Chapter 1
Peter Parker barely looked up as a loud drunk threatened the club’s bouncers with a knife. In the short time he had been stranded in Gotham, he had learnt quickly that the locals’ first instinct to conflict was violence. He was so used to it that he didn’t even blink when a gun was pulled on the angry, red-faced man in return. He quieted down quickly.
Two months ago, Peter would have jumped into the fight to deescalate the situation. But two months ago, he was in less crime ridden New York City where he spent his days cooking with his aunt, hanging out with Harry and sneaking glances at his crush MJ.
He sighed. The past had passed. Now, his days consisted of working, vigilanting, getting fired because of the former, finding a new job, and working even more. For now, he had secured himself a job as a bartender. It was far from ideal; the music was loud, the air smelled of make-out sessions and one-night stands, and the people were either drunk or rude to employees. Often both.
Peter raised his eyebrows as a man slumped down at the bar and buried his head in his hands. “Whiskey,” he grumbled, not even looking at Peter, as if to unknowingly prove his point. “Make it a double.”
The man stood out in the high-end bar. Peter’s usual clientele consisted mostly of businessmen and wealthy heirs, not ragged men like him. His expensive suit and polished dress shoes could only hide so much; it did nothing for his unusually muscular frame, the faded scars marring his hands, and the white streak running through his otherwise raven hair that did nothing to support his ‘rich guy’ persona.
Peter put down a glass in front of him. “Rough night?”
Jason would have laughed at the question if it wasn’t for the exhaustion weighing on his body like lead. He had finished patrolling not long ago and had barely found enough time for a shower before he came here for an undercover investigation. He believed the club to be a front for a drug cartel that had recently dug its claws into the children of crime alley, who were isolated and desperate enough to accept any work if it meant putting food on the table.
“That’s an understatement.” Jason chugged down the liquid, trying to wash away the sickly pale faces of the children whom the dealers had hooked with their substances. “Actually, just leave the bottle.”
Peter raised an eyebrow. “That bad? What happened?”
The man huffed, before pouring himself another drink. A bitter smile played on his lips. “What are you, my therapist?”
“No,” Peter stated as a matter of fact. “I’m a much cheaper listener.”
Jason finally lifted his head, curious to see the face of this man who wouldn’t take a hint. What he didn’t expect was to face a teenager, looking no older than sixteen or seventeen, standing behind the bar with a liquor bottle in his hands.
Jason furrowed his brows. The boy looked too young to even be in this club, let alone serve booze to people who were potentially there to circulate highly addictive, maybe even deadly substances.
“Aren’t you a little too young to be working here?”
Peter didn’t even blink. No, he laughed as if he’d heard the question hundreds of times before. Jason did not appreciate that fact.
“I’m old enough, just got a baby face,“ he chuckled as his lips twitched into a smile. “I get that all the time though.”
Jason stared at him unamused. “Got an ID to prove that?”
Peter couldn’t help but snort. Nobody in Gotham ever ID-checked anyone, regardless of age or location. “Dude, I’m the one behind the bar. If anything, I should be asking for your ID.”
In a fit of pettiness, Peter swiped the whiskey bottle away from Jason, leaned on the counter and stared at him, as if to say, ‘Hand it over’. Jason only narrowed his eyes.
“You’re serious?” he asked in disbelief when Peter’s unyielding gaze challenged his own. Jason suddenly found Peter’s face very familiar, as though he had seen that mischievous glint in his eyes somewhere else.
“I’m waiting.”
Jason sighed and reached into his inner pocket, only to feel nothing there. It was then that he remembered that he’d intentionally left the card at home, after all, he hadn’t been ID-checked in years. Not with his intimidating glare, tall frame, and the white streak in his hair that made him look much older than he liked.
Peter didn’t bother hiding his triumphant grin. Satisfaction pooled in his chest as he watched the man pinch his nose as though a headache was forming.
“I—” Jason paused awkwardly. “I don’t have it on me.”
Peter grinned smugly. “Let’s just forget about it. I never asked for your ID—you never asked for mine.”
“Fine,” he grunted. Peter handed him back the bottle.
It had been a while since he enjoyed a job this much. Usually, his costumers were in a bad mood—as most people in Gotham were—and let it out on him, the underpaid, overworked minimum wage employee. Whether it was yelling, crying or ignoring him, Peter rarely had enjoyable conversations like this. Even if, admittedly, this one consisted mostly of him poking fun at his oddly caring conversation partner.
“So, what about you?” Peter picked up again. “What’s your day job? Wait, let me guess—teacher? You act all rough and tough, but I bet you’re a big softie inside. I think you’d be good with children.”
Jason raised his eyebrow. “Oh, really?”
“Or, maybe you’re hiding a geeky genius underneath that ‘I dare you to look at me wrong’ front,” Peter rambled on. “Yeah, I feel like you’d be smart enough to be building or fixing things professionally. Mechanic, maybe?”
“Yeah, no.” Jason laughed bitterly.
He tried to think of a moment where he and his pit rage hadn’t caused more trouble than benefit, but nothing came to mind. The only time he seemed to be doing any good was when he was beating the shit out of people, but that thought only made him more defeated than proud.
“I’m more in the ‘breaking’ business.”
“In that case I recommend yoga,” Peter quipped. “Or meditation.”
“What would I need that for when I’ve got a great therapist right here?”
“True.” Peter shrugged, before an earnest expression crossed his face.
It took a moment before Peter finally found his words again. “For what it’s worth, I’ve learned that the people who’ve broken the most are also the people who fix things the best.”
Jason snorted, ignoring the pang of familiarity he felt looking at his thoughtful face. “You calling me a fixer-upper?”
“Don’t flatter yourself.” Peter grinned. “I’m just saying—I know what it’s like to have things fall apart and not know how to fix it. It’s absolute shit and it hurts, but at the very least it makes you practiced in putting things back together.”
Peter paused.
As the words slipped over his lips without permission, he couldn’t help but remember all the times he’d stood up Harry and MJ while playing hero, all the times he’d put them in danger by making himself a villain’s target.
He swallowed heavily. “So, perhaps you’re not as much of a lost cause as you think.”
“Huh.” Jason took another swig of his drink. “I never thought about it like that.”
Jason stared at Peter, watched as his eyes darted between the exits of the room while tunning his hand through his hair, before catching himself in the act and bringing it back to the table, just like Dick would when he was feeling overwhelmed.
And then it hit Jason. He was looking at his brother in his teenage years. He froze, his drink still at his lips, and then shot out of his seat like it was on fire.
“Jason?” Peter asked, his voice laced in concern.
Before he knew it, he was already stumbling towards the back of the club, frantically pushing through the excited crowd. His phone already in his hands, he entered a supply closet and quickly dialled Dick’s number. An eternity had passed until he finally picked up.
“Why didn’t you tell me you had a son, you distrusting mule?” Jason shouted.
For a few moments, heavy breathing echoed through the line.
“Because I don’t?” Dick’s voice was still groggy from sleep.
“Don’t fuck with me, Dick,” Jason spat, kicking an empty bucket in a fit of anger. “The cat’s out of the bag.”
More silence. A yawn. Then shuffling
“Jason,” Dick finally sighed, tiredness leaking into his words. “I do not have a secret son.”
Jason paused, trying to determine whether Dick genuinely didn’t know he was a father.
“It’s like 4 AM right now,” Dick groaned, and Jason heard some rustling in the background. “Wait—Did you drunk dial me?”
“I’m not drunk, okay? I swear to God there’s a younger you at a club behind the bar, and I’m freaking out!”
“That just sounds like you drank too much. Or maybe you should visit an eye doctor.”
Jason took a deep breath instead of snapping at his brother—a decision he wouldn’t have made a year ago. Still, the clear irritation in his voice remained.
“I’m on my fourth drink of the night, Dickwing. I can handle that much without getting tipsy.”
“Alright then, I’ll say it as many times as I need to,” Dick replied, sounding much more awake and coherent now. “I do not have a son. I think I’d have noticed.”
“Like Bruce did with Damian?” Jason scoffed.
Dick couldn’t refute the argument.
“So,” Jason continued, much calmer this time. “you’re really not hiding your child from Bruce ‘cause you’re afraid he’ll turn him into a Robin?”
“Jay, has it not crossed your mind that if he looks like me, he might be a clone or an alien shapeshifter? Or maybe he’s just a doppelganger—you know everyone’s supposed to have about seven in the world.”
Jason gritted his teeth, considering Dick’s frustratingly plausible theories. He’d never admit it, but maybe his brother was right.
“Just get your ass over here,” he grumbled and hung up the phone before heading back to the bar.