Chapter Text
Sandman's in jail for the millionth time - exhausting as always but worth it - the general destruction the man was known for having been kept to a minimum, thankfully, and Spider-Man waved away by awkward cops who aren't really sure how to treat the known world saving hero-framed villain-turned vigilante. But they still trust him enough to work with him, to treat the robbers and muggers and anyone else Spider-Man catches with the same level of kindness and decency they had before.
And it's nice, even if he's going home to a too cramped one room apartment he could barely even afford without any friends or family to make him think life was worth living.
May had been dead for a week - Peter's fairly certain he died with her.
Something under his skin mourned his life and mourned May's death along with him - maybe grieving with him, it was a funny thought considering no one knew who Peter Parker was anymore and anyone who would've had moved on to better things or died. Actually, who was he kidding, everyone he considered family was dead and now that his friends weren't around him they were living lives so much better and saferfor them-
His chest aches - he pushes it down, ignores the way the pain stutters his heart before it retreats back to its normal rhythm, he has the funny feeling Mr. Falcon was disappointed in him.
The man barely even remembered him now, knowing Spider-Man more than the few times he met and hung out with Peter and never really having a good relationship with Spider-Man, occasionally checking in solely since he checked over Mr. Wilson's veterans from time to time. All the half ruffling and the 'my 'nan' thinks your too skinny, Pete, you're eating her collard greens or so help me's gone from existence, wiped away with magic to keep everyone safe and secure.
Every Harry leaning onto his shoulders, MJ kicking him under the cafeteria table, Ned bursting into his room with a lego set, Wade sneaking into his apartment with waffles, Matt forcing him to do his homework before patrol, Tony bumping his elbow and asking him, "Underoos - Petey, what's up? Why are you upset? Is Fury still trying to find you?", Johnny and Sue inviting him to dinner-
The world was safe - what did it matter that Peter lost everything? Spider-Man still had some semblance of existence, so that counted for something right? With great power comes great responsibility and, at this point, great sacrifice.
Has a funny feeling several heroes he knows or knew were slightly disappointed in him for some reason now, and the thought of them made the gaping void in his chest twinge-
Actually, his chest is aching literally right now, painfully, enough that Peter cringes and tries to swing towards a roof to check if he received a wound he hadn't noticed - something like Mr. Dr. Strange panicky and worried about magic as Peter's spidey-sense screams like a Banshee. His ears are ringing, vision blurry worse than when he used to wear glasses, and the New York city skyline is spinning around him like a merry-go-round even as he's only going forward in one direction.
He shoots another web - his hand phases through it, not misses or is unable to reach, the web phases right through his hand mid-swing and he starts to fall - and fall -
And fall.
New York dusk, a colorful kaleidoscope of faint smog and red-orange-yellow, turns into a darkly dreary cloudy smog filled night, but Peter's head hits concrete and all he knows is unconsciousness before he can wonder why everything went sideways.
He doesn't wake up for some days - he doesn't feel as human when he wakes up either, something like Daredevil under his skin yelling his body is too cold-
He can't thermoregulate, can't get warm and the weather is cold, Peter get somewhere warm please - you'll freeze on us, Webs, you need food and water and your healing isn't working - Magic has consequences, whoever did this must be suffering too but the dimensional travel on Peter was harsh - I don't give a damnwhat happened, but Parker needs medical treatment and food - hey, hey, hey, Petey you gotta focus-
His healing factor can heal a lot of things - broken bones, acid wounds, death - but bile still stings when it claws up his throat and splashes onto some sort of warehouse roof, and the computer blue screen in his head that's screeching and screaming with hundreds of different voices is stabbing needles into his brain.
The first thing he realizes, brain melting out of his ears and his organs humming, is that he's not in New York anymore.
The second thing he realizes is that it was spring when he was last awake and now it's very obviously autumn.
Third is that there are now a bunch of voices - from people he knows, no less - screaming in his head as he tries to pull himself together.
And finally: he's not even in the same dimension he was just in. He can't be.
Who the f*ck would shine a giant Bat shaped light in a smoggy night sky while some while some circus enthusiasts in clown masks spray painted a giant billboard with, "i'M BaCK", in tacky neon green and plum purple -
That's some loony-toons level of vigilantism and Peter doesn't know anyone but himself who had that level - Mr. Murdock laughs, startled and rough, as Ms. Jones snorts and murmurs, "That sums you up really well, actually, Webs." - and his Spidey-sense was screaming that his sense of normalcy was never coming back. Which, yeah, fair - he was now hallucinating the voices of the Defenders in his head, which was a very not normal and not sane thing to do.
Maybe crashing into the warehouse roof cave him a severe concussion? Or his loneliness ha driven him insane? While he doesn't like to use the word insane for others, Wade not included, he didn't mine using it for himself because he was obviously insane at this point. And why the Defenders? He knew them, worked with them, and considered them mentors and friends to an extent but shouldn't he hallucinate people like Tony and May and Ben-
"Go to the library, Parker, figure this sh*t out and come home." MJ snaps in the back off his head, the cacophony of voices stabilizing under his skull and sinking into his neurons until he can sort through the noises and information as normally as he could anything else, and his heart is being cleaved into minced meat.
"Keep your head low - treat it like paparazzi trying to get me involved in another 'male lover' scandal again." Harry laughs, tone bright and playful in the way that he knew Harry was stressed, and a hand is on his shoulder that isn't actually there - the warmth is there, soaking into his skin unlike the reality of how it never would happen again, and Peter thinks he might be going insane.
His hands are shaking - his heart is trembling - Peter might be falling apart at the seems -
Deep breath.
His throat stings, his chest is still healing and a rib pokes but doesn't pierce his lung, and there's watery copper and iron on his tongue mixing with his slightly stinging saliva and acidic leftover bile but it's fine. He's fine. It's fine. His ankles feel like they're paste and melding into his feet, but he walks across the roof and lets his suit nano-tech shift until his head is free and he's wearing some stolen pants and hoodie hanging out to dry.
They're damp and heavy but they hide his Spider-Man suit due to how oversized they are, and he makes his way off of the roof even as his bones and organs whine under his movement.
"Maybe you should get some medical treatment, kid, you're not healing right." Mr. Falcon says, tone worried and slightly off like he's not sure if he should give Petert advice but can't stop his worry. Even if his worry was awkward and hidden under a lazy blandness that seemed relaxed and easy.
"Library." Peter murmurs - closes his eyes to steady himself through the pain, used to worse - throat rough and coarse and not right in a way he was going to ignore and deal with later, "Library." He repeats a little stronger and carefully avoids a few security cameras from across the street.
"Therapy might be good too." Mr. Falcon sighs, annoyed, "You need some help kid - mostly medical-"
"Library." Peter murmured again, voice a little better and not as rough, pushing all the voices away and pulling his hood up - he'll wash and return the clothes later, even if it was odd and strange to do so.
A police siren screams in the distance, and Peter glances in its direction - if he wanted, he could extend his hearing to know what's going on but there's still blood in his mouth and turning his neck makes him feel like he's being strangled for the hundredth time.
"Don't pick a fight you know nothing about." Mr. Sergeant Barnes says carefully, tone gruff and sharp like Mr. Castle's when he caught Peter with a gun for the first time, and then it softens the same way Mr. Castle's had when he learned Peter knew sharpshooting because of his Uncle even if a gun had been - "Acquire information - then act, do not move until you know your situation. Foolishness leads to death, misinformation and bravado can too."
Heart still cleaved into bloody pieces, Peter walks down the street following his newly minted Spidey-sense hissing at every shadow.
"Um.. Excuse me?" A young, familiar but slightly hoarse voice whispers to her - a voice she's heard on patrol since she'd been a child, again and again - and it has Barbara already rolling her eyes at Dick's antics before she even knew what they'd be - always a bother and a brother, and great at doing both.
She loved him, she did, too much blood spilt for the other for either of them to ever be anything less than family with one another but she was busy and, unless Dick had coffee and some good news, she wasn't really in the mood for one of his playful 'cheer-up' schemes. Dick would understand, obviously, once she had a chance to explain herself and relax when the livelihoods of others weren't actively hanging over her head but she was wrung thin for the moment.
"Not now, Dick - you knowB wants this report tonight." They needed to find the missing teens and they needed to find them quickly, they'd already found too many bodies already. And still no reason as to why, which might bother her just as much as the death toll - she's seen horrible things, she's faced horrible people, but a bunch of teenagers ranging from thirteen to seventeen with their chest carved open was a level of disturbance she was shaken from.
They were just so young. Killed before they could actually experience the world.
Just like Jason-
Half of her suspects magic, the other half of her hopes it's just a new killer hoping to make a name - either way Barbara is tired and the deaths are wearing away her conscience.
Barbara expects a gusty sigh, or an audible cringe, something so like Dick that her tension melts away and she, for a moment, is able to relax in the presence of family she knows will look out for her - instead, horrifyingly, she's met with a quietly stuttered out, "Oh.", and she snaps her head up to find the wide-eyed baby-face of a child looking back at her.
One that looks so much like the Dick she grew up with, had worked as Batgirl with, that Barbara feels winded for a few seconds and unable to restart her brain.
"Sorry," The boy starts after an awkward bit of silence, "I didn't - I'm sorry for bothering you." And he goes to turn away, shoulders high and anxious, and she can't let that happen.
"No!" Barbara snaps quickly, cringing at the flinch the boy offers her action in return - god, he was like a skittish pre-teen version of Dick, except his hair and eye-color were wrong and he was several shades paler, maybe through genetics or because he didn't go out - sitting up as straight as she could and plastering on an apologetic smile, "I'm sorry - really - I thought you were a friend of mine named Dick."
There's a dark, ugly purple bruise on the kid's cheek and Barbara feels sort of sick noticing it. And the darker, spotted with irritated red, bruises she can see under the collar of the kid's rough looking shirt that climb up his neck like he had been strangled don't make her feel any better. Something sits, angry, in her gut at both being on a poor kid that looked like Dick got frisky with a brunette without protection - and, well, just a small kid to begin with.
God, had Dick had a secret child? No. That couldn't be...
But maybe he had - Dick had had a wild series of flings when he was eighteen and the kid looked like he was around ten, maybe twelve at the latest - maybe thirteen? He didn't look seventeen. Or eighteen. And he was nowhere near twenty to be Dick's possible brother.
If she wanted to stretch it, she could say he was ten through thirteen - or, maybe, fourteen or fifteen but really young looking, but he looked too young to just look young.
It felt like her thought process wasn't working correctly - from worry? From the sheer 'what-the-f*ck'ery she was now dealing with.
"Like Tom, Dick, and Harry?" The kid asks after a minute, still tense and awkward but trying to ease himself into a false sense of comfort, offering Barbara a smile that's too much like Dick's it makes her heart squeeze with how out of place the kid looks like he feels.
With how out of place it looks on someone who isn't Dick.
She's drowning in how her heart is constricting.
"Exactly, kiddo." Barbara confirms, a flicker of amusem*nt at the boy's disgruntled look stoking a warmth to replace the heaviness in her gut, and she motioned towards the phone on the desk next to her, "A friend of mine said he planned on dropping by soon - since it's so late, I assumed you were him. I've just been so busy with my second job that I didn't realize the person speaking to me didn't have the same voice as my friend - Dick'll have a field day with that, but I'm not going to tell him."
By now, the kid was relaxed - still tense in a way that made her heart ache and something angry and hot want to crawl up her spine, but far more relaxed since she accidentally insulted him. He still looked too much like Dick that her mind was trying to connect the two and was short-circuiting when no leads or explanations came up for her to grapple around with.
Barbara had been there for Dick whenever a pregnancy scare or scam happened to him, knew almost every past flame Dick had as much as she didn't want to, but she knows there had to be an explanation. A piece to the puzzle was missing or she was overlooking something, and she couldn't let the kid leave just yet without a possible answer to her question - for all she knew, some past flame had been severely unhinged and stole a used condom or something, stranger things had happened.
"Now that that's out of the way - sorry, again - what can I help you with?" She smoothly added on, still keeping up her friendly smile to the mini-me of her best friend, "If you're looking for a specific book or curious about what our library has to offer, you can ask me any question you'd like."
Mini-Dick, because he looks so much like him - so terrifyingly identical in a way she nearly thinks cloning at first, but then saw the lighter skin and the warm brown eyes and the dark brown hair and way his jaw curved more upwards instead of staying in Dick's diamond cut - and she doesn't know his name, flushes slightly when he offers her a wider and relieved smile. It's Dick's smile, the way it crinkles a dimple in one cheek and not the other and makes the kid twinge his nose just a little as his eyes squint and his brow-bridge twitches, and it takes Barbara's breath away.
If this kid wasn't Dick's son, she'd fight condiment king in her civilian clothes without a single complaint for a month. Cloning would make the kid more similar to Dick, only minor patches in Dick's genetic code needing to be corrected with someone else's, and even if someone knew that Dick was Nightwing there wasn't anything overly impressive in Dick's DNA to make him worth cloning.
It could be a ploy to get to Bruce, as Batman, but something in the bottom of her lungs told her the kid was too genuine and too skittish to be some sort of plant - Dick's smile altered enough, nose twitching the wrong way and the outer corner of his eyes crinkling more than the inner unlike Dick's that did both equally, the kid could claim it as his own.
Alike but different, not a replica but just how the kid was.
Different hair texture, pale skin easier to flush than Dick's, the pattern in the kids' iris reaching outwards instead of sinking in, canines a little sharper than normal and his bottom teeth closer together instead of the top half like Dick's - so close, so close, but there's too much of someone else in him that she can pick out. Someone vaguely familiar that she can't quite grasp, but can note down enough that she knows she's seen the other half of this boy somewhere else besides in Dick.
Her heart being so unprepared for this kid might also be affecting her mind, her nerves numb even as she's struggling to reconnect her though process and figure him out.
"Oh, thanks - I, um, I was wondering where the public computers are?" The kid starts, a tension in his frame leaving in minutiae milliseconds, the shape of Dick's eyes warming like the honey-brown of his irises, "And, uh, if you had anymore of those 'Welcome to Gotham City' pamphlets? A.. Nice lady at the diner nearby said there was one…"
Dick's kid - because it has to be his son, not a brother or cousin or clone when he looks so much like Dick but different too, and so distantly like Dick's parents who she's seen photos of mixed with pieces of some people else - shifts on his feet, small and awkward and wary, and Barbara's heart all but shatters in her chest at the realization the kid is running from something. No onecame to Gotham willingly, and never with a good and happy reason either, add in the bruises she can see as plain as day all over the kid -
The tip of a thick scar, jagged and crude, peeks from the collar of his hoodie when leans in on himself a little too much - hiding himself, hoping he'd be small enough no one spots him, shifting on his feet silently and waiting to flee, aware of his surroundings but pretending not to be-
Barbara knows a kid in a bad situation when she sees one - she feels like cryingat seeing Dick looking so small and wary and scared, even if the kid was pretending he wasn't. Trying to hide his wariness as much as possible instead of focusing on Barbara, a known friend of Dick and the Oracle, pretending he was okay even when he wasn't - either he was a kid who was really just running, the greatest actor she's ever seen, or a kid being used and terrified of it.
He was so tiny, either way.
She could barely breathe, he was tootiny - thin from the way his collarbone dips down, and the only fat she can see is on his cheeks, like he hasn't had a full meal in a long time but he was used to starving that he didn't see anything wrong.
Definitely ten, at the least, or he could be eleven or twelve and look younger - face soft and cheeks round in a way that spoke of youth and pre-teenagehood that she knew could only come from being young. Dick would've been seventeen or eighteen when the kid would've been born, maybe sixteen even if the boy was older than she thought.
Something in Barbara's gut is shaking and trembling and weepingwhen the boy shifts on his feet and wincesbut acts like he hadn't so well she almost thinks she imagined it. But she hadn't - Bruce wouldn't let her in the field if she couldn't keep her facts straight - and this boy was usedto being pain to the point he was mostly unbothered by it.
She thinks her heart breaks a little more.
Bruce definitely kept track of every partner Dick had, especially during his teenager years when teenage girls and grown women alike threw themselves at him in hopes of getting lucky or getting pregnant to cheat Bruce out of money through Dick. Kept track of them even after they left Dick and Bruce alone and moved onto other rich men, or the rare genuine lover they later married, and she knows what the codes to the Bat-computer are to look through those files later.
She offers him a wide grin instead, tucking her observations away for later, "I can do you one better - there's a computer console near the front of the library, near the donation table, that's onlyfor the rogues and vigilante's of Gotham and there's the added bonus of getting a library card if you need to use the public computers and any printer that's near them." Barbara playfully adds, if only to help the kid calm down, keep up the persona of a friendly and apologetic librarian, "They're a bit old but they're connected to some pretty high-end wi-fi thanks to the Wayne Foundation."
The kid smiles, something like confusion flickering over his face before it's gone and Barbara can't pinpoint what it was meant for, warm brown eyes never quite settling on anything around them - so strange to see them that color instead of blue, and the longer she noticed them the more she could see the honey-brown shift into a softer and almost unnatural amber-orange near his pupils - before glancing towards the pen holder nearby, "Do I just have to sign my name on a card or something or do I have to pay for a library card?"
Barbara smiles and lies through her teeth, "Just write your name on a card - maybe an address or phone number or email, just so we can reach you about late fees if they happen - and then you're good to go."
Mini-Dick's smile suddenly drops, an awkward shift of his body and another wince, he murmurs almost quiet enough that Barbara doesn't hear it, "What if, uh - what if you don't have any of the three at the moment?"
And she thinks her heart breaks a little more at the shame that crawls up the kids face, the way he looks ready to bolt after asking such a thing, and he caves in on himself like he's ready for Barbara to judge him or throw him out.
It's a mix of shame and guilt and Barbara wants to rag the kid to Bruce and Dick and demand they hoard him like every other child that needs a good home.
"Tell you what," She decides instead, flashing him a wink and smile, "As an apology for calling you 'Dick' earlier, I'll make a deal with you." And she pulls out a blank library card, "You just sign your name and turn in any book you've taken out before they're late, and you can add one of the three later when you've got one. Deal?"
Dick's mini-me's eyes go wide, something like relief flashing over his face before he offers a smile that makes Barbara heart twist and remember Dick as Robin working with her for the first time without Bruce there to tell them to act mature, "Thank you, miss."
"It's no problem, kiddo, I'm not one to turn away someone eager for free knowledge - that'd make me worse than a super-villain." Barbara waves off the best she can, treating it like it was just basic decency so the kid could relax even more and offers him a smile when he signs his name - Peter Parker - for her to add to the library database for later use.
For her to look into later - she doesn't remember Dick dating a Parker but the kid might not know the dad who raised him wasn't his biological dad, still wearing a last name of a man he might not know didn't share any blood with him - since the kid wrote the name too easily, too used to it, for it to be a fake name.
"The front console has some information on safehomeless shelters and soup kitchens across Gotham." She decided to tell him too, though she had no plans of letting Dick's mini-me be homeless for long - she'd ask Harper or Jason to keep an eye on him until she could get Dick to take him in and, by god, she was going to get the two reunited even if they didn't know each other existed, "There's even some information on easy - legal - places you can get part-time or commision jobs if you need one on the side."
Peter's young face goes wide, baby doe eyes staring at her with something hopeful and surprised before he shuts it down in a shutter of reluctant hope and griefand then it's gone, a smile offered to her that does little to soothe the way her heart is constricting.
"Thank you," Brown-amber eyes flick to her named plaque, "Miss. Gordon. That really helps, really." Peter breathes out, a rush of tension leaving his frame as the judgement from Barbara never comes, and she grips onto the foreign inflection in his accent that edges the tip of his words - New York, maybe, not Boston or Brooklyn, New York but part of it all somehow.
It gives her more to go on - gives her a place to start.
She flashes the miniature, slightly altered, version of her best friend another smile before handing him his library card and watching as he shuffles over towards the front of the library and the always open computer that was surrounded by donated items - hopefully he'd at least take something, like food, so she wasn't asworried about him as she currently was. Keeping the teen in the corner of her vision, heart in her throat at the way his face frowns and turns melancholy, she takes her phone into her shaking hands and ignored that they're shaking in a way she hadn't let them get since Jason died-
Since Jason died and they could barely find what was left of his beaten bloody body.
They look too alike - they look like they're related - even if the color of the teen's skin is paler, the texture and color of his hair isn't the same, and his eyes are a dead giveaway of difference, along with the way the edges of his eyelashes curl more upwards than Dick's. But the slight dent in his chin, the way his earlobes sat against his skin, the way his hair kept trying to part slightly left to the center of his forehead, the shape of his nose and the curve of his lips and the shape of his eyes and the way they were both round and angled like Dick's, the shape of his cheekbones-
'Did you ever seriously date a girl when you were a teen?' She messages to Dick, praying he'll answer her question before questioning her himself, 'A brunette, maybe.' She adds on, because she needs to make sure.
There had to be an explanation - too many pieces of the puzzle slotted against each other but the border was missing.
'I dated a few brunette's when I was that age, why?' Dick answers nearly immediately, the sense of worry in her gut still refusing to let up, and she makes sure to keep Peter in her peripheral - heart aching when he glances at the donation table, afraid to take anything despite the large sign saying 'free to a new home', too hesitant - refusing to let Dick's potential unknown son out of her sight completely.
'Barb, why do you need to know.' Dick messages when Barbara doesn't, and her heart stutters at what she could offer as an answer when Peter's frown goes from a small thing to a grieving one that cleaves into her breastbone and slices into her lungs like an axe, 'You've never really cared about knowing anything about my love life when I was a teen.'
'Just saw someone who looked familiar that spoke about sleeping with a 'Wayne' kid when we were teens.' She eventually decides to text back, tearing her half-gaze away from the grief the mini-me of Dick has - offering him a slight privacy to mourn whatever loss he was still reeling from - flubbing up any sort of lie she can think of that sounded realistic, 'I just wanted to ruin her night.'
'Cold, cold, cold, Gordon.' Dick messages, followed by several freezing-face emoji's and snowflakes, 'I approve! The only two I can remember are Laura Kinley and Heather Jessops - there was one other girl but we only dated for, like, a day and never did anything more than a date to the mall. I think there's another two I don't remember but we never got serious so I don't think it matters.'
Thank god for Dick's memory, she at least had two leads to check in on now, and she quickly messages, 'I knew she was lying - now I get to have some fun. It's been a boring day.'
All Dick sent back was a saluting emoji and a picture of coffee, a papery sticker stuck to the front listing what was inside it and revealing Barbara's favorite coffee order.
Peter, who even walked like Dick when he wasn't trying to make himself small and invisible - graceful, knowing and controlled, and far too quiet for a boy who wasn't a vigilante or didn't have to grow up wary of someone hearing him and finding him trying to sneak-out or in - had moved towards the public computers after the intense and focused gaze he'd been giving the Gotham's resident nutcase gallery. She wants to watch him openly, fascinated by the boy who was so obviously related to Dick in some way, but she had two leads she neededto follow and a potential loss of guardianship she would force happen no matter the cost.
Quiet, nervous boys didn't gain serious bruises over vital body parts out of nowhere - no one came to Gotham willingly and never with a good or happy reason- and she'd be damned if whoever he was running from managed to take him back.
Barbara screenshots the text from Dick, swearing to look both women up when she had access to her own computer and not the library one that was really only useful if she needed to keep up with the tracker Bruce had her following, and decides there's other things she can snoop for that's within her immediate vicinity. A quick bypass of the library's security and connecting to the computer Dick's mini-me is using, she blinks in surprise at half the tabs open - all about things that even the average joe would know, like the Justice League and meta-humans - and finds herself impressed as she watches the boy desperately try to create a false identity for himself when the people he searches for pull up nothing.
She doesn't know who Ben or May Parker is, but Peter doesn't look happy to see no obituaries about them - his family, perhaps, neither Laura nor Heather but they could've used fake names themselves - and the papers the kid were making were about a 'Benjamin Parker Fitzpatrick' who... Jesus, would be just underthirteen if his birthdate was correct and it seemed to be the onlything about the fake identity that was real.
Maybe Dick was on the fifteen side of things instead of the eighteen, it's all her mind can really think about.
God, his birthday - August 10th - was just two months away. He would bethirteen in two months.
And then Peter hacks into Bruce Wayne's bank account, a fake one created under the name of Tony Stark that was documented as the guardian of 'Ben Fitzpatrick', and only took 50$.
Rookie numbers - not enough to really get by - and numbers Barbara intercepted with ease, adding a few extra zero's despite the panic she can see Peter immediately devolve into beyond her computer monitor. The kid tries to add some money back into Bruce's account, almost nearly succeeding if not for the fact that Barbara was better at hacking than the kid - more experience, undoubtedly - and she refused to let him lower the amount she had adjusted for him.
Bruce wouldn't even notice the money missing, honestly, it was Alfred who'd be aware of it first and he'd contact Barbara about it before bringing it up to the Bat anyway.
Alfred wouldn't hesitate to agree with Barbara when she'd tell him she did it for a great cause.
Family was important after all, and Alfred would probably chide her for not adding even more.
She felt a littleguilty at the way the young boy was obviously panicking, but he needed the help and she refused to let him survive on barely anything when he was alone and hiding from whatever asshole gave him those bruises. And, like Dick, he'd just have to accept that he was receiving help from family when he needed it more - even if he didn't know it yet.
Barbara just hopes the kid didn't have the same self-preservation skills that Dick had, one person who shoved their worry and grief under smiles and laughs was good enough in her case, but maybe he'd be more emotionally well-adjusted than the Bats and Birds?
Actually, well, it'd just prove that Peter was Dick's son if he did the same thing.
Peter's hands were shaking, his already healing bruised skin rigid and covered in goosebumps in the chilly air-conditioned air of the library, but he can't focus on them as he stares at the accidental fifty-thousand cash he now has in a bank account he made just seconds before. Coding and hacking things were easy, Ned had taught him the basics but Tony had taught him and Ned how to perfect the art with little more than a playful lesson that had them hacking into F.R.I.D.A.Y to give the remaining Avengers funny code names.
Even if Peter still wasn't as good as Mr. Stark or Ned.
"From an ancient librarycomputer." A feminine voice, accent like the Princess of Wakanda, hisses, "Only two years of experience and a library computer - your brain is absolutely fascinating."
The ancient technology of a library computer still using a 1980's set-up with wi-fi not as high-tech as he's used made it hard to hack, but he managed to relearn how to hack and slower and less complicated system quickly but-
But he hadn't meant to steal that much.
Funnily enough, Peter didn't really have a problem with stealing- sure, he stopped muggers from robbing innocent bystanders, stopped the occasional bank or store from being robbed, but old money and big corporations? As long as someone wasn't stealing something that could hurt someone, or leave them financially destroyed, then Peter could easily look the other way-
People always forgot that vigilantism itself was technically a crime and, therefore, Spider-Man was technicallya criminal for continually breaking it.
Faintly, he hears Matt laugh - something almost fondly amused in the way he chuckles - but Peter knows he's only hearing things. Matt didn't smile as much at him anymore, not when Matt didn't remember who Peter was and their silly inside jokes had been erased just like Peter had.
Committing crimes was, by definition, always something a vigilante did unless the law was altered or changed to state otherwise - it's why Jonah always ragged against Spider-Man before Mysterio destroyed his life, the man wasn't wrong in a sense.
"Except that he was a completely biased sack of hypocrisy." Ms. Jones murmurs into his ear, tone flat and unbothered but faintly annoyed, "Aw, Webs, I said you could call me Jess..."
And he would never be doing that, of course, Aunt May had raised him better than that and he doubted being rude to the very much alive and wellJessica Jones, even if only in his mind, would be good for him. He also refuses to acknowledge the fact that he's most definitely insane at this point because Ms. Jones was alive and okay and not in his head at all-
He's probably lost a screw somewhere. Maybe after May's death, it really did a number on him if he allowed himself to step back and grieve, but he couldn't do that right now - wouldn't ever, really - too busy focusing on the fifty-thousand cashhe had no clue what to do with.
He hears someone sigh - the sound right behind his eyes - or maybe they're crying instead? Peter's pretending he can't hear it even if someone, who sounds suspiciously like Mr. Roger's friend Mr. Sergeant Barnes, says, "And you're doing a great job at that."
"Did you know her?" Happy had asked him, a cigarette in the man's lips even though he'd long quit smoking, standing over May's grave that'd been reserved right next to Ben's, "I don't think she ever mentioned having a kid." Happy added, like Peter wasn't being guttedby the words-
Warm dark brown eyes, staring at him but not registeringhim, May offering him a confused smile, "Sorry - are you okay kiddo? Didn't mean to run into you like that but," She checks her watch, unknowing of who he is, "Dammit, I'm late - sorry, kiddo, if we run into each other again I'll make it up to you." And she turns-
She turns away - she turns away and he never sees her again because she-
"Did you know her?" Happy had asked him - Happy hadn't known who he was either.
He's okay.
He's fine.
Peter breathes in, the hurt lessons, he focuses on his shaking hands and pretends everything is good.
Then he shoves the memories away and acts like they aren't there to hurt him at all - he's getting good at it - logging out of every single program on the computer in hopes that maybe the amount of money will go away if he stops looking at it. Ms. Gordon is still watching him, her face angled towards the monitor but his spider-sense is screaming and hissing and loudin telling him that her eyes were watching him sharply.
She's not a threat, his sense not shuddering in a sharply prickling tingle that alerts him to danger, but her eyes on him is making his skin want to crawl off his flesh.
It's easy to hear her texting - the silence of the library making the soft thumping of thumb-pads against plastic buttons as loud as gunshots in a dark alley-
Peter feels a little sick. He needs to stop trying to remember things when he's not even in his own dimension, and, boy, had that been a discover to find out after the Sandman threw him through a building minutes before. One minute he'd been chatting with Deadpool, almost unbothered about the way his shoulder dislocated, as he was flung through the concrete support beam of some office building and the next he'd been laying flat on a roof with an unfamiliar skyline greeting him.
Or had he been swinging home after the fight? It's all blurry at this point.
He should try to remember what happened - it was the logical next step to take, especially when he found himself reading words like 'Gotham Gazette' as a newspaper label and titles like 'Just League stops Invasion, Again!' just thirty minutes later - but no matter how hard he tried tried to connect fighting the Sandman to the top of a some roof... There wasn't anything there. Mr. Dr. Strange had said something about the 'strain' being too much for even Peter's enhanced brain, and how some memories weren't met to be made in the first place when it came to the inner workings of alternate-dimension magic-
If, of course, he wanted to believe the very much fake Mr. Dr. Strange inside his head like any person who was probably certified insane like he was at this point.
Someone sighs, Peter prays it's Ms. Gordon but the tone and breathe pattern indicate a male.
So, a library - it was the perfect place to go when he needed to know where he was and what happened.
He already had a feeling he wasn't anywhere near home, but the confirmation hurteven if he had no one to get back and no one there even really cared to remember much of Spider-Man either. As silly as it was, he could trust Queens and his remaining rogues to the now alive Defenders and Deadpool - he trusted Wade not to break his no-kill rule even if Peter wasn't able to come home ever again. There was too many years of friendship between them for the merc to just throw them all away, even if Wade didn't remember Spider-Man was Peterand there were memories of them, out of the suit, now altered to be something less filled with trust and companionship.
"Still not going to tell me who you are, Spidey? I'm hurt!" Wade had told him one night, tone bright and playful but underlined with a hurt that made Peter want to curl up and cry, offering Peter a sandwich from Delmar's and acting like nothing was wrong.
It wasn't wrong, really, not for anyone but Peter after all. He still remembers Wade laughing, guffawing actually, when he learned Peter was Spider-Man and that the Daily Bugle was buying his pictures of Spider-Man - the way Wade all but spasmed with laughter, leaning onto Peter before Matt reached over and slapped him to get him to stop.
He'll never be able to get that back.
But alternate dimension - he needs to focus on that.
He can focus on that.
Ms. Gordon was still watching him and Peter's spider-sense was screaming at him still, perceiving everything unfamiliar to him as a threat and trying to alert him of even the slightest thing his normally enhanced sense and his extraspidery senses could process. Idly, because Peter's staring at a powered down computer monitor, he wonders how much of him is human and how much is spider since he and Tony never really had the time to figure out.
And then he promptly shoves Tony's memory somewhere far away because the hurt his name stabs into his lungs is almost enough to replicate drowning, and Peter's nearly drowned to death enough times that he doesn't need panic to do it.
"Jesus, kid, what the f*ck is your life - that's not healthy." Mr. Falcon says, followed by a low sigh and a scalding, "And he's still ignoring us... Kid.."
Peter stands, he's done everything he needed to and he didn't want even more attention on him, skin still crawling under Ms. Gordon's hidden gaze and he makes a show of going towards the school books. The chemistry books call to him, college level textbooks he'd never be able to buy and use for himself, the biology and mechanical engineering calling out just as much...
He remembered borrowing the same books when he was in Midtown, reading through them when he had the free-time, sprawled over his bed as Harry used him to rest his legs on and chatting about how certain scientists were idiots. Not Dr. Banner, of course, his papers were always something Peter loved to read and his latest memoir related to Gamma Radiation and his highs and lows as 'The Hulk' would also be something Peter regretted never reading.
"Nerd." Ms. Jones snorts, leaning against the back of his skull, "Sure know how to pick 'em Red."
Matt chuckles, smile fond, "You say that like he wasn't already that way before we met him."
All three books, and the memories he had with Harry along with them, are in his arms before he can stop himself and a few extra books, all written by scientists and billionaires he didn't know, are tossed in for good measure. Even Peter can admit it looks nerdy, if not suspicious in a city that was almost as messed up as New York as whole, but Ms. Gordon just offers him a friendly smile when he reappears and sets the books down.
Without a word, she starts scanning the books with little more than a raised brow and a look that hit Peter's lungs at how much he could see May in it - could see her teasing look start to shift with a smile, amusem*nt in way the wrinkles around her eyes deepen just a fraction and the way dimples light up her cheeks when the smile gets too wide. It's just the smile, though, that's so much like May that it hurtsbecause nothing else about the woman speaks anything close to May that he's able to get his breathing back under control before Ms. Gordon even finishes the first book.
His heart hiccuping at the most.
"Into science?" The librarian asked brightly, pulling a face at one of the books written by some dude named Lex Luthor but scanning the book regardless, "I swear, the only person I know who checks out this many books on science is my friends brother, Tim."
"Uh," Peter started smartly, fidgeting nervously, "I like most fields of science - my dad was a geneticist, mostly working in chemical engineering and genetics though he had a degree in biology too, so maybe more bio-chem than anything." He rambled, able to spout off facts about a man he didn't really remember - no, that was lie, he remembered Richard Parker perfectly.
He remembered a man with dark hair and bright blue eyes, who crawled into a makeshift pillow fort with a wide smile and a cup of hot cocoa as his mother, Mary, laughed at him from a different room - broad compared to four-year-old Peter and laying awkwardly in the too small pillow fort but unbothered since it made Peter laugh. He remembers Richard Parker's voice shaking, something that his dad's voice never did, trembling so much the words of love he was whispering into the voicemail were almost nonsense and he remembers how his mother added in her own praises and promises of affection before the voicemail clicked.
And the plane crashed, minutes later, preventing the two from coming home - from ever calling again.
Peter likes when he can't remember things, it's easier to push it all down and away and say it isn't there. It's better to not remember at all, to not grieve the memories of a man he'd never see again and who wasn't there much in his life since he died when Peter was six.
It's so easy to let the memories sit in a corner, catching dust, than pull them out and have them in the light.
Like Skip- No. No. No. Ignore. Don't mention the name. Focus.
Something, at the mention of 'geneticist', flickered sharply across the librarians face before it faded - Mr. Fury's leaning close to his ear and murmuring about how her hands a little more tense and her smile had shifted, Mr. Bucky's there pointing out the way her body language changed and spoke about a startled worry, and Mr. Murdock is under his lungs telling him to notice how her heartbeat stuttered in surprise and her scent shifted enough she's worried about his words- and she offered the same, calculated smile he had originally assumed was legit but now knew better.
She was probably hoping he wasn't some new peanut gallery rogue in the making - liking science seemed to be the downfall of a lotof different people, both in his home dimension and the new one he found himself in.
"He sounds like an interesting guy." Ms. Gordon tells him lightly, smile still in place, and it hits Peter now that he could say the man's name and she wouldn't know - that no one knew about Thanos or Iron Man or the Avengers here and even less about Richard Parker. He'd been a somewhat well known geneticist when he died, working at OsCorp since he'd been friends with Harry's dad and Norman refused to let his smart best friend be hired by someone else when he could let Peter's dad do whatever he wanted, but even his few breakthroughs in the field of genetics faded to time.
Richard Parker was forgotten by his own dimension, it wouldn't be a surprised if he didn't even exist in this one at all.
"He was." Peter answers easily, accepting the stack of books with little problem - he could hold a several story building up above his head with only some stressing on his muscles, could withstand a plane being thrown at him, and easily survived a helicarrier crashing into the ocean with himself inside it-
A stack of books isn't a problem.
"Jesus f*cking Christ, kid - how- no, when-" Someone like Mr. Falcon says, several other voices stacking on top of him in horror until there's a sharp pulsing pain under his skull that fades when Mr. Dr. Strange snaps a word he doesn't know.
"I'm..." Ms. Gordon started, looking unsure - "Notice how her chemosignal is more muted, lower, as if a deeper sound despite being an olfactory registered scent?" Mr. Murdock murmured, "It means she's sad - apologetic from the way her body is positioned and her shoulders slump downward loosely."- before she tries a sympathetic look that doesn't borderline pity, "I'm sorry for your loss."
"It's fine." Peter waves off easily - the hurt of the loss had long faded, couldn't mourn a man or woman you didn't let yourself remember - offering the now frowning librarian a small and sad smile, "He died when I was pretty young - barely remember him to be honest." A flat lie, "Thank you, though." He offers since Aunt May didn't raise him to be impolite.
She didn't raise him to be able to save her either.
Ms. Gordon's lips thin, a sympathetic frown, but she tilts her head towards the donation table near the front entrance, "You gonna be good carrying all that on your own or do want to take one of the bags free to a new home? They don't really last long - there's new stuff weekly, and whatever's left get sent to a homeless shelter."
The message was clear: Please take something from the donation table.
"Maybe you should listen." A voice that sounded suspiciously like MJ's said flatly.
Peter doesn't want to - someone else might need it more - but Ms. Gordon is still staring and he swears MJ is glaring so sharply at him from the back of his mind that his skin's bleeding from the way it stabs into him.
There's another sigh, one that sounds like Harry, and Peter smiles even as he's struggling to breath - "Just take. A. Damn. Bag. Parker." MJ snaps, tone no-nonsense but not judging, hand on his shoulder gripping hard but not there in the corner of his vision.
"Well... Alright." Peter relents because he has no choice to, the weight of MJ and Harry against his spine painful and the weight of Ms. Gordons' worried stare in his gut heavy, offering the librarian a smile that doesn't seem to abate her worry in the slightest - Peter's not sure why, he's been able to pretend he's okay for a long while and has been told it's quite realistic.
"Kid." Mr. Wilson murmurs sadly, "You're killing us here."
He almost laughs - Peter's actually pretty good at getting people killed, it's all he really does anymore and the blood on Spider-Man's hands was enough he wasn't even sure he could call himself a hero anymore. MJ and Ned didn't remember who he was - what they had - and Harry- Harry being dead would probably bring lesspain than the cold bitter reality of his friend - his best friend since he could toddle- looking at him like he was a stranger.
Losing MJ and Ned's friendship hurt, sure, several years of friendship and tears gone but losing Harry's had gutted Peter of his lungs and kidneys and left him trying to carefully bandage the gaping holes left in his very soul. Only Aunt May and Tony's death had hit him harder, a pulsating void inside his chest that had consumed his heart until the numbing pain helped soothe every other loss he had, but Harry's was very close behind in devastation.
Harry had been his childhood - had been there for good and bad memories - had been the one person he tried to share all his secrets with - had been the first person Peter had verballytold he was Spider-Man - had been in Peter's life longer than the parental figures Peter had and failed.
"Oh, Pete..." Two voices say, wounded.
Peter's already moving towards the donation table though, pretending he can't hear a single thing that sounds like May or Harry in the back of his head, glancing over the different bags until he spots a red and gold backpack that almost makes him break- It's a cheap bag, wouldn't last more than a year of constant use, but Peter takes it into his hands without a care and deposits the library books neatly inside. It hurts to look at the bag, more than he'd like to admit, but he's already lost his home dimension and Iron Man would always be his favorite hero.
Originally he'd planned on buying some bus tickets and catching a ride back to New York, which is why he only needed fifty-bucks instead of what he accidentally stole, but... Spider-Man didn't exist there, and the crime rate of New York in this dimension was almost the same as when Peter was Spider-Man back home. At least, before everything that went down and his life came crashing down around him, hurting not only himself but the people around him that he cared about.
Spider-Man wouldn't be much good in a city - in a whole state - who didn't need him like his home had, but Gotham? Even with the dozens of vigilante's it had, the crime rate was ridiculous and the lack of support half the city received was... Bewildering.
He hadn't planned on staying but Spider-Man was needed here, more than the alternate Queens, and he'd help as much as he could until he could go home - if he even wanted to.
Suddenly, like a mugger pulling a trigger - blood pooling onto his hands - Peter's hit with the realization he might not even be ableto go home. Might not even want to. Karen was still part of his suit, though he's not sure how, the Stark suit tucked carefully under his clothing well enough that, unless he stripped, no one would be able to see under his clothes and though he knew it didn't matter, considering it was made of nanites, it stayed flushed against his skin instead of hidden as a watch or glove as he'd done before.
She held all the remaining information and documented proof Peter existed inside her - every photo he and May had digitized, every grade, every video or snapchat or tiktok he and his friends made as dumb teenagers who didn't want their memories tied down through the actions of Thanos. All the chats he had during late nights with Harry, all the home videos of Ben and May recording Peter as a little kid, and every little piece of Peter that existed before Dr. Strange erased him from existence was stored safely insider her.
He's... Really not sure how it happened - Dr. Strange had said something about her creation being based solely off of Peter and therefore she couldn't be affected since it'd erase her very being and the spell only altered memories and digital traces and couldn't destroy partial or full consciousnesses - but he had decided on using a different suit anyway. Only using the suit Karen was a part of when he felt nostalgic or needed the companionship so he didn't go insane, and, though he loved the nanites and the wide rage of abilities and functions the offered him, part of the fun of being Spider-Man was makingthose same functions himself.
The suit reminded him too much of Tony too, Karen trying to help but only making things worseas memories he tried to repress kept coming forward to remind him of everyone he failed and lost.
Peter's glad he's not alone here, though, he might not last if he didn't have someoneeven if that someone was an A.I that was becoming increasingly like a mother hen because he wasn't using her as much.
"Peter?" Ms. Gordon murmured, Peter nearly jumping out of his skin when he realized he'd been standing in front of the donation table in a daze for a few minutes, the nice librarian offering him a gentle smile - "A worried smile." Mr. Sergeant Barnes says, "And drop the Mr., kid, don't make me feel older than I already am."- and he realized she'd wheeled herself closer to him, "You okay, kiddo?"
"Oh!" Peter finds himself letting out, half in embarrassment and half in awkwardness, "Sorry - I got lost in my head thinking about some stuff - sorry, I'm good. Everything's fine, I'm fine - just got distracted." And he offers the still frowning woman an awkward smile and an even more awkward laugh, "You should see how I am when I'm studying - barely do anything but daydream. I can remember that embarrassing thing I did when I was seven but can't remember what the powerhouse of the cell is, I swear."
It's a lie - Peter usually didn't need to study, and when he did he absorbed information like a sponge that couldn't be wrung dry, it was only when he didn't study because of being Spider-Man that his lapse in intellect showed. Hard to answer a question when you didn't learn the answer to begin with, but Peter was good at guessing and even better at figuring out a problem or puzzle when it required critical thinking.
"I knew there was a reason I liked you." Princess Shuri - he's fairly certain it's her - murmurs around a laugh, too amused to be anything flirty instead of just a playful bit of friendship, "I really do want to pick your brain, Bug-Boy, there is much there that is fascinating."
Ms. Gordon smiles at that, easily believing his embarrassed rambles, her worry softening into something vaguely fond that reminded him of May when she saw Ben in Peter and he wondered, idly, who she saw in him and if that was why she was so worried about him. Peter's been told he had 'annoying younger sibling' energy that made him reluctantly tolerable, and apparently someone worth dying for if half the Defenders actions were anything to go by, so he wonders if the librarian has a friend or sibling Peter acts like.
Maybe she even had a kid - Ms. Jones once said he had a 'sad wet kitten' energy outside the mask - and couldn't help herself to reach out.
"And I f*ckin' stand by it." Ms. Jones snorts, something like a sigh of annoyed agreement from Mr. Murdock and a startled laugh from Harry, Peter's stomach twisting at how light her joking words make him feel- Peter would never get it back, of course, since no one remembered he existed back home, "Oh.. Webs..."
"Well, I hope those books you've got help you retain a little of something." Ms. Gordon says brightly, playful and friendly in way that reminded him of May when she was talking about Spider-Man without actually admitting she already knew, smile still warm and fond, "Feel free to stop by anytime, Peter, the library's doors are alwaysopen to you."
She glances at the donation table once more, before grabbing Peter's hand - he'd just put on the backpack, though he planned on hiding it under his hoodie when he had a moment of privacy - to place a small compact taser into his hands, "Be careful - Gotham is... Not the safest, so take this for self defense only." She warns carefully, gaze gentle, "There are a few vigilante's in Gotham but even theycan't defend everyone, but Gotham's birds and bats willhelp you, okay?"
And all Peter can offer her is an awkward smile as he made a plan to avoid the Birds and Bats as much as he possibly could - better to let Spider-Man deal with them than Peter Parker, who knew who Peter's alternate self was in this dimension. He'd hate for his fingerprints or blood to be linked to some crime boss or, even worse, one of the Bats and Birds to assume Peter was someone he wasn't and try to force their way into his life.
It was safer for people if Peter was alone too - maybe then he wouldn't get friends and family killed.
"Hey now, Webs!", "Oh, Petey that's not-", "You idiot, Parker, that's not true.", "Kid, it's not your fault.", "Spider child, even I am not that vain."
Peter pretends he doesn't hear any of it, "I'll keep it in mind, thank you, Ms. Gordon." He offers with a shy smile, trying not to cave in on himself or break under the way the librarians smile softens so much he feels like he's intruding on it.
"Stay safe, Peter, okay?" Ms. Gordon presses again, still offering him a smile that makes his stomach clench tight and remember May - remember how she smiled so kindly, so fondly, of Peter before he gave her a quick 'I larb you' before heading out to do some web-slinging. Remember May when she'd find an online post or story about Spider-Man doing some good and tell him how proud she was of the vigilante and the cat he saved from a tree.
Peter offers Ms. Gordon a smile, tries to make it seem genuine, "I'll be careful." He tells her, making his voice sound thankful and not confidant, carefully making sure the taser in his hand doesn't get crush by how tense his grip around it is.
"Have a nice day, Peter - remember, Gotham's bats and birds are friends." Ms. Gordon reminded him, looking far more relaxed and calm about Peter being out on his own when he now had a weapon to defend himself.
"Not food." Peter responds on instinct, cringing instantly the second it left his lips, but Ms. Gordon laughs brightly - looking more amused than annoyed or confused.
"If I am to change this image - I must first change myself." Ms. Gordon adds with a smile, still looking amused, "Have a nice night, Peter."
He knows, logically, that she's not chasing him off - Peter's body angled towards the library doors and everything about his frame screaming he's anxious to leave - but something under his skin feelslike she is, even if it's foolish and silly. He's not quite sure why his emotions are twisting in such a way, but he carefully squishes it down so that nothing of the feeling is left and offers the kind librarian a smile instead of the unsurity he shouldn't be feeling.
"Kid... That doesn't sound very healthy." Mr. Wilson murmurs sadly, a contorted face of worry fading into the edge of his vision but disappearing the second Peter pretended to take in the library and look in the faces direction.
"Have a nice night, Ms. Gordon." Peter parrots back, making sure to offer her as polite a head nod as he could manage since Aunt May didn't raise him to be rude, and it's only when he gives the librarian one last wave before leaving that he realizes his new backpack is heavier than just books. Checking inside of it, once he ducks into the too dark shadows of a Gotham Alley - eyes having long mutated to be able to see in the dark - he finds an added box of protein bars, a jar of peanut butter, and a water bottle alongside his checked-out books.
"She's good - almost didn't notice her slip the food in - she definitely has some sort of training. Maybe a former vigilante retired into a civilian?" Mr. Fury notes, impressed, with a touch of curiosity that Peter had no plan on satiating - whatever Ms. Gordon did or was, it's for her to know unless she felt like sharing.
Peter wasn't going to pry into the lives of others, and not a possible vigilante even if they were retired.
Mr. Murdock chuckles, the sound sudden but fond, but it's Jessica that snorts and says, "You and your code of honor, Webs - it's a wonder how you learned anyone's identity at all."
What, like being polite and not invasive was strange? Peter wouldn't want someone to try and force their noses into his own private life, or stalk, track, and bug himto figure out who he was - especially since most databases could easily be hacked and then his information could be found by any means of unsavory people. Hell, Peter's hacked into SHEILD's database just for funand not even Tonyrealized he'd done it from inside the Avengers Tower, anyone could easily get SHEILDs information without even trying too hard.
Honestly, hacking wasn't too hard, it was the whole 'create a credible digital trace that was coded to be aged when it's really brand new' part that was difficult.
"You did what, Spider-Man." Mr. Fury says sharply - the words normally implying a question but the Director of SHEILD's tone implying that it wasn't a question at all.
"I thought what I thought." Peter mumbled, zipping the backpack up knowing he couldn't just waltz back into the library and return the food for people who needed it more, eyeing a duo of suspicious looking men who peered into the alley only a minute after he ducked into it - his spidey-sense warning him of the weapons, a pocket knife for one and a gun for the other, that his two wannabe muggers had hidden in their pockets.
They wanted to mug him, his spidey-sense murmured lowly, but the couldn't spot him in the darkness of the alley and neither men were brave enough to wander in themselves when Gotham's crime and death rates were so high. Not that the alleyway itself was dangerous, as empty as it was, and Peter was safer using the alley's when he wasn't some normal civilian considering he was being watched by the camera's in the strip mall across the street.
Who'd want to watch Peter through security camera's though? He hadn't been watched before the library, either, so maybe it was Ms. Gordon - to make sure he stayed safe. His spidey-sense was in hyper-drive, though, enough it was almost headache inducing with how much excess information it was processing to ensure his own personal safety and it's probably because, like it's 'Welcome to Gotham City' website said, the city was filled with same amount of crime New York had been after the Snap was reversed.
So many people struggling to get back onto their feet when those same people had lost their jobs and homes, even some loved ones depending on how the five years treated the ones left alive, resorting to crime in hopes to help themselves but only ever screwing themselves over.
It probably wouldn't settle down for the entire time he'd stay in Gotham.
Carefully, Peter pressed his palm against the alley wall and tested his wall climbing stability on the slightly slick grime that covered the alley wall, and smiled when his skin easily manages to adhere too the wall regardless of the grime between his microscopic barbs and the bricks.
"Your what." Mr. Wilson says with a tone that makes Peter snort.
"Microscopic flexible barbs that grow my skin - prominent on my hands and feet but also on my arms, legs, and torso." Peter thought with a grin, carefully climbing - hands flat - up the wall until he was on the roof, "I can control how strong or soft the friction between them and any surface I climb is, allowing me to climb pretty much anything ever, since the enhanced inter-atomic forces of attraction mean anything's free to stick to."
"Like Van der Waals forces..." Ms. Van Dyne said with a hum, "Like an actual spider - I get the name now."
"It's fascinating to hear." Mr. Murdock said with a laugh, "The way the fleshy barbs vibrate lowly at different frequencies is... I've never heard anything like it."
"God, you're so weird, Red." Ms, Jones says with a sigh and a roll of her eyes - "Matt, I will literally pay you to never say those words in that sequence ever again." Mr. Nelson says at the same time.
The harder the item to 'stick' to, though, the more he had to concentrate his ability to work - sticking to 'non-stick' materials wasn't hard, barely took more work than normal wall-climbing, but sticking to alien material or items specifically designed to repel his ability specifically? It took way more concentration than simple mindlessness but he coulddo it.
It didn't help during Thanos - didn't help when he was struggling to focus all his attention on keeping the gauntlet in his grasp, skin barbs bruised and sore from overuse, and he failed everyone in the end.
"Well, if you think skin barbs are strange," Peter thought a little gleefully, pushing away his other thoughts and acting it like wasn't there, carefully tucked away in the darkness of a taller buildings shadow as he contemplated which direction to head in, "I wonder what you'd all think when I say I'm literallypart spider - DNA got all rearranged when getting my powers."
"What.", "Like for real?", "Say psyche.", "Spider-kid, you better be joking.", "Webs, you're not serious right?" Says a cacophony of different voices in Peter's head.
God, it makes him feel insane but it's comforting too.
"Why do you think SHEILD took so long to track me? Hard to find Peter Parker when his blood comes up as spider-infused." Peter thought carelessly, more amused about the fact he wasn't even lying, carefully jumping to another roof and making sure no camera's or vigilante's could catch him doing so, "Got rid of some of my bones, hollowed out some of my joints, made my compact and spongy bone membranes denser - might've added chitin to them? Never actually did a full examination of everything before..."
Peter lets his thoughts trail off before swallowing down the memory of Tony - of Mr. Stark grinning at him wildly, hands flat against his labs desk and saying, "Spiderling, you ever wonder how much your body is made of all that Spider stuff you've got going on? Wanna find out?" - and instead watches a black shape move across the sky several meters away.
Batman, he assumes, his spidey-sense telling him the man itself wasn't a threat but he'd stalk, track, and hunt him down to figure out who he was if the Bat actually noticed him - luckily, Batman hadn't, and Peter watches as the Bat themed vigilante swings away.
Right, Peter's got to find a place to live now.
Refocusing himself - really, talking back to the voices in his head, just how pathetic was he? - Peter recalls the different boroughs of Gotham and decides the one nicknamed Crime Alley probably had the cheapest apartments and ones that wouldn't ask any questions about who he is or why he wanted to stick around Gotham. They'd probably not be the bestof apartments but as long as Peter had a place to call home and a bed, he was fine with leaking ceilings or it being infested with insects.
From the Gotham Public Library, the one he'd just been at, getting to Park Row was actually fairly simple - he'd just have to take Giaman Boulevard to Giordano Avenue and then run Giordano Avenue to Park Row, it wouldn't even take thirty minutes if he used the roofs. Really, the only problem would be trying not to be seen and making sure his backpack didn't draw too much attention from unsavory people.
He'd need money, though, maybe find a bank before he tried to rent an apartment without a credit card or cash on hand.
...Peter didn't know where a bank was to withdraw money... Crap, he should've asked for a copy of a map of the whole of Gotham instead of just glancing at it, even Peter'smemory wouldn't recall where to go if he didn't fully look at it in the first place.
Maybe he'd get lucky if he wandered around Gaiman Boulevard for a bit, either stumbling across a bank outright or a diner he could go inside and ask about one, either way he carefully jumps to another roof in the direction of Crime Alley and prepares for a very awkward journey that would probably end with him sleeping in an abandoned building until he can actually get an apartment. Not that Peter was unfamiliar with that concept, he'd crashed in abandoned buildings several times after Peter Parker ceased to exist since it was easier than trying to get an apartment, but it'd be a first without Daredevil or Deadpool around to let him borrow their couch when it got too cold or rainy for his hideouts to work.
Strangely, the realization his life wouldn't change toomuch in a completely different dimension was... Not as hard as he thought it'd be - or maybe he was just ignoring it, honestly that was more his speed.
"Okay, Webs, that's depressing." Ms. Jones sighs.
Peter mentally shrugs it off - it's just his life at this point- jumping to another roof and nearly getting seen by a traffic camera when he moves too quickly, taking a deep breath to calm himself before climbing up another building to make sure he was hidden from view. It's not the tallest building, though Gotham seemed to like tall buildings as much as New York, but it's tall enough he shouldn't have to worry about any ground level camera's being able to see him.
Two buildings later and his spidey-sense screams, not in terror or panic or anything shouting about danger but in sudden wariness that has his freezing in place for a second before he pieces together than someone - a threat to some but not to Peter - is nearby. A bird or bat, maybe? Who else would be trapezing over rooftops like Peter andnot twinge his spider-sense into screaming how dangerous the person was.
Should he wait for them? Try to see how the vigilante's of Gotham were before he went out as Spider-Man? Maybe ask the vigilante where a bank or a homeless shelter was for Peter to spend the night at... Peter waits a minute, hearing the tell-tale sound of a grappling gun, before he realizes he doesn't actually know which bird or bat he might be running into and realizes, too late, that he'd rather not deal with Batman if he could.
Nightwing sounded cooler and so did Red Hood.
He just liked those two for some reason.
Hopefully it wasn't someone like Red Robin, since he doubted he could take a food chain seriously.
"Hey now, why don't we take a step away from the edge." A teenager calls out to him, Peter mentally cursing his indecisiveness until he had no choice, and he sheepishly gives Red Robin - yum- a smile.
"I wasn't going to jump." Is all Peter can offer the vigilante, who doesn't look much older than Peter really, and finds the vigilante just.... Staring at him - domino mask blown wide and jaw tight, heart rate slightly elevated in a way that spoke of shock before the vigilante seems to restart himself when Peter continues with, "Uh... Should I go?"
"What are you doing up here?" Red Robin asks, as if he hadn't momentarily been shocked into silence - Peter's really hoping it's not because his alternate self in this world is well known - the teenager careful with the way he moves and hold his body language, as if attempting to calm a younger child, "It's pretty dangerous this high up."
"I promise I wasn't going to jump." Peter attempts to soothe the vigilante with again, but the insistence must worry the bird since the teen's stance goes from 'comforting-calm' to 'wary-worried' before it softens into something falsely relaxed again, "I'm just not familiar with Gotham yet and I needed to find a bank - looking for it from the roof seemed safer than roaming the streets." And since it's a story filled with half-truths, it comes out smoother and more believable than Peter thought it would.
"Right." Red Robin agrees slowly, like Peter's story is completely made-up - which it is, but rude- hesitantly taking a step forward, "Let's just step away from the edge first, okay?"
Refusing to admit he was sulking, Peter complied, "I wasn't going to jump..." He repeated with a mumble as he stepped away from the edge - the fall wouldn't even kill Peter, he'd been through worse and had fallen from higher.
"That ain't a good thing, kid." Mr. Sergeant Barnes murmured with a sigh, an image of the man frowning flashing behind Peter's eyes.
"You still could've fallen." Red Robin finally relents, more to placate Peter than to actually explain his unneeded worry, "In fact, I think this conversation should happen a little closer to the ground - yeah?"
Almost getting annoyed at this point - was Peter ever this bad as Spider-Man? - he tried to keep his annoyance to himself as Red Robin attempted to keep placating him, acting as if he was some little kid and not a teenager close to being a legal adult like the vigilante across from. And that wasn't even counting the five years peter had been dead which made him, technically, older than a teenager to begin with.
"He hasn't looked in a mirror yet, has he?" A voice that sounds suspiciously like other Peter - Quill, who had a Buzzfeed Unsolved episode about his disappearance - and the Iron Fist speaking at the same time.
"There's a video about my disappearance?" Quill says excitedly, sounding too giddy about his disappearance being well-known and considered a cold case - "Just the Iron Fist?" Mr. Rand says at the same time, with a playful pout, before adding, "Okay, but, Mr. Rand is worse."
"I seriously wasn't going to jump." Peter insists even as Red Robin continues to carefully pull him away from the edge of the roof, like Peter taking several large steps away wasn't enough, "A nice librarian said the 'bats and birds' could help if I need it and since I kinda need to find a bank - my guardian kinda ditched me without a word - I figured this would be the easiest way to go about it."
It's a lie, of course, and he already made plans with his 'guardian' to be able to pull money out of 'his' bank account by making his own, as a student, with a joint account with 'him'. Once he had a place to live, he'd order a card and not have to worry about transfering money into his account to be able to pull it out - though speaking to the bank teller to pull out money without an ID might take a minute.
Red Robin pulls a face that tells Peter that his thought process might need some work, but the vigilante had the decency to at least keep that opinion to himself and says, instead, "Yeah - sure - I can point you to an ATM, it'll be cardless too, but I think I should walk you there. Gotham can be very dangerous at night, and I don't want a kid like you to get mugged or worse. I also think I need to talk to this guardian of yours-"
"Kid." Peter said, affronted, interrupting the vigilante accidentally, "I'm not a kid."
"They left you near a very dangerous part of Gotham, and without any protection of any kind or money - do you even have a phone? Is there anyway for you to contact your guardian for help if something happened? Do they ditch you in dangerous parts of cities often?" And then the vigilante paused, like he just processed Peter's words, "Uh-huh." Red Robin agreed, domino mask squinted in disbelief, "Sure, kid, I totally believe you aren't a kid."
"I'll be eighteen in August!" Peter added, still offended by how he was being waved off - even if Spider-Man was dealing with a rebellious teenager or a preteen who wanted to be treated like an adult, the never once talked down to them.
It made him want to push Red Robin off the roof.
"Sure," Red Robin agreed, even more unimpressed by the lie he assumed Peter was telling, "And which August would that be? What year were you even born."
Peter felt his mouth tighten into a line - he hadn't thought to check the date, his age might not make sense if he says he was born in a year that either hadn't happened yet or was only a year or two ago. Unluckily, the vigilante's eyes seem to narrow at his lack of answer and Peter's spidey-sense warns him that notanswering was more dangerous than giving the teen an answer at all.
Who knows what the guy would assume if Peter kept quiet.
"2001." Peter mumbles on instinct, always ready to heed his spidey-sense in an unfamiliar situation, crossing his arms in a huff, "August, 2001, okay."
The vigilante pauses, mentally doing math, before he suddenly blurts out, "Oh my god, you're a baby."
"Excuse me." Peter says, mortified and offended, "I'm practically an adult!"
"You're twelve!" Red Robin refutes with a wave of his hand, "A toddler.Not even a teenager." And then, a little frantically, asked to himself, "Where's your guardian? Who lets an almost thirteen-year-old wander Gothamstreets alone? Not even B let's Robin out on his own..."
Well, at least Peter knew the year now.
"Could you please just tell me where the ATM is?" Peter pressed, startling the vigilante who had... Somehow forgotten he was there? Or had been so absorbed by his own thoughts that he overlooked Peter standing there.
"God, this is so weird," Red Robin murmured under his breath, quiet enough Peter wouldn't have been able to hear it if he wasn't enhanced, before he offered Peter a friendly grin - though, his scent and heart rate said he was wary - and offers, "Ever used a grappling hook before?"
Ignoring the fact that web-slinging was much easier and way better, Peter gave the vigilante a frown, "Do I look like someone who does that sort of thing? Only rich people with too much time on their hands or spies from action movies use those. Or, like, a vigilante that doesn't know parkour, and doesn't know how to climb buildings."
"Fair." Red Robin agreed carefully, but his heart had stuttered over the words 'rich people' enough Peter assume Red Robin was part of whatever elite Gotham had - to be fair, a lot of New York's heroes and vigilantes had seemingly been rich people with too much time on their hands so it made sense that Gotham was the same, "Do you wanttry to using a grappling hook? Or, well, at least swinging from one?"
Not really, Peter didn't answer because he was a polite kid and didn't want the vigilante to look too deeply into him.
"Do I have to, like, cling to you or something." Peter asked instead because, if the answer was yes, Peter was politely going to decline and maybe apologize to the dozens of people he's web-slinged around with - he hadn't realized how demeaning it was.
"Eh, it's not as bad when it's you Spidey." Johnny says with a laugh, Harry's hum of annoyance sharp - this is why Peter thinks Johnny is the best, the only friend who actually didn't know Peter overly well when it came to his civilian life compared to Spider-Man and therefore hadn't lost the most amount of memories between them both - and Johnny sighed, "Yeah... Friend."
"Tough luck, kid." Mr. Wilson snorted out - "Pity." Harry mocked, the tone bright and playful but Peter knows how vindictive his best friend could be, and that he wasn't being nice to Johnny.
"...We could take the fire escape?" Red Robin offered carefully, apparently aware of the fact that Peter wasn't going to like swinging around while clinging to a vigilante the same age as him, "It'll take longer, though."
"I've got time." Considering Peter literally had nothing and no one in this new dimension, "I'd like to keep my dignity intact, if I can."
"Well, that's not like him." Red Robin muttered under his breath, quiet enough Peter knew he couldn't hear it without his enhanced senses, and the vigilante brightens his stance in an almost friendly manner to say, louder but still quiet, "That's okay - I've been saved by Batman and Nightwing before, I get it. It's demeaning."
Except he was still acting like Peter was a little kid that needed to be handled with care - placated and soothed like a babe and not a nearly grown adult - telegraphing his moves in an overly exaggerated way that told Peter he wasn't used to dealing with teenagers or kids. Or maybe Peter wasn't giving the guy the benefit of the doubt and was letting his annoyance color whatever actions the vigilante was doing.
The latter seemed more likely, truth be told.
Letting out an explosive sigh, almost childish, Peter pushed past Red Robin - spidey-sense screamingwhen the vigilante tried to swipe some of his hair, failing to do so when Peter ducked down quickly to climb down a nearby fire-escape. A street camera, perched on top of a streetlight, snaps in his direction the second he touches onto a grimey alley floor and steps out onto the sidewalk, the fizzle-crack of electricity surging in his ears as it's overworked.
"RR." A female - very familiar- voice murmurs from Red Robin's comm, something Peter hadn't noticed but now couldn't unhear the electrical hum of, "What are you doing this far out into the Alley? I thought you and Spoiler were on a Bank Robbery."
Red Robin cringed, head tilted towards Peter before carefully turning away to make a mimicry of privacy, "O," He greeted quietly, "Orphan got there before I did, so I was attempting to catch up to B when I got side tracked. Thought I stumbled across a possible jumper - turns out it was a mini-wing, what a surprise."
"Peter was on a roof?" 'O' murmurs worriedly, making Red Robin's already wild scent twist - "Seriously, Red, what the hell - why'd you teach Webs how to figure that sh*t out? It's freaky." Mr. Cage murmurs - "And invasive." MJ agrees. - "It's useful. " Mr. Fury waves off easily.- something sharply sour like wariness even more prevalent, "Think you could look out for him, RR?"
"Already planned on it - not everyday someone looks like wing, you know." Red Robin soothed the nice librarian, tone careful but wary when he continued even quieter, "But we'll have to look into him - if this is another clonesituation, like with Robin..."
'O' hummed, low enough it was almost not picked up by the comms, "I don't think so - seemed too genuine - Orphan might be able to determine if he's truthful better, but I'm no slouch to body language either. He hadn't lied about the death of his parents and he seemed distressed when he couldn't find obituaries of them in New York."
Well, that wasn't good.
He'll have to return the books but avoid that specific Gotham library when he could.
"Fake names?" Red Robin offered.
"Theorize later, aren't you in the middle of helping a certain someone?" 'O' interjected before Red Robin could spiral, sounding equally amused and worried, "And make sure Peter gets where he needs to safely, okay? He's a good kid, at least. I'll put you back on the main line, you were set to private again."
"That's how they get you, though." Red Robin muttered, Peter vaguely offended but waving it off - he's beencloned before, he gets being wary of it, so it's not something he can really blame their wariness about.
He doubts saying, "Hey, sorry I look like your friend, I'm from another dimension." Would go over well ormake them leave him alone.
"Uh," Peter finally wills himself to say, carefully presenting himself as a slightly hesitant but still polite teenager, "If you got to go - uh - beat up Bane or stop a robbery or something, I can find a bank by myself? It can't be thathard - just follow the police sirens, right? Gotham's like New York like that, a banks always being robbed."
Red Robin's face goes through several different emotions, his domino mask comical to look at when it widens and shrinks constantly - he's been told it made him, as Spider-Man, look both friendlier and more terrifying by children and thugs alike - the teenager placing his hands on his hips and saying, dryly, "That doesn't give me much hope, kid, I kinda don'tlike the idea of a civilian getting involved in a bank robbery."
Peter grimaced, "Yeah, fair, I don't think I'd be able to handle it well either." Well, not as Peter Parker, of course, but Red Robin didn't need to know that and he'd liked to keep it that way.
"It'll take a minute, but a cardless ATM is just a few streets away," Red Robin points in the opposite direction Peter had been traveling in, carefully walking with Peter even though Peter is sure the vigilante had more important things to do, "What do you plan afterwords? I can't just let you wander the Gotham streets as much as you seem to wantto."
"Buy a burger." Peter answers on demand, a flitting memory of Tony laughing sharply when he told Peter how all he wanted after coming back to the states - after becoming Iron Man- was a burger, and then flushing when he realizes Red Robin is looking at him like he's insane, "Sorry - it's been a while since I had a nice greasy burger so... A burger, and then probably a hotel."
Or, well, an apartment but Red Robin didn't need to know that.
"...They're soalike, what the hell." Red Robin muttered under his breath and then, with a smile and a louder tone, he offered, "I can show you a great burger place if you let me make sure you get to your hotel okay."
"It's fine." Peter shrugged off easily, waving the offer away, "You're a vigilante - I'm already stopping you from saving people enough already as it is, I can just visit the... Uh... Bat-burger? I read about it online... Or is that just, like, a city-wide joke?"
Red Robin's face goes through several emotions again before settling on amused and wry, "It's real, unfortunately - do they have a lot of city-wide jokes back home?"
Sometimes - though they tended to be world-wide and not just city-wide, America's Ass being a perfect example of a joke no one ever let die and almost no one didn't know.
"Eh, only for the big guys - little guys like you are safe from the whole city making a joke at your expense." Peter waved off flippantly, refusing to give the vigilante the information he was fishing for and trying not to grin when Red Robin's face spasmed, "You're cool though! I mean, Red Hood is coolerand Spoiler sounds like she kicks ass - gotta respect the women in the vigilante field -" , "Damn right." He heard Ms. Jones murmur appreciatively, followed by someone that sounded like Ms. Jean Grey laughing,"But you're...."
Peter paused, purposely trailing off, before continuing with a grin, "You're cool too! You're totallycool! Uh, where's that bank again?"
"I love this kid." A deeper voice cuts in, familiar in a way it makes Peter's stomach flip and his heart acheand someone - so very much like Aunt May- sucks in a sharp breath in the back his mind, "Having fun, replacement?"
Red Robin tenses, looking and sounding more annoyed than upset, "Just had to switch me off from private." The vigilante muttered under his breath before carefully, almost casual enough Peter wouldn't have noticed it if he hadn't been a vigilante for years, clicking the comm off, "Alright, let's get going then - I don't think it's a good idea to stay out too long at night and I want to make sure you've gotten to a safe hotel."
Wow, pushy much? Did Peter look identical to this guys friend or what? It was probably this 'Nightwing' vigilante, considering Red Robin had called Peter a 'mini-wing' - which, rude. Peter still had time to grow.
"He... He really hasn't noticed, has he?" Harry murmurs against his skull, amused and worried in only the way Peter knew Harry could pull off. - "Nope." MJ answered, popping the 'P' sound, unimpressed but amused too.
"Uh," Peter starts, mostly to stop the voices in his head - he was becoming more and more like Wade, it seemed, maybe he hung out with the merc too much - than to get the vigilante's attention, "It seems like you're busy, Red Robin," Peter had to use all his willpower to not add the jingle to the name, he should get a medal, "So I can just go to the bank myself and you can go out answer the call of justice or whatever you bird-themed vigilantes do."
Red Robin's face spasms again, in a way Peter almost cackles at because he's seen Mr. Wolverine pulls the same shifting mess of annoyance and disbelief at both Peter and Wade before, before he carefully holds his hands out in another placating manner, "No can do, kiddo, I'm not letting a twelve-year-old wander the Gotham streets alone. And besides, the others have got things covered for the moment - unless something goes wrong, I can take you to a bank without problem-"
And because Parker Luck is trans-dimensional - breaks the boundary between dimensions, maybe? - and is no longer ParkerLuck but Red RobinLuck, an explosion sounds off somewhere close by and Red Robin's face shudders.
Peter can see it, the exact second Red Robin regrets opening his mouth, can see the way his shoulders slump and he wishes he hadn't been born, and he gives the poor guy a look of sympathy.
"Yeah.... Good luck with that, my guy." Peter says without much gusto, giving the poor teen a quirked frown, "Sounds like your night's going to be a blast."
Red Robin makes a truly distressed face, muttering a soft 'oh god, there's two of them now', before his shoulders slump even more - disappointed he can't try to figure Peter out, no doubt, or maybe Peter's joke was truly thatterrible - MJ is giving him a death glare, he can feel it- and he finally looks back at the entirety of Peter's face. It's like he examining it, taking every piece and curve into his memory, tracing over detail of Peter's face like he was committing it to memory and planned to sketch it down for investigation later.
"I'm going to tell you how to get to the bank and I really hopeyou go there and nowhere else - I'll have eyes watching you, making sure you get there safely." The vigilante attempted with a soothing tone, but all Peter heard was a hidden warning - either Peter looked a little tooclose to this Nightwing guy and now his vigilante teammate was wary of Peter or he didn't trust Peter to not rob the bank.
To be fair, Gotham crime rate wasridiculously high andPeter understands the fear of being cloned - he loved Ben and Kaine but, still, cloned without his permission.
"'Yes sir, Mr. Red Robin sir," Peter responded seriously, giving the teen a mock salute, before continuing, "Can you stop acting like I'm a rogue in the making now?" And, like an afterthought, he adds, "Or like you want to dissect me? Because trust me! Someone trying treating you like a science experiment isn't fun, you know."
Even though Peter kinda wasone.
Red Robin cringes, "Right, sorry," He acquiesced, pausing when his comm clicked to life, "I know," The vigilante starts before 'O' can, "I'll be there in a minute, giving someonedirections."
"Well hurry," 'O' murmured, "Two-face just blew up a warehouse - one of Joker'ssecret warehouses. I'm not sure Batman can keep them from killing each other, or Joker's hostages."
Fun night, it sounded like.
"Just point me in the direction and I'll be on my way." Peter interrupted lightly, trying to make it seem like he hadn't just listened in on them and was instead impatient but understanding, pointing down the street to where the explosion had come from, "That seems, like, superimportant my guy and I kinda don't want to be the reason some innocent person dies in a fire all because a vigilante walked me to a bank."
Again, Red Robin's face does a very impressive spasm of different emotions before settling on one that screamed, 'Yeah, okay, that's fair' and suddenly the vigilante is pointing down the street, opposite of the explosion, "Follow Gaiman Boulevard to Bermejo Avenue, then follow Bermejo Avenue to Gorshin Avenue - you'll find the ATM near the Gotham Opera House, between Del Rey Street and Gorshin Avenue."
God, Peter wishes he was back in Queens - what type of name was Gorshin?
"Got it - Gaiman to Bermejo, Bermejo to Gorshin, between Gorshin and Del Rey." Peter simplified but repeated, giving Red Robin another mock salute and stepping away, "Okay bye! Fly safe, bird boy, don't get burned in whatever fire's going on." Peter offered him brightly after a quick pair of finger-guns, and he was off before Red Robin could say or do anything - completely aware the many surveillance camera's following after him, something he'll have to start avoiding after pulling out some cash.
Maybe create a minor code for Karen to implement into 'O's search programs, one that makes surveillance cameras replay footage to hide him or simply overlooks him entirely so he didn't have to worry about being stalked.
He can hear Red Robin sigh, like a puzzle piece escaped him, muttering something about how it all seemed 'too coincidental' and how he 'needed to look into it more' but Peter had no plans on getting involved with the birds and bats or letting them get too close to Peter's non-existent history. The second he can ensure that they can't stalk or figure out the whole alternate dimension thing, since Peter would rather not get questioned or arrested or detained to be interrogated about alternate dimension things, then maybehe'll work with them.
But he doubts they'd respect his privacy the second they get curious - they don't really seem like the type, especially since he supposedly looks like the Nightwing they work with. Which, to be fair, was understandable.
If he saw someone who looked exactly like Daredevil but was obviously notDaredevil, well, that'd be extremely awkward and Peter would 100% look into it out of curiosity or worry since he's been cloned before. But, still...
Peter's skin is crawling, even as he's careful to stick just enough to the shadows to avoid any passerby but stay in the rage of any camera, hating the metaphorical eyes watching him as he follows Red Robin's directions and stomps down every nerve inside his skin that wants to go out and help. Once he had an apartment, even a cheap and questionable one, thenhe could go out and crime fight but he needed a home base to come back to and to treat his wounds in.
He could worry about groceries and clothes after the fact.
Once he pulls some money out, at least a thousand or two to get an apartment that'll keep its mouth shut, he'll retreat back to the rooftops and avoid Ms. Gordon's eyes and then test out a night in Gotham as Spider-Man...
Seems simple enough right?
The sensation of being watched flickers away for a second, after Peter pulls some cash from the ATM and hides it in his shoes and underwear - places no one thinks to look for money or a wallet, which was hilarious since most New Yorkers Spider-Man had interacted with had pulled the same trick - and it's all Peter needs to duck into an alley near the Gotham Opera House and wall-climb until he knows the cameras can't follow him. Will he feel bad for Ms. Gordon later? Sure, but right now he just wants the feeling of eyes on his skin to leave him alone.
Hiding from SHEILD had been ridiculously easy - Mr. Fury frowns, grumbling under his breath, and Ms. Hill snorts at both the words and Mr. Fury's actions- they felt too hostile while Mr. Stark wasn't in the slightest. He also kept most of Peter's beginning fails at keeping his identity secret from even reaching the internet straight out, which while nice was also to sort of blackmail him later if he needed help and Peter refused the first amicable offer.
Then again, Mr. Stark and Spider-Man had worked together before and Mr. Stark later admitted he never planned on using any of it as blackmail - only one video was ever kept and it was only to use to actlike he would blackmail Peter. What was the point on using it on Spider-Man when Spider-Man and Iron Man had not only worked together but were somewhat sort of friends after half the crap New York went through.
Either way, while Ms. Gordon - or 'O', maybe short for something? - wasn't hostile enough to set his nerves alight she was still too invested in him and his spidey-sense needed a break from the constant overuse.
He just needed to find an apartment.
Peter could figure out what to do next from there.
It's still late in the night when he finds one - a small one person apartment that lets him rent it for a flat fifteen-hundred without question or putting his name on any legal document, and was only a decent 765$ a month with utilities, laundry, and wifi included. The apartment he and May used to rent after Ben's death was almost three thousand a month and they were both racing to pay for it when Peter wasn't going to school, and that didn't include any extra bills on top off the rent money.
This apartment was even furnished, since the previous owner died and no one came to claim any of their things, and the landlord hadn't even upcharged for it all.
Was transferring dimension enough to remove the fabled 'Parker Luck'?
At least, he figures that's the case until he enters the bathroom and finds his pre-teen baby-faced self in the mirror instead of the seventeen-year-old he was used to, and now he understood why everyone was acting the way they were.
Another explosion sounds somewhere outside his window, Peter takes a breath and avoids his eyes in the mirror and sets the stolen pants and hoodie onto the thin metal-framed bed.
Peter takes a deep breath, the careful sensation of shifting metal covering his skin completely, tucking away himself into the back of his mind and letting his more wise-cracking persona of Spider-Man come to the forefront. Spider-Man was needed here in Gotham, a responsibility as much as it was a habit, a little red and blue helpful when something as simply as a smile was gone from many of the everyday person's face.
Gotham had several vigilantes already - honestly, it reminded him of New York - but none of them were quite like anything Spider-Man had been around.
Considering one of his best friends was a mercenary-for-hire who killed himself when he was bored with a conversation, and talked to two colored text boxes inside his head, and his other was guilty catholic that typically beat people into a coma as a form of crime fighting... Well, Gotham vigilante's were a cakewalk compared to them, and most of their rogues weren't even enhanced or mutants/mutates.
"I wasn't that bad." Mr. Murdock murmured petulantly, "Pe- petulantly?" The Daredevil added on as Ms. Jones cackled.
Honestly, all Spider-Man really wanted to figure out at first was a territory to web-sling around in - the Defenders had taught him that some vigilante's were territorial, and while Red Hood didn't seem the be as bad as Daredevil he wasn't as friendly about sharing as Spider-Man was. It'd be better to align himself with a former crime lord anyway, the vigilante's and anti-heroes that came from a morally ambiguous background tended to be the most helpful when it mattered, and to make sure he stayed away from the far more territorial Batman who seemed to not like enhanced individuals.
Or maybe he did like enhanced people but simply disliked mutants - rather, meta's in this dimension. Which would beg the question if Spider-Man was a meta too, since it seemed to be a gene like the X-gene, and Spider-Man was considered a mutateand not a mutant.
His DNA had been altered to gain powers, unlike Mr. Sergeant Barnes and Mr. Rogers who had their baseline enhanced and unlike mutants who had a gene that gave them abilities, so he didn't fall under the 'meta' banner like he didn't fall under the 'mutant' banner, right?
The first thing he can hear when he opens his window and wall-climbs onto the roof, thankful he managed to get an apartment on the topmost floor, is a series of police sirens that remind him of home more than he's willing to admit. It's the most familiar thing in this new dimension, the same shrill ringing at the same too-high pitch that's grating but not yet painful, and he sucks in a breath as he lets his senses fizzle and fade until only hearing is left.
There's the telltale thwipof a grappling hook, hard metal sinking into stone and muted softly when it digs in deep, a slight stretch of taut metal wire under a body weighing anything from two hundred to two hundred and eighty pounds of moving muscle. A bird or bat obviously, strung metal heading towards a faintly crackling fire that smells like greasily burnt chemicals and still has lowly popping embers from the explosion that had started it all.
As much as Spider-Man wants to help, he doesn't want to deal with the birds or the bats justyet so he turns his attention away from chaos going on in the distance - there's plenty of vigilante's rushing to help, it'll be fine - to listen for something much more fitting for the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.
And he does, a buzzing hum dying into an almost inaudible whine and metal scratching onto glass - the sound of an electrical wire being turned off and a glass window being cut with a glass cutter.
A thief.
Walking to the edge, the thrill of standing right against a fall that could kill or harm him, Spider-Man takes a careful breath and jumps without a care from the dark stone ledge. Wind is against his face, he can feel it against his skin even through the carefully crafted material of his Spider Suit, and the sensation of falling causes his lungs and intestines to tremble but he's fine, unbothered, flinging an arm out and shooting a web towards a taller building.
He crests, falling low, before flinging himself upwards and into the air.
Gotham is smoggy and dark, damp in a way he can feel the humidity and grime over his shoulders like a cloak, and Spider-Man from Queen, New York would stand out like a sore thumb but Karen's already altered the hues of his suit to be more muted.
Dark red, dark blue, a large black spider sprawled across his chest like a symbol or maybe a shackle - Spider-Man settles himself on a rooftop across from a small time bank he's not sure he's familiar with, watching as a bunch of thugs with halloween masks raced to move cash from the building into their rather boring white van.
It feels almost too easy.
"They have guns, look at the way they're walking - the way they favor one hip forward and their dominant hand to hip that's moved back. Mr. Sergeant Barnes murmurs quietly, hand on his shoulder, leaning over Peter with ease, "Small guns, black - a Walther PPS? Six-to-eight bullets, typically 9x19mm but it could've been modified to be more lethal."
"Expect the worst," Mr. Fury said seriously, right after, "At the least, you've eight jacketed hollow-point bullets per thug - at worst, you've an unknown amount of ammo with even more lethal ammunition."
Spider-Man simply narrows his eyes, already moving, using the gloomy darkness of Gotham to enter the bank from a window in the alley. It's easy, almost too easy, to latch onto the ceiling and make his way towards the clueless robbers.
"I 'on't like this, Steve." One in a werewolf masks says, shoving a hastily zipped duffle bag constantly being repositioned on his burly shoulder, "I know the bats went'ta deal with the Joker but what if it wasn't all of 'em?" His slightly country accent made Spider-Man think he wasn't a native to Gotham either.
A woman, with a plastic grey zombie mask, scoffs so sharply Spider-Man pauses in place an he watches as she turns away from two overly packed bags she's attempting to carry at once, "Are 'ya joshin' me? Like hell the big bat would leave Joker to run free - he and all the other birds are out chasin' the maniac like they always do. What bird wouldn'tbe out with him?" With a grand gesture, she added, "This is the perfecttime to rob this sh*thole! And, besides, it's Crime Alley - only Red Hood'll do crime fighting here and he's all tied up."
With an audible grin, she adds, "It's the perfect plan! What's little red going to do with crime Alley when the Joker's out and about?"
Spider-Man didn't think robbing a bank was a perfect plan at all, but he also wasn't willing to lower his moral limbo bar enough to resort to robbing a bank - though some chains certainly deserved it.
He also juststole money from an old money socialite so, maybe, he shouldn't judge these people toomuch.
"Jayden, George, shut up and move the bags." A round and stout man with a witch's mask sneered out, "We don't got time for gossip - we need to get the cash before any of the bats finish with the Joker." His tone was harsh, cold like gunmetal before firing, and he didn't even spare his own companions any kindness when he shoulder-checks the zombie mask wearing woman and stalks past the one wearing a werewolf mask.
"f*ckin' prick." The woman murmured, going back to trying to carry two heavy duffle bags, "Just 'cause he's banging Steve doesn't mean he's the boss - asshole."
Werewolf mask - George, apparently - is left alone and Spider-Man realizes he has the perfect plan of attack.
Gotham is so obviously gothic and macabre, dramatic really and he hasn't even met the fabled Batman, filled with darkness and horror like a bad sixties horror movie filmed in black and white and he knows instantly that playing into the Arachnid aspect of his name could have some fun results. They're just small-time criminals anyway, and he's pulled the whole 'creepy spider person' bit on various people and repeat offenders before.
As long as he doesn't scare some poor innocent kid, or a civilian who's already terrified and need reassurance, it's fine.
"Creepy spider person bit?" Ms. Van Dyne murmurs, tone slightly appreciating, "What does this bit have?" - "Hope... Please don't take notes." Someone says, voice familiar but Spider-Man doesn't focus on it too long.
'Drama, for one.' Spider-Man thinks as an answer, carefully plastering his back against the ceiling and staring down at the robber below him, "The itsy bitsy spider..." He murmured, soft and low, practically screaming when compared to the silent bank yet nothing more than a quiet tone in reality, and George jumps in place, whirling around with an elevated heart beat, but finding nothing there when he looks.
"Uh, guys?" He calls, and that's all Spider-Man needs before webbing the man's head - the material is breathable, he's fine - and instinctively cocooning him in web fluid.
When only one person was left, he'll let all the cocooned robbers hang from the ceiling like writhing webby people-shaped pods, and then his act will have been complete -
Ms. Jones snorts, coughing to hide the laugh it wanted to turn into, "Oh sh*t, Red, he's as dramatic and over the top as you are." And Mr. Nelson laughs, agreeing, the same time Mr. Murdock scoffs lightly with offense and annoyance.
Steve's boyfriend - there's a snort from Mr. Sergeant Barnes- in the witch's mask reppears a moment later with a harsh, "What the hell are you going on about now, dimwit, didn't I tell you to hurry-" And finally the man notices something's wrong.
All that's left is George's duffle bag.
"The hell-" Steve's boyfriend suddenly hisses, dropping his own duffle bag and pulling out his gun - there's the faint sensation of Mr. Sergeant Barnes being pleased, mostly about getting the gun right- but he never looks up, never looks at the higher parts of the wall, like any of the criminals that have long since gotten used to Spider-Man.
The fear could be used to motivate some of the more stubborn or weak-willed into returning to a normal and crimeless life.
Faintly, Mr. Laufeyson chuckles and it feels like Mr. Murdock is nodding wisely.
"Climbed up the water spout." Spider-Man hummed, watching in amusem*nt as the witch mask wearing man suddenly became tense and frightened, pointing his gun at the darkness with trembling hands.
"Hey, get in here!" Steve's boyfriend shouts, just like Spider-Man thought he would, and he wastes no time in webbing and cocooning him a second later before he can try to flee or rejoin his backup - both Steve's boyfriend and George are all swaddled up, safely cocooned in breathable and soft web fluid like the good little prey they are.
"You're so dramatic." MJ murmurs lowly, but she's amused, and somewhere in the back of his mind Harry is laughing brightly.
"What the hell are you yelling about - didn't you say to be quiet- uh..." Jayden, the zombie masked woman, hissed quietly and furious before trailing herself off when she realizes a pile of duffle bags has been left in a haphazard pile, "Jake? ...Georgie?"
"Down came the rain." Spider-Man continued, keeping his tone light an airy - almost friendly, haunting when paired with his almost young voice and the way his pitch is innocently high.
Zombie mask freezes, scrambling to pull her gun out of her waistband, standing tense and shaking, "Steve! Get in here! We've got problem!" Quieter, she adds, "It's a f*ckin' Robin, but I don't know if that staby bastard sounded this young."
Which, rude, but Spider-Man isn't known yet and he simply crawls along the ceiling until he's above her - his enhanced abilities and high-tech suit dampening the sound until it's quieter than the robbers tense breathing, moving quickly with joints bending in a way that was both unnatural and unnerving to look at.
"Hm." Antman hums - Mr. Lang, he thinks - sounding bothered, "Don't like that." - Ms. Jones, one of the strongest and unphasable woman he's ever met, cringes against the back of his skull and murmurs, "Is that... Comfortable?" - funnily enough, bright and sweet like a bell, Ms. Grey lets out a laugh at the sight and seems perfectly at ease with it.
Spider-Man ignores it all, watching Jayden whirl around back and forth before he hears the sound of someone outside opening a car door and makes his move against the zombie wearing mask woman in the same way he had the others. And he's grinning under his mask when he maneuvers the three cocooned robbers into hanging from the ceiling instead of webbed against it, it's a waste of web fluid but Spider-Man finally has enough he can make extra in the morning and look for a job to help pay the rest.
Gotham was much cheaper than New York, after all, and with all the crime and disasters that happened... Hazard pay could help Spider-Man stay ahead of any problem.
A man, unmasked, steps into the dark bank with a scowl on his scarred face and a tiny flashlight in one of his hands. He's a big and broad guy, with a the waist to shoulder ratio of a dorito chip, and a mustache that reminds Spider-Man of old cartoon villains from the early 80s.
"And washed the spider out." Spider-Man finished, amused, as the man rushes in and pulls a gun from his waist with the grace of a donkey with its legs tightly bound together.
"Where are you, you flashy little brat." 'Steve' hisses, snarling out an ugly look as a curse that has a few of the older vigilante's against his brains raising their eyebrows, his gun a different model from the others - older, clunkier, "It's a single action revolver." Mr. Fury says with a sigh, sounding wounded- and gripped tight enough it creaked in his hand.
"Come out and face me." The man shouts again, pointing the large gun - "Parker." Mr. Fury says sharply - at the darkness around him like he fully planned to shoot a known child vigilante without hesitance, but Spider-Man - who started at thirteen, turned fourteen a month later, and kept it up until he was seventeen - was used to it.
"Up here." Spider-Man tells him brightly, and the man jumps in place before glancing up with the pitiful flashlight in his non-gun hand flashing right into his face.
"Who the f*ck are you?" The man shouts, momentarily stunned and frozen in place.
"The itsy bitsy Spider-Man" He answered lightly, someone laughs against his temple.
"What the f*ck?" 'Steve' shouted, lifting his gun but he's webbed and cocooned before he can even pull the trigger.
He soons goes to hang from the ceiling like his companions, he ignores the growing laughter under his skin, and drops to the floor without a problem or a sound. He stares as the few guns, bags of money, and a flip phone that'd been left on the floor from the robbers roughly being pulled to the ceiling.
"Holy sh*t, Red, he really is like you." Ms. Jones laughed - "Jessica." Mr. Murdock sighed, but she still laughed at him - "She's got a point." Mr. Cage agreed, and Mr. Murdock sighed even louder.
With a spring in his step, since it had been so long since he needed to do any of this after creating a rapport with the Queens branch of the NYPD, he reaches through the tellers window towards a pen and notepad - using the tip of his finger to pull them both close - and starts to doodle. At the same time, while drawing an anatomical spider as his calling sign, he lets Karen connect to the veryold school internet and send a private message to the nearest police department with an automated message.
"Always watching, OwO" The note read, a little spiders face drawn cutesily at the end, a small amount of web fluid used to keep it pinned to the largest writhing mass hanging from the ceiling.
His work was done, and he couldn't hear anything else besides police sirens in a different borough several blocks away - finishing up whatever happened, it seemed, so he'd retreat back to his new home base for the night and look into how Gotham acted during the day too. It was a pretty usual routine from what he was used from New York, though the lack of advanced technology made it marginally easier than his work in Queens.
With a stretch of his arms, the joints crinkling softly and his hearing able to pick out his blood cells rushing, he pushes off the ground with a little force and catches himself onto the ceiling to crawl back out the window he came in from.
Patiently, with the urging of several other vigilante and heroes under his skin, he carefully makes his way onto the roof of a building across from the bank and waits for the police to appear. He's not worried a corrupted cop will free the bound criminals, they aren't high enough on any food chain to be worth much to any sleazy cops, but knowing how the police react and act to the criminals as well as how long it took for them to respond in the first place could help his work as a vigilante.
Captain Stacy had taught him the best way to find a good cop among the bad, while Chief Watanabe taught him the best way to cooperate with them - to the point she was still working with him, annoyed at any naysayers stirring up trouble, during the whole alternate world Mysterio fiasco that ended up ruining his life.
He still remembers Yuri's smile, soft and indulgent, handing a few photos of Uncle Ben back when he was in the force, "I didn't know Ben personally, he only worked with the Queens PD for a few months after his military enlistment, but he was a damn fineOfficer." Her smile grew wider, softer too, "Not a surprise his nephew grew up the way he did - good people raise good kids - make sure to give those to him, yeah?"
Even though she refused to acknowledge him as Peter when he was outed, she still knew it was him and yet never brought it up - acting as if she never knew who Spider-Man was under the mask but treating him like Peter too. A respect, and a kindness, born from years of working together.
Police appear while he waits, the reaction time rather quick for a crime infested place like Gotham, but then a man with a trenchcoat and enough eye bags to open an accessory store steps out of one of the cars and he easily realizes that his note might've made a bigger impact than he originally thought. Which is nice, since several of the shadier looking officers head in first - wary under the man's gaze - and come out pale faced after seeing the scene and the note he left behind for them.
The man, which Spider-Man maybe feels a littleguilty for, sighs like Spider-Man's actions have robbed him of the will to live but he still has to get up and go to work in the morning and then he pulls another officer over before waving them off.
A few minutes later a fellow vigilante appears - he's mostly black except for the bright blue on his chest and arms and parts of his legs, a matching blue domino mask on his face and two also matching blueescrima sticks attached to his back - tall and lean, like a figure skater or a gymnast, but still built with muscle and strength like someone who knew how to pack a bunch. There's something vaguely familiar about the way the man moves and looks, a faint memory of someone else with the same swooping hair and dimpled smile, but it's gone the same second and replaced with the same uncomfortable unfamiliarity Spider-Man's felt the entire time he's been in this dimension.
He watches - he waits.
Nightwing stares up at the ceiling, the tired GCPD officer - maybe former? maybe a detective - with thick glasses and an unevenly grown beard stands next to him with ease, both as still as a statue and Spider-Man watches from a distance as quiet and small as he can make himself, "Hey... O, we've got... A situation over here." Nightwing pauses, "No, Hood doesn't know anything yet - yeah, it's a... A web. The caller left them 'webbed' up."
The man next to Nightwing sighs, looks heavenward in a way that reminds Spider-Man of Captain Stacy and Chief Yuri when he did something a normal teenager shouldn't and then waved it off, "I'm too old for this - tell the Bat to hurry up, I want to pass this onto him before I get even more grey hair."
Nightwing laughs awkwardly, the sound familiar in a way that makes Spider-Man's skin crawl but he can't place it, "Hood - no - it's okay, B can-" Nightwing visually cringed, "Well, that went well."
The trenchcoat wearing officer took a sip of coffee, the item handed to him by another exhausted looking officer, glancing back into the bank, "What'd the Bat say?"
"Well, Bsaid 'hm' which means he'll look into it, but Osaid we... Might have a new player in the field." Nightwing answered lightly, but his body was tense and his muscles were obviously pulled taut.
"The bat will love that." The older officer said with a snort, downing the coffee quickly.
"Yep." Nightwing agreed dejectedly, popping the 'p' with force, "If Hood doesn't get to them first."
Spider-Man swallows down any emotion that wants to bubble up his throat and exist his stomach, his nerves tensing sharply as he waits - as he praysNightwing speaks more, something so familiar about the tone and the way it tilts up with amusem*nt and tilts lower with wariness. Faintly, underneath his skin, he recalls a dark - almost black - brunette with bright blue eyes asking him if he wanted to read a book with and remembers the way he pouted, rocking on the heels and balls of his feet as he waited for a toddler to crawl towards him.
He feels slightly sick, now, actually.
A strange sense of vertigo crawls up his spine, sinking fangs into the bones and infecting the vertebrae with an icy sharpness, the image of Nightwing co*cking out his hip and playfully acting coquettish as he jokes about a man-eating spider overlayed with the image of another man doing the same thing to his wife.
"Richard," Mary Parker had sighed, curled up on their old and beaten navy blue couch, Peter's face pressed against her collarbone and listening to the strong heartbeat inside her ribcage that had traveled through her veins until it could be heard in her neck, "He's three - he doesn't need to know what nutritional value his food has."
"But, sweetheart," His dad - a term he hasn't used, hasn't thought about in so long - said in a playfully tone, co*cking his hip out and resting one hand on the co*cked hip, "He loveschemical formulas, and you said cooking was just like chemistry."
"Richard, I swear to god." His mother had laughed, startled and bright and he could remember it clearly since his head had been against her chest and the sound surrounded him, "You're lucky you're cute."
Richard Parker - a man with several degrees and awards in the scientific field - had laughed, the sound so close to Nightwing's Peter thinks he might cry, before offering his wife a wink and kissing Peter's forehead before shoving a homemade snack into Peter's mouth.
He knows the Macadamia Nut treat - or the Mac-Academia Ball, as his dad has once named it before it was vetoed by his mother - recipe by heart, knows it has dried strawberries and cranberries, had chopped macadamia nuts, had maple syrup and oats, was held together by peanut butter and coconut flour-
Peter's never been able to recreate the taste.
But it obviously can't be the same man - Richard Parker died and, though the grave couldn't be visited, they existed. This vigilante probably just looks like him, like a cousin or a doppelganger, but they would obviously not be the same person. He already knew that Richard Parker didn't exist in this dimension, not even May or Ben or Peter existed, so why would Richard?
Pulling away from the roof, tucked into the darkness of night and buildings shadows, Spider-Man swings to his new home without any prying eyes catching onto him from the surveillance cameras littering Gotham and contemplates buying the ingredients for a snack he hasn't made since he was ten.
Spider-Man doesn't even take off his suit by the time he passes out on his rickety single-person bed, but he goes to sleep hungry and more exhausted than usual after having not eaten for several days - not that he cares, he hasn't eaten a normal meal since Peter Parker ceased to exist.
He feels the several heroes and vigilante's he's sure he's still hallucinating urge him to get up, to eat and make sure his wounds have healed, as unconsciousness claims him but he's too tired to listen.
Quietly, in the too early morning, his body starts to alter itself again - cross-dimensional radiation affected by magic is never set to sit and do nothing.
Peter wakes up in the morning, Gotham almost as dark as it was during the night, and doesn't feel like himself anymore.
