Jim Gordon earns brownie points
Gotham is… odd. The city is always moving, people going from place to place, keeping their heads down and their hands in their pockets. As Peter walks to what he thinks is a train station, his senses go haywire. Everything is… amplified, in a sense. Streetlights that are usually no more than specks in his peripheral vision are now almost blinding, the hum of car motors making his ears ring. He can feel a headache starting to blossom behind his eyes and his vision starts going slightly fuzzy.
Kid, breathe. You need to get somewhere quiet and dark-
Yes, he knows this Sam. He’s done this before, he’ll be fine...
The last thing he feels before he passes out is his face making contact with a coat.
— —
“Hey, are you ok? Can you hear me?”
Peter doesn’t recognise this voice. It isn’t an Avenger, that’s for sure. The voice is gruff but kind, like he’s seen a life of hardships but still tries to be gentle. You don’t deserve kindness. You killed them. You-
“Shut up. Please, just… leave me alone.”
Peter doesn’t realise he’s said it out loud until he feels a calloused hand grab his shoulder, trying to ground him. The man holding him smells like coffee, gunpowder and nicotine. Peter knows those smells.
“Ben?”
“No, sorry kid. My name’s Jim.”
Obviously. Uncle Ben is dead. He’s not coming back. Peter forces his eyes open and meets the man’s eyes. His auburn hair has little white streaks peppered through it, but Peter can tell that they’re from stress, not age. He has a bushy moustache that hides a soft smile, tired eyes glinting at him through tortoiseshell framed glasses. He seems serious, but like he actually gives a damn. A police badge hangs from his belt, the emblem going unrecognised by the small, shaking boy in front of him.
“You with me kiddo?”
Peter nods. He feels safe with this man - Jim - reminds him of Uncle Ben. And his spider-sense hasn’t gone off, so he probably is safe. He looks around, seeing that the walls around him are covered in graffiti, trash littering the floor he’s slumped against. He's tired, really tired. His healing factor needs food to work, and he's had exactly zero food in the past three days. It's almost like Jim knows this, because in a flash the older man had produced several energy bars from the pockets of his long, brown trench coat. Peter accepts them gratefully, scarfing one of them down and shoving the other two down into his pockets. Then his eyes come to rest on the sigh behind Jim. PARK ROW TRAIN STATION. PLATFORM 3. He tries to stand, only to nearly collapse again. Jim helps him up, walking him to the train map.
"Where are you headed?"
"Uh... is there a library near here?"
"yeah. If you get the next train and go down five stops, you'll get there. My daughter is one of the librarians there, just ask for Barbara and she'll get you what you need."
As Peter gets on the train, he silently thanks Jim. At least there's one good person in Gotham.