Convergence Theory

One Year Anniversary of Finding Peter Half Frozen in a Ditch

Peter dreams of Gotham a lot.

Not the nightmare-filled ones where the city burns or where he’s back in that alley with snow soaking red around him. No, these dreams are different. They smell like old books in the Wayne Manor library, sound like Tim rattling off some tech jargon too fast for even Peter to keep up, feel like Jason’s dry laugh when Peter makes a snarky comment, or Duke dragging him into a late-night rooftop talk. They feel like family.

And then he wakes up in his dorm at Empire State University.

New York feels different now. It’s the same city he grew up in—he still swings through Queens on late nights, still grabs sandwiches at Delmar’s when he’s feeling nostalgic—but it doesn’t feel like home anymore. He left “home” in another universe, and the closest thing to it is a mansion in Gotham with a family of vigilantes who text him like overprotective siblings.

A lot has changed in the past year.

He got a full ride to ESU—turns out that being a “certified genius” (Tim’s words, though Peter strongly suspects Jason helped spread the rumor) and having Bruce Wayne’s personal recommendation opens doors. Wayne Enterprises even set up a branch of their R&D department in Manhattan, where Peter works part-time. It keeps him busy, which is good—he needs busy. When he’s not in class or working, the walls close in too fast, the what-ifs too loud to ignore.

Especially without the suit.

He hasn’t put it on in a year. Not since Gotham. Not since he realized that every time he zipped it up, every time he swung into the night, that gnawing fear clawed back up his throat—what if it draws them back? What if using his powers is some kind of cosmic beacon? It sounds paranoid—hell, it probably is—but he can’t shake the memory of Titan, the way the universe seemed to hold its breath before everything fell apart.

He knows Tony dealt with that same fear after New York. The constant dread that something worse was coming, that using his brilliance to fight back would just invite something bigger. Peter thought he understood that back then. Turns out he didn’t—not really. Not until now.

So, the suit stays in Gotham with Jason. Hopefully, gathering dust.

Instead, he pours himself into work.

He tried to keep his focus on the stones after the move. The Justice League, with help from the Green Lantern Corps, spent months scanning for residual energy signatures, hoping for answers. The readings were clear: the stones were gone. Not hidden, not dormant—gone. Faint traces of their use lingered, like the fading warmth of a burnt-out star, but nothing tangible. If they were anywhere in the universe, the Lanterns would’ve found them.

It should have been a relief. It wasn’t.

The fear lingers. The anxiety worms its way in, coiling tight. Just because something is gone doesn’t mean it won’t come back.

So he stays busy.

When the stone search led to dead ends, he threw himself into something else—medical research and nanotech. It started with Barbara. Her spinal surgery last December had been another disappointment, a "promising procedure" that left her with the same prognosis: no improvement. Peter couldn't stand the look in her eyes when she shrugged it off like she hadn’t hoped for more. So, he focused. He rerouted the circuits in her neural implant, adjusting the conductivity with self-repairing nanobots that could adapt to her body’s natural responses. It was painstaking work, nights blurred by caffeine and long calls with Tim troubleshooting code at 3 AM.

And then one morning—six months in—Barbara texted him three words: I felt something.

He almost dropped his phone.

He stared at the screen for a full minute before laughing—giddy, breathless, hopeful.

From there, progress snowballed. By June, the nanotech enhancements had stabilized, and Peter designed sleek mobility aids—braces light enough to be hidden under clothes, responsive enough to obey neural commands instantly. They were like the ones Tony built for Rhodey, but refined. Subtle. Barbara’s only request was that they not clash with her wedding dress.

And on her wedding day, she walked down the aisle.

Peter can still picture Dick’s face—eyes wide, lips trembling, tears starting the moment Barbara took her first step. By the time she reached him, Dick was full-on sobbing. Not the graceful kind of emotional cry either—no, ugly sobbing through his vows, voice cracking like he was reliving every reason he loved her all at once. Peter teased him later, of course. But standing there, watching them under those fairy lights, surrounded by people who fought so hard to get there... Yeah. He cried too.

Bruce handed him a small box at the end of the night—classic Bruce move, no warning, no preamble. Inside was a ring—a class ring styled like ESU’s, but heavier, sturdier. Embedded in the band was a deep blue stone, worn smooth by time.

“I had this customized,” Bruce said quietly. “The stone has been passed down generations. I thought you should have it.”

Peter didn’t know what to say. Words felt too small for what that meant. So, he just nodded, holding back tears that threatened to spill.

Now he twists that ring on his finger, staring out at the Manhattan skyline through his dorm window. The city hums below—cars weaving, sirens in the distance, life moving on whether he’s ready or not.

He misses them.

The Waynes visit as often as they can. Jason shows up the most, usually unannounced, usually stealing Peter’s food and leaving knives in weird places like a feral cat marking its territory. Dick dragging him to those awful morning runs that somehow always ended with breakfast at a diner Peter couldn’t pronounce. Tim sending him texts at ungodly hours with equations and theories and Hey, if you’re not sleeping, wanna help me hack a satellite? Also, how much coffee is too much? Asking for science. Even Damian, whose version of affection was sending photos of his pets with captions like Do not die today, Peter. Titus would be disappointed.

Bruce and Alfred stops by on WE business, always with a grocery bag full of Peter’s favorite snacks. Alfred calls once a week, but they always end with a “Do remember to eat properly, Master Peter.”

Peter sighs, leaning against the window. His reflection looks back at him—messy hair, dark circles, Wayne ring glinting under the city lights.

His phone buzzes on the desk. A text from Harry: You packed yet? Train leaves in an hour.

Peter glances at the duffel bag sitting half-full on his bed, clothes haphazardly thrown in. His ESU hoodie, a couple of Wayne Enterprises polos he swore he wouldn’t wear unless he had to, and enough snacks to last the trip—he’s nothing if not prepared. He tosses in his charger, hesitates, then grabs the worn Gotham Knights sweatshirt Tim gave him last year. Feels like bringing a piece of home.

Winter break. Finally.

It’s weird to call Gotham "home" after only a year, but the excitement bubbling in his chest doesn’t lie. Alfred’s already promised a feast, Dick’s planning another movie marathon (which Peter will fight to stay awake through but definitely won’t succeed), and Jason’s apparently cooking. Duke sent him a text this morning: Damian thinks he can beat you at chess now. Pretty adamant about it. Bold claim, considering Damian’s still bitter about their last game. Peter’s proud of that victory.

He zips up the duffel, glancing around his room. Harry’s side of the dorm is immaculate compared to his own chaos—color-coded bookshelves, neatly folded clothes, an organized desk that looks like it belongs to someone who definitely doesn’t forget deadlines. It’s impressive. Annoying, but impressive.

Harry’s been a godsend this year. Moving back to New York felt overwhelming at first—like starting over with half his world missing—but having a roommate who actually gets it helped more than Peter expected. Harry’s calm where Peter’s jittery, patient where Peter’s impulsive. It’s a good balance.

And then there’s the whole Harry and Tim thing.

Peter’s not sure what’s going on there—like, they text constantly. Tim visits more often than the rest of the Bats combined, and every time he does, Harry suddenly remembers they have “plans” that Peter’s “totally invited to but hey don’t wait up.” There was that time Tim crashed on their couch and Peter woke up to them having an intense conversation at 3 AM about... algorithms? Board games? Existentialism? He still doesn’t know, but the tension was so thick he could’ve swung from it.

They’re just really close, apparently. Like, best friend close. Best friends who give each other lingering looks and laugh at inside jokes Peter doesn’t understand. Not that he’s judging—he’s just observing.

Harry’s not coming back to Gotham with him this time—he’s working at some non-profit in the city, helping with their tech systems, and he still has a few more assignments to turn in before his semester is over. Peter had offered to lend a hand, but Harry waved him off with a grin. “You’ve got family to see. I’ll be there in a few days.”

Peter shoulders the duffel bag, the Wayne ring catching the light as he adjusts the strap. His stomach flips—not nerves this time. Ready to go home.

He shoots Harry a quick text back: Packed. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!

Three dots appear, then: No promises.

Peter rolls his eyes, grabs his keys, and steps into the crisp winter air. Snowflakes catch in his hair, the city buzzing around him like a heartbeat. For the first time in a while, the world doesn’t feel so heavy.

Wayne Manor is still massive.

Peter steps through the towering front doors, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, and is immediately enveloped by warmth—the literal kind from the roaring fireplace down the hall, and the kind that settles in his chest like a sigh of relief.

“Master Peter,” Alfred greets with that familiar, gentle smile. “Welcome back.”

Peter grins. “Hey, Alfred. Missed you.”

“I should hope so.” Alfred deftly takes the bag from his shoulder before Peter can protest. “Dinner will be ready shortly. You’ve arrived before Master Jason’s inevitable attempt to raid the pantry.”

Peter chuckles. “Wouldn’t be home if he didn’t.”

The sound of claws on hardwood echoes down the hall, followed by a thunderous thump-thump-thump.

“Titus!”

The Great Dane barrels toward him like a living wrecking ball. Peter braces just in time before he’s tackled to the floor, buried in fur and slobbery enthusiasm.

“Okay—yeah—hi, buddy—I missed you too—ow, that’s my face—”

“Pathetic,” a familiar voice mutters.

Peter tilts his head to see Damian standing a few feet away, arms crossed, gaze cool as ever. Alfred the cat perches regally on his shoulder, tail flicking in disapproval.

“Hey, Demon Spawn,” Peter grins, pushing Titus off enough to sit up. “You get taller?”

Damian arches a brow. “Your observation skills remain mediocre.”

Peter just laughs. “Good to see you too.”

Alfred gestures toward the sitting room. “Perhaps you’d like to get settled. Master Damian was about to start tea.”

“I was not,” Damian mutters but turns on his heel anyway.

Peter trails after him, warmth settling deep in his chest. Titus pads along at his side, tail wagging. Alfred the cat hops from Damian’s shoulder to the arm of the couch as they enter the familiar sitting room, the fireplace crackling gently.

Peter flops onto the couch with a sigh, stretching his legs out. Titus immediately claims his lap, all hundred pounds of him, and Peter huffs a laugh. “Personal space, dude.”

Alfred the cat regards him with narrowed eyes before gracefully stepping onto his chest. Peter freezes.

“…Are we cool?”

The cat purrs, curling up without ceremony.

“Consider yourself fortunate,” Damian says, settling into a chair with perfect posture. “He claws most people.”

“I’m honored,” Peter deadpans, scratching behind Alfred’s ears.

Silence falls—comfortable. Peter leans back, scratching behind Alfred’s ears, half-watching the fire dance in the hearth. Outside, snow drifts lazily past the tall windows, blanketing the grounds in white.

It’s peaceful.

They stay like that for a while—Peter dozing, Damian reading, the quiet occasionally broken by Titus’s contented sighs. Somewhere upstairs, the faint hum of the manor’s old heating system kicks in.

Eventually, the front door creaks open.

Dick is the first to appear, tie loosened from a long shift. “Hey, Peter!”

Peter grins, shifting Alfred the cat aside to stand. “Dick!”

They meet halfway, Dick pulling him into a quick, back-slapping hug.

“Man, you get taller every time I see you,” Dick says with a grin.

Damian doesn’t look up. “His growth spurt is over.”

Peter laughs. “Thanks for the confidence boost, Damian.”

“Merely stating facts.”

Duke arrives next, brushing snow from his coat. “Peter, what’s up?”

“Living the dream,” Peter grins, bumping fists with him.

Tim is last—slightly disheveled in a dress shirt with rolled-up sleeves, dark circles under his eyes. He drops into an armchair with a groan. “Bruce made me sit through three hours of quarterly projections.”

“You love it,” Duke teases.

“I love coffee,” Tim mutters. “Corporate spreadsheets? Less so.”

The dining room is warm and lively, the long table laden with Alfred’s best dishes—roast chicken, roasted vegetables, fresh bread, and something that smells suspiciously like the fancy mac and cheese Peter swears Jason specifically requested. Conversations overlap—Dick recounting a wild story from his shift, Duke lamenting about finals, Tim half-asleep but still managing to fact-check mid-sentence.

Then, with the subtlety of a thunderstorm, Jason arrives. The dining room door creaks open, and he strolls in, leather jacket dusted with snow, helmet tucked under one arm.

“Master Jason,” Alfred greets without missing a beat, “it’s a wonder you arrived before dessert.”

“Wouldn’t miss free food,” Jason grins before turning to Peter. “Look who didn’t die yet.”

“Good to see you too,” Peter says, grinning.

Jason pulls him into a quick, back-slapping hug. “Hair’s still dumb.”

Bruce arrives late, his presence quiet but grounding. He places a hand briefly on Peter’s shoulder as he passes—a small gesture that speaks volumes.

Selina sweeps in next, graceful as ever. “Smells incredible, Alfred.”

“Your flattery, as always, is appreciated, Miss Selina.”

Trailing behind her is Felicia. Her silver hair glints under the dining room lights, leather jacket casually slung over one shoulder. Her gaze locks onto Peter immediately.

“Hey, tiger,” she drawls, sliding into the seat beside him.

Peter’s brain promptly forgets how to function. “Uh—you—you made it.”

Tim snickers into his drink. Duke raises an eyebrow. Dick nudges Peter under the table with a grin.

Felicia smirks. “Cute. You always this eloquent?”

Peter focuses very hard on his plate. Why is she like this?

Felicia takes the seat beside Peter, their knees brushing under the table. Totally an accident. Probably.

Dinner is loud and messy in the best ways—stories traded, laughter echoing off the walls. Bruce stays quiet but watches them all with that subtle softness he pretends isn’t there.

Peter sits back at one point, gaze drifting over the faces around him—this family that isn’t his by blood but feels like it anyway. His chest feels full in a way that’s hard to put into words.

Felicia leans over. “You’re staring,” she teases, voice low. “You good?”

Peter nods, smiling softly. “Yeah. Just… yeah.”

Outside, the snow falls steady and soft. Inside, everything feels like home.

Dick and Barbara’s apartment is the kind of place that belongs in magazines—high ceilings, sleek furniture, and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the Gotham skyline. The city stretches out beneath him, glittering with a thousand lights. In the distance, Peter can just make out the Narrows, where Jason’s apartment is nestled among crumbling brick buildings, and a little closer, the high-rise Tim and Duke share.

Peter sinks further into the couch, blanket bundled around his shoulders, the soft hum of the heating system filling the apartment. Outside, snow drifts past the floor-to-ceiling windows, Gotham’s skyline glittering against the dark sky. It’s beautiful in that cold, sprawling way Gotham has—sharp edges softened by the falling snow, the city’s heartbeat steady and constant.

He exhales slowly, watching the glass fog under his breath, Wayne ring cool against his finger as he twists it absently.

Dinner at the manor had been loud and warm—Alfred’s cooking, Damian’s dry commentary, Dick laughing too hard at bad jokes, Jason slouched in his chair with a smirk, Duke talking with his hands about a class project, and Tim half-asleep but still correcting everyone’s grammar. Even Bruce, reserved as ever, had that faint, almost-there smile when Selina teased him about work.

And then there was Felicia.

Peter groans quietly, dragging the blanket over his head. Her smirk still flashes behind his eyes, playful and knowing, like she could see right through him. Which—yeah, she probably could.

They’d spent hours at the table, conversation ebbing and flowing until Alfred politely but firmly declared that it was far too late and some people need sleep. Jason had argued that he thrived on chaos, which prompted Alfred to list every recorded instance of Jason falling asleep mid-mission. Damian, of course, had photographic evidence.

Eventually, the group had dispersed—Tim heading to his place, Duke to his, Jason muttering something about patrol. Peter had crashed in one of the guest rooms at the manor, lulled to sleep by the comforting creaks of the old house.

And now... here he is.

Barbara had offered her and Dick’s place for the weekend. “Space to yourself,” she’d said with a smile. “No Damian trying to challenge you to spar at six in the morning.” Dick had just laughed and added, “Help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge. Except the almond milk. Babs gets scary about her almond milk.”

So far, Peter’s raided their leftover pasta, flicked through their book collection (a mix of police procedure manuals, classic novels, and dog-eared superhero comics that Dick swears he “just found somewhere”), and wrapped himself in the world’s softest blanket. The place smells faintly like coffee and the citrus candles Barbara likes—warm and lived-in.

The TV drones quietly, some rerun of a cooking show he isn’t really watching. His phone sits on the coffee table, screen dark. Tim and Duke had mentioned maybe stopping by later, but Peter’s not holding his breath. Finals week has everyone stretched thin.

Not that he minds the quiet.

Well—sort of.

Peter pulls the blanket tighter.

He should feel at peace. He wants to. But there’s that familiar itch under his skin—the restlessness that never really goes away. Gotham’s heartbeat thrums through the glass, steady and alive. He remembers the weight of his web-shooters, the rush of wind past his ears. His fingers twitch, muscle memory aching to move.

He sighs, flopping sideways on the couch. “Get a grip, Parker,” he mutters to himself.

His phone buzzes. Peter blinks, reaching for it. Dick?

No—Tim. Survived another Wayne Enterprises meeting. Barely. Duke’s making ramen. We might swing by later.

Peter types back: If you bring food, I’ll let you pick the movie.

No immediate reply. Tim probably fell asleep mid-text. Not surprising.

He sighs, tossing his phone aside. The TV drones in the background—something about winter storms and rising crime rates. His gaze drifts to the skyline. Snowflakes drift lazily outside the window, blanketing the city in white. It’s peaceful. Almost enough to lull him into a nap.

Almost.

Peter reaches for the remote, about to switch the channel when the news anchor’s voice sharpens—“—breaking news from the Gotham Bridge—”

His thumb freezes over the remote.

The screen flashes to a live aerial shot. Flames engulf the bridge, thick black smoke billowing into the sky. Sirens wail in the background as emergency crews scramble. Cars sit abandoned, traffic frozen in panic.

Peter’s stomach drops.

He’s on his feet before he realizes it, blanket falling to the floor. No, no, no— His gaze darts to the window. Sure enough, in the distance, the Gotham Bridge glows orange and red, fire licking toward the sky.

His heart pounds. Blood roars in his ears. People are there—

He steps back, looking around the empty apartment like a solution will just appear. His fingers twitch toward his duffel bag to grab his web shooters. He’d just swing by Jason’s apartment and grab his suit. It should only put him back about fifteen minutes if he leaves now.

His phone buzzes again. He snatches it up.

Jason.

Peter answers. “Yeah?”

Jason doesn’t waste time. “Don’t even think about it.” Peter can hear the sound of wind rushing past his helmet. Red Hood is en route.

Peter’s already at the window, fingers fumbling with the latch. “Jay—come on—there are people on that bridge—”

“Andwe’re handling it.” Jason’s voice is firm, that no-nonsense tone Peter hates. “GCPD’s en route. Batman, Robin and Red Robin are on their way too. Stay put.”

Peter’s heartbeat roars in his ears. “I can help—”

“No.” Jason’s voice cuts through like a blade. “You’ve been out of the field for a year. You jump in now, you’re a liability. Stay. Put.”

Peter’s hands curl into fists. His reflection in the window stares back at him—messy hair, wide eyes, afraid. Not of the fire. Not really. Of waiting. Of doing nothing.

“I’m a legal adult,” Peter mutters.

“Technically, you’re seventeen.”

“In this universe, I’m eighteen!” Peter counters, shoving the window open. Cold air bites at his skin. Below, Gotham pulses—sirens echoing, smoke thick in the air. His muscles coil with adrenaline, ready.

Jason sighs, long and exasperated. “Semantics, Parker.”

Peter hesitates. The sirens grow louder outside. Smoke curls upward, staining the sky. His chest aches.

“I can’t just sit here,” he says finally, voice low.

A beat. Jason’s tone softens—barely. “Peter—don’t.”

Peter hangs up.

His breath clouds in the air as he crouches on the ledge, eyes locked on the burning bridge.

His heart pounds. His body remembers.

Muscle memory kicks in. Legs bend. Arms swing.

And then—he jumps.