Chapter 5
Peter’s first few weeks in Gotham were rough, to say the least. Having woken up in another dimension with nothing but his Spider-suit on his back, he had learned quickly just how unwelcoming the city was to outsiders, especially if you were homeless, poor, and a meta with enhanced metabolism. Each day had been a cycle of scavenging dumpsters for food and working jobs no one else wanted to take.
Even worse than the hunger, though, was the constant danger lurking on Gotham’s streets, especially at night. Without a home, it took only a few hours before someone tried to rob you—or, if you were poor, punched and beaten without any reason at all.
The worst for Peter, however, were the nightmares. Ever since the—well, incident that had brought him to this grimy city, sleep had become more of a chore than a relief. Every night he woke up drenched in sweat, heart pounding, only to fall back into the very same terrible dream.
Eventually, after months of suffering, he had managed to solve most of his problems, save the last one. With enough money saved up to rent a tiny one-room apartment, he finally gained access to clean clothes and a shower—two things that drastically improved his odds at job interviews. Soon, he even started making enough money to be able to afford a bed.
He didn’t buy one, of course, thanks to the bottomless appetite of his, burning through any money he earned in record time. So, he stuck to sleeping on his beat-up mattress instead.
Simply put, Peter needed more money. Back in New York, taking photos of Spider-Man had been enough to help his aunt cover the rent. But May wasn’t here, and neither was her half of the income.
So, he started taking on odd jobs. And the jobs sure were odd—although he should have expected as much from a city called Gotham.
Once, a guy had paid him to read bedtime stories to his cat, which was one of his tamest requests. Another time he had to transport a creepy porcelain doll across town. He even scored a role in a low-budget movie once, where he played “Minor Goon #9” in “Birdman 2: Feathered Love”, which he was sure was based on Batman. He’d never tell anyone, but he was almost excited to watch it.
Today, a job brought him to Robinson Park, dressed in a costume from the Halloween clearance-bin that could only be described as the fashion-lovechild between a monk and a wizard. The purple robes hugged him snugly, and the long sleeves were decorated with moons and stars, stitched in cheap gold thread. A cardboard sign around his neck read, “Edna's psychic readings—get a $5 discount to know your future!”
Flyers in hand, he waved at passersby and shouted lines his client “Ms. Edna” had told him, including but not limited to, “Find out what your cat really thinks about you!” and “Your significant other is probably cheating—let Edna confirm it!”
Peter shooed away the crows pecking at his feet. They had been bothering him for a while now, and he wasn’t sure anymore whether they just hated him or were attracted by whatever questionable liquid he’d stepped in earlier.
“Do you have questions? Miss Edna has answers!” Peter chanted, ignoring how hot the costume got even on such a cloudy day. “Your future and your love life—ask her about anything but the lottery numbers!”
A kid pointed and laughed. Peter glared at the brat.
He sighed. New Yorkers were rude people, but Gothamites were terribly mean. Earlier, someone had taken a flyer, crumpled it without breaking eye contact, and dropped it at his feet.
“Peter?” A voice suddenly called his name. “Is that you?”
He froze.
The familiar voice had haunted his thoughts for days now, ever since that fateful night at the bar. Slowly, Peter turned around. His movements were tense and his shoulders drawn tight, like an animal ready to bolt.
There he was—the man wearing his father’s face, with his wild, raven locks, his piercing blue eyes, and his sharp jawline that Peter hadn’t inherited from him.
It was Dick Grayson.
Peter swallowed hard. He had hoped to never see the imposter again, but no matter what universe he was in, it seemed he was unlucky in all of them.
“Oh, hey,” he said awkwardly, praying for his voice to sound at least fairly normal. “Long time no see.”
Dick smiled softly. “Yeah. It’s been a while.”
Peter’s heart clenched at the affection his voice carried—affection he could never have without tricking this poor stranger into thinking he was his father.
Dick stepped forward, giving Peter a once-over. His brows furrowed as he curiously eyed the ridiculous looking costume.
“So,” he started, trying hard to look casual as he pushed his hands in his pockets. “Why exactly are you dressed as a wizard?”
“Not a wizard.” Peter cringed. “A psychic.”
Dick’s lips twitched upwards. He was much too nice to laugh at him, even though he clearly wanted to.
“Is this a cry for help?” he asked, eyes playful. “Or did you lose a bet?”
Peter sighed and handed him a flyer. “I’m promoting a business. Miss Edna’s psychic practice for the paranormal.”
“I thought you worked at the bar.” Dick’s smile lessened a bit at the thought.
“I do,” Peter said, blatantly ignoring the look of disapproval on his face. “Just not every day. I’m a part-timer and they only need help on weekends.”
Dick clearly had opinions about his job, but he kept them to himself.
‘As he should,’ Peter thought to himself. He wouldn’t appreciate any meddling, and it was a relief that, at least for now, Dick seemed to know it too.
Still, a small, traitorous part of him warmed at the fact that someone still worried about him. It was the same fuzzy feeling he got when May cooked him chicken soup and took his temperature. It felt familiar. It felt good.
The shame that followed the thought was instant and suffocating. His heart pounded fast against his ribcage, and nausea settled in his gut. He felt like a con man, like he was tricking this man into caring about someone that wasn’t his responsibility, someone he had mistaken for his son.
Peter shook his head, trying to push the thought away, and took a deep breath. Then, he turned to his single best coping mechanism—humour.
“I’m glad you’re sober today,” Peter teased, a forced grin plastered on his face.
Dick was stunned. “I’m—I’m not an alcoholic,” he stammered. “You know that, right?”
Peter smirked. “That’s exactly what an alcoholic would say.”
Dick opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Then, a mischievous glint flashed across Peter’s eyes. “Don’t worry, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Everybody struggles with something.”
Before Dick could reply, Peter turned away and jogged up to a passerby. “Excuse me, sir, I sense a dark aura following you! But worry not, Miss Edna will chant it away.”
Peter offered him a flyer. The man glared and walked a wide berth around him.
Finally, Dick had managed to recover from Peter’s accusation. “Do you have a moment to spare?” he asked, grasping his shoulder as he caught up to him.
Peter tensed. He knew exactly what Dick wanted to talk to him about, and he wasn’t sure he could handle that conversation right now.
Or ever.
“I can’t go fishing with you. Sorry,” Peter deflected and shook off his hand.
“I didn’t mean that.” Dick’s ears reddened. “I meant that we needed to talk.”
“No,” Peter repeated firmly. “What I need to do is hand out all my enlightenment-flyers within thirty minutes, or I’m not getting paid.”
Dick looked confused but took some flyers anyway. “Okay, let’s talk when you’re finished, then.”
“I can’t. I have a job interview right after this.”
“Then when do you have time?”
Peter looked at him as though he was stupid, which was exactly what he was trying to convey. “I’m booked until 2043. But you can make an appointment if you want.”
Peter spotted a couple not too far away and turned towards them. Dick noticed and sidestepped him, blocking his way.
“Peter.” His voice was low. Serious. “This is important.”
Peter ducked around him and kept moving. Dick stayed hot on his heels.
“Please,” he said, his tone a tad softer this time. “I just want to talk.”
Peter’s chest ached at the tenderness in his voice. ‘This isn’t your father,’ he had to remind himself. ‘Your father is dead.’
“I am talking to you,” Peter said, looking down at his beat-up shoes. “Right now.”
Then he turned towards the couple and handed the man a flyer. “Have your aura untangled today! The first session is free!”
The woman pulled her boyfriend away, shooting Peter a look of disgust.
Dick’s voice was quiet but determined. “You’re my son.”
The words struck Peter like a knife.
“Biologically, yes.” He was unsure how much pain he was able to filter from his voice but continued to speak. “But I’ve made it a decade now without a dad, and I’m doing just fine.”
An emotion flashed across Dick’s eyes, but whether it was anger, guilt, or worry, Peter couldn’t say.
“Are you though?” Dick asked, stepping closer. “Because you’re talking about psychics and auras, dressed as a wizard, in a public park.”
Peter felt the blood rushing to his head, heating up his cheeks.
“It’s called being resourceful,” he snapped back, then quickly plastered a polite smile on for a passing elderly couple. “May the light find you, good folks.”
Dick sighed. “Peter, I’m not asking you to move in with me. I just want to sit down and—”
“I want things, too,” Peter interrupted, voice harsher than he’d heard it in a long time. “I want an apartment that isn’t the size of a shoebox. I want a cake for my birthday next month, but I won’t be able to afford one. And I want you to stop acting like you’re my dad, but that’s clearly not happening. So, I guess we’re both getting disappointed today.”
Dick winced.
Suddenly, Damian’s words echoed in the back of Peter’s head. “Grayson is suffering because of your existence. I dislike seeing him in such a pathetic state.”
Damian had asked him, trusted him, not to hurt his brother. Peter didn’t want to hurt him, but how could he possibly push him away without doing exactly that?
He looked away, pretending to straighten the stack of flyers in his hands, ignoring that they were already perfectly aligned. He focused on the edges, on the corners, on anything that wasn’t Dick’s face.
For a moment, neither of them said anything. The park noise filled his senses—kids screaming on the slide, a dog barking at a pigeon, a guitarist’s off-tune street performance.
Then Dick spoke again. He was understanding, much more than Peter felt he deserved for his harsh words.
“You’re right,” he said. “I shouldn’t have pushed you to do something you don’t want to. I’m sorry.”
Peter didn’t answer. He exhaled, sharp and uneven, while his fingers fiddled with the papers.
“I just—” Dick tried again. “You’re right. I don’t know what you need. I don’t know much about you.”
Peter’s hands stilled. He didn’t look up yet. He wasn’t sure that he could.
“I need time,” he said. He sounded tired, exposed in a way he didn’t want to be. “This situation is too much for me. You are too much. I don’t know how to deal with this.”
Dick stayed silent, waiting for him to continue.
“I don’t know anything anymore.”
Finally, Peter looked up. Dick’s expression held something between hurt and understanding.
“Will you think about it?” Dick asked. “About what you want to do?”
Peter should have said no. He should have rejected him outright, instead of keeping him hooked like a wriggling fish. But the unyielding hope in his eyes, the cradling warmth, kept him wanting more.
‘I can still reject him later,’ Peter convinced himself, as if his words could justify his moment of weakness.
“I will,” he promised.
Dick lit up like a Christmas tree, as though he was already imagining their happy future together, and Peter felt his heart sink to the bottom of the ocean.
“Thank you,” Dick said. “That’s more than I could ask for.”
Again, they stood in silence.
“Well,” he finally said, glancing at his watch. “I should go. Let you finish this up.”
“Yeah.”
Dick sent him a last, awkward smile and turned to leave. Then, a thought suddenly came to Peter.
“Hey!” he called after him. Dick turned, eyebrows raised. “Next time you show up at my job, bring the brat with you—he’s much better company!”
Confusion crossed Dick’s face, before his eyes lit up in recognition, and then in anger. He opened his mouth to say something, but Peter was already gone, talking to the next potential costumer.