Peter Parker wiped down the polished oak bar for what felt like the thousandth time that night. The cloth made satisfying circular motions under his practiced hand, muscle memory built over months of quiet nights at "The Last Call," a hole-in-the-wall bar in lower Gotham that somehow managed to stay open despite the city's penchant for catastrophe.
He'd moved to Gotham six months ago. Not because he wanted to—God, no—but because New York had become too much. Too many memories. Too many expectations. Too many people looking up at the skyline, hoping to catch a glimpse of red and blue swinging between buildings.
Peter was done with all that. Eight years of Spider-Manning had taken its toll. Broken bones, lost loved ones, and a pervasive exhaustion that sleep couldn't fix. So he'd packed up what little he owned, said goodbye to the handful of people who knew Peter Parker behind the mask, and relocated to the one city where vigilantes were so common that no one would notice the absence of one more.
The bar's door swung open, letting in a gust of cold Gotham air. Peter didn't look up immediately—the late shift always brought in strange characters, and he'd learned it was better not to make eye contact until absolutely necessary.
"Excuse me, sir? Can I have a soda, please?"
The voice was young. Too young. Peter looked up and nearly dropped his rag.
Standing—barely tall enough to see over the bar—was a kid. Maybe twelve or thirteen years old, with black hair and startlingly blue eyes. He wore a leather jacket that was clearly too big for him and a confident smile that belonged on someone twice his age.
But most concerning was what Peter spotted underneath the jacket: a flash of bright red, yellow, and green. The colors hit Peter like a punch to the gut—bright, primary colors that screamed "look at me" in a city where shadows were safety. Where did this kid get the confidence to wear something so deliberately eye-catching?
"We don't serve minors," Peter said flatly. "And we especially don't serve minors in traffic light costumes."
The kid's smile didn't falter. If anything, it grew wider, as if Peter had passed some kind of test. "I'm not here to drink. Just soda. And maybe some information."
Peter sighed and reached for a glass. "ID or out, kid."
"Dick Grayson," the boy announced, extending a hand over the bar. "And you're Peter Parker."
The glass nearly slipped from Peter's hand. He set it down carefully, muscles tensing. "Excuse me?"
"Peter Parker, formerly of New York. Photography background, science genius, disappeared from the Big Apple about six months ago." The kid—Dick—leaned forward conspiratorially, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Around the same time Spider-Man stopped showing up."
Peter's spider-sense wasn't tingling, but his fight-or-flight response was definitely kicking in. "I think you've got the wrong guy."
"Nope!" Dick said cheerfully, doing a small hand-stand on the barstool that should have been physically impossible given the narrow surface. He flipped back to a seated position with effortless grace. "I'm Robin. Batman's partner? We do detective stuff."
"Great," Peter muttered. "Just what I needed. A prepubescent detective in my bar."
"I'm twelve," Dick said with dignity. "And I'm not the one hiding from my responsibilities."
That stung. Peter filled the glass with Coke and slid it across the bar, perhaps more forcefully than necessary. "I don't know what you're talking about, but you need to leave. Now."
Dick took a long sip, maintaining eye contact the entire time. The kid had nerve, Peter would give him that.
"You know," Dick said, setting down his glass with a deliberate tap, "Batman doesn't know I'm here."
"I find that hard to believe," Peter replied. "Isn't he supposed to know everything?"
Dick laughed, a bright sound that seemed at odds with Gotham's perpetual gloom. "He tries to. But I'm pretty good at giving him the slip when I need to."
Peter raised an eyebrow. "So Batman, the world's greatest detective, doesn't know his sidekick is harassing a bartender miles from where he should be?"
"Partner," Dick corrected, his smile never wavering. "Not sidekick. And I'm not harassing you. I'm introducing myself."
"Well, you've introduced yourself. Finish your soda and go home."
Instead of leaving, Dick spun on the barstool, completing a full 360 before stopping to face Peter again. "Can't. I have questions."
"And I have a job to do," Peter countered, moving to serve another customer at the far end of the bar.
When he returned, Dick was still there, but now he was balancing a spoon on his nose while simultaneously doing some kind of finger exercise that looked like it required inhuman dexterity. The few patrons nearby were watching with poorly concealed amusement.
"Show-off," Peter muttered, snatching the spoon away.
Dick caught it mid-air before Peter could fully grab it. "Takes one to know one. I've seen footage of Spider-Man. You're not exactly subtle either."
Peter felt his jaw tighten. "Look, kid, I don't know what you want, but—"
"Why'd you quit?" Dick asked suddenly, his bright demeanor shifting into something more serious. For a moment, the facade of the cheerful child dropped, and Peter could see something older in those blue eyes. Something that had seen too much.
"I didn't quit anything," Peter insisted, but the lie felt hollow even to his own ears.
Dick tilted his head, studying Peter with an intensity that belonged on someone three times his age. "Everyone has bad days. Bad weeks. Even bad years. But you just... disappeared. Left people wondering if you were dead."
"Maybe that's better," Peter said softly, almost to himself.
"For who?" Dick challenged. "For the people who believed in you? Or just for you?"
Peter felt his temper flare. "You don't know anything about me or my life, kid."
"I know you lost people," Dick said, his voice so quiet Peter had to lean in to hear it over the ambient noise of the bar. "I know what that's like."
Something in the boy's tone made Peter pause. Of course. This was Dick Grayson. The circus kid. The one whose parents had fallen to their deaths while he watched. The story had made national news years ago.
"That's different," Peter said, gentler now.
"Is it?" Dick asked, spinning his empty glass between his fingers with casual skill. "We both watched people we loved die. We both put on costumes after. The only difference is, I'm still wearing mine."
Peter refilled the kid's soda without being asked, a peace offering of sorts. "You’re still a kid, you’ll understand when you’re older. It’s not that simple."
"It never is," Dick agreed, accepting the drink with a nod of thanks. "But running away doesn't simplify it either. Take it from someone who's tried."
For a boy who moved with such joyful energy, there was a weight to his words that caught Peter off guard. He'd assumed this Robin would be all Batman's stoicism wrapped in childish enthusiasm, but there was something more complex here. A wisdom that came from pain, tempered by a deliberate choice to find joy anyway.
"Did Batman send you to recruit me or something?" Peter asked, suspicious again.
Dick let out a genuine laugh. "God, no. Bruce would kill me if he knew I was here. He's big on respecting other heroes' choices, even the bad ones."
"And this was a bad choice?"
"Hiding in a dive bar in the worst part of Gotham when you could be helping people?" Dick shrugged, his expression open. "Seems like a waste of potential to me. But what do I know? I'm just a kid in a ‘traffic light costume.’"
He said it with such self-deprecating humor that Peter couldn't help but smile.
"If Batman didn't send you, then why are you here?"
Dick took a moment to answer, absently tracing patterns in the condensation on his glass. "When I first started as Robin, there weren't many of us. Kid heroes, I mean. Now there's a few more, but..." He shrugged. "It gets lonely. Adults don't get it. They see the costume, the skills, but they forget there's a kid underneath."
"And you thought I'd understand?" Peter asked, surprised.
"You were fourteen when you started," Dick said. "Closest thing to a peer I have in the hero world. Thought maybe you'd have some advice."
"Advice," Peter repeated. "From the guy who quit?"
"From the guy who managed to keep being a hero for eight years without turning into a brooding mess like Batman," Dick clarified, grinning. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to live with someone who thinks smiling compromises tactical advantage?"
Despite himself, Peter laughed. "He sounds intense."
"You have no idea," Dick said, rolling his eyes dramatically. "Last week, I made a joke while taking down a mugger, and he made me do three extra hours of stealth training because 'criminals can triangulate your position from vocal patterns.'"
"He's not wrong," Peter pointed out. "I was always getting ambushed because I couldn't stop with the one-liners."
Dick's eyes lit up. "See? That's what I need! Someone who gets that fighting bad guys can actually be fun sometimes." He leaned forward eagerly. "Is it true you once webbed Rhino's feet to the ground and then asked if he was 'feeling stuck in a rut'?"
Peter groaned. "Who told you that?"
"Newspaper archives," Dick said proudly. "I've read everything I could find on you. Did you really leave a note saying 'Courtesy of your Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man' on a bunch of muggers you webbed to a streetlight?"
"Maybe," Peter admitted.
"That's amazing!" Dick's enthusiasm was contagious. "Bruce would never. He just leaves them dangling in fear."
"Different methods, same results," Peter observed.
"Not really," Dick argued. "Your way made people feel safe. Like Spider-Man was watching out for them, not just fighting criminals. Like you were part of the neighborhood." His voice grew quieter. "People in Gotham are mostly just scared of Batman."
Peter had never considered that aspect of his approach before. He'd always thought his quips and notes were just his way of coping with the stress, a release valve for the tension of constantly putting his life on the line. But maybe they had served another purpose too.
"Is that why you wear the bright colors?" Peter asked. "To be less scary?"
Dick beamed, pleased that Peter had made the connection. "Exactly! Robin is hope. Light. Someone kids can look up to without being afraid." His smile turned mischievous. "Plus, it drives Bruce crazy, which is always a bonus."
For a moment, they sat in surprisingly comfortable silence, the background noise of the bar washing over them. Then Dick glanced at his watch and winced.
"I should go. Batman will notice I'm gone soon, if he hasn't already."
"Will you get in trouble?" Peter asked, feeling oddly concerned.
Dick shrugged, hopping off the barstool with athletic grace. "Probably. Worth it though." He reached into his pocket and placed a few dollars on the counter. "For the sodas."
"On the house," Peter said, pushing the money back.
Dick smiled, but left the bills anyway. "Nah, can't have people saying Robin doesn't pay his debts." He headed for the door, then paused, turning back with a somber expression that looked out of place on his young face.
"Everyone messes up, you know. Everyone feels like they've failed sometimes." His blue eyes met Peter's with startling directness. "But the real failure is when you stop trying."
Before Peter could respond, Dick was out the door, disappearing into the Gotham night with a flash of yellow cape and a gleam of green boot.
Peter stared after him for a long moment, then pocketed the money and returned to wiping down the bar, thoughts churning. Just what he needed—the voice of reason coming from a preteen in pixie boots.
———
Three weeks passed without incident. No more traffic light costumes, no more accusations, no more reminders of a life Peter had left behind. He'd almost convinced himself that the encounter had been a one-time thing, a momentary blip in his otherwise mundane existence.
Almost.
It was a Tuesday night, typically slow. Peter was inventorying the liquor supply when he heard it—the sound of the bar's front door opening, followed by light footsteps too quiet to belong to any of his regulars.
"We're about to close," Peter called out, not bothering to look up from his clipboard, partially hoping the visitor would take the hint and leave.
"Aw, come on. I came all this way."
The voice was young, cocky, and decidedly not Dick Grayson's. Peter looked up to see another boy, this one a scruffy kid with a worn backpack and a mischievous grin that promised trouble.
"Let me guess," Peter said, setting down his clipboard with a resigned sigh. "You're one of Batman's traffic light brigade."
The kid laughed. "Jason Todd. And I'm the second Robin. Way better than Dick."
Peter pinched the bridge of his nose, setting his clipboard down as he prepared to deal with yet another masked minor. "Jesus Christ, how many of you are there?"
"More than you'd think, fewer than Batman needs," Jason replied with a shrug, hopping onto a barstool without invitation. "Are you gonna make me that drink or what?"
Peter raised an eyebrow. "This isn't a daycare."
"Clearly. It's a shithole." Jason cast a dismissive glance around the bar, noting the cracked mirror behind the counter and the perpetually sticky floor. "But Golden Boy said you're Spider-Man, and I wanted to see for myself."
Peter nearly crushed the glass in his hand. "Keep your voice down," he hissed, scanning the few remaining patrons who, thankfully, seemed too deep in their own misery to be eavesdropping.
Jason rolled his eyes but lowered his voice. "Relax, Parker. No one cares in this dump. Half these guys are probably henchmen taking a night off."
Peter couldn't argue with that logic; The Last Call's clientele wasn't exactly high society. He mixed the drink with more force than necessary, splashing grenadine across the counter.
"Still not serving minors," He said, crossing his arms. "And I'm especially not serving minors who are part of Batman's child endangerment program."
Jason spun on the barstool before stopping to face Peter. "Dick said you were funny. He didn't mention you were a hypocrite."
Peter's eye twitched. "Excuse me?"
"Spider-Man started crime fighting at what, fifteen? Sixteen?" Jason leaned forward, elbows on the bar. "At least we have Batman. You went solo."
"That's different," Peter argued, though the defensiveness in his voice gave him away.
"Sure it is," Jason rolled his eyes. "Anyway, I'm not here to debate child labor laws with you." He pulled out a worn textbook and a crumpled worksheet, slapping them down on the counter. "I need help with physics.”
Peter stared at the kid, then at the worksheet. "...Physics. You came to a bar for help with homework?"
"Bruce is on patrol. Alfred's busy. Dick's useless at this stuff." Jason tapped a pencil impatiently against the counter. "You gonna help or what?"
Peter sighed, glancing around. It was a slow night, with just a few stragglers left, and his manager was in the back doing inventory. He picked up the worksheet, scanning the questions about molecular structures and chemical reactions. Advanced material for someone so young.
"Fine. But only because the alternative is wiping down this counter for the next hour."
A ghost of a smile tugged at Jason's lips, there and gone so fast Peter almost missed it. "Whatever makes you feel better, Spider-Boy."
"Spider-Man," Peter corrected automatically, then grimaced. "I mean—"
"Yeah, yeah, you're 'retired.'" Jason made air quotes with his fingers. "The equations, Parker. Focus."
Despite himself, Peter smiled. There was something about the kid's brash demeanor that reminded him of himself at that age—trying so hard to prove he belonged, to show he wasn't afraid even when he was terrified.
"Alright. No alcohol, but you have to have a soda and some fries while you work. You look like you haven't eaten in days."
Jason's eyes narrowed with suspicion, but his stomach betrayed him with a loud growl. "Fine. But I'm not paying."
"Put it on my tab, Phil," Peter called to the manager who had made his way back to the front. The man gave him a curious look but nodded.
"So that's how it works, huh?" Jason said, watching the interaction. "Put stuff on your tab, never actually pay it off? Is that the secret to adulting?"
"No, the secret to adulting is realizing there are no secrets, just increasingly complicated ways to mask your panic," Peter replied, sliding the worksheet back to Jason and grabbing a physics textbook.
Jason laughed, a genuine sound that transformed his face, making him look his actual age. "That's the most honest thing anyone's said to me in months."
A couple of minutes later, Peter found himself explaining conservation of momentum using salt shakers and coasters as visual aids. Jason was sharp—scary sharp—picking up concepts faster than most college students Peter had tutored back in New York.
"So that's why I can use an opponent's weight against them," Jason said, eyes lighting up. "It's not just about leverage. It's about redirecting their momentum!"
"Exactly," Peter said, surprised at how engaging he found the conversation. It had been a while since he'd flexed his science muscles. "That's also why Spider-Man's—I mean, why that vigilante's web-slinging works. He's constantly transferring momentum, using the elasticity of the webs to—"
"To maintain velocity while changing direction," Jason finished, grinning. "That's badass."
"Watch your language, but yes, the physics is pretty cool," Peter admitted, before realizing he was unconsciously encouraging vigilante activities. "I mean, theoretically. In a physics sense. Not that you should be swinging around Gotham."
"Too late for that lecture," Jason snorted, attacking his fries with renewed vigor. Between bites, he added, "You know, you're not as lame as the news made you sound."
"Thanks...I think?" Peter watched as Jason devoured the food like someone who knew what it was to go hungry. In that moment, with his guard down, focused on his meal and homework, he looked his age. Just a kid. A kid who shouldn't be fighting crime, but was doing it anyway.
"The tabloids made you out to be this corny goofball," Jason continued, dipping a fry in an unholy mixture of ketchup, mayo, and hot sauce he'd concocted. "But you're just... normal. Kind of boring, actually."
"Thanks again for the compliments," Peter said dryly. "They're really making my evening."
"It wasn't an insult," Jason insisted, looking up from his food. "Normal is... good. Bruce is so far from normal it's like living with an alien sometimes. Dick tries too hard to be normal, which makes him weird. Alfred's great but he's like a hundred years old."
"So I'm just the right amount of boring?"
"Something like that." Jason pushed his plate away, suddenly serious. "Before Bruce took me in, I never knew what normal looked like. My dad was a criminal. My mom was..." he trailed off. "Let's just say 'normal' wasn't our thing."
Peter didn't know how to respond to that. He'd lost his parents young, but he'd had Ben and May – a foundation of love and stability even when money was tight. What would he have become without that?
"Well," he said finally, "normal is overrated anyway."
Jason considered this, then shook his head. "Nah. Normal's got its perks. Like having someone to help with physics homework without making it a lesson on 'vigilante responsibility' or whatever."
Peter winced, recognizing his own hypocrisy. Hadn't he just been lecturing the kid about child vigilantes?
"Look," he said, "I'm not saying what Batman's doing is right. Having kids fight crime is... complicated. But I get it. I was there."
"And now you're here," Jason pointed out. "Mixing drinks instead of saving lives."
"Sometimes saving yourself is enough," Peter said quietly.
Jason studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "Maybe. But you're still helping people. Like me, with this." He gestured to the homework, now completed.
"Physics homework isn't exactly saving the world."
"It is if it keeps me from flunking out and having to go to summer school instead of patrol," Jason countered. He closed his notebook with a satisfying snap. "Thanks, Spidey."
"Don't call me that," Peter said automatically.
"Whatever." Jason hopped off the stool with considerably less grace than Dick, but somehow more authenticity. "I appreciate the help. I'll be back Thursday with the chemistry worksheet."
"I never agreed to—" Before Peter could finish protesting, Jason was gone, leaving only a half-empty plate of fries and a few crumpled dollar bills on the counter.
Phil raised an eyebrow from behind the bar. "You babysitting now, Parker?"
"Apparently," Peter muttered, wondering how he'd ended up as homework help for Batman's strays.
He rubbed his temples, feeling a headache building. One Robin he could handle as a fluke. Two started to look like a pattern. And patterns in Peter's life invariably led to complications.
———
The next Bat-kid appeared on a particularly bad night. Peter had just broken up a bar fight, taken a punch to the ribs (which he could have easily dodged if he weren't pretending to be a normal human), and was nursing a headache from the blaring jukebox that someone had cranked to maximum volume before Phil had mercifully pulled the plug.
He was wiping down a spill when he sensed someone sliding onto a barstool. Without looking up, he said, "If you're under eighteen and wearing any shade of red, green, or yellow, I swear to God—"
"Just water, please," came a quiet voice.
This one was slender, almost fragile-looking compared to the others, with intelligent eyes that seemed too old for his young face. Dark circles shadowed those eyes, and his hands trembled slightly as he placed them on the counter. His black hair was disheveled, as if he'd been running his fingers through it repeatedly, and there was a faint bruise developing along his jawline.
"You look like you need a bed, not a bar," Peter said, filling a glass with water and sliding it across.
"Tim Drake," the boy said, accepting the water with a nod of thanks. His fingers curled around the glass with a slight tremor. "And I just... needed somewhere to be that wasn't home or the Cave..." He trailed off, looking down at the counter.
Despite himself, Peter felt a twinge of concern. This kid looked like he was running on fumes—the kind of exhaustion Peter recognized from his own worst days as Spider-Man, when he'd pushed himself beyond reasonable limits.
"When's the last time you slept?" Peter asked, leaning against the counter to study the boy more closely.
Tim shrugged, a small, economical movement. "Tuesday? Maybe?"
"It's Friday."
"Is it?" Tim blinked owlishly, glancing at the slim watch on his wrist as if he genuinely hadn't realized. "Huh."
"That's not a 'huh' moment, kid. That's a 'I need medical intervention' moment." Peter sighed, grabbed Tim's now-empty glass and refilled it. "Finish this."
Tim obeyed automatically, with the compliance of someone too tired to argue. Peter noticed his fingernails were bitten to the quick, and there was a small burn on his right hand that looked like it came from soldering equipment.
"I don't need—"
"Food? Sleep? Basic human necessities?" Peter cut him off. "Yeah, I'm sure that's what your body is telling you right now, but guess what? I've been there, and your body is a liar."
"You sound like Alfred," Tim mumbled.
"Third time I've heard that name, and I still don't know who that is."
"He's our... butler? Grandfather figure? Moral compass?" Tim fumbled for the right description. "He makes sure we eat and sleep and don't die from our own stupidity."
"Sounds like a full-time job," Peter remarked. "So what do you want from me? Math help? Reading lessons? How to mix the perfect martini?"
Tim shook his head, his movements slow as if underwater. "Nothing. I just..." He hesitated, fingers tracing patterns in the condensation on his glass. "It was a rough night. Bad case. Kids involved." He didn't elaborate, but the haunted look in his eyes told enough. "I didn't want to go home yet, and Dick and Jason said you were... I don't know. Easy to be around, I guess."
That caught Peter off guard. He'd been expected demands, questions, attempts to drag him back into the vigilante life. Not... whatever this was.
"I'm easy to be around," he repeated flatly.
Tim shrugged again. "You don't expect things. You don't ask questions. You're just... there."
It wasn't exactly a flattering assessment, but Peter understood it better than he wanted to admit. Sometimes you just needed to be in the presence of someone who got it—the life, the work, the weight of it all—without having to explain yourself.
"I'm not going to serve you alcohol," Peter said finally, because he felt like he should establish some boundaries.
A ghost of a smile crossed Tim's face. "Wasn't going to ask for any."
Peter hesitated, then reached under the bar and pulled out a sandwich wrapped in plastic. "My dinner. You look like you need it more than I do."
Tim stared at the offering, conflict evident in his expression. "You don't have to—"
"Just take it, kid. Before I change my mind."
Tim unwrapped the sandwich and took a small bite, then a larger one as his body seemingly remembered it needed food. Peter busied himself with wiping down the bar, giving the boy some space. He noticed that unlike Dick's theatrical movements or Jason's deliberate swagger, Tim was almost unnervingly still when not in motion, as if conserving energy. His eyes, though tired, missed nothing—cataloging the bar, the patrons, the exits with methodical thoroughness.
They remained in comfortable silence for nearly an hour, Tim slowly eating and occasionally sipping water, Peter serving other customers and circling back to refill Tim's glass. As the night wore on, some color gradually returned to Tim's face, and the tremor in his hands subsided.
Finally, Tim stood, looking marginally more alive than when he'd arrived. "Thanks," he said simply.
Peter nodded. "You heading home to sleep now?"
"Probably not," Tim admitted. "But I'll try."
"Do or do not, there is no try," Peter said before he could stop himself.
Tim's face lit up with genuine delight, the first real emotion Peter had seen from him. "You like Star Wars?"
"Who doesn't?" Peter replied, then immediately regretted engaging.
"We have a complete collection at the Manor," Tim said, suddenly animated in a way that made him look his actual age. "Original theatrical releases, not the special editions where they ruined Han's character development."
Despite himself, Peter was impressed. "Good taste."
"You should come watch sometime," Tim suggested, then immediately looked embarrassed. "I mean, if you wanted to. Which you probably don't. Sorry."
There was something so nakedly hopeful in Tim's expression that Peter felt a pang of... something. Not quite guilt, not quite fondness, but somewhere in between.
"Get some sleep, Tim," Peter said, not unkindly.
Tim nodded and turned to go, then paused. "You know, he doesn't send us. We come on our own."
Peter frowned. "Who doesn't send you?"
"Batman," Tim clarified. "Bruce. He actually told us to leave you alone."
Peter's eyebrows shot up. "Really? Why would he do that?"
"He says everyone deserves the right to walk away," Tim said softly. "Even heroes."
With that surprising revelation, Tim slipped out the door, leaving Peter with an empty glass and too many thoughts.
———
A month later, Peter was starting to think that maybe the Bat-kids had finally gotten the message. No costumed children had appeared at his bar, and he'd been stubbornly refusing to watch the news or read the papers for fear of seeing stories about injured Robins.
It was a quiet Thursday morning when the door opened, the gentle bell jingling to announce a new customer. Peter looked up from where he was doing inventory—and froze.
This wasn't one of the kids from before. This was a small Asian girl, maybe ten or eleven, with short black hair and watchful eyes that seemed to take in everything at once. She moved differently from the others—with a fluid grace that reminded Peter of the most skilled fighters he'd encountered.
She didn't speak, just approached the bar and stared at him.
"Let me guess," Peter said after an uncomfortable silence. "You're with the Bat-squad too?"
The girl tilted her head slightly, then nodded once.
"And you're here to convince me to come out of retirement?"
She shook her head.
"Then... what do you want?"
She pointed at the kitchen door behind him.
"You're... hungry?" Peter guessed.
A nod.
Peter sighed. "We don't really serve breakfast here, kid. There's a diner down the street that makes great waffles."
The girl shook her head firmly and pointed again at the kitchen.
"You want to see our kitchen specifically?"
Another nod.
Peter inwardly sighed. These kids were like pigeons, feed one once and the whole flock of them comes around.
Against his better judgment, Peter found himself leading the silent girl through the swinging door into the small kitchen. The cook wouldn't be in for another two hours, so the space was clean but inactive.
The girl immediately went to the refrigerator and opened it, scanning its contents before pointing at the eggs.
"You want me to cook you eggs?"
She nodded enthusiastically.
"Does Batman know you're here asking a strange retired vigilante to make you breakfast?"
She shrugged in a way that very clearly communicated "what Batman doesn't know won't hurt him."
Peter found himself reaching for a pan. "I'm not joining your team, but I guess I can make eggs. I'm Peter, by the way, but you probably already knew that."
The girl tapped her chest. "Cassandra," she said, her voice soft and tentative, as if she didn't use it often. The single word seemed to take tremendous concentration.
"Nice to meet you, Cassandra," Peter said, cracking eggs into the pan. "You don't talk much, do you?"
She shook her head, then made a series of hand movements that Peter recognized as sign language—though he couldn't understand it.
"Sorry, I don't know sign language," he admitted.
Cassandra looked thoughtful, then pantomimed reading a book.
"You... can't read either?"
She shook her head.
Peter frowned as he stirred the eggs. "But you're out there fighting crime?"
Cassandra smiled and made a punching motion, followed by a thumbs up.
"So you're good at fighting, just not talking or reading."
She nodded vigorously, then performed a lightning-fast series of martial arts moves that made Peter instinctively step back. The display was both beautiful and terrifying—each move flowed into the next with perfect precision, controlled power evident in every gesture. She finished with a roundhouse kick that stopped precisely one inch from Peter's face, her balance perfect, her control absolute.
Peter found himself calculating how difficult it would be to fight her, and the answer was unsettling. Even with his spider-sense and enhanced strength, he'd have his hands full.
"Wow. That's... impressive," he said, genuinely awed.
Cassandra beamed at the praise, then pointed at him and mimicked web-shooting motions with her wrists, accompanied by a "pffft" sound effect.
She tilted her head, studying him with those eerily perceptive eyes. Then she tapped her chest again and mimed a fighting stance, before pointing at him and making a "come at me" gesture.
"You're saying you could teach me to fight?"
A vigorous nod, accompanied by the first genuine grin he'd seen on her face. It transformed her, making her look like the child she actually was rather than the deadly weapon she'd been trained to be.
"I don't need fighting lessons," Peter said automatically. He had to admit though, this girl clearly had skills beyond anything he'd seen before. "I'm pretty good at it myself."
Cassandra's eyebrows shot up in an expression of polite disbelief.
"I am!" Peter protested. "I've been fighting supervillains since like before you were born."
She made a "so-so" gesture with her hand, then pointed at his form as he cooked, pantomiming adjustments to his stance. Even in everyday movements, she was analyzing, correcting.
"Are you seriously critiquing my egg-scrambling posture right now?"
A solemn nod.
"You're something else, you know that?" Peter said with a laugh. Despite himself, he adjusted his stance slightly.
Cassandra nodded approvingly, then pointed impatiently at the eggs, which were starting to overcook.
"Right, sorry," Peter said, turning his attention back to the stove. As he cooked, he found himself wondering about this strange, silent girl. "Who's teaching you? To read and talk, I mean."
Cassandra's expression dimmed slightly. She shrugged again, the motion smaller this time, less certain.
"No one's helping you with that?" Peter asked, feeling a spark of indignation on her behalf. "Batman's letting you fight crime but not making sure you can communicate?"
Cassandra frowned and made another so-so gesture with her hand.
"That's not right," Peter muttered, sliding the scrambled eggs onto a plate and handing it to her. "Everyone deserves to be able to communicate."
Cassandra took the plate with a grateful nod and began eating.
Peter watched her for a moment, thinking. "I used to tutor kids in college. Science mainly, but I helped with reading too." He hesitated, knowing he was about to cross a line he'd been firmly maintaining. "If you want, I could help you. With reading, I mean. Not the crime-fighting part."
Cassandra's head snapped up, her eyes wide with surprise and hope. She nodded eagerly, a wide smile spreading across her face.
"Just reading lessons," Peter emphasized. "I'm still retired from the other stuff."
Cassandra nodded again, but there was something knowing in her expression that made Peter suspect she didn't entirely believe him.
As she finished her eggs, Cassandra reached into a hidden pocket in her clothing and pulled out a small, worn children's book. She placed it carefully on the counter between them—an offering, a starting point. When Peter took it, their fingers brushed, and he was struck by the calluses on her small hands. Hands that had seen more combat than most adults.
"Same time next week?" Peter suggested.
Cassandra nodded, then did something unexpected. She stepped forward and gave him a quick, awkward hug—as if she wasn't quite sure how hugs were supposed to work but wanted to try anyway. Before Peter could react, she was already moving away, heading for the door with that same liquid grace.
At the threshold, she paused and looked back. With deliberate care, she formed two words with her mouth: "Thank you."
Then she was gone, disappearing as silently as she'd arrived, leaving Peter holding a battered copy of "Green Eggs and Ham" and wondering exactly what he'd gotten himself into.
———
Two weeks later, Peter was closing up the bar when the front door burst open with enough force to rattle the glasses behind the counter. He tensed, ready for trouble, only to see a blur of purple and blonde hair launch itself onto a barstool.
"Hiya!" the girl announced, spinning on the stool. "I'm Stephanie! Stephanie Brown. But you can call me Steph. Everyone does. Except Batman. He calls me 'the purple one' sometimes, which is RUDE considering I have a NAME and a CODE NAME and he could use EITHER but he chooses to be all growly and—"
"We're closed," Peter interrupted, flipping the sign on the door that the girl had apparently ignored.
"Oh, I know," she said, not bothered in the slightest. "But closed signs are more like suggestions, you know? Like speed limits or 'Do Not Enter' signs!"
"No, they're pretty explicit instructions."
Stephanie—Steph—grinned. She looked about eleven, with bright eyes and a purple hoodie that had seen better days. There was a scrappy quality to her, as if she'd had to fight for everything she had. "You're funnier than Batman said you'd be. He was all—" she lowered her voice to a nearly inaudible growl—"'Parker is not to be disturbed.' Which, by the way, is basically an engraved invitation for us to come bother you because reverse psychology totally works on Dick and if Dick goes somewhere then everyone else follows because he's like the Pied Piper of Robins."
Peter paused in his cleaning. "Batman talks about me?"
"Well, not exactly talks. More like grunts slightly differently when your name comes up." She mimicked a deep voice: "'Hrrm. Parker.'" She followed this with an elaborate eye roll. "But Tim did this whole presentation about you at breakfast last week, with, like, charts and everything. It was super boring until he got to the part where you fought that octopus guy. Did you really get thrown through THREE billboards once? That's so awesome."
Despite himself, Peter laughed. "That was a pretty good Batman impression."
"Thanks! I've been practicing. Dick says I need to work on my brooding face though." She attempted to look serious, her brows furrowing dramatically before she dissolved into giggles. "It's hard to look broody when you're not, you know, clinically depressed like Bruce."
"So, you're another Robin?" Peter asked, raising a brow.
"Not yet," Steph said with a wink, kicking her legs against the barstool. "Still in training. Right now I'm Spoiler."
"Spoiler of what? My peaceful evening?”
"Spoiler of crime!" Steph beamed, throwing her arms wide. "Dad's a bad guy—well, a lame bad guy. Cluemaster. Ever heard of him?"
Peter shook his head.
"Exactly. Totally Z-list. Anyway, I started leaving clues for the cops to spoil his stupid crimes." She said this with the casual air of someone discussing a hobby, not vigilante activities. "It really ticks him off, which is kind of the point."
She glanced around, raising her brows judgmentally at the worn fixtures and scarred bar top. "This place is kind of a dump, no offense."
"None taken," Peter said dryly. "It's not mine."
"Oh good, because I was worried I'd hurt your feelings, and Cass says you're actually nice even though you pretend not to be, and I wouldn't want to start off by insulting your bar if you were super proud of it or something." Steph took a breath, finally. "So, can I have a soda?"
Peter found himself reaching for a glass before he'd even decided to serve her. "How old are you?" He asked, sliding her a Sprite.
“Ten. Almost eleven. Old enough," she added defensively, chugging the drink.
"Old enough for what?"
"To help people." She swung her legs, which didn't quite reach the floor. "That's what you did, right? Help people?"
"I tried," Peter admitted.
"But now you don't want to anymore?" Steph tilted her head. "Tim says you're experiencing post-traumatic growth and identity reconfiguration, but I think that's just a fancy way of saying you're scared."
Peter blinked. "I'm not scared."
"It's okay if you are," she said, suddenly serious. "I get scared all the time. Batman says fear is natural. It's what you do with it that matters."
"Batman says that?"
"Well, not in those exact words. He's more like 'Fear is a tool, Stephanie,'" she dropped her voice again for the impression. "But same diff."
Peter finished wiping down the last table. "I appreciate the pop psychology, kid, but it's time for you to go home."
"But I just got here!" She pouted dramatically. "I didn't even tell you about how I flipped over a moving car last week. Damian said it was 'adequate,' which is basically like him giving you a standing ovation and roses."
"And now you're leaving. It's a school night."
Steph made a face. "You sound like Alfred."
"Alfred sounds very responsible."
"He is," she agreed, sliding off the stool. "He makes the best cookies though, so we forgive him."
She headed for the door but paused with her hand on the knob. "You know, we're not trying to drag you back into the tights life or whatever. We just... it's nice to know there's someone else who gets it. Someone who's not Batman."
The sincerity in her voice caught Peter off guard. "Gets what?"
"The whole double-life thing. The secrets. The responsibility." She shrugged, suddenly looking small in her oversized purple hoodie.. "It gets lonely sometimes."
For the first time, Peter saw beyond the cheerful exterior to the weight this young girl was carrying. A weight he recognized all too well.
"Stay safe out there, Spoiler," he said softly.
She brightened immediately. "So you do care!"
"I didn't say that."
"Didn't have to." She tapped her temple. "Detective skills. Plus, your eyebrows get all scrunchy when you're worried but trying to pretend you're not, which is, like, your default expression whenever any of us talk about patrol."
"My eyebrows do not get scrunchy," Peter protested.
"Super scrunchy. Like two caterpillars doing the tango." She demonstrated, wiggling her own eyebrows exaggeratedly. "Anyway, gotta run. There's a warehouse by the docks that has suspicious activity, according to police scanners, and I want to check it out before Batman ruins my fun."
"Stephanie—" Peter started, alarm bells ringing.
"Kidding! Sort of. I'm meeting Robin for that one. Teamwork and all that jazz." She gave him a mock salute. "Thanks for the soda, Spider-Man!"
"Don't call me—"
But she was already gone, a purple blur disappearing into the Gotham night, leaving behind only the faint scent of bubblegum and the lingering echo of her laughter.
Peter locked the door behind her, shaking his head. Five kids now. Five children in costumes looking to him for... what? Guidance? Approval? Understanding?
He wasn't equipped for this. He could barely keep his own life together, let alone serve as some kind of mentor figure to Batman's collection of precocious crime-fighters.
Yet as he walked home that night, Peter found himself looking up at the rooftops, half-expecting to see small silhouettes watching over him.
And when he spotted what looked like Cass perched on a water tower, he raised his hand in a small wave.
She waved back.
———
Two nights later, Peter was closing up the bar when he heard the unmistakable sound of a scuffle in the alley outside. Muffled shouts, the thud of something heavy hitting a wall, and then a young voice crying out in pain.
Before he could think better of it, Peter was out the back door and in the alley. Five men surrounded a small figure in red, green, and yellow. Even in the dim light, Peter could see blood on the youngest Robin's face—Damian, if he remembered correctly from Steph.
"Hey!" Peter called out. "Five against one's not very sporting, especially when that one's about nine years old."
The men turned, momentarily distracted. Damian used the opportunity to drive an elbow into one man's kidney, dropping him to the ground.
"I don't need your help, Parker," the boy growled, though Peter could see he was favoring his right leg. A dark stain was spreading along his calf—blood seeping through the bright costume.
"Sure you don't, kid," Peter said, walking forward casually. His spider-sense was humming at the base of his skull—a sensation he hadn't felt in months. It was like greeting an old friend. "But I'm not big on watching children get beat up outside my workplace. Bad for business."
One of the men—a hulking figure with brass knuckles—stepped forward. "This ain't your business, bartender. Walk away before you get hurt."
"See, that's the problem with Gotham," Peter sighed. "Everyone's so dramatic. In New York, they just tell you to fuck off."
"I'm telling you to fuck off right now," Brass Knuckles growled.
"Yeah, but you're making it so theatrical." Peter rubbed the back of his neck. "Look, I've had a long night. How about you guys just go home, forget this happened, and we can all—"
Brass Knuckles swung. Peter moved faster than any normal human should be able to, catching the man's arm mid-swing and twisting it behind his back with ease. The man howled in pain.
"As I was saying," Peter continued conversationally, "New Yorkers also generally recognize when they're outmatched."
"Tt," Damian clicked his tongue. "Your form is sloppy, Parker."
"Everyone's a critic," Peter muttered, just as the remaining three men rushed him at once.
He sidestepped the first, tripped the second, and flipped over the third, landing in a crouch that felt painfully familiar. Eight months of retirement hadn't dulled his reflexes as much as he'd feared.
"Four down, one to go," Peter said, turning to the last man standing—a thin, nervous-looking guy with a switchblade. "Want to make it easy on yourself?"
The man looked from Peter to his fallen companions, then dropped the knife and ran.
"Smart choice," Peter murmured, then turned to Damian. "You okay, kid?"
Damian had sheathed his blade and was now standing rigidly straight, despite the blood streaming from both his leg and a cut above his eyebrow. "I had the situation under control."
"Of course you did," Peter agreed amiably. "The bloodied face is a tactical choice, right? Lulls them into a false sense of security?"
"Tt," Damian clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "Your sarcasm is as underwhelming as Grayson suggested."
Peter crouched down to the boy's level. "Let me see that leg."
"It's fine," Damian insisted, but he let Peter examine the injury—a nasty gash along his calf.
"This needs stitches," Peter said.
"I've had worse." Damian's expression remained impassive, but Peter noticed how the boy's jaw was clenched tight against the pain.
"That's not actually reassuring," Peter muttered. "Come on, I've got a first aid kit inside."
To his surprise, Damian followed him without further argument, limping slightly as they entered the empty bar. Peter pulled the extensive first aid kit from beneath the counter—a relic of his Spider-Man days that he hadn't been able to part with.
As he cleaned and stitched the wound with practiced efficiency, Damian studied him with narrowed eyes. "You're good at this."
"Lots of practice," Peter replied, threading the suture needle with steady hands. "Turns out when you fight crime in spandex, you collect your fair share of injuries."
Damian didn't flinch as the needle pierced his skin—a disturbing lack of reaction for a child his age. "You can stop wasting your potential in this establishment. It's pathetic."
Peter blinked. The other Robins had at least tried for subtlety. "Thanks for the career advice, kid, but I'm happy where I am."
"Tt." Damian made a dismissive sound. "Grayson speaks of you as if you were some great hero. I see nothing but a coward."
"Wow. Straight for the jugular, huh?" Peter continued working on the stitches, keeping his voice light despite the barb. "Look, I don't need validation from a fourth-grader."
"Drake said you were suffering from post-traumatic stress and burnout."
"Tim might be onto something there." Peter tied off a stitch with practiced fingers.
"Todd said you were just being a pussy."
Peter snorted. "Jason would say that."
"Cain didn't say anything, but she did this," Damian mimicked a series of hand gestures that Peter couldn't interpret, though they seemed almost gentle.
"And what did Stephanie say?" Peter asked, curious despite himself.
"Brown said you were, and I quote, 'scared of caring again because everyone you love gets hurt, and you're tired of the pain.'" Damian's tone was clinical, as if reciting a report, but there was an undercurrent of something else—perhaps curiosity.
Peter paused in the act of applying a bandage. That had hit uncomfortably close to home. "And what do you think, Damian?"
The boy considered this seriously, his green eyes—so adult in a child's face—studying Peter with uncomfortable intensity. "I think you're weak."
Peter blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Not physically," Damian clarified. "Mentally. You allow your fears to control your actions."
"It's not fear," Peter protested. "It's self-preservation."
"Semantics," Damian dismissed with a wave of his hand. "A true warrior acknowledges fear but does not submit to it. My grandfather taught me that before I could walk. Fear is to be mastered, not obeyed."
"Your grandfather sounds like a barrel of laughs."
"He was the leader of the League of Assassins, not a comedian." Damian said this as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
Peter stared. "You're kidding."
"I never kid about my lineage," Damian said seriously. "My mother is Talia al Ghul. My grandfather is Ra's al Ghul."
"And your father is Batman," Peter said flatly. "Of course he is. Because that's exactly the kind of messed-up family tree that creates tiny murder children in traffic-light costumes."
Damian bristled. "I am not a child. I was created to be the perfect heir."
"Created?" Peter repeated, suddenly wary.
"Genetically engineered and trained from birth," Damian confirmed, with a disturbing lack of emotion. "I was raised to lead the League of Assassins before Father intervened."
Peter sat back, genuinely disturbed. "Christ, kid. How old are you?"
"Nine," Damian replied. "But I have the combat experience of someone three times my age."
"That's... not healthy," Peter said carefully.
"Neither is dressing as a spider and fighting crime, yet you did so for eight years."
"Touché," Peter admitted. "But I didn't start until I was fourteen, and I definitely wasn't trained as an assassin."
"Your lack of formal training is evident in your fighting style," Damian said, in what Peter suspected was meant to be a clinical observation rather than an insult. "Effective, but unnecessarily acrobatic. You rely on instinct rather than discipline. You compensate for technical deficiencies with enhanced abilities."
"Thanks for the critique," Peter said dryly, taping the bandage in place. "There, good as new. Try not to tear those stitches for at least a week."
Damian studied him with sharp eyes. "Grayson says you were a truly formidable warrior in your prime."
"In my—" Peter sputtered. "I'm twenty-two!"
"As I said. Past your prime." Damian stood, adjusting his clothing and testing his weight on the injured leg. A flicker of pain crossed his face before he controlled it. "Nevertheless, your assistance, while unnecessary, was... adequately executed."
"High praise," Peter muttered.
Damian moved toward the door, then paused. "Parker."
"Yeah?"
"The others are wrong about why you quit," Damian said, his back still turned. "It wasn't cowardice or trauma or fear."
"No?" Peter asked, genuinely curious.
Damian glanced back, his expression solemn. "It was grief. You lost someone important. Recently. Before you left New York."
Peter felt his throat tighten. "How did you—"
"I recognize the signs," Damian said simply. "Do not allow this grief to ruin you. If the past is all that controls you, you will never reach the potential of who you could be."
His eyes met Peter's directly. "Father says dwelling on who we've lost dishonors who they were. That they would want us to continue."
Before Peter could respond, Damian was gone, slipping out into the night with the silent efficiency of someone trained from birth to move unseen.
Peter stared at the closed door for a long moment, genuinely lost for words. Slowly, he began mechanically packing away the first aid kit. The kid was right. It had been grief that drove him from New York—grief for Aunt May, whose heart had finally given out after a lifetime of stress, much of it caused by her nephew's double life.
Her last words to him had been, "You've done enough, Peter. It's time to live your life."
He'd taken it as permission to walk away from Spider-Man. But as he returned the first aid kit to its place under the bar, he wondered if that was really what she had meant.
———
A month passed with regular visits from the various Robins. Dick would swing by for sodas and conversation. Jason would appear with homework and an attitude. Tim sought refuge on difficult nights. Cass continued her reading lessons, making remarkable progress. Steph dropped in for advice and lemonade. Even Damian made the occasional appearance, ostensibly to "evaluate Peter's combat readiness" but really, Peter suspected, just to have someone listen to him.
He was wiping down tables after closing when the door opened one more time.
"We're closed," Peter called without looking up. "Unless you're under four feet tall and wearing primary colors, in which case I'm also closed, but apparently that doesn't mean anything."
"Sorry to intrude," said an unfamiliar voice. "I just wanted to apologize."
Peter turned to find a young African American boy standing awkwardly by the door. Unlike the others, he wasn't wearing any hint of costume colors, just jeans and a yellow hoodie.
"Let me guess," Peter said. "Another Robin?"
The boy smiled sheepishly. "Sort of. I'm Duke Thomas. I'm still new to the whole... bat-thing."
"And what bat-thing brings you to my bar after hours?" Peter asked, tossing his rag into the sink.
"Like I said, I wanted to apologize." Duke approached cautiously, as if Peter might bolt at any sudden movement. "I know the others have been basically invading your space. They mean well, but they can be... intense."
Peter snorted. "That's one word for it. Wait, did Batman send you to apologize?"
Duke laughed, the sound genuine and warm. "No way. He probably doesn't even know I'm here. This is just me, noticing that you've been put in an awkward position."
"Huh." Peter studied the newcomer with newfound interest. "You're the first one to acknowledge that."
"Yeah, well." Duke shrugged, moving to sit at the bar. "I know what it's like to suddenly have the Bat-family descend on your life. It's overwhelming."
Peter leaned against the counter, letting out a laugh. "You got that right, kid. One minute I'm trying to be anonymous, the next I've got a parade of costumed children treating my workplace like a clubhouse."
Duke grinned. "They've adopted you. Once they decide you're part of the family, there's no escaping."
"That's what I'm afraid of," Peter said, reaching for two glasses and filling them with water. He slid one across to Duke. "So what's your story? How'd you get roped into the vigilante daycare program?"
Duke accepted the drink with a nod of thanks, his legs dangling as he settled on the bar stool. "I'm the normal one. Well, as normal as you can be in this situation." He took a sip of his soda, collecting his thoughts. "I found Batman when Gotham went dark. I organized search parties for missing parents. Like mine."
Something in his voice made Peter pause. No child should have to deal with something like that. "Did you find them?"
Duke's expression clouded. "Eventually. They were exposed to Joker toxin. They're... not the same anymore."
Peter winced. "I'm sorry."
"It is what it is," Duke said, with the practiced stoicism of someone who'd had to grow up too fast. "Bruce—Batman—he's been helping with their medical care. And he took me in. Not officially, not like Dick or Jason or the others, but... I have a place at the Manor when I need it."
"And what do they call you? In the field, I mean."
A small smile played at Duke's lips. "I'm still figuring that out. For a while, they wanted me to be Robin."
"But?"
"But there are already too many Robins," Duke said with a laugh. "It's getting ridiculous. When I walk into a room and someone says 'Hey, Robin,' four heads turn."
"Sounds confusing."
"You have no idea. We tried numbers for a while, but Jason threatened bodily harm if anyone called him 'Robin Two' again." Duke's smile widened. "And I'm not sure that's me, anyway. I'm more of a daylight operator."
Peter raised an eyebrow. "A daylight vigilante in Gotham? That's like being a swimming instructor in the Sahara."
"Someone's got to break the mold," Duke said with a shrug. "Besides, I have these abilities... I can see light differently. Process it. See what's about to happen, sometimes."
"Meta abilities?" Peter asked, surprised. "I thought Batman was strictly human-power only."
"Hence why I'm the odd one out," Duke admitted. "Bruce is... adjusting to the idea. I'm thinking of calling myself 'The Signal'—you know, because signals work best in daylight."
Peter nodded thoughtfully. "Not bad. Beats 'Spider-Man' in the originality department."
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, before Duke spoke again.
"They talk about you a lot, you know. At the Manor."
Peter groaned. "I'm afraid to ask."
"It's not bad," Duke assured him. "They respect you. Even Jason, though he'd rather stomp on his cape and burn it than admit it. Dick says you're the kind of hero he wants to be—someone who never forgets the little guy."
"It's easy when you were once the little guy," Peter replied truthfully.
Duke nodded. "That's what makes you different. Batman comes from money, from privilege. Most heroes do, in one way or another. But you—you were just some kid from Queens who got powers and decided to help people. That means something."
Peter felt a familiar ache in his chest—the weight of a responsibility he'd tried to put down. "It wasn't enough."
"It never is," Duke said with surprising wisdom. "But that's not a reason to quit. It's a reason to keep going." He finished his soda and stood up. "Anyway, I just wanted to say sorry for the invasion. I'll try to run interference, but... well, have you met them? They're unstoppable when they set their minds to something."
"I've noticed," Peter said dryly.
Duke headed for the door, then paused. "For what it's worth, I think you're exactly what they need right now."
"What who needs?"
"All of them. Someone who understands but isn't Batman. Someone who remembers what it's like to be young and scared and powerful all at once." Duke opened the door, letting in the sounds of nighttime Gotham. "They'll keep coming back, you know. Even if you chase them away."
Peter sighed deeply. "I'm getting that impression."
"See you around, Mr. Parker." Duke gave him a small wave.
"Duke," Peter called out before the boy could leave. "Thanks. For the apology. And the perspective. If you ever need anything, don’t feel like you can’t come by too."
Duke smiled—a genuine, bright expression that seemed out of place in gloomy Gotham. "Thanks, Peter. And anytime. That's what normal kids are for."
As the door closed behind him, Peter realized he'd just had the most straightforward conversation since moving to Gotham. No acrobatics, no cryptic statements, no homework—just honest communication.
Of course, it couldn't last.
———
The following week, when Peter returned from his evening shift at 2 AM, all he wanted was a shower and his bed. What he got instead was an apartment full of vigilantes.
He noticed something was wrong the moment he put his key in the lock—the door was already unlocked, and faint voices came from inside. For half a second, he considered just walking away. Let whatever bat-situation was unfolding happen without him.
But it was his apartment, dammit.
He opened the door to find his living room transformed. Dick and Jason were sprawled on his couch, arguing over a video game on a console Peter definitely didn't own. Tim was at the kitchen table, surrounded by textbooks. Cass and Stephanie were on the floor, painting each other's nails, while Damian sat in Peter's one good armchair, reading a book with a cat (where had they found a cat?) curled in his lap. Duke was the only one who looked apologetic, offering a shrug from his position by the window.
"What," Peter said flatly, "the hell."
"Hey, Spidey!" Dick called cheerfully. "We were wondering when you'd get home."
"Don't call me that," Peter said automatically. "How did you—never mind. Why are you all in my apartment?"
"Movie night," Stephanie announced. "We brought popcorn."
"I didn't agree to movie night."
"That's why we didn't ask," Jason said, not looking away from the screen. "You'd have said no."
"Damn right I would have."
Tim glanced up from his books. "We figured it was easier to ask forgiveness than permission."
Peter pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't recall any of you asking forgiveness either."
Cass looked up, her dark eyes solemn. She made a gesture that looked like hands pressed together—pleading.
"Sorry," she said, the word clear despite her usual difficulty with speech. Then she held up her hands, showcasing sparkly blue nails. "Pretty?"
And just like that, Peter felt his anger deflating. "Yeah, Cass, very pretty," he sighed, then addressed the group. "You guys can't just break into people's apartments."
"We didn't break in," Dick corrected. "We used the key."
"I don't have a spare key."
Seven pairs of eyes deliberately avoided his gaze.
"You made a copy of my key?" Peter demanded.
"Bruce did," Tim said, as if that made it better somehow. "Standard protocol."
Peter shrugged off his jacket and hung it by the door, trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy in this bizarre situation. "Standard protocol is breaking and entering?"
"It's not breaking if we have a key," Jason pointed out, still focused on the game.
"That's not how that works."
Damian stroked the cat in his lap, looking entirely too comfortable. "This place is adequate, Parker, but the security is abysmal. We've improved it."
"You—what?"
"Installed better locks," Duke explained. "And a basic security system. Don't worry, it's not connected to the Batcave or anything."
Peter ran a hand through his hair, feeling the beginning of a headache.
"We brought food," Damian added, having returned to reading. "Alfred's cookies."
Peter spotted a plate of homemade chocolate chip cookies on the counter—and damn it, they did smell amazing.
"Look," Peter said, trying to maintain his irritation, "you can't just break into people's apartments for movie night. It's not normal."
"Since when is anything about our lives normal?" Tim asked reasonably.
"I tried to warn you," Duke said. "But they outvoted me."
Peter sighed deeply, dropping his keys on the counter. "I've had a long shift. I'm tired. I want to shower and sleep."
"Shower, then join us," Dick suggested. "The movie doesn't start for another twenty minutes."
"I'm not watching a movie with a bunch of kids at 2 AM."
"We're not just 'a bunch of kids,'" Jason pointed out, finally pausing the game. "We're Gotham's elite vigilante squad."
"Who are apparently skipping patrol to crash my apartment."
"Batman's handling it," Stephanie said, blowing on her freshly painted nails. "He said we deserved a night off."
Peter raised an eyebrow. "Batman. The workaholic who never takes a night off. That Batman?"
"Alfred insisted," Tim explained. "When Alfred insists, even Batman listens."
"Batman's been extra grumpy lately," Stephanie added. "Alfred said he was 'becoming intolerable' and that we should 'make ourselves scarce for the evening.'"
"And you chose my apartment," Peter said flatly.
"Would you prefer we break into someone else's place?" Jason asked with a smirk. "Because we can definitely do that instead."
"No," Peter sighed, rubbing his temples. "I'd prefer you not break into anyone's apartment."
"Too late," Cass said quietly, holding up her hands to admire Stephanie's handiwork as she applied the final coat of polish.
Peter glanced around his small apartment, at the chaos and noise and life that had invaded his quiet existence. For months, he'd been trying to avoid exactly this—connections, relationships, responsibilities.
And yet.
There was something oddly comforting about it all. Like having a family again.
Not that he'd ever admit it.
"Fine," he relented, grabbing a cookie from the plate. "One movie. Then you all go home."
A cheer went up from the group, with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Even Damian looked pleased, though he tried to hide it behind his book.
"What are we watching anyway?" Peter asked, biting into the cookie. It was, predictably, incredible.
“Megamind,” Dick announced with a grin.
Peter nearly choked. "Absolutely not."
"Too late," Jason said, holding up the Blu-ray. "You just don't wanna watch it because it has a pussy of a hero who goes into hiding when things get tough. Sound familiar, Spider-Boy?"
"That's not—I don't—" Peter sputtered.
Jason smirked, not looking the slightest bit apologetic. “Plus, Duke already voted for it. ”
Duke at least had the decency to look sheepish. "It's a good movie."
"I wanted to watch Frozen," Stephanie complained. "But apparently that's 'childish.'"
"It is childish," Damian sniffed.
"You're just mad because you relate to Elsa too much," Tim muttered, earning a glare from Damian.
"I do not relate to fictional Disney princesses, Drake."
"'Conceal, don't feel,'" Tim quoted under his breath.
"I will end you," Damian hissed.
"Boys," Dick warned without looking up from the game. "Play nice or I'll tell Alfred you were fighting again."
Both Tim and Damian immediately subsided, though they continued to glare at each other across the room.
"You're all impossible," Peter muttered, heading for the bathroom. "Don't touch anything while I'm in the shower."
"Too late for that too," Stephanie called after him.
When Peter emerged fifteen minutes later, hair still damp, the kids had rearranged his living room into what resembled a movie theater. The couch had been pushed back, pillows and blankets spread across the floor, and someone had hooked up a projector that displayed onto his bare wall.
Cass patted the space beside her, offering him a bowl of popcorn.
"I can't believe I'm doing this," Peter said, sitting down.
"Believe it," Dick said, hitting play. "This is just the beginning."
As the movie started, Peter looked around at the group of extraordinary children who had, somehow, decided he was worth their time. Kids who, despite their different backgrounds and personalities, had formed a family of sorts.
"Just so we're clear," he said, accepting the popcorn from Cass, "this doesn't mean I'm coming out of retirement."
"Sure, Pete," Jason said, not even trying to hide his disbelief. "Whatever you say."
"I mean it. I'm done with the whole superhero thing."
Tim glanced over. "You know, for someone who's done with being a superhero, you spend a lot of time talking about how done you are with being a superhero."
"It's called reinforcing boundaries."
"It's called protesting too much," Stephanie countered.
Damian, who had relocated to the floor with his cat, fixed Peter with a serious stare. "Parker, we all know you'll return eventually. Your guilt complex won't allow otherwise."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence."
"It was an observation, not a compliment."
Duke laughed. "Give it up, Peter. They've already adopted you."
Peter groaned, feeling a strange mix of emotions.
Maybe these kids were right. Maybe he couldn't stay retired forever. Maybe being Spider-Man wasn't just about the suit or the powers, but about the connections you made along the way.
But that was a problem for tomorrow's Peter. For now, he was content to sit in his too-crowded apartment, surrounded by traffic-light costumed menaces, watching a movie that made him want to grab a pillow and cry.
"Pass the cookies," he said, settling in.
After all, if you can't beat them, you might as well join them for movie night.
Cass, sharp-eyed as ever, just smiled knowingly and leaned her head against his shoulder.
And if, two weeks later, Peter found himself helping Duke with combat training in his apartment's tiny living room—well, that didn't mean anything either.
Just like it didn't mean anything when he started patching up Tim's injuries after particularly rough nights.
Or when he began teaching Cass not just to read, but to code as well.
Or when he helped Stephanie with her science fair project.
Or when he let Dick drag him to a circus that had come to town, because the boy missed it sometimes.
Or when he spent three hours explaining to Damian why ethics actually did matter, even in combat situations.
Or when he let Jason convince him to help restore a motorcycle, because "you're good with your hands, Parker, don't waste it mixing drinks."
It didn't mean anything at all.
Until one night, twelve months after his first encounter with Dick Grayson at the bar, Peter found himself standing on a rooftop in lower Gotham, looking out over the city lights. He wore no costume—not yet—but he'd brought his old web-shooters, just to test if they still worked.
Just curious, scientifically speaking.
A soft thud behind him announced he wasn't alone.
"Took you long enough," said a gruff voice that was decidedly not one of the kids.
Peter turned slowly to find Batman—the actual Batman—standing a few feet away, his cape billowing dramatically in the night breeze.
"I'm not back," Peter said automatically.
Batman's expression didn't change, but somehow Peter got the impression he was amused. "Of course not."
"I'm just... thinking."
"Mm-hmm."
"Your kids are menaces, you know that?" Peter said, changing the subject.
"I'm aware." Was that a hint of fondness in the gravelly voice? Hard to tell.
They stood in silence for a moment, looking out over the city.
"They need someone like you," Batman said finally. "Someone who remembers what it's like."
"To be young?"
"To be normal. Before." Batman didn't elaborate, but he didn't need to. Before the powers, before the responsibility, before the weight of it all.
Peter flexed his wrist, feeling the familiar weight of the web-shooter. "I'm still not sure I'm ready."
"You don't have to be Spider-Man to help them," Batman said. "Just be Peter Parker."
With that surprisingly insightful comment, Batman turned to leave. At the edge of the roof, he paused.
"But if you do decide to put the suit back on," he said without turning around, "Gotham could use someone like you too."
Before Peter could respond, Batman was gone, a shadow melting into the night.
Peter looked down at his web-shooter, then out at the city skyline. Nine months ago, he'd come to Gotham to escape his past. To be anonymous. To forget.
Instead, he'd found a bunch of kids in traffic-light costumes who refused to let him disappear.
Kids who needed him—not just his powers, but him. Peter Parker, the guy who'd been where they were now.
Maybe that was the point all along.
With a small smile, Peter adjusted the web-shooter and aimed for a distant building. Just to test it, he told himself. Just to see if he still could.
The familiar thwip sound echoed in the night air as the web shot out, connecting solidly with its target.
It felt good. It felt right.
It felt like coming home.
"One swing," Peter muttered to himself. "Just one, for old times' sake."
He tightened his grip on the web, took a deep breath, and stepped off the roof into the Gotham night.
Maybe he wasn't ready to be Spider-Man again. Not yet.
But Peter Parker? The guy who helped with homework and patched up injuries and showed up for movie nights?
That guy was already back.
And maybe, just maybe, that was enough for now.