Chapter 2
Peter’s hazel eyes, different to Dick’s in color but identical in their kind and thoughtful manner, locked onto Jason as he returned to the bar. The familiarity sent shivers down his spine, but he still sat down and chugged what was left of his drink.
Peter looked at him curiously. “Wanna tell me what that was about? You ran like your pants caught on fire.”
Jason paused. His mind was racing to come up with an excuse and when he couldn’t find one, he settled on a quiet, “It’s nothing.”
Peter raised his brow and sent him a look.
“Oh, how you disappoint me,” he lamented, unable to hide the concern even through his teasing voice. “And here I thought we were friends.”
Jason’s lips twitched upwards. Not only did they look alike, but even their personalities matched. They had the same sense of humour, the same playful tone of voice, the same million-dollar smile; there was no way they weren’t at least related.
“Are you okay?” Peter asked when he didn’t answer. “You look spooked.”
“A disturbingly accurate diagnosis,” Jason admitted, earning a confused frown from Peter. “Don’t worry, I just—got some weird news.”
“This is Gotham; ‘weird’ covers a lot of ground here,” Peter joked, filling up his glass again. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”
Jason poured himself another drink and brought the glass to his lips. “You get a lot of ‘weird’ around here, then?”
Peter didn’t miss the blatant change of subject, but didn’t say anything about it. Clearly Jason didn’t want him probing into his private affairs more than he’d already done.
Peter ended up telling Jason about a particularly strange encounter he’d had while bartending, and they quickly fell back into a pleasant rhythm of banter and laughter. Jason couldn’t help but grin at the comical storytelling and found himself admiring the excited gleam in his maybe-nephew’s eyes as he painted him a vivid picture.
-
Dick’s ride from Bludhaven to Gotham felt much longer than usual, probably because he spent it making up one conspiracy theory after another. His thoughts were filled with metas, aliens, and clones, anything that meant Dick wasn’t a father, because he knew that he didn’t have a son—or maybe he only wished, prayed even, that he didn’t.
He entered the club a few hours later and bee-lined directly towards the bar, his eyes darting around in search for Jason’s tousled hair and wide frame. He found him quickly, chatting to the bartender.
Dick froze dead in his tracks as he stared at a face he hadn’t seen in years. He felt as though he was back at the manor again, carefully observing himself in the mirror after his first shave. The only difference were the brown locks falling across his forehead, completed by a set of matching brown eyes.
‘Not a clone, then,’ Dick thought.
Jason jumped as a hand clasped his shoulder. His hand had already reached for his gun, and he barely had a second to backtrack as his eyes fell on Dick.
“Don’t sneak up on my like that,” he grumbled, his shoulders slumping in relief. “What to took you so long?”
Dick didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on Peter, who simply stared back at him, clearly confused as to why Dick was watching him so intently. An awkward silence laid over them, until Jason cleared his throat and pulled Dick onto the stool next to him.
“Peter, may I introduce to you my brother, who goes by the very fitting name Dick,” Jason said, earning an unamused glare from his brother.
Peter offered him his hand, an amused smile playing on his lips. “Nice to meet you, Dick.”
Jason snorted. Dick took Peter’s hand, pointedly ignoring his brother. “Nice to meet you—”
“Peter,” the boy said, his grip firm and confident. “Peter Parker.”
His movements were smooth and natural, and Dick found no signs indicating a social ineptitude that would be expected of an extraterrestrial. He should have been relieved, but instead a bitter taste was left on his tongue.
“Do your parents know you’re working in a club?” Dick asked before he could stop himself. He had planned a more subtle approach to the interrogation but found it surprisingly difficult to restrain himself from questioning him.
Peter frowned. No one in this god-forsaken city cared about underage workers, not when they were to be found at every corner of every street, except for these two good Samaritans. Frustration boiled in his chest at Dick’s patronizing attitude.
“They don’t,” Peter hissed, his voice dripping in annoyance. “But I’ll be sure to tell them when I stop by the cemetery.”
He almost felt guilty as Dick’s breath caught in his throat and Jason started coughing, having choked on his drink.
“You fucking imbecile,” Jason somehow spat through his fight for air before he mercilessly slammed his elbow into his brother’s ribs, almost pushing him out of his seat.
“I’m sorry,” Dick muttered after he had caught himself. “I didn’t—I wasn’t trying to—"
“It’s fine.” Peter smiled tightly. Perhaps he had overreacted. “I mean it’s not fine—obviously I would prefer my parents to be alive. I just meant—”
Peter realized then that he was rambling and quickly shut himself up.
“Whom do you live with, then?” Dick couldn’t help but ask.
Jason barely restrained himself from mauling his brother and instead shot him a look that would have burned a hole through his head had he been kryptonian.
“No one. I’m emancipated.”
Jason and Dick exchanged concerned glances, but didn’t say anything. Dick felt a pit in his stomach. He knew that Peter wasn’t his child, but even the possibility that his son’s foster parents were bad enough that he emancipated himself left him feeling like he’d eaten shit.
“Your dad—what was his name?" Dick asked.
Peter frowned but answered the question regardless. "Richard.”
Peter wondered whether Jason had a chronic condition as he fell into another coughing fit.
Dick started drinking after that, and Peter watched in silent horror as he downed drink after drink. He knew it wasn’t smart, but the growing conviction that Peter might be his son was too much for him to stay sober; the implications of being a father were simply too much. It meant that he hadn’t been there to see his own child grow up, that he hadn’t been there to protect him, that it was his fault he ended up with a family that didn’t care enough about him.
The pit in his stomach was now growing by the second, and Dick began to spiral. If he truly was his son, would Peter have to live with him in his apartment? Would he have to raise him, to teach him dad-things? His mouth turned dry at the thought; he wasn’t ready to be a father yet. And what exactly was it that fathers even did? Bruce wasn’t exactly a role model; he would have to figure out how to be dad by himself.
Only one thing Dick knew for certain—Peter would have to quit his job.
Peter’s warm voice pulled him out of his thoughts. “Are you okay?”
Dick took a second to process the question. His head was spinning now, and somehow, he sensed that he should have drunk more water before opening another bottle of whiskey.
”You, uh…” Dick slurred, already having forgotten Peter’s question. “You ever do gymnastics?"
"I mean, I can do a backflip. Why?"
Memories of hanging upside down from a chandelier flashed across Dick’s mind, before he muttered, “Yeah, I bet you can.”
He barely registered Peter and Jason freeze at the same time.
”—Okay, see, that was weird.” Peter swiped Dick’s glass, deciding he’d had enough. “That was a really weird thing to say.”
Jason massaged his forehead. “Please ignore that. He isn’t usually like this; I promise he’s just had a rough day.”
“Fine,” Peter grumbled. His patience was slowly reaching its limits. “But only if you promise to have a serious talk with your brother about his alcoholism.”
Jason almost fell off his chair as he burst into laughter. The moment was interrupted by a short man with a stern face, approaching Peter with an accusing glare.
“To the back. Now,” the man who must have been the club’s manager demanded.
Peter shot Jason a look reminiscent of a troubled teenager in front of the principal’s office and followed him to the back. A security guard kept an eye on the liquor while the bar was left empty.
Jason turned to Dick, who was slightly swaying in his seat. “He’s definitely your son.”
“You—you don’t know that!”
“Please,” Jason scoffed, “don’t tell me you don’t see it.”
Dick stayed quiet for a moment and Jason wasn’t sure whether it was because he didn’t want to admit that he was right, or because he had simply fallen asleep.
Jason eventually broke the silence. “So, have you remembered who his mom is, yet?”
Dick hesitated. “…No.”
“What? It can’t be that difficult!” Jason slapped his shoulder. “If he’s around sixteen now, you would have had him when you were eighteen. I mean, how many flings could you have possibly had in a year?”
Jason watched in horror as Dick’s face reddened, his expression a mix of anger and embarrassment. “You whore—”
“At least I had game!” Dick shouted, trying to swat his hand away but missing because of his turned off motor skills. “Unlike a certain someone that was always brooding in his room with his classic novels! I mean, what kind of teenager reads Shakespeare voluntarily?”
“You just can’t appreciate art, you illiterate—”
“Hey guys!” Peter chimed in, having reappeared from the back rooms. “What’d I miss?”
“Nothing,” Jason deflected quickly, as though he had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Peter raised an eyebrow.
Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, Dick came to the rescue. “So do you—uh—like stuff?”
Peter snorted at the absurd question. “Yeah, I like stuff.”
Silence followed until Dick decided to rest his head on the table. After a few more seconds, he found the courage to speak up again.
“Tell me about your mother,” he blurted out.
Jason put his head in his hands.
“What?” Peter’s voice was stern. He had blamed Dick’s intrusive questions on social awkwardness, maybe even on a condition of some sort, and had patiently indulged him until now. But this, this was going too far.
“I just wanna know more about you.”
“Why?”
Dick didn’t even hesitate. “Cause you’re my son.” A pause. “Or an alien; we haven’t decided yet.”
Jason sighed in defeat, as if nothing could disappoint him anymore.
Peter froze, almost ready to burst into laughter at the absurd claim, before he looked at Dick’s deadly serious face. Suddenly, he saw his dad again, younger than he remembered but still his dad. He had the same raven hair falling softly around his face, the same ocean eyes, the same slightly crooked nose.
For a split second, Peter wondered how his dad had survived the plane crash and only now found his way home, before he remembered that he was in an alternative dimension with an alternate version of his dad in it. The man in front of him was indeed his dad, but it wasn’t his dad.
“I see.” He said, partly because he didn’t know what else to say to that and partly because his throat was burning the way it did before he started crying. He swallowed heavily.
“You believe him?” Jason asked. “Just like that?”
Peter took a deep breath before answering. His voice is rough, but at least one of the two men were too drunk to notice. “I do. I guess I see the resemblance.”
Dick’s lips twitched into a carefree smile. “Good, very good! That means we can do father-son stuff. We can throw footballs, practice the trapeze, go fishing, maybe camping even—”
“No.” Peter interrupted.
Dick raised his head in surprise, sadness and confusion flashing across his familiar face. It pained Peter to ignore his pained expression, but he stayed firm.
“No offense, Sir, but I’m already grown up.” Peter’s voice was cold. “I don’t need another father figure in my life at his point.”
Jason narrowed his eyes. “You’re not grown up. You look like you’re sixteen at most.”
“Seventeen. That’s old enough.”
Dick put his spinning head back on the table.
“They grow up so fast,” he mumbled and promptly passed out.
Peter looked at Jason and gestured towards the door. “You should take your brother home now. I think you’ve both have had enough to drink for tonight.”