Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first time Barbara saw the kid, she almost missed him when he walked through the library doors.

Her attention was largely on her computer and the city's various surveillance footage she had to cycle through. There was a robbery the previous night at a local clinic.

The robbers didn't take much, just some bandages, IV bags, and a line. And Barbara was supposed to be sifting for anything—or anyone—that stood out.

It wasn't until the boy paused by her desk, glancing around with the sharp, restless movements of someone who seemed lost, that Barbara finally noticed him.

And it was like there was a tug at the back of her mind at the sight of him. Like he looked strangely familiar, and yet she couldn’t pinpoint why. Large brown doe eyes. A mop of dark brown curls that was just a tad longer than she would’ve preferred. And beneath all that—dirt, dust, and a wariness far too old for a kid who couldn’t be more than 12.

“Hi there,” she greeted the boy, keeping her voice light as her gaze sharpened. “Looking for anything in particular?”

He didn’t answer right away, just shifted his weight on his feet and letting his eyes wander to the rest of the library. Then finally: “Do you have computers?”

She nodded at his question. “Just in the back. Though for more than 30 minutes, you’re going to need to sign up for a library card.”

Barbara made a show of looking for registration papers before sliding it across the desk towards him. Hoping to ease some of his nerves, she turned back to her computer while still keeping him in the corner of her vision.

So while she flipped through near uneventful footage of Gotham at night, the poor kid was filling out his registration paper with his pen tapping on the desk.

He was small. His black hoodie seemed to swallow him whole. It pooled around his hands, and when he moved to readjust his hold on the pen, Barbara saw how thin his wrist really was. His jeans were no better. They seemed to be kept up with rope rather than a belt. And they were so long and baggy that she couldn’t see his shoes. In all honesty, there wasn’t really anything that set him apart from other Alley kids.

But…there was just something about him that screamed familiar. Something about the slope of his nose, the curve of his chin, and the crinkle of his eyes just tugged at something in her. A flicker of recognition at the edge of her memory…

“I just moved here, so I don’t have my address memorised just yet,” he said suddenly, pulling her out of her thoughts.

“No worries. Just leave it blank, and you can fill it in next time you come in. You’ll have to use a temporary card this time, though,” she replied with a reassuring smile. 

The kid just nodded his head and pushed the paper across the desk. 

“From your accent, I would guess you’re from New York?” She asked, filling the silence between them as her fingers danced across her keyboard.

He nodded rather enthusiastically at her question, “Queens. Born and raised, actually.”

“That’s pretty cool. I actually have a… sort of friend that’s from New York,” Barbara replied with a soft smile. Her gaze skimmed over his form. “So what brings you to Gotham, Peter?”

That made him pause. Just for a heartbeat.

Odd. But not quite enough to set off alarms.

“Y’know,” he mumbled, shrugging his shoulders, “Life happens?”

Barbara couldn’t help the disbelieving hum that escaped her. 

The sound of the printer filled the silence. Seconds later, she slid his temporary card across the desk. His eyes lit up as he took it.

“If you need any help with anything, let me know.”

He nodded at her words, catching sight of her name tag. “Thank you, Ms. Barbara.”

She watched him run off towards the computers. Only when she was sure he was out of earshot did she return to her Oracle duties. 

The next two camera feeds were useless. With a sigh, she switched to the ones she kept trained on the library. 

There are a couple of teens in the fiction aisle. Two or three college students in history. A kid curled up on a beanbag in the children’s section. And Peter, hunched over a computer, his face inching closer and closer to the glow of the screen.

From the camera’s angle, she couldn’t exactly see what he was searching up. But whatever it was, it must have been interesting.

Taking his form into her hands, Barbara thought he was interesting. Maybe not enough to have all the birds and bats after him…

But familiar enough to at least pique the interest of the Red Hood.

…

She’s on her phone texting Jason when she sees Peter again. He’s about to leave for the day and only stopped short of the library doors when Barbara called him over. 

“You found everything you needed?” She asked, putting her phone down.

Peter shrugged. “Enough, I guess.”

“So what’s after this? Heading home?” Barbara continued her casual questioning, “It is a school day tomorrow.”

He just stared at her. From the way he shifted his weight, she was afraid he was going to run out on her.

“Heading home. My…guardian is waiting for me.”

Barbara couldn't help the rise of her brows at that answer. With the way Peter was covered in dust and dirt, she wouldn't have thought a parent would let him leave the house like that. 

Unless, of course, he was lying. Her initial thought of him being homeless could probably still stand.

That, or his current guardian was probably not great with keeping their anger to themselves.

“Yeah?” She watched him nod his head excessively at her question. 

His eyes darted to every reading-is-power poster behind her. “Y-yeah, he's great! Umm…y’know, just super tired from the whole moving thing, so he isn't with me.”

There's a significant pause before Peter waves his hands in the air and quickly adds “Right now. He isn't with me right now.”

And Barbara…she simply hums.

Yeah. Definitely homeless and lying.

“Don't worry, I believe you. A lot of people get tired after moving cities. It's completely understandable,” she tries to comfort him. From the way his eyes can never stay on her or the way he's constantly fidgeting with the ends of his sleeves, it's obvious the kid's anxious.

And just that thought makes Barbara want to slap herself for her lack of critical thinking. Of course he's anxious! He's a homeless kid being low-key questioned about his home life! Peter probably thinks she'll call CPS on him!

As if she'd ever. Corruption and villainy imbue themselves in a lot of government systems that are supposed to look out for the less fortunate. CPS is no exception unfortunately.

Nah. If anything, she'd ask a bat or a bird to check up on him every once in a while. 

Or in this case, a red pill head.

“Yeah! He's super tired from the trip. Super taxing on the body and soul, y’know,” Peter laughed rather awkwardly. “He’s asleep back home. Just knocked out as soon as we got here.”

Barbara eyed him.

The exaggerated rise and fall of his shoulders as he “laughed”. The way he scratched his nape as a means of giving his hands something to do. The unnaturalness of the forced laugh. It probably sounded absolutely normal to Peter’s ears.

Something about him felt familiar.

And it was killing her that she couldn't place it.

“I get it. Moving cities is a big thing,” she nodded her head. “You guys should come back together later, though. So we can finish setting up your library account.”

His laughter died down immediately. And all that was left was a tired sigh that escaped his lips.

“Definitely. When he wakes up.”

Chapter Text

Jason's a fairly busy person. Especially as of recently now that someone's made a mess of the clinics in his territory. His last patrol consisted of him staking out one of the clinics in hopes of catching the robbers again. His little stakeout might have gone a little overtime, which might have led to him oversleeping.

And then he was working on his bike the rest of the day. Fixing up bullet holes, buffing out the scratches, redoing the worn-out tires—so it's not like he intentionally meant to ignore Barbara. It just happened that way.

Their chat is flooded with message bubbles from the librarian: a lot of them are questions, a couple of them are just a number of question marks, and there are a fair amount of pictures that break up the barrage of the single-sided interrogation.

They're pictures from the library's security cameras. Jason could recognise those reading-is-power posters anywhere. But what catches his attention is the kid in all the photos. They are all different angles of the kid’s brown hair and oversized clothes. They almost seemed to swallow him whole.

From the pictures, Jason can only really see his back and side profile. The cameras capture him walking up to Barbara's desk. In the handful of photos she sent, a clear image of his face was not one of them.

“Doesn't he look like someone?” One of the texts read out.

Zooming into the picture was definitely a task. There weren't any great angles of the kid’s face, so trying to comb through his memory of people’s faces while simultaneously attempting to decipher the rest of his face was difficult.

But he'd be lying if he said the curve of the kid's nose wasn't pulling at long-forgotten memories. Of faded newspapers and late-night news channels covering the unfortunate deaths of two trapeze artists and the new ward of one Bruce Wayne.

His fingers moved clumsily across his keyboard. Like his hands knew what to write before his brain could fully develop what he wanted to say.

Hard to tell. Probably have to see him in person.

Now why he chose to withhold his suspicions, Jason wasn't completely sure. Just that there was this pull in his chest at just the side profile of this kid that reminded him too much of his brother. And if he was right—which he was really hoping he wasn't—then what would that mean?

Whatever.

Setting his phone aside in one of the various pockets in his jacket, Jason decided it could be a possible problem to deal with at a later time. After all, he did somewhat mean it when he said he would have to see the kid in person.

That’ll be a problem for future Jason.

. . .

Current Jason hated past Jason.

Because right now Jason was probably—most definitely—looking at a carbon copy of a younger version of his brother through his red helmet.

It had been completely coincidental dropping in on the same rooftop as Barbara’s latest person of interest. But he was just there sitting on the rooftop’s ledge with his attention completely set on whatever project he had on his lap.

“Hey kid, mind taking a step away from that ledge?” Jason called out, making his steps from the shadows a bit louder so as not to scare the kid.

The kid – God, it was eerie how similar the two actually look – gave him the most unimpressed shrug before returning to whatever was on his lap.

Jason sighed. Instead of calling out for him again, he decided to just sit beside him. And from the safety from behind his mask, Jason could comfortably examine the boy without making it obnoxiously obvious.

Yup. Same damn nose. He was right about that from Barbara’s photos. From the shape of his eyes to the cut of his cheek—yeah, there has to be some connection between Dick and this kid. Even the boy’s jaw, still soft and rounded with leftover baby fat, promised the same sharpness of Dick’s jaw.

“I’ll leave as soon as I make some progress on this,” the boy muttered without looking up.

Jason simply watched quietly as the kid fiddled with an old phone. He took off the phone’s back and was toying around with its internal wirings. A screwdriver here. A cutting of wires there. And suddenly the torn-up phone made a rather haggard-sounding whirring sound.

“What are you working on?” Jason couldn’t help but ask as the kid let out a rather exasperated huff.

“Stuff.” The kid replied before finally turning his full attention to the vigilante. And Jason could see the exact second he realised who he was in the presence of. “You’re Red Hood! Right? I read all about you.”

Jason chuckled. “I’m honoured…”

“Peter,” the kid hurriedly supplied. “Your Wikipedia page was by far one of my favourites to read. Super interesting. Very informative.”

“That’s…good to know.”

“But you, like, didn’t really do all that stuff, right? Or are you, like, reformed now or something?”

Jason tilted his head at the kid. “Something along those lines, I guess.”

Peter hummed at his answer, leaning back and turning his head towards Gotham’s nightlife. Despite the darkness of the sky, the city was lit up with life. Business signs with their names in flashing lights, apartment buildings with their tenants still awake, the occasional spark from a gunshot lighting up an alley, billboards featuring tacky advertisements framed with dying bulbs.

“It’s kind of late out, huh.” Jason broke the silence between them. His face may have been directed to the scenery, but his gaze was focused on every reaction, every moment, every breath and detail of the boy beside him. “What’s a kid like you doing on a rooftop?’

Peter shrugged, his gaze never leaving the sight of the city. “I work better higher up. Clears my head.”

“You should get home soon, kid. Gotham’s dangerous at night.”

“I can take care of myself.”

Jason couldn’t help the sigh that left his lips at the answer. “Aren’t your parents or something worried?”

He saw Peter’s shoulders slump at that. Like there was a weight on his shoulders at the mere mention of parents.

“I have a guardian, I guess. He’s at home,” Peter replied after a beat. “Sleeping.”

“Like you should be.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “I’m not a kid.”

Jason laughed at Peter’s stubborn face. His brows were knit together, and he stared at Jason with an intensity that reminded him vaguely of Dick when someone wakes him up for some useless dumb shit.

“That’s exactly what a 12-year-old would say.” Jason laughed at Peter’s annoyed huff.

Damn. He should talk to Barbara. And what about his brother? Should he tell him now? Or after a DNA test or something? Should they even do a DNA test? Should he grab hair off the kid now? Or—

“Or. Hear me out. It’s just something anyone who isn’t a kid would say.”

Peter crossed his arms. As if he just won a debate.

“Mmhmm.” Jason couldn’t help the grin behind his mask.

“No, but for real though,” Peter argued, project forgotten on his lap as he moved his hands theatrically through the air. “Like if I ask you if you’re a kid, you would—”

“Not gonna lie, kid, unless you grow a couple inches and tell me how much you pay in taxes annually, you’re still a kid.” Jason grinned at the way Peter’s jaw dropped.

“For a vigilante who can’t differentiate between a red hood and a red helmet, you sure are annoying,” Peter muttered.

Jason laughed at the sheer disbelief on Peter’s face before he himself got up and stretched, relishing in the pops of his joint.

“And he’s old too, huh.” Jason heard Peter mumble all too loudly.

“Yeah, yeah. At least I’m not a kid,” Jason chuckled. “I’ll drop you off at home. It’s pretty dangerous in these streets at night.”

Peter regarded him with a look Jason couldn’t quite place. His gaze shifted between the vigilante and the rather unexpectedly expensive-looking watch on his wrist.

How did he not notice that earlier? Where Peter himself looked like he was wearing second-hand clothes that probably haven’t been washed in god-knows-how long, his watch was pristine and new-looking. Huh.

“I think I’m gonna work a bit more before I head back,” Peter replied, waving the wire-exposed phone he was working on just a second ago. “I’ll get home fine. You go…back to being a vigilante? Is that the right term?”

“Yeah, no can do, bud. You’re in Crime Alley, so you’re technically under my watch.”

“It’s really ok, Mr. Red Hood! There are probably people who need your saving. I’ll be fine on my own.”

“Yeah, no. Either I see you in the arms of your guardian—” Jason noted the way Peter stiffened for a moment. “—Or I could drop you off somewhere safe. There’s a shelter not too far from here. A clinic too.”

Peter thought for a moment. Pocketing the phone he was cutting up and shouldering a backpack that lay by his feet, Jason really thought he won the kid over.

“Yeah, you’re right, Mr. Red Hood.” Peter sighed as he stood before the vigilante, readjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder. “I’ll head back. You don’t need to follow through.”

“Nah, it’s fine. I insist, actually.”

“No, it’s okay, I insist. You should go back to, I don’t know, stopping drug lords and ruining probably perfectly good duffle bags. Tony’s all about stranger danger, y’know. Nothing personal!”

Jason crossed his arms. “My territory, my rules. Sorry, kid, I have to make sure you get home fine.”

Peter bit the inside of his cheek, offering Jason a crooked smile. “Cool, cool, cool, no doubt, no doubt. I totally understand, Mr. Red Hood. Honestly if I was—”

Oh.

Oh, okay. Peter just pushing past him and running down the fire escape like his actual feet were on fire was not exactly what Jason anticipated but honestly should have expected.

“C’mon, kid!” Jason called out before pushing himself to follow.

He was much faster than Jason expected. He didn’t even look over his shoulder as Jason pursued him down the streets. He just kept his head down, trying to lose him in the crowd and expertly sidestepping anyone who he could have bumped into. But Jason saw. Jason watched and followed.

Because if Peter really was Dick’s kid, he needed to know the boy had someplace safe.

He watched from a safe distance as Peter took a turn into an alley before following.

And the sight of a couple of muggers pointing a knife at Peter was enough for Jason to act.

There were three men crowding around Peter, pushing him into the brick wall. One of them tried reaching out for Peter’s bag, attempting to wrench it out of his arms. The other two flanked his sides. One was waving a knife around while the other pulled at Peter’s rather oversized sweater.

And Peter—he didn’t look all too pleased. He wasn’t cowering in fear or shaking and crying. No. He looked too calm. Too…inconvenienced. He was also the first of the group to notice Jason’s presence. And the darkness of the alley wasn’t enough to hide the huff of irritation that escaped the kid’s lips.

“I told you I should have escorted you home,” Jason spoke aloud. The muggers finally turned to him and froze in fear.

“R-red hood…” one of them quivered in his spot.

“You guys know better than to mess with kids in these streets.” Jason couldn’t hide the disappointment in his voice. He reached for his gun around his hip before making a show of checking the bullets. Rubber bullets. But they didn’t have to know that part.

“We forgot, honest!” Another piped up.

“Mmhmm.”

“Yo—you know what! We’ll just leave—”

It all happened so fast. Peter kicking one of the mugger’s knees in. The other two turned to grab the kid. And Jason… Jason shot a couple rubber bullets into the little scuffle.

“C’mon kid—”

He ducked just in time to miss a swing of the knife.

The mugger with the knife tried swinging again. Jason easily dodged before punching the guy in the ribs, only pushing him back a bit. Another one of them grabbed a steel pipe from the floor, trying to bring it down on Peter.

Jason managed to grab the back of Peter’s hoodie and pull him from the impact.

“You should have just let me walk you home.” Jason muttered as he punched one of the muggers out cold.

The mugger with a knife got into Jason’s face, briefly distracting him from Peter. He slammed the guy’s head into the brick wall.

And Peter—Peter jumped. Using a running start, he propelled himself towards one of the muggers, jumping at such a height that would probably make an Olympian clap. But instead of tackling the man, Peter treated the guy’s shoulder like a hurdle, helping launch himself further out of the alley before breaking off into a mad dash out of there.

The sight of him running sent an almost humorous laugh through Jason. But as he ducked from a steel pipe attack and punched the last guy’s lights out, the reality of Peter’s disappearance dawned on him. He really just lost his brother’s possible son.

“Hey kid! Wait!”

. . .

“And he really does look like Dick.”

Barbara nodded at his words, her hands quickly typing away at her computer while Jason leaned against her desk.

After the alley, Jason tried looking for Peter for the rest of his patrol. But he was gone in the wind. No trace of him, and Jason really just wanted to know if the kid got home safe. That is, if he has a home.

“You think so?” Barbara asked. “I knew he reminded me of someone when I first saw him.”

“Can you pull up his paperwork? He filled out a form for a library card, didn’t he?”

She nodded as she turned her laptop around for him. The digitalised copy of his form was practically empty. He left his address blank, his birthdate only had a month and a day—August 10—, and there were a couple of written attempts on his last name which were all kind of scratched out except for the only visible surname—Parker.

“Why did he put down so many last names?” Jason asked. He could vaguely make out Parker, Stark, Parker, Grayson…

“I don’t know.” Barbara shrugged. “But the fact that he even put down Grayson to begin with was kind of interesting.”

“So what now? We try and find him again? Get a hair sample for a DNA test?”

Barbara pondered for a moment, her finger tapping her chin as she looked over the form once again. “Do you think we should tell the others?”

Jason crossed his arms at the thought. “That we think Dick’s got a secret kid out there? A kid who wears clothes much too big for him and who is already kind of fidgeting around the mention of a guardian? We tell the others, and I swear the next time we see the kid, he’ll be in spandex with a bird symbol plastered across his chest.”

Barbara sighed at his words. Her shoulders fell as she sank further back into her wheelchair. “Hair sample it is then?”

He hummed in agreement. “Did you find anything about him? Birth certificate? School records?”

“No. And that’s what’s weird. There’s literally nothing about this kid. No birth certificate or anything!”

“Huh.”

Then the library doors opened.

And speak of the devil.

“Peter!” Barbara excitedly greeted. She waved at the kid whose gaze flickered between him and her.

“Good morning, Ms. Gordon.” Peter quickly greeted back, even offering a little wave.

Under both daylight and the library’s own lights, Jason could really get a better look at the boy. And his clothes, because he did not look that dusty last night. A fine layer of dust covered the shoulders and hoodie of Peter’s black sweater. He also noted how it looked to be the same clothes he was wearing when he saw him last night.

“Please just call me Barbara. Ms. Gordon makes me feel old,” Barbara playfully quipped. “Peter, this is my friend Jason.”

He offered the kid a small wave the second Peter’s eyes landed and stayed on him. His eyes narrowed like he was searching for something. He didn't say anything.

“Peter,” Barbara called out. He ripped his attention away from Jason and back on the librarian. “Did you bring your guardian? To fill out the rest of your form?”

At that, Peter looked almost bashful. He rubbed awkwardly at his nape while his eyes darted to everything within the immediate area.

“He’s at home.” Peter quickly answered, still avoiding eye contact. “It’s still super early for him, so he’s still asleep.”

“It’s almost noon,” Jason noted aloud.

“Tony stays up super late with his work.” Peter quickly added. He almost seemed to shrink under Jason’s gaze.

“Huh.”

“Yup! With the move and his work, he gets really very tired and super sleepy.”

“And what does…Tony…do for work?”

“Engineer! He’s an engineer! Super cool guy, like you wouldn’t believe.” Jason had to hide his laughter with a cough at just the sight of Peter’s excited face. Like he really believed he told a convincing enough lie.

“Uh huh.” He nodded uncommittedly.

“Yeah, he sounds really busy,” Barbara added with an understanding smile. “So are you here for the computers again?”

Peter nodded his head excitedly. Probably ecstatic that the awkward questioning was coming to an end. “I’m going to find some books first though.”

“Sounds like fun.” Barbara nodded encouragingly. “Go ahead. We’ve probably kept you long enough.”

Jason tried to look nonchalant as Peter practically ran off further into the library.

“Well?” Jason looked to see Barbara looking at him with a rather amused look on her face. “Aren’t you going to get a hair sample?”

“Right now?”

She shrugged. “Why not? He’s here. You’re here.”

“And so are you.”

“I’m working.” She grinned as she crossed her arms. Almost daring him to retort.

Jason groaned as he pushed his feet forward. He could still hear Barbara’s laughter even after he turned the corner.

. . . 

Peter was tucked by the science section reading a book that looked to be about health and the human anatomy. Jason almost missed him when he looked in the aisle; he was sitting so quietly on the floor, almost curling into himself as he engrossed himself in the book.

“Hey kid,” Jason greeted.

Peter didn’t even look up. He flipped a page and offered only a single hum as an acknowledgement of Jason’s impending presence.

“What ’cha reading?”

“Book.”

Jason rolled his eyes. Even from where he stood, he could make out the smirk on the kid’s face.

“What kind of book?”

Peter lifted the book just enough to show its front cover. Memoirs of a Neurosurgeon.

“Wow. Heavy stuff,” Jason whistled.

“I guess.”

Jason sighed as he sat on the carpeted floor across from the kid. He offered the older man a knowing look when the noise of Jason’s knees popping briefly sounded between them. Jason could see the kid bite back a smile.

“I can see your smile. I’m not actually that old,” Jason huffed as he leaned back against the shelf.

“I didn’t say anything.” Peter laughed, lifting his hands up as if surrendering. “But if you thought I did, then that might say more about you than it does me.”

“I’m actually really healthy for my age. Thank you very much.”

“Again, I didn’t say anything.”

“But you thought it.”

Peter’s laughter was enough to know his answer.

There was something light and carefree about Peter’s laugh. It was so…young? Is that the right word to describe it? All Jason was sure of was that it made something in his chest clench. Was it guilt? Sadness? Worry? He wasn’t sure.

“So…interested in becoming a neurosurgeon? You must get your smarts from this Tony.” Jason commented as Peter’s laughter began to fade.

The kid just shrugged. “Not really. He never really taught me about this kind of stuff.”

Jason hummed. He debated his next words before finally deciding on 'screw it, why not'. “So he’s your guardian or parent?”

He could see the hesitation settle on the kid’s entire being. His shoulders tensed, and he shuffled a little in his seat, moving closer to his side of the aisle and therefore a little further from Jason.

“Guardian, I guess.” Jason noted the utter exhaustion in Peter’s voice.

“I get it,” Jason sighed, his hands slipping into the pockets of his leather jacket. “Y’know, I actually had a guardian turned adopted father. Gotta admit, it wasn’t super great all the time.”

Peter hummed, flipping to the next page in his book.

The conversation took an awkward pause. Peter returned to his book while Jason busied himself with thinking of what to say next.

“You doing ok though, kid?” The question surprised Jason as well.

Peter looked up from his book. His big brown eyes settled on Jason with such a searching look, he wasn’t sure what to think. He really looked so much like Dick. He looked so much like his brother that it truly made his heart hurt.

How would Dick feel when he learns about a son? A son who is probably at least a little older than a decade, and he wasn’t there for him. A kid who is most definitely living in a neglectful home or on the streets. Jason isn’t sure which is better.

“I’m doing okay.” Peter’s voice is so quiet and raw that Jason almost missed it. He wasn’t crying, but it almost sounded like he was on the verge of it.

“Yeah?” He watched as Peter nodded. “That’s good to hear.”

With a groan, Jason got up from the floor. He relished in the popping of his joints and pointedly ignored the snicker that left Peter’s mouth.

“I heard that,” he laughed at Peter’s confused face.

“I didn’t say anything.” The kid tried to defend himself.

“I heard you think it.” Jason laughed. With one smooth motion he reached down and ruffled Peter’s curly brown hair.

“Sorry about that,” he apologised when Peter winced. A few of his brown strands snagged on Jason’s rings, pulling a couple out when he moved his hand away. “It was nice talking to you. Don’t be a stranger.”

As Jason walked away, he counted the strands of hair his ring managed to snag. 4 was a good number. He was sure Peter wasn’t observant enough to note his lack of rings before having sat across from him.

He’s a seasoned vigilante after all. Stealth is supposed to be one of his middle names.

…

Jason’s phone rings with a new notification just before he’s about to leave for patrol.

“Congratulations. We have a nephew!”

Yay. This is fantastic.

Now how do they tell Dick?

Chapter Text

The phone in his pocket burnt like lava against bare skin.

A constant reminder of what he had to do. That his brother had a son—and it was kind of his responsibility to tell him.

But the very thought of that conversation made his chest tighten. Every time he’d practiced in front of the mirror, the words stuck, his throat closing up while his skin crawled with the weight of it.

When Barbara had first told him the results of the test, he’d dropped his phone like it was nuclear. As if refusing to read the email or refusing to hear her voice on the line could erase it. As if this whole thing were some delusion his already broken mind had conjured up.

Because it meant that despite how many people they saved and children they helped, they couldn't do the same to one of their own. That Dick’s son, Jason’s nephew, maybe grew up in his territory with a neglectful guardian, and Jason never knew. That Red Hood never knew.

So maybe. Just maybe… If he ignored it… Not forever… Just for a little more… Then maybe Jason wouldn't have to think of the fact that he failed. That despite all his wishes of being better than Batman, of being a vigilante that actually looked out for the people, he turned out just as neglectful as his father.

How could he handle that guilt? How could Dick?

But then he would remember the dust on Peter’s clothes, the shadows under his eyes, and the evasiveness of his answers. A kid too young to be out in Crime Alley. Too young to be under the care of a guardian who didn’t notice—or didn’t care—that Peter wore the same threadbare clothes for days straight.

And suddenly, the heat of the phone in his pocket wasn’t just searing; it was grounding. Less fire. More weight.

Responsibility. Heavy. Unrelenting.

And it kind of scared the hell out of him.

But he pulled his phone out and stared at the screen for a second. Then another. Because Barbara’s name sits near the top of his messages. A reminder that she’s waiting too. The positive paternity email is still opened when he opens the app. He's read the thing over and over again, hesitation still in his bones every time.

He shoves the phone back into his pocket, jaw clenched. Not yet.

He’s not in immediate danger, Jason tells himself. He’s probably got food, a roof, and a library card he could use to sneak more computer time, that little nerd. Small comforts. It’s enough for one more night. One more night for Jason to figure out how to tell your brother he’s got a son he never knew about.

One more night to build the nerve.

Jason finally breathes as soon as his red helmet rests atop his head. The night’s waiting for him.

There’s probably no good way to say it. No right time. Just the moment when you finally stop running.

And he’s not there yet.

It's a thought that crosses his mind as he takes down a couple of muggers, stops a handful of drug deals, or helps some kids get back home. Losing himself in work is easy. It’s easier to focus on himself when his blood pressure’s rising and there are bullets shooting past his head.

For the night, everything's almost normal. The knife fights in the dark alleys. The blaring of shop alarms as their glass windows are broken and their merchandise stolen. His attempts of comforting restless children are still horrendously awkward. They cling to him as he escorts them to either their home or to a trusted shelter, looking up at him for comfort he doesn’t know how to fully give. All he can offer is an awkward pat on the shoulder. A pat that he hopes conveys a message of “you’re fine; you’re safe now.”

And there’s the soft chatter in his comms. That’s enough to pull him out of his own head.

Because Steph is rambling again—about schoolwork she should start on but will definitely save for tomorrow, about a teacher who probably doesn’t even have a real teaching license because “the coursework is actually criminal”, about how there are no fun cases lately that Tim’s been showing up at school a little more and she’s worried he’s up to no good—completely ignoring Bruce’s occasional gruff reminder of to keep the comms clear for things only pertaining to patrol.

Jason hides a smirk under his helmet, shaking blood from his knuckles. The latest criminal—an attempted assaulter—lay by his feet completely out of it.

Tim cuts in, his words exhausted and yet oddly light, correcting Steph’s retelling of events. There's the occasional grumble on his end about the need to refill his coffee mug. Then there's Damien. Who bristles at the noise, threatening to hang up if the “reckless clowns” don't stop wasting comm space.

There's no Dick.

He's still at Bludhaven. But if Jason were a betting man, he would be confident that his brother would be dropping in for a surprise visit any day now.

For a moment, it almost feels like he doesn't have big news to share. Like there isn't a phone in his pocket with a positive paternity test in his email.

Almost.

Because beneath the noise, the weight in his chest doesn't lift. The phone in his pocket is grounding but searing all the same. And Barbara's silence on the channel is louder than any of their banter.

A part of him debates telling them right then and there. They could stand as a united front as they break the news to Dick. They’d stand shoulder to shoulder supporting Dick, and each other, as his whole world shifts sideways.

The words almost threaten to leave his mouth. Almost.

Then the sharp clang of someone hitting a dumpster catches his attention. His head snaps towards the sound.

Tucked in an alley behind a used computer parts store, that is where Jason finds Peter that night.

He finds himself staring into the mouth of the narrow alley, his gaze fixated on the kid who was in the midst of crawling out of the dumpster.

As soon as the kid’s feet hit solid ground again, Jason notices him wincing as he dusts himself off. His hoodie hangs a bit looser now, there’s an open patch torn at the elbow, and new stains line the ends of the sleeves. His pants are no better. They’re ripped, and from what Jason could tell, they were hiding scrapes on his knees.

The backpack he saw Peter have at the library earlier that week slips from his shoulders and spills open on the ground. Wires and circuit boards scatter across the concrete.

Peter sighs exasperatedly before moving to pick them up. Like it was like any other minor inconvenience. Because maybe to him it was.

And Jason. Jason freezes.

It’s one thing to picture him in Crime Alley. To have only seen him on a rooftop hard at work on a project. Dusty and small, but peaceful. High above the violence and dirt that characterise the Alley. It’s another thing to see him in it. To see him actually scrounge for scraps.

Peter startles when he notices the shadow looming at the alley’s mouth. His eyes go wide, already scanning for escape routes. Until he sees the familiar red helmet, the shine of the red illuminated by the street lights, his shoulders drop, and the sigh of relief is visible.

Jason steps forward, helmet purposefully tilted just enough to soften the edge. His voice comes out rough and low. “What’re you doing out here, kid?’

Peter swallows hard, stuffing the last of the fallen circuit boards back into his bag. His chin lifts like he’s trying to act natural. Like it shouldn’t be a surprise to see him here, like this.

“Nothing.” His voice cracks. “Just—y’know, nothing.”

Jason glances down at the spilt electronics. Then back up at Peter.

“Yeah, sure, kid.” Jason tries to control his voice. Tries to act neutral and calm and not at all like his heart is breaking. “Shouldn’t you be home? Didn’t a bunch of muggers try robbing you last time you were out this late?”

“I’ll be heading home soon actually. I was just… looking for something.”

“Yeah? How about I escort you home this time.”

At that, Peter almost seemed to jump. His hands began waving in the air animatedly as his rapid-fire exclaims of, “It’s okay, my home’s actually not far from here,” “I’ll be fine. Shouldn’t you be out there saving people, Mr. Red Hood?”, “Honest to promise, I’ll be fine and great, and y’know, I’ll get home like now” filled the space between them.

Jason pretended to nod along to the boy’s rambles—his excuses of why the Red Hood should be out there saving people instead of watching a fully capable boy go home—as he took stock of the kid’s figure.

Too small, too thin, too damn young to be carrying around this kind of weight.

Peter’s still going. “—And so you see, Mr. Red Hood, I abide by the good rule of stranger danger. It hasn’t led me astray just yet, so you see I have a streak—”

“You hungry, kid?”

Peter’s mouth shuts instantly at Jason’s question. The words cut through his chatter like a blade.

Big brown eyes blink up at Jason. Suspicion, hesitation, and something else Jason recognises all too well—need.

Jason softens his stance, drops his shoulders a little bit, lowers his voice just a fraction. “There’s a fast food joint nearby. Nothing fancy. Definitely too greasy. But it’s food. With no strings attached.”

Jason knows the offer is tempting because he could practically see the conflict in Peter’s face as he takes in the proposition. He bites his lip, shuffles his sneakers against the pavement, and turns his head just enough for his ear to listen for something at the mouth of the alley.

Jason doesn’t hear anything beside the music from nearby clubs and the occasional stray gunshot. There’s also the low murmur from his comms, but Jason turned it down low so his attention was fully on the kid.

Peter’s stomach betrays him before his mouth does, growling loud enough in the silence to make him flinch.

Jason smiles under his mask. He gestures with a tilt of his head. “C’mon. They have kids meals too if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Peter lets out a defeated sigh before shouldering his bag and following Jason out back onto the streets. Jason tries to not make it obvious that he catches the kid toying with his fancy watch. It’s a make and model Jason’s never seen before.

For a while, nothing is said between the two of them. There’s just awkward silence that Jason wants to break. He wanted to know more about him. Who is his mother? Who else does he have at home? What was he doing dumpster diving just now? Does he know his father?

“I’m sorry for running from you the other night,” Peter speaks first. His voice cuts through the multitude of questions Jason’s mind conjured up. “I’d probably chase after me too if I were in your shoes.”

“It’s fine, kid.” Jason replies with a sigh. “You got home safe though, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Then it’s fine. I’m not mad.” He reassures him. “I actually found it amusing how you jumped over your mugger’s shoulders. You don’t see gymnastics like that every day.”

Peter shrugs. “Thanks. I try.”

Jason scoffs at his reply. Then the florescent glow of Batburger appears before them, beckoning them inside.

It doesn’t take much effort to drag Peter through the door. Before long, Jason’s at the counter, muttering an order, and they’re sliding into a corner booth.

To Jason, this restaurant is familiar. He probably knows every square inch of this place with how often he and his siblings visit to eat. But to Peter, he looks around the restaurant like a child at the zoo.

Every second his eyes catch some new detail—the buzzing florescent bulbs overhead, the grease-slick mascot posters plastered across the walls, the cracked tile near the bathroom doors. He squints at the suspicious black dots in the corners of the ceilings like he’s trying to decide if they are the kind of mold they should worry about or not.

“Never been?” Jason asks as Peter shuffles through the menu like it’s a sacred text.

The kid shakes his head. “Nope!”

Jason raises an eyebrow. “What, never?”

“Nope.” Peter pops the p like it’s something to be proud of. “We don’t—uh—really eat out. Budget and all that jazz. Y’know?” He forces a laugh, thin and nervous, and ducks his head back into the menu.

Jason doesn’t answer right away. Just studies him.

“So where did you learn that insane jump? It could have made an Olympian blush with how high you jump for a kid your size.”

That seems to ease the kid. “Practice. A lot of it. My aunt likes to think it's in my blood.”

Jason leans back in the booth, arms crossed. “She do a lot of gymnastics?”

He shrugs. There's a light in his eyes as he contemplates the question. Laughter coats his voice as he answers with a smile. “No way. I can't imagine her doing anything like it. She says I probably got it from my dad.”

The tray lands between them a moment later. Fries, two burgers, and a paper cup sweating soda.

Jason pushes the tray across the table. “Go ahead, kid. I'm not that hungry.”

Peter hesitates for half a heartbeat. Then he grabs the first burger like it might vanish if he waits too long.

Jason watches him take the first bite. Too fast. Too hungry. And a knot tightens in his chest.

“This is really good.” Peter manages to say between bites. Grease smears across the corners of his lips, but he doesn't stop talking.

“What are these fries? Are they usually shaped this weirdly?” He waves one fry in the air, inspecting the strange curve of it.

“Some say they’re supposed to be shaped like batarangs,” Jason replies with a shrug.

“Really? Though, I guess it does kind of look like it. If I squint.” The kid brings his face close to the pile of fries on the tray, poking and eyeing each one. “No yeah, definitely batarang-ish. Can’t be as practical though. Like, I’d probably be dead meat if I threw this at a mugger instead of an actual weapon. This’d just snap right in half. Unless you froze it first. Wait, would freezing work, or would that just make it more likely to break?”

Jason doesn’t answer right away. His eyes are trained on the kid’s hands. They’re thin and almost blue. There’s dirt under his nails, and Jason wouldn’t be surprised if he felt calluses on the pads of his young fingers.

Peter keeps rambling, words spilling out faster than the ketchup dripping onto his tray. “Not frozen would presumably mean that it’s also salted. So salt in the eye could definitely be useful. But frozen could also just be harder. Like it would pack more of a punch than unfrozen fries, even if it’s only marginally. That’s the kind of stuff you have to think about. Hypotheticals. Tactical hypotheticals.”

Jason grunts, low. Almost a laugh, but not quite. More amusement than anything else.

But the sound catches Peter’s attention. He perks up at him, eyes shining like he scored a victory. “See? You get it.”

Jason shakes his head, leaning back against the booth. “You’ve got quite the head for hypotheticals.”

Peter shrugs, a grin still plastered on his face as he devours the second burger. And Jason. Despite his hesitation and despite himself, there’s a warmth that curls low in his chest as he watches Peter talk with his mouth full, eyes darting everywhere, soaking it all in like it’s the first time he’s allowed to just exist.

So Jason feels a little guilt when he has to break the peace.

“So you wanna tell me what you were doing in a dumpster.”

Peter blinks. His grin slowly loses its spark as he stares dead straight at Jason.

“Looking for parts for my project.” Is all he answers. “I didn’t steal any of it. Everything I found was already in the dumpster when I got there.”

“Hey, I’m not accusing you of anything. Just curious.”

Jason simply watches as Peter’s internal debate rages on. Until his voice comes out soft and unsure. “It’s more of a concept than any actual thing, really. The thing I’m trying to make. I don’t have all the tools just yet, and even then, I’m not completely sure if I’m doing it right.”

“Well, what are you trying to make?”

He doesn’t answer. Peter just lets the silence sit between them much longer than Jason anticipated.

“Okay,” Jason sighs. “Well, how’s the Alley been treating you? No muggers catching you lately, hmm?”

Peter shakes his head, his smile not completely returning to the wide grin he held earlier but now something more softer. More polite. And didn’t that just cause alarms to ring in Jason’s head. Because not only does it tell him that Peter’s catching on to his little impromptu interrogation, but also because that’s the same politely happy look he’s seen Dick wear around the annoyingly wealthy during galas and banquets.

“It’s been alright.” The kid’s answer is simple and short.

“How about your guardian? They finding it okay?”

“They’ve been inside for a while, but I think so. Work and sleep, y’know.”

Jason raises a brow at that. “Do you usually sneak out while your guardian’s asleep?”

The question seemed to have brought that spark back in his eyes. Because he looks back at Jason with this sort of mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Definitely. How else am I supposed to get things done?” Peter smiles as he speaks, finishing the last of the fries.

“Do you want more food, kid? Take some home with you?” Jason asks as he notices the empty tray.

“Oh, sure. If you’re offering.” Peter grins.

Jason simply rolls his eyes under his mask. Peter follows him to the counter, waits just behind him as he mutters out another order, and is practically skipping as they walk out of the restaurant with his food in hand.

“Get home safe, kid.” Jason sighs. Peter simply salutes back at him, an easy smile on his face as he waves him goodbye.

He waits until Peter’s a safe distance away. He watches as the kid turns a corner and is gone from sight. Then his hand is pressing down on his comms, and the clicking of Barbara’s keyboard becomes louder.

“Hey, he just left Batburger. Can you follow him with the cameras.” Jason’s aware it comes off less as a question and more as a demand. His voice hardens itself the second Peter’s shadow is gone. “He’s not running this time, so he shouldn’t be difficult to locate.”

He hears Barbara give the affirmative. There’s the sound of buttons being pressed on her end, but to Jason it’s all just static. Because he pulls his phone out of his pocket and opens it up to the email. The positive paternity email.

Most of the words still feel like jargon. It’s only the 99% match that he fully understands. And seeing Peter under fast food florescent light is enough. Because he looks like his brother. His inability to just eat without talking is so much like his brother. Even the polite smile he put on as soon as he got uncomfortable was eerily like Dick.

Yeah. He can’t run anymore.

He forces his fingers to move. To act quickly before hesitation and fear take over him again.

He hears the ring of the phone, and Jason steels his nerves.

*“Hey, Jay-bird. What’s up?*

It’s now or never.

. . .

The late morning light filtered through the library windows, and for a moment Jason simply felt peace.

He had a warm cup of coffee before him, a great book in his hands, and Barbara beside him typing away at her computer while he simply lounged in the spare desk chair.

It’s a quiet morning. A good morning. Because for the first time that week, there’s no guilt or fear threatening to burn him from the inside out.

Admittedly, the phone call didn’t go the greatest. But he didn’t expect it to. He could still hear Dick’s voice in the back of his head just mindlessly agreeing to the information he laid out for him.

His brother did seem out of it as soon as he said, “The paternity test was 99% a match.” His tone was soft. His words seemed like they were being said out of routine more than anything. And Jason. Jason just felt better; he wasn’t carrying the responsibility on his own anymore.

“I also didn’t find anything with an aunt.” Barbara’s words cut through the silence between them. “But then again, it’s not like there’s a lot on the kid anyways.”

Jason lowers the book, thumb still keeping his place as he glances over at Barbara. Her gaze was still deadly set on her computer screen.

“Kind of figured it wouldn’t be that easy. The handful of times he brings up a guardian, he refers to them as a guy.” He moves to take a sip of coffee that is just beginning to turn lukewarm.

Barbara doesn’t turn her head towards him, but he can feel her gaze assessing him. “So did you talk to Dick?”

“Last night, actually.” He mutters. “As soon as Peter left Batburger, I called hi—”

“You did it over phone?” Her head finally snaps towards him. “Jason, tell me you didn’t tell Dick he has a possible kid over a phone call.”

His silence is all the answers she needs.

Barbara groans and pinches the bridge of her nose, muttering something under her breath that Jason’s glad he doesn’t catch.

“Jay…” she exhales, tired and sharp at once. “This isn’t the kind of thing you should do over the phone.”

Jason shrugs, setting his book down with a bit of a thump. “The guilt was eating me out alive. Especially after seeing him eat. I get it wasn’t the best approach, but it’s better than waiting for the right time and just having Peter out there hungry and completely unaware that he has people who will look out for him.”

There’s a silence between the two. It’s uncomfortable and heavy, Barbara’s expression softens just a beat later. But it doesn’t matter. He feels the sting anyway.

“Peter’ll be here any sec. How do you want to approach him?” She leans back into her chair, her fingers never leaving her keyboard.

An exhausted sigh leaves his lips. “He’s talkative when he’s eating. I don’t know; maybe we should stuff him with food until he tells us his secrets.”

“Yeah, let’s fill him full of steak and pudding and ask him if he knows anything about being related to the first robin.” She laughs as she rolls her eyes.

Laughter bubbles out of Jason as he reaches for his coffee that’s long since gone cold.

The moment of peace and soft laughter stretches—until the quick slamming of the library’s front doors announces someone’s rather angry entrance.

Jason doesn’t have to look up. The footsteps are familiar, no matter how rushed they move. He already knows who it is.

Dick’s fists hit their desk loud and purposeful. Enough to make the half-drunken coffee in his cup spill.

Jason stares at his brother. His hair is a mess, like he’s just gotten out of bed in a rush and ran his fingers through his hair more times than the human race has numbers. The bags under his eyes are noticeable. Not as deep and dark as Tim’s, but just as worrying. His clothes were wrinkled to all hell, his shoes were two different pairs; hell, Jason could see his socks, and he’s pretty sure he isn’t wearing any on his left foot.

But the crazed look in his eyes is what catches both Barbara and Jason off. It’s this frenzied sort of look that can probably frighten a person or two with just a glance. Like he just learnt the secrets to the universe, and nobody believes him. He looks crazy. Absolutely mad. Inhumanly desperate.

“Dick—”

“I have a son?!”

Chapter Text

“I can’t believe you just call me up just to tell me I have a son who talks while he eats!”

Dick’s shouting had only turned into loud whisper yelling because of Barbara’s assertive reminder that this is still a library.

“I’m sorry, Dick.” Jason apologised. “The guilt was eating me up alive, and I panicked!”

Dick’s eyes are wide, his hands moving animatedly through the air as he paces before them. “Panicked? Jason, you can’t just—God, you can’t just drop that on someone while they’re having dinner! Especially over the phone!”

Jason hunched lower in his chair, muttering, “Well, you do talk while you eat, so…”

“Not the point!” Dicks snaped, then immediately flinches when a passing patron shushes him. He throws Barbara a helpless look, but she only raises an unimpressed brow over the dark rims of her glasses.

“Keep it to a minimum or take it outside,” she replies, calm but razor-edged; her fingers have yet to leave her keyboard.

Jason tries to hide his smirk behind his coffee cup.

Dick stops pacing, runs both hands through his hair, and blows out a shaky breath. His eyes are sharp and trained on Jason, while his voice drops to a fierce whisper. “That kind of news—Jay, that—this isn’t just some every-night patrol report or some random lowlife you interrogated. This—this is family we’re talking about here. Even if potentially. You can’t just dump that on me and run.”

Jason can’t hide the wince. His shoulder sags, and his face falls at the almost desperate look on his brother’s face. “Yeah. I know.”

For a moment, the three of them sit in heavy silence—Barbara clicking through camera feeds, Dick breathing like he just ran a marathon twenty times over, and Jason just staring at the wood grain of the desk like if he stared hard enough it would tell him its deepest secret.

The quiet becomes choking quickly. It’s Jason who breaks it. His voice was low but no less genuine. “I screwed it up. But you still needed to know.”

In a quieter tone, he adds on with a small smile, “He’s a good kid. Funny in the right light.”

Dick shakes his head, the fight bleeding out of him, allowing exhaustion to finally settle in his bones. “I don’t even know what to do with this information.”

He rests his head against the desk. The impact offered a thump sound that even had Barbara wince. Exhaustion, fear, apprehension. All of those feelings settled just under Dick’s skin. Like a blanket threatening to cuddle him to suffocation from the inside out. He can scratch and try to claw his way free, but it will always remain a constant just under the surface of himself.

There are a million and one thoughts running through his head. Did his son’s mother ever reach out? Was it someone he knew? Oh God, what if it wasn’t? But they would’ve reached out still, right? Especially if they knew who he was and who he was related to, right?

And what now? Does Peter even know about him? What if Peter hates him? What if he doesn’t?

Dick dug the heels of his palms against his eyes until stars burst in the dark. The desk under his forehead feels cool; it feels solid—grounding. But it’s not enough to hold him together. It’s not enough to keep him from completely spiralling.

Because he’s supposed to be Nightwing. He is Nightwing. But Nightwing knows how to handle pressure. He knows how to stay calm, levelheaded, be the one people can look towards and count on. Nightwing swings into burning buildings to pull out strangers from the wreckage and keeps moving like the flames meant nothing.

But this—this is different. This isn’t a fire, and there aren’t strangers that need saving. This isn’t a villain he can see and fight. This is a kid. His kid. And Dick doesn’t feel like Nightwing right now.

“Dick,” Barbara’s voice is gentle, almost too gentle. She uses the same kind of tone he would expect someone to use around wild, frightened animals. He doesn’t lift his head. “Breathe.”

His chest tightens. It takes all his strength to do as told, dragging in a shaky inhale, then another. It doesn’t help much, but at least it keeps him from breaking down completely.

“You’re doing great. Just focus on your breathing.”

Her words force him to move his chest up and down, exaggerating the movement of his breaths. This continues for a second or two before the pressure in his chest begins to disappear little by little. And for a moment, Dick starts to feel lighter. He starts to feel better.

Then—

Then the library doors creak open. The sound echoes, sharp against the hush. Light footsteps. The familiar shuffle of worn sneakers against the hardwood floors. Barbara’s gaze flickers towards the entrance. Jason’s head snaps towards it instantly, every muscle in his body locking tight.

And Dick. He must have felt something in the air shift, or something in his bones must have tickled, because he feels the world go absolutely still as he lifts his head.

Just in time to see Peter step inside.

The kid steps through the doorway with a carefree smile and a casual confidence in his moves, like he’s been here a hundred times before. His hoodie sleeves are rolled up today; its fraying, stained cuffs expose the odd watch he constantly wears. He keeps his battered backpack slung over one shoulder today; it's weighed down with God-knows-what, and the strap keeps slipping, but it doesn’t seem to mind him.

“Morning, Ms. Barbara,” he greets, voice cheerful and bright but a little breathless, like he’d jogged his way here. The smile on his face grew the second his gaze fell on the familiar man beside her. “And Mr. Jason.”

He fishes in his pocket, pulls out his library card with a little flourish, and sets it on the counter. “Are any of the computers in the back open?”

Barbara’s eyes softened instantly. She closes whatever program she had open, the click of her keyboard falling silent. “Of course, go on ahead. You seem to be in a good mood.”

Peter grins, rocking back and forth on his heels, oblivious to the storm brewing beside him. “I am. Today’s research day. I’ve made sure to have my entire morning and afternoon free so I can spend more time here.”

Barbara hummed in amusement, her lips lifting into a faint smile. “Sounds like fun.”

The kid nods eagerly. “Isn’t it?”

The look on his face is one of simple excitement. Like he actually finds joy in spending hours of his day in a library with nothing but the quiet and books to keep him entertained. Jason shifts in his chair beside Barbara. The small grin on his face is one he wasn’t even consciously aware he was making. But it’s there, and it’s directed at Peter’s unbridled joy.

And as for Dick, his exhaustion evaporated as soon as Peter practically stood beside him. He shot to stand upright, watching Peter smile and talk like the boy’s a puzzle he should already know the answer to. There’s something achingly familiar in the curve of his grin, the restless energy in the way he shifts his weight. It’s like he was looking at his younger self right before him.

Actually seeing that—actually seeing him right there, right beside him—had Dick swallowing hard. There was no point in denying it. Every ounce of exhaustion and fear that had been pressing down on him moments ago suddenly evaporated, leaving only restless energy in their wake. His fingers curled against the tabletop.

Barbara smiled. “Well, not many people on the computers today. You can have your pick.”

Peter beams. Jason wasn’t sure how it was possible stars could sparkle in a kid’s eyes, but he swore he saw it happen the second Peter heard Barbara’s words. “Thanks Ms. Barbara! See you later, Mr. Jason.”

The kid grabs his library card off the desktop and slings the backpack higher on his shoulder before speed-walking towards the back without a second thought.

And only when he disappears down the row of shelves do any of them finally breathe again. The silence he leaves in his wake is thick. Jason doesn’t move just yet, but his gaze alternates between checking in on Dick’s reaction and eyeing the direction Peter ran off to. Whereas Dick’s attention was solely on the row of shelves Peter disappeared behind, hoping to maybe catch another fleeting glance of the boy.

Barbara exhales softly, adjusts her glasses, and breaks the second of silence that lingered. “Well. That was Peter.”

Her words hang in the air like a test. It’s enough to drag Dick’s attention back to them. And the look on his face—the fatigue he had just moments ago was gone, and now it looked like he saw the world’s first double rainbow, and he isn’t sure how to process it.

Jason leans back in his chair. Arms crossed, jaw tight, waiting for the explosion. It doesn’t come. And when they wait for a second or two, that explosion Jason was expecting still doesn’t come.

Instead, Dick’s voice is low and thin. “That—him. Peter, right? That was—”

Barbara cuts in gently, smooth and even. “Peter Parker. He’s been coming here practically every day for the past week or so. Registered with me personally.” She taps her desk, her tone all business but her gaze sharp, reading them both. “He’s smart. Likes hanging out in the engineering or science sections when he’s not glued to a computer. He’s also very polite.”

Jason scoffed under his breath, muttering, “Too polite for Gotham.”

Barbara doesn’t miss a beat. “He’s also twelve. And by all accounts, alone. His alleged guardian is still up in the air. But I think it’s safe to assume he’s been out there in Crime Alley, alone for who knows how long.”

Dick flinches. Just the smallest movement, but it’s enough for Jason to notice. Enough to twist the knife in both their chests.

Barbara leans back in her chair, arms folding as she takes stock of the two. “Whatever you guys are feeling right now, it needs to wait until we’re somewhere other than a public library. Understand.”

Jason nods once. His eyes flick back towards the computer area, like he can’t help it. His gaze is entirely there, and maybe he wasn’t fully conscious when he asked aloud, “You wanna talk to him?”

He wasn’t even sure he actually voiced the question until Dick’s strained voice answered almost immediately. “Yes.”

There’s no pulling back now. Jason exhales through his nose, slowly. “Alright, then. Let’s go meet your son.”

Dick straightens his shoulders, though his legs feel heavier with every step. His body and brain are telling him that he should turn back now, return to Barbara and discuss what they should do now. But his heart is pulling him forward. Like he’s heading to somewhere that feels right. Even though with every step towards Peter, he feels like he’s walking towards the edge of a building and he doesn’t have his grappling hook.

Peter notices before they reach him this time. In his arms are a couple of books that Jason can’t exactly make out the names of but must be either engineering-based or health- and science-focused based on the direction he was coming from.

His smile is infectious. It’s so wide and splitting that his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Hi Mr. Jason. What’s up?”

Before Jason could come up with something, naturally introduce his brother to the kid, or even just say a greeting in return—Dick acts first. His hands shoot out, catching a book that was just about to slip from Peter’s hold. The action is fast and smooth, like it was second nature to reach out to him.

“Looks like you need some help,” Dick says quickly. Almost too quickly. “Where do you want to set these down?”

Peter blinks. His eyes only now focusing on Dick, like he wasn’t even aware he was there until now. “I’m heading to the computers. Gonna bunker down for some well-earned research.”

“Sounds like fun.”

Dick swallows hard, trying to ensure the words don’t come out too awkward or, worse, break apart in his throat. He offers a smile before taking some of the books from Peter.

“I think so. Good books and a working computer, all wrapped up in a warm library. How does that not sound like a great day?” Peter grins, oblivious to the storm brewing beneath Dick’s skin.

“No, yeah. You’re right. Definitely sounds like a good day.” He laughs at the boy’s eager expression—bright-eyed, animated, completely unaware.

“Great day.” The kid can’t help but correct.

Jason hovers back, arms folded across his chest, more shadow than presence now. This is Dick’s moment. He follows just a step back, watching as they drop the books off at a desk with a computer. He pulls a chair from another desk and sits by them.

“So what kind of research is making today such a great day?” Dick asks, lowering himself into a chair.

His eyes skimmed the titles of the books on Peter’s desk. Analytical books of robotic manipulation. Thick manuals about the geometric fundamentals and multibody dynamics of creating artificial intelligence. There were even a handful of memoirs and autobiographies of medical professionals discussing the different states of the unconscious mind.

Peter brightens immediately, tapping the edge of one of the heavier books with a kind of pride. “Well, I’m kinda all over the place today.” He admits with a shrug, though his grin doesn’t falter. “I’m kinda working on a personal project. More of a concept of an abstract. Or is it an abstract of a concept? Whichever one makes more sense.”

Dick nods, though the words don’t totally make complete sense. Jason lets out a whistle at Peter’s words. He leans forward in his seat and takes a look at one of the many books on Peter’s desk.

“That’s… ambitious,” Dick manages, his tone impressed and maybe even a little proud. “Not a lot of people your age would show much interest in this kind of stuff. I think one of the only other people we know that is into this kind of stuff is our younger brother.”

“Younger brother? Wait, are you two related?”

Jason lets out a short breath that might almost pass for a laugh. “Peter, this is my brother, Dick. Dick, Peter.”

Peter does a bad job hiding his laugh with a cough. But Dick catches it. And he can’t help the warmth that blooms in his chest at the sound.

“Nice name. Guess it’s short for Richard, right?” The kid asks. “Are you guys interested in this sorta stuff too?”

“Sure. Maybe not as intensely as you or our younger brother, Tim. But we know some stuff.”

Peter’s eyes widen, curiosity and excitement sparking like a live wire. He flips open one of the books and pushes it slightly towards Dick. “Did you know patients with hidden consciousness can actually hear what goes on around them. They can hear people when they talk to them, and if they are given verbal commands, they just can’t carry out those demands because of injuries in the brain circuits. Isn’t that cool?”

Dick finds himself staring, not at the book, but at the way Peter’s hands move animatedly, the absolute gleam in his eye, and the ease with which he shares what excites him. There’s an ache in his chest that warms him, comforts him with how similar the two are when excited—yet tightens all the same, threatens to pull the words right out of him. You remind me of me.

But he doesn’t say it. Not yet.

Instead, he smiles. “Yeah. That is pretty cool.” His voice dips quieter. “You’ve got a good head there, Peter. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Peter beams at that, bright and unguarded. While Jason watches from the side, a flicker of something unreadable crosses his face.

“What time do you finish, kid? Wanna get food with us later?” Jason offers, shifting in his seat.

The kid hums in contemplation. Before he turns his attention to that fancy watch around his wrist. “I was actually gonna go straight home after this. Maybe next time?”

Jason nods. “Sure thing, kid. I’ll hold you to that.”

When Peter moves to turn on the computer, they know it’s their time to leave and leave the kid to his studies. The walk back to Barbara’s desk is quiet, with Dick looking over their shoulders every once in a while to catch a glimpse of Peter’s hunched figure.

“He’s a good kid,” Jason says to break the quiet. It’s enough for Dick to look at him.

“He is.”

There’s a fond smile on Dick’s face at the memory of their first encounter. It’s a look that even Barbara notes when they’re by her side again.

“So what are our next moves?” She asks the two. Jason falls back into the seat he previously resided in, the one by her side. While Dick leaned against the wooden desk, glimpsing every once in a while at the direction of the computer area.

“Bring him home.” Dick’s words are final. They land in the quiet like a gavel strike, heavy and certain.

Jason leans back in his chair, arms folding across his chest. “And tell him what? That we have a library at the manor, and he should definitely come check it out? Close the manor doors as soon as he walks in and ‘surprise! We’re actually your family you never knew about, and we never knew about you until, like, a week ago!’”

Dick doesn’t flinch. His jaw is set, his tone firm and unwavering. “He’s a kid. My kid. I don’t think there’s ever really gonna be a perfect moment to tell him. He needs a family.”

“He also needs stability.” Barbara adds, pushing her glasses higher on her nose. “And trust. If we rip him out of the only life he knows too fast, we risk losing him before we have a chance to explain.”

Jason lets out a low grunt of agreement. “Babs has a point. As much as I want to bring him in now, we have to think this through. Peter’s already pretty skittish enough. You should have seen him the first time we met—kid jumped over a fully grown adult like it was nothing. He’s not gonna take a life-changing bombshell like this lying down.”

Dick runs a hand over his face, frustration leaking through. “So what? What do we do now? Sit back? Pretend like he isn’t one of ours? Pretend like he’s not living with a guardian who doesn’t care about him?”

“No,” Barbara says firmly. “We don’t pretend. We plan. We learn more about him. We gain his trust. We show him that we’re here. That we’re all here and ready and waiting for him whenever he’s ready. We can’t just swoop in like some saviour.”

Jason nods, his eyes briefly flickering in the direction of the computer area. “We can’t push him too hard. Kid might bolt. And trust me, he’s got that flight instinct carved into his bones.”

For a moment, the three of them fall silent. Only the muted hum of library life fills the space.

Finally, Barbara’s voice cuts through, softer this time. “So maybe the next move isn’t bringing him home. Maybe it’s making him want to come home.”

Dick could picture him. How he looked hunched over the computer with the softest of smiles on his face. He was too nice. Too open. Too excited and good. Dick’s chest aches with the weight of it. He felt the distinct need to gather Peter in his arms and never let him go. But he already failed Peter in not being there. He can’t fail him again by messing up how the truth is told.

“Okay.” He finally nods. “We take it slow and steady.”

“And,” Barbara adds, though this time her tone is less firm and more…uncertain. “Maybe we should tell the others.”

“You sure?” Jason asks, a brow quirking up in concern.

Barbara nods, her fingers begin tapping her desk. “I think so. They could look out for him too during patrols. And it would help with easing him around them later when he moves in.”

Dick nods at her words. But there’s still a tenseness in her shoulders that he can’t help but question. “What else?”

She can’t help but sigh as she leans back into her chair. “And if his home situation gets any worse. It’d be good to have Bruce’s input and help in getting an emergency guardianship that could lead to eventual adoption.”

“Okay,” Dick sighs. All the frustration and exhaustion leaving his body, leaving only determination and paternal desperation to help his son. “Let’s talk to the others.”

. . .

By the time the gates creak open and the manor looms ahead, Jason exhales through his nose. “You ready for this?”

Dick doesn’t answer right away. He just stares at the familiar silhouette of home, all stone and shadows, before finally muttering. “Doesn’t matter if I’m ready. It’s happening.”

The car rolls to a stop. They don’t move just yet. They linger in their seats, eyeing home.

“You were right though.” Dick breaks the silence, his tone suddenly lighter. “He is a pretty great kid.”

Jason simply stares at his brother before laughter bubbles out. “Guess he takes after his dad. In certain lights.”

His laughter is short, a little tired and rough around the edges, but real and genuine. It settles something in Dick’s chest. If he closes his eyes, he can picture it. What life might be like with Peter in the manor. 

The manor’s front doors swing open before either of them move. Warm light spills against the darkening driveway. Alfred stands framed in the doorway, posture straight as ever, hands folded back behind him. His gaze catches theirs instantly.

“Showtime.” Jason mutters, shoving his door open.

Dick lingers just a second longer. His fingers tighten around the steering wheel before he finally forces himself out of the car. The crunch of gravel unnaturally loud in the early evening.

“I’ve set plates for you two,” Alfred remarks once they reach him. His voice is calm, but his eyes flickering between the two of them is the only tell they could see that could point to his curiosity. 

Dick swallows hard. “Thanks, Alfred. Would’ve called earlier but… just got news we gotta share.”

Jason snorts softly, brushing past into the foyer. “That’s one way to put it.”

Dick follows slowly. His gaze trails over the pictures lining the walls, over the staircase he once tumbled down as a kid, and over the rooms that his siblings have made their own. The sparkle in his eyes is seen by everyone else other than him. Because his mind is already conjuring up images of Peter tumbling down those same stairs, the different books he’d go out and buy to decorate Peter’s room, and what their first family portrait would look like with Peter by his side.

“Are the others already at the table?” Jason asks, bringing Dick’s attention back to the current moment.

Alfred gives a short nod of his head. “Dinner had just begun when I noticed your car in the driveway.”

Jason’s mouth twists into something caught between a smirk and a grimace when he turns to face Dick. “No such thing as perfect timing, huh?”

Alfred studies them with that unnerving calmness of his. Then, with a faint inclination of his head, he gestures down the hall.

“Shall we?”

Jason claps a hand on Dick’s shoulder, steering him forward before he can hesitate. The faint hum of voices grows louder as they near the dining room. They can hear it all. Tim’s very audible yawns, Steph’s easy laughter, Damian’s sharp retort muffled by distance, even Duke’s occasional comment or two. Normal sounds of family.

But as they reach the doorway, those sounds begin to falter. One by one, heads turn toward the entrance, conversation pausing mid-sentence. The long table stretches before them, filled with familiar faces, with their respective seats left empty with plates and utensils waiting for them.

Bruce sits at the far end, his expression softening into pleasant surprise at the sight of them.

“Dick, Jason, come sit,” Bruce greets, his hands gesturing to their seats. “I should have known you two were coming for dinner when Alfred put plates for you out.”

Jason mutters, just under his breath, just loud enough for Dick to catch, “No such thing as perfect timing.” And Dick isn’t completely sure if the reminder is for him or for Jason.

And suddenly, Dick realizes Jason’s hand hasn’t left his shoulder.

“So what’s up? What’s new?” Tim greets them as they move to sit in their seats.

Tim’s sharp eyes flicker between the two of them, almost immediately sensing the unrest between them. The curiosity was practically radiating off him and Steph. Damian doesn’t speak just yet, his posture stiff and proud as he watches them. Cass offers them a smile before returning to her food. Even Duke, seemingly unaware of the tension as he scoops more food onto his plate, adds to the sudden swell of presence.

“This and that,” Jason says casually, reaching out to fill his plate. Dick does the same. “Anything with you guys?”

“Uh huh.”

Steph narrows her eyes. “You sure you guys aren’t hiding anything?”

“Can’t people stop by for some home cooked food anymore?” Jason scoffs playfully.

Tim’s eyes narrow ever so slightly as he stares at the two. “Uh huh.”

Then, with a voice softer to avoid the attention of the others, Bruce turned to Dick with his brows furrowed with a hint of worry. “Dick, you’ve been quiet. Anything worrying you?”

Dick feels his throat dry. He can feel Bruce’s gaze on him. But he uses the moment to look around the table—his siblings pestering Jason with questions, Alfred just behind Bruce with his hands carefully folded behind him, and Bruce at the head of it.

“Sorry for the lack of a heads up,” Dick speaks up, watching as everyone turns to face him. “Just… we— I got some news today that I need to tell everyone.”

He can feel them study them. It goes quiet for a moment.

“Of the vigilante nature?” Bruce can’t help but ask.

Jason opens his mouth. “Kinda, but not complet—”

“I have a son.”

The words drop like stone into water. The table goes silent. Jason can’t help but turn towards his brother with nothing but open mouthed surprise. Okay, not even a lead in. That was a choice.

Across the table, Tim blinks once. Twice. Then he straightens up like he misheard. “I’m sorry, you—what?”

“You have a son!” Steph exclaims, his fork clattering against her plate.

“Impossible,” Damian mutters, his composure cracking for a second, his voice lacking its usual bite.

Bruce and Alfred have a more subdued reaction. They straighten themselves out, smoothing invisible wrinkles from their sleeves, their jaws faintly tightening.

“I see.” Alfred says simply. His tone is calm, but beneath it is something heavier. “Congratulations.”

“Dick…” Bruce softly speaks, but the rest of his words die on his tongue before they leave him.

Dick’s throat works around the words, but they don’t come easy. He rests his hands before his plate. “I only found out last night. I didn’t know. And now—now there’s this kid out there, and he’s twelve and just out there somewhere in Crime Alley, honestly probably alone without anyone actually looking out for him, and I…” His voice trails, choked with everything he can’t seem to say.

Jason shakes the disbelief off his face and folds his arms across his chest, filling the silence. “We’ve already run the test. Ninety-nine percent. No way to spin it otherwise. The kid’s his. Jumps like him too.”

Damian’s gaze flickers to Jason before returning to Dick. “And my nephew himself?”

“Peter,” Jason answers immediately. “Smart as hell. Too damn thin. Has been wearing the same clothes every day since we’ve met him. Barbara and I believe he’s either alone or living with a negligent guardian. Either way, he’s been living like he’s got no one watching out for him.”

Dick’s head bows, his shoulders curving inward. “That’s on me.”

Bruce’s gaze snaps to attention; he moves to rest a steady hand on Dick’s shoulder. “No, Dick. Don’t say that. You didn’t know. That is not on you.”

Dick stares at Bruce, taking in the warmth and fierceness in his eyes even though the rest of his face remains largely stoic. And something lifts from his shoulders that he wasn’t even aware was there.

“He’s smart, Bruce. Had a pile of books about robotics and neurobiology.” Dick laughed, the memories of the morning meeting Peter filling him with something warm he couldn’t quite pin down. “He was so excited to tell us about how today is research day. How he set aside his morning and afternoon just to stay in the library undisturbed, just reading books and looking at a computer. God, you should have seen the absolute joy on his face when he showed Barbara his library card.”

He rambled on about Peter and their brief interaction. The way his son’s eyes lit up when he talked about his research, how polite he was with referring to Jason and Barbara with Mr and Ms, how naturally the two fell into conversation. Because despite the fear and panic and uncertainty of what is to come, Dick was already ready to admit he has a son. That he has a son. And it was just as exciting as it was fear inducing

Steph’s lip curls into a smile. “That’s… actually adorable.”

Tim tilts his head, curiosity sparking like a wild fire catching. “Robotics and neurobiology at twelve?” His voice is low and thoughtful. “That’s impressive. Really impressive actually.”

“Gonna have some competition?” Duke muttered. “Please don’t stalk him by conveniently showing up in the library’s engineering aisle.”

“Hey. Don’t say it out loud!”

Even Damian shifts. His expression flickering with clear interest. “Tch. At least he values discipline in study.”

Cass leans forward, her eyes bright and intent on Dick. Then she signs, slow and deliberate: You’re proud already.

And he is. God help him, he is.

“He sounds amazing,” Alfred says at last. The smile tugging on his lips was small, deceptively so, but steady. Enough to mirror Dick’s own happiness, to feed it.

Dick nodded. He swiped a hand across his face, as though embarrassed to let the emotion show, but they caught it.

“Yeah,” Dick breathes, his voice almost shaky with something close to wonder. “He… he really is amazing.”

Jason moved to reach for more food, trying to look casual but unknowingly failing miserably. “Told you, didn’t I? He’s also a talker once you get him eating. Kid went off on how fries should be considered for tactical hypotheticals.”

Dick laughs at his words. He’s met him once. Talked to him for no more than twenty minutes. And it was life changing in a good way. It was more than enough for Dick to feel warmth spread through his chest in a way he never felt before. It was enough for Dick to feel like what life would be as a father. And it was hopeful and promising.

“That’s the kind of stuff you have to think about.” Dick agrees with an easy laugh. “Hypotheticals. Tactical hypotheticals.

Jason rolled his eyes. “You guys sound exactly the same.”

Duke barked out a laugh. “If he’s anything like you, I bet the kid does your eyebrow thing.”

“What eyebrow thing?” Dick asked, instinctively reaching up as if to check.

“The one where you tilt your head a little, like you’re about to deliver the final word in a very tear-jerking, moral inducing inspirational pep talk,” Steph teased. She straightened her back, arched an eyebrow, and mimicked him so well the table broke into chuckles.

Dick leaned back in his chair, laughter fading into something softer. He could still see Peter’s face in his mind—the ways his eyes lit up, the unguarded joy when he got to share something he loved. He hadn’t known pride could feel like this, so sudden and so fierce.

“Crime Alley though.” Tim speaks up softly, a frown appearing on his face. “You said he might have a negligent guardian?”

The shift in the air was noticeable. The energy immediately sobering.

“He’s been telling Barbara and I that he has a guardian. Who somehow doesn’t notice the fact that the kid wears the same clothes day after day. Or the fact that those clothes are practically breaking apart at the seams.” Jason scoffs, leaning back against his chair. “Either he’s lying about having a guardian and he’s been homeless. Or he really is living with a negligent guardian. Either way—”

“That’s no place for a vulnerable twelve year old.” Bruce finishes, voice low but stead, his hands folded just under his chin.

“No,” Dick agrees. “It isn’t.”

Tim leans forward, expression tight with thought. “If he’s living in Crime Alley, alone or otherwise, he’s vulnerable. Negligent guardian or not. And if anyone figures out who he is…” He trails off, letting the implication hang.

“Then he’s a target.”

Damian scoffs, but not dismissively. “If Grayson is certain of his blood relation, then my nephew belongs here. With us.”

Steph lifts a brow at that. “Wow, Damian, your concern for others is getting better.”

Dick exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t even know if he’d want to come here. He doesn’t know me yet. I’m still a stranger who’d come out of the blue saying I’m his dad. That’s a lot to ask him to trust. Barbara made a good point that we can’t just swoop in like a saviour.”

You’ll earn his trust, Cass signs softly, her hands steady, her gaze even steadier. We’ll earn his trust too.

Bruce’s voice cuts in, firmer this time. “Then the first step is making sure he’s not left alone and unprotected in Crime Alley.” His eyes lock with Dick’s, steel and warmth intertwined. “Whatever it takes, we’ll figure it out. Together.”

And though the fear and anxiety don’t vanish completely, Dick feels like he can breathe. It feels like the family shifting into gear.

. . .

Dick moves through rooftops with a purpose. He doesn’t stay in one place for too long. He’ll pause in his search to stop a robbery or a mugging, but he scavenges the Alley with a purpose.

His son's name echoes in his head as his boots pound against concrete and steel. Typically, he'd savour the chill of the night. It would offer a good reprieve from the physical labour of his night activities. But now, he almost cursed it. 

Because Peter's out there somewhere. And he'd surely freeze if all he had was the clothes on his back.

He lands atop an abandoned apartment and stares out at the sea of flashing billboards and apartment rooms with their owners still awake. A whisper of movement draws up behind him.

“Don’t you have your own patrol route, Robin?” Dick asks as Damian moves to stand beside him, overlooking Gotham’s nightlife.

Robin simply tsks. “Don’t you?” Is all he retorts with.

“Fair enough.”

He lets out a humourless laugh, his eyes never leaving the streets below.

“Do you have an image or description of my nephew that can lend itself to our search?” Damian asks aloud, his voice smooth and clipped.

Finally, Dick tears his gaze away from the city and looks at his youngest brother with a wide, knowing smile.

“So that’s why you followed me,” Dick grins. “Wanna be his second uncle to actually meet him. Trying to get a leg up on the others for his favourite uncle position?”

Damian bristles but doesn’t deny anything. Instead, he squares his shoulders and even offers a faint tilt of his chin.

“Description, Nightwing.” Damian repeats once again.

Dick laughs, the sound tired but carrying genuine warmth. “Alright, alright. Though you might lose out to Hood if we’re being honest. He’s about twelve. Brown hair, a little on the longer side. I think his hair curls, but because of the dust and oil in it, it comes out looking rather messy. Brown eyes. He’s skinny, though his hoodie does a decent enough job of hiding most of it. He carries around this worn out backpack, and he has this watch on his wrist. Super expensive looking, you can’t miss it.”

Damian nods, a mental image of the boy already forming in his mind.

“Have you found his home?”

“Hood and Oracle believe it’s somewhere near the opera house. She followed him on the cameras the other night, and he disappeared around there.”

Damian nods again. Silence settles between them again, broken only by the distant wail of a siren somewhere and the faint chatter from the grounds below.

His comm cackles to life. Jason’s voice bleeds through. “You got eyes on him yet?”

“Not yet,” Dick admits. “But he’s out here. I can feel it.”

Jason doesn’t immediately respond. When he does, his tone has softened. “Don’t wear yourself thin. If we can’t find him tonight, Oracle’s confident he’ll show up in the library tomorrow morning.”

“Then we will be there, as we will be out here all the same.” Damian cuts, eyes narrowing as his gaze locks onto movement down below.

“Oh, Robin’s with you? Shouldn’t you be with Batman?”

Damian doesn’t answer; he shrugs like that should be answer enough. Dick can’t help but chuckle at him before his eyes return to the city around them. His eyes scan rooftops, fire escapes, and the neon glow of corner stores. Every flicker of movement makes his heart hammer. 

“Come on, buddy,” he mutters under his breath, more to himself than to Jason or Damian. “Where do you go when it’s this late?”

“Nightwing,” Damian calls out softly. “There is a movement just below.”

Dick freezes, gaze snapping to where Damian’s pointing. Below them, the streetlight flickers weakly, but just enough to catch the outline of someone moving between the pools of shadows. Small. Careful. But strangely enough, with a pep in their step. Like they were undeciding between a normal fast walk or skipping down the street before dropping into a crouch.

His breath catches. “Oracle, can you get a closer look?” He murmurs into the comm.

Barbara’s voice hums through his earpiece a second later, the soft clatter of her keys faint behind her words. “Already on it. Give me two seconds… Okay. Hood’s down. That definitely looks like Peter.”

Jason’s voice cuts through, a smirk obvious in his tone of voice. “Well, damn. What happened to going straight home after the library?”

Dick’s heartbeat spikes. “He’s not doing anything wrong,” he says quickly. “He’s… he’s just out late.”

Jason doesn’t say anything, just hums like he knows something Dick doesn’t. Damian’s already moving before Dick can say anything more, his grappling hook firing silently into the air.

“We are wasting time. We must act before we lose him tonight.”

“Robin—” Dick starts, but his youngest brother is already gone, cape flaring dramatically as he drops from the roof like a shadow with intent.

Dick curses and follows, landing a few feet behind as Damian rounds the corner first. And there he is.

Peter’s crouched near a rusted fire escape, his hands delicately brushing the fur of a street cat while the small animal eats from an open can of cat food presumably Peter opened for it. His son is talking softly to the cat, whispering something Dick can’t quite hear over the hum of the city. 

Damian pauses mid-step, the tension in his posture easing almost imperceptibly. Dick hears him mumble something under his breath that he couldn’t quite make out but sounded suspiciously like needing to be Peter’s favourite uncle now.

“Hey kid,” Dick calls out, voice soft and careful. 

His son’s hands still. The cat meows once before scampering away, disappearing into the darkness of a half-collapsed alleyway. Peter doesn’t chase it—he just sighs and stands, brushing off his knees before turning to meet the vigilante’s gaze. And there is an automatic expression of surprise and awe that overtakes his features.

“Y-you’re Nightwing and Robin.” Peter gasps with surprise, his hands immediately going to readjust his backpack straps.

Dick smiles gently under his domino mask, raising his hands just slightly—palms out, friendly, disarming.

“Guilty as charged,” he says lightly.

“And you should be home,” Damian cuts in. “It is late, and you are in Crime Alley.”

Peter blinks. Then his mouth parts in a small “oh”.

“I— I was actually heading home—” his words falter, eyes darting from Dick to Damian to the nearest escape he could possibly make. “Just went for a walk. Yeah… went for a walk, saw a cat. Really cute cat actually. And I had some spare food, and y'know sharing is caring I guess. Totally on my way home too. So, y’know, I’ll just be on my way and out of yo—”

“Citizen,” Damian interrupts, crossing his arms. “Where is your home? We will ensure you make it there safely.”

“Nah, it’s okay actually,” Peter brushes them off, his feet quietly scooting away from the vigilantes. The action not going unnoticed by said vigilantes. “Y’know, Red Hood actually let me go home on my own the other night. So you can trust me to get there again. On my own.”

“It’s okay,” Dick says quickly, cutting through his fluster with an easy smile. “We have nothing but time on our hands. Besides, it would be kind of irresponsible of us to leave a kid out in Crime Alley all alone when it’s so dark. Don’t you think?”

At that, the boy’s eyes drop to the cracked pavement. His fingers tighten on his backpack straps until his knuckles pale.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” He swallows. “But, y’know, Tony’s really sensitive about strangers. And—”

His watch is going off. The rather expensive looking watch on his son’s wrist is beeping incessantly like an alarm of some sort. The sound has Peter stopping in his movements and turning his full attention to the thing on his wrist. His face pinches in worry, and the sight has Dick’s heart clenching. Because something’s wrong.

“—And I guess I gotta get home. You’re right, it’s not safe for kids out this late, so… you go find and help more of them while I get on home,” Peter continued to ramble. “It was nice meeting you guys. Tell Mr. Hood I said hi. Hey, if we ever bump into each other again, I wouldn’t say no to batburger.”

“Kid—” Dick takes a step towards his son, only for Peter to turn to run.

But just as he was about to absolutely book it out of there, Damian managed to grab the back of his backpack, stopping him in his tracks but unintentionally causing Peter to fall back on his bag.

“Child, you cannot run when we are to assist—”

“No no no no no no no,” Peter’s panicked cries echo as he moves to check on the contents in his bag, pushing Damian’s hand off him like it was nothing.

Dick watches as Peter quickly unzips his bag and curses quietly under his breath. Bandages, gauze, even IV tubes spill from his bag. The sight of them catches Dick off guard, and he can’t stop the sudden intake of breath.

“Kid—”

“Darn it,” Peter harshly mutters, more bandages and gauze spilling out while he digs through his bag.

“Kid—” Dick raises his voice, his feet instinctively taking him closer until he can feel Peter’s shoulder under his hand. “Kid—”

“I gotta get home now,” Peter suddenly speaks up, hurriedly grabbing the fallen bandages, gauze, and IV tubes.

He looks up to Dick with his huge, brown eyes that seem almost on the verge of tears. And Dick… freezes.

That look—wide eyed and desperate—is one he’s seen a hundred times before. On the faces of kids cornered in dark alleys, on runaways caught between wanting help and fearing it. On himself, all those years ago.

“Hey, hey,” Dick says softly, lowering himself into a crouch so he’s eye-level with Peter again. “It’s okay. You’re okay. We’ll get you home right now.”

Peter’s breathing is quick and uneven. He focuses on stuffing the rest of the stuff back into his bag. But the panicked look on his face slowly morphs into one of annoyance.

Damian, who had taken half a step back, silently regains his composure, his brows drawing in confusion. “Are you… injured?”

Peter shakes his head fast, clutching his bag tightly before slipping it back on his back. The glare he sends the two vigilantes could have frozen them on the spot. He shakes off Dick’s hand on his shoulder.

He simply huffs as he moves to stand. “I’m heading home. Don’t follow me.”

Dick swallows, forcing his head to stop pounding in his ears. “Okay,” he murmurs, trying to shake the images his brain unhelpfully supplies of why his son needs all this medical equipment. “Okay, you can go home. But can you tell me why you need these? Please? You’re not in any trouble, I promise.”

Peter doesn’t falter. If anything, his glare at them deepens. Dick and Damian don’t miss the fact that his bag is now slowly dripping. His son just stares at them—two masked figures under the flickering streetlight—and Dick can see the utter annoyance on his face.

“I’m going home. Don’t follow me,” Peter seethes.

Dick raises his hands slowly, palms out. “Okay,” he says carefully. “We won’t follow you.”

“Tsk.” Peter huffs, adjusting the strap of his dripping bag, turning sharply on his heel. The sound of liquid slowly dripping against pavement follows his steps.

Dick’s stomach knots. “Kid, wait—”

Peter doesn’t stop. He yells over his shoulder, “I said don’t follow me!”

The echo of his voice bounces off the walls of the alley. A cat yowls somewhere in the distance. Damian’s jaw tightens, his cape rustling faintly as he crosses his arms.

“Your bag is leaking,” He points out flatly.

Peter turns back to face them, his arms crossing against his chest. The furrow in his brow is still visible. “I know. That’s why I’m annoyed with you both. Just leave me alone.”

Dick moves to take a step forward, only for Peter to angrily turn around and continue his walk away. Damian moves faster than Dick does. He manages to move in closer to Peter, his hands ready to pull the kid back.

But Peter runs. Just at the last second before Damian would have grabbed him, Peter absolutely books it out of there. He runs faster than either of them expected.

“Peter!” Dick curses under his breath, launching forward.

Damian’s already moving, vaulting over a trash bin and sprinting after him in pursuit. “Come on, Nightwing, we’ll lose him!”

He nods in response. His legs move on instinct, but his mind races faster. He can’t stop thinking of the bandages and gauze he saw, and the utter panic he saw on Peter’s face when his watch went off. And—oh god, please let his guardian—this Tony—not be the cause of Peter needing those bandages.

It’s all Dick can think about as he pushes himself harder into the night. They move fast. The city blurs around them. But Peter darts into a crowd of civilians coming out of a bar before skidding left and disappearing through a narrow gap between two buildings.

Damian’s already pulling ahead, cape slicing through the shadows. Dick’s close behind.

But Peter doesn’t come out the other end. When Dick moves to look through the tight passage his son had slithered into, the passage remains empty.

“Kid!” Dick calls out, his voice echoes through the narrow gap. “Peter!”

Damian glances back at Dick. “He’s gone somehow.”

Dick swears under his breath, palms braced against the damp bricks of the buildings. There’s no trace of Peter. No footsteps, no movements, not even the sound of tired breath.

“He’ll be in the library in the morning,” Oracle’s voice cuts in through the comms. “He hasn’t missed a day yet.”

Dick grits his teeth. “Oracle, can you find him in any cameras?”

Her delayed answer tells him everything he needs to know.

“We should prepare a tracker for when we next find him.” Damian notes as he adjusts his gloves, the faint scrape of leather breaking the silence. “We will find him, Nightwing. If not tonight, definitely tomorrow.”

“I want everyone out here tomorrow night,” Dick says. His voice is firm, but his stomach twists. He can’t shake the image of Peter with a bag full of medical supplies out of his head. “I want everyone looking for my son and his so-called guardian.”

“Understood.”

Dick nods. He takes one last look at the narrowed gap. For a second, he hoped Peter would emerge. He didn’t. And with reluctant feet, he followed Damian back to the rooftops.

Chapter Text

When Tim first heard about Dick’s son, he had stayed up all night scanning through every minute of the library’s security footage. It didn’t take long to find the kid. Not when he looked like someone took a mini Dick and slapped a sepia filter on his hair and eyes.

So when he heard about Dick and Jason’s plan to intercept Peter’s daily morning library visit, he knew he had to do something to help. The two eldest had firmly refused to let anyone else come to the library with them. They said something along the lines of not overwhelming the kid. But honestly, Tim thought it was to ensure Jason and Barbara stay Peter’s favourites.

So he did what any self-respecting younger brother would do—he staked out in a little café just a block from the library with a small bag full of clothes that could probably fit a malnourished twelve-year-old.

He had a clear view of the route he suspected Peter to take, a cup of hot chocolate that has since cooled down, and his own fifth coffee for the morning.

The chances of them getting any information of actual substance from Peter in the library were unlikely. Sure, they would be building rapport and trust (probably), but they would let Peter walk out of that library the same way he came in: alone, hungry, and wearing the same clothes he wore all the other times they’ve seen him. They needed to be more proactive. And fortunately for them, Tim is (more than) willing to poke at and largely ignore some people’s boundaries and what could be considered “socially acceptable” behaviour. Whatever that meant, really.

Tim’s fingers tapped rhythmically against his paper cup, his eyes flickering from the café window to the streets that were already bustling with life. He glanced down at his watch. 8:25 a.m.

Peter’s been pretty consistent in showing up at the library around eight-thirty to nine in the morning. The length of his stay at the place constantly changes, but his arrival time suggested he may be treating the library like a home base.

He takes another sip of his coffee. Wait. It might actually be his sixth cup of coffee now that he thinks about it. Did he really stop keeping count after his second? He shook his head. Whatever, it doesn’t matter. Caffeine probably doesn’t even work on him anymore. But he can’t think about that right now—or the fact that he might have to switch to energy drinks for a while to rectify caffeine’s dwindling effects on his ability to stay focused—because a suspiciously Peter-sized Peter shape emerges from a side street.

He’s walking down the street, his hand moving to cover his mouth as he lets out a big yawn. His hair’s a mess, his eyes ringed with shadows. And of course, he’s wearing the same clothes as yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. He trudges forward, his eyelids heavy and looking like they’d close any second from now.

Tim grinned. Perfect.

He downed the last of his drink, ignoring the slight scalding from it, before grabbing the cold once-hot chocolate and the bag full of nondescript clothes.

Tim times it perfectly—the collision, the hurried apologies, hell, even Peter’s genuine worry and his rambles of apologies perfectly fit with one of Tim’s many theories.

“I’m so sorry, I was not even looking, and, oh god, what have I done?” Tim played up his sympathies, dropping the cup that once held the cold-hot chocolate milk and moving to wipe the mess on Peter’s hoodie with his sleeves. It would be useless and, if anything, would make things worse. “I’m so sorry kid; I was so distracted about the…stock market…but that shouldn’t be an excuse. God, look at your sweater. Jeez, I’m really sorry.”

Peter stared at Tim’s hurried, distracting movements. He tried moving his hands to show him that he was fine and that it wasn’t even that hot. 

“It’s honestly okay, Mr—”

“Tim. Just call me Tim.” Tim had to bite down the grin that threatened to overtake his carefully constructed expression of guilt and remorse. 

Peter nodded. “Mr.Tim—”

“Please, just Tim.” He patted Peter's shoulders, all easy smiles and disarming warmth, the kind that made people relax without really realising it. “I insist. You’re gonna make me feel ancient if you keep calling me mister. I’m not completely out of high school yet.”

Peter blinked, caught somewhere between confusion and awkward politeness. “Uh… okay. I’m… Peter. But…uh…Tim—”

“There you go.” Tim grinned and straightened. Hah. Suck it, Jason! Tim’s officially on a first-name basis with the kid. “You sure you’re alright? That was a full-on collision. It didn’t burn you or anything, right?”

Peter glanced down at the massive splash on his hoodie and shook his head. “It wasn’t hot. I just… sorry, I also wasn’t looking where I was going.”

Tim chuckles, easing into the rhythm of conversation. “That makes two of us then. Guess we’re both victims of poor spatial awareness.”

That earns a faint smile from Peter—small, tired, but real. He shifts his weight between his feet as he adjusts the straps of his backpack. The motion doesn’t escape Tim’s eye.

“But,” Tim continues, wincing to add to his act that this meeting being an accident. “I feel awful for spilling it on your clothes. I can’t, in good conscience, let you wear your ruined clothes for the day.”

He pretends to tap his chin in deep contemplation before dramatically exclaiming as if having a great idea. “Y’know, I was actually on my way to the thrift store to sell some of my brother’s old clothes and make a quick buck. But, y’know, this is more important.”

He lifts the bag of clothes so Peter can see. He sees the second Peter is about to open his mouth and politely refuse both him and the bag. But Tim stops that idea quickly when he shoves the bag into Peter’s unsuspecting arms.

“There’s a cafe with a bathroom nearby. You can change there.” Tim cuts in quickly, gently but firm. He leads him by the shoulders towards the cafe he just inhabited. 

Peter stumbles a little at the sudden forward motion, his eyes turn briefly back over his shoulder towards the library that they were walking further and further from. “Wait—hold on, I was going to the library—”

“It’s alright,” Tim says, not unkindly but with a kind of cheerful insistence that allows for no arguments. “You can head to the library after. But right now, you’ll feel better once you’re dry and warm. Trust me, coffee shop bathrooms are basically five-star resorts if you squint hard enough.”

The smell of roasted beans and brown butter wraps around them the second they enter. The low hum of quiet conversation and the faint jazz music playing overhead make the place feel cozy.

“Bathroom’s just past the counter,” Tim gestures, steering him a bit. “Go ahead. I’ll grab us something to drink and maybe eat. On me, don’t worry.”

Peter hesitates, staring up at him like he can’t quite believe the offer’s real. “You really don’t have to do all this.”

“Kid, you’re shaking,” Tim points out softly. “Get changed. I’ll still be here when you come out.”

That does it. Peter swallows, offers a shaky smile as he nods, and disappears towards the back.

Tim exhales, finally letting the mask of casual calm drop and allowing the successive smirk to grace his face—sharp, knowing, and entirely self-satisfied. He moves to stand in line to order, his fingers tapping excitedly on the side of his leg. He orders a hot chocolate for Peter—extra whipped cream, because he has a feeling the kid could use the extra sugar.

It takes about five more minutes before Peter returns. The new hoodie he wears is still a little big on him, but more his size than his last one. He’s also taken the opportunity to change his pants, having switched out the tattered one for black sweat pants that fit him better. At least with this pair, he didn’t need rope to keep them up.

“Better?” Tim asks, handing him the cup.

Peter takes it, allowing the warmth of the cup to seep into his fingers. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “It’s really soft.”

“High-quality fabric,” Tim says with mock seriousness, leading Peter back out of the cafe, the library just within view. “Doesn’t fit my brother anymore though. Looks better on you anyways.”

That earns him a quiet laugh; when it begins to die out, it leaves a soft smile on Peter’s face. The same kind of everyday resting smile Tim’s seen Dick wear one too many times before.

“Thanks,” Peter says, glancing down at the hoodie, tugging at one sleeve to test the material. “How do you want it returned?”

Tim tilts his head slightly. “Keep it. I was gonna sell it anyway. Not like my brother’s gonna need it anytime soon.”

There’s a soft buzzing that comes from Peter’s wrist. Tim can’t stop his curiosity from piquing when he finally sees the watch Jason and Dick mentioned. And true to their words, it is a rather expensive-looking watch. A very strange accessory to have considering the state of the clothes he’d been wearing before Tim got to him. Peter rolls his eyes before pressing a small button on its side, ending the buzzing.

“Nice watch,” Tim says; he tries to make out its make and model before Peter inevitably rolls his sleeve over it. “Never seen anything like it.”

Peter nods slowly, a smile appearing on his face as he gazes down at the thing. “She was a gift from my guardian.”

That has Tim raising a brow. “She?”

“Karen.”

Tim smiles at that. “You’ve named your watch? That’s adorable.” He can’t help but ruffle the kid’s hair.

Peter opens his mouth to say something. But they’re nearing the library doors, and Tim’s sure he can catch shadows of what he can only assume are Jason and Dick pacing around Barbara’s desk.

“I’d love to continue talking to you and maybe get a chance to look at that watch of yours,” Tim sighs, his hand carefully planting a tracking device into the hood of Peter’s sweater. “But I gottta head to work.”

Peter blinks up at him, the slightest frown tugging at his brow. “Okay. Thanks again. For the clothes.”

Tim gives Peter a small wave. “See you around, Peter.”

He gestures towards the library doors and waits until Peter disappears behind the building’s large doors before he begins moving. The second Peter’s out of sight, Tim pulls his phone from his pocket. He sends a quick message to Jason, Dick, and Barbara: ‘You’re welcome abt the clothes :)’

He’ll have to hurry back to the Batcave to check out the tracking device. Tim slips the phone back into his pocket, tugging his jacket tighter as the early morning breeze whips through the street. The caffeine still hums in his bloodstream, but beneath that alertness, a quiet buzz of satisfaction fills him.

“Karen? Strange name for a watch,” Tim mutters under his breath as he crosses the street towards his parked car.

He sighs as he starts the engine. The low hum of the motor drowns out the rest of Gotham’s morning noise as he speeds down the street, already opening the preliminary tracking interface on his heads-up display.

The tiny flashing red light means it’s on. Good.

. . .

Jason isn’t sure if the twitch in his brow was because of his own impatience or the fact that Dick has not stopped in his pacing. It’s only seconds after the three of them simultaneously receive Tim’s text that the doors creak open and Peter steps inside, his hair slightly windswept.

He also chooses to brush over Dick’s soft gasp when noting the new clothes on his son. Not entirely because Peter was finally wearing something warmer and more intact than the clothes he’d been wearing for the last how many days, but also because the hoodie Peter wore had the Nightwing symbol embroidered across its chest. 

“Busy morning?” Jason asks, tone carefully casual as he nods at Peter.

The kid just shrugs. He moves from the doorway, eyes darting around to see both Dick and Jason hovering around Barbara’s desk. Then he tilts his head, curious, processing the sight of them. “Good morning Ms. Barbara, Mr. Jason, Mr. Dick.”

Barbara laughs softly. “Peter, you know you can drop the formalities around us.”

Peter lifts his chin like he’s actually contemplating her words before he gives a short shake of his head. 

“I’ll try. No promises though.”

Jason nods. Peter moves closer to the desk, peering up at Barbara with his big brown doe eyes. “Ms. Barbara,” he starts slowly as he presents his library card with a flourish. “I know I don’t have full library permission just yet, but do you think I can borrow a book? Just one, and I promise I’ll bring it back first thing in the morning.”

“Having another research day?” Dick asks softly, his tone equal parts pride and worry. “What are you looking into this time?”

His son shakes his head. “Research day itself was great. Learnt a lot. Two of Gotham’s finest made it extra hard to get home, though.”

Jason doesn’t miss the subtle narrowing of Peter’s eyes when his gaze brushes over Dick. It’s gone as quickly as it appeared, and, for a moment, Jason wasn’t even sure he saw it.

Dick coughs into his fist. “What happened?”

“I think it was Nightwing and Robin,” Peter speaks, his tone sharp enough to slice through the sleepy fog of the morning. “One of them grabbed me, and I fell on my bag. Some important stuff broke, so I spent the whole night basically fixing it. Really annoying. Mr. Red Hood literally gave me the okay-go to go home on my own, but no these guys just wanted to follow me.”

Peter crosses his arms. Both Barbara and Jason note the subtle shift in Dick’s stance.

“Sounds like a tough night,” Jason agrees, his hand moving to settle on the kid’s shoulder. “Tell ya what, how about I cash in that rain check and you come join Dick and I for some food,”

Peter hesitates for a second before he awkwardly raises the cup he had in his hands. “I already got a drink,” He says.

“Yeah, but that’s not food,” Jason grins, trying for light and casual. “Y’know, solid, edible, maybe too greasy for its own good if that’s what you’re into. You can even pick the place.”

Dick glances sideways at Jason, quietly grateful for the save. He absolutely hated the guilt of possibly having failed Peter yet again. 

Peter’s gaze flickers between the two men, before turning to Barbara with an almost helpless look in his eyes. As if she could stop this.

“Ms. Barbara—”

“Peter, I’ll let you take out that book you were asking about. If you go with Dick and Jason to get something to eat.” Barbara says immediately, her face and voice leaving no room for arguments.

The kid’s eyes immediately sparkle at her words. “Okay, deal!” Peter hurriedly nods. “I’ll come back here as soon as we finish!”

Dick chuckles softly. “Okay Peter, you craving anything in particular?” 

“There’s a hot dog stand nearby, right?” Peter asks, shoving his library card back into his bag.

Jason lights up instantly, grinning like a man who’s just been handed a billion dollars. “Oh, you’ve got good taste, kid. There’s one not far from here. The guy’s usually near the flower shop.”

Peter nods, his expression a hundred times brighter than it was when he walked in. “Yeah, let’s go.”

Dick smiles down at his son. “Hot dogs it is, then.” He looks at Barbara, who’s watching them with a mix of fondness and knowing amusement that only she can manage. “We’ll bring him back in one piece.”

“You better,” Barbara teases, simply shaking her head in endearment.

“C’mon then,” Jason says, clapping a hand lightly on the kid’s shoulder as they head for the doors.

Outside, the early Gotham chill brushes against their faces. The sun’s peeking through the haze, and the streets are already humming with life. Dick keeps an easy pace beside Peter, not too fast, not too close.

“So Peter,” Dick starts, glancing down at him with a gentle smile. “Made any progress on your project?”

Peter nods, adjusting his backpack strap. “Kinda. I’ve started collecting the materials. But… I think it’s gonna take a while.”

Jason hums, leading the trio down the block. “Yeah? What kind of project are we talking about here? School thing? Science fair?”

Peter laughs quietly—the sound soft but genuine—and shakes his head. “Nope. Personal project more like. I’m kinda working with some of Tony’s half-baked theories so it’s a little hard, but, y’know, I manage.”

Dick exchanges a look with Jason. “Tony? Your guardian, right?” he asks, voice easy and deceptively careful. “You get your smarts from him?”

“He’s been my mentor for a while,” Peter admits with an almost dreamy look in his eyes. As if reminiscing something only he could see. “But I was kinda always a little know-it-all before I met him. My aunt likes to think that that’s only gotten more out-of-hand since meeting him.”

They reach the corner just as the scent of sizzling onions and grilled sausages fills the air. The hot dog vendor—a man with an almost poker face—simply nods his head at them as they approach.

As Jason moves to order for the group, Peter and Dick stand just a step or two behind, watching the smoke curl up from the cart. The warmth of it brushing against Peter’s face. It doesn’t take long for Jason to hand him a wrapped hot dog, all but shoving it into his hands.

“Eat, kid. If you want seconds, let me know. I used Dick’s card.”

Peter blinks, startled by the bluntness, before a smile spreads across his face at the familiar feel of the food. It had been so long since he last had one, even now it felt almost unreal. “Thanks.” he mumbles out before taking a bite.

There’s relative quiet between the three of them. Just the sound of sizzling, passing cars, and the conversations of passerbys fills the silence.

“So Peter,” Jason starts, grinning around a mouthful of hot dog. “What kind of materials are you gathering? Maybe Dick or I can help you track a few things down.”

Peter’s focus doesn’t leave his food. “Just the basics. Wires, tubing, adhesives probably. And a whole lot of spare computer parts. Maybe some metal like aluminum or something to help make a possible frame.”

Dick tilts his head. “What is it you’re making?”

The kid hesitates for a moment. Not because he seemed nervous or anything, but more like he just wanted to savour the hot dog. Probably the first warm meal he’s had in a while, if Dick’s being honest.

“Y’know. This and that.” Peter shrugs. They wait for him to elaborate. He never does.

“Wow,” Jason rolled his eyes playfully. “That sounds like fun.”

Peter grins around a mouthful of bread, clearly amused by Jason’s sarcasm. 

Dick laughs softly at that, shaking his head. “You’d get along great with Tim.”

“Tim?”

“Our little brother. The one I mentioned before,” Dick explains. “The one that likes to research the same things as you, I think. He likes to consider himself a bit of a genius and detective prodigy.”

Peter’s brows furrow, his gaze turning from Dick to the street leading up to the library. Where he could see the very same café he had changed in earlier.

“Huh.”

“Yeah,” Jason mutters, finishing off his hot dog. “Bit of a caffeine addict too. He’s into making stuff too.”

That earns a thoughtful hum from Peter. Dick notices the second Peter’s watch starts buzzing softly, almost subtly. If Peter notices, he doesn’t show it. But he does notice Peter’s eyes flicker down, the sparkle in his eyes dimming just slightly.

“Is your brother my age?” Peter asks, his hands moving to scratch the back of his head. “It’d be cool to have someone to bounce ideas off of.”

“He’s older than you but he's still in high school. But I’d bet he’d be so down to help you out with your project.”

Peter simply hums. He moves quickly to throw out his hotdog tin foil and napkin. “I think I better head back to the library and get that book. I got some other things on my checklist I’m gonna try and get done today.”

Dick and Jason go quiet, taking in the seconds to fully take in Peter. Dick’s already frowning slightly, blue eyes flickering down to the kid’s backpack. Knowing Tim, he’d probably bugged the hell out of the clothes to locate Peter’s home. Maybe he and Alfred sewed microtrackers into the sweater’s seams, embedded frequency markers in the hoodie’s hem, maybe even stitched a hidden audio feed beneath a pocket or something.

Whatever approach Tim decided to follow, Dick and Jason were fairly confident Tim was somewhere back at the manor instead of school, likely hunched over his monitors watching Peter’s little red dot blink alive.

Dick softens, just barely. Jason falls into step beside them as they start walking back. “Checklist, huh?”

Peter shrug, tugging his hood up as a breeze rushes by. “I like keeping busy.”

Dick fights an internal battle to keep himself from frowning, though he masks it behind an easy smile. “I get that. Sometimes staying in motion helps clear your head. I do gymnastics and it helps with clearing my mind.”

“Same!” Peter says brightly, his smile quick and genuine, looking up at Dick with intrigue. “I do gymnastics too. It’s been a second since I last got to practice, but I’ve been told I’m pretty good.”

Dick’s brows lift in genuine surprise, the smile on his face growing even larger if that was even possible. “Yeah? You do?”

Peter nods enthusiastically. “Yeah! I had a couple of classes when I was younger but I’ve been teaching myself lately.” He grins, his eyes sparkling with fond memories. “My aunt likes to think it’s in my blood. So she used to always encourage me to go to classes.”

Jason snorts. “In your blood?”

Peter laughs, the sound bright and unguarded. “I guess. She said my dad came from a family of gymnasts or something. And I probably inherited my inability to sit still from him.”

Dick smiles. Because he can’t absolutely break down at Peter unknowingly confirming everything they’d already known. He can’t break down. Not here, not now, not when his kid says it so casually, like he’s talking about the weather.

But the words my dad came from a family of gymnasts hit Dick like a freight train. It’s such a simple statement—so unassuming—that it almost doesn’t register at first. Then it sinks in, curling into his chest like a hot, bright ache that steals his breathe and leaving only desperation in its wake.

Peter doesn’t notice. He’s on his knees tying his shoe laces which have somehow come undone.

Jason glances at Dick, but one look at the older man’s face makes him shut his mouth fast. Dick’s smile hasn’t faltered—it’s still warm, still gentle—but his knuckles have gone white where his fingers curl against his thigh.

“She said that, huh?” Dick manages, his voice low but steady as Peter gets up to resume the walk back.

Peter nods. “But I actually can sit long periods of time if I’m focused. So there’s that.”

Dick lets out a quiet laugh, though it trembles faintly. “There’s that.”

Jason kicks at a pebble, watching it bounce ahead. “So what do you do? Backflips? Climb a lot?”

Peter grins at that. “All the time.”

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s heavy. But in a way that feels meaningful. Like a thread quietly weaving something new between them.

Jason claps a hand on Peter’s shoulder, breaking the tension before it can settle. “Alright, kid. We’ll see you later. Call us up next time you want to tell us what your project is actually on. Or else if there’s a blackout in some part of Gotham, I’m gonna assume it’s you.”

Peter laughs, snorting out loud. “Who knows? Maybe it might be.”

They’re nearing the library doors again when Dick looks down at him—really looks—and can’t help but think how easy this could’ve been normal. A walk with his kid after lunch. A shared lunch. Just another late morning.

Except it isn’t

And as Peter pushes open the library doors with that bright smile and small wave in their direction, Dick can’t stop the thought that echoes through him like a prayer he’s too scared to say out loud.

He knows about me. He just doesn’t know it’s me.

. . .

The Manor’s doors swing open just before Dick or Jason even lift their arms to knock.

“Peter, what a coinc—”

The words die on Tim’s tongue the second he opens his eyes and is greeted with the sight of just his elder brothers. He looks behind and around them, and when he cannot find a kid wearing the clothes that he may or may not have stolen from the box of Dick’s old clothes from the attic, the disappointment is obvious.

“Where’s Peter?” He asks, glaring down at his phone.

“Where he goes when we’re not around.” Jason rolls his eyes, brushing past Tim and his rather confused glances at his phone.

Dick nodded in agreement, following Jason inside but keeping his eyes on Tim. “Shouldn’t we be asking you that?”

“We’re assuming you did do your creepy stalker behaviour and basically line every thread of those clothes with some type of tracker.”

Tim’s lips part, head snapping towards the two with a look caught somewhere between offense and the kind of incredulous disbelief only family could inspire.

“Excuse you,” he scoffs, following them as they stride into the foyer. “I’ll have you know, I used one tracker. One. Singular. Not a thread-lined suit of surveillance armour. Thank you very much.”

Jason throws him a look over his shoulder. “Just one? You’re missing your touch, stalker.”

“It was for safety purposes,” Tim grumbles, trailing after them towards the living room. “Alfred was too busy to help me sew it all in. So I could only do one.”

Jason drops into the nearest armchair with a heavy thud. “Like I said. You’re losing your touch, stalker.”

“Hey,” Tim mumbles before a smile tugs on the corners of his lips. “At least he calls me Tim and not Mr. Tim. Have you moved past Mr. Jason? No? Yeah, didn’t think so. And I got him new clothes too. Kid looked like he really liked them. Guess we know who Peter’s favourite uncle is before he really knows.”

Jason crosses his arms with a huff and a grumble. Meanwhile, Dick, quieter now, sinks onto the couch beside Jason.

“Don’t start with the whole favourite uncle thing,” Jason mutters, sinking deeper into the armchair. “You’ll only lose in the end. I’ve known him longer than you.”

Tim perches on the edge of the coffee table, clearly enjoying himself. “And yet he’s calling me by my first name in our first meeting. Kid’s a good judge of character, what can I say?” he says lightly. “You must have done something if he’s still calling you Mr. Jason.”

Jason scoffs, opening his mouth to respond but is quickly cut off by Dick’s concerned voice. “Why did you think Peter was at the door earlier?”

Tim blinks, momentarily caught off guard. “Oh yeah,” he says, frowning slightly. “I thought the tracker— “

The doors creak open, revealing Alfred in his usual stoic nature. “Master Bruce has requested everyone gather in the Batcave. There seems to be another attack on the city.”

“Thanks, Alfred, we’re heading there now.” Jason thanks the butler before dragging the other two down the familiar route to the hidden underground cave.

The rest of the family are there, half of them already dressed up in their suits. On the Batcave’s many monitors is footage of the latest Gotham attack and Barbara’s video call in the bottom corner. Firefly’s manic laughter cackles through the various news stations reporting on the chaos. There are sharp bursts of static and the sound of explosions echoing somewhere downtown.

“So far he’s hit a parking garage and is attacking the bridge. GCPD’s evacuating civilians, but they’re stretched thin.” Barbara speaks over the chaos, her voice crisp and businesslike.

“Okay.” Bruce nods, standing in front of the main monitor. “Let’s go.”

The others nod before moving quickly to get changed. The cave erupts into motion. Armor clicks into place, fabric rustles, and the metallic hiss of grappling guns echoes faintly through the vast space.

Bruce moves towards the Batmobile. “Nightwing, Hood, you take direct pursuit. Track and capture Firefly. Robin and Spoiler aid the GCPD in helping civilians get in the evacuation buses or ambulances. Minimise casualties. Red Robin, you’re with me. We’ll cover Firefly’s exit and prepare the drones to water out the fires.”

The team nods. They move to their respective rides: Dick and Jason have their own bikes; Damian, Steph, and Tim ride in the Batmobile with Bruce. The team scatters—footsteps echoing, comms syncing, engines revving. The cave vibrates with the sheer force of motion and purpose. Bruce and the others, as well as Jason, leave before Dick.

“Oracle, quick question.” Dick asks through their comms as he starts up his bike. “What book did Peter end up borrowing?”

Barbara’s voice cuts back through the comm line as Dick drives off, quickly meeting up with the others on the road. “Nursing 101 for dummies.” There’s a lift in her voice.

Dick forgets how to breathe for a second. Of all the things Peter could have said—neurobiology textbooks, robotic manuals, even something else science-heavy like engineering—nursing for dummies wasn’t one he’d expect.

A smile tugs on his lips. “Thanks, Babs.”

Barbara hums softly on the other end, that knowing lilt creeping into her tone. “You’re welcome. Why? Gonna try and find him a med school pamphlet next?”

Dick chuckles, low and faint over the wind rushing past his helmet. “Maybe. Kid’s got a good head. It’s just… good to know what he’s into.”

“Sure,” Barbara replies. “What’s the saying again? Like father, like son?”

Her voice fades as the line crackles, but the weight of her words lingers.

Dick swallows, his fingers tightening around the throttle. “Yeah,” he murmurs to himself. “That’s the saying.”

The engine growls as he pushes forward, the cold late afternoon-early evening Gotham air slicing through his suit. The bridge comes into view in the distance, smoke blooming against the sky, the orange glare of fire reflected in the wet asphalt. His comm crackles again, this time with Tim’s voice.

“Nightwing, Red Hood, you’re almost on-site,” Tim says, his tone clipped but professional. “GCPD’s setting up a perimeter on the west side. Firefly’s still mobile, heading towards the center of the bridge.”

Jason’s voice follows, sharp and sardonic. “Yeah. I see him, Replacement.”

Dick catches sight of Firefly, flames trailing in his wake. He’s targeting vehicles trapped in traffic. Civilians scatter as explosions pop like firecrackers.

“Too many civilians. A lot are stuck under their vehicles.” Dick reports as he pushes forward. “Oracle, where’s the nearest clear point for evac?”

“Two blocks north. GCPD’s got a bus loading site,” Barbara responds quickly. “Spoiler and Robin are helping civilians towards first aid.”

Dick moves quickly further into the chaos. He pulls civilians away from burning cars and pushes handfuls of people towards the nearby officers. Screams and the sound of fire crackling fill the air. Heat’s radiating off the pavement, and Dick moves on instinct. 

“Nightwing, left!” Jason warns, his voice sharp through the comms.

He spins just in time to see Firefly swoop low, flamethrower roaring to life. The air ignites, orange and gold swallowing the dying sky.  Dick dives, rolls across the asphalt, and flings an escrima stick straight at the jetpack’s fuel line. It sparks against the armor, but Firefly veers up before it can connect.

Firefly snarls, the distortion in his mask making him sound almost inhuman. “You bats never learn.”

Dick grits his teeth. “Guess we’ll just have to keep teaching you, then.” He launches his grapple, propelling himself onto a half-toppled light pole. From the height, he scans for movement—and spots Damian a few blocks down, cape flashing as he ushers a family towards an evacuation bus. Steph isn’t far behind, helping GCPD organize the crowd.

“Nightwing, we’re en route,” Batman’s gravelly voice cuts in. “Contain him until Red Robin and I arrive.”

“Already on it,” Dick replies, switching to an open channel. “Hood, you in position?”

“Kinda busy right now,” Jason’s voice crackles through the comms, layered with static and irritation. “Currently trying to drag a cop out from under a sedan. Be there soon.”

Dick exhales sharply, eyes darting between the smoke columns rising from the east and the trail of fire streaking above him. “Copy that. Firefly’s still circling the north end of the bridge. Don’t act alone—he’s erratic tonight.”

Jason snorts. “You say that like it’s new.”

A hiss of flame punctuates his words as Firefly rockets past, the wave of heat knocking Dick slightly off balance on the pole. He manages to steady himself. “Okay guys, this is fun and all, but I have a son I have to look for. So if we could speed this up, that’d be great.”

Steph barks a short laugh through the comms. “Sure thing, dad of the year. Let’s just tell Firefly to take a coffee break while we wrap this up.”

“Focus,” Bruce’s voice rumbles, sharp and cutting through their banter like a blade. “Nightwing, Hood, focus on containment. Hood, leave the evacuation of civilians to Spoiler and Robin. Red Robin and I will cover the other end of the bridge. We’ll close in on him.”

“Copy,” Dick replies tightly, already leaping to the next light pole. His body moves on instinct—grapple, swing, land, move—but his mind is racing somewhere else entirely.

“Spoiler and Red Robin, you guys can go straight and reconverge with Nightwing and Hood.” Barbara speaks through the comms. “Red Hood, good job on clearing out the civilians.”

Jason’s voice returns, skeptical. “I helped like two or three out of their cars. I’m right behind Nightwing right now.”

“Well, someone got everyone out of their cars and off the bridge—”

“And that wasn’t me!” Jason cuts in, irritated. “Look, love the praise and all, but I’m nearing a man who has a thing for fire.”

Barbara pauses for half a beat, the sound of furious typing echoing faintly through the comms. “Then whoever’s helping out there isn’t one of ours,” she says slowly, her tone sharpening. “Because every one of you is accounted for.”

“Oracle, find out who that is.” Bruce’s voice cuts in. “Everyone else focus on Firefly.”

“On it,” Barbara replies, voice clipped with focus.

Jason and Dick can see Batman and Red Robin block the other end of the bridge while they flank the other side. The distinct sound of grappling hooks just behind them is the only thing telling them that Damian and Steph aren’t far behind. Above them, the roar of jet thrusters splits the air, and Firefly drops lower, the nozzle of his flamethrower gleaming orange in the firelight.

They advance, moving with mechanical precision. Dick takes the left, Jason the right. They move as one—years of training, instincts sharper than the firelight that dances around them. The smoke curls and thickens, blurring their outlines into shadowed ghosts cutting through the haze.

“Eyes up,“ Jason mutters, gun raised, scanning the fiery skyline. “He’s gonna circle for another pass.”

“Got it,” Dick replies, his escrima sticks snapping out with a low, electric hum. 

A deafening whoosh fills the air as Firefly dives, the jetpack scorching close enough to blister paint off nearby cars. The villain’s laughter carries through the roar—wild and manic. “You never learn, do you?! Gotham’s gonna burn tonight.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jason grits out, firing three rounds at the jetpack. “You said that last time.”

The bullets ping off the reinforced plating, but Firefly jerks sideways, struggling to steady his flight. Dick doesn’t waste the opening—he vaults up the side of a truck, launches his grapple, and in one seamless motion, slams into Firefly midair.

The two crash onto the bridge pavement with a shriek of metal. Firefly snarls, twisting, flames erupting dangerously close to Dick’s arm.

“Nightwing!” Steph’s voice rings out over comms. “Watch your head!”

Dick rolls aside just as Spoiler swings in, landing a rib-cracking kick to Firefly’s chest. “You’re welcome!” she laughs.

“Appreciated!” Dick shoots back, flipping to his feet and catching the villain’s arm before the flamethrower can ignite again. He twists, driving an active escrima stick into the man’s arm.

Firefly howls, thrashing. “You think you can stop the inevitable burning of Goth—”

A shot echoes. Jason’s bullet hits the ground just beside Firefly’s head, the impact making him flinch. “No one was talking to you,” Jason says coolly, holstering his gun as Damian wrenches the fire thrower’s nozzle away.

“Hood, Nightwing,” Bruce’s voice cuts through. “Red Robin’s deploying the drones now. Keep an eye on him.”

As if on cue, the soft whir of drones fills the air above them. Before water rains down on them, taking out the smaller fires and bringing the bigger ones down to more manageable flames.

“Target contained,” Damian calls out, snapping a pair of handcuffs around the villain.

But before anyone can relax, there’s a sound of movement just behind one of the nearby abandoned cars. Their heads snap towards the sound.

The team instantly shifts back into formation—muscle memory taking over. Jason raises his gun, Damian steps in front of Firefly, Steph keeps her foot on Firefly’s back, and Dick’s escrima sticks hum faintly as he lowers into a defensive stance.

The sound pauses before coming again—soft, uneven, and followed by a faint cough. Not the heavy tread of boots or the clatter of a weapon. Something smaller. 

“Hold fire,” Dick orders quietly. “Could be a civilian.”

They edge closer, smoke curling around their legs, the scent of scorched metal still thick in the air. Jason rounds the hood of the car first, gun ready—then stops short.

“Kid, you gotta be kidding me,” he sighs, lowering his weapon.

Dick moves up beside him—and freezes.

It’s Peter.

He’s crouched beside an overturned car door, one arm braced against it for balance, the other hidden in his sweater’s front pocket. He stares up at them with an embarrassed look on his face, even going so far as to smile at them like he isn’t covered in soot, his clothes singed, and his hair matted to his forehead.

“Kid,” Dick breathes out, all the tension in his body snapping taut. “What are you doing here?”

“Hey guys,” Peter greets with an awkward wave and smile, slowly getting up from where he was crouched.

Dick moves immediately to support his kid. His hand lands firmly on Peter’s shoulder before the boy can stumble upright. Up close, the smell of smoke and burnt rubber hits him like a wall. Peter’s new Nightwing sweater is torn at the elbow, his sweatpants are singed, and there’s a thin trickle of dried blood near his temple that makes Dick’s stomach drop.

“Easy, easy—hey, look at me,” Dick says, gently steadying him. “Are you hurt? Did Firefly’s flames touch you?”

Peter blinks up at him, rubbing the back of his neck with his visible arm as he looks over and spots Spoiler and Robin. 

“No no no,” Peter tries to assure them, shaking his head while attempting to shuffle away from Dick. “Wrong place, wrong time. Hey, I’ll just go—”

“Peter, you got injuries, and we’re gonna make sure you get checked out,” Jason says firmly, crossing his arms against his chest. 

Dick’s the one that notices the way Peter keeps one arm hidden. He has to exhale in an attempt to calm the surge of fear tightening his chest. “Peter, let me see your arm.”

Peter looks away, shuffling awkwardly. “What would you do if I said no thanks?”

Jason snorts. “Then we do it the old-fashioned way—by not asking again.”

Peter lets out a weak, nervous laugh, taking a step back—but Dick’s hand stays on his shoulder, firm but not rough. His voice softens, all gentle concern beneath the grit of adrenaline still humming through him. “Peter. Let me see your arm.”

For a second, Peter hesitates, eyes flickering between the group—the imposing silhouettes of Nightwing and Red Hood framed by dying firelight, the smaller figures of Robin and Spoiler a few paces behind, watching quietly. 

Fortunately, he’s saved from making a choice when Firefly squirms at just the right moment that he manages to break free. The handcuffs clatter onto the wet pavement as he pushes against Steph’s foot. He lunges forward towards his flamethrower.

“Hey—”

To Dick, it all happens in slow motion—Firefly grabbing his weapon, his weapon pointed at both him and Jason, the second Peter moves… The realisation makes him snap his head towards his son. He moves faster than Dick. Much faster than what the others would have expected.

Because his son throws himself in front of Dick, running at Firefly at a speed Dick couldn’t fully process. The scuffle is done as soon as it begins. Peter manages to wrestle Firefly down, pinning him to the floor with the movements of someone confident in what they are doing. Like he has done this before. Like he was trained.

Damian and Steph take control of the villain, but not before the man manages to kick wildly at Peter like a mechanical bull. Damian pushes Firefly’s head into the pavement, and Steph slaps the handcuffs on him again just as he kicks Peter back. Hard.

“Peter—”

Dick’s stomach drops. Time seems to stretch and compress at the same moment—the moment Peter’s head smacks against the cold, wet pavement, the scrape echoing louder than any gunshot.

“Peter!” Dick shouts, sprinting forward, adrenaline and fear coiling in every muscle.

Jason is right behind him, boots pounding against asphalt. Dick reaches him first, skidding to a halt beside his son. Peter’s small body curls slightly as he lifts his head, blinking rapidly; the sharp sting of pain radiating from his temple leaves him hearing a constant ringing.

Dick kneels instantly, hands hovering but careful, never rushing the wrong move. He can’t afford to make the wrong move ever again. Never again. “Hey, hey… Look at me, kid. You’re okay, okay? You’re alright,” he says, voice tight, every syllable laced with relief and fear.

Peter’s eyes flicker open. They don’t stay open; he’s fighting to stay awake. The kid tries to sit up, but Dick’s hand presses gently on his shoulder.

“No, no. Stay still. You got a pretty bad hit to your head. And we don’t even know what other injuries you have. So just—just stay still for me, Peter.”

Jason drops beside them, frowning as he examines Peter quickly. “You hit your head hard. Might need stitches. Hang in there, kid; we’re going to get you checked out.”

Peter protests weakly, his eyes finally fluttering closed, his body giving itself to both his injuries and exhaustion. 

Dick’s heart clenches at the sight. He eases Peter into his arms, careful not to jostle him further. Every moment is precise, deliberate. He begins to move before he even registers his own movements.

“Dick, where are you going?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He continues walking. But not towards the ambulances and GCPD, but towards the Batmobile.

“He’s coming to the Batcave.” His words are final, his tone hard and unwavering.

He hears Jason sigh. “Steph, wait for the GCPD. Damian, stay with them.” Before falling into step beside him.

“You sure about this?” Jason’s jaw tightens at the sight of his unconscious nephew.

“I’m sure,” Dick replies, voice low, eyes never leaving Peter’s blood-stained soot-streaked face. “There’s no such thing as perfect timing.”

“Right.”

They’re almost at the Batmobile, where Bruce and Tim finally notice their approaching presences. Bruce’s eyes narrow as he spots Dick carrying Peter into view, the boy limp against his chest. Tim’s breath hitches, his fingers tightening against his tablet as he processes the scene.

“Dick… is that—what happened?” Bruce’s voice is sharp and demanding, but controlled, the fatherly concern underneath impossible to mask.

Dick doesn’t answer immediately. He carefully eases Peter into the backseat. “We’re bringing him home. Now.” He snaps softly before sliding in beside his son.

The others follow quickly. The Batmobile roars to life, tires gripping the wet ground as they move through Gotham’s chaos. Dick keeps a steady hand on Peter, his own heartbeat slowing only when the boy’s breathing begins to even out.

Tim watches silently from the passenger seat, eyeing Peter and his injuries. “Dick,” he mutters softly. “Take his arm out of his pocket.”

“What?”

“Just do it,” Tim exhales. “Before he wakes up, we should look at his watch.”

Jason moves before Dick does. He gently eases Peter’s arm from his hoodie pocket. It’s unharmed. But the watch isn’t the only thing on Peter’s hand. There’s a mechanism hooked around his fingers and attached to canisters around his wrist. 

“What is this?” Dick asks, examining his son’s hand.

“Could it be what he’s working on?” Jason suggested.

But Tim’s focus was on Peter’s watch. Looking at it closer, it became very clear to him that this wasn’t a regular watch. Its face wasn’t just the face of a regular watch. It was a screen masquerading as a watch face. And, for a second, it flashes lines of code before turning off—the whole thing turning black.

“What was that?” Jason demands, his gaze snapping towards Tim.

A laugh bubbles out of him. His nephew was either going to give him a headache or a migraine. Was it weird that Tim was almost excited to figure out which it would be?

“I think that was Karen.”

Chapter Text

Peter’s been told he’s a pretty trusting person. He’s had more than a handful of people tell him that he would benefit from being a bit more suspicious of people’s intentions. Especially when it seemed too good to be true. Normally, he would brush off their concerns. They mean well, and he gets their perspective, but he likes to think it’s okay for him to be a little more trusting, a little more friendly. It’s in his name after all: the friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man. Plus his spidey senses haven’t led him wrong yet. And there was his enhanced strength—something he could fall back on if his common and spidey senses ever failed him. Which they haven’t so far…

That’s what he wholeheartedly believes. That was until he landed in Gotham.

And now suddenly everything was too much. His spidey senses screamed of danger in every corner, in every turn. The first couple of hours—days, more like, now that he thinks about it—Gotham screamed danger so loud and so often, it felt like a church bell gonging in his head at every hour of the day. It didn’t help that he was somehow back in the body of his twelve-year-old self. So there was that.

So it’s not entirely his fault he’s found himself kidnapped. He’s just had a weird week. And an even weirder day.

Soft lights greet him as his eyes flicker. He wants to keep his eyes closed and just fall back to sleep. The bed’s just too soft, and he hasn’t slept in an actual bed since arriving in this city. But the second he hugs a pillow, relishing in the plushness of it all, his eyes rip open and he scrambles up.

The room he’s in is one he’s never been in before. The walls are clean and a warm white, the bed he’s in has to be the largest bed he’s ever been in, and there was an absurdly beautiful chandelier hung in the center of the room. There were hospital monitors stationed by his bedside. He had a pulse oximeter on his finger and ECG electrodes on his chest connecting him to the machines.

When testing his range of motion, Peter was more than pleased to find his rapid healing had done its job. The burns from the bridge fires have mostly disappeared, he no longer felt that stabbing pain in his temples, and his ears were no longer ringing a melody that sounded strangely like radio static. So that’s a win.

“Karen,” Peter calls out, his voice raspy as he stretches out his arm, fully expecting to see Karen on his wrist.

But she wasn’t there. Neither was his web shooter. The one he had used to pull people from their cars before they blew up. The one he had hidden in his pocket when Mr. Red Hood and Nightwing found him on that bridge.

The memories before he passed out suddenly re-entering his mind. He had seen the smoke and sensed danger, and he just had to help. Being in Gotham and not having a working suit wasn’t going to stop him from helping someone. Peter moved through that bridge as quickly as he could without being seen by the city’s heroes, using his singular working web shooter to help pull people to safety.

Then he remembered hitting his head and passing out in Nightwing’s arms.

Embarrassing. He couldn’t help but smack his hands against his eyes.

“Karen,” he calls out again. “I think Gotham’s heroes kidnapped us.”

There’s still no answer. Just the soft beeping of the medical machines he was hooked up to. He tries to focus his hearing. The sound of footsteps—multiple footsteps—is faint but there, likely just a floor below him. He’s no longer wearing the clothes Tim had given him. Instead, he’s wearing what looked to be light blue pyjamas.

“Karen,” Peter calls out again, even though he knows it’s futile.

He pulls the pulse oximeter off his finger and rips the electrodes off his chest. Peter moves quickly to silence the monitor before it can start beeping. His bare feet pad carefully through the room. His clothes are folded perfectly on a table not far from a window. Pushing the heavy curtains from the large window confirms he’s on the second floor and that it’s either early afternoon or late morning. Either way, the sun’s out, and that means he’s spent too much time away from the place he’s temporarily called home.

“Screw this,” he mutters as he grabs his sweater and carefully opens the door he assumes is the exit to the rest of the building.

The hallway is as lavish as the room. Normally, he would gawk at the architecture. Not necessarily because he’s particularly interested in it, but because MJ would be. He’s already begun filling out a notebook about the gargoyles and Gothic structures of the city to show her one day.

Peter moves further through the hallway, trying to focus on Karen’s buzzing, a procedure they agreed on if they ever got separated—Karen would buzz in a code and frequency he would recognize, just subtle enough to trigger Peter’s spidey senses and not alert potential bad guys. Like kidnappers.

“He’s upstairs asleep. Just checked on him like 10 minutes ago.”

The voice is distant, but not far enough for Peter’s comfort. He has to move quickly. Because it’s achingly familiar, and Peter’s pretty confident he could prove a hunch of his if he follows the voice. But he chooses blissful ignorance in favour of searching for Karen.

“C’mon Karen, where are you?” he grumbles as he moves through the halls.

“Tim, come down to eat!” A second voice calls out, equally as familiar. “Or do you want me to drag you out of your room.”

“Coming!”

Peter manages to climb onto the hallway’s high ceiling and hide himself in a far corner just in time to narrowly avoid the irritated slamming of a nearby door. He has to bite down on his tongue when the familiar black hair and tired blue eyes of one Tim-coffee-guy-free-clothes-dude stomp down the halls towards the rest of the heartbeats.

“I knew he was sketchy,” Peter curses as he follows Karen’s buzz signal.

His feelings of betrayal and suspicion quickly turn to anger when Karen’s buzz led him into the room Tim just stormed out of—if the messy desk and unmade bed were any indication, this had to be Tim’s bedroom.

“Karen,” Peter softly calls out, heading straight to the desk.

“Peter.”

The sigh of relief that leaves his mouth sounds almost more like a cry. He grabs onto Karen like a lifeline. His web shooter wasn’t far from Karen. “Karen, you okay? They didn’t do anything to you, right?”

“Negative, Peter,” Karen’s voice hums quietly from the watch as it powers on and its nanotech moves to wrap around Peter’s wrist once again. “I managed to shut down when they attempted to remove me from your wrist. No invasive protocols detected. Diagnostics show all functions nominal.”

Peter exhales deeply, shoulders dropping. “Okay, good. That’s… okay, that’s good.” He moves to inspect his web shooter for damage before sliding it in his pocket. “I knew this Tim character was sketchy. He put a freaking tracker in my hoodie, for gosh sake.”

Karen hums softly as Peter quickly moves out back into the hallway. “I recall. I alerted you as soon as the foreign electrical signal was detected on your person.”

“Yeah, I know. Thanks for that again. I gotta work on my spidey senses in this body and this weird city.” Peter groans, dragging a hand down his face. “But this guy ruins my sweater—one I was actually starting to grow really fond of, by the way—and then he kidnaps us—”

“Correction: you.”

“—me. But he separated us, so that technically means he kidnapped you from me. And, like, who does that?! Takes a watch from an unconscious kid.”

Karen’s tone is level and calm as always as he reaches the end of the hallway and finds an open window. “And how are you, Peter? According to my scan, it seems your head injury has stabilized and your burns have been treated.”

“Yeah,” he mutters under his breath as he pushes the window further open. “I’m good now. The wonders of what an actual bed can do for you, I guess. Let’s just get out of here before I find out everyone I’ve met in Gotham so far is in on my kidnapping.”

“That may be a high possibility considering the day you have had and the connections you have made.”

Peter huffs, half a laugh and half disbelief. “Yeah, thanks for the vote of confidence, Karen. Remind me to talk to MJ and maybe Ms. Natasha about tips on being a better judge of character when we get back.”

He leans out the window, checking the drop. Two stories down. Nothing he hasn’t handled before—especially not with his powers slowly feeling more stable again.

The crisp Gotham air hits him, a mix of city smog and something faintly floral. It’s quiet out here, unnervingly so. No car horns, no sirens—just birds. Too peaceful for the Gotham Peter’s come to know, which automatically makes him suspicious.

“Okay,” he whispers, testing the windowsill’s sturdiness. “We make it to the ground, sneak out, get back to the theater, and then we have to make it back to the library to return the book and apologise to Ms. Barbara for the late return.”

There’s a pause in his movements just as he braces his hands against the frame. “Unless she’s one of them.”

Karen hums softly from his wrist, that maddeningly even tone never changing. “Sounds like a fair plan, Peter. And a fair deduction given your recent experiences and her connections with Jason and Dick, and in turn, Tim.”

Peter freezes halfway through his movement, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and dread. “Thanks, Karen. But I was hoping you wouldn’t agree with me on that. You should have said something like Ms. Barbara is just a nice librarian who is mixed up with bad people.”

Karen pauses just long enough that Peter wonders if she’s pretending to think about it. “Would you prefer I offer comforting falsehoods rather than statistical probabilities?”

“Yes!” Peter hisses, his fingers tighten against the wood as he lifts himself up. “That’s literally what you’re supposed to do when someone’s spiralling. Karen—be comforting, not… data accurate unless I’m in my suit.”

“I see.” There’s a faint, almost imperceptible hum—her version of a sigh. “Then allow me to rephrase: Ms. Barbara is just a nice librarian who is mixed up with some bad people.”

Peer narrows his eyes suspiciously. “You’re mocking me, aren’t you?”

“I am learning from you.”

He groans. “Oh, great. The sass is contagious now.”

“Affirmative.”

Peter leans out the open window, scanning the green bushes and the immaculately cared-for lawn below. He jumps. It’s a precise motion—he’s done higher, steeper, trickier leaps in his sleep. He lands beside one of the bushes. His landing is clean.

He makes a run for it as soon as he hears panicked voices and racing heartbeats.

. . .

Tim couldn’t sit still. His knee kept bouncing, his fingers were twitching, and his eyes kept shooting to his phone, which he was definitely not supposed to be using at the dining table.

“Master Timothy.”

The voice was calm but carried the weight of a thousand unspoken reprimands. Alfred didn’t even look up from pouring tea as he said it, yet Tim still felt like a parental laser beam burning into the top of his head.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. No phones at the table,” Tim mumbled, sinking slightly in his chair. His fingers, however, still hovered near the phone, betraying his focus.

Across the table, Damian rolled his eyes with an exaggerated sigh. “You’re behaving as though your limbs will fall off if you are not constantly connected to that device.”

“Funny,” Tim muttered, “coming from someone who polishes his knives every night.”

“That is proper owner care, not addiction,” Damian replied, raising a perfectly unimpressed brow.

Jason, seated comfortably with a plate stacked high with pancakes, leaned back in his chair, smirking. “Wouldn’t get too smug, demon spawn. He’s probably twitchy because he can’t seem to get Peter’s watch working.”

Tim immediately shot him a look. “Excuse me? I can get it working. Just give me like an hour or two. It’s just—uh—encrypted beyond what watches are normally supposed to be.”

“Watches should not even be encrypted,” Jason drawled, pointing a fork in Tim’s direction. “Don’t be afraid to admit Peter’s got you beat. An unconscious twelve-year-old got you beat.”

Damian looked unimpressed as ever, cutting his eggs with surgical precision. “Considering your recent record, that is not difficult.”

Tim opened his mouth—then paused, brows twitching. “You’re seriously quoting my tech reports now?”

“I read everything Father keeps on file,” Damian said, tone matter-of-fact.

“Of course you do.”

At the head of the table, Bruce didn’t immediately intervene. He’d been quiet since the start of breakfast, his gaze occasionally flickering towards Dick. Despite Alfred’s reminders of no phones at the table, Dick was glued to his small handheld monitor that showcased Peter’s vitals. He was waiting for a spike or a change, anything in case his son woke. Dick had spent the entire night and morning by Peter’s side, Alfred calling him for breakfast being the only thing to draw him away from Peter’s bedside.

Bruce’s hands were clasped loosely together, but the tension in his shoulders said everything—he was thinking. Calculating. Watching.

Finally, Bruce looked at Tim. “What kind of encryption?”

Tim set down his coffee, straightening a little. “I’m not completely sure yet. I’ve tried everything, and I can’t get it to turn on or show anything other than a black screen.”

Jason whistled low. “Think it’s something only Peter can activate then?”

Bruce’s expression didn’t change, but his silence was heavy—thoughtful. “Possibly,” he said at last. “If it’s linked biometrically, any outside interference might have triggered a lockdown protocol.”

“Which means,” Jason said, stabbing a forkful of pancakes for emphasis, “the kid’s got gear that knows when someone’s snooping. And it’s either sentient or just heavily coded to his biology? Cute. Dick, your son’s smarter than what we prepared for.”

Dick looks up from the monitor, one eyebrow arched. “Thanks.”

Tim groaned, rubbing a hand over his hand. “I just want to meet Karen.”

Damian’s tone was as even as ever. “Karen is a ridiculous name for a watch.”

Jason snorted. “Tell that to Peter. Or are you one to talk, Mr. I-have-a-cow-literally-named-Batcow?”

“It’s a reasonably good name.”

Bruce ignored the bickering, his focus shifting between concern for Dick and curiosity towards Tim’s discoveries, or lack thereof. “Was there anything else? Any trace signatures or energy readings left behind after it powered down? And what of the other mechanism found on Peter?”

Tim frowned, eyebrows furrowing. “Nothing based on my initial attempts. I’ll bring the watch down to the batcave later and hopefully find something new. As for the other thing, I’m not completely sure what the fluid in the canisters are.”

Dick leaned forward. “So nothing. We still know nothing about my son. He could have died last night, and all we know is that he likes reading and he’s smart.”

“Not nothing,” Jason immediately cuts in, sensing the growing dread in Dick. “At least we know that he isn’t using all those bandages and gauze for himself.“

The tension doesn’t ease from Dick’s shoulders. If anything, his brows furrow, and Bruce can see Dick’s knuckles turn almost white from how hard he grips his utensils.

“That doesn’t ease the desire to hit Tony where it hurts.”

Jason grinned. “Of course. Guy needs to get kicked.”

Bruce hummed his own agreement. He stared openly now at Dick. The way his eldest son watched his son’s vitals beep steadily reminded him too much of himself when his own children suffered injuries. His gaze softened almost imperceptibly.

“Dick,” Bruce spoke quietly. “He’s stable.”

“I know,” Dick replied, his voice barely more than a whisper. He still didn’t look away from the monitor. His fingers twitched against his utensils like he wanted to do something—anything—but couldn’t. “I just…just—I wanna get to know my son.”

Bruce’s gaze softened further, his tone entirely paternal. “You will. We all will. But you won’t be able to if you do not have the strength. Eat and we will sit by Peter’s bedside for however long it takes.”

Dick swallowed hard, nodding once. Bruce eases into his chair just slightly when he watches Dick finally set the monitor aside and move to eat Alfred’s pancakes. Then Damian pushes his chair back.

“I will check on my nephew first,” he loudly announced with an almost smug tone in his voice. “As I seem to be the only one to have prioritized my food.”

Jason barked out a laugh, nearly choking on his juice. “Oh please, you just want to gloat when he wakes up and realises you’re related.”

Damian doesn’t reply, simply shoots him a look sharp enough to cut grass. They watch as he dabs his mouth with a napkin before jumping up and practically racing up the stairs in a fast but collected manner only Damian can do.

Jason leaned towards Tim once Damian was out of earshot. “Five bucks says he’s gonna try for favourite uncle.”

“He sees the kid feed a stray cat once, and suddenly he thinks he’s even in the race.” Tim rolled his eyes.

The other two don’t respond. Their eyes are already flickering towards the ceiling. Bruce’s gaze narrows. He’d noticed something—something subtle, but off.

A beat later, Damian is running down the stairs with panic in his eyes. “Peter’s gone!”

Response is immediate. The room is automatically filled with the sound of dropped utensils and chairs screeching against the polished floor.

Dick is on his feet before the words fully register. He’s running up the stairs with the others close on his tail. “What do you mean he’s gone?” He examines the bed Peter was tucked into, the pulse oximeter and electrodes that had just been on him; hell, even the window curtains were pushed open.

“I believe he escaped through the window at the end of the hall,” Damian blurts, uncharacteristically fast. "Monitors were disconnected, and he must have silenced them to avoid immediate attention.”

“Should be fine.” Tim tries to stay optimistic, his fingers flying over his phone. “Look, he took his hoodie. So that means he would have the tracker on him. See, the tracker says he’s still in the manor.”

Dick looks at the blinking red dot on Tim’s phone. It does little to ease his panic.

Damian grabs Tim’s phone, eyes glaring at the screen. “According to your tracker, he should be in this room. Clearly, he is not.”

“He could have ditched the tracker somewhere in this room,” Bruce speaks up, his eyes searching through the room.

“That’s…that has to be impossible! It’s small. Like, really small! He couldn’t have noticed it.”

Jason huffs from where he’s standing. “Okay, let’s work under the assumption that he ditched the tracker. Where would he go?”

A light must have lit in Tim’s panicked mind because he pushes past his family and runs towards his room. Dick follows closely behind. He’s at Tim’s bedroom doorway as his younger brother searches through his desk frantically. Before finally turning back towards Dick and the others with fear and anxiety etched into his face. “He took Karen and the other device.”

Jason curses. “I’d bet he’s gonna try and get back into town. If he actually has a Tony, he’s gonna want to get home.”

“He is home,” Dick mutters, voice clipped as he pushes past them and towards the window Peter likely jumped out of. “He was home.”

There’s quiet between them as Dick looks for any sign of his son. Then a hand rests on his shoulder. Dick doesn’t have to turn around to recognize Bruce. His grip was steady and grounding. The kind of touch that carries more weight than words ever could. “We’ll find him,” he says quietly.

“He couldn’t have gone far,” Jason hesitantly speaks up. “His injuries could slow him down.”

Tim nods. “He shouldn’t even be walking around. Maybe he went somewhere familiar first. The library would be closer for him to get to before Crime Alley. Maybe he’d stop by there to rest for a bit before he continues home.”

“Tim, call Barbara and tell her to keep an eye out for him. Have her look through the city’s cameras.” Bruce immediately instructs, naturally falling back into Batman. “We’re going to go into the city and look for him. Damian, call Duke and have him keep an eye out for an injured Peter while he’s doing his morning patrol.”

His children nod before running off to do what was ordered. As everyone scatters into motion, Dick remains at the window, gaze locked onto the distant tree line beyond the gardens. His reflection in the glass looks older somehow—worn and heavy.

Bruce pauses before leaving. “Dick, are you coming?”

Dick gives a brief nod of his head. “In a second.”

Bruce doesn’t push. Just gives a slow nod and walks out, footsteps steady and quiet.

Dick stands there, the cool morning air brushing against his face from the open window. Then he straightens, wipes a hand over his face, and turns to follow. “I’m coming,” he says softly—to no one in particular.

. . .

“It was so embarrassing, Karen,” Peter groaned, kicking a pebble from the sidewalk. “A bad guy kicked me, and I hit my head, and I pass out?! You know how mortifying that was? In front of a bunch of heroes too. Ned would never let me live that down.”

Karen’s soft hum buzzed against his wrist, calm and entirely unflappable. “It is understandable, Peter. However, your actions prevented greater injuries to multiple civilians. From a logical standpoint, last night would be considered a success, not an embarrassment.”

Peter groaned again, flopping onto a bench not far from a car scrapyard. “Yeah, yeah. Logical, successful… whatever. Doesn’t matter when Gotham’s heroes saw me faceplant like a rookie and then get kidnapped to top it off.”

Karen’s tone didn’t waver. “Perhaps allow for external validation. You were effective and uninjured after minimal treatment.”

Peter flopped back against the bench, resting stainless steel pipes down by his side. “Uninjured… sure. But humiliated? Definitely.” He muttered, rubbing the back of his head. “Karen, imagine if I did that in front of, like, Iron Man or Captain America.”

There’s a pause before Karen speaks again. “I see. It is that serious for you then. I understand.”

Peter groaned again, burying his face in his hands. “See.”

He peeked between his fingers, scanning the streets before him. Couples are walking down the street with their intertwined hands dangling between them, businessmen in their suits are striding quickly to their workplaces, and cars are moving through traffic—hell, a super expensive-looking car was weaving through traffic like it was being chased. 

Peter sighed, dragging his palms down his face as he watched the city move. “It’s weird,” he mumbled, leaning forward on his knees. “How people can just go on like nothing happened.”

Karen was quiet for a beat, her tone softer when she replied. “Normalcy is often a defense mechanism, Peter. Humans adapt quickly to chaos when it becomes routine. In a city like Gotham, survival often depends on how fast one can forget.”

He falls silent, watching the cars whizz past. The wind tugged at his hair, carrying faint traces of city smog and burnt rubber. “Gotham’s just…different, y’know? Queens had its bad days, but here it’s like… bad’s the default setting.”

“Observation noted,” Karen replied evenly. “Statistical data supports your perception. Gotham’s crime rate is—”

“—higher than the nation average, yeah, I know,” Peter interrupted with a faint grin. “You’ve told me that like, twelve times.”

Another pause. Then, quietly, “We’ll get home.”

He sighed again, looking up at the overcast Gotham sky. “Yeah,” he whispered. “One way or another. We’ll get home.”

He rubbed the back of his neck and stood, balancing the steel pipes in his arms. “Alright, come on, Karen. We gotta stay optimistic. Let’s get these pipes back to the theater. I don’t wanna be on the streets for too long. Not when there’s a wild Tim out there somewhere, probably hunting us down.”

“Understood,” Karen said simply. “Though, statistically speaking, the probability of a second kidnapping—”

“Don’t,” Peter said, glaring at his wrist as he started walking. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”

. . .

He hasn’t stopped by the library. And Tim has not stopped glaring at his phone the entire time.

“It says he should be right here,” he groans, pushing his phone towards Dick and Jason. “Right here. See!”

The blinking red light stares them right in the face. Its location clearly pinging somewhere within the library walls.

Jason squints at the map, unimpressed. “Yeah, genius, I see it. Problem is, there’s no Peter here. Unless he suddenly learnt to turn invisible.’

Dick’s jaw clenches, his arms crossing tightly over his chest. His eyes sweep the quiet, empty library, the faint scent of old books and polished wood filling the air. It’s too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes every instinct in him itch.

“He isn’t here,” Dick insists, voice low but certain.

“The tracker says—”

“Jason, Dick,” Bruce’s voice cuts in as he scans his two eldest. “Are you wearing the same clothes you wore when the tracker was first put on him?”

The two blink, glancing down at themselves. “Our shoes.” Jason curses, already taking off his shoes.

Bruce’s jaw tightens ever so slightly, that particular kind of I already know the answer but I want you to say it expression taking over his face. “He must have found it and put it on one of you.”

Tim frowns, his fingers flying across his phone as he checks the feed. “Wait—that tracker is small. Like small small. No normal person would have found it. Peter couldn’t have—”

The clang of metal as the tracker falls from Dick’s shoe is loud. The sound rings through the quiet library like a gunshot. Every head turns toward the small silver tracker rolling across the floor, clinking once against the toe of Jason’s boot before settling still.

Tim’s jaw drops. “That was—no way.”

Dick crouches, picking up the tracker between two fingers. His face is unreadable, but the tightness in his jaw gives him away. “He knew,” he mutters, half to himself. “He knew we were tracking him the whole time.”

“Not us,” Bruce interjects. “He knows Tim is tracking him. There is a fair chance he doesn’t know the rest of us are as well.”

“I wouldn’t put it past the kid to figure it out,” Barbara speaks up. “He’s smart. And if anything, yesterday and this morning proved he might be too smart for his own good.”

Bruce nods. “We should continue as if he doesn’t know.”

There’s a short silence.

“Then where does that leave us now?” Dick spits out through gritted teeth, his grip tightens around the tracker until the crack is so loud it fills the room. “Where is my son now?”

Bruce’s eyes flick to the crushed remains in Dick’s palm, then back up to meet his son’s furious, heartbroken stare. His voice, when he speaks, is even—steady in the way only Bruce Wayne can manage when the situation is threatening to spiral out of control.

“We’ll find him,” Bruce says quietly, and the certainty in his tone is both a command and a promise.

“When, Bruce?” Dick snaps. His composure cracks just enough for the words to tremble. “The next time he’s injured? Hopefully he’ll be there when the next villain attacks, right? He’s out there, scared and alone with a guardian who probably doesn’t even care that he’s injured or wasn’t home last night. While we’re here! Just standing here talking about strategy!”

“Richard,” Damian interrupts sharply. “Panic will not bring him back faster.”

The glare Dick shoots him could have cut through steel, but Damian doesn’t flinch. There’s tension in the boy’s posture, though—shoulders drawn, fists clenched tightly at his sides. It’s as close to worry as Damian allows himself to show.

Jason is the one that breaks the tension between the two. “Kid’s got a point, though. We keep chasing his shadow; we’ll never catch up. We need a lead, something.”

Barbara, who’s been scanning through Gotham’s City, looks up from her computer. “We might have one.”

All eyes shift towards her.

She pushes her glasses up, the faint blue light of her screen reflecting in her eyes. “When Jason first brought him to Batburger, do you remember? I followed him after, using the cameras. He disappeared around the opera theater.”

The words hit like a gunshot.

Bruce’s gaze sharpens immediately. “The opera theater?” His tone is neutral, but there’s an undercurrent of something—something heavy, nostalgic, and uneasy—that makes even Jason glance up from where he stands.

Barbara nods. “I don’t know if he and his guardian live in an apartment around the area or if…”

“You think he could be staying there.” Damian questions, though it sounds more like a statement than anything else. “You did note the possibility of my nephew being homeless.”

“It’s not a bad theory,” Tim continues, stepping closer to Barbara and her computer. His mind is already working a mile a minute. “It’s isolated, quiet. But then again, he could be in one of the apartments in the area.”

Dick’s expression darkens as his gaze drifts to the flowing map on Barbara’s monitor. “He’s just a kid. What are we doing still here? We have to get out there!”

Bruce, ever composed but with something unreadable flickering behind his eyes, studies the area highlighted on Barbara’s screen. “We have to approach this carefully. If we roam too carelessly and he catches us looking for him, he might run and hide.”

He doesn’t flinch when Dick slams his fist against Barbara’s desk. His voice raised and lips pulled back to a snarl. “My son is out there! He has to know we’re looking for him. That I’m looking for him!”

“But we can’t bring him home if he hides.” Bruce’s voice is calm and level.

Dick’s fist recoiled from the wood with a hollow thunk that echoes in the library. For a second he simply breathed—short, ragged pulls—as if the air itself had gone thin.

“I don’t care about ‘careful’,” he snapped, every syllable edged raw. “He’s out there with a head injury and burns, and he thinks I’m some stranger he only sees in a library. He’s my son, Bruce. Mine. Not Tony’s.”

Bruce’s face didn’t harden. It softened, the same way a cliff softens into a shoreline—still massive, still immovable, but shaped by something older. “I know,” he says. “Which is exactly why we can’t let panic cost us his safety.”

Dick’s shoulders sank a fraction. Rage was easy; the awful, heavier thing beneath it—the small, thin core of terror—was harder to carry.

Jason stepped between them before it could escalate. “Both of you are right,” he said, voice taking on that blunt, disarming tone he used when he wanted to make people embarrassed at being dramatic. “We go at night, during patrol when we’re suited up. It’ll draw less attention that way.”

Dick’s head snaps in his direction. “We go now.”

“No,” Jason stands his ground. “We don’t. He’s my nephew too alright. If we go now, we’re a billionaire and his kids. It will draw the Alley’s attention to Peter. That is the last thing we need.”

Bruce looked at each person in the room, his eyes lingering on his eldest, before speaking. “We go at night,” he commands slowly. “Damian, you’ll cover roof lines. Keep around the perimeters of the buildings around the theater, pay attention to the residents in the areas. Peter’s injured; he’ll likely be limping or struggling to make his way through the Alley. He should not be difficult for you to spot if you move from rooftop to rooftop. Tim, you’ll help Barbara with keeping an eye on the city’s cameras. Dick, Jason, and I will take care of the groundwork. We’ll check if he’s using abandoned buildings.”

“And if he’s not there?” Dick asked, voice tighter than he meant to let sound through.

“Then we widen the sweep,” Bruce answered. “The other apartments, the clinics, the shelters, even the abandoned restricted buildings. We’ll find him. One way or another.”

. . .

He isn’t completely sure what drew him here. He told the others to stay home, to go over everything they know of Peter, and to mentally and physically prepare for what they might find. He told the others that he would be going into the offices.

So Bruce isn’t sure why he’s parked in front of the opera house.

The city hums around him, alive in that strangely subdued way Gotham is in daylight—buzzing but cautious, as if even the sun knows better than to shine too brightly here. Bruce sits behind the wheel, the engine ticking quietly as it cools. His fingers rest loosely on the steering wheel, but his jaw is set, and his eyes—those sharp, impossible-to-read eyes—are fixed on the abandoned, weathered facade of the old opera house.

He tells himself it’s about Peter. He’s here for Peter. He’s here because he wants—no, needs—to get ahead of the others, assess the area, confirm Barbara’s intel and the deep pit in Bruce’s stomach, and make sure Dick doesn’t run blindly into an emotional ambush.

But if he’s being honest, he knows that’s only half true.

The opera house looms, elegant but decayed, a skeleton of its former beauty. And sitting here, staring at it, Bruce feels that old, bitter taste of memory creeping up at the back of his throat. He shuts the engine off.

The silence is immediate, heavy. Gotham’s heartbeat still thrums outside, but in here, it feels like time has paused.

He opens the door, the faint creak of leather accompanying the movement. The streets are empty enough that no one notices him, but he moves like someone who knows how to be invisible anyway.

He’s closer now. A few steps and he’s inside. But his feet can’t move. He’s stuck, staring at the building as he can hear his increasing heartbeat in his ears. And for a fleeting second, Bruce isn’t Batman or a detective or even a father—he’s that boy again—

He catches himself before the memory can take full form.

He’s here for Peter.

“Nice car you have here. Nice suit too.”

Bruce doesn’t move to face the stranger, just tilts his head enough to spot two men dressed in loose clothes. The taller one on the left is trying too hard to look casual. His stance is wide, shoulders tense, chin lifted in the kind of defiance that comes from fear rather than confidence. The other one’s smaller, wiry, with darting eyes and a twitchy hand that keeps brushing against something in his pocket—nervous, uncertain.

“Didn’t expect to see anyone here. Especially not a Wayne,” the tall one says after a beat, a smirk tugging on his mouth. “Not many people hang around here unless they’re looking for trouble.”

Bruce turns fully now, slow and deliberate. The afternoon light slants across his face, catching the faint line of his jaw, the unreadable calm in his eyes. He’s not Batman at the moment, but the air around him shifts all the same.

“I’m not looking for trouble,” he says quietly.

The tall one laughs; it’s high and thin. “Then why are you even here?”

Bruce doesn’t answer. He just studies them—how their weight shifts, how the tall one itches forward just an inch, like he’s testing how close he can get. They’re amateurs. Petty thieves. The kind of men who haunt quiet corners looking for opportunity and something to steal.

“L-look, we don’t want problems,” the shorter one says, shaking, flashing a gun. “Just hand over your keys, Wayne. You probably have a hundred of the same car back in your mansion.”

“And everything in your pocket too,” the tall one adds with a twisted smile.

Bruce takes one step forward. It’s small. Controlled. But the way both men flinch, you’d think the ground itself moved.

His voice lowers, soft but cutting. “Walk away.”

He reaches into his pocket for his phone. It’s barely out of his coat when a gunshot rings through the street. Bruce’s phone clatters onto the ground as his hands move to his shoulder, where blood is already beginning to seep through.

“What did you do!” the tall man yells, voice cracking as he shakes the shorter. “You just shot Bruce Wayne! Are you crazy?! We’re dead, man. We are so dead.”

Bruce grimaces as he moves his head to look at the source. The shorter is standing just a few metres away, arm raised, hand trembling around a cheap handgun.

“He—he was pulling out a gun!” The shorter one cries. There’s panic in his voice now—too much panic. "He was reaching for something.“

The taller man paces for a second before he grabs the gun from his partner’s hands. Bruce hears it click and watches as the man aims it back at him. “He’s seen our faces. We’ll have to finish the job. He’ll ruin us if we let him go.”

Bruce’s jaw tightens as he straightens, ignoring the flare of agony in his shoulder. His hand twitches, instinct demanding he disarm the kid before he fires again. The sound of his blood dripping to the pavement is a steady, metallic metronome in Bruce’s head—an ugly counterpoint to the chaos suddenly tightening around him. He breathes in, slow and deliberate, forcing the panic and the sting into the background where training can take over.

“Don’t,” he says, low and measured.

The taller man squeezes the gun tighter, jaw working. He jerks, lining the barrel forward. “I told you—we have to finish it,” he spits, voice breaking. “Now!’

Bruce ducks just as the gunshot fires. And in the brief second his gaze is not on them, there’s the sound of two bodies dropping. His head snaps back towards them, just in time to see someone else standing over their unconscious bodies.

“Hey, are you alright?” the newcomer asked aloud, turning to Bruce who winces when he moves his shoulder.

And suddenly Bruce is face to face with a child who looks so similar to his eldest son. Though his hair is different and so are the colours of his eyes, the boy’s nose and the cut of his jaw are achingly familiar.

The boy runs to his side, eyes wide, voice soft but firm with reassurance. “You’re hurt,” he says, his tone cutting through the echo of the gunshot still ringing in Bruce’s ears. “You got shot. Bleeding a lot, but it’s in your shoulder. Don’t worry.”

He’s already moving, turning away for just a moment to bring his wrist near his mouth. “Karen, call for an ambula—”

“Stop,” Bruce rasps, holding up a hand as the boy kneels beside him. The motion sends a sharp bolt of pain through his shoulder, but he ignores it, eyes narrowing on the kid—on Peter. “No ambulance. I’m fine.”

Peter freezes. His hands hover uncertainly in the air before he turns back to Bruce with an almost incredulous look. “Yeah, yeah, sure. ‘Tis only a flesh wound,” Peter replies, eyes rolling but with a flicker of quiet stubbornness. “We still need to make sure the bullet went all the way through or if you have to get it fished out.”

“I can handle it,” Bruce says automatically, but the words feel hollow even to him.

The kid looks back at the unconscious men, then back at Bruce, eyebrows knitting together.

And Bruce—Bruce simply watches. He watches Peter's eyes as they assess the situation—from the severity of the gunshot to Bruce’s own reaction to the injury. A thought bubbles in Bruce’s mind. An incredibly risky idea that he really shouldn't even entertain.

But he catches the way the afternoon light lights Peter's hair. How his eyes crinkle the same way Dick’s do when he's worried. And…and this is his grandson. His first grandson! And goddamn it, Bruce wanted to get to know him.

So if anyone asks why he did what he did next, he'll say he doesn't know what they're talking about.

Peter's in the middle of ripping a strip of cloth from the shirt under his hoodie, mumbling something about leaving his backpack inside, when Bruce decides to just go through with his utterly dumb plan and slumps over—allowing his eyes to close and his breathing to even out—exactly how a person who passed out would look.

“Oh. Oh, okay,” he hears Peter grumble, quickly tying his cloth around Bruce's bullet wound. “Yeah, go ahead and pass out on me, Mr. Doesn't-need-an-ambulance.”

Bruce fights back a grin when he feels Peter's hands hover over his injury and his carotid artery.

“…Still got a pulse,” Peter mutters after a second, voice oddly calm and…exasperated? “Guess that’s good news for you, rich guy.”

“Peter, I would recommend moving the body, or else his wound might get infected out here.” An unfamiliar, almost monotone voice suddenly spoke up. Bruce hadn’t seen anyone else other than Peter. So who could this be?

“Yeah, I know,” Peter continues, tone frustrated now. “Okay, Karen, first we’ll take care of the bad guys—”

“Correction: you.”

“—Yes, thank you. I will take care of the bad guys. Move them like a block away and you call the cops. Then we’ll bring this guy inside, and I’ll patch him up, give him a lollipop, and then wave him goodbye as soon as he wakes up.”

“You should also hide his car. It could draw attention to the building.”

Peter’s sigh is loud. “Okay. We’ll hide it after we get this guy inside.”

He hears Peter walk away. He cracks his eyes open just enough to watch him drag the two men from earlier away. He doesn’t see another person. So who exactly was Peter talking to? The kid comes back not long after and runs back to Bruce’s side. He closes his eyes quickly.

“Okay, big guy, let’s get you inside.” Peter mumbles under his breath.

There’s some shuffling—fabric, the creak of leather shoes being moved, and a grunt as Peter lifts him. Almost easily.

“Peter, according to my research, this car belongs to Bruce Wayne. Gotham’s billionaire. And the adopted father of Dick, Jason, and Tim.”

There’s a pause in Peter’s movements. Bruce almost opens his eyes—almost backs out of his highly idiotic plan—but stops himself. The more Peter and this mystery person talk, the more he learns.

“Great,” Peter huffs, adjusting his hold on the billionaire. “What are the chances Tim kidnaps me, and then I kidnap his father?”

Bruce fights the urge to chuckle.

“Statistically speaking—”

“Not right now, Karen.” Peter grumbles.

Peter gets a better grip under Bruce’s good arm, struggling slightly with the great height difference but refusing to give up. He’s stronger than he looks, using leverage and angles more than just raw power—something Dick would have taught him if he’d ever had the chance.

As they start moving, Bruce hears Peter muttering, “Don’t die, alright? I’m pretty sure you can’t just die from a gunshot to the shoulder, but still. I don’t need some Gotham billionaire bleeding out on me. Pretty sure that’s, like, jail time.”

It’s ridiculous. It’s endearing. It’s his grandson.

The light outside dims as Peter drags him towards an opera house entrance. The door creaks open with a sound that seems to echo through Bruce’s memories—haunting, hollow.

Peter sets Bruce down gently on what he assumes is either a couch or a bed. He doesn’t dare open his eyes.

“Okay,” Peter breathes out, steadying himself. “I’m gonna move your car and get my kit. Don’t—uh, don’t move. Or bleed out. Either would be kind of inconvenient.”

Bruce’s lips twitch, barely suppressing a smirk. He listens to Peter’s hurried footsteps fading away, his voice faintly muttering about hiding a rich-ass car and tweezers.

Bruce waits a second longer until he’s sure Peter’s left before he opens his eyes. And… the opera house is not as he remembers. It’s not just because of ageing or the fact that it’s been abandoned. It’s…

He’s on the stage with a perfect view of the entirety of the building. The first two rows of seats have their cushions missing. The cushions are gathered in a large pile on stage, with a large curtain draped across it. Almost like a makeshift bed. He’s on a handful of the cushions. And there are curtains—not opera house curtains, but hospital-looking curtains—separating dividing the stage. He wants to see what they hide. What secrets are on the other side of the stage?

Bruce slowly sits up, his movements deliberate despite the pull in his injured shoulder. His eyes sweep across the once-grand theater again, piecing together the story written in the dust and shadows.

It’s lived in. Not just recently visited—lived in.

On his side of the stage, just beside the pile of cushions, is a collection of scavenged supplies: a few half-empty water bottles lined neatly beside a small camping stove, Peter’s backpack, and a milk crate serving as a makeshift desk if the scattered notebooks around it are any indication.

The stage lights—three of them—flicker faintly overhead, their bulbs replaced unevenly, some too bright, others barely functional. There’s care here, though. Attention. Someone trying to make the broken pieces work.

Bruce’s chest tightens.

He moves before he realises. Pushing the hospital curtains open, the other side of the stage is…sterile. While the side of the stage with the cushions looked lived in, the other side of the stage looked almost hospital-like. There is a shelf filled with bandages, gauze, isopropyl alcohol, tubing, and various IV bags. There’s a desk with papers with notes scattered on it, with a candle that looks half done. There is a hospital monitor beeping rhythmically. The kind of monitor healthcare professionals use to see patient vitals. The same kind Peter was hooked up to earlier.

And in the centre of it all was a bed. An actual bed. Not like the pile of cushions Bruce is sure Peter sleeps on as a bed. It’s an actual bed with a person on it. An actual person with tubes running from their arm to a makeshift IV stand fashioned from an old coat rack. Their chest rises and falls faintly beneath the thin sheet.

Bruce freezes.

He takes one careful step forward, his shoes soundless against the old stage wood. The faint beep…beep…beep from the heart monitor grows louder, steadier, until he’s close enough to make out the person’s face.

It’s a man. Maybe in his thirties or forties. Pale. Motionless. His skin is marked with fading bruises, and his hair—mussed, unkempt—is in all sorts of directions, like he hasn’t moved in days. There’s a suit of armour—red and gold—nearby, laid out on another table. With a smaller suit—red and gold with a spider-like design on its chest—laid just beside it.

Bruce’s stomach twists.

There’s a rustle behind him.

Bruce turns sharply, already expecting the sound of approaching steps, but it’s Peter—standing in the doorway of the curtain divider, wide-eyed, frozen mid-step, steel pipes in his arms.

His mouth opens, then closes again, his expression flickering between shock and panic. “Wha—”

“Peter.” Bruce’s voice is low. Firm. “Who is he?”

Peter’s silence stretches long enough for the monitor’s rhythmic beeping to fill the space between them. Then finally—softly, almost like he’s afraid the man on the bed might hear—he answers, “That’s Tony.”

Chapter Text

Okay, let’s start at the beginning.

When Peter first woke up in Gotham, the sky was dark and rain was pelting down on him. None of the buildings look familiar, and he had to rip his mask off just to cough out mouthfuls of dust. 

He was in an alley. A really dirty and unfamiliar one because Peter’s made it a point to familiarise himself with the many alleys of Queens, and this was not one of them.

The rain was relentless—cold, hammering, and heavy enough to soak through in seconds. It dripped down the back of his neck, mixing with the grime and soot smeared across his skin. 

Every breath burnt his throat, and every blink brought a new sting of water to his eyes.

Peter pushed himself upright against the wall, chest heaving. His head pounded in time with the downpour, and his vision was still swimming.

“Mr. Stark,” he rasped, voice hoarse. “Mr. Stark? I don’t think we’re in Queens.”

He wiped at his face. The last thing he remembered—a field trip, seeing Mr. Stark, and then… nothing.

Now? He was here. Wherever here was.

The alley stretched narrow and long, walled in by tall, gothic buildings that seemed to lean in toward him. The architecture was wrong—too old, too heavy, too dark. He didn’t recognise the skyline above the rooftops, but there was something almost oppressive about it. Even the air felt different—thicker, heavier, like the city itself was holding its breath.

“Karen?” He croaked, tapping his suit. Nothing. “Karen, come on. Don’t do this to me. Not now.”

Silence. Just the rain and the low hum of distant traffic.

“Great.” He exhaled shakily, dropping his arm. “That’s just… perfect.”

He staggered forward, boots splashing in puddles that reflected the faint glow of neon signs deeper in the street. But his body must not be completely ready for movement because he stumbled and caught himself on the alley’s dumpster.

A flicker of something familiar caught his attention. Neon lights catch on something gold and red, and his eyes chase to follow it. He has to tippy-toe (oh god, how tall are these dumpsters?) just to peer inside.

His breath catches in his throat at the sight of the Iron Man suit lying inside the dumpster.

He blinks hard, like maybe the water in his eyes is tricking him, distorting the colours—but no. The red and gold are unmistakable even beneath the grime and dents.

The arc reactor, cracked down the middle, flickers weakly—once, twice—before sputtering out completely.

Peter’s stomach lurches. “Mr. Stark,” he whispers. His voice sounds small and shaky. “Mr. Stark, it’s me—Peter.”

He swallows thickly and hauls himself into the dumpster. The suit looks wrong. The plating is bent inward in places, one gauntlet crushed beyond recognition, and the chest piece smeared with what looks like soot—or ash. Like it’s been through hell and back.

If Tony’s in there, he doesn’t answer.

“Okay, Okay, Mr. Stark,” he mutters to himself, scanning the alley. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but I—I’m gonna open your mask, okay?”

Peter’s throat tightens. He reaches out before he can allow doubt to overtake him, his hand trembling as his fingertips brush the cold metal. It’s slick from rain, and the contact sends a shock through him. But he manages to pry the mask open and reveal the familiar face of his unconscious mentor.

“Hey, Mr. Stark,” Peter sighs, relief flooding him at the sight of someone familiar. “I have no clue where we are, but don’t worry, I’ll get us somewhere out of the rain.”

He moves to carry him. His hands slide under the ruined armour and lifts. The suit is heavy—sure—but it’s not something Peter can’t handle. He’s held heavier before.

The city beyond the alley is unfamiliar—towering, old, and brooding. The architecture is gothic, not modern. The neon signs buzz and flicker in foreign patterns, advertising things he doesn’t recognize.

“We’re definitely not in New York anymore.”

He sticks close to the shadows, trying his best to make sense of his spidey-senses telling him where danger is or isn’t. But it’s increasingly difficult when his senses are telling him that danger is everywhere all at once.

But there’s one spot—one building—where his senses go just a little quieter. He kicks away some wooden boards, pushes them inside, and drags Mr. Stark towards what looks like a stage. Peter pulls down what he assumes are stage curtains and lays his mentor atop it.

“Hey Mr. Stark,” Peter whispered, the downpour outside almost drowning out his voice. “You plan on waking up soon?”

He doesn’t wake up any time soon.

Not when Peter manages to get the rest of the suit off the man. Or when Peter’s panicked screams fill the building when he comes across a mirror and has a mini breakdown over the fact that he has somehow reverted back into his child self. Not even when Peter manages to find a solid power source so he could charge Karen enough for her to turn some of the suit’s nanites into a watch.

And when Peter leaves the next day in search of food and supplies, he taps Tony’s cheek in hopes for a response.

There is none.

He waits a second longer anyways. Just in case.

“Okay,” Peter whispers finally. “Okay, no problem. You just… rest, alright? I’ll be back soon. Don’t move around too much.”

He stands, rolling the sleeves of his hoodie just enough for his hands to poke through. They hang too long past his wrists. Just like his pants pool around his ankles. It was some of the more casual clothes he managed to fish out from the abandoned theater’s dressing rooms.

But everything feels too big on him now—it is too big for him. It swallows him whole—his hoodie, his shoes, his pants, the weight of responsibility sitting in his che—

Nope. He won’t dwell on it. He can’t dwell on it.

“We got this, Peter.” He mumbled to himself, shaking his head of whatever thoughts attempted to overcome him.

He glanced back one more time before stepping off the stage. Tony looked smaller like this, framed in the pale late afternoon light filtering through the parts of the windows that weren’t boarded with wood. The faint rise and fall of his chest was the only proof he’s still alive.

“Karen,” Peter murmurs as he pushes open a heavy side door of the opera theater. “Are you able to navigate through this city?”

“Limited capacity,” Karen replied as Peter stuck to the shadows of the streets. “My GPS systems are partially offline. However, I can attempt to create a local map based on your movement and visual scans.”

This city didn’t feel like New York. It was darker, heavier. The streets were lined with old stone buildings and flickering streetlights, each one humming lowly in the dying sun’s light.

Peter’s steps echoed through the streets. He turned his head both ways—one direction led deeper into the narrow lanes, the other one to the main road where a few cars flickered on their headlights.

“Karen, can you pick up any nearby power grids? Maybe something that looks like a corner store?”

“Scanning.”

Peter waited patiently as Karen hummed. He watched billboards light up advertising a restaurant called Batburger. Apparently, they’re rolling out new fries that are inspired by Batman’s batarangs.

“Peter, I am detecting small-scale power usage approximately three hundred metres northeast. Likely a local business.”

Peter nodded, tugging on his hoodie in an attempt to cover more of his neck. “Thanks. We’ll check it out.”

As he walked, more of the city’s noise infiltrated his senses. He could hear a mugging happening a block away, and another one five blocks away, and another one probably ten blocks away, and another one just behind a dumpster that isn’t far from where he was. He could hear their screams and their pleas and their attempts at bargaining all at once.

Peter forced himself to concentrate on the sound of Karen’s soft hums and the way his shoes hit the ground.

“Alright, here goes,” Peter murmured as they reached the edge of a faintly lit street. A flickering neon sign buzzed intermittently: Deli & Goods.

The windows were streaked with grime, but he could see shelves stocked with cans and a man behind the counter reading a newspaper.

Peter shoved his hands into his hoodie pockets and stepped inside. The bell above the door chimed weakly.

“Welcome.” The man behind the counter muttered distractedly. He barely looked up.

Peter kept his head down, trying not to draw attention. He grabbed a few cans of food and some water bottles—simple stuff, things he could carry.

His fingers trembled slightly as he reached for his pocket, remembering how much cash he’d found in Tony’s clothes. Not a lot. But hopefully enough.

As he placed the items on the counter, the man simply grunted but rang up the items anyway.

“You out here alone? It’s not safe for kids in Crime Alley after dark.” The man finally spoke, eyeing him suspiciously.

“I—I know,” Peter replied quickly. Just quickly—definitely not suspicious or anything. “My, uh, my guardian’s nearby. He’s just resting. I’ll be fine.”

The lie burned his throat, but it slipped out easily enough.

When Peter left the shop, the streets glistened under the dull amber glow of streetlights, and the air felt colder somehow. He walked faster, glancing over his shoulder every few seconds.

He could smell a gun being fired three blocks down. He could smell dinner being cooked in an apartment half a block away. He could hear the distinct sound of a…was that a grappling hook?… almost five blocks away.

It was all too much. Too much. Everything buzzed. Everything was dangerous.

Was that scream just now from the alley fight to his left, or was it from a bar fight two blocks down? How about that smell of something burning? Was it coming from the burning garbage can a handful of the homeless were gathered around just behind the very corner store Peter left? Or was it coming from the kid and his father trying to make dinner in their apartment building six blocks down?

His senses—the very thing he heavily depends on for his survival—are overloaded with whatever this city has to offer.

He stumbled, hands flying up to his temples as the world around him seemed to sharpen and blur all at once. Every sound, every smell, every vibration demanded his attention.

His canned food and water bottles hit the pavement.

“Peter, your sympathetic nervous system is overstimulated,” Karen’s calm voice spoke loud enough to cut through the noise. “You’re experiencing sensory overload. Focus on my voice. In through the nose, out through the mouth.”

Peter clenched his jaw. He did what she said.

Inhale. Exhale. Exaggerate the movements. Inhale. Exhale.

It helped—only just a little. The city’s chaos clawed at him. A honk from four stoplights away rattled through his skull like an explosion. The sound of clubgoers clinking shot glasses from a bar three streets over twisted into a thunderstorm in his head. Quick footsteps on rooftops ten blocks away hit like hammers.

“I’m okay,” he said through gritted teeth. “I need—I need to get used to it.”

“Negative, Peter,” Karen said gently, her tone dipping toward concern. “Your neurological activity suggests otherwise. Continued exposure without adaptation could result in a shutdown response.”

“Karen, no—”

“Peter, please.”

Her voice softened in a way that reminded him of F.R.I.D.A.Y—of Tony—and that was enough to make his breath hitch. He crouched down, pressing his palms against the pavement, letting the cold sting ground him.

“Karen,” he murmured. “If I have any hope of taking care of Mr. Stark and getting us home, I need to be on top of my game. I need to get used to the noise. I have to.”

He sat there for a moment, surrounded by the hum of the city—the flickering neon, the dripping gutters, the wind pushing through narrow alleys like whispers.

“Your determination is commendable,” Karen replied, her tone still even but layered with hesitation. “But forcing neural adaptation under duress may cause lasting strain on your cognitive processing and sensory network. You are still adjusting to a younger physiology, Peter. Your baseline thresholds are lower than they were.”

His fingers curled against the pavement. He didn’t want to admit that she was right. His body was smaller, weaker, more volatile. He could feel every difference in his joints, every missed inch of height, and every shift in muscle memory that didn’t line up with what his brain expected. It felt like he was experiencing phantom limb syndrome, but with his entire body.

“I know. But we don’t have time for me to get used to it the easy way.”

A siren wailed somewhere in the distance, low and drawn out, and Peter forced himself not to flinch.

He forced himself to breathe. Slow and steady. Exaggerating every rise and fall of his chest. With each inhale, he allowed more of the city in. With each exhale, he let go.

Inhale: he could hear flies buzzing around streetlights and rats scurrying across sewer graters.

Exhale: he closed himself off to whatever was happening ten blocks from him.

His heart raced, but he didn’t break. He couldn’t.

“Neural rhythm stabilising,” Karen murmured quietly. “Maintain your current breathing pattern.”

His hands trembled where they rested against the cold pavement. He focused on the rhythm instead—of Karen’s monotone humming, of his pulse syncing with the city’s.

Inhale: a radio station pouring out of a car’s open windows as they drive past, the faint hum of electricity in the power lines.

Exhale: a fire hydrant goes off in the distance. He lets it fade.

He blinked slowly. “Karen,” he whispered, “I’ll make this work. Even if I have to force it.”

Inhale: the rumble of a subway just under his feet, the hurried steps of travellers as they get on and off.

Exhale: the noise of a car alarm echoing three streets over.

“Peter, we should stop before you reach neural fatigue. You need to rest.” Karen spoke softly.

Peter nods. He moves to grab the scattered groceries, stuffing them into his pockets with practiced care. When he finally made his way back towards the opera house, the glow of the city behind him, he felt muddy. 

By the time he slipped through the side door and climbed the creaky stairs to the stage, his body ached. Tony was still there, exactly as he’d left him. His chest rising and falling in a rhythm that Peter had memorized.

He crouched beside the curtain that was acting as a temporary bed. “Hey, Mr. Stark. Made it back with food and water. Had to take some of the cash from your pockets, though. Hope you don’t mind.”

Silence.

Peter moved to drag some of the curtain to cover him like a blanket. 

“You probably won’t be able to have any of it until you wake up, though. So wake up soon. Okay?”

His voice softened, just above a whisper. “I’ll find something for you. Tomorrow. Everything’s too loud tonight.”

Sleep overtakes him. He wakes the next morning with a crook in his neck and sunlight glaring into his eyes from the gaps in the windows.

He spends the morning doing small repairs around their temporary home. Peter rewires electricity towards the stage, fixes a handful of the stage lights, and even separates the cushions from seats in order to build a makeshift bed. 

It’s not a lot, but it’s something. Much more comfortable than sleeping on the ground with only a stage curtain to cover him.

Tony still doesn’t wake.

By early evening, Peter decides to call it.

“I think it’s time to call it, Karen,” Peter sighed, staring at his mentor. “Coma.”

“A reasonable diagnostic, Peter.” Karen’s soft hum replied.

Peter sat back on his heels. He tries to laugh, but it comes out small and uneven.

“Yeah. A reasonable diagnostic,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Great. So let’s go over the details from the past couple days—I’m twelve again, stuck in not-New-York, and my mentor’s probably in a coma. Totally fine. This is—this is fine.”

“Peter,” Karen speaks up gently, “your heart rate is elevated. You should rest.”

He shakes his head. “Can’t. I gotta stay busy. Or else I’m gonna go absolutely crazy.”

He drags both hands through his hair and exhales. He turns towards the huddled curtain—towards Tony. The older man lies still, his face pale under the lights Peter managed to fix.

Peter hesitates before moving. “Don’t worry Mr. Stark. I’ll be back. Promise.” 

He moves to the pile of cushions he’s claimed as a bed. A backpack he found in the depths of the building’s dressing room sits nearby. Peter grabs it before leaving the theater.

“Karen, we’re gonna hit up some clinics and maybe a hospital.”

He pushed open the side door and stepped into early evening-lit Gotham. The second the door opened, the city felt… wrong. Too quiet for how many sounds he could hear. Every mundane conversation, every heel click of women walking down the street, every sneeze a patient makes. 

Inhale: there's the sound of gunshots maybe a block and a half away.

Exhale: he forces himself to tune out the fire alarm going off in the apartment not far from here.

“Karen,” he mutters, tugging his hoodie tighter around his shoulders. “Closest medical facility.”

“There is a community outpatient health clinic 1.2 kilometres east.”

Peter nodded. He started walking, the soles of his sneakers scraping across cracked pavement. 

The streets only grew more dangerous as the sun dropped and darkness took over. The alleys were full of drug dealers, muggers—criminals of all kinds. Even the shadows seemed to grow more confident. They stretched and loomed over him, as if hiding him from the dangers of the night.

Peter kept his head down and his pace even. He’d been in enough bad neighbourhoods in New York to know when to keep his mouth shut and his movements sharp. But this wasn’t New York.

Everything about Gotham felt heavier—the air, the silence, even the way light seemed to hesitate before touching the pavement. 

He vaulted over a low fence, landing lightly on the other side. The clinic came into view—a squat, ageing building with the caduceus sign flickering through its windows before flashing off. Peter’s just in time to see the last nurse exit and lock the clinic behind her.

She looked tired—exhausted, actually. The same kind of exhaustion he’d seen Aunt May have when she’d stumble home after long shifts patching up people hurt by bad luck or bad choices. He could almost hear her rants of the hospital being understaffed and overworked. How the supply and stocking technicians never refill the supply rooms enough and how there’s always never enough.

There’s a twist in his chest at the reminder.

“Karen,” he whispered, tugging on his sleeve. “We only get enough for a day or two. “

He webbed the second-story window, climbed up quietly, and slipped inside. The clinic’s interior was dim and smelt faintly of disinfectant and old paper. Moonlight filtered through blinds, casting thin bars of silver across the floor.

He pads down the corridor, fingers skimming drawers, popping lids, thumb working small latches.

“Karen, you have the cameras covered, right?” Peter asks as he opens a drawer and finds sticky notes, pens, and a couple of notebooks. He takes a handful of each.

“Affirmative.”

He found the supply closet and pried it open—his heart skipped when he saw the glint of sealed packaging. Gauze, antiseptic wipes, and IV bags. Peter dips into one of the rooms and swipes a vital-signs monitor.

He gathered what he could fit into the backpack and slung it over his shoulder. He quickly scribbles a sorry and thank you on a sticky note before sticking it on one of the supply closet shelves.

“Karen,” he said as he stepped back into the street, “Let’s head south. There’s gotta be a bigger hospital around here.”

At the crack of dawn, he’s back at the theater with all the material he would need to take care of a comatose patient, knowledge thankfully given by Karen. He had also brought back an actual stretcher bed for Tony to rest on. That one had been totally coincidental—it was just lying near one of the hospital dumpsters, so of course he took it.

Peter only manages to rest for about an hour or two before he reaches the realisation that there was the problem of not knowing where he was. So after spending another hour hooking Tony to the necessary monitors and IV bags and setting up half the stage for Tony and the medical equipment, Peter decided to look for a local library.

“Karen, our mission today is just to research this city,” Peter huffed as he stared at the doors to the library, a sudden nervous feeling settling in his stomach. “Find a computer, hook up to the city’s network, and then we’ll go back to Tony.”

“Okay, Peter.”

It was going so smoothly. He even talked to the librarian, who seemed genuinely nice. His spidey-senses didn’t alarm him of any danger. But then again, it’s been crazy since he arrived in this city, so… That’s something he’ll have to work on controlling better later. That’ll be a problem for future Peter.

Then he completely blanks like an idiot when the nice librarian—Ms. Barbara—slides a paper towards him to register for a library account.

“I just moved here, so I don’t have my address memorised just yet,” he apologises as he stares at the form.

“No worries. Just leave it blank, and you can fill it in next time you come in. You’ll have to use a temporary card this time, though.” She replied with a reassuring smile.

Huh. Maybe this city isn’t all that bad.

He quickly answered the questions he could fill out but, weirdly enough, hesitated at the surname section.

He put down Parker. But if this is a different dimension, what if there’s already a Peter Parker? He scratched it out. He put down Stark. But he’s not really Tony’s kid. Sure the man acts like it—calls him that even. He’s taken Peter under his wing, mentored him, cared for him, helped him be a better Spider-Man… but that thought lingers just in the back of his head that he isn’t Tony’s kid, and it just still feels unfair to list himself as one without Tony knowing. He scratched it out.

He put down Grayson.

It was his father’s name before he was adopted into the Parker family. He remembered vague, fleeting images of his parents. More silhouettes and concepts than actual people. But seeing it written out, it tugged something in him that he didn’t want to explore just yet. He scratched it out.

Oh well. If he’s gonna use a name, he might as well stick with the ol’ reliable. He quickly scribbled Parker on the form before pushing it back to Ms. Barbara.

When given the okay-go, Peter rushed to the computer. They were so old and large, he gasped when he first saw them.

“Karen, building a quantum capacitor or even creating vibranium might be near impossible if their computers are still box-shaped,” Peter gasped quietly as Karen’s nanotech began moving towards the computer’s ports.

“Unlikely? Sure,” Karen replied, the screen flickering faintly as her soft, flowing UI began overlaying the operating system. “Impossible? Definitely not.”

Peter smiled at the AI’s attempt at optimism. Yeah, that’s what he’s gonna have to be: optimistic. Otherwise he’d have given up. And giving up will not only affect him, but now he has Tony and Karen depending on him. They have to get home. He can’t dwell on his issues right now; he promised Tony that he’ll find a way. And that’s what he intends to do.

“I’ve connected to Gotham’s network, Peter.” Karen whispers before her UI disappears and she disconnects from the computer. He watches as the nanites retract from the computer and move to wrap around his wrist again.

“Thanks, Karen.” Peter whispered, leaning closer to the dim glow of the library monitor. “Now time to research the heck out of this city.”

The words spilled out of him in a low mumble, more to ground himself than anything else. He could still feel his nerves buzz from the tension of being somewhere new, but the act of searching, of learning, gave him something familiar to hold on to.

“Gotham City…” he murmured, fingers flying across the keyboard. Every page he opened felt heavier than the last—news archives, crime reports, articles that seemed to repeat the same grim cycle of corruption, vigilantism, and recovery.

But it was the Hero Wikia that caught his attention.

“Whoa,” Peter whispered, leaning back slightly as a dozen names appeared on-screen, most of them strikingly…themed. “Robin, Nightwing, Red Robin—they have, like, a bird club here or something?”

“Gotham’s vigilantes have a notable trend of avian nomenclature.”

Peter snorted softly, clicking through the profiles with a notable lack of a definite headshot. It was like half the heroes were more shadows and stories than flesh and blood.

Red Robin caught his eye first—something about the way the name reminded him of a restaurant and a certain jingle. He moved on quickly when the jingle continued to play through his head. Then he saw Red Hod. The photo wasn’t official—it never was with these heroes—but the few images that surfaced showed a man with a deep crimson helmet and a leather jacket.

“Karen,” Peter said quietly, reading through the supposed acts of the hero—like how he put heads in a duffle bag and his rather extensive history of gang infiltration and illegal arms interference. “Remind me to never cross this guy’s bad side.”

“Reminder created.”

He leaned back, running a hand through his messy hair. For a second, he just sat there, the soft hum of the library lights buzzing overhead. As new images flickered to life—Gotham’s historical sites, top villains to look out for, what Bruce Wayne was wearing at last week’s gala and where to buy it—Peter didn’t notice the faint flicker of a security camera’s red light tilting towards him.

On his way out, he told his first lie.

“Y-yeah, he’s great! Umm… y’know, just super tired from the whole moving thing, so he isn’t with me.”

A very accurate and very not-a-lie lie. He almost patted his back when he said it. Peter’s pretty sure he sounded definitely convincing.

He ended up leaving the library feeling so much better. There was a bounce in his step that hadn’t been there before, a little spark of hope that maybe—just maybe—he could figure this all out. Then he spent the rest of the day scavenging through dumpsters looking for any broken phones.

“Note to self,” he muttered, holding his breath as he pushed aside a bag of soggy newspapers. “Never complain about the smell of New York alleys ever again.”

Karen’s voice buzzed softly in his ear, the gentle hum of a familiar presence that helped keep the isolation at bay. “Peter, I am detecting hazardous biological materials in your immediate vicinity.”

“Yeah, Karen, that’s kinda what dumpsters are made of,” he said, grunting as he fished out what looked like half a smartphone. “But hey—progress! Looks like someone upgraded recently.”

He wiped the cracked screen on his sleeve, wincing at how the grime smeared instead of cleaning. “Ugh. I never thought I’d miss the dumpsters in Queens.”

“Would you like me to cross-reference potential electronics disposal sites within walking distance?”

Peter sighed, tossing the broken phone into his backpack. “Yeah, do that. And maybe some hardware stores too? If I can get enough parts, I can fix up some more of the stuff back at the base.”

“Affirmative. Finding best route.”

The streets were quieter than New York’s—still alive, but in a different way. The people here moved like they expected trouble. Nobody lingered, nobody smiled. Even the sirens sounded different—lower, more frequent.

It wasn’t until dusk settled that Peter found himself atop a rooftop fiddling with the wirings of one of the phones he’d found, when he met his first Gotham hero. He had barely noticed his appearance, his spidey-senses still in overdrive from the city.

“I’ll drop you off at home. It’s pretty dangerous in these streets at night.” Red Hood laughed. And Peter couldn’t stop the panic that rose in him at the thought.

Because this isn’t their city. Probably not even their universe. And if anyone saw Peter, a twelve-year-old, living alone in an abandoned theater taking care of a comatose man, there’s no doubt in his mind that they would be separated. Taken away. Questions would be asked. Questions he couldn’t answer.

So he did what any panicked twelve-year-old would do—he ran.

“C’mon, kid!”

Peter didn’t stay long enough to hear the rest. His sneakers splashed through puddles as he bolted down the alley, heart hammering against his ribs. He barely remembered to keep to the shadows. But Red Hood was relentless, so Peter had to resort to inciting muggers to distract the vigilante.

“Peter, Mr. Stark’s IV bag needs to be changed.” Karen hummed as soon as Peter pushed himself inside the abandoned theater.

“On it.”

That was how Peter spent most of his nights. When he wasn’t caring for his mentor, he was drafting up theories and inventions for ways to get home. Then he showed up to the library one morning to a new, friendly stranger—Mr. Jason.

Who had a seriously familiar heartbeat and who took strands of hair out of his head when he thought Peter wouldn’t notice.

Even without his spidey-senses, he’s pretty sure he would know if someone intentionally plucked hair from his head.

But, y’know, totally fine. He had other things he had to worry about. Like the fact he definitely did not know how to properly take care of a comatose person.

“You’d… probably say I’m grounded from Spider-Manning for life if you saw the mess we’re in,” he muttered, voice cracking with a nervous laugh as he took a seat by Tony’s bedside.

“Pretty sure I just became friends with at least one of Gotham’s heroes, but I’m not exactly sure yet. And I don’t think I want to open that can of worms just yet if I acknowledge it, so I’m not gonna. But it’s fine. I can handle it.”

“Peter, your heart rate has elevated. You are experiencing acute stress.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” He pressed his palms over his eyes. “I just—I can’t screw this up, Karen. If anyone finds out where we’re staying, they’ll take me away from him. I can’t let that happen.”

The watch blinked faintly. “Tony would not wish for you to endanger yourself, Peter.”

He looked up at Tony’s still form. “Yeah, well… He’s not exactly in a position to argue.”

Silence. Just the steady pulse of the heart monitor.

Peter reached out and adjusted the blanket over Tony’s chest, like the smallest act might keep him tethered here.

“You’re gonna wake up,” he whispered. “You have to. Because I’m not sure if I can build a way home without you.”

He met Dick in the library not long later.

And there was something about the man that was so familiar. He almost didn’t notice him at first. Mr. Jason and Ms. Barbara are really the only two people Peter knew. Sure, he had a hunch that Mr. Jason was the vigilante that followed him around at night, but they were still nice people. and his mind was elsewhere as he carried books to a computer desk.

“Looks like you need some help,” Dick says quickly. Almost too quickly. “Where do you want to set these down?”

Peter blinked, but his brain had already started cataloguing him automatically. There was something about him—something Peter couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t the way he dressed or the faint Gotham drawl in his tone. It was the energy. Gentle, but firm. Familiar. Like Peter’s seen him before, but he couldn’t quite place him.

There was something about his voice and his smile that tugged at a part of Peter’s memory that he wasn’t even sure was completely real—the part that remembered vague silhouettes holding his hands as early morning light filtered through kitchen windows and music from a nearby radio played.

Peter brushed it off as soon as it came.“You’ve got a good head there, Peter. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” Dick assures him with a smile that pulled at something in Peter’s chest.

So when the two adults leave and Peter is left to research the possibility of dimension travel, he decides that he kinda likes Dick and Jason.

“Karen,” he whispers lowly as her nanites enter the computer once again. “I think we just made a couple of new friends.”

“Congratulations, Peter. Friendship established within less than twenty minutes is a new achievement.”

Peter cracked a small grin, his eyes scanning the flickering lines of code spreading across the screen. “Yeah, but that’s, like… a whole—half a lunch period. That’s practically a friendship trial run.”

“Statistically speaking, that is insufficient time to establish—”

“Karen,” Peter interrupted, leaning closer to the monitor as Karen’s system unlocked a Stark folder about vibranium handling. “You’re really killing the vibe right now.”

“…Understood. Proceeding with vibe preservation.”

Peter snorted quietly, shaking his head. He began to focus on his various books and the monitor revealing Karen’s kept memories of anything Tony might have left that could help with literally anything.

“Alright. Tony Stark built a suit in a cave,” Peter mumbled, more to himself than anyone else. “We can do this. We can totally do this. We can start with making an arc reactor. Karen, run me a parts list. What would be the harder stuff to get?”

“Compiling. Priority components: compact power core, rare-earth magnet arrays, high-capacity capacitor bank, superconducting coils.”

Peter nodded, writing down the list in one of his spare notebooks. “Okay, Karen. Now stuff that should, technically, be easier to get.”

“Insulation, power regulators, shielding, and an ignition trigger.”

Peter grinned despite the weight of everything else wrapped around his chest. “Cool. So, scavenger hunt. Once we get an arc reactor up and running, we can probably get F.R.I.D.A.Y. from Mr. Stark’s suit up and running.”

He spent the next hour building a checklist, Karen whispering confirmations into his watch as she cross-referenced local listings and power-repair dumpsters.

The list was ridiculous and beautiful: a busted UPS from an office building, copper windings from an old motor, a ceramic tile from a busted microwave, magnets from a scrapped hard drive, capacitor banks from discarded EV chargers (if he could hustle them), and—if the universe was being kind—one tiny, intact lithium cell the size of a coin.

“Okay, Karen.” Peter sighed quite satisfied with their checklist and rough blueprint of an arc reactor. “This is a good start, let’s move on to understanding the mental and physical health of an unconscious patient.”

“Ok, Peter.”

Research day passed by uneventfully; Peter was fully absorbed in their work. So much so, he barely noticed when Dick passed by and left him a muffin and hot chocolate. The man was so quiet.

Peter didn’t even notice until the smell hit him—warm, sugary, and edible. He had just blinked, fingers pausing over the keyboard, and there it was: a small paper bag and a steaming cup sitting beside his elbow.

He turned, scanning the rows of books and the slivers of late-morning light spilling across the library floor. No one there. Just the faint sound of someone humming near the librarian’s desk—familiar, rhythmic, and unbothered.

“…Thanks.” Peter murmured to no one in particular, feeling something in his chest twist.

He didn’t touch the muffin right away. He just stared at it for a while, half-expecting it to vanish. But when Karen’s soft voice reminded him he hadn’t eaten since morning, he gave in and took a bite. It was blueberry. Still warm.

“Blood sugar levels rising,” Karen commented helpfully. “That is a positive physiological response.”

“Yeah.”

The day blurred together after that. Peter read about coma care, intravenous nutrition, and muscle atrophy prevention. Karen helped him compile lists—gentle range-of-motion exercises, low-tech solutions for circulation support, and makeshift IV stands.

He learned more about how to keep someone alive than any twelve-year-old ever should.

Every so often, Peter would catch glimpses of familiar faces in the corners of their eyes. Like Jason pretending to browse, Dick looking for a book he just can’t seem to find, and even Barbara stopped by once to check on the nearby computers.

By the time evening rolled around, Peter had filled half a notebook with notes in messy handwriting. Dick and Jason were gone, and he waved Barbara goodbye on his way out.

“Peter, I recommend restocking on medical equipment before returning to the theater.” Karen hummed as soon as the library doors closed.

“Yeah, good call,” Peter murmured, tugging his hoodie tighter against the early evening winds.

He passed flickering signs and cracked sidewalks, scanning alleys for anything useful. 

“Karen, add syringes to the list,” he said under his breath, opening a food tin. “Preferably unused ones.”

“Adding to the list,” Karen replied cheerily. “Reminder: do not attempt to repurpose needles again.”

Peter cringed. “You’re never letting that go, huh?”

“No, Peter. I have stored that memory for your own safety.”

He couldn’t help laughing a little. It echoed against the dirty pavement, small and out of place in Gotham’s gloom. But it made the night feel less lonely.

“Peter. Sensors detect movement—behind you.”

He froze, heart skipping. Slowly, he turned.

“You can keep calm, Karen. It’s only a cat.” Peter laughed lightly, carefully crouching down and offering the tin of food towards the cat.

The cat sniffed at the food, then began to eat greedily, the faintest rumble of a purr vibrating through its rib.

Peter smiled softly. “Eat up, little guy. Or girl. I dunno; I’m not gonna check. That’d be weird.”

His senses prickled now—late, sluggish, but there.

“Hey kid,” Nightwing called out, voice soft and careful.

The hero’s heartbeat sounded eerily familiar. So much so Peter had to pause and look through his memories to try and figure it out. The cat scampers away, and Peter takes it as his sign to finally act.

“Y-you’re Nightwing and Robin.” He gasps with just enough believability.

Besides, he likes Dick. He’d been a fun guy to talk to back at the library, so—might as well give his possible alter-ego a chance.

And it had been going fine—not great or bad. Just fine. Robin was a little strange, but whatever, right?

Then they just had to pull on the back of his backpack just as he was leaving. He falls on his bag, and Peter immediately senses something wrong. He has to dig through his bag to find it. An IV bag ruptured in his bag, leaking out and damaging the handful of notebooks he was carrying.

And he groaned in frustration. Because just one IV bag took so much time sneaking past nurses just to get. And his notes—god, hopefully they weren't too damaged. And these heroes—these vigilantes—just ruin his stuff because they don’t know how to take no for an answer.

Yeah. Nightwing’s automatically on his least favourite hero list now. Along with Robin.

His jaw clenched, eyes flickering between the two vigilantes like he couldn’t decide whether to scream or cry. So he just ran.

Peter ran like hell, frustration bleeding through the way he grumbled as he tried to lose them. Karen’s quiet hum filled the silence in his ear.

“Peter, your heart rate is elevated.”

He slowed when the opera house came into view—its broken windows glowing faintly under the streetlights. The sight of it made his chest unclench just a little. But he didn’t relax until he was completely hidden under his makeshift cushion bed.

“Karen, we’re down one banana IV bag.” Peter huffed as he tossed his now wet bag to the side. “Ugh, we’re gonna have to do another supply run sooner now.”

“Noted, Peter. Our current supplies should be able to sustain us for another two days.“

Peter nodded as he pushed himself towards the half of the stage that he had deemed “the hospital” sect. He shuffled over to Tony’s bedside, the steady rhythm of the monitor grounding him.

The older man looked exactly the same as when Peter left him earlier that day—still, pale, but alive.

“Hey, Mr. Stark,” Peter murmured as he softly shuffled through the “hospital sect” of the stage.

He adjusted the blanket over Tony’s chest. Probably the hundredth time he’s done that in a single day.

“Had a bad run-in with two of the local heroes today. Maybe you’d like them? Well, maybe not the short one.”

He shuffled back to his side of the stage before sinking down onto the pile of cushions that is his bed. The exhaustion of the day was finally catching up to him. His brain ached from all the new information he and Karen had gone over today. Yet his muscles itched. Running from the vigilantes, though infuriating, was the closest he felt like Spider-Man since he landed here.

After a pause, he called out. “Karen, pull up the notes on arc reactor energy conversion again.”

“Peter, it is nearing midnight.” Karen reminded him gently. “You have not eaten since—”

“I’ll eat later,” Peter interrupted, waving a hand tiredly as he reached for the nearest notebook. “This is more important.”

The AI hummed, not pressing the issue further. The faint blue light of the small holo-display shimmered against the ruined walls of the theater, illuminating him hunched over his sketches and notes.

The silence stretched, broken only by the soft sound of pen scratching paper. Until finally, Peter’s body collapsed from pure exhaustion.

He didn’t even remember falling asleep. One second, he was sketching the reactor’s containment ring—trying to recall Tony’s blueprints from memory—and the next, the pen had slipped from his hand and rolled across the stage floor with a hollow tap.

When Peter woke, his cheek was pressed against his notes, and the faint morning light filtered through the cracks in the boarded windows. For a second, he thought he was back in the workshop with Tony—just another all-nighter gone wrong. Then the cold Gotham air bit through his hoodie, and reality came crashing back in.

“Morning, Karen,” he croaked, rubbing his eyes.

“Good morning, Peter. You slept for approximately three hours and forty-six minutes,” she replied.

He groaned, rolling onto his back. “Yeah, yeah. Add it to the list of ‘things Tony Stark would lecture me about.’”

“Already noted.”

The quiet hum of the vital monitor filled the air. Tony hadn’t moved. Peter’s gaze drifted toward him, lingering longer than he meant to. His mentor’s face looked softer in the morning light, shadows smoothing out the lines of exhaustion.

Instead of lingering on those darker thoughts that threatened to overtake him, Peter stood and stretched, the motion tight and sluggish. “Karen, what’s on today’s to-do list?”

“Visit the library to borrow the nursing book, eat, gather conductive materials for the arc reactor, eat, research energy output efficiency using available Gotham technology, and return for proper rest.”

Peter frowned. “I feel like one or two of those don’t belong.”

“I am programmed to prioritize your wellbeing,” Karen said evenly. “You have ignored sustenance for twenty-one hours. Your average hours of sleep have dropped to less than five hours per night.”

Peter rolled his eyes but smiled faintly. “Fine. Food first.”

He cracked open one of the food cans he bought—canned salmon. The smell hit him immediately—sharp, salty, fishy—but honestly? Peter couldn’t bring himself to care. Food was food.

He ate slowly, savouring each bite like it might be the last thing he’d get for a while. When the can was empty, he stared at it for a second before setting it neatly aside next to some of the other junk he’s accumulated.

He walked over to the side of the stage where Tony still lay motionless. The monitor beside him beeped in quiet rhythm, its screen displaying steady but shallow vitals. Peter adjusted the blanket over Tony’s chest again—it had become almost muscle memory by now.

“Heart rate’s still low,” he murmured. “Respiration’s steady. Okay, we’re good.”

He hesitated, hand hovering over Tony’s arm for a second before pulling it back. “Karen, let’s go.”

He couldn’t help but tighten his hold on the straps of his backpack. The canvas was worn and patched, stuffed with scavenged tools and his notes.

He glanced one last time at Tony. The older man’s chest rose and fell in that same fragile rhythm, the monitor light blinking like a heartbeat of its own. Peter swallowed hard.

“Don’t go anywhere, Mr. Stark. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Be back soon.”

The words caught in his throat. He almost expected Tony to smirk, to throw out some quip about curfew or babysitters. But silence was the only answer.

Outside, Gotham had that kind of smell—something between rust and sorrow. Peter moved fast, slipping through narrow alleys and crowded streets, keeping to the shadows. 

His sneakers hit puddles soundlessly, and every sound and smell felt amplified—the hum of neon signs, the distant honk of a cab, the low murmur—

Inhale: he caught the ticking of a passing businessman’s watch, fell victim to a passing woman’s overbearing perfume.

Exhale: he closed himself off from the city’s hushed conversations.

“Library first,” he yawned, the silhouette of the building growing clearer and clearer.

He didn’t even notice someone dashing towards him with a drink in their hands until it was too late. Their cold drink leaked through his hoodie, and Peter had to fight back the grimace that threatened to overtake his face when he felt the cold, wet spot touch skin.

“Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention,” Peter quickly apologised. More out of reaction and manners than actually being apologetic.

“I’m so sorry, kid; I was so distracted about the stock market. But that shouldn’t be an excuse. God, look at your sweater. Jeez, I’m really sorry.” the stranger rambled.

Peter tried to brush the guy off, tell him it was fine even though it wasn’t. But the guy was persistent.

“Tim. Just call me Tim,” the guy insisted.

Peter blinked, half caught between irritation and confusion. The guy—Tim—looked oddly like he sprinted out of wherever he was coming from. His sweater was rumpled, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and his black hair was dishevelled in a way Peter could probably never replicate if he tried. 

“It wasn’t hot. I just… sorry, I also wasn’t looking where I was going.” Peter said, waving his hands as if to push the apology away.

Tim frowned, eyes flickering over Peter’s soaked hoodie, then to the street like he was calculating something. There was something sharp about his gaze—too sharp for a random guy.

“Y’know, I was actually on my way to the thrift store to sell some of my brother’s old clothes and make a quick buck. But, y’know, this is more important.” Tim continued to speak in a way that left no room for arguments.

And even when Tim dragged Peter to a nearby cafe to change, all the guy’s friendliness still made Peter hesitate. His instincts prickled. Of course the feeling felt more muddy than usual, but he still felt it. There was something off about this guy. Not threatening, exactly, but observant in a way that reminded him of people who looked for details for a living. Like someone who was trained to see what others missed.

Though the warm hot chocolate Tim bought for him may have swayed him differently.

But the second they were about to part ways in front of the library, when Tim patted Peter on the back—he felt it. Or he thought he felt something.

He wasn’t certain until the hotdog outing with Dick and Jason. As if it had just turned on. It was small and would be impossible for normal people to even notice, but by the low radiofrequency the device was emitting, Peter’s pretty sure Tim just tried putting a tracker on him.

“Y’know. This and that.” Peter shrugs, answering their questions completely distracted.

But he snaps back to attention when Dick laughs. “You’d get along great with Tim.”

“Tim?”

“Our little brother. The one I mentioned before,” Dick explains. “The one that likes to research the same things as you, I think. He likes to consider himself a bit of a genius and detective prodigy.”

Huh. What are the chances, right?

Peter casually reached his hand back, pretending to scratch the back of his head, but his fingers managed to find the tracker in the hood of his new hoodie. It’s small, sleek, and completely lightweight.

He rolled it between his fingers, heart thudding quietly in his chest. He forced a laugh to keep up appearances, shoving his hands into his pockets to hide the tracker.

The conversation rolls into talking about gymnastics, of family, and then of his father. Peter goes with the flow. But the second Dick looks slightly distracted, he immediately drops to his knees under the guise of needing to tie his shoes before slipping the tracker onto Dick’s shoe.

The second he’s back in the library, he immediately rushes to the health and science section. He grabs the book, talks to Ms. Barbara for a second, ignores her reminder that he can just call her Barbara or Babs, and then rushes back to the theater.

By the time he slipped through the cracked side door of the theater, Peter sighed in relief. His lungs were burning from how fast he’d been running. His mind was spinning—half on working on his spidey-senses in this new city, half on the small sense of victory that came from outsmarting someone named Tim.

“Hey, Mr. Stark,” he murmured, setting the nursing book on his table full of notes. “Should have visited Aunt May at the hospital more often because I borrowed a nursing book for dummies.”

Peter sank down beside Tony’s cot, opening the nursing book and flipping through the pages. His hands stilled when he came across a section on long-term unconscious care—monitoring vitals, preventing bedsores, and maintaining nutrition. It was clinical, detached, and written in such a way that made it easy for Peter to understand.

He took a deep breath, pulling the blanket over Tony’s chest again. “You just keep on resting, Mr. Stark. Karen, set an alert if his vitals drop. I’m gonna start building.”

“Understood, Peter.”

He wiped his palms against his pants and stood, surveying his scattered sketches, loose wires, and bits of metal he’d scavenged from abandoned workshops and alleys.

“Alright,” he muttered, cracking his knuckles. “Step one: arc reactor prototype. Step two: maybe figure out how the heck quantum tunneling works before nightfall.”

The boy genius got to work. Hours bled together as he soldered, measured, and recalculated. Every time the soft beep of Tony’s monitor cut through the silence, Peter’s focus sharpened. He needed this. Needed the sound of purpose, of movement, of doing something that wasn’t just waiting.

“Karen,” he called out after what must’ve been hours. “The nanite schematics still saved?”

“Affirmative.”

“Good. We’ll use some to form the containment ring.”

Tiny mechanical whirs echoes as Karen projected the blueprints onto the back of the stage wall. The glowing lines danced faintly against the dust in the air. Peter’s eyes lit up.

Outside, Gotham continued to stir. Sirens wailed in the distance. Somewhere not far away, a fight broke out—boots thudding on asphalt, metal clanging.

Peter didn’t flinch this time.

Instead, he whispered, “We’re getting better at this, huh, Karen?”

“Adaptation noted,” she replied softly. “You are improving.”

He smiled faintly, a rare spark of pride warming in his chest. “Good. Because we’re gonna need to keep improving.”

The peacefulness of it all quickly disintegrated when the sound of screaming and the smell of burning quickly invaded his senses. It was so much that he couldn’t ignore it.

“Karen,” he screamed as he covered his ears with his hands. “Karen, what’s going on?”

“There seems to be a Gotham villain attack on a parking garage and a bridge. A villain named Firefly is setting the areas on fire.”

“Firefly,” Peter muttered, eyes darting towards the cracked window where the faint orange glow of flames painted the sky. “Of course Gotham has a pyromaniac with wings.”

He grabbed one of his web-shooters and dashed outside before Karen could respond. His heart was pounding, his pulse syncing with the chaos outside. Peter’s body moved before his brain fully caught up.

The city greeted him with its chaos—black smoke snaking upward, the air thick with heat and ash. Through the smoke, he caught sight of the villain. But before he could move, red and blue caught his attention.

“Peter, you do not have your mask. Gotham’s vigilantes are here to stop him.” Karen informed him.

He hesitated.

Because she was right. He forgot his mask. If anyone saw a twelve-year-old bring down a villain, there would no doubt be questions. And Peter… Peter couldn’t do it.

“Fine,” he grumbled. “But we’re saving the civilians on the bridge. Spider-Man doesn’t just walk away when there are people he can help.”

He moves before Karen can convince him otherwise. He helps people from under their cars, pulls people away from danger using his web shooter, pushes them to safety.

The air stung his lungs as he darted between the wrecked cars, every breath filled with smoke and the metallic tang of burning steel. The fires roared around him like a living thing, feeding off the chaos.

“Peter, you are getting closer to where Gotham’s heroes are apprehending the target.” Karen warned.

“Got it!” he coughed, using his web to drag a man from a crushed sedan. “Just a few more—”

Peter looked up just in time to see the support beam above him buckle. Without thinking, he grabbed the man and rolled them both away as the beam crashed down where they’d just been.

“Go!” he shouted, helping the man to his feet and pushing him toward the safe zone. “Run!”

“Karen, give me a read on the others!”

“Two more civilians trapped in their vehic—”

“Found them!” Peter sprinted toward a minivan dangerously close to where Nightwing and Red Hood were attempting to cage in Firefly. Flames licked at the tires, the metal glowing red-hot. Inside, a little girl was crying, her mother pounding helplessly on the glass.

Peter grabs hold of the handle, braces his legs, and yanks. He scoops the child into his arms and guides the mother out right after.

“There’s medical aid waiting for you there,” Peter tells them as he points to where the police lights dance.

“Let’s go.” The mother nods, attempting to pull Peter along.

He shakes his head. “Go first. I need to make sure nobody else is left behind.”

He pushes them towards safety before they can say anything else. Then he turns to where Gotham’s finest are taking down the bad guy. He can’t help but watch.

And then Nightwings catches him. And then Nightwing actually catches him when he passes out because of a hit to the head. And then he got kidnapped. Then he escaped and managed to find a couple of steel pipes on his way back to Tony.

Then he saves a billionaire from getting shot on his doorstep. Which led to now.

Said billionaire is now wide awake, standing beside Tony’s unconscious body.

“Peter,” the billionaire—Bruce, Karen informs him—speaks. “Who is he?”

He isn’t sure why he answered. He isn’t sure why he’s shaking. But the answer escapes his mouth before he even realises it.

“That’s Tony.”

Bruce’s eyes narrow slightly, scanning Tony’s still form. The tension in his jaw tells Peter he’s weighing every possibility, every threat, every angle.

“He’s…awake?” Bruce’s voice is careful, cautious.

“No, no—not exactly,” Peter rushes to explain, hands raises. “He’s out cold. But alive. I’m taking care of him.”

Karen buzzes dangerously on his wrist. “Peter, he knew your name.”

Suddenly, all the air in the theater escapes him. Because this is it.

His days of survival and trying to find a way home mean nothing now because Gotham’s billionaire found him. He couldn't breathe. There wasn't any more air.

He failed. Again. The universe gave him another chance, and he failed again. He failed Karen. He failed F.R.I.D.A.Y. He failed his universe. He failed Tony.

Parker luck always found a way. Even in a completely different universe.

He couldn't breathe. Air just wasn't working. It was stale and sharp all at once, burning in his chest no matter how hard he tried to drag it in. His vision blurred around the edges, his knees threatening to cave in.

“Peter.” Bruce’s voice attempted to cut through the haze. “Breathe.”

It was Karen’s monotone humming and reassuring buzzing that grounded him—that made him want to breathe.

Inhale: he could feel beads of sweat trickle down his head. They were cold and uncomfortable, but they were real.

Exhale: he ignored the part of him that wanted to faint and never wake up this time.

He couldn’t breathe. Not properly. His lungs were locked up, his throat too tight. He pressed a hand against his chest like that might help, like he could force oxygen in through sheer willpower.

“W—who even are you?” His voice cracked. He hated how small it sounded. He was Spider-Man, dang it! “H—how do you know m—my name?!”

“Peter,” Bruce spoke, all firm—as if attempting to be his anchor in his moment of panic. He took a step closer, then another, until his hands were on Peter’s shoulders and he was crouched to Peter’s level. “You’re safe. You’ve done nothing wrong. Just focus on your breathing.”

Karen’s voice was the one Peter paid any attention to.

“Peter, your oxygen saturation is dropping. Initiating breathing assistance protocol.”

A faint static hum pulses in rhythm from his wrist—steady, mechanical, almost like a heartbeat. Peter clung to it, syncing his own breathing with the pulse.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Slowly, the haze began to lift. His shaking hands lowered from his chest.

Bruce waited, unmoving, until Peter’s breathing steadied enough for his voice to come out without breaking.

“Who are you?” Peter whispered hoarsely. “And how do you know me?”

Bruce’s expression flickered—barely, but enough for Peter to catch the flash of panic there.

“Your father is looking for you.”

Chapter Text

“So, you ever gonna tell us why you got shot?”

Jason leaned back in his chair, the leather of his Red Hood getup creaking with the movement. He stared at Alfred and the efficiency of his movements as the older man exposed the wound in Bruce's shoulder and assessed it.

Bruce didn't answer immediately. But his jaw clenched as Alfred dabbed antiseptic over the wound. Strangely enough, it was already sewn closed.

“Clean shot. Bullet has an exit wound.” Alfred sighed calmly as he unrolled gauze with careful, deliberate precision. “I must say, Master Bruce, you did a fine job patching yourself up.”

Bruce didn’t respond, but the muscle in his jaw twitched again. Jason caught it—that tiny, silent tic that meant he was hiding something.

“Did you patch yourself up?” Jason asked, crossing one leg over the other. “Or did someone else do it for you?”

Bruce’s eyes flickered up, just for a moment. It was barely there—half a glance, quick enough that anyone else would’ve missed it. But Jason wasn’t anyone else. He caught the throwaway glance at Dick, who stood apart from the group as he prepared himself as Nightwing.

Jason’s brow furrowed. That single look—a flicker toward Dick, a shift in Bruce’s controlled persona—told him something was off.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his voice lowering into something edged but curious. “You didn’t happen to see the ki—”

“I still don’t get why I can’t go with you!”

Jason’s sentence died on his tongue. He looked over at Steph, who was now dramatically draped upside down across her chair, hood half slipping as she continued to pout at anyone who made eye contact.

“You still got your patrol route,” Tim muttered, typing rapidly at the computer. “Besides, we’re just picking up Peter. You haven’t even seen—”

“I saw him on the bridge when he fainted,” Steph interrupted, sitting up suddenly. “You’re rewriting history now! I bet Peter would want his aunt there. Believe it or not, I’m a very comforting figure.”

“Sure, Steph,” Tim scoffed. “He’ll definitely want to see his purple aunt, who he probably only glanced at just as he was losing consciousness.”

“So says his stalker uncle.”

“Hey! I didn’t stalk him—”

“Oh yeah, sorry. Do you prefer attempted stalker or failed stalker? Cause personally, they’re both very different things.”

Tim grumbled something under his breath as he sinks back into his chair. Jason catches the victorious look on Steph’s face before the sound of Dick sliding his escrima sticks into place with such intensity catches his attention.

His movements were sharp and controlled, but there was an underlying tension that practically hummed in the air around him. The quiet click of his escrima sticks locking into their holsters sounded louder than it should have in the cave.

“Bruce, are you still up to come with us or not?” Dick spoke, his tone grim.

Bruce adjusted the cuff of his sleeve with his good arm, the movement automatic.

“You, Jason, and I will be covering the ground. We’ll visit the apartment buildings near the theater. Damian and Tim, you two will cover the rooftops.”

Jason turned slightly, enough to observe Bruce from the corner of his eyes. “Are we gonna hit up the theater?”

Bruce simply shook his head as he moved towards his Batsuit. “We’ll check the theater if he isn’t in any of the apartments. Barbara and I are confident he’s living in one of the nearby units.”

Jason watched Bruce put on his suit, each motion deliberate and steady. The rest of the team busied themselves with equipment checks and gear adjustments, but Jason wasn’t convinced. Something was off.

“You sure you don’t want Dick or me to check out the opera house? We thought the kid could be homeless, and the theater is a fairly decent place to hide away.” Jason called out, watching Bruce for anything. Any fidget or twitch that could tell him anything.

But Bruce was as composed as ever. His response was controlled and left no room for arguments. “We check the apartments first.”

Jason rose slowly from his chair, his playful smile now long gone. His gaze flickered between Dick and Bruce. He chose to hold back his questions. The hairs on the back of his neck telling him that something was off would have to wait; he had to reassure his brother.

“Hey,” Jason sighed, patting Dick’s shoulder. “We’ll bring him home. Tonight.”

Dick didn’t answer right away. He reached for his mask.

“I know,” he said softly. “I’ll be less anxious as soon as I see him again.”

Jason patted his shoulder again before sliding on his own red mask. “Yeah, I’ll feel better as soon as I beat that Tony character senseless. Maybe a week or two in, like, a coma could do the guy some good.”

Dick’s laughter eased the tension off his shoulder only a little. No one noticed the way Bruce paused for a millisecond before he adjusted his gauntlet.

Gotham is different at night. Colder for one. Scarier for all.

Every gust of wind carried the faint smell of oil, garbage, and something faintly metallic that clung to the air like a warning. Gotham always had a pulse after sundown. A low, restless heartbeat that reminded you it was alive—that there was more to fear than the gangsters in alleys or the muggers behind buildings.

That was probably why Dick was so hellbent on bringing his son home tonight.

They stood on the ledge of a three-story apartment building, the blue of Dick’s Nightwing suit almost bleeding into the darkness of the night. The wind tugged at their hair, cold and merciless. Jason’s gaze swept the perimeter, but his focus wasn’t really on the buildings around them. It was on the apartment building across from them.

Damian and Tim had managed to find Peter earlier in the evening dumpster diving outside an electronics store. They followed him to the apartment building they were currently standing across from.

“Did you see any sign of a guardian?” Dick asked, his fingers pressing down on his comms button.

“Negative,” Damian’s voice responded through their channel. “He was alone when he exited the dumpster.”

Jason scanned the windows across from them—the flicker of an old TV behind half-drawn blinds, the turning off of bedroom lights, the occasional resident tapping on their windows to ensure they were shut. But they didn’t know which window belonged to Peter.

His heart wouldn’t stop pounding. It wasn’t fear, exactly. It was something tighter. He wasn’t sure if it was just a knot that refused to loosen. It was something more than that. Like unease, almost.

“There,” Bruce called out, pointing at a corner window on the second floor.

The movement was quick but undeniable. It was Peter lifting the blinds from the window, the room’s light perfectly identifying him.

“Let’s go,” Dick commanded, already moving without so much as a glance towards Bruce or Jason.

Bruce followed right behind him.

But that unease in Jason’s chest tightened. Because that was too easy. This was too easy. Peter had been careful in getting home. He had gone out of his way to make sure he was never followed home. So for him to be so careless and lead Damian and Tim to the very building he lived in…something was off.

With every step towards Peter’s apartment unit, that feeling intensified.

The stairwell inside the building smelled like damp concrete and cigarette smoke. The flickering light overhead buzzed like a fly on the verge of death. Their boots echo in quiet, rhythmic thuds.

Jason kept to the rear, gloved hand resting near his holster out of habit. His instincts were on edge—every creak of the floor, every drip from a rusted pipe made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

“Second floor,” Bruce murmured, voice low and gravelly in typical Batman fashion. “End of the hall. Likely apartment 2C.”

Dick didn’t wait for acknowledgment. He was already halfway up the next flight, every muscle tight with anxious energy. His footsteps were silent but purposeful, like he was following the beat of his own racing pulse.

Jason stared at the back of Bruce’s head. Was that deduction of Peter’s apartment too fast, or was he just getting paranoid now? He shook his head to clear the thoughts. There were bigger things to worry about now than Bruce’s detective abilities.

The hallway stretched before them, narrow and peeling. A baby cried faintly somewhere deeper in the building, muffled by thin drywall.

Dick was already stopped in front of 2C.

Light spilt faintly from beneath the door.

He raised a hand to knock, but Jason caught his wrist. “Wait.”

Dick frowned. “You expecting a trap?”

Jason hesitated for a second before shaking his head, his hand dropping to his side. “No, just that… never mind.”

Dick’s brows furrowed, but he returned his attention to the door. He knocked before anyone could stop him.

It was a simple three-knock beat. Light and casual. Showing none of Dick’s anxiety and fear. They were immediately followed by the sound of hurried footsteps from inside.

The door creaked open. Just a sliver. Just enough for one of Peter’s eyes to peek through.

For a moment, no one said anything.

Peter opened the door just a little more, just enough for both his eyes to be visible now. His gaze flickered between the three of them—Batman’s towering frame half-shrouded in shadows that always seemed to follow him, Red Hood’s imposing figure, and Dick…standing at the front with the barest smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Hey Peter,” Jason greeted, seconds before Dick could. “Remember us?”

Peter’s gaze seemed to narrow at them. Like he was trying to be polite about glaring at them.

“Yeah,” Peter replied, his tone a little sharper than what they were expecting. “You guys kidnapped me when I passed out on the bridge.”

“We didn’t kidnap you, Peter,” Dick spoke up.

His chest tightened. He’d expected a dozen reactions—shock, confusion—but not quite this.

Peter scoffed. “Oh sorry, you just gave me to my stalker.”

The sound of Steph’s cackles echoed through their comms. It was so sudden, Jason almost missed the way Peter flinched.

“Peter,” Bruce spoke up, taking a small step forward. “We’re here to check on you. We’ve been told that you left the Wayne manor while you could get your injuries properly looked at.”

Peter hesitated. His gaze narrowing in on Bruce. Then, slowly, Peter pulled the door open before walking further into the apartment. An unspoken invitation inside.

The place was small—one bedroom, barely furnished. A couch that had seen better years, a table littered with newspapers and paper ads, and a half-eaten tuna can.

Dick’s son was already sitting on the old couch, his arms crossed defiantly across his chest as he watched the vigilantes fill up the small space.

“Nice place you got here,” Jason whistled as he examined the peeling walls and stained ceilings.

“Thanks,” Peter huffed as Dick immediately moved to Peter’s side, his fingers already carefully brushing Peter’s hair to check the wound on his forehead.

Peter flinched back at the touch, just a small motion—barely there really—but Dick froze all the same. His hand hovered midair before he quietly pulled it back, guilt flashing in his eyes.

“See,” Peter muttered, gaze flickering between Dick and literally anywhere else. “Perfectly healthy. I’m fine.”

Dick nodded slowly, lowering himself to one knee beside the couch. His voice was gentle; Jason would even argue it sounded almost paternal. “That cut looked pretty bad the other night. You sure it’s healing all right?”

“I’m alive, aren’t I?”

Jason leaned against the wall near the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching the exchange unfold. He didn’t miss how the apartment was completely bare except for the necessities. And how it completely lacked any sign of the guardian Peter so often brought up. He also didn’t miss the way Peter’s eyes flickered between the three of them like it was routine.

Jason pushed himself from the wall, taking a step forward. “You live here alone?”

Peter’s chin lifted. “What’s it to you?”

Jason gave a low whistle. “You got your father’s attitude,” he muttered under his breath.

Peter shot him a look that could have frozen lava if he were a few years older and didn’t have that baby fat in his cheeks. Jason only smirked in return.

Dick exhaled through his nose, forcing patience back into his posture. “Peter, we just want to make sure you’re safe. You gave us quite a scare back there on the bridge and when you disappeared without a word from Wayne Manor.”

Peter’s expression faltered for half a second, but just as quickly, his walls came up again. He slouched deeper into the couch.

“I didn’t disappear,” he muttered. “I left. There’s a difference.”

Jason tilted his head. “Most people leave a note. Or at least with a wave goodbye and a promise to visit again soon.”

Peter’s jaw twitched, and Dick could almost see the retort forming before the kid bit it back. His hands fidgeted for a moment, pulling at a loose thread in his sleeve, before Bruce spoke up.

“Your father asked us to find you.”

The air in the room stilled. Dick and Jason snapped their heads in Bruce’s direction. Dick’s jaw dropped. Jason’s smirk faded. But Bruce’s eyes were only on Peter.

Peter froze. His fingers went still against the fraying fabric, knuckles whitening as he stared up at Bruce. For a second, Jason thought the kid hadn’t heard him right—that maybe the words didn’t quite land. Then his shoulders tensed, the smallest, sharpest breath breaking the silence.

“Okay.”

Jason thought he felt cold water being dumped on his head. Because he expected disbelief, anger, confusion—not quiet resignation.

“What?” He couldn’t help voicing out. “That’s it?”

Peter shrugged.

“Peter,” Dick called out softly, his tone low and friendly even though Jason could see the confusion practically radiate off him. “Do you know who your father is?”

Peter shook his head. Quite confidently he replied, “I thought he was dead.”

Jason could see the exact moment Dick’s heart broke when hearing that.

Dick blinked, his mouth parting slightly. “Dead?” he echoed, just to be sure he heard right.

“Yeah.” Peter didn’t even hesitate. His tone was so matter-of-fact that it made Jason’s stomach twist.

“Who told you that?” Jason demanded.

The kid just shrugged. Like it was nothing. He just shrugged.

Dick’s throat went dry. He knew that kind of shrug—the one that tried too hard to look indifferent. The kind that meant the words it doesn’t matter.

And sure enough, Peter said it. “Doesn’t matter. You guys are here to take me away anyways.”

The words hit like a gut punch. Not because he sounded angry—no, far from it. It was the fatigue in his voice. Because of how tired the words sounded as Peter sighed them. Too tired for a kid his age.

Jason’s jaw flexed, the leather of his gloves creaking as his hands curled into fists, which he quickly hid behind his back. “Your dad’s a pretty cool guy, Peter. It’ll be fun. He’s excited to get to know you, I’m sure.”

Peter just stared at him, unblinking. Then his gaze flickered to Bruce before he gave a small, breathless laugh—one that wasn’t amused in the slightest. “Yeah, sure.”

Dick’s about to reach out and put a comforting hand on his son’s shoulder, but Peter moves quickly. He slides off the couch and grabs his backpack from beside the couch. Jason takes a step forward, but Peter’s already shouldering his back and sighing out loud like this was just a mild inconvenience.

Dick’s chest tightened. “Peter, your dad’s been extremely worried for you since he found out you got hurt,” he said carefully. ”He didn’t always know you were here. But he promised me that he will take care of you as soon and as best as he can.”

Peter shrugs.

“Are we going or not?” The irritation evident in his voice.

The silence that followed was thick and uneven. Peter slung the strap of his backpack tighter and brushed past them, heading for the door. He didn’t wait to see if they were following.

Jason ran a gloved hand down his face.

“Well,” he muttered under his breath, “That went about as smooth as a brick to the face.”

Bruce’s voice came low, quiet but firm. “He’s coming with us. That’s what matters.”

“Yeah,” Jason muttered, falling into step behind them. “But it just feels too easy, I guess.”

He felt Bruce’s gaze on him from the corner of his eyes. Examining for something Jason wasn’t sure of just yet.

They made it halfway down the hallway before Dick finally caught up to Peter, who’d stopped at the top of the stairwell. The kid was staring out the dirty window, where the glow of the city spilled through the glass in fractured streaks of neon-coloured lights.

“Peter,” Dick called softly.

Peter didn’t turn around. 

“You keep saying he’s worried,” he said after a moment. “That he wants to see me.”

“He does.”

Peter’s reflection in the glass looked smaller than he really was. “Then where is he?”

Dick hesitated, words dying in his throat.

Peter turned then, eyes narrowing in on Dick. Like he was listening or looking for something the rest of them couldn’t see.

Finally, the kid took a quiet breath. “You guys didn’t happen to find my mom too right?”

Dick’s heart sank at the question. It was quiet—barely louder than a whisper—but it hit with the force of a gunshot.

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

Jason’s posture shifted, his weight leaning off his heels, shoulders tense as he looked between the kid and Dick. Bruce’s face remained unreadable, though his jaw tightened ever so slightly.

“No,” Dick said finally. It came out rougher than he intended, soft and apologetic all at once. “We didn’t.”

Peter stared at him. There was no flicker of surprise in his expression. No spark of hope extinguished. Just… stillness. The soft buzzing from his watch was the thing that brought him from his trance.

“Yeah,” the boy muttered, “Didn’t think so.”

Jason took a half-step forward, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets. “Hey, kid—”

But Peter was already moving. Down the stairs and soon out of the building. Dick hot on his heels. 

The night air hit them like a pat on the cheek—damp, heavy, but lacking the sharpness typical with the usual Gotham chill. A far cry from the winds that ruffled their hair moments before they entered Peter’s apartment.

The streetlights buzzed faintly, and the city’s hum carried from a distance—sirens, engine, and the low rumble of life that never really slept. If Jason bothered to try, he could probably make out Damian and Tim’s ever-watching figures from the rooftops above.

But Peter didn’t seem to notice any of it. Or he didn’t care. He mumbled something under his breath Jason couldn’t quite hear before chuckling softly to himself.

Jason exchanged a look with Dick as they reached the car. Dick helped Peter into the backseat before sliding in after him. Jason climbed into the passenger seat, the leather creaking beneath his jacket.

“Alright, buckle up, kid. No barfing in the Batmobile. Not unless you want to help Batman clean up.”

That earned him a look in the rearview mirror—a brief, skeptical glance that might’ve been the ghost of amusement. But it faded before Jason could be sure.

Bruce was silent the whole time. He settled behind the wheel with a quiet efficiency that didn’t need words. The engine purred to life, smooth and low, and the hum of power filled the cabin as they pulled into the street.

Gotham blurred past in streaks of grey and gold, reflections of neon signs warping across the windshield. Peter’s face was dimly lit by the passing light; his expression of quiet annoyance slowly turned to exhaustion.

After a while, Dick leaned slightly towards Peter, who had his gaze fully on the passing streets and cars. 

“It’s not far,” he said softly. “You can go to sleep for a bit if you want. I’ll wake you up when we get there.”

Peter’s reply was barely above a whisper. “I’m not tired.”

He fell asleep less than ten minutes later.

Jason could barely hear Dick hum a tune as his fingers weaved through Peter’s hair, the kid’s head resting on Dick’s lap.

The kid was out cold now, his breath soft and uneven, his exhaustion finally catching up to him. His hand was still loosely fixed around the strap of his backpack, knuckles pale even in his sleep. His watch buzzing rhythmically on his wrist.

Dick, for his part, looked like he was caught between heartbreak and relief. His fingers moved gently through Peter’s hair, brushing aside strands that fell across the boy’s face. There was something painfully careful about the gesture. Like he was afraid that if he moved too fast, Peter would vanish too.

Jason caught the reflection of it in the rearview mirror—the quiet picture of a father and son. He glanced towards Bruce, his face unreadable in the dim blue of the dashboard lights.

“You’re hiding something,” Jason muttered.

Bruce didn’t turn. “I’m not.”

Jason narrowed his eyes at the man. There was no outward tell, no twitch or moment of pause that could actually signify him hiding something, but Jason just felt it. He just felt like he was being kept out of a secret.

“Call it a gut feeling,” Jason sighed quietly, eyes flickering to the backseat. Peter’s head had shifted, his hand twitching once before settling again.

When they pulled in front of the manor, the world seemed to fold into silence. Alfred was already waiting at the door, Cass by his side.

Bruce killed the engine, the low rumble fading into nothing.

Dick didn’t move right away. He just sat there, one hand still tangled gently in Peter’s hair, the other resting protectively against his shoulder.

“Hey,” Jason called softly. “We’re here.”

Dick nodded, reluctant. “Yeah.”

He shifted, lifting Peter’s small, sleeping form into his arms. The kid stirred, mumbling something incoherent before pressing closer to Dick’s chest.

Jason climbed out first, boots crunching lightly on the gravel of the long driveway. He pulled his jacket tighter, glancing back at Dick as he carefully stepped out with Peter in his arms.

The kid looked impossibly small against Dick’s chest. One hand still clutched the strap of his backpack, the other arm limp around Dick’s neck.

“Alfred,” Bruce greeted as he moved towards the door.

“Sir Batman,” Alfred replied, already stepping forward. His expression wavered for the briefest moment as his eyes fell on the boy sleeping soundly in Dick’s arms. Then, as always, he composed himself. “I presume this is young Master Peter?”

Dick managed a tired smile. “Yeah. He fell asleep in the car.”

Alfred’s gaze softened. “Then let’s not wake him. There’s a room already prepared for him upstairs. Mistress Cass assisted me in preparing it.”

Cass, standing silently beside Alfred, nodded once. Her eyes were fixed on Peter, her usual calm gaze touched by something warmer. She stepped forward without a word, carefully taking Peter’s backpack from the sleeping boy.

“Thanks,” Dick murmured, his voice quiet but heavy.

They all moved inside together, their footsteps echoing softly through the hall. The manor was dimly lit, the kind of calm that came after a long, exhausting night. Jason lingered a few steps behind, his eyes flickering between Bruce and Dick.

When they reached the room now deemed Peter’s room, Alfred opened the door and gestured them inside. The inside was freshly made—soft lights, clean sheets, a faint scent of lavender from the candles Cass must have placed. 

Dick laid Peter down gently on the bed. The boy stirred, murmuring something under his breath, his face scrunching for half a second before relaxing again.

Jason leaned against the doorframe, watching as Dick pulled the blanket up to Peter’s chin. He brushed a hand over Peter’s hair again, fingers trembling just slightly before pulling back.

“I’ll be back,” Dick assured him quietly, still looking down at his son. “I’ll be here when you wake up this time.”

“He’ll still be here,” Bruce finally spoke. His eyes were on the boy too, the usual storm behind them unreadable. “Nightwing, you can call it a day. Alfred and Cass will look after him until his father arrives.”

Jason’s gaze lingered on Bruce. There it was again—that tone. Steady, sure… but with an edge beneath it. Like there was a detail missing. Something Bruce wasn’t saying.

He pushed off the doorframe, voice low. “C’mon, Dickwing,” he called his brother over. “Faster we get back to the cave, faster you’re back.”

Dick exhaled softly. “Okay.” He turned back to Peter’s sleeping form. “Be back soon.”

He lingered a moment longer than he probably should have. His hand hovered over Peter’s blanket before he finally stood, taking one last look at his sleeping son.

Peter’s chest rose and fell evenly. His watch softly buzzing in rhythm with his breaths.

Jason and Dick left first. Bruce listened for a moment as their footsteps faded down the hall. 

“Alfred, Cass,” Bruce spoke quietly, already turning away from the door. “Can you check on Robin, Spoiler, and Red Robin. Ensure their patrols are going smoothly. I’ll be down in a moment.”

Alfred gave him a short nod, understanding passing silently between them. Cass followed the older man out of the room.

The soft click of the door closing had Bruce exhaling a sigh that he wasn’t even aware he was holding.

He just stood there, still as a statue in the quiet room. Bruce’s gaze softened, just for a second.

He took a step closer, his shadow stretching across the edge of the bed. He carefully took his cowl off. Peter shifted in the bed, his hands reaching out from under his blankets to rub at his eyes.

“Peter,” he softly called out. “It’s just the two of us now.”

The sigh from the bed answered him just enough.

“So? How was I?”

Chapter Text

When Jason went to bed that night, he fully expected to wake up to a panicked Dick and a disappeared kid who thought trusting vigilantes was a bad idea. He’d prepared himself to stop his brother from going out as Nightwing and scouring the city for his son in broad daylight, maybe smack Bruce around a bit for being a little too suspicious the night before, and then thank Alfred for the calming tea that Jason was most likely not even going to sip.

So he was pleasantly surprised to walk into the kitchen with soft chatter filling the space and see everyone there.

Dick was at the table, hair no longer sticking out in every direction and worry etched into every corner of his face. He looked like he’d actually slept for once, even if Jason knew he probably spent the night sitting in a chair by Peter’s bedside.

Beside him sat Peter. The kid was in one of Dick’s old hoodies. It was way too big on him, and the sleeves were swallowing his hands, but it definitely looked a thousand times more comfortable than what he was in before. Unlike Dick, Peter’s hair stuck up in every direction, clearly still drying from a quick shower.

Jason didn’t see any visible bruising on the kid. There was a bandage near the hairline around his temple, but that was it.

Jason stood in the doorway, blinking. “Morning.”

Peter looked up mid-bite from his plate of eggs. The second his eyes landed on Jason, his brows furrowed and his head tilted to one side.

“Morning, Peter,” Jason greeted as he grabbed a mug and poured himself some coffee. “Heard some bats and birds drop you off here last night. So you staying with us for a while?”

Peter had to shake the confusion off his face. He shrugged. “I’m waiting for my dad. What are you doing here?”

Jason took a sip, glancing at Peter again. “Live here part-time, unfortunately. What? Surprised I don’t live in the library?”

The kid just blinked at him before his lips twitched into almost a smile. “A little bit. Kinda hoping you did. Saying you live in a library is infinitely more interesting than saying you live in an actual house.”

That earned a bark of laughter from Jason. “Hey, kid, it's a manor. Get your building types correct at least. And we have our own library here too, y’know.”

From beside Peter, Dick snorted into his coffee. “I can show you around later, Peter. How about after breakfast?”

“Sure,” Peter answered after a pause, though it came out more like an automatic response than real enthusiasm. He turned back to his plate again, pushing scrambled eggs around with his fork.

Dick, ever the optimist, smiled anyway. “Great! We can start with the easy stuff—the library, theater room, we even have a room where we could practice gymnastics.”

“You have a room for that here?!” Peter’s head automatically snapping towards Dick with an enthusiasm that was absent just seconds ago.

Jason saw the way Dick’s grin widened at the sudden spark of interest in Peter.

“Yeah,” he said, clearly delighted by his son’s reaction. “Fully equipped too—bars, rings, mats, the whole works. I’d love to see what you’re capable of.”

Peter’s lips curved. “I’m fairly good. It’s in my blood, remember?”

“Oh, yes,” Jason chuckled, glancing over at Dick for a second. “Your acrobatic father, right? How could we forget? Genetics sure are crazy.”

Peter hid his grin behind a cup of juice, but Dick caught it anyways. His chest loosened a little at the sight—it was like watching sunlight break through morning fog.

“I don’t doubt it,” Dick replied casually, though his tone was softer now.

The kid laughed, small but real. For the first time in a while, the tension that had clung to him like a second skin seemed to ease, if only just slightly.

Bruce and Damian chose that moment to enter. Peter’s laughter quieted the second they entered, replaced by the sound of his fork against his plate.

Bruce, ever composed, looked like he’d already been awake for hours—he was already dressed in a finely pressed suit, and his hair was already perfectly swept, masterfully framing his stoic expression. Damian, on the other hand, looked mildly irritated, which was his default expression. He was in his Gotham Academy uniform and staring at Peter like he had already done him wrong.

“Morning,” Dick greeted, tone light and familiar, though Jason could hear the subtle caution underneath.

“Good morning,” Bruce returned, nodding once before his gaze flickered to Peter. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Peter. My sons have told me all about you.”

Peter hesitated, then gave a brief tilt of his head. “It’s nice to meet you too, Mr. Wayne.”

“No need for formalities, Peter,” Bruce said, the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. “This is Damian, my son.”

“Our youngest brother,” Jason smirked. “Arguably the most standoff-ish one of the lot of us.”

Damian straightened slightly at the introduction, his expression carefully neutral. Though Jason could tell from the slight narrowing of his eyes that the kid was already in evaluation mode.

Peter glanced up at him, polite but wary, and gave a small nod. “Hi.”

Damian returned the gesture with a curt one of his own. “Hello.” Before slipping into the empty seat beside Jason.

“I heard you had an eventful night. Did you sleep well last night?” Bruce asked, voice low but not unkind.

Peter hesitated, then gave a quick nod. “Yeah. The bed was…really soft.”

“That’s good,” Jason interjected. “Alfred takes great pride in bed making.”

Alfred, passing by with a plate of fresh toast and a pitcher of orange juice, didn’t even break stride. “Ensuring quality bedding is a refined art. And Mistress Cass helped me prepare your room.”

Peter’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. His head tilted slightly towards Dick. “Cass?”

“Our sister,” Dick clarified with a smile, buttering toast before placing it on Peter’s plate. “She’s not here right now. She goes out for morning exercises, so you’ll probably meet her later.”

“You have a lot of siblings.”

“There’s still a couple more. But, you’ll get used to them,” Dick laughed.

Peter nodded, his attention on the doorway. As if expecting something.

Meanwhile, Jason nudged Damian. He leaned down towards him and lowered his voice so only he could hear. “Now’s your chance, demon spawn. Ask him if he thinks you’re cool.”

Damian’s head snapped towards Jason with a glare sharp enough to cut steel. “I do not require validation,” he hissed under his breath.

“Sure you don’t. Just ask him if he likes animals, then invite him to the barn.”

“Mind your own business, Todd,” Damian muttered.

Jason was too busy ruffling Damian’s perfectly styled hair to notice Tim stagger in with his uniform on, eyes immediately landing on Peter like a man on a mission.

“What a surprise,” Tim greeted with a wide smile. “Hi Peter! Did not think we’d bump into each other like this.”

Peter blinked, his eyes narrowing on the older boy. “Hi.”

Tim gave him a quick nod before grabbing his food and sliding into the seat beside the kid. “How have you been since the last time we met? Heard you’ll be living with us starting today, right? Does that mean you’ll be starting school with us too?”

“Tim,” Dick warned, glaring at him from above Peter’s head.

“What?”

“Let’s let Peter settle in first before we talk about things like school.”

Tim rolled his eyes before turning his attention back on Peter. “You like school, Peter?”

Peter shrugged, still facing his breakfast but keeping Tim in the corner of his eye. “It’s fine.”

“You wanna take an entrance exam—well, for you it’s probably just gonna end up being a placement exam anyways—but wanna take an exam?” Tim smiled down at the boy who scooped more rice and egg into his mouth. “Damian’s a little older than you, but I don’t doubt you’d probably score high enough to skip to his grade.”

“I’m good,” Peter muttered as he reached for his cup of juice.

Excitedly, Tim turned back to Dick with a sparkle in his devious eyes. “See. He's good! The kid wants to get in a classroom and—.”

Tim’s grin was already halfway formed when Dick loudly cleared his throat in warning.

“Tim,” Dick said again, slower this time—measured. A gentle hand moved to rest on Peter’s back, steadying without drawing much attention to it. “We’ll discuss it at a later time. Today is about getting settled. No expectations.”

Peter carefully placed his cup back on the table before looking at Tim with this almost annoyed look in his eyes. “Yeah, when I said I’m good, I meant it like I’m good to not—ACK!”

The kid’s watch vibrated violently, catching Peter off guard and making him drop his fork onto his plate. The clang sound silenced the kitchen as heads turned to him. Peter nursed his wrist, muttering something under his breath not even Dick could hear.

“Peter, you okay?” Dick asked, his hand still on his back. It steadied without pushing. Grounded without crowding.

Peter kept his gaze on his watch, glaring at it as if he were somehow communicating with it. It buzzed again. Not as frantic and alarming as it did a second ago, but still insistent like a warning. Peter slapped his other hand over the watch.

Tim leaned slightly forward, trying to study the device as best he could when it peeked between Peter’s fingers. He whistled when he saw it buzz.

“Karen trying to tell you something?” Tim asked as he tried to angle his head to get a better view of the thing.

“No. Just an alarm,” Peter muttered firmly before looking back up at Tim. “I was just saying that I’ve been homeschooled so far, so I don’t nee—”

His watch buzzed again—violent and frantic.

This time, Jason heard what Peter mumbled under his breath before taking the watch off and stuffing it into his pocket. “Karen, quit it.”

“Let’s leave the discussion of school for another time,” Bruce spoke up, tone firm and final. “Tim and Damian, you should hurry before you end up late for school.”

Tim opened his mouth like he wanted to argue, but one look from Bruce had him snapping it shut. Damian rose without complaint, though he shot one last curious look at the pocket where Peter had shoved the watch away.

“Come along, Drake,” Damian said, breezing past him towards the hallway. “If we are late, it will be your lack of discipline, not mine.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tim grumbled, shoving toast in his mouth as he rose to follow.

They left, the echo of their footsteps slowly fading until it was gone.

“You good, kid?” Jason asked, staring at Peter as he shoved the rest of his breakfast into his mouth.

The kid nodded.

“Chew, Peter,” Dick reminded him. “We can’t have you choking before you even had the welcome tour.”

Peter slowed down. After a moment, he wiped his mouth with a napkin before looking at Dick with the most faux innocent eyes Jason had seen in a while. Like the kid was trying to change the topic of interest quickly.

“So how about that tour?”

Jason raised a brow before shrugging and moving to collect their dishes. “Sure, kid. Hope you packed a notebook or something, cause I will test you at the end of it.”

Peter nodded, a chuckle escaping his lips as he moved to help Jason and Dick with the dishes. Alfred was already waiting for them by the sink.

“C’mon Peter,” Dick grinned, patting his son’s head when Alfred predictably waved away the kid’s attempts to help wash the dishes. “You can convince Alfred to let you do chores another time; we have a manor tour to get to.”

“From a home theater to a barn out there in the back. Wayne dollars knows no bounds,” Jason laughed, following them out of the kitchen.

They show him every room.

The manor was big—even for someone who tried hard not to be impressed.

Jason could see the curiosity in the kid’s eyes as he took in each and every room. He couldn’t help but laugh every time Peter actually scribbled something down in a notebook he actually packed. Jason meant it as a joke, but the kid was actually absorbed in whatever he and Dick were saying.

Dick narrated like a tour guide whose entire personality was sunshine.

“This is the theater—yes, Damian insists on subtitles, and yes, Jason yells when the remote goes missing.”

“That is the garden. You’ll sometimes see Alfred tending to the different crops. Sometimes you might see Cass. I think she’s trying to get into herb care.”

“Over there’s the hallway that leads to the west wing, don’t go there after 1 A.M. First of all because you should be sleeping. Kids your age need sleep so you can get big and tall. Second of all because it’s haunted—”

“It’s not haunted,” Jason cuts in.

“It is haunted,” Dick argues. “I’ve seen things, Peter. Scary things.”

“You walked into a mirror once.”

“A haunted mirror.”

Peter laughed, already jotting something down in that notebook of his. Jason looked over the kid’s shoulder once or twice to see what he was writing and saw his messy scribbles of the different arches of the doorways accompanied by hurried sketches of parts of the manor’s interior infrastructure.

“You into architecture?” Jason asked when they finished looking at the indoor pool.

Dick’s son shook his head, a fond smile on his lips as he continued to scribble away in his notebook. “Not very. But a friend of mine would really like this kind of work.”

They passed portraits, libraries, bedrooms, sitting rooms nobody sat in, and the balcony that overlooked the garden. They could see Damian’s farm from there.

Then they arrived at the gymnastics room.

The moment the door opened, Peter let out a gasp of awe.

It was bright. Clean. A wall of windows and mirrors. High beams. A set of parallel bars. Balance beams. Rings suspended from the ceiling. Floor mats stretching wide.

The kind of space built for movement.

“Nice,” Peter whistled.

Dick looked down at Peter with a smile that crinkled his eyes. “You ready to finally try it out with me?”

The kid blinked before nodding enthusiastically.

“Hold up.” Jason clapped his hands to get their attention. “We might have to save the bars and beams for another day.”

“Why?” both Peter and Dick whined at the same time, in the same tone.

Jason sighed. “The kid doesn’t have any extra clothes to change into when he sweats through whatever exercises you maniacs are thinking.”

Dick exhaled loudly because he knew Jason was right. They’d have to save this for another day. They’d have to go to the mall for Peter to pick out some clothes.

“Or we can just… go later?” Peter suggested. “I think I’m good on clothes, personally. I can just wash this hoodie and wear it again.”

Jason groaned so dramatically, it echoed loud enough to cover up Dick’s paternal reassurances of Sorry, Peter, I promise I’ll dedicate a whole day for this next time.

“No. Absolutely not,” Jason groaned, already pushing both father and son out towards the garage. “Red Hood asked us specifically to make sure you’re better dressed and not looking like a laundry pile swallowed you whole.”

“He said that?” Peter questioned, side-eyeing Jason as he was ushered around. “The guy who wears a red helmet but calls himself Red Hood has something to say about my fashion?”

Jason burst out laughing as he continued to herd them forward.

“You’re gonna fit right in, kid,” Jason wheezed out.

The trip to the mall was lively.

Jason had the radio on—something loud and fast and probably not morning appropriate—and he kept drumming on the steering wheel like he was performing for a live studio audience. Dick kept trying to lower the volume or change the station, and every time he did, Jason raised it again without even looking, like a reflex.

Peter sat in the back, watching the city blur pass the window. He watched as the scenery changed from the quiet of Wayne Manor to the liveliness of the city.

At one point, Dick craned his neck back to look at Peter. “Do you have any preferences for clothing, Peter? We don’t have to get a lot today. Just enough that you can feel comfortable with.”

Peter nodded, and Dick smiled.

Stepping out of their car and into the actual building, Jason couldn’t help but note that Peter slipped his watch back on. The second they stepped through the mall doors, he watched the kid snap his eyes shut before taking three very large, deep breaths as if steadying himself before they fluttered open once more.

Dick must have noticed as well because the guy crouched before Peter to look at the kid properly.

“It’s a little chaotic, right?” Dick asked, already knowing the answer. “We’ll be in and out quickly. Stick by me so we don’t get separated.”

Peter slowly nodded. Dick smiled before standing back up, his hand moving instinctively to ruffle the kid’s hair.

“All good?” Jason asked his brother.

“All good.”

Jason nodded. He walked ahead like a tank cutting a path through foot traffic. Dick stayed beside Peter, gently steering him away from distracted shoppers on their phones and kiosk salesmen advertising credit cards that double as points cards.

Jason stopped in front of the first clothing store he saw—some trendy place that exclusively sold shirts with large, bold words like Dark & Wild printed on the front.

“No.” Both Dick and Peter said immediately.

Jason clicked his tongue. “You guys have no fashion sense.”

“You wanna wear that?”

“Okay, moving on.”

They passed by another store that specialised in oversized hoodies and leather jackets with motorcycles printed on them. A large red hoodie on one of the mannequins in the display caught Peter’s eyes.

“Looks like something you should get,” he noted to Jason half-mindedly before quickly moving forward.

Jason couldn’t even retort before the kid and Dick moved past the store, and the opportunity for a quick, witty comeback passed.

Eventually they paused in front of a second-hand clothing store. Unlike many of the other stores, this one had little to no foot traffic. The occasional elderly person looked around the aisles before buying a coat. The rare teenager that should definitely be in school at this hour would look through the t-shirts and sweaters before leaving without buying anything.

The moment Peter noticed it, his eyes lit up.

It was smaller than the other shops—warm light, mismatched hangers, and a bell over the door that jingled when they stepped inside. The old lady at the counter greeted them with a smile that looked so genuine.

“Wanna look around?” Dick asked softly.

“Yeah,” Peter replied absentmindedly before wandering off.

The air smelled faintly of laundry detergent and old wood. There were racks of flannels, denim jackets, worn-out shirts, and scuffed shoes that lined up along the wall.

They split up—Dick moved to sort through the hanging t-shirts, Jason browsed through the jackets like he was on a mission from God, and Peter slowly wandered between the racks. He ran his fingers along fabrics—soft cotton, worn denim, something knit with sparkles that left his fingers feeling itchy.

At one point, Jason happened to pass by Peter while the kid was distracted looking at t-shirts with horrible math and science puns. He must have been too distracted to notice Jason because he heard the kid mutter to his watch.

“School’s not my biggest priority right now, Karen. And I kinda don’t want to repeat sixth grade. Been there, done that.”

He quickly moved away before Peter caught him.

By the time Jason was finished looking through the jackets, he found Peter and Dick looking through a basket of clothes the two of them found.

“Look what I found,” Jason spoke up as he approached them, already showcasing a blue hoodie with the Nightwing symbol printed on the front. “You’re a fan of Nightwing, right, Peter?”

Peter laughed. “He’s fine. You know, he actually ruined my backpack the first time we met.”

“Did he now?”

The kid nodded. “Yeah, drenched one of the notebooks in my bag.”

“What did he drench it with?”

Peter turned back to the clothes he had chosen. He shrugged. “I don’t know, like vitamins or something.”

Dick and Jason wanted to push for more, but Peter pulled out a t-shirt with cartoon atoms with googly eyes telling each other a rather obscure science fact printed on it.

“This one was a good find. Funny, right?” Peter beamed at them, voice excited in the most earnest way imaginable.

Jason and Dick stared at it.

Stared at it long enough that the silence became spiritually offensive.

“Get it,” Peter laughed, clutching the shirt like it was the funniest thing on the planet. “It’s a joke about the molecular explanation behind Guy-Lussac’s law through Avogadro’s insight.”

Jason blinked once.

Then twice.

Then slowly—very slowly—turned his head to the side in a poor attempt to hide his laughter.

“Very cool, Peter. Very funny,” Dick nodded. How he managed to not laugh in his son’s face was beyond Jason.

Peter looked between them, bright-eyed. “I know, right! ‘Cause the atom on the left is referencing the proportional relationship of—”

“Okay, kid,” Jason cut in, hands up. “My brain can only handle so much nerd per day, and we’re getting close to the recommended dosage. So how about we save any fun facts for when Tim’s around.”

Peter beamed, like it was a compliment.

Dick nodded, holding out the basket of the rest of the clothes he and Peter picked out. “It’s a really good joke, Peter. Classic science humour.”

“Don’t pretend like you get it,” Jason muttered loud enough for only Dick to hear.

If his brother heard him, he didn’t act like it. Because his smile softened as he looked at Peter staring down at the shirt.

“Hey,” he said, drawing Peter’s attention to him. “If you like it, let’s get it.”

Peter looked up at him with a smile that touched the corners of his eyes. He carefully folded the shirt before placing it in the basket Dick carried.

They checked out. The old lady behind the counter gave them the fondest smile as she scanned everything and Dick paid. Just as Jason was grabbing the bag full of clothes, the lady reached out and pinched Peter’s cheeks.

“You have the cutest son,” she smiled before letting go of Peter’s cheek and patting his head. “My son had the same big brown eyes when he was a baby.”

Peter blinked up at her.

Dick froze, mid-wallet-close.

Jason doubled over, wheezing.

The old woman didn’t notice. She was too busy smiling fondly at Peter the way grandmothers smiled at baby ducks.

Dick choked. “Uh…thanks.”

The woman beamed even brighter. “Have a nice day. You boys take care.”

Dick had to drag Jason out of the store.

The rest of the trip continued without much more to note. They stopped by the food court. Dick got Peter a buttered pretzel. They stopped by a couple other stores and got the kid some miscellaneous things like a desk lamp, a pair of new shoes, a new backpack, and Peter got a pair of squarish-looking glasses.

“You need glasses?” Dick asked when he saw it.

“No,” the kid shook his head. “It’s for a project.”

“What kinda project needs glasses?” Jason asked as they began to make the journey back to the car.

Peter grinned as he stared down at the glasses. “Let’s just say I’m gonna work on it Friday.”

Peter’s watch buzzed.

Jason tried to look like he wasn’t watching as Peter turned away momentarily and brought his wrist close to his mouth.

“What? That was funny,” Peter mumbled quietly. Not quiet enough because Dick and Jason heard.

He shared a look with his brother but chose not to say anything.

Soon they were back at the manor, just in time to bump into Damian and Tim in the foyer.

“Have fun at school?” Dick asked the two still dressed in uniform.

Tim shrugged. “Same old, same old.”

Damian huffed. “Drake fell asleep while walking in the hallway. He crashed into some of the lockers.”

Time snapped his head towards him. “I was distracted and needed to rest my eyes. There’s a difference.”

“Not when you snore.”

“I do not snore.”

“You do. Lying about your ability to snore is beneath me.”

Tim’s betrayed gasp died midway when he noticed the shopping bags Jason and Dick carried.

“New clothes for Peter?” he asked.

Jason shrugged. “This and that. Peter got glasses too.”

“You need glasses?” Tim asked, turning to the youngest in the room. “You’re not wearing any right now? Do you wear contacts? What’s your prescription?”

Peter side-eyed him before moving to carry some of the shopping bags to his room. He didn’t answer.

“He says it’s for a project,” Jason answers instead.

“What kind of project requires pointless glasses?” Damian questions, watching with trained eyes as Dick and Peter walk up the stairs with their hands all full.

Jason shrugged. “Didn’t elaborate.” Then he looked towards his brother and Peter and called out, “Don’t take too long, Pete. I think Cass is home with Alfred. You got a couple more of us you’ll be meeting tonight.”

“Okay,” Peter loudly replied before he disappeared down the hallway.

“Kid’s a nerd,” Jason sighed as soon as he was sure it was just the three of them.

“How so?” Tim asked.

“He got all excited about a shirt with cartoon atoms on it,” Jason laughed. “You haven’t worn a cartoon science pun shirt in a while, right, replacement? Peter might be a bigger science nerd than you then. You should have seen the absolute excitement on the kid’s face.”

Tim elbowed him.

“Don’t you read classic literature?”

“That’s culture,” Jason snapped.

Tim rolled his eyes. “Yeah, but I bet if you found a shirt with a cartoon Jane Austen on it talking about some Pride and Prejudice inside joke, you’d probably wear it every single day.”

Jason opened his mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again—clearly realising too late he had no more high ground here.

“That’s different,” he shrugged, attempting to appear nonchalant.

“It is absolutely not.”

Damian crossed his arms, unimpressed. “Todd, if you acquire a shirt depicting a cartoon author making a pun, I will burn it.”

Jason gasped with full theatrical offense. “You will not be touching my hypothetical Jane Austen shirt.”

Tim snorted. “That’s assuming you can find one in your size. I doubt they’d print niche literary merchandise for—”

He gestured vaguely at Jason.

Jason stepped closer. “For what, Timothy?”

“For people built like a fridge—a refrigerator, even.”

“Say that again.”

Tim, entirely unfazed by or uncaring for death, repeated serenely. “For people built like a refrigerator.”

Damian coughed into his fist—the closest he got to effectively covering up his laughter—which only made Jason more offended.

“I am rugged,” Jason declared, jabbing a thumb at his chest. “Masculine. Statuesque. A cool one.”

“You are square,” Damian corrected.

“Square!”

Tim patted Jason’s shoulder with mock pity. “You have presence. A powerful silhouette. Industrial. Contemporary architecture. Brutalist.”

Damian nodded approvingly. “Precisely. A walking Brutalist museum.”

Jason stared at them like they had personally delivered him to his villain back.

“Peter better not pick up any of your attitudes,” he muttered, scooping up the remaining shopping bags to escape this slander. “You guys aren’t good influences on my nephew.”

He stomped off.

Tim and Damian waited two beats.

“He is absolutely gonna look up Jane Austen pun shirts.” Tim said.

Damian nodded solemnly. “I will prepare the lighter fluid.”

By the time the newly bought stuff had been properly put away, Peter followed Dick and Jason down the stairs, where they heard voices filling up the dining area.

The air smelled like herbs and roasted vegetables, something savory and no doubt well made.

Alfred was setting the table with his usual calm efficiency. Cass was already sitting in her seat, chin in hand, watching Tim and Damian argue about something with all the emotional investment of a person watching a mildly entertaining documentary.

Cass perked up when she saw the three of them approach, eyes brightening just a little more. She raised her hand in a tiny wave.

Peter blinked, hesitated in the doorway, then lifted his own hand and waved back. Cass smiled.

“Good evening,” Alfred said, glancing up at the new arrival with that gentle, all-seeing expression. “Dinner is ready. Master Peter, please take a seat wherever you like. Master Bruce and Master Duke will be arriving shortly.”

Peter hovered for a second, unsure, until Dick nudged him towards the chair between himself and Tim and across from Cass, Jason, and Damian.

Peter sat, folding his hands in his lap. Cass leaned a little closer across the table, examining him. Not staring, just observing. Like she was trying to identify a bird feather pattern or the shape of a tree leaf. Her gaze was soft and curious.

Hello, she signed slowly, her hands moving before her as she spoke. My name is Cass.

Peter smiled shyly before raising his own hands. I’m Peter.

“You know sign language?” Dick asked softly from beside him.

“A decent amount.”

“Know any other languages we should also know about?” Jason asked teasingly from across the table.

“A decent amount of Spanish and Italian. Some mandarin. Oh! I also have a mentor who teaches me enough Russian to get by,” Peter answered as he used his fingers to count the different languages he knew.

Jason whistled. “We got ourselves a little brainiac.”

Tim nearly choked on his water.

“Russian?” he repeated, coughing once. “You know Russian? Casual. Just—yeah. Sure. Let’s put that on the list of things to unpack.”

Damian turned to Peter. He squinted—evaluating, recalculating, filing away.

“You use present tense. Who teaches you?” he asked, voice genuinely curious instead of his usual interrogation-mode.

Peter opened his mouth, hesitated, then amended gently. “Someone from my neighbourhood.”

Jason recognized the tone. He shot Dick a glance. Dick dipped his head once—silent agreement: don’t push it.

Too bad Damian and Tim didn’t pick up on it.

“Name?” Damian asked.

“Ms. Natasha.” Peter answered hesitantly.

“She your homeschool teacher?” Tim asked, staring at Peter for any micro change in expression.

Peter shook his head before turning back to Cass. Are they always so curious?

Cass laughed lightly. You have fans.

“You know we also understand sign language too, right?” Jason spoke up.

Peter stared him dead in the eyes as his hands moved. I figured.

Dick laughed just as Bruce and Duke walked in.

Bruce’s entrance was quiet—yet the room seemed to adjust around him. Duke, on the other hand, was all energy, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, eyes wide as he scanned the new addition to the household.

“Nice to finally meet you, Peter,” Duke greeted, voice a little too loud, but full of genuine excitement. “Tim was talking about you nonstop during school today. Welcome to the manor!”

Peter blinked, caught somewhere between confusion and amusement. “Nice to meet you too.” He glanced at Cass, who shrugged with a small smirk.

Jason leaned back in his chair as Duke and Bruce slid into their own. Alfred began presenting the food.

Peter looked up at Dick. “So have I met all your siblings now?”

Dick shook his head with a chuckle. “Technically you got one more.”

Peter nodded, fingers tapping against his watch as he looked around the table. Everyone was going for their food, partaking in conversations in between bites. The kid took three big breaths, his chest rising and falling dramatically with each intake of air.

Jason was about to say something, and Dick was about to move to check in on him, but Cass beat them to it.

She leaned a little closer across the table and waved her hand to catch his attention. The second his eyes landed on her, she signed slowly. Everyone’s just excited. It gets a little loud sometimes, even for me.

Peter’s fingers stilled mid-tap. A small, almost imperceptible sigh escaped him, and his shoulders relaxed fractionally.

Even for you? He signed back.

Cass’s lips curled into a soft smile, her eyes warm. They mean well, but sometimes I like peace and quiet.

Peter nodded before he reached out for his juice cup. Jason watched as Dick scooped more and more food onto Peter’s plate.

Jason leaned back slightly in his chair, observing the quiet choreography between father and unknowing son. There was no overt display of affection—no clumsy pat on the head, no boisterous teasing—but the care in every movement was unmistakable.

Dick’s eyes softened as he watched Peter pick his fork up and start eating.

Even Jason could see the relief in Dick’s eyes just seeing the kid eat actual food.

Dick didn’t even bother hiding it—his shoulders eased, his jaw unclenched, the line between his brows smoothing out, and the fact that his entire body was directed to face Peter with nothing but pure adoration in his eyes as he watched the kid. To Dick, who had met Peter as a kid who was either homeless and alone or forced to live with a neglectful parent, eating was an emotional milestone.

Peter took another bite of Alfred’s roast.

“Good?” Dick asked softly.

Peter nodded, mouth full, cheeks slightly puffed out.

He swallowed before turning to where Alfred stood behind Bruce. “It’s really good, Mr. Alfred.”

Dick’s smile seemed permanent on his face. Alfred thanked the kid before reminding him to focus on eating.

Cass reached out across the table and waved for Peter’s attention. Did you have a fun day today?

Peter signed back. Lots of fun.

Jason’s gaze flickered between his siblings and nephew. Cass and Peter were signing back and forth between themselves. Dick believed he was sneaky as he refilled Peter’s plate again and again. Damian, Duke, and Tim continued their debate about some assignment again, even if Tim was not so subtle in his observations of Peter’s watch.

But just watching them all, something warm and comfortable twinged in his chest. This felt right.

As dinner began to wind down, Alfred began clearing the table. Peter tried getting up to help, but the older man had gently taken the plates from his hands and simply told him, “I thank you for your help, Master Peter, but I do believe Master Bruce wishes to get to know you more.”

Jason watched Peter blink, probably unsure if that was a polite excuse or a coded order to sit still. But either way, Peter sat back between Tim and Dick.

“So what do you wanna do after dinner?” Jason asked. “Movie? Or do you wanna hit the hay early?”

“I think I’m gonna work on my glasses,” Peter answered.

“What kind of project involves glasses?” Tim asked.

“I thought you were doing that on Friday?” Dick added.

The kid opened his mouth to answer. But Bruce rising from his seat stopped whatever Peter was going to say.

“Actually, I was hoping to talk to Peter in my office,” Bruce spoke gently but no less firm and decisive.

Jason’s eyes flickered between Bruce, Dick, and Peter. He noted that even Dick was hesitant or was…unsure over Bruce’s words.

Jason could practically hear the shift in the room—the casual conversations dying as heads turned to Bruce, the soft clink of silverware fading, and Dick squaring his shoulders, ready for anything.

“Sure, let’s go,” Dick spoke up, his paternal instincts itching the back of his neck.

Bruce simply shook his head. “You all can go watch a movie for the rest of the evening. Peter and I have some things to discuss.”

“Where Peter goes, I go.”

Jason watched Dick rise to match Bruce. His brother even purposely angled himself to cover Peter from Bruce’s gaze.

“Dick, I just want to talk to him,” Bruce assured his eldest. “Nothing more.”

“If it’s nothing serious, I’m sure you wouldn’t mind me sitting in with him then.”

Jason got up, ready to step in at any second. Fortunately, Dick was the first to back down when Peter tugged on his sleeve.

“It’s okay, Dick,” Peter assured him. “I’ll see you at breakfast tomorrow.”

Dick’s breath hitched—and Jason saw the war behind his eyes.

He crouched down so they were eye-level, his voice low and steady.

“You sure?” he asked, the words gentle but threaded with tension so thin it almost rang.

Peter nodded.

Jason could hear Dick’s jaw click, but he relented nonetheless.

They watched as Peter and Bruce left in the direction of his office. Nobody spoke until the two of them disappeared into the hallway. But each of them strained to hear footsteps anyways.

“Tim,” Dick’s voice cut through the silence, his gaze still on the doorway his son disappeared down. “You still have those listening devices in Bruce’s office you think we don’t know about?”

Tim jumped in his seat. “Yeah, yeah—wait, Bruce found them last night. He made me take them out.”

Jason caught Dick clench his fists. “So we don’t know what they’ll talk about in there.”

“Father isn’t going to do anything,” Damian spoke up, crossing his arms. “He will likely brood. And stare. Then say something about trust and how your son could feel safe here. It will be uncomfortable, painfully so for your son, but father knows his limits.”

“Most of the times,” Duke muttered under his breath.

Jason tried patting Dick’s shoulder to reassure him. “Don’t worry, Dickwad; worst-case scenario is that he emotionally steamrolls a nervous twelve-year-old because that’s his natural speaking style, and a couple hundred kids can’t change that out of him.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Dick snapped. “Peter has been through enough. What he needs is time to feel safe with us. I should be in there with him. Even if the conversation is awkward, I should be in there with him to ease his overthinking.”

No one disagreed.

The room stayed quiet for a moment.

Then Tim cleared his throat.

“So we’re absolutely eavesdropping, right?”

Jason patted Dick’s shoulder once before turning back to his siblings.

“Obviously.”

The group walked as one to Bruce’s office with Dick at the front. The office door was predictably closed. They each pressed an ear to the door, Tim revealing a glass cup he brought along to help with listening in.

“You’re such an idiot.” Duke shook his head at the sight of the glass cup.

“Shhh.”

But no matter how quiet they were or how much time passed, they heard nothing. No voices from inside, no feet moving, not even Bruce’s famous exasperated sigh.

Then Cass stood properly and twisted the doorknob, pushing the door open.

“Cass—”

The office was empty. No sign of anyone even being in there.

Jason could hear Dick’s heart stop.

For one full second, no one breathed. No one spoke. No one moved.

Then everyone moved.

Dick crossed the threshold first, eyes sweeping the room like a trained operative rather than a worried father. Chairs unmoved. Papers undisturbed.

“Where—” Duke started.

“Split up,” Dick immediately ordered, falling into his vigilante persona. “Cass, Duke, take Peter’s room. Make sure nothing is missing and there’s no sign of him having left through one of the windows again. Tim, Damian, take the gardens and greenhouse. Jason, you and I are going to the cave.”

The group nodded at his words, each pair immediately running off to do the task assigned to them.

Jason followed Dick down to the cave, watching carefully as Dick’s fists turned white and his stride grew more and more rigid.

Peter and Bruce weren’t in the cave.

Jason got a text from Duke confirming that none of Peter’s belongings look out of place and there are no open windows anywhere.

Tim called not long after. They weren’t in the gardens or greenhouse, and even Alfred doesn’t know where they disappeared off to.

“But Jason, there’s something else Damian noted,” Tim spoke over the phone’s speaker. “One of Bruce’s cars are missing.”

Jason’s stomach dropped.

He turned just in time to see Dick grip his phone like a lifeline as he called Barbara. He could see when his brother’s shoulders went tight, the way his jaw clenched so hard a muscle jumped.

“Which car,” Dick demanded, voice low and controlled in the way only someone trying very hard not to break could sound.

There was a shuffle as Tim spoke with Damian.

“Uh. The black one.”

Jason blinked. “…The unmarked one? The one without GPS?”

“The extremely boring one that looks like a dentist’s car,” Tim added, because of course he did.

Dick swore under his breath—something in Romani Jason didn’t know but was sure translated to You have got to be kidding me.

“That’s the one,” Damian spoke up, voice cutting in sharp. “Father only uses that car when he intends not to draw notice.”

Dick dragged both hands through his hair just as Barbara picked up the call. “Babs, I need to know if you can find Bruce’s car on any of the city’s cameras.”

“What? Why? What happened?” Barbara questioned over call as Dick put her on speaker. Despite her questions, they could hear the clacking of her keyboard.

“He wanted to talk to Peter,” Jason explained. “Alone. Told us it’d be in his office, but that’s empty, and his car’s missing.”

“I knew I should have insisted on staying with him,” Dick cursed, pulling at his hair. “I had a gut feeling. I shouldn’t have left Peter alone. I promised that I wouldn’t leave him alone.”

“Hey, don’t blame yourself!” Jason scolded the man. “He’s with Bruce. No matter what we think of the man, he’s not gonna hurt your son.”

Dick didn’t answer immediately.

“We’ll see.”

Half an hour later and they hadn’t returned. Night was taking over, and they all knew they had patrols they couldn’t push aside tonight.

Tim was the first to say it, though everyone had been thinking it.

“We need to suit up.”

No one argued.

Within minutes, the cave echoes with the sound of boots, zippers, grapple checks, and quiet breathing. Utility belts snapped into place. Capes settled. Masks were adjusted on.

Dick stared at himself in the mirror. His fingers hovering above the Nightwing emblem on his chest piece.

Jason walked up beside him without speaking. He didn’t put on the Red Hood helmet yet. Just stood there.

“I knew something was off,” Dick breathed, shaking his head. “Peter’s still so—”

He cut himself off before the word small could leave his tongue. Because Peter wasn’t small. Not really. But he was fragile in the ways kids who survived too much too fast tended to be. He still flinched at loud noises, had to breathe to calm himself when he was overwhelmed, and leaned towards Dick when he unknowingly wanted support.

“I just had him here. Safe. I should’ve—”

“You did,” Jason cut in. “You listened to your fatherly instincts and stood up. But you also listened to when he said he was okay.

His voice softened further. “You didn’t override him. That matters, Dick. Bruce’ll bring him home. Then you can chew that old man as soon as he does.”

That got through.

Dick nodded before moving towards his bike. He would have to trust Bruce to take care of his son.

They left the cave in silence.

Patrol was uneventful for Jason. The same can’t be said about Tim, Damian, and Dick’s night. Apparently the power went out at the Wayne offices for a second or two. Tim had thrown a fit about it over comms. Last Jason heard, they couldn’t find the source, and Tim thinks it might have been a power overload.

Jason began to head back to the cave as soon as he caught the first sight of daybreak.

He must have been the first to arrive back. He changed quickly, washed up just as fast, and made his way back to his room.

He was hidden in the shadows of the manor when the front door opened. Thinking it was an intruder, Jason stuck close to the wall, watching and waiting.

Until he saw it was Bruce and Peter.

Peter looked exhausted—face tucked against Bruce’s shoulder, hair wild and cheeks flushed with sleep. Bruce looked…different. Not tense, not brooding… something domestic.

They hadn’t noticed him, and he wasn’t about to reveal himself just yet. So he followed from the shadows.

Bruce carried the half-asleep Peter through the foyer and up the stairs. He moved like each step was something deliberate. Like he was holding something important. Not fragile. Just…precious.

Jason followed silently, heart beating a little louder than it should.

“I got glasses,” Peter yawned against Bruce’s shoulder, eyes still closed. “Can we start working on it when I wake up?”

“When you wake up, chum,” Bruce softly answered.

“And Tony needs to wash—”

“When you wake up, chum.”

Bruce pushed open the door to Peter’s room with his shoulder. The door clicked softly as he nudged it open.

Jason leaned in closer.

Bruce lowered Peter onto the bed with a gentleness that didn’t seem possible for hands trained to break bones. He reached out and brushed a stray curl away from Peter’s forehead.

“We gotta check on Tony at lunch. And then work on F.R.I.D.A.Y—”

“Sleep,” Bruce whispered, voice barely audible.

Jason retreated back into the hallway shadows before Bruce could see him.

He waited until he heard Bruce’s footsteps fade down the corridor—slow, tired, heavy—before he let himself exhale.

He leaned his head back against the wall.

“What the hell?”

Chapter Text

Dick’s eyes twitched the second Bruce entered the kitchen.

When he got home from patrol the night before, the first thing he did was check on Peter’s room, relieved to find his son tucked beneath the blankets, breathing soft and even. He sat by his bedside for a moment, listening to the gentle inhale-exhale that reassured him he was here, home, safe.

But relief didn’t erase the sour taste of the night. Didn’t erase the helplessness and guilt that had curled tight in his chest like barbed wire the second Peter and Bruce disappeared down the hallway.

So when morning came and he settled in the kitchen—one of the first up, hands curled around a mug of coffee whose steam warmed his face—Dick’s eyes twitched at the sight of Bruce stepping in.

Bruce had the audacity to yawn. Dick’s eyes narrowed as he watched him simply cross to the coffee maker.

“Where did you go last night.” Dick cut the quiet, his words coming off less like a question and more like a demand for an answer.

Alfred, who was already there and humming faintly as he whisked something in a bowl, paused just long enough to send a look between Dick and Bruce.

Bruce’s back remained to him as he poured coffee. “He didn’t seem comfortable in my office. I assumed a drive around would help put him in ease.”

“Don’t lie to me.” Dick’s hands tightened around his mug. “You didn’t even attempt to go to your office last night. You went straight for the cars, didn’t you? And you oh so coincidentally take the car without a GPS. So don’t lie to me. Especially when it comes to my son.”

Bruce paused mid-stir. His back flexed—small, almost invisible.

“Where did you go.”

Dick’s glare was sharp. Narrowed in anger as he watched Bruce’s imposing figure for any sign or tell of the truth.

Bruce didn’t turn around immediately. The spoon in his hand didn’t stop stirring.

“Bruce.” Dick repeated, voice quiet, but it vibrated with something dangerous. Teetering between anger and fury. “Where did you take my son.”

Finally, Bruce set the spoon down. Even the small, metallic tap felt too loud. He turned to face Dick. He didn’t look defensive. He didn’t look guilty either. He looked like it was just any other morning. It was enough for Dick to grind his teeth in frustration.

“We drove around the city. Peter liked the lights. We kept driving until he fell asleep,” Bruce answered.

Dick slammed his fist against the table.

“You’re lying to me.”

Bruce shook his head once. “I only asked him how he’s finding the Manor and if everyone was treating him alright. I asked him of his guardian and whether he is open to trying the exam for Gotham Academy. I asked of his interests and what he was interested in doing. Then he fell asleep, and I carried him back to his room.”

Dick didn’t believe a word he was saying. It was beginning to make sense. Everything Bruce was saying made sense. There isn’t any real reason to doubt him.

But he still felt like it was a lie. How much of it could be a lie? Dick wasn’t sure. But his senses were telling him something was off. The hairs on the back of his neck rose, and that was enough to convince him that Bruce was lying.

“I don’t believe you.”

The words hung in the kitchen like a guillotine—sharp, ready to strike, and impossible to ignore.

Bruce didn’t react. At least not in any way Dick could see. But the silence between them tensed.

Then footsteps and morning chatter crashed into the room like whiplash.

The others began to file into the kitchen. Jason, Tim, Duke, Cass, and Damian. Loud and half-awake as they usually are before class.

“Bruce, did you hear that the power at the offices went out last night?” Tim whined as he made a beeline for the coffee maker. Not even noticing the tension as he moved.

The others didn’t seem to notice—or if they noticed, at least they didn’t comment on it.

As they moved through the kitchen, each making their own drinks before sitting in their seats to wait for the food Alfred was finishing up with, Jason slid into one of the free seats beside Dick.

“You good?” Jason asked quietly, noting Dick’s posture—coiled tight, protective and suspicious, ready to fight when given the opportunity.

Dick shook his head. He turned away from Bruce and met Jason’s eyes.

“Is Peter up yet?” He asked.

“I checked on him to let him know breakfast is ready,” Duke spoke up as he poured himself a glass of water. Soon he would have to leave for morning patrol. “He was just getting changed. Said he’ll be down soon.”

Dick nodded.

“Bruce say anything?” Jason asked from beside him, voice still quiet.

“Says they went for a drive around the city,” Dick spat the words. The disbelief obvious in his tone.

Alfred began presenting breakfast as everyone took their seats. Pancakes and bacon. The usual comfort breakfast food.

Dick filled two plates of food. He moved the second plate to the empty seat beside him, like muscle memory he didn't even know he had.

“At least nothing was lost or taken during the power outage,” Tim sighed as he began to eat.

“Then I’m surprised you’re heading to school instead of the office,” Duke commented.

“I don’t know, man,” Tim shrugged with a smirk. “I’m unpredictable.”

“Drake had a paper due last week and is attending today to beg his teacher for an extension,” Damian cut in.

Tim looked at him like a betrayed man.

Damian continued without looking up from his plate, tone flat and cruelly amused. “He rewrote three separate contingency plans for circumventing corporate building security last night but somehow could not complete a two-page analysis on The Great Gatsby. Pathetic.”

Tim groaned into his pancakes. “You know, one of these days, you’re going to discover empathy, and we’re all going to be so proud of you.”

Damian shrugged.

The table descended into laughter, but all of it sounded muted to Dick. He simply watched Bruce at the head of the table. He watched every movement. Every breath. Every casual I haven’t done anything wrong facade that he’d grown up studying.

He didn’t trust it.

“Morning, Pete,” Jason’s voice brought Dick back to the present.

Dick turned and saw Peter scuffle in. His kid yawned and waved lazily in greeting. He was wearing a grey hoodie today, one with a small Superman logo embroidered near the breast pocket area.

“Good morning,” Peter yawned in response, his eyes moving around the table until they landed on Dick and the empty seat beside him.

Dick immediately softened at the sight of Peter, a smile immediately blooming on his face as he walked nearer.

“Good morning, Peter,” Dick greeted as Peter slid into the seat beside Dick.

He pushed the plate he filled closer to Peter. The kid nudged closer to Dick without really needing to think about it.

The room continued with conversations. Tim joked about academic bribery. Jason stole bacon from Damian’s plate and got stabbed at lightly with a fork. Duke pleaded with Tim over not resorting to academic bribery. Cass was peeling fruit and leaving them on Damian’s plate.

It felt normal. Like any other lazy morning.

Except Dick’s heartbeat hadn’t slowed, and his anger at Bruce hadn’t subsided.

Dick gripped his coffee cup so tightly his knuckles whitened.

“So what are your plans for today, Pete?” Jason asked as Damian pulled his fork from his hand.

Dick turned his head and caught Peter’s shrug.

“Still tired?” Dick asked softly. “You can always go back to sleep after eating.”

Peter shook his head. “I’m good. Just not a morning person.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I have to stop by somewhere.”

Dick watched his son eat. He had a million questions. But his concern of overwhelming Peter outweighed all else.

“By the way,” Peter spoke up, looking around the table and catching everyone’s eyes. “When am I meeting my dad?”

The shift in the room was subtle—but it was immediate.

Conversation didn’t stop so much as it thinned. Every voice fading into silence one by one, like someone had turned the volume down on the world.

Peter didn’t seem to notice as he devoured his pancakes.

But everyone else in the room tensed.

Dick felt his pulse slam in his ears.

Peter kept eating, oblivious to the ripple of panic that moved around him.

“When am I meeting him?” he repeated when no one answered right away. He looked between them, brows raising, like the question was normal. Reasonable. Innocent.

Because to him, it was.

He didn’t know.

Bruce cleared his throat first.

But Dick reacted before Bruce could say a word.

“Hey.” Dick said softly. “We’ll talk about that, okay? Just—privately. Later.”

Peter blinked, startled by the softness, not the meaning. “Oh. Uh—okay. No rush or anything.”

Jason leaned forward, elbows on the table. His voice was warm and casual—but aimed at Peter with intent to divert.

“You said you have to stop somewhere; where’s somewhere?”

Peter perked up at the question. “Oh, y’know. About.”

“Where to?” Dick asked. “I can drive.”

“Just wanted to walk around my neighbourhood.” Peter said. “Need some fresh air to clear my head. Then I think I’ll stop by the library to work on a project. I’ll be back before dinner, though.”

“Sure. What time do you wanna—”

“I’ll drive you, Peter.”

Dick’s head snapped towards Bruce. The speed at which his head turned made even Jason wince for him.

He felt his eyes twitch at the nonchalance in Bruce’s demeanour when he said those words.

Peter, mid-sip of orange juice, blinked. “Um.”

“It’s not an inconvenience,” Bruce replied, voice gentle in a way that felt calculated. “You’re still new to the city. It’s better if someone goes with you.”

Dick’s fork creaked under the pressure of his grip.

Peter let out a small laugh—awkward, but sincere. “I mean, yeah, Gotham is… Gotham. But I should get used to walking around it.”

“You will,” Bruce said. Tone still calm. “But not today.”

His gaze flickered—just once—to Dick.

“Bruce,” Dick said finally, voice low and too steady. “I said I’d drive him. I meant it.”

Bruce didn’t look away.

“And I said I will,” he replied. “Peter, I’m heading to my office today anyway. A stop at the library won’t hurt my trip.”

“But the company had that outage last night, right?” Dick wouldn’t let Bruce win. Couldn’t. Not until he knew the truth of what happened last night. “You should hurry there right away. I can drive Peter. I’m pretty much free today anyways.”

Bruce didn’t so much as blink.

“It’s no problem to me,” he said simply, tone infuriatingly even. “Barbara is on the way to work, and it’s not like I’d be going out of my way.”

Dick’s jaw clenched. “But an emergency is an emergency, right? You shouldn’t waste a second.

Peter looked up from his pancakes, eyes flickering between the two of them like a tennis match. He was going to say something, but Dick briefly looked away from Bruce to put another pancake or two on Peter’s plate.

He was successfully distracted.

Jason leaned back, watching Bruce like he was sighting down a rifle scope. “I mean, Dick’s right. If the company’s in crisis mode after such an outage, you should be putting out fires, not sightseeing.”

Bruce set his mug down.

He looked at Jason. “I’m sure they can survive five minutes without me. After all, I’m here instead of there right now.”

Dick seethed. He inhaled once, slow and tight, like he was physically holding back everything he wanted to say.

Cass’s eyes flickered between the two men, her expression unreadable—but Tim and Duke were already bracing. Even Damian sat back in his chair, sensing the shift in temperature.

Peter chewed through his bacon and pancakes without a care in the world. But it slowed when he finally picked up on the tension.

Dick saw that. He saw Peter’s brown eyes just get bigger when realising the tension at the table.

And something in him cracked a little more.

“Bruce,” Dick said again—falsely calm, but the edge was razor thin now. “I said I would drive him.”

“And I said I will,” Bruce repeated, voice still maddeningly calm. “Peter and I have things to finish discussing. The drive will give us privacy.”

There was a heartbeat of silence.

Not even Peter’s soft chewing was heard.

That was when Dick stiffened.

He didn’t even want to look at Bruce anymore—he turned to Peter.

“Pete,” he murmured, tone soft enough to cut through panic without feeding it, “You don’t have to go anywhere you don’t want to go. Not with anyone. You make the call.”

Everyone held very, very still.

Peter swallowed.

“Um,” Peter mumbled as he turned away from Dick and back onto his finished plate. “Yeah, I—um, yeah, I guess I’ll go with Bruce.”

Dick froze.

Peter continued, voice small and hesitant.

“Sorry, Dick.”

Dick’s chest tightened—but he forced a smile that was gentle, not hurt. “There’s no need to apologize; you didn't do anything wrong, okay, kiddo. I’ll see you later today. We can hang out then.”

Peter looked relieved—like Dick had given him permission to breathe.

“Thanks, Dick.” Peter thanked him before standing with his empty plate.

Bruce rose as well, calm and composed, like this had been the expected outcome all along.

Everything else was background noise as Dick watched Peter try to convince Alfred he could help wash dishes.

Jason watched Dick carefully—because Dick didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t breathe.

The smile was still there, gentle, supportive—

—but Jason could see the fracture line in it. A thin crack right behind the eyes.

Dick watched Peter as Peter waved him bye as he dashed back to his room. Probably to grab his backpack and notebooks.

The second both Bruce and Peter were out of sight, Dick finally exhaled. But it was not steady.

His hands flattened on the table, fingers splayed like he needed the contact to stay grounded.

Jason broke the silence first, voice low, not teasing for once.

“You okay?”

Dick swallowed. Once. Twice.

“…I don’t know,” he admitted, voice thin.

No performance. No mask. Just… honesty.

Duke turned to face him, voice level. “You know he didn’t choose Bruce over you, right?”

Dick nodded, but it was automatic—obedient—not believing.

Jason scooted his chair closer, shoulder bumping Dick’s.

“He wasn’t choosing Bruce over you. He was choosing… not causing a fight. He’s a peacekeeper. We’ve seen that.”

Dick’s jaw clenched. “He shouldn’t have to be.”

“No,” Jason agreed softly. “He shouldn’t.”

“He said he’ll be stopping by the library, right?” Tim asked aloud. “Barbara will probably call you if he gets too lost in his research.”

Dick’s eyes closed. He forced himself to calm his breathing, exaggerating every intake of air like he’d seen Peter do so many times before.

He opened his eyes slowly. His head turned just enough for him to stare at the empty chair beside him. The one where Peter had eaten breakfast just minutes ago.

His voice was quiet when he spoke.

“I’m going to find out what Bruce’s hiding.”

Tim didn’t plan to cut class.

He had fully intended to drag himself through the school day like a half-living cryptid fueled entirely by caffeine and spite. But Steph had appeared mid-morning break, looped her arm through his, and said something like:

“We’re getting real coffee. School coffee tastes like sadness and chalk.”

Duke didn’t want to leave, but Tim saw no harm in a little walk during break.

Then they were walking.

And that walk turned into a sit.

And the sit turned into one coffee and then another.

And then Tim looked at the time.

“…I had a class,” he mumbled, staring down at his now-empty mug like it had personally betrayed him.

Steph blew on her tea, utterly unbothered. “You only missed one. Maybe two. Definitely three. Probably four.”

Tim slumped forward, forehead gently thudding against the table.

“You’re a bad influence.”

“Incorrect.” Steph made a sound like a buzzer. “I’m an excellent influence. You were about to fall asleep standing upright like a Victorian ghost. I saved you from public humiliation.”

Tim lifted his head just enough to squint at her. “Steph, I already face-planted into a row of lockers yesterday.”

“And?”

Tim sighed, defeated.

He didn’t intend to cut class. But now that he had, he might as well make the most of it.

“Okay,” Tim sighed, standing up and cracking his back. “I was meaning to check up on the company, anyway. Been curious about what’s been happening since the power outage last night.”

“You’re still on that?” Steph groaned. “Booooring.”

“I’m being responsible,” Tim replied. “I’ll just check in with Bruce at the office and then maybe make it in time for last period.”

“Boooring.”

“You’re impossible,” Tim sighed.

She waved him goodbye as he left her in the coffee shop.

Hailing a taxi wasn’t hard. He slid into the back seat and rattled off the address automatically.

Halfway through the drive, he rubbed his eyes. The caffeine from moments earlier was barely making a dent. He hardly slept last night.

The car pulled up to the curb. He paid, slipped out, and stepped through the huge glass doors like he’d done a thousand times before. The lobby was moving—phones ringing, staff hustling, security scanning badges. Everything seemed normal. As if last night was just a hiccup.

And it could have just been a hiccup.

It could have just been an accidental overload, and the outage could have been completely normal. It did, after all, only last a second or two.

But there was just something about it that irked Tim.

He couldn’t exactly name it. He wasn’t even sure if this was paranoia or not. But something was telling him that maybe this wasn’t so accidental.

He flashed his badge to the security scanner and got on the elevator. By the time the doors opened at the executive level, he’d already rehearsed what he was going to say if anyone asked why he wasn’t at school.

The first person he saw was Lucius.

“Afternoon,” Tim greeted, catching the man by surprise.

Lucius stopped in his tracks. He turned to Tim and blinked.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in school?”

“Finished early,” Tim lied expertly. “Was there a report written about the outage last night?”

“It was handed to Bruce as soon as he arrived this morning.” Lucius nodded.

“He in his office?”

“Yes.”

Tim moved towards Bruce’s office like he’d done thousands of times before. He knocked once before pushing the door open.

Bruce sat behind his desk, papers in hand and reading glasses pushed up on his nose.

“Afternoon, Bruce,” Tim greeted, hoping the casualness of the conversation would be enough to distract him from the fact that he’s not in school. “I wanted to see if you had the outage report. Wanted to look it over.”

Bruce looked up from his papers, and Tim could see the slightly hint of an amused smile on his face.

“I have it here. Though, I was expecting to hand it to you when you arrived after school.”

Tim froze. He gave the older man an embarrassed smile before taking the seat across from him.

“Would you believe me if I said school ended early?”

Bruce handed him the report; the corners of his lips lifted as he softly shook his head.

“Yeah, didn’t think so,” Tim sighed.

“Steph?” Bruce asked mildly.

Tim blinked. “… Yes.”

Bruce hummed like that was the most predictable answer in the world. It probably was.

“Her idea?” Bruce asked.

“No,” Tim answered.

A beat.

Then—because Bruce would wait him out and they both knew it—

“… Mostly.”

Bruce’s smile was small.

Tim opened the report. The outage report wasn’t long—but it was thorough. A clean diagnostics sweep. Backup generators had kicked in the second the outage was sensed, then the power came back almost immediately after. There were no corrupted servers. No data loss. It was just a power cut. Clean.

But Tim’s eyes still narrowed as he reread the words again. Then reread them again. And then another time just to be sure. Then another time just to be sure he was sure that last time.

“Just a clean power cut,” Tim mumbled as he re-read it another time.

“Were you expecting anything else?”

Tim sighed, leaning back in his chair as he skimmed the report another time. “I was hoping for something more exciting.”

Bruce tilted his head. “You think there was something more about the sudden loss in power?”

“I don’t know. My gut’s telling me so.” Tim shrugged, then paused.

He turned his head at the sound of sudden soft humming.

And there, sitting at a coffee table by the glass wall overlooking the city, sat Peter with large headphones covering his ears.

His back was to Tim, but he could recognize that curly brown hair anywhere. The kid was bent over a project of some sort. From where Tim was sitting, he could see a ton of tools, hardware components, and his notebook scattered across the table. There was also a strange gold and red metal mask on the table that almost looked like the face section was ripped by something unnaturally strong. Tim didn’t recognise it or its design.

“Peter?” Tim asked out loud before turning back to Bruce with an eyebrow raised. “I thought he was going to the library?”

Bruce shrugged. “He returned a book at the library, and when Barbara said they don't keep a soldering iron on them, I invited him to finish his project here.”

“Huh.”

Tim got up and walked towards his nephew.

“Hi there, Pete,” Tim greeted as soon as he was in front of him.

Peter slid off one side of the headset when he saw him. His expression dropped when he recognised him as Tim.

“Hi,” Peter replied, voice monotone.

Tim noticed. Of course he noticed.

“You mad at me?” Tim asked.

Peter cocked a brow. “Why would I be mad?”

Now Tim didn’t want to outright confess he put a tracker on Peter the first time they met. That would be embarrassing. Even though the kid most probably already knew about the tracker. And it could be revealing of his vigilante persona. But still embarrassing.

Peter must have sensed the sincerity of Tim’s person, because he sighed tiredly. “I’m willing to forgive you if you promise not to do that again.”

“Deal.”

His nephew nodded in satisfaction.

“So what are you working on?” Tim asked, finally noticing what Peter held in his hands.

He was holding a soldering iron. He was holding it over a pair of squarish-shaped glasses.

What surprised Tim was that the kid’s hands weren’t shaking. Like they were used to handling a soldering iron.

His eyes flickered from the soldering iron to Peter’s face to the tiny intricate wiring spread neatly across the frames of the glasses.

“Are those… AR lenses?” Tim asked, slow and measured, because Peter’s craftsmanship wasn’t amateur. It was experienced.

Peter’s shoulders lifted in a half-shrug.

“Yeah. They’re, um…” He paused for a second as the soldering iron came down onto the glasses. When he lifted the iron, he continued, “Nothing too much. Heads-up display. Target and tracking assistance. Facial recognition. Basic diagnostics overlay. It’s not done yet.”

Basic. Basic, he said.

Tim looked down at the solder points—clean, exact. He recognised the precision. He had done this work. He knew what it took to handle microcircuitry without flinching.

Then another sound caught his attention.

From the headphone cup Peter slid off one ear, Tim could hear the faintest sound of rock music playing through it.

His lips tugged upwards at the rather unexpected music choice.

“Have you been working on this all day?”

Peter shook his head; he was too focused on not burning his hands that he didn't pay attention to what he was saying.

“No. After I checked up on Tony.”

He didn’t seem to have realised his mistake. Tim nodded as he filed that little titbit for later.

To his knowledge, Jason thinks Tony’s a fake guardian figure the kid created to fall back on when people ask about his home life. They hadn’t seen the man. Hadn’t even seen any traces of an adult living in the apartment they found Peter in.

So if this guy’s Peter’s fake guardian, why is he still bringing him up now?

Questions. So many questions.

But knowing Dick would most likely kill him if he overwhelmed the kid, Tim decided to hold back on his questions for the time being.

Instead, he watched as Peter’s hands moved.

His hands moved with an unconscious confidence—small, steady adjustments, the tip of the iron gliding precisely where it needed to go. He didn’t just know what he was doing. He understood it.

Tim’s eyes lifted to catch the way Peter’s brows furrowed just slightly—not in confusion, but in concentration.

“Your flux ratio’s a little high,” Tim murmured.

Peter didn’t even pause. “Yeah, I know. Had to compensate. The wire was thinner than what I usually would like.”

“Which ideally means a lower temp, not more flux.”

“I know,” Peter countered, but not defensively—just… aware. “But I don’t have the right insulation. If I drop temp, I risk a cold joint.”

Tim blinked.

Because yeah. He was right.

“You’ve definitely done this more than once,” Tim whistled.

Peter didn’t look up—just pressed the iron down, exhaled, and pulled away clean. “Actually this is my first time.”

Tim blinked again.

Then he looked towards Bruce, who wasn’t even looking at them, his eyes on more papers in his hands, but still shrugged when he felt Tim’s eyes on him.

“Huh?”

The music playing through Peter’s headphones changed tracks. It was still rock music, with a rhythm still steady enough to match the cadence of soldering.

“Huh?” Tim repeated.

This time, Peter slowed. He wiped the tip of the iron before carefully placing it on its stand. He didn’t even look at Tim as his hands moved to scribble something down in one of his many notebooks.

“I think I know the fundamentals. Some of it, I kinda guess. Some more of it, I winged.”

Tim couldn’t not stare at him. Like his brain was trying to compute several equations and had just discovered one of the variables was a child who apparently guessed his way through professional circuitry.

“You winged microcircuitry,” Tim repeated slowly, as if tasting the words. “Wait. Like. Like you were eyeballing a cake recipe.”

Peter shrugged, moving on to the pile of wires beside him. “If you understand what each part does, you can kind of feel where it should go.”

“Feel—” Tim began, then gave up. He ran a hand through his hair, let our a breath that sounded like it was trying not to turn into a laugh. “Dick is never going to believe this.”

Just then, Peter looked up from his work.

“I’m about to do something super top secret,” Peter said in a dead serious tone. “I can’t have you looking at my secret.”

Tim laughed, ruffled Peter’s hair, then stood to leave.

“I’ll see you later,” Tim called out, waving bye to both Bruce and Peter. “Let me know when you guys are leaving; I’ll probably hitch a ride.”

The door shut behind him.

Tim made his way to his office, his hands already pulling his phone from his pocket. He scrolled through his chats until he found Dick’s name.

“Okay, go over it one more time,” Jason sighed, dropping his head between his knees. “This is seriously all you got?”

“Well, I’ve kind of been preoccupied,” Dick groaned. “Okay, even I heard how awful that last take was.”

“Just be simple. Don’t overthink it too much. He’s obviously got his overthinking from you.”

Dick groaned again. Louder this time. But he straightened himself out, turned back to the mirror, and stared at his reflection dead in the eyes.

“Peter,” He spoke slowly. “I’m your father.”

Silence.

Then Jason groaned even louder this time. He had to grab a pillow and shove his face into it just to dull the sound.

Dick turned to Cass, who looked back at him with her ever-composed expression.

I think that was good, she signed.

“Don’t lie,” Jason groaned. “Dick, you can’t be serious.”

“You said be simple!”

Jason sat up, hair a mess, face a study in sheer disbelief.

“Simple,” he corrected, pointing at Dick with the gravitas of a lawyer in court, “does not mean emotionally catastrophic soap opera reveal. No one wants to hear the ‘I am your father’ line. There’s a whole franchise dedicated to why that goes wrong!”

Dick threw his hands up. “Okay, so what do I say?! ‘Hey Peter, remember that father that we said is gonna meet you? Well, surprise! I am that father, and I’ve been here the whole time’. I sound like a psycho.”

“It does sound like you’re an emotional psycho,” Jason admitted. “But that’s honestly better than the Vader thing.”

Cass raised her hands and signed slowly, I think he will like the Vader approach.

Jason groaned again.

Dick felt like he was going to rip the hair out of his head. He dropped and slumped against the mirror.

Cass waved her hand in his face to catch his attention. There’s no such thing as perfect timing, she reminded him.

Dick shook his head. “But this should.”

“Then no Vader—”

I think he will like the Vader.

“Cass, no—”

Dick’s phone began ringing. Grateful for the distraction, Dick reached for the call. He chose to ignore Cass’ rapid signing and Jason’s constant repetition of “No, Cass. No Vader.”

“Tim, what’s up?” Dick asked as soon as he answered.

“Hey,” Tim’s voice filled the line. “I was meaning to call you earlier actually. Got busy with some stuff and just remembered now.”

Dick straightened immediately, posture snapping into something like alert big-brother readiness.

“Is everything okay?” he asked, already bracing for the worst.

“Yeah, yeah—everything’s fine,” Tim waved off distractedly, like he was calling while in the middle of doing paperwork. “Just wanted to see if you checked in with Barbara at the library?”

“Yeah, I talked to her earlier,” Dick answered, putting the call on speaker. “You’re on speaker now. Why, what’s up?”

“What did she say?”

Dick blinked. “… Said Peter stopped by, returned his book on nursing and apologised profusely for returning it late.”

“She didn’t say anything else?”

“Why? Should she have?”

“It’s honestly probably nothi—

“Spit it out, replacement,” Jason cut in.

“It’s just that Peter was with Bruce in his office. He was working on an actually really cool project. I just thought you should know.”

Dick’s heart did a backflip.

He shot to his feet so fast Jason actually flinched.

“He’s—he’s with Bruce?” Dick repeated, like Tim had just informed him Peter was riding a tiger down Main Street. “He was just supposed to drop him off.”

“Yeah,” Tim replied before quickly adding, “But he’s not hurt or anything! Not even emotionally. I think he even forgave me for putting a tracker on him that one time.”

Dick wasn’t even aware he was grinding his teeth until Jason pulled on his arm.

Cass lifted her hands. Isn’t that a good thing? He is building connections within the family.’

Dick didn’t answer—because he wasn’t sure of the answer. Not exactly. Bruce and Peter being in the same space wasn’t the issue. It was the why. The how. The suddenness of their closeness when Dick knew Peter for longer. The fact that Peter chose him despite what his siblings say.

And Dick’s chest hurt.

Like someone had stabbed a wine cork into his heart and begun twisting until his heart was drained completely.

“It’s not a problem,” he so obviously lied through gritted teeth.

Tim cleared his throat through the phone.

“And—uh—I also saw a bit of what his project is. And it’s beautiful. Like, I would not expect a kid his age to make.”

“Weird way to describe a project,” Jason cut in.

“No, because—it’s kind of hard to explain why it looks so good to people who don’t get it, but trust me, even the way he was soldering the microcircuit boards was insane.”

Jason blinked. Cass blinked. Dick blinked twice just to be sure.

“Soldering?” Jason asked.

“Yeah, he politely kicked me out before I could see too much. And he was doing it while listening to AC/DC.”

Dick’s eyes unfocused. His brain was playing catch-up with emotional whiplash, new information, worry, relief, and something fragile and proud and terrified all at once.

“Are they still there?” Dick asked.

They could hear Tim hesitate before answering.

“No, they left a bit earlier. I’m just about to head out now, actually. Bruce said they were gonna pick up some more stuff for Peter’s project.”

Dick stopped mid-motion. One hand already on the doorknob, one foot already halfway out.

Gone. That one word knocked the air out of him.

“Where.”

Tim exhaled. “Didn’t say. Just said they were off to get supplies and that they’d meet me at the manor. Neither of them seemed cagey. Just normal.”

Normal.

Dick scoffed at the word.

Normal was worse. Normal meant easy trust. Normal meant Peter had relaxed. Normal meant the kid was walking around with Bruce like that was perfectly fine. Like Dick wasn’t still standing here with his heart in his throat.

Jason dragged a hand down his face. “Could be anywhere. And that’s even assuming Bruce is telling the truth.

Cass lifted her hands, fingers moving with that soft, precise certainty of hers. He’s not afraid. Not in danger. Maybe Bruce just wants to know his grandson. So talk to them, calm.

Dick swallowed.

Calm.

Right.

“I just…” He rubbed the back of his neck, fingers digging in. “I just want to be there. I want him to want me to be there.”

Jason stood and grabbed Dick by the shoulder—not rough, but grounding.

“Dick. He does. He came here. He chose to stay. He sits by you every chance he gets. Hell, he even told the table he wants to meet his dad. You didn’t lose anything.”

Dick nodded.

They heard the front door open.

“Master Bruce, Master Peter, welcome home,” they heard Alfred greet.

They were moving before they realised.

Coming down the stairs, they could hear voices already. Dick could hear Peter’s voice trying to reason with Alfred over allowing him to at least help with dishes. He could vaguely hear Peter saying something about manners maketh the man.

He could also hear Bruce’s deeper reply and Alfred’s calm sigh.

Cass stepped in front of Dick—not to block him, but to look him directly in the eye.

Breathe, she signed.

He did.

He exaggerated each intake of air.

She nodded before lifting her hands once more.

Do the Vader.

“No! Cass!” Jason cut in before glaring at Dick. “Do not do the Vader.”

Jason pushed him forward. Dick caught sight of Cass smiling widely, her hands repeating the same sentence over and over again, Do the Vader, Do the Vader; while Jason tried to block her path.

Peter was readjusting his backpack when Dick neared; the kid’s hair was a mess from the wind outside. Bruce stood beside him, carrying a small paper bag from what looked like a hardware shop.

They did look normal.

And that hurt in a strange, aching way.

Peter looked up first.

His eyes landed on Dick. And lit up.

Like actually lit up.

“Hey, Dick,” Peter greeted, a smile pulled on his lips, warm and wide.

That was all it took.

The rest of the world could’ve burned and Dick wouldn’t have noticed.

“Hey, kiddo,” Dick replied, matching that softness, even though his chest felt too full. “Have a good day?”

Peter nodded, racing down the hall to almost crash into Dick’s legs. Fortunately, the older of the two managed to catch him in time to avoid a collision.

“Got started on my project. Bruce helped me buy a couple things,” Peter grinned. “Quick, I wanna show it to you. It’s not completely done, so don’t have super big expectations, but I wanna show you my progress so far.”

Peter tugged lightly on Dick’s sleeve.

Dick didn’t have to think—not even for a second.

“Yeah,” he breathed, the word coming out with a quiet, helpless smile. “Lead the way.”

Peter practically dragged him back up the stairs—half bouncing, half stumbling in that way kids who forgot they were tired often did. Dick followed easily, letting the momentum pull him along.

They reached Peter’s room. Peter didn’t hesitate; he ran to his bedside and dropped his backpack there. Dick watched as Peter carefully emptied the bag, pulling out notebooks, loose wires, a screwdriver, and then finally, the glasses.

It didn’t look any different from when they first bought it yesterday. Maybe Peter changed the lens to be a bit more tinted, but other than that, Dick wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be looking at.

But despite not quite getting it, when Peter carefully handed it to him like it was made of snow, Dick examined it like it was a work of art.

Peter was already talking, words tumbling out faster than his breath could keep up.

“—Like a HUD, but way simpler. Very, very simpler. Right now it only has a basic overlay. Try it on.”

Peter was very clearly excited. The kid couldn’t stand still. Every part of him fidgeted in anticipation. He buzzed like a bee who just found a flower patch.

Dick carefully put the glasses on at the continued insistence from his son.

They settled lightly on his face—comfortable, almost weightless. The tint was subtle enough that he barely noticed the shift in brightness. For a second, nothing seemed different.

Then the world flickered.

Just once—like a blink that didn’t come from him.

Numbers appeared in the corner of his vision. Soft teal, not harsh, clean font. And then small brackets hovered around Peter—updating as Peter shifted his weight between his feet.

Peter Parker

Occupation: Classified.

Karen’s Note: Would benefit from school.

Dick let out a quiet breath, eyebrows lifting.

“Whoa.”

Peter vibrated.

“Right! Okay, okay, look at me again.” He began jumping in place.

Dick turned his head and watched as the brackets tracked smoothly, locking on to Peter without stutter or lag.

“It follows movement,” Dick murmured, genuinely impressed. Peter grinned as he stopped jumping. “That is—that is really cool.”

“And if you press the notch by the frames on the left side, the info overlay goes away.”

Dick did. The overlay disappeared without a glitch or hiccup.

“Peter,” Dick said, and Peter grinned at him. “This is incredible.”

“Right?” Peter smiled. “For a first attempt, it isn’t half bad. I’m still working on names for it though. At first I was thinking K.I.F.F but that doesn’t sound like a cool enough name.”

Dick laughed.

“Kiff?” Dick repeated, not hiding his laugh this time. “What is that name inspired by?”

“It was supposed to be an acronym,” Peter said instantly, then made a face. “But it’s bad. Like, really bad. So forget that name. I’m gonna need to come up with something else.”

“Okay, okay, we can think of a name a later time,” Dick said, still grinning. “But the real question is—are you gonna show it off at dinner? Because I bet this is something the others would love to see.”

He tapped the side notch again, and the overlay returned—brackets forming around Peter once more.

Peter Parker

Occupation: Classified.

Karen’s Note: Would benefit from in-person school. Enrolment advised.

Peter shrugged as Dick carefully handed the glasses back.

“I’ll probably wear it down, but don’t make a big scene about it. It’s not completely done yet, and I don’t want to introduce it as K.I.F.F. That’s embarrassing.”

Dick laughed. “Alright, you got it. Thanks for showing it to me first. I’m honoured.”

“Yeah,” Peter said, sliding the glasses on. “Well… I wanted to. You’re pretty cool.”

Dick smiled. He reached out and ruffled the kid’s already wind-tussled hair.

“Thank you,” He said softly. “You’re pretty cool, too.”

They headed downstairs.

Voices floated from one of the lounge rooms.

Cass spotted him first. She lifted her hand, moving her fingers in greeting.

Jason was sprawled across the couch with a bowl of popcorn balanced on his chest. Tim was sitting cross-legged on the floor with his laptop open, still wearing his school uniform, and Damian and Duke sat nearby with textbooks balanced on their knees as some documentary played on the TV.

“Hey, kid,” Jason greeted. “Nice glasses.”

Damian looked up from his work. ”I thought you did not require glasses.”

“Just trying something out,” Peter shrugged.

Noticing the glasses, Tim jumped in Peter's direction, looking like a man finding water in a desert.

“Can I try them out?”

Unconsciously, Peter took a step closer to Dick.

“Still not completely done yet.”

“Can I see what you've done so far?”

“Maybe later, Tim,” Dick cut in.

Tim visibly deflated but nodded nonetheless. Though his mumbles were loud enough to be heard, “Won't let me see Karen, now won't let me see the glasses.”

Peter sat in one of the cushioned seats near Cass and Jason.

Cass tugged on Peter's sleeve. Peter, do you know who Vader is?

Jason groaned.

But the kid's eyes immediately brightened so intensely that Dick thought that if the closed the room’s lights, they would still be well lit. Peter swung his entire body to face her.

“Yes.” He answered like it was a life-or-death question.

Dick laughed.

It felt so natural. This whole thing felt so natural.

That he almost forgot his anger towards Bruce. He had almost dismissed it as parental protectiveness and that Bruce might have actually just tried to get to know his grandson better. He was new at this whole father thing.

Dick wanted to believe that. Almost did.

He wanted to believe that Bruce was trying. Awkward and overstepping boundaries at times, but trying nonetheless.

Because Peter was here now, with them, with him, laughing and fitting in. And that warmth made every instinct screaming in Dick's chest feel dramatic, paranoid, and unreasonable.

Maybe Cass was right. Maybe Bruce has just wanted time with his grandson.

Maybe Dick had overreacted.

Maybe—

Bruce and Peter disappeared after dinner. Bruce reappeared just before he was meant to leave for patrol. Peter was getting ready for bed when Dick checked on him.

The same thing happened the next day.

Then the next day.

Then the next day.

Then the following two days.

And every time Dick demanded answers from Bruce, the man would reassure him that all they do is talk. And the handful of times Dick tried talking to Peter about it, his son simply said Bruce was helping him on his project.

He wanted to believe them.

He did believe Peter—mostly. The kid was a terrible liar when it mattered. When Peter said something was fine, usually, it was fine.

But something about it sat wrong in Dick’s chest. A pricking just under the sternum. A quiet, persistent buzz of no, no, something's off.

When Dick spoke directly to Bruce about it, his responses were always clipped and controlled.

Careful.

Bruce Wayne was many things, and careful around family was always a bad sign.

On the sixth night, he and Jason waited in the darkness of the hallways, waiting to follow them to wherever it was they disappeared to.

Jason leaned against the wall beside him, chewing on what Dick hoped was gum. His arms were crossed, one boot propped against the wall.

“This is stupid,” Jason muttered under his breath. “We’re literally spying on Dad and your kid like we’re in a bad sitcom.”

Dick shot him a look. “You didn’t have to come.”

“Oh, please. If B’s doing shady bonding rituals with the mini science prodigy, I absolutely have to see how that plays out.”

Dick rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Truth was, he was grateful Jason was there. Left alone with his thoughts, he might’ve done something reckless—like knock on Bruce’s door and demand answers. Again.

Bruce’s office door opened.

Light spilled into the hallway, framing Bruce’s silhouette. Peter followed close behind him—hoodie half-zipped, hair a mess; he wasn’t wearing his glasses for one. Ever since he had shown Dick, the kid had worn those glasses every second of every day. Sometimes Dick would catch him staring off into space with those glasses on.

“I don’t see why I would have to go,” Peter muttered. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, it sounds like a great time. But I’m kinda busy being a full-time caretaker—”

“You aren’t a full-time caretaker anymore, Peter,” Bruce sighed. “Doctor Leslie has helped—”

“But I doubt there’s anything they’re going to teach that I don’t already know.”

Bruce turned and looked down at Peter with an expression Dick or Jason couldn’t see.

“Peter, school will be good for you. You will likely test out of your own grade and perhaps be put with Damian or Tim and Duke. And, I am sure your father will enjoy the fact that you are attending an in-person school.”

Peter pouted. “You guys keep mentioning him, but I have not heard from him at all since I got here.”

Bruce patted Peter’s head before turning back around and continuing the walk to the garage. Unknowingly leading Dick and Jason too.

They crept down the stairs behind them, sticking close to the wall. Bruce and Peter’s conversation carried easily through the long corridor.

“What if I test out of school?” Peter asked.

“So you’re willing to take the entrance exam?”

Peter shut his mouth.

Dick and Jason watched as they got into the one nondescript black car without a GPS that has been the bane of Dick’s life for the past week.

“We following?” Jason crossed his arms.

“Obviously.”

They waited until the soft rumble of the engine rolled through the garage like distant thunder before moving. Bruce’s taillights cut two red streaks into the darkness as the car turned out of the drive, disappearing down the road that led away from the manor.

Dick swung a leg over his bike; Jason did the same, the familiar growl of the engine filling the space. The night welcomed them as they disappeared down the same road.

The air was sharp and cold, carrying the faint scent of rain that hadn’t quite decided to fall yet. The forest that bordered the road blurred by in streaks of black and silver, rising moonlight cutting across the asphalt in jagged patches.

Bruce’s car was far ahead, barely visible. The man drove like he always did—controlled, deliberate, and just fast enough that following him took focus.

“Think he knows we’re on him?” Jason’s voice crackled through the comms, laced with amusement.

“He’s Bruce,” Dick muttered, eyes narrowing behind his visor. “I don’t doubt if he does."

“Then why’s he not losing us?”

“Maybe he’ll try to get lost in the traffic in the city.”

They fall silent, engines humming low as they weave through cars and late-night pedestrians. The city lights rose around them, glowing and restless, until the road signs shifted and the skyline bent into something older, rougher.

Jason’s tone changed. “We’re heading into Crime Alley.”

Dick’s stomach twisted.

Up ahead, Bruce’s car turned sharply into a narrow side street. The brothers parked a block away and continued on foot, boots echoing softly against cracked pavement.

Turning the corner, they saw it—

The old opera house.

Chapter Text

If you give a billionaire who likely faked unconsciousness a chance to explain himself…

…he's going to ask you more questions than you're probably emotionally ready to answer.

At least, that's what Peter learned the first time he met Bruce Wayne.

The man gets shot on his doorstep (the doorstep in question being an alley around the abandoned theater Peter lives in, but the point still stands), drops unconscious, and Peter—being the good hero that Aunt May raised—carries him inside his little home base when he basically begs, “No hospitals.”

And Peter, for reasons that still escape him, actually listened to the man bleeding out.

In his defense, Peter wasn’t sure if people could die from a bullet to the shoulder. And Mr. Wayne looked like the kind of man who could afford to say things like no hospitals. According to Karen, the man has the money to build an entire hospital at home.

But then—then—the stranger wakes up, finds Tony and Peter’s entire homemade medical setup, and just casually tells Peter that he was sent here by his dad.

Like. What the heck?!

Peter had spent a solid thirty seconds staring at him, half-expecting cameras to pop out from the walls and someone to yell “Gotcha!” because there was no way this was real.

But it was.

“I don’t have a dad,” Peter said with all the sureness of a guy who somehow travelled dimensions and is now a child.

Oh wait…

But despite the absolute weirdness coming out of the older man’s mouth, Peter still cleaned his bullet wound like the absolute gentleman he is. Natasha and Clint had given him lessons once about how to properly treat bullet wounds.

He remembered Natasha’s voice in his head—calm, steady, never rattled even when the words were horrifying.

“Don’t panic at the blood. Clean first, pressure second, close third. Most people don’t die from the hole; they die from infection or shock.”

Peter had repeated those instructions like a mantra as he worked, hands stone steady as he disinfected and sewed up the wound.

So, yeah. Peter knew what to do. He’d done worse—on himself, even. And Bruce Wayne, weird as he was, didn’t cry out or tremble as Peter poured antiseptic over the wound before sewing it closed.

“You’ve done this before,” Bruce had observed, his voice rough but steady.

“Yeah, I’m, uh… weirdly qualified,” Peter had muttered, trying not to think about the fact that he was cleaning one billionaire’s blood on his makeshift cushion bed while another billionaire was in a coma just a few steps from them.

Bruce just watched him—those eyes sharp, almost too sharp for someone who was supposedly concussed.

Then, quietly, he said. “You remind me of your father.”

Peter froze mid-wrap. “Don’t say that. I told you I don’t have a dad.”

Bruce didn’t react. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t raise his voice either. He just kept watching Peter with that unnervingly calm expression that made the kid’s skin prickle.

“I don’t expect you to believe me so quickly,” he said. “But you deserve to know that you have people looking for you.”

Peter let out a shaky laugh. “Right. Sure. As you can see, I already have someone looking out for me.”

Bruce raised a brow as his eyes passed the theater, momentarily pausing on Tony before returning to Peter.

Something flickered in Bruce’s expression—something between sympathy and anger—but he said nothing. He just waited, as if giving Peter room to fill the silence.

And that’s what made it worse. Because silence was dangerous. Silence gave your thoughts space to crawl out of the dark. He had to tune into Bruce’s heartbeat just to fill the quiet.

Finally, Peter exhaled. “Look, Mr. Wayne, I don’t know what game you’re playing, but I think you’ve got the wrong kid. I don’t have parents in this world. Mr. Stark is all I have here.”

Bruce didn’t look away. His voice dropped even lower. “What if we made a deal?”

Peter blinked.

“Deal?”

“Stay with me, my family, meet your father. And in return, I’ll help you take care of your guardian. Real, medical care.”

Peter blinked again. Once. Twice.

The words didn’t make sense. They didn’t fit.

“Wait… what?” he asked, voice caught somewhere between disbelief and a laugh. “You—you can’t just—what kind of deal is that?”

“The kind that benefits you,” Bruce said, tone even as his eyes scanned the scribbles of Peter’s notebooks nearby and collection of broken phones and scraps he found through dumpster diving. “You’re clearly capable, but you shouldn’t have to carry this alone. And even you must admit that you don’t have the medical training to effectively care for him.”

Peter stared at him, his mouth parting slightly before instincts kicked in—before that part of him that had survived everything started clawing its way back to the surface. He rose to his feet, crossing his arms tight over his chest.

“Okay, hold up,” Peter said, shaking his head. “You show up on my doorstep, get shot, bleed all over my cushion bed, and now you’re—what? Offering me a place to stay and a dad? You realise how crazy that sounds, right?”

“I do.”

Peter frowned. That wasn’t the reaction he’d expected.

Bruce didn’t push, didn’t press. He just sat there, his calm somehow louder than shouting.

“You can say no,” he added. “But if you say yes, I’ll make sure Mr. Stark receives the care he needs. Private, discreet, and safe. As well, access to anything you need to complete whatever it is you’re building.”

Peter’s heart stuttered. It was too good. Was this universe really going to treat him so kindly?

He wanted to laugh again—to deflect, to say “thanks but no thanks” and shove this entire conversation into the same mental box where he kept alien invasions and girlfriends’ dads who tried to kill him.

But then he thought about Tony.

About the way the older man’s breathing sometimes stuttered in his sleep. About how Peter had learned to listen for the smallest changes in his vitals because he didn’t trust the machines.

He thought about the dark rings under his own eyes, and how tired never really went away anymore.

Bruce’s offer echoed in his head. Stay with me. Meet your father.

“Why?” Peter asked finally, suspicion curling under his words. “Why me? Why help?”

Bruce’s gaze didn’t waver. “Because family finds each other.”

Peter’s throat went dry. He wanted to argue, to ask more, to groan about how this was impossible, that it didn’t make sense, that he didn’t need a father from this dimension that wasn’t his actual father.

But instead, all he could manage was a quiet. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

Bruce nodded once. “Completely.”

Peter didn’t hear a lie in the man’s heartbeat. Karen buzzed approvingly on his wrist. Tony’s vitals beeped rhythmically on the vital monitors.

“Fine. Okay.”

The rest of that day passed quickly.

Bruce had Peter pack what little stuff he actually had and moved him into a small apartment near the theater.

“Gotham’s vigilantes will be picking you up tonight to bring you to Wayne Manor. If we want to keep the reality of Mr. Stark’s situation just between us, it is best to distance yourself from the theater.”

Peter nodded. The less people knew about him or Tony, the better. They’d be out of this universe soon anyway.

So he makes himself an easy target when he feels the eyes of two of Gotham’s vigilantes on him while dumpster diving. He leads them to the newly bought apartment, then waits.

Red Hood. Nightwing and Batman are on his door not long after.

Peter picks up on their familiar heartbeats, his eyes narrowing on Batman for a second longer than normal. But he plays along.

Because even if he didn’t want to admit it, Peter was curious about this dimension’s version of his father. You remind me of your father. The words from earlier whispered through his mind, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or run.

The ride to Wayne Manor was silent. Peter watched the skyline blur past the window: jagged buildings, neon lights, and shadows that seemed to move even when he didn’t blink.

Gotham wasn’t like New York.

And the quiet movement of the car lulled Peter to sleep.

He woke briefly to the sound of a door closing. He’d panic if not for the softness of the mattress beneath him. The room he was in was dark, lights obviously dimmed or turned off to accommodate his sleeping state just seconds earlier.

But he heard Bruce’s familiar heartbeat somewhere around him. Even if he couldn’t outright see him, he still felt him near.

“Peter,” Bruce softly called out. “It’s just the two of us now.”

Peter couldn’t help the sigh that escaped his lips when he fully outstretched in an actual bed.

“So? How was I?” He asked.

He heard a chuckle. Could have missed it if it wasn’t for his enhanced hearing.

“You did great.”

“So? We’re keeping Mr. Stark between you and me, right?”

“Promise.”

“Then when can I check on him?”

He heard shuffling somewhere in the darkness.

“I am going to contact a doctor I trust to check on him tomorrow. We can visit him tomorrow night,” Bruce answered calmly.

A thought crossed Peter’s mind. If he couldn’t be by Tony’s side 24/7 anymore, he would need to think of a way to watch over him from far away. An idea flashes.

“Karen,” Peter softly calls out, uncaring at this point if Bruce Wayne was still here or not. “Do you have any blueprints or anything on Mr. Stark’s glasses?”

“I believe so,” came Karen’s assuring monotone voice.

Peter sighed in relief, then turned to wherever he believed Bruce to be. “You promised you would help get me anything I needed for my project, right?”

“I did,” Bruce’s voice answered.

“Then I need access to a major power source to fuel something.”

There’s a pause. A shuffle of feet.

“Explain more.”

Peter tells him of Karen, a little bit of F.R.I.D.A.Y., and his plan of creating glasses that can connect to F.R.I.D.A.Y so he can watch over Tony.

But with the comfort of a warm bed, combined with the fatigue of the day, he drifts to sleep in the middle of his explanation.

He wakes when sunlight hits his eyes.

“Morning, Peter.”

Peter turns and finds Dick sitting in a seat beside the bed. He blinked blearily, squinting at the figure.

“Good morning,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep. “Nightwing, Red Hood, and Batman dropped me off here. Said I have to wait for my dad.”

Dick smiled, unbothered. “We’ve got the run-down. Did you sleep well?”

Peter yawned, stretching his arms above his head.

“Mmhmm.” Then realisation dawned, and he turned to face Dick, who just somehow calmed his spidey-senses. “What are you doing here?”

Dick cocked (heh) his head to the side, looking at Peter like he grew a second head. “I’m a Wayne. Jason and Tim are as well. Didn’t you know?”

“No, I did not.” Peter was mentally going over the what are the chances checklist. “So Mr. Wayne is your dad? I guess I never did learn your last names, huh?”

Dick chuckled, resting his chin on his palm. “Yeah, that could happen when you’re more caught up on other things. Jason, Tim, and I are adopted, so technically Wayne is just associated with us, but my last name is Gra—”

The bedroom door opened. Revealing an older man with the most pristine suit Peter had ever seen. In his hand was a tray of bandages and alcohol.

“Wow, a real butler,” Peter gawked.

Dick snorted. “Peter, this is Alfred. Alfred, Peter.”

Alfred inclined his head slightly, a polite smile tugging at his lips. “At your service, Master Peter. And, if I may say, I’m quite pleased to finally meet you awake and in one piece.”

“Uhh. Thanks.”

Peter barely had time to react before Alfred’s hands—steady and practiced—were checking on his wrists, forearms, head, and chin, eyes scanning for anything concerning. The man moved like someone who had done this countless times before, efficient but careful.

“Looks like you have healed quickly since your last visit to the manor.” Alfred’s expression softened as he finished checking Peter’s head for any injuries. “If you would like, there is a shower with new clothes awaiting you before breakfast.”

“Okay, yeah, thank you, I’ll do that!”

It was almost embarrassing how Peter got excited over taking an actual shower.

He jumped up from the bed and raced to the bathroom door Alfred pointed out. If he took him embarrassingly long to figure out the damn rich faucet, he’d never tell.

“You turn the handle,” Karen’s voice calmly spoke.

“I knew that.” He did not.

And if he took longer under the warm water than what could be considered socially acceptable, at least Dick didn’t say anything. The older man just smiled, put a band-aid somewhere in Peter’s hairline, and led him downstairs to the kitchen, where Peter could already smell the delicious food being made.

“So,” Peter began as he took the seat beside Dick. “Have you met my father?”

There was a pause in Dick’s heartbeat that confused the boy.

Just long enough for Peter to be suspicious. But weirdly enough, his spidey-senses were calmer when he was near Dick. He hadn’t felt that in a while. Though sometimes when he looked at the man, there was a familiar feeling in the back of his mind that he couldn’t quite place.

“He’s… he’s pretty excited to get to know you,” Dick finally spoke.

Peter nodded. Alfred placed a plate down with eggs and ham down in front of him.

“Thank you Mr. Alfred,” Peter thanked the man before picking up utensils.

“Please, Master Peter, just Alfred is fine.”

Yeah, he was not going to be doing that.

Then Jason came in. Conversation was light, fun even. When Bruce and another boy—Damian—Peter got a little overwhelmed with how many heartbeats were beating at once. But when he leaned a little closer to Dick, it began to quiet for a moment.

Then Tim. Peter could hear his footsteps before he even entered the kitchen.

A scowl appeared on Peter’s face before he even realised. Because Tim was the guy who put a tracker on him—a twelve-year-old technically. And that was weird. That was weirdo behaviour.

And that’s aside from the fact that he was kidnapped on the bridge, Tim just so happened to have Karen and his web shooter in his room.

So yeah, Peter was not the biggest Tim fan right now.

Then the guy decided to ask if Peter was up to attending school. Which honestly made him internally laugh. Because he did not want to repeat, what, seventh or sixth grade?

“ACK!” Peter groaned, grabbing at his wrist.

Apparently Karen had different opinions over schooling. She buzzed softly against his wrist in perfect accordance with morse code. “—Go. To. School.”

Peter glared down at his wrist, hoping she could detect his unimpressed look. But, alas, she shocked him again when he tried refusing school.

“Karen, quit it.” He mumbled as he stuffed Karen into his pocket. He would have to apologise to her later.

Fortunately, Bruce spoke up then, diverting the attention away from Peter’s little electro-argument with his AI.

“Let’s leave the discussion of school for another time,” Bruce said evenly, in that low, impenetrable tone of his. “Tim and Damian, you should hurry before you end up late for school.”

Tim opened his mouth—probably to challenge that, because Tim looked like someone who enjoyed challenging things—but one look from Bruce shut him down.

Peter blinked. He wasn’t used to adults shutting up after someone else gave them a look. Avengers meetings were basically “whoever talks louder wins.”

The rest of breakfast passed quickly and with only minor awkwardness. Mostly from Peter. He largely ignored Tim’s presence, overlooked Damian’s curious passing glance to his pocket where Karen settled, and pretended not to notice Jason’s eyes on him, staring like he was a raccoon that broke into the pantry.

Which was, honestly, pretty fair. This was the first actual meal Peter had in a while that wasn’t from a can.

Dick, though—Dick was easy. Like breathing near him didn’t activate every one of Peter’s instinct. With him, for whatever reason, Peter didn’t need to concentrate to not hear every single creak in the floorboard. It’s like his spidey-senses were content with just hearing Dick’s steady heartbeat.

He didn’t know what that meant. He didn’t want to know what that meant.

The tour around the manor was… nice. Overwhelming, but in a kind of old money aesthetic way. Its architecture suited the city it was built in.

Peter trailed just behind Dick and Jason, letting their casual bickering and random house facts fill the air as he scribbled notes and littles sketches of the architecture. MJ would have a field day with this place. Every hallway was a history lesson, every portrait staring through him like he wasn’t worth the time.

Wayne Manor didn’t feel like Stark Tower. Stark Tower was all glass and steel and glowing panels that hummed softly beneath his fingertips. It was his home-away-from-home in its own strange, mechanical way—full of familiar beeps, Tony’s sarcastic muttering echoing down the halls, and Pepper’s exasperated sighs that no one has been able to replicate.

Just thinking about it made his chest twist uncomfortably with homesickness. He could picture the lab he spent most afternoons and late evenings locked in: cluttered tables, scattered tools, holograms flickering with half-finished ideas. There’d be loud rock music playing as he and Tony tried to outdo each other on whatever project sounded the most fun.

And his room—

Tony had personally designed it when Peter kept falling asleep on lab stools. A whole bedroom in Stark Tower, furnished before Peter had even known he needed it. “Kid, you’re here too much to not have a bed,” Tony had grumbled. Groaned even louder when Rhodes laughed about it, saying something like, “About time you got your son a room.”

The memory hit with a sharp sting. He swallowed around it.

Here, Wayne Manor was… quiet. Less humming tech, more walls that felt like they’ve had their fair share of high class galas. It was grand, but it didn’t feel like his.

He didn’t know if he wanted it to.

Dick kept glancing back at him, smiling whenever Peter caught his eyes. Jason pretended not to notice but made sure the kid didn’t jump out any open windows.

Then they reached a wide set of double doors.

Jason pushed them open and—

Oh.

The room was massive. High ceilings. Padding on the floors. A full wall of mirrors reflecting light from windows that stretched nearly to the ceiling. High beams and parallel bars gleamed under the soft glow. Balance beams, weighted bags, and an entire acrobatics rig—hell, even rings suspended from reinforced anchor points overhead.

It was beautiful.

It was a gym and a playground all in one.

“Nice,” Peter whistled, trying his darndest to try and contain his excitement.

He failed. Miserably.

His whole face lit up, eyes bright and darting over every piece of equipment like a kid seeing a candy store for the first time.

Dick looked down at him with a smile that crinkled his eyes. “You ready to finally try it out with me?”

He blinked at the man. Words couldn’t describe how much he wanted to just play around. To swing, flip, climb—absolutely anything. He settled for nodding so enthusiastically his curls bounced.

“Hold up.” Jason clapped his hands once, loud enough to echo. “We might have to save the bars and beams for another day?”

It felt like someone dunked a bucket of cold water on Peter’s head.

“Why?” He asked, already bracing for disappointment.

“The kid doesn’t have any extra clothes to change into when he sweats through whatever exercises you maniacs are thinking.”

Peter could feel himself visibly deflating. He welcomed the heaviness settling in his chest and limbs like an old friend.

“Or we can just… go later?” Peter suggested, though even he knew they would not be swayed. “I think I’m good on clothes, personally. I can just wash this hoodie and wear it again.”

Jason groaned so loudly, Peter almost missed whatever Dick was saying in an attempt to soothe.

“I’m sorry, Peter,” Dick apologized, voice softening into that warm, almost paternal tone he seemed to slip into without even trying. “We’ll dedicate a whole day just hanging out up here. Just you and me. But we gotta make sure you have everything you need before we get into the fun stuff.”

Jason groaned. “Red Hood asked us specifically to make sure you’re better dressed and not looking like a laundry pile swallowed you whole.”

That caught Peter’s attention.

His mind immediately began playing every single interaction with Red Hood. Then he looked at Jason, still slightly peeved about his gym day being ruined.

“He said that?” Peter questioned, side-eyeing Jason as he was ushered out of the room. “The guy who wears a red helmet but calls himself Red Hood has something to say about my fashion?”

Peter felt him pause mid-stride before continuing like nothing happened.

“You’re gonna fit right in, kid,” Jason wheezed out, before adding, “But Red Hood did tell me that the helmet is part of his brand.”

“It’s confusing branding.”

“… But branding nonetheless.”

“Then Nightwing should have a sun symbol on his chest—”

Jason pinched his cheeks to keep him from finishing that thought.

The trip to the mall was fun.

Peter had almost forgotten the reality of his situation when he was with Dick and Jason. He had even found a decent amount of clothes in a little thrift shop that made him happy.

At one point, they had separated to look around the different aisles. That was when he took the chance to apologise to Karen.

“I didn’t want to put you in my pocket,” Peter said as his eyes wandered over graphic tees. “But you can’t just shock me in the middle of a crowded table.”

“You were attempting to dissuade a wealthy benefactor from providing you education,” came her monotone voice.

“You make it sound weird.”

The monotone sigh that left his watch weirdly made his stomach drop in guilt. “Peter, I am designed to look after your wellbeing. That is including your education. Mr. Stark would not want you to put your education on hold for him.”

It was Peter’s turn to sigh.

“School’s not my biggest priority right now, Karen. And I kinda don’t want to repeat sixth grade. Been there, done that.”

“But you have not experienced sixth grade in Gotham.”

Peter rolled his eyes. He took a handful of the graphic tees before waddling over to where Dick was with a basket of clothes he had helped pick out.

Dick looked up just in time to see Peter dump the clothes into the basket with the enthusiasm of someone trying to look very nonchalant.

“Find something good?” Dick asked, giving the shirts a once-over. He smiled. “These are great picks.”

“Thanks,” Peter mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck.

His tone alone was enough for Dick to raise a concerned brow. “Everything okay?”

Peter shrugged.

“Just thinking.”

“Look what I found,” Jason hollered, approaching the duo waving sweaters. “You’re a fan of Nightwing, right, Peter?”

Peter huffed a laugh. A real one.

He let himself be fooled by the simplicity of the moment. Like he actually was just a kid shopping for clothes.

Just a kid.

Yeah, right.

His fingers tightened on the science shirt Jason and Dick were doing a horrible job of pretending like they weren’t laughing at.

Yet, despite the utter warmth of the situation, it wasn’t enough to stop something cold twisting low in his stomach—homesickness? Fear of the unknown? Peter wasn’t sure.

He wasn’t even paying attention to whatever the cashier was saying that could warrant such wheezing from Jason and blushing from Dick.

They wandered through other stores. Jason made it a point to get at least one thing from every shop they visited. Peter felt largely passive.

That is, until he found the glasses.

They were tucked away on a rotating rack near the back of a small accessories store—cheap, plastic frames in every colour imaginable. The kind you’d expect to find in a bargain bin or attached to a fake moustache.

But these—

These were a budget friendly replica of the ones Tony wore every day. Squarish frames. No tint, but that could be easily fixed.

He reached out before he could stop himself.

Lifted the glasses carefully, like they were made of glass instead of whatever cheap material.

His breath caught in his throat.

The store faded.

The mall faded.

Even the constant hum of background heartbeats dulled.

All he could hear was Tony’s voice.

“These glasses are for big boys, kid. You’ll maybe get a pair when you’re as old as Rogers.”

He didn’t even realise Dick had wandered over until a gentle hand ruffled his curls.

“Do you need glasses, Peter?” Dick asked. “Do you have a prescription? We can stop by a pharmacy or something for an eye exam—”

“I’m good.” Peter shook his head. “But I think I’ll get these for a project.”

In his head, he was already thinking of all the possible ways he could integrate Karen into the frames to create his own version of Tony’s glasses. That was what he focused on the whole ride back to the manor.

He barely paid any attention to Jason’s commentary about mall traffic or Dick’s insistence that he picks the music for the ride home. His brain was already blueprinting—lines, circuits, biometric sensors, micro-projectors. And how he could connect the glasses to F.R.I.D.A.Y. when he gets him booted up again.

Karen’s soft rhythmic buzzing against his wrist told him she already knew what he was thinking before he even thought it.

Mr. Wayne offered to sponsor.

Well. That’s one way to put it.

By the time they pulled back into the long winding driveway of Wayne Manor, he had half a list drafted in his mind and a vague beginning of a design itching behind his fingers.

Dinner rolled around, and Peter met two more of the Wayne kids. Cass and Duke seem nice. Although he didn’t talk to Duke too much, he could already tell how friendly and bright the guy is. And, well, Cass…

She was another calming presence in the house besides Dick. Her presence was soft—quiet in a way that didn’t feel threatening or tense. More like a weighted blanket for the energy in the room. Even her heartbeat, steady and measured, helped ground him amid all the others pounding around the table.

Dinner with all the Waynes should have been overwhelming. In fact, on paper it was overwhelming: twelve different conversations at once, people passing bowls across the table, Jason stealing rolls off Tim’s plate, Damian insulting Tim and Jason, Jason retaliating, Bruce saying exactly two words to stop it.

And sure, it was overwhelming at first. The sudden burst of noise took a second getting used to. But… Peter didn’t feel like he was drowning.

Maybe it was because Dick kept checking on him with small smiles. Or because Cass’s calm heartbeat kept the static in his senses dimmed. Or because Jason kept making fun of Tim in ways that secretly entertained him.

But then—

“Actually, I was hoping to talk to Peter in my office,” Bruce spoke gently.

Peter’s head snapped towards him. His heart leapt. Finally. This was it. The moment he’d been waiting for all day—the chance to get an update on Tony.

He was about to move. To follow.

But Dick spoke up.

“Where Peter goes, I go.”

Every heartbeat in the room shifted. Tightened. A subtle but immediate spike in tension that even people without superhuman senses could probably feel.

Peter swallowed.

“Dick, I just want to talk to him,” Bruce assured his eldest. “Nothing more.”

“If it’s nothing serious, I’m sure you wouldn’t mind me sitting in with him then,” Dick countered, tone deceptively light but anchored in steel.

Yeah. Peter didn’t want this to escalate. He had more important things to take care of. And Dick and Bruce’s little spat will only delay him from seeing Tony.

He tugged on Dick’s sleeve. Even reassuring him, “I’ll see you at breakfast tomorrow.”

Peter quickly followed after Bruce without looking back. The older man led him to a garage. Rows of sleek cars lined up like a billionaire’s personal museum—sleek, polished, all angles and shadows. The air was cool, smelling faintly of oil and metal.

Bruce led Peter to a nondescript black car—well, nondescript by Wayne standards. It was still nicer than anything Peter had ever ridden in willingly. Peter climbed in, tugging the seatbelt across his chest with excited hands.

“What was that earlier, by the way?” He blurted out once the buckle clicked. “You and Dick. Why was he so upset?”

Bruce didn’t answer right away.

He started the car, movements smooth and controlled. The garage doors rolled open, and the car slipped into motion like it belonged to the night.

Peter watched the driveway lights blur past, waiting.

Bruce exhaled through his nose—barely audible.

“Dick is protective,” he said finally.

“Yeah. But why?”

“He cares about you.”

Another pause.

“But why?” Peter repeated.

Bruce didn’t speak. Didn’t for a long time. Peter turned towards the window and watched city lights begin to emerge. He’ll never get used to Gotham City life.

“He’s always been that way. With every one of his siblings,” Bruce said eventually. “With anyone he considers family.”

Peter shifted in his seat. “But I’m not family.”

He heard the moment Bruce’s heart rate spiked for a moment. It was over just as quickly as it happened. Bruce didn’t speak for the rest of the car ride. Peter focused on the lights and the roads and the route Bruce was taking to get to Tony.

“I don’t get it,” Peter muttered. “You offer me help and the opportunity to see my alleged father, and you don’t even know me. Dick’s overly concerned about my wellbeing, and he barely knows me.”

The city lights reflected in the car window—sickly orange halos around streetlamps, the occasional flicker of neon, the blur of headlights turning on and streaking past.

Bruce’s hands tightened around the steering wheel. A small, almost imperceptible flex. Something that told Peter he’d hit something deeper than he’d meant to.

“You don’t have to know someone long,” Bruce said finally, “to recognize when they’re hurting.”

Peter huffed in annoyance. He wasn’t hurting. He was just… stressed.

Overwhelmed. Stretched thin. Kidnapped. Dimensionally displaced. Starved for Tony’s voice. Desperate. Completely and fully alone except for an AI and a very confusing rich-ass family.

But… hurting?

No.

Absolutely not.

Definitely not.

“Sure.” Peter rolled his eyes. Fine. Let the wealthy keep their secrets.

Because the car turned down a narrower road, streetlamps flickering overhead, and the familiar abandoned opera building came into view.

Peter was out of the car before Bruce even parked. He rushed into the building, ignoring Bruce’s calls to wait.

Cold air hit him immediately—musty, stale, carrying that faint metallic tang that made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. His footsteps echoed through the building as he raced to the familiar stage area where his cushion bed and his makeshift hospital room were.

His sigh of audible relief at the sound of the soft, steady beep of the medical monitor filled the quiet.

“Hi, Tony.” Peter reached for Tony’s hand.

His fingers curled around cool skin, and something in his chest twisted painfully. Tony’s hand didn’t squeeze back. It hasn’t been able to for a while now. But the faint pulse beneath Peter’s thumb was enough to make his eyes sting.

“Told you I’d come back,” Peter murmured, exhaling a shaky breath. “Not even dimensions and another weird billionaire and his family can stop me from bothering you.”

He dragged a rickety chair closer with his foot and sat, still holding Tony’s hand like it anchored him to the floor. His thumb brushed over knuckles he’d seen wrapped around tools, coffee cups, holograms—steady, warm, always moving.

Now they were still.

Too still.

Karen hummed at his wrist. “Vitals stable. Mr. Stark is just as you left him.”

“Thank you,” he whispered to her, then to Tony, “Hear that? You’re stable. Which is better than dead. Definitely better. So that’s a win.”

Behind him, Bruce finally caught up, steps slow and hesitant.

Peter didn’t look back.

He kept talking to Tony because that was easier.

“I went shopping today,” he said, voice breaking into something small and warm. “With two of the guys I talked to you about before, Dick and Jason. And yes, that is still his actual name. And no, it isn’t unfortunate. It’s just his name, Mr. Stark.”

He tried to laugh. It came out thin.

“I found glasses, too. Like the ones you wear.” His voice softened. “But I think I’m gonna make my own pair. Not as cool as yours, obviously. It’ll help me keep an eye on you while I’m away. Maybe Karen can help me. Right, Karen?”

“I would be delighted to assist, Peter,” she answered from his wrist.

Peter swallowed hard.

Tony didn’t move. Didn’t twitch. Didn’t make a sound beside the fragile rhythm of medical beeps.

Peter leaned forward, resting their joined hands against his forehead.

“Don’t worry about me,” he whispered into Tony’s knuckles. “I’m doing just fine.”

A quiet huff of air behind him—Bruce trying not to react.

Peter wiped at his eyes with the back of his sleeve before turning, just slightly, toward the man standing there.

“You said your doctor friend was going to help look after him, right?” Peter asked, voice trembling despite how hard he tried to steady it. “Did they say anything?”

Bruce met his eyes, and for once, there was no stoicism. No filters. No distance.

Only something achingly close to fear.

“Only that you’ve done a fine job looking after him considering everything,” Bruce said. “He’s doing fine.”

Peter nodded, just once, and returned to Tony.

He squeezed his hand a little tight.

“Please wake up,” he whispered, the words almost too small to exist. “We gotta get home.”

He felt Bruce’s hand on his shoulder, and that was enough of a wake up call. He brushed off the older man’s hand and stood abruptly, the chair scraping against stage floor.

Because Peter Parker is Spider-Man, and Spider-Man acts. He doesn’t crumble. He doesn’t freeze. He doesn’t let people down.

“Okay, Mr. Stark.” Peter clapped his hands. “Unfortunately, I can’t stay for too long. So let’s get your legs moving, I can’t have your limbs, uh—atrophy. Or whatever. Medical stuff. You saw me read that book, you should get it.”

He moved to the side of the bed and started adjusting Tony’s arm, lifting it gently but with purpose. He’d done this enough times since he borrowed that nursing book that his hands moved on muscle memory alone—support here, careful with the shoulder, brace the elbow.

Bruce stepped forward. “Peter—maybe slow down. He’s still—”

“I know,” Peter cut him off. “I know what he is. I know what he isn’t. But he’s not going to get better if he just lies here like a defective Roomba.”

A breath of a laugh escaped Bruce despite himself. “I’m unsure if your guardian would appreciate that comparison.”

“Good,” Peter said, jaw set. “Then he can wake up and complain about it.”

He moved Tony’s leg next, talking the whole time. Because silence was the enemy, and fear loved silence.

Peter filled the void with nervous rambles about the shopping trip and Karen’s insistence on attending school even though Peter’s fairly confident he could test out of it if he really wanted to and the ridiculousness of naming yourself Red Hood when you actually wear a helmet rather than a fabric hood—anything to drown out the steady beep of the monitors and the terrifying stillness of Tony Stark.

At some point he noticed Bruce just standing there watching him. The intensity of his eyes on him made his skin itch.

“No offense, Mr. Wayne,” Peter said, trying for casual and hoping it landed that way. “But if you wanna help out, do you mind starting on carrying Tony’s armor to the car? We’re gonna get it charged up tonight, right?”

Bruce blinked, like that was the last request he’d expected.

“The armor?” he repeated slowly.

“Yeah.” Peter shrugged, motioning to the Iron Man armor laid on a nearby table. “You’re strong. And scary. So. Y’know, the ideal traits to have when carrying metal armor. But prioritise the helmet and chest piece.”

Bruce’s lips twitched. He studied him for a long moment, something fatherly and sorrowful flickering in his expression.

“I’ll bring the pieces to the car,” he said finally. “Stay here.”

Peter nodded.

He pretended not to hear Bruce’s grunt of exertion as he lifted the chest piece.

“When you wake up, Mr. Stark,” he whispered. “Please don’t have a billionaire-off with Mr. Wayne. I’m sure you’re both very successful in your own rights.”

Bruce came back not long after, and Peter had to say goodnight to a steadily beeping monitor. He tugged the blanket up a little higher on Tony’s chest before stepping away.

They didn’t go back to the manor right away.

Instead, Bruce stopped in front of a very expensive looking office building—sleek glass, automated security lights that followed the car like curious eyes, and a logo that screamed wealth and corporate dominance:

Wayne Enterprises.

“We’ll borrow some energy from here,” Bruce said, as if this were normal. As if charging armor near midnight in his own company’s parking garage was an everyday chore. “Think you can do it?”

Peter blinked at him.

“Isn’t this your building? I thought I saw your name on it.”

Bruce shrugged. The corners of his lips tilted upwards.

Peter huffed. “Okay, sure. Karen, can you do something about the cameras?”

“Already done, Peter.” Came her monotone voice.

“Alright, let’s do this.”

He sprang out of the car, retrieving the amor pieces in quick, efficient motions. He popped open the back panel on the chest plate and the helmet before connecting them to a charging port near the building’s side panel through an auxiliary wire.

Bruce followed and watched a few steps back.

“Karen, how are we doing?” Peter asked.

“Rerouting building’s power—”

For a second, all the lights turned off before flickering back on again. But this time, when Peter looked down at the helmet and chest piece, they glowed blue and softly hummed as they turned on.

Peter’s breath hitched—not enough to be noticeable to anyone without superhuman senses, but he felt it. The armor glowed steady and strong.

“Stable power detected,” Karen confirmed. “Optimising flow to prevent overload.”

Peter let out a shaky sigh he hoped Bruce didn’t catch. “Good job, Karen.”

Bruce stepped a little closer, the blue reflection painting the edges of his face. “You’ve done this before?”

Peter shrugged. “First time.” He ran a hand through his curls. “But I think it’s the same as, like, starting a car. Here, we got enough power to jumpstart them back to life. Now, I can just plug them back into any power source so they can just steadily charge.”

Bruce studied him—really studied him. Like he was recalibrating everything he thought he knew about the kid before him.

“For a first time,” Bruce said slowly, “you’re remarkably composed.”

He yawned. “Can’t lose my cool. I have people counting on me.”

Peter sat back against the wall, exhaustion settling into his bones. Bruce stood beside him but let the silence breathe. Like a mountain standing nearby.

Peter’ head tipped back against the wall. “Karen, charge reading?”

“Chest plate at 41%. Helmet at 49%.”

Peter groaned. “We’ll wait till at least 60% for the helmet.”

Bruce nodded.

It was quiet for a few minutes—soft buzzing, electricity through cables, a far-off siren somewhere in the city. Gotham ambiance.

Then Bruce spoke, voice low but clear.

“You mentioned earlier that you didn’t understand why Dick cared.” He didn’t look down at Peter. He stared straight ahead, like he was talking to the empty night. “The longer you stay with us, the more you’ll learn something about him.” A pause. “Dick’s heart is… larger than most.”

“Like medically or emotionally?”

Bruce actually huffed—half a laugh. Half an exhale.

“Emotionally,” he clarified. “He cares deeply for family. Instinctively. It’s one of his best qualities.”

“Peter,” Karen piped up. “Helmet has charged to 60%.”

Peter scrambled upright. He quickly unplugged the armor from the wall and moved to carry them back to the car.

“We can go back now,” Peter yawned as he slid into the passenger seat.

Bruce nodded as he started the car. The ride back was quiet, and the feeling of being in a moving car was enough to gently lull Peter to sleep.

“We’ll visit Tony tomorrow night again, right?” he asked as he leaned his head against the window.

“Of course.” Came Bruce’s soft reply.

“I want to start working on the glasses tomorrow—”

“We can go to my offices tomorrow. That way you can work with enough space and energy. And not have any of the others distract you.”

Peter hummed in agreement, the sound soft and thinning at the edges with exhaustion. His breath fogged lightly on the window as the city lights streaked by.

He blinked heavily but fought the pull of sleep, just long enough to mumble:

“Mr. Stark used to say sleep is optional because caffeine exists, but I think he lied…”

Bruce let out a soft exhale that might’ve been a laugh. “He lied.”

“Thought so.” Peter’s eyelids fluttered. “Tomorrow’s gonna be busy…”

“We’ll manage,” Bruce said quietly, almost to himself.

That was the last thing Peter heard before his head slipped from the window and lolled to the side, chin tucking toward his chest as he finally surrendered to the exhaustion.

Bruce glanced over only once.

The kid was out cold.

He turned his eyes back to the road.

When they reached the Manor, he didn’t wake him up. He carried him to his room. And tucked him in like he did Dick all those years ago.

In the morning, Peter and Bruce left for his office at the company for quiet and privacy. There, Peter worked on his glasses and connecting them to F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s systems, specifically in the mask, to create a sort of surveillance system to watch over Tony.

“So whatever F.R.I.D.A.Y. sees, I'll be able to see in real time,” Peter explained as Bruce sat across from him.

It was almost comical to see such a large, adult man try to look comfortable in the small table he had given Peter to work on. Bruce’s office was huge. Very spacious and with a wall with windows overlooking what looked to be the whole of Gotham.

When he first brought Peter to the room, he had ordered a table specifically for Peter. But because it was a table for him, Bruce’s knees barely fit under the small table. The chair creaked every time Bruce shifted his weight, which—given how much he didn’t want to show discomfort—wasn’t often.

“Think of it like a baby monitor,” Peter continues, turning the glasses over in his hands. “But that can transmit far greater distances. So if anything happens, I’ll see it.”

Bruce nodded slowly, elbows on the table, hands clasped. “What else are you thinking of adding to the glasses?”

“Oh. This and that.” Peter grabbed a micro-screwdriver. “Maybe something for Karen. So she can communicate to me and not have to rely on morse code.”

“You’re very fond of your AI.”

“Eh. She grew on me.”

He ignored the shock Karen emitted on his wrist.

Peter kept working, humming under his breath. Cables, microchips, the faint hum of power rerouting through one of Karen’s ports to test connections. This was the closest he’d felt to home in days.

He pulled a soldering pen closer. Bruce watching the whole process with the quiet intensity of a man trained to pick up every detail.

“You really know what you’re doing,” Bruce said.

Peter snorted. “I better. Tony would haunt me if I soldered anything wrong. Probably appear in my nightmares with a laser pointer and a whiteboard about basic circuitry.”

Bruce’s lips curved.

There was a knock at the office door, and Peter hummed a little louder to cover up Bruce’s knees cracking as he stood.

Peter took off Karen from his watch and had her pull up blueprints and notes. The blue glow of the holographic schematics was settling.

Bruce returned to his side not long after. He handed Peter a pair of overhead noise cancelling headphones.

“I might have some visitors coming in and out of the office,” Bruce explained as Peter put them on. “Show me your progress in an hour. I’ll just be at my desk.”

Peter nodded enthusiastically and mouth got it as as Karen automatically connected to the headphones, and the familiar sound of rock music Tony usually plays in the lab filled his ears.

Instant calm.

Well… Calm in the auditory sense. His brain was still firing at a million miles an hour.

The holographic schematics shimmered above the table, layer upon layer of circuits, subroutines, and F.R.I.D.A.Y interface diagrams rotating slowly like a floating blueprint galaxy. Peter rolled up his sleeves, cracked his knuckles, and got to work.

With the headphones on, every tiny click of his tools vibrated through his fingertips instead of his ears. He liked it that way—feeling the work rather than hearing it.

He talked under his breath, more out of habit than anything.

“Okay, okay… if I isolate the latency issue, then the live feed won’t jitter… and if the retinal overlay pulls too much voltage, then—nope, nope, we don’t like frying our eyeballs. Aunt May likes my eyes.”

Karen pinged a visual notification above all the blueprints.

“Potential voltage instability detected. Suggest rerouting.”

“I know, I know, I’m on it,” he murmured.

Somewhere behind him, through the thick padding of the headphones, he barely registered the soft shape of voices—visitors, probably. The polite, clipped tones of businessmen. The shuffle of papers. The tension of being watched without actually being watched.

But none of it touched him. Not really.

He focused on his work because the work meant control, and control meant hope.

By the time the hour passed, he had half the glasses reassembled and running diagnostics. He pushed away from the table for a second, blinking as his eyes adjusted.

A soft tap landed on his shoulder.

He looked up to see Bruce—tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, looking equally parts exhausted executive and concerned guardian.

Peter tugged the headphones down around his neck.

“Hour already?” he asked.

Bruce nodded. “How’s the progress?”

Peter gave the glasses a little spin on the table so Bruce could see the glowing diagnostic display. “Decided to add a couple more things like a moving identifier and a new font for Karen when her words show up. She isn’t a fan of lexend.”

Bruce’s mouth twitched. “Understandable.”

Peter grinned, stretching his arms out until he heard something pop. “Yeah, I’m just generous that way.”

Bruce’s eyes flickered up from the glasses, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Generous? Is that what the kids use for picky now?”

Peter snorted, spinning the glasses on the table so the holographic display caught the light. “Picky? No way. This is… artistic integrity. Karen has standards.”

Bruce’s eyes lit with amusement when Karen let out a sigh in that monotone voice of hers.

“See!” Peter clapped his hands. “She agrees with me.”

“If that’s how you interpret her sigh,” Bruce replied, though his smirk deepened. He reached out and ruffled Peter’s curls. “I’ll let you know when it’s time for lunch.”

Peter nodded, slipping the headphones back on when he heard Bruce settle back in his chair.

He adjusted a microcircuit on the inside of the glasses and watched the display respond instantly, lines of code weaving in perfect synchronicity with Karen’s voice.

“Alright, Karen,” he murmured, “let’s see if you like this font better.”

The words appeared in a clean, flowing style across the lenses. A quiet, approving buzz followed, just enough to make him grin.

Minutes bled into hours as Peter tweaked sensors, re-routed power, and calibrated the augmented display. Karen grew more chatty. Her input filled the silence between him and Bruce, their rhythm oddly companionable.

He was so focused on his work, even his interaction with Tim became a passing thought. To be honest, he wasn’t even sure that was a real interaction or just a scenario from his imagination.

Peter was a little more than halfway done when Bruce tapped his shoulder and told him it was time to go home.

“But I’m almost, practically, nearly there, close to done,” Peter whined.

“You can finish it tomorrow,” Bruce assured.

He led Peter out of the company building and into the car.

Peter slumped into the seat, arms crossed over his chest, letting out a sigh as the city lights of Gotham streaked past the window. He pressed his forehead against the cool glass, trying not to think about the few more lines of code, the couple more tweaks he’ll have to make, and the parts he wants to incorporate.

Bruce glanced at him briefly.

“You’ve made more progress in one day than most do in a week,” he said quietly, almost as if he were reminding himself as much as Peter. “You can continue working on it tomorrow. Rest for a little bit when we get to the manor. We’ll visit Tony again tonight.”

That brought the smile back on Peter’s face. He straightened back in his seat and let out a huge sigh. He forced his mind to wander somewhere other than the same blueprints he’d been staring at all day.

“You think Dick is still upset?” Peter finally asked. “He looked hurt during breakfast.”

Bruce’s gaze flickered to Peter, unreadable at first. Then, almost imperceptibly, the corners of his mouth twitched.

“He’ll get over it,” Bruce said, his voice low and steady. “Dick is… protective, but he also trusts you more than he lets on. He’s just getting used to his new role. That’s all.”

Peter leaned back against the seat, letting the seatbelt hold him down and the hum of the car soothe him. “I just… I don’t want him thinking I chose sides, and I didn’t choose him.”

Bruce’s eyes softened just a fraction. “You didn’t choose sides this morning, Peter. Dick just has a way of wearing his concern on his sleeve. He’s still learning how to be a fa— Maybe, show him what you’ve been working on. I’m sure he’ll be just as proud of you.”

Peter shifted in his seat, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Good idea!”

The rest of the ride was quiet. Peter let himself relax, letting Bruce’s steady presence anchor him. By the time they pulled into Wayne Manor, Peter was dead set on seeing Dick first.

He ran into the man’s arms as soon as he saw him.

Peter didn’t want to explore why it felt right to be by his side.

Instead, he dragged Dick upstairs to his room and excitedly showed the man the glasses. He handed him the glasses, and as Dick adjusted them over his eyes, Peter couldn’t help but feel a spark of pride in himself when Dick praised him.

He didn’t want to explore why.

Dinner rolled around. Then Peter left with Bruce to visit Tony. Then in the morning, he’d leave with Bruce to the office in the morning to continue his work. In the evening he visited Tony with Bruce.

This became routine. He felt the rhythm settle into something comforting, something he hadn’t realised he needed.

Mornings with Bruce at the office became a sacred stretch of focus and invention, where he could lose himself in schematics, soldering, and Karen’s steady, calm guidance. When he wasn’t working on the glasses, he was carefully working on a way home—hiding the pieces away when Bruce came to check on him.

Evenings were quieter, slower, softer. Bruce drove him back to the opera building usually after dinner (and after some resistance from Dick and Jason), and Peter spent time at Tony’s side, moving his limbs, quietly updating vitals, or talking about anything his mind could conjure up. The steady beep of monitors became a heartbeat Peter could trust, a rhythm that steadied his own.

Each visit cemented a routine that brought a sense of normalcy to a life that had been anything but normal for weeks. The rhythm of work and care, of technology and heartbeats, was grounding.

Bruce was always there in the background, a steady presence he stopped questioning, and Dick—well, Peter’s heart and head hurt whenever he saw Dick’s sorrow and anger hidden behind a restrained smile whenever Peter left with Bruce.

It was strange, the near emotional whiplash Peter experienced between the two.

Dick’s moods shifted like phases of the moon—bright and warm one moment, shaded and distant the next.

When it was just the two of them, Dick laughed with his whole chest, his smile unrestrained, his movements loose and boyish. He’d ruffle Peter’s curls, tuck him in at night, and drag him into impromptu movie marathons or pointless debates about cereal.

He was easily sunlight.

But the instant Bruce entered the room, something in Dick pulled taut. As if a string inside him threatened to snap. His shoulders stiffened, his jaw set at a quiet angle, and his smile—still there but changed. Controlled. The carefree light dimmed into something more guarded.

Sometimes he wondered if he should ask about it. Other times, just being in Dick’s orbit felt like more than enough.

But even with all that brightness, all that warmth, there was something else beneath the surface—a shadow Peter couldn’t name.

Dick would look at Peter sometimes like he wanted to say something. Like there was a truth pressing up against his teeth. But it never came out. He’d swallow it back, ruffle Peter’s hair, and redirect the conversation as if nothing had flickered across his face.

And Peter felt it. Felt suffocated with it.

Maybe that’s why there’s an extra pep in his step when he follows Bruce to the car after dinner even if the older man and Karen are ganging up on him about school.

“I don’t see why I would have to go,” Peter muttered, dragging his feet out of Bruce’s office. “I mean don’t get me wrong, it sounds like a great time. But I’m kinda busy being a full-time caretaker—”

“You aren’t a full-time caretaker anymore, Peter,” Bruce reminded him. “Doctor Leslie has helped—”

“But I doubt there’s anything they’re going to teach that I don’t already know.”

Peter groaned as he swayed with every step. He stopped just in time to stop himself from crashing into Bruce’s legs. The older man turned and faced him, looking down at him with a look Peter could only describe as a tired father’s face.

Which, looking at how many kids the guy has, made sense.

“Peter, school will be good for you. You will likely test out of your own grade and perhaps be put with Damian or Tim and Duke. And, I am sure your father will enjoy the fact that you are attending an in-person school.”

Peter pouted. “You guys keep mentioning him, but I have not heard from him at all since I got here.”

Bruce patted his head and said nothing more before continuing the journey to the car.

“But seriously,” Peter blurted as he fastened his seatbelt. “How do you know what my dad would like if he hasn’t even come by at all since I arrived?”

Bruce wasn’t ignoring the question; he was biding time, choosing his words carefully.

He adjusted the mirrors, started the car, and only then said, quietly,

“I’ve… known your father a long time.”

That wasn’t news.

“Yeah, kinda figured that one out already,” Peter muttered. “But if he cares so much about what I’m doing, then why hasn’t he visited? Not even a phone call? Talk about A+ parenting.”

Bruce’s jaw shifted. Once. Barely noticeable if Peter hadn’t been staring right at him.

“It’s…” Bruce said finally, “complicated.”

Peter scoffed under his breath. “Right. Story of my life.”

He slumped back in his seat, arms crossed, pouting like the twelve-year-old he has to consistently remind himself that he is not.

Bruce turned onto a main road, eyes fixed ahead. He didn’t sigh, exactly, but something in his posture dipped.

“I believe he’s afraid, Peter.”

Bruce kept going, voice lower than before. “Likely afraid things will change. Afraid he’ll make things worse. That he won’t know what to say to you. Afraid he won’t be what you need him to be.”

Peter slumped again, his chest feeling more like a tangled knot than anything else. Because why should he care? Whoever this mystery person is isn’t his father. Not his actual one anyways.

His father’s buried alongside his mother and Uncle Ben.

Silence pooled between them for a few moments.

Peter closed his eyes and focused on the familiar route to the Opera House. The faster Tony wakes up, the faster they can make a way home, the sooner he could visit his actual dad and mom. Aunt May’s probably worried sick.

Bruce pulled into an alley around the Opera House. Peter waited for him to finish parking before he jumped out this time.

Bruce stepped out more slowly, locking the car and taking a moment to scan the alley—habit, something ingrained in him so deeply it was practically a biological function.

Peter didn’t wait; his feet carried him toward the side entrance they always used, converse splashing through a shallow puddle left from last night’s drizzle.

He didn’t want to think about fathers—real or otherwise.

Bruce caught up in a few strides, pushing the door with a gloved hand. Peter slipped in first, heart already singing at the familiar scene.

The soft hum of machinery greeted them like a heartbeat.

Tony was exactly where he had always been.

His Iron Man suit was standing upright beside him, helmet angled to look down on the unconscious man. Exactly how he’d been able to watch over Tony through the glasses.

Peter approached first, like always. He nearly tripped over himself in his rush, because that knot in his chest loosened every time he saw Tony breathing. Even if Bruce swore there was no danger, even if the glasses showed him Tony still unconscious… Peter still had to see it.

“Hey, Mr. Stark,” He greeted. “Guess who’s back.”

Karen chimed softly from his wrist. “Vitals consistent. No change.”

Peter nodded, jaw tight.

He’d take consistent. He’d take no change. He’d take anything so long as Tony wasn’t slipping further away.

Bruce stood behind him, watching the unconscious man like a hawk. His eyes occasionally flickered over to the Iron Man suit.

Peter dragged an old chair over and sat beside Tony’s side, swinging his legs like a kid.

“You know,” he said brightly, “if you wanted company, you could’ve just asked instead of staying asleep. It’s kinda dramatic for someone who says I’m the childish one when I held that boat together.”

Bruce shot him a sideways look that Peter ignored. Instead, he and Bruce began moving around the stage space like routine.

Bruce helped take inventory of the IV bags and bandages, writing down how much more they would need to get. Peter and Karen took to readjusting Tony’s position and ensuring the Iron Man suit was still transmitting feed to Peter’s glasses.

Bruce’s pen scratched quietly against the clipboard—another one of his weird comforts. The man did everything with this controlled, quiet competency that made the whole space feel less terrifying sometimes.

“Karen, angle the feed a little down, and check suit response time.” Peter stepped back and squinted at Tony’s sleeping form.

“External armor is responsive,” Karen answered.

Peter gave a noncommittal hum. “Yeah. Same as yesterday.”

Bruce approached the armor next, stepping in line beside Peter.

“Power consumption is holding. No fluctuations.” He wrote that down too. “We’ll bring more battery packs tomorrow.”

Peter nodded, readjusting the suit’s helmet once more—mind already going over what else they had to do tonight and what else he’ll work on tomorrow.

“What the fuck is this?!”

The shout cracked through the old theater like a gunshot.

Peter jolted from the sudden shout, and he toppled off the step stool, landing on his hands in a graceless sprawl. The sound of boots on wood echoed as he scrambled upright, heart jackhammering in his throat.

Peter heard them before he saw them.

Jason and Dick stormed up the stage steps like twin hurricanes—one cold, one blazing.

Jason’s eyes darted everywhere at once, taking in Tony’s unconscious body, the collection of medical gear, the blinking lights on the Iron Man suit. Assessing. Calculating. Furious.

His eyes flickered this neon green that had Peter shaking.

But Dick—Dick was laser-focused. His stare could have cut through reinforced steel. And it was aimed squarely at Bruce.

Peter felt his heart stop.

Just stop there in the middle of his chest, like his body wasn’t sure if it should run or pass out or throw up.

“This is what you’ve been doing behind my back?!” Dick raged. “Having my son help you care for a man in an abandoned building?!”

His voice cracked like a whip through the opera house, echoing off the dusty rafters.

Peter flinched.

Dick’s voice wasn’t loud anymore—it was shaking, vibrating with a fury so deep it had to be holding back fear.

Bruce stepped forward, deliberately covering Peter from Dick’s view.

That only seemed to anger him further.

“Dick, you don’t understand—”

“Don’t understand?!” Dick thundered, storming across the stage so aggressively even Peter had to take a step back. “Try me. Try me, Bruce. Because from where I’m standing it looks like you’ve been dragging my son into some half-collapsed death trap to play nurse for a stranger!”

“He’s—” Peter blurted, moving a bit closer to Tony’s bedside as if proximity to the man would explain itself. “He’s not a stranger.”

But Dick wasn’t hearing anything except the sound of his own panic.

He rounded on Bruce again. Eyes blazing.

“You’ve been lying. You’ve been taking him out after dinner. You’ve been disappearing with him. And this—” He pointed wildly to the medical setup. “This is where you’ve been bringing him?! When you’ve known how hard I’ve been trying to give him a normal life.”

Bruce stood straighter, jaw tightening, but his voice stayed maddeningly calm. “Dick. Lower your voice—”

“Do not tell me to lower my voice!”

The shout shook the whole room. Even Tony’s vitals gave a small spike on the monitor.

Jason finally stepped forward. “Okay, everyone needs to take a breath—”

“Stay out of this!” Dick snapped without looking at him.

Jason stopped mid-step, jaw clenched, but said nothing.

Peter felt something cold slip down his spine.

Shame? Fear? Guilt?

All of it twisted up.

“You told me,” Dick continued, voice dropping low and ragged, “that you were only talking. I thought you just wanted to be a grandfather.” His breathing hitched, just once, almost too quiet to catch. “I thought he was safe with you.”

Peter’s stomach hollowed out.

Bruce opened his mouth again, but Dick cut him off with a dismissive wave.

“I don’t want to hear a word from you,” Dick said. “No more excuses.”

His eyes snapped toward Peter—blue and burning.

“Peter. I want you to step away from the equipment. Right now. And come to me.”

Peter froze. Completely.

Because Dick was speaking softly now.

And somehow that was worse.

He couldn’t move his feet. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to. If he moved, would Dick let him see Tony again…

“You’re too emotional right now, Dick,” Bruce cut in. “I’ll drive Peter home.”

Dick snapped back towards him, the motion so sharp and feral it looked like it ripped something inside him. His jaw locked, breath shuddering through clenched teeth.

His eyes narrowed into a glare so lethal even Bruce took a half step back.

“I’m not leaving my son with you again.”

The word hit Peter like a punch. Hot. Confused. Painful. He felt his fingers curl on instinct around the railing beside Tony’s cot.

A pulse of tension beat through the air.

Jason stood by Dick’s side.

Bruce didn’t move. “Dick—”

“No.” Dick’s voice cracked—loud, sudden, enough to echo off the velvet seats. “I’ve heard enough from you.”

Dick took another step closer.

Then another.

His boots thudded against the old wooden stage, each impact vibrating into Peter’s bones.

“You think I’m overreacting?” Dick demanded. “You think I’m being emotional? You took a hurt, homeless kid and dragged him here night after night and lied to me about it.”

Bruce’s jaw tensed. “He’s not just a kid.”

“He’s my kid!”

The air went still.

Peter’s heart climbed into his throat, pounding so loud he couldn’t pick up on Karen’s urgent buzzes. He couldn’t interpret the warnings, couldn’t hear anything except the blood roaring in his head.

It didn’t let up even when Bruce put a hand on his shoulder. It was suffocating and grounding all at once.

“Peter,” Dick said sharply, without looking away from Bruce. “Come here. Please.”

The please sounded like it physically hurt him to say.

Peter didn’t move.

Couldn’t move.

He couldn’t breathe.

There wasn’t any air in his lungs.

He wasn’t standing in the opera house anymore. He was twelve. He was sixteen. He was in a suit. He was in space.

Someone was yelling.

Someone was reaching for him.

Something was tearing at the molecules of his very being.

When was the last time he heard people scream for him this genuinely?

The answer was just there—in the edges of his memory…

Bruce felt him tremble—Peter knew he did, because the man’s hand pressed more firmly into his shoulder. He could feel Dick’s eyes burning into him now, waiting, begging, furious all at once.

Jason had gone still, muscles coiled like a spring, gaze flickering between everyone as if waiting for one of them to move first.

Bruce crouched slightly beside him, lowering himself to match Peter’s height without letting go of his shoulder.

“Peter,” Bruce’s voice cut through the panic. “Chum, I need you to focus. On my voice, on your breathing, on Karen buzzing on your wrist. Looks like she has something she wants to tell you. But you need to focus to hear her.”

“Dick, he can’t breathe!” Jason snapped, stepping in front of Dick for the first time. “He needs air!”

Dick didn’t hesitate—didn’t think—just moved.

He shoved past Jason, grabbed Peter by the upper arms, and yanked him away from Bruce’s stabilising grip. Peter’s feet stumbled over themselves, his vision swimming as the world jerked violently with the motion.

“Peter—hey—hey, look at me,” Dick said, his voice cracking as he dragged Peter closer, one hand sliding to cradle the back of his head like Peter might shatter if he let go. “Breathe, kid. Come on, breathe—”

Everything was noise.

Was it always this hard to breathe?

It was in space…

Peter wasn’t sure when he started screaming.

“He needs air! Take him outside!”

Jason’s voice boomed from somewhere behind him, sharp and panicked. But Peter couldn’t see him.

And then—

Peter felt himself being lifted.

Dick scooped him up with both arms, one under his knees and the other supporting his back, holding him tight against his chest. Peter’s hands clutched wildly at his shirt, knuckles white, desperate for something solid in the spiralling chaos.

“Hold on, son—hold o—”

Dick twisted hard.

A flash of light seared the air just above his head.

He managed to duck just in time, curling over Peter protectively as his back slammed into the ground.

The impact rattled his teeth, but he didn’t loosen his hold for even a second. The repulsor ray cracked the wall behind them, showering the area with fragments of plaster and sparks.

Peter stirred, breathing hitching, confusion and hope carving through the panic. His tear-streaked eyes blinked up at the vaulted ceiling, then down toward Dick’s face hovering above him, pale and frantic.

Peter pulled his mind back to the present, forcing himself into the moment one shaky breath at a time.

He wiggled against Dick’s hold, using just enough of his enhanced strength to escape the adult. Dick tried to hold on to him, voice breaking on Peter’s name. But he pushed through.

“…Mr. Stark?” Peter whispered, voice shredded and barely audible.

Peter moved slowly. Afraid of getting his hopes up. Terrified that he’d imagined the repulsor beam.

He pushed himself upright on shaky legs.

“Tony?” he tried again, quieter, almost pleading.

There, on the hospital stretcher Peter found one of his first nights in Gotham, Tony sat up with one of his suit’s gauntlets on his arm.

Tony’s head turned slowly from Bruce and Jason, eyes scanning the space and then finally landing on Peter.

The world seemed to pause.

The gauntlet whirred quietly as Tony flexed his fingers, testing movement, testing reality.

His expression was a mix of exhaustion and disbelief, like he wasn’t sure if seeing Peter was a dream or punishment for a nightmare.

His voice was raw and hoarse but unmistakable.

“Peter?”