all have a game night together. For some reason, Johnny keeps inviting him.
(Peter has yet to refuse.)
He probably won't introduce Miles to Deadpool, but he can probably ask 'Pool to look out for the kid. Deadpool's good like that.
There's a knock at Peter's window. It's tentative, soft. As if unsure if it would be welcome. Peter's head jolts up at the sound, muscles tensing, and he's moving before any conscious thought could even enter his mind. No one who would ever show up at a window knows where Peter lives except for Miles , and Peter is at the window in a heartbeat, yanking it upward with such force that the glass shatters under Peter's fingers. It rains down on Peter's head and he instantly feels guilty about being so rough, but Miles didn't even flinch, just watched with wide eyes as the glass shattered down. The broken glass didn't matter, and Peter doesn't care how it bites into his feet as he steps closer to the window, "Kid? What's wrong? Are you injured?" Peter winced at the amount of questions he was pelting Miles with, and took a steadying breath, "C'mon inside, it's freezing out there."
It's freezing inside , too, is what Peter doesn't say, but at least he has a comforter that Miles can use.
"Ah, wait," Peter stopped Miles before he could crawl inside, "Lemme lay down a towel so you don't cut yourself on the glass."
"I- I'll be fine," But Peter notices the hiccup in Miles's words and decides that his kid can't wait for a towel, so he sweeps aside the glass on the windowsill with his own hands, ignoring how it bites, and knows that he made the soles of Miles's suit thick and padded enough that the glass won't hurt his feet. That had been a painful lesson for Peter to learn: a little extra padding on the feet went a long way.
Miles gingerly enters Peter's apartment, avoids the glass entirely - a smart decision - and tries not to look like he's obviously ogling the place even as he shakes with cold and something else .
Peter can't smell any blood (aside from his own, from where the glass cut his feet), but he can see how tightly wound up and anxious Miles is - but he'd shown up this way, this wasn't Peter's fault - and pads into the kitchen quietly. The sting is nothing, "Want some hot chocolate?"
He might not be able to offer much other than words of advice and tips of the trade, but Peter can at least do this. Miles is shaken, and Peter watches as he yanks off the mask. His eyes are scattered, unfocused, and Peter knows that Miles saw something he wasn't ready for. Fuck .
But Peter can do this : he can offer hot chocolate, he can play a shitty movie on his laptop, he can listen to Miles or fill the air or sit in silence. Whatever Miles needs: Peter will help. Peter is here .
(The sting on Peter's feet should be nothing - Peter has faced much worse, after all - but that doesn't keep them from aching. It is nothing, however, to the heavy hurt in Peter's heart. Miles is too young for this life, but Peter knows his kid won't back off. He's good . He's so good. And it hurts to see him living this life, but Miles would be doing it either way. It would be worse , Peter thinks, If I wasn't here.
At least with Peter here, Miles is safer. He'll have the opportunity to learn, rather than be tossed into the deep end.
(Peter doesn't know when that had last been the case. When being with him meant that a person would be safer. Yet, it was undoubtedly true.))
Charging in guns blazing - despite how satisfying it may be to knock out the shitheads who apparently had the bright idea of threatening Jason in a brilliant blaze of glory - was, sadly, not the smart decision.
Truly an unfortunate circumstance, but alas, Peter was unsure what state Jason would be in - how injured, under duress, blah blah blah: all totally reasonable reasons why not to jump in head first, but Peter had an itch in his fingers and a voice in the back of his head that urged him to rip apart the fucking shitheads who ruined his night.
Peter landed silently on the tin roof of the office (really, he deserves a round of applause for that one, because it is truly an impressive feat) and focused on the voices below him. On top of it being the smarter decision, Peter also felt unnerved by how easily his mind had jumped straight to violence . Waiting it out would give his brain some time to cool down. It had been, Peter supposes, a while since he felt protective over anyone close to him.
…No . That wasn't quite true.
There'd been an incident involving a semi destroyed building, a wounded Daredevil, and some thugs who'd gotten lucky (although not in that order). And when Miles had gotten injured on patrol with Peter, the fuckers who'd done it… probably wouldn't walk without a limp for the rest of their lives.
And yeah , Deadpool regenerates, but seeing one of Wade's pals casually kill him like it was some sort of fucking joke had Peter seeing red and Wade coming back to the beautiful world of the living looking up at New York's smoggy sky and the fabric of Peter's suit being torn and stained with blood at his knuckles.
Deadpool hadn't asked.
Peter hadn't offered.
(The asshole, miraculously, but not, because Peter knew exactly how hard he was hitting and how far he could go, survived, so there was very little guilt on Peter's conscience about the whole situation.)
But that had been different. That wasn't this: the urge to rip and tear and cause someone to crumble at Peter's feet.
(Or was it?)
"That little freak should be here soon. Croc, get ready at the door when he comes in."
Peter wanted to scoff at the (probably) ringleader's foolishness. Did Batman come through the door? Hell no. Batman probably went through windows , like any self-respecting vigilante. There was a small scuffling sound, and the unknown voice's laugh was… actually really nasally and lame, if Peter was being honest, "Don't move, Hood. Or else he'll get it."
Pursing his lips, Peter listened closer, counting the sets of heartbeats in the office building.
One: Jason, somewhere directly below Peter.
Two: 'Croc,' who was waiting at the door.
Three: The other dude, who was located near the back of the building, but probably within eyesight of both Jason and Croc, assuming there was an open floor plan. Portable buildings tended to be pretty open, so Peter was relatively confident on that front.
Four: No one. Peter's own heartbeat, sure, but there wasn't another living person in the building, which was strange because the ringleader had made it sound as if there was a hostage.
Still, the scuffling had come to a complete stop at the threat, so Jason , at least, believed the threat to be real.
Peter tightened the strings of his hoodie even further, thankful he got a size too big for him, narrowing his worldview down into a tiny hole barely big enough to peek through with both eyes. Hopefully that would be enough. Slinking his feet across the roof as to not make a sound, Peter felt only slightly annoyed that Jason was inside the building, which meant that Peter couldn't just pick up the portable and shake it around and give the kidnappers inside a totally fun and not at all nauseating and dangerous ride.
Alas: it is what it is. Peter would have to cope.
Reaching the corner of the building nearest to the door-stalker, Peter stuck his feet to the side of the building and pulled the hoodie up over his hands so that he wouldn't have to touch the cold metal of the roof. Grabbing a hold of either side of the corner, Peter used the slightest amount of his strength and ripped the entire roof off of the building like the lid of a can of sardines. Or maybe soup. But rectangular. So sardines, Peter thought, as he took in the scene, were certainly a better analogy than a soup can.
Gotham's schtick practices had struck once again, as the Croc by the door looked like an actual fucking crocodile, and the weirdo at the other end of the portable looked like a scarecrow, so Peter felt like he could guess with pretty good accuracy what his name would be.
"Yo," Peter greeted, as three shocked faces twisted to look at him, with varying degrees of rage, "So you're an actual crocodile or something?" He asked Croc.
But apparently Croc was super rude, because he didn't even try to answer and instead just continued to stare. Peter shrugged, "I think I prefer the lizard version of you."
Scarecrow was starting to gather up his wits, and that just wouldn't do, so Peter balanced himself precariously on the top of the wall like a wrestler on the ropes and patted his elbow, "I've always wanted to try this."
Peter hopped up and forward, dropping all his weight onto his elbow and nailing Croc directly in the throat. He dropped like a bag of rocks. Whoops . Peter might have put too much force into that one. There was a click of a gun and Peter was already shooting his web, as he hopped lightly to his feet. The hoodie made it kinda hard to see, but Peter poked his eye out and looked at the Scarecrow.
He'd managed to knock the gun out of the Scarecrow's hand, and it was stuck to the wall behind him, although the dude himself remained free. Bummer.
"You- you!" He spluttered, visibly (to Peter, at least) shaken and trying to act brave in spite of it. Admirable if he wasn't an idiot mass murderer, "Who the hell are you?"
"Woooow," Peter snarked, striding over to Jason as if he owned the place and snapping with one hand the chains that bound him - ankles, wrists, around his torso - and kept him firmly in place, "You don't recognize me? Hoodies have kinda been my thing for a while now, y'know."
Holding up a shaking hand - trembling from both rage, indignation, and a little bit of rightfully placed pants pissing fear - the Scarecrow accused, " You're the Green guy!"
Jason looked off , eyes unfocused, and it seemed like whatever he had going on was far more than a concussion.
"Don't be risky," Jason warns, grabbing Peter's wrist before he can go knock the Scarecrow through the wall of the portable, "'Crow will-"
" Crow will do this?" Scarecrow mocks, a syringe pressed against the hostage's ( hostage? Since when?) neck taking the place of a gun in the time span that Peter looked away.
Why the hell is his danger sense not going off? This feels like it should be quite a tense situation, after all, and here Peter is: la-de-da-ing his days away.
And! Why does the hostage not have a heartbeat? They can't be dead, because they're squirming in their bindings, but all Peter can smell is shit, "Who've you got there?" Peter casually questioned.
The syringe means something to Jason, even if it doesn't to Peter, and the grip Jason has on Peter's wrist gets tighter. It would be enough to break the arm of anyone else. But Jason doesn't say anything, and Peter's left in the dark, so he makes light conversation, "Gonna answer my question? Who's the hostage?"
The Scarecrow laughs (nasally, again , fuck off this guy needs to blow his nose or something it is grossing Peter out ), and grabs onto the bag with his free hand, "None other than the fucker who took down the Joker," The Scarecrow rips off the bag, " Ben Jones-Watson."
Peter stares at his own face, its expression wide-eyed and terrified.
He hears his own incredulous voice ask, "Okay, what the fuck?"
For a while, Peter stops writing as much. He doesn't think it's a conscious decision, but he notices it on a very horribly special day in November - the day everyone forgot, it's the one year anniversary - and the dates of Peter's journal entries have been getting farther apart. Peter's paying for a storage facility (for full fucking price, too) that he rarely uses, has ideas that he doesn't write down even though he should, and he doesn't know why .
So Peter is just picking up his pencil, because what better way to spend the anniversary of when Peter's life fell apart than working on the one thing that'll put it back together, when his phone rings.
Peter ignores it.
It rings again.
And again.
And now Peter's kinda worried, so he picks up his phone and Johnny's breathless voice comes over the speaker, "Oh thank god- wait , nothing's wrong don't worry," and Peter wonders how Johnny knew that Peter was about to have a heart attack, "I have a surprise for you. Meet me on top of the Baxter Building!"
Peter looks at the notebook, knows that his apartment is still freezing even though he cannot feel it through the warmth of the blanket Miles gifted him, and doesn't know why he says yes but he can't think of a reason to say no either.
(And Johnny takes one look at Peter - with Peter's mask still firmly in place - and his hair bursts into flames.
(That, in and of itself, isn't abnormal. Johnny just tends to... do that, and Peter's long learned to accept it. He has his own quirks that came with being a meta too, after all, so it wouldn't be fair to judge Johnny for... spontaneous human combustion? Or something? Peter doesn't like mint anymore, so he totally gets it. Maybe.)
Johnny runs a hand through his flaming hair to douse it, messing it up in the process, but Peter won't be the one to tell him that, "Shit, dude. C'mon inside: it's movie night!"
That wasn't Johnny's original plan. He's in his suit for a reason - Johnny wouldn't put on his suit just to come up to his own roof - but movies sound good and a warm building sounds good and Johnny sounds good , and Peter ends up falling asleep on Johnny's shoulder and wakes up there too, Johnny's head resting on top of his.
Peter's mask is untouched. There's a new blanket over his shoulders, and the television has been turned off. Peter knows he fell asleep during the movie.
He doesn't feel trapped , either. And-
(He fell asleep on MJ like this once. A little over a year ago. They'd had a movie date and-!)
-Peter sits up like a rocket, knocking his head against Johnny's quite forcefully in the process. Groaning at the pain, Johnny leans back against the couch, and Peter hops to his feet anxiously, "I- should. I should go."
Johnny's not an idiot, he realizes that something went wrong, even if he doesn't know what, but he just nods, accepting in a way that Peter doesn't deserve, and Peter goes home and he writes , because he shouldn't be getting attached. May and MJ and Ned are waiting for him, even if they don't know it, and- and- and.
And Peter is tired , but he writes. He's hollow, but he writes.
Work picks back up again.
And Peter starts building.)
Jason's hands, Peter realizes with a disconnected bewilderment, are in the air. He's saying "Don't shoot, don't shoot, don't fucking shoot-"
But all Peter can do is stare at his own face, wearing an expression that Peter would never wear.
Or, perhaps he did, once upon a time, but then Peter died for four years, and he doesn't recognize the helpless terror written on his own features.
The mimic - to give credit where credit is due - is incredibly accurate, but it isn't Peter , and he'd have thought that Jason would be able to recognize that this whole situation is incredibly off , but Peter can hear Jason's heart beating much faster than a normal humans should ever beat, recalls the wild look in his eyes, and aims for casual as he asks, "What's in the syringe?"
Scarecrow inches the syringe closer to the fake's neck, and Peter notes that the mimic's flinch doesn't look quite as fake this time around. Interesting.
"My patented fear toxin, of course!" Scarecrow brags smugly, "You probably don't want to see the effects of dose this large, but if you look at yer friend there," He must be talking about Jason, "You'll see what a micro dose can do!"
Fuck . Jason doesn't even seem to register the admission, his entire body tense as he zeros in on the syringe, and Peter feels only a little bit guilty as he starts walking toward the Scarecrow.
"Hey! What are you doing?!"
"Fuck, Green, get back, Pete's in danger-!"
"Who the fuck is Pete?" The Scarecrow shouted back, completely caught off guard at Peter's flippant attitude about his hostage.
But Peter just keeps on going, shrugging casually, "Ehhh, Pete can totally handle that syringe. You should inject it," Jason grabs onto Peter's shoulder, grip borderline painful, but he shrugs him off, mentally apologizing, "See what happens. I'm curious."
Whoever fake-Peter is, they're doing a great job acting like a terrified civilian. It would fool any other hero, unless they knew Peter personally. Even then, the Scarecrow probably could have pulled it off, saying he already exposed fake-Peter to the fear toxin.
Unfortunately for this entire scheme, Peter was Peter, so he kept walking, taking his time on purpose and there-!
The Scarecrow was making empty threats - though they were only empty because Peter knew that fake-Peter was in on the whole scheme - jabbing the syringe closer and closer to fake-Peter's neck and fake-Peter's fear turned real , but they were a good actor because they didn't even try to escape the bindings Peter has no doubt were just for show. Still, even good actors weren't willing to take a syringe of fear toxin to the neck for fun, so when the Scarecrow's hand swung wider than he intended, aiming straight into fake-Peter, the mimic melted , slipping out of the bindings and reforming a few feet away.
"Ah. Didn't realize ' ordinary civilian' Ben Jones-Watson could do that," Peter intones dryly, and watches as it dawns on the Scarecrow what just happened. He turns to berate his companion, and Peter takes the opportunity to dart in close, ready to just knock this bitch's lights out and then figure out how to fight a person made of shit or mud or whatever the other dude is, but fuck fuck fuck Peter's danger sense screams as the Scarecrow whips up the glass vile right in line with Peter's punch.
The worst part about super strength, Peter thinks to himself as his fist sails through the vial, soaking his hand, is how hard it is to pull away once he starts moving. But, well, fuck it, Peter supposes, landing a firm hit on the Scarecrow's head which knocks him to the ground.
(K.O. !
Peter's 2:0 now for one hit knockouts.)
Peter posies his hand as if to shake off the excess liquid before pausing, turning to look at the mud-man. He'd obviously been afraid of the fear toxin, and it also obviously worked just through skin contact because Peter's mind was starting to whisper to him that he's the reason May died, and the voice was louder than normal. Out of the corner of Peter's eye, he could still see Jason, but his body was on the ground, neck twisted at an odd angle. Peter's work.
But not, because Peter hasn't moved.
… He is going to throw up. Or have a panic attack. Or both, maybe.
Peter wanted to throw up.
Finishing the multidimensional transporter should be a good thing, right?
Right?
But looking at it, in its untested and still very dangerous form, Peter wanted to do nothing more than to destroy it.
This monstrosity.
Tomorrow , Peter tells himself, because even if he hates it he can't bear to destroy it quite yet: this proof of his ingenuity. Of his capabilities. Because Peter built a multidimensional transporter on his own . With inspiration from others, sure, but Peter figured it out on his own, and he can't make himself tear it apart less than an hour after finishing it. He'll destroy the cursed machine tomorrow. He'll go on patrol tonight, dismantle the machine tomorrow, and then go to game night with Johnny, and no one will ever know what Peter had been about to do.
(What he got far too close to doing.)
So Peter goes back to his apartment (goes home, sort of, but not really - not at all - because he might have just now realized that multiversal transporting was probably the shittest idea ever but Peter still doesn't have a home without his family ), and, still a scientist and engineer at heart, pulls out the journal from under his bed, and starts to write.
"Theoretically, I have figured out multidimensional travel."
Because he had. Even if he hasn't tested out the machine, in theory, he still managed to figure it out.
The depth of Peter's actions are only now sinking in. He built an untested multidimensional transporter in an unguarded storage unit. An untested, potentially volatile machine. In the midst of a highly populated city . Peter feels like he's been snapped back to the real world as the gravity of his actions hit, his tunnel vision fading away as reality sinks in. Just because the machine hadn't blown up yet - or had someone stumble onto it - doesn't mean that they won't.
" In a more practical application, however, the machine is still unstable. I don't know if I can handle waiting any longer."
No, no. Peter will wait until tomorrow to dismantle the machine, but he still can't believe how fucking stupid he's been. He crosses out the last part.
"What am I doing? Is this right? Am I going to fuck everything up again?"
What if, in dismantling the machine, Peter screws up again. What if he activates it? What if he can't fight back the temptation of activating it? What if his vision tunnels again, if his own guilty conscience gets too loud, if Peter makes a decision that makes everything worse ?
(Again.)
"What if things get worse? Can they get worse?"
Of course they can get worse. Peter could-!
It was stupid to build a multidimensional transporter, Peter sees now, far too late. It was stupid, reckless, (absolutely brilliant) and Peter wants to throw up at the idea of abandoning Miles to be Spider-Man, of never having another game night, of losing…
Of losing everything . Again.
Peter heaves, everything crashing down over his head. He's drowning, he's sinking, he's fuck , he's-
He's on his knees, not able to stand.
The fear toxin hit like a freight train, one minute Peter being still semi-coherent and the next…
It's wet. Peter doesn't know why and his senses are screaming at him. Everything is too much too much too much too much and then things get worse and Peter doesn't know why it is wet but he tastes salt, too, and thinks that maybe it's his tears.
His hands are cradled under his hunched over back, and Peter stares at them with unseeing eyes. His heart is beating far too fast and it's because of the semi-translucent green fluid coating them.
He should wash it off in the wetness.
Peter can't untense his body. Can't make himself move.
Fuck .
"Fuck."
Saying it aloud helps, Peter thinks, his own voice overpowering the nails-on-a-chalkboard sounds of the rest of the world, "Fuck!" Peter says it louder and wet fabric touches his mouth.
And Peter's underneath tons of concrete, his mask wet and choking him and Peter claws at his own head with the hand that didn't punch the Scarecrow and seal his fate, tries to look up and can't see anything but gray walls and Darkness and no, no, Peter can't be there again, but there is pressure on Peter's chest and he can't- he can't breathe , he's choking, he's drowning, he's disintegrating, he's gone .
Peter's gone: swept his own world, through the works of a creation made from his own hands. God , he sees it now, his foolishness is coming back, and Peter doesn't know how he forgot but he knows that goddamn machine is his worst fear and Peter made it with his own two hands and - and - and everything is crumbling down. Something moves to his right, Peter thinks, and strikes out without hesitation. His hand sinks into whatever it is, and now Peter's trapped again, it's stuck around his hand, and Peter can hear howling.
"Shit," Peter says aloud, just because he can, and then, "Breathe, asshole," Because MJ would have said that, and Ned would have been panicking too, but he'd be able to say, "We're here, we're here," and May would say, "I've got you," and Happy would say, "Pete, you're in control."
And Miles wouldn't know what to do either, but he'd probably say, "It's okay!" even if he didn't believe his own words, and Wade would be the only one brave enough to get close to Peter and would keep his hands from tearing at his head, even if Peter accidentally ripped off Wade's hands in the process, and he'd say, "I ain't goin' anywhere," and Matt would be quiet except he'd breathe loudly, slowly, steadily, and Peter finds himself matching it - matching what it would be - instinctively. Johnny would chatter about anything until Peter came back to himself.
Peter doesn't know what to chatter about, and it would ruin his slow breathing, so he just pictures Johnny instead.
Time passes, Peter thinks, but Johnny's still chatting.
A blink: once, twice, and Jason's face - without a helmet, without a mask, pure Jason - comes into clarity. Peter doesn't know why Jason would take them off until he realized he could see all of Jason's face with both eyes.
Things feel fuzzy, but more in control now, and Peter laughs humorlessly, strained, and probably nasally and gross just like the Scarecrows, "I'm tired," he says simply, and his voice is hoarse and Peter has no idea what just happened, "Is-?"
"Firehose," Jason explains, probably because Jason knows what he would want to hear in Peter's position, "Mud and water don't mix. And then you hit him with a hand covered in fear toxin."
Ah. Mud-man probably doesn't have an metabolism like Peter's. Or ghosts like Peter, who whisper over his ears that he's okay.
"-with me?"
"Huh?"
Jason is patient, repeating his words, "You back with me?"
And Peter nods, because kinda, but he still can't breathe and feels like the walls are closing in and is sick with the realization that all of this is Peter's own fault and - "Y-yeah."
"I have the antidote. It's an injection."
Wordlessly, Peter holds out an open palm and gestures for Jason to hand it to him.
"I can inject it."
And get tossed aside when my danger sense starts screaming danger at me? Peter would roll his eyes if he wasn't destroyed inside already. Impatiently, he moves his hand again, and Jason hands it over, albeit reluctantly.
Peter injects the antidote into his own arm, and it stings like the glass did, all those months ago, but Peter can handle it, "I'm a danger right now," Peter's voice isn't steady. He doesn't try to make it steady, "I can't control my strength."
Jason hasn't stopped scouring Peter's face, but all he says is, "Okay. I'll keep watch. Can I call anyone?"
The fear toxin makes Jason's neck look twisted and broken. It makes him look like Matt, makes him look disappointed, makes him look disgusted. Peter fumbles for his phone and his fingers feel numb.
Peter doesn't know who he's calling until the phone is ringing.
Not Peter's.
Or, well Peter's phone is ringing, but it isn't the only one. Jason's helmet is ringing - Peter didn't know it could do that - and Jason frowns, "A coincidence," He says, but he sounds unsure, and Jason stands up to retrieve the helmet, and does something to answer the call without putting it on.
"B?" Jason asks, "Alf? Who the hell is calling me, this thing should only be connected to the com-set."
And Peter hears Jason's voice from two places.
Jason himself, who went to retrieve his helmet.
And through the phone.
Peter hangs up, and thinks he understands.
"Hey, did you-" Jason asks, and Peter shrugs.
"A coincidence."
Jason's unconvinced - hell, screw unconvinced , he knows what just happened, even if he doesn't understand how - but he doesn't argue, and the two end up sitting back to back in half-an-inch deep water, Peter coming down from the high of his majorly concentrated dosage of fear toxin and Jason doing the same, calming himself after his microdosing and concussion had him believing that Peter was in genuine danger.
"I'm tired," Peter says, and Jason doesn't say anything, but their breathing has synced, "I'm tired ," He says again with more emphasis, and Jason's breath hitches, "I know. I am too."
"I wanna go home ," And Peter feels childish, feels stupid, feels ridiculous, feels Jason hum against his back, "Gotham isn't?"
"...No. I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I'll help y'get back."
Really? Peter wants to ask, Truly? He wants to question, but his body says sleep and his senses say it's okay and Peter is.
He is okay.
May's number - the one he'd been most afraid to call - had been answered.
And Jason is here , so there was no need to stay on the line.
And Peter…
Peter remembers.
He remembers blowing out a singular candle on a cupcake, seated on the top of the Empire State Building with Johnny beside him, who had proudly lit the candle himself. Peter had accidentally let his birth date slip, although in hindsight, Peter doesn't know if it was an accident or a plea. Either way, Johnny delivered.
Looking back on the memory - at how progress on the transporter (and god , how foolish Peter had been (no, not foolish: fucking stupid ), thinking that he truly wanted to leave) had been ramping up in the week before Peter's nineteenth birthday and then completely stalled out in the days after - Peter doesn't realize how he could have been so blind.
In Peter's memory, Johnny looks at him like… like Johnny always has, and Peter doesn't know how he could have ever been willing to give this up.
(He wasn't willing, Peter sees that now. But he'd been grieving and lonely and desperate and drowning in his own guilt and self-hatred. He'd found an outlet for that despair - an ideal to cling desperately onto, in order to stay afloat - and he'd put everything into it. Into that false hope. But it kept him afloat - kept him going - maybe that hope wasn't false after all.
Peter now realizes that the transporter was never supposed to be used. He'd never intended to activate the damn thing, but that part - the activation, the injuries, the reason why Peter couldn't remember anything related to the transporter, and the reason why some memories still elude him - has yet to become clear. Peter hates mysteries.)
But, of course, Peter had given it up, if accidentally, because he finished the transporter two weeks later, and then everything fell apart.