Chapter 4
Peter was exhausted.
Running on barely three hours of sleep, an empty stomach, and the lingering ache from patrol, he felt like he was running on fumes. His part-time job had drained him. The city had drained him. And now, the only thing keeping him upright was the promise of the five pounds of lasagna waiting for him in the fridge.
His stomach growled as he climbed the fire escape to his apartment. Normally, he’d take the stairs to avoid suspicion, but tonight, he was too drained to care. Taking a shortcut for once in his life would be fine; his was suit was hidden under his clothes anyway. No one would make the connection.
He shoved open the window and silently slid inside. A tingling sensation had him freeze on the spot.
It wasn’t the usual sharp jolt warning him of immediate danger, but more of a persistent buzz at the back of his skull, like an itch he couldn’t scratch. An alert that something was off.
Peter stilled, letting his senses adjust. The tiny one-room apartment looked the same as always—there was his beat-up mattress on the floor, the tiny kitchen table in the corner, the flickering kitchen light. But there was something else there too, beneath the familiar city noise, beneath the wind rattling the windows and his upstairs neighbour’s heavy footsteps. Something quieter, something that sounded almost like—
Breathing?
The light switched on as a young boy rounded the corner, dressed in black from head to toe, wearing a scowl that screamed ‘I dare you to make a move.’
”Do you always enter through the window?” he asked, scanning Peter with an expression so sour it could curdle milk. Peter would have been offended if the boy didn’t look like he still had a bedtime.
Peter blinked. “I forgot my key.”
“Your sense of security is abysmal. Leaving your windows unlocked is an open invitation for intrusion.” The boy scoffed. “You are advertising that you wish to be robbed.”
Peter crossed his arms. There was nothing here to to steal, not that the boy knew that.
“Is that what you’re doing? Robbing me?”
The kid had the audacity to look offended, and Peter suddenly felt he understood the fatherly urge to go out for milk.
“I would never lower myself to such practices,” the kid snapped, his voice dry and unimpressed, “no, I am here to challenge you to a duel.”
Peter stared at him.
Then, very slowly, he set his backpack down.
Of course. Of course this was his life now.
He took a second to lament what he had done to deserve this. His stomach growled, his muscles ached, and his eyes were heavy, and still the universe decided to throw yet another curveball at him.
He sighed. “Listen, kid—”
“Damian,” the boy interrupted. “Damian Wayne.”
Peter stiffened.
Oh.
That explained…so much.
Damian Wayne was billionaire, playboy and philanthropist Bruce Wayne’s youngest son. That made him Richard Grayson’s, his alternate universe’s father’s, youngest brother. That again made him his—what?—fake step-uncle?
He wasn’t sure how all that worked. Either way, this situation was exactly what he hadn’t wanted to deal with. After last night’s disaster at the club, he figured Dick had taken the hint and moved on. But apparently, instead of calling or emailing, he had sent Peter’s pint-sized uncle after him instead.
“Listen, Damien,” Peter sighed, rubbing his temples. “I’m not gonna fight you.”
Damian pulled out a katana.
An actual katana.
The blade gleamed under the kitchen light, sharp enough to cut off a limb. Peter gulped.
“You don’t a choice.”
Damian lunged at him.
The blade sliced through the air, a flash of silver in the dim light. If Peter had been even a second slower, he’d have a knife sticking out of him right now.
"Oh my god, kid!" Peter yelped, twisting out of the way in the nick of time. "You could’ve stabbed me!"
Damian’s voice was dripping with disdain. "If you were incapable of dodging such a blatant attack, you would have deserved it."
He swung again—fast, precise, deadly. "The weak have no place in our family."
Peter flipped backwards onto the kitchen table, grimacing as his shoes left grimy streaks on the wooden surface. “I don’t even want to be part of your family!”
“That is irrelevant.” Damian shot back, his voice laced with bitterness. "It is only a matter of time before they adopt you. I must prevent that.”
Peter’s brain, fried from exhaustion, scrambled to keep up with the incoming stream of information. Why would he be adopted?
While continuing to dodge the strikes, Peter swore under his breath. He was so done with this psycho-city.
New York had its fair share of unhinged teenagers, but this? This was something else entirely. Gothamite kids didn’t just throw punches but came at you with swords and every intention to commit manslaughter.
Peter yelped, twisting out of the way of another attempt on his life.
Under his weight and movement, the already shaky kitchen table had started groaning and moaning, and Peter was afraid it would collapse if he continued to strain it. He cringed at the thought; he’d have to eat on the floor for at least four months if that happened.
Finally, Damian left him an opening, and Peter jumped into the kitchen, where he narrowly avoided a slash aimed at his ribs.
Damian pressed forward, forcing Peter to retreat toward the counter. The tiny space made movement difficult—there was barely any room to maneuver. The apartment was much too small for this.
Peter’s back hit the kitchen counter, and he had to twist himself over it painfully to avoid getting skewered.
“Please stop,” Peter groaned. “I forfeit, okay? You win. Championship title goes to you, undefeated child warrior of Gotham.”
“It doesn’t work like that.” Damian didn’t slow, barely missing him as he threw himself sideways.
Peter’s eyes locked on a steel ladle he’d left out on the countertop. He snatched it, pointing it at Damian like a rapier.
As steel ladle met katana, a horrific metal shriek echoed through the room and left both of them flinching.
Then they were fencing in the kitchen—Peter parrying strike after strike with his ladle, each impact echoing through the apartment like a dying harpy.
“Put down that wretched utensil!” Damian yelled after a particularly horrid screech. “This is a duel, not a circus act!”
“Only if you put down the sword!” Peter countered. “If you have a weapon, I should be allowed one too!”
A moment later, Damian flicked his wrist and managed to twist the lade out of his hands. It clattered across the room, dented and useless. Peter pursed his lips, trying to remember how much a replacement would cost him.
Damian, with a triumphant smirk on his face, swung at Peter’s now unarmed self again. Peter was cornered, so he jumped and flipped through the air above Damian, landing awkwardly on his back on the mattress behind them. It groaned under the sudden weight.
He rolled off as a katana stabbed into it, missing his arm by inches.
“Seriously?” Peter snapped. “Attacking a man’s bed? That’s a low blow!”
His lips twitched. “Pun intended.”
Somehow, his sense of humour seemed to infuriate Damian even more.
“Cease evading and fight back.” Damian yanked his blade free, scowling. “You act like a coward!”
“I act like any responsible adult who doesn’t want to hurt a kid!” Peter countered, dodging again as Damian advanced, fast and relentless. "Call me crazy, but I’d rather not be arrested for child abuse."
They kept going—how long, Peter didn’t know. Time blurred into a haze of slashing and lunging and shouting until eventually, the sky outside lightened to a soft pink.
At last, both of them slowed to a stop.
Damian’s shoulders were heaving as he caught his breath. Peter, equally winded, leaned against the counter, legs aching, stomach hollow.
They stared at each other, wheezing, glaring.
Damian’s stomach growled.
Peter tried not to laugh, knowing it would only aggravate Damian. “I propose a snack break.”
Damian glared at him.
“That’s not—” he wheezed, “—how duels work.”
“It is now. My apartment, my rules.”
It was written on the kid’s face that he thought Peter’s made-up rule was nonsense, but still, he hesitated. It seemed that the exhaustion and hunger had gotten to him after all.
“Look,” Peter said, his voice a tad softer this time. “I’ve had a very long day, even before you broke into my home. There’s a lasagna in the fridge. Let’s sit down and eat, and after that you can continue to chase me around with that toothpick of yours. I promise.”
Damian still glared at him in silence but at least seemed to be thinking about the offer. When the moment stretched on too long, Peter finally caved.
“Fine,” he sighed in defeat. “I’ll fight back too.”
Damian finally sheathed his sword, all while grumbling something under his breath.
“I suppose,” he muttered, sitting down at the kitchen table, “a temporary truce is acceptable.”
Peter sagged with relief. “Thank God. Just—no stabbing me during dinner.”
Peter wasted no time to pop the lasagna into the microwave. An oven would’ve done it more justice, but his apartment didn’t come with one, and he wasn’t about to get picky. Survival trumped culinary perfection.
They sat in silence, the soft hum of the microwave filling the room. Peter absently wiped crumbs of dirt off the kitchen table with his sleeve, pretending it made a difference.
“You’re pretty good with your sword,” Peter said, watching as Damian wiped beads of sweat from his face.
Damian only glared at him. “I am aware.”
He paused.
For a second, Peter thought that was it—but then he added, stiffly, “You, too, were—acceptable.”
Peter grinned. “Really?”
“Yes,” Damian muttered, as though the words burned on the way out. “Perhaps you are not completely useless.”
“Oh, what high praise,” Peter cried, wiping away an imaginary tear. “I’m gonna treasure this moment forever.”
The microwave dinged, saving Damian from having to come up with a retort. Peter stood and shuffled over to the counter. With a sigh, he retrieved two plates instead of one, sliced off a corner of his lasagna, and begrudgingly slid it in front of Damian.
Then he immediately dug into his own mountain of food, nearly moaning at the taste. Maybe it was just the exhaustion, but this was Michelin-star-worthy in his book.
“Where did you grow up?” Damian asked, eyeing the plate in suspicion. “The league? The military? A war zone?”
Peter was growing even more concerned for the kid. Clearly, he had been watching too many movies. Perhaps that was why he thought that it was okay to attack someone with a sword, or that duelling was a socially accepted way to resolve conflict.
“Queens, New York,” Peter answered.
Damian watched him as if he’d grown two heads. “But you were trained to fight?”
“If getting jumped on the subway counts.”
“Do not play with me, Parker,” Damian spat, “It will be the last thing you do.”
Somehow, Damian reminded Peter of an angry black cat, and he tried his hardest to keep himself from laughing at the thought. “Sorry, kid.”
“Do not call me that,” Damian hissed.
Peter’s grin turned mischievous. “Then what should I call you? Uncle?”
Damian’s glare would have set him on fire if he was kryptonian. “Damian will suffice.”
Damian’s stomach growled again, and Peter suddenly noticed that he hadn’t touched his food.
“It’s not poisoned,” he said, gesturing towards the plate, lips twitching as Damian’s ears reddened. “You should eat. All that cardio must’ve torched, like, a thousand calories.”
After a moment’s consideration, Damian picked up his fork and started to eat—although he was stabbing his food like it had killed his mother.
They ate in silence for a few minutes, the sound of forks scraping against plates the only noise in the room. Peter had nearly finished his serving when he mustered the energy to speak.
“So,” he finally asked, “why do you hate me so much? We’ve never even met.”
Damian didn’t answer right away. He kept eating with stiff, deliberate movements. When he did speak, his voice sounded strained.
“Grayson is suffering because of your existence. I dislike seeing him in such a pathetic state.”
A pang of guilt stung through Peter’s heart, but he pushed it down quickly.
“Just say that you’re worried about him—that’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”
“I said no such thing.” Damian glared. “It is simply inconvenient.”
A moment of silence passed as Peter mulled over his words.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice much softer than before. “I never meant to cause your brother any pain.”
Damian’s eyes turned sharp. Not in anger, but something closer to resentment. Grief, perhaps.
“But you still did.”
Damian’s voice was cold, controlled, but there was a strain underneath that sounded raw. Peter felt that in front of him wasn’t the fierce warrior from before, but a kid, trying very hard not to look like one.
“And even then, he still looked so—so proud,” Damian muttered, as though he was talking to himself, “when he was talking about you.”
Peter recognized the emotion flickering in his eyes. He too, had felt it before; back when he saw a kid playing with their family. Back when only his father didn’t show to the parent-teacher-conference. Back when he lied awake at night and pretended he wasn’t alone in the world.
It wasn’t anger. It was jealousy. The twisted, bitter kind that came from the fear of being left behind. The fear of being forgotten.
Peter’s heart clenched at that thought.
“You know,” he said slowly, setting his fork down, “I’m not trying to take him away from anyone.”
Damian froze and Peter knew he had hit the nail on the head. They sat in silence, and when Damian refused to respond, Peter let out a heavy sigh.
“Look, kid,” Peter said, leaning back in his chair. “Love isn’t a limited resource. It’s not a pie, where if someone else gets a slice, there’s less for you. It’s more like—I don’t know—a fungus. One that spreads to every nook and cranny, until everything’s filled, whether you like it or not.”
Damian looked at him like his metaphor was utter nonsense, but Peter could see the tension in his jaw ease a fraction.
“That is the most nonsensical analogy I have ever heard.”
Peter chuckled. The kid was probably right, this hadn’t been his best moment. But he was neither a poet nor a pedagogue, so he didn’t have the skill to think of something better.
“Regardless,” Damian grumbled, his hand resting on his sheathed katana, “you should know that if you do anything—and I mean anything—to hurt Richard Grayson, I will find you and I will kill you.”
Peter smiled. Damian’s words didn’t feel like a threat, but more like a request, a plead, asking him not to hurt his family.
“Got it.”
The moment was over when Damian switched the subject.
“Your combat technique is sloppy,” he criticized. “How do you fight as successfully nonetheless?”
“I mean, I mostly rely on my instincts,” Peter said, taking a deep breath to shake off the seriousness lingering in the air. “Like, my senses tell me what to do?”
Damian scoffed. “That is unacceptable. I will train you.”
Peter blinked in surprise.
“Why?” he asked, his lips twisting into a shit-eating grin. “I already beat your ass earlier.”
Damian was dumbfounded. “You certainly did not!” he spluttered. “We merely agreed to a ceasefire!”
“Admit it. You just couldn’t get a hit in.” Peter grinned. “Not. A. Single. One.”
Damian lunged for him over the table. Peter only laughed.