My baby, my baby (you're my baby, say it to me)

Daphne sat in the dimly lit living room of their latest safe house, her thoughts heavy with worry. The small space, though temporary, had become their sanctuary. The walls were bare, the furniture nonexistent except for a table, couch and single chair in the middle of the four-room home. The only light came from a flickering lamp in the corner. 

She glances over at Peter, who sat on the floor, staring at the wall. His usually vibrant eyes were dull, lacking the spark that had once been so characteristic of her nephew. 

Honestly she felt the same. Her whole life she’d been the one to protect her sister and now that she had collasally failed, she had no clue what to do with her life anymore. The only reason she had to live for, was protecting and raising Peter on behalf of her sister. 

It had been a week since the house invasion and Daphne still felt as dead as she felt leaving her baby sister to die. 

Peter, once so full of life and curiosity, now seemed like a shadow of his former self. His laughter, which used to fill their home, was replaced by a haunting silence. He hadn’t spoken since he’d been forced to leave his mom, and had Daphne not been responsible for a baby not even a year old… she’d be in a worse state than she was right now. 

Daphne's heart ached as she watched him. She could see the pain etched into his small features, the way he moved with a heaviness that no child, yet alone a baby, should bear. She knew that losing Mary had shattered something inside him. Peter's world had collapsed, and in its place was a void that she didn't know how to fill.

She didn’t know how her nephew knew his mom wasn’t coming back. 

She didn’t really want to know how much he’d be able to remember. 

He was a baby.

He was supposed to bounce back from this. In a couple of months, he shouldn't even remember his mother… Daphne didn’t want to admit that her nephew probably would remember his mother, because he was just that smart. 

Daphne suspected an eidetic memory. A gift in some cases to some children…. But a curse to others. 

But she wouldn’t know for sure until he was older.

"He's just a baby," Daphne whispered to herself, tears welling up in her eyes. "How is he supposed to understand any of this?"

She remembered how Mary would hold Peter, rocking him gently and singing lullabies until he fell asleep. Now, Daphne struggled to comfort him, to bring him any semblance of peace. She felt helpless, a failure in her promise to protect and care for her sister's child.

She couldn't sing. She wasn't Mary. And she never would be.

Peter barely slept. He barely ate. 

His once healthy appetite had dwindled to nearly nothing, and Daphne often had to coax him to take even a few bites of his food. The bags under his eyes grew darker each day, silent evidence to his restless nights. She could hear him tossing and turning in his crib, occasionally whimpering in his sleep, haunted by dreams she couldn't soothe away.

Daphne tried everything she could think of to bring back some semblance of normalcy to their lives. She read to him, played his favourite songs, and even attempted to engage him with his toys, but nothing seemed to work. Peter would stare blankly at the colorful objects, his little hands barely moving to touch them. The spark of life that once shone so brightly in his eyes was gone.

Her own grief weighed heavily on her, but she pushed it aside, focusing all her energy on Peter.

She had to be strong for him, even when she felt like collapsing under the weight of her own sorrow. Every night, she would sit by his crib, humming softly, hoping that her presence would be enough to give him some comfort. But each night, she left his room feeling more defeated than the last.

"Mary, I don't know if I can do this," She murmured to the empty room, clutching one of Peter's tiny shirts in her hands as she did the laundry. "I promised I'd protect him, but I'm already failing. I don't know how to help."

The memories of happier times only made the present more painful. She recalled the way Peter used to giggle when Mary blew raspberries on his tummy, the way he would reach for her with chubby, eager hands, and the way his eyes would light up at the sound of his mother’s voice. Those memories felt like they belonged to another lifetime, one that was slipping further and further away.

Daphne took a deep breath, steeling herself. She couldn't afford to wallow in despair. Peter needed her, even if he couldn't express it. She needed to be his anchor, his source of stability in a world that had been turned upside down.

"I'll figure this out," She mutters quietly to herself. "I'll find a way to reach him. I have to. No one else matters but him,” 

Daphne sat at the small kitchen table, a bowl of mashed sweet potatoes in front of her. She had prepared it with care, hoping that maybe today would be the day Peter ate a little. His tiny frame was growing thinner, his cheeks no longer as round and rosy as they once were. She scooped up a small spoonful and held it out to him, her heart aching at the sight of his listless expression.

"Come on, Peter," She coaxed softly, her voice trembling. "Just a little bite, for me? Please? For aunty Daph, come on my little button,” 

Peter glanced at the spoon, his eyes dull and uninterested.

The vibrant curiosity and mischievous glint that used to define his warm gaze was now replaced by a hollow emptiness. He barely registered the colourful food in front of him, his mind consumed by the aching hole left by his mother’s absence.

Each day felt like a relentless wave of confusion and sorrow crashing over him, drowning any remnants of his once cheerful disposition. This world, which was one such a safe haven, now seemed colorless and cruel. He couldn't comprehend why his mother wasn't there to hold him, to sing him to sleep, to reassure him with her warm embrace. He couldn’t fathom why he’d only had ten months to spend with her only to have his mother be ripped away from him. Peter had never despised being a baby more than he did when he realized that most of the time he’s even had with his mom, he’d either been too young to remember or his body had been plagued by exhaustion. 

He hated everything. 

He was so angry. 

But he was still so utterly heartbroken.

Daphne's soft, trembling voice broke through his haze, her words a desperate plea for him to eat. "Peter," She coaxes softly, her voice filled with a mixture of hope and despair. 

Peter's eyes flickered briefly towards Daphne, her concerned face a stark contrast to the painful memories swirling in his mind. He opened his mouth mechanically, more out of a desire to please his aunt than any real hunger. The spoon entered his mouth, the familiar taste of sweet potatoes doing nothing to stir his appetite. 

As he swallowed, his stomach churned, rebelling against the intrusion. The lump of food felt foreign and unwelcome, and before he could stop it, a wave of nausea overwhelmed him. He gagged, his tiny body convulsing as he vomited the food back up, the mess splattering onto his high chair and the floor.

Tears welled up in Peter's eyes, his frustration and sorrow bubbling over. He couldn't understand why everything felt so wrong, why even the simple act of eating had become an insurmountable challenge. His sobs started softly, building into a heart-wrenching cry that echoed through the room.

Daphne's gasp of concern barely registered as she rushed to clean him up. "Oh, Peter," She whispered, her voice thick with emotion. She grabbed a cloth, her hands shaking as she wiped his mouth and shirt. Despite her efforts, Peter's tears continued to flow, his tiny fists clenching in helpless rage.

Daphne's own tears mingled with his as she abandoned the cloth, scooping him into her arms and holding him tightly. "I'm so sorry, Peter," She choked out, her voice cracking. "I'm so, so sorry."

Peter buried his face in her shoulder, his sobs muffled against her shirt. He could feel Daphne's body shaking with her own grief, the shared sorrow cutting through their hearts. She rocked him gently, her whispered reassurances barely audible through their shared cries. 

"It's going to be okay," She murmured, though the words felt hollow even to her. "We'll get through this, I promise."

But in that moment, surrounded by the remnants of his uneaten meal and the echoes of their sorrow, Peter felt an overwhelming sense of loss. He clung to Daphne, his tiny body trembling with the weight of his grief. The world seemed a darker place without his mother, and even in Daphne's comforting embrace, he couldn't shake the feeling of being lost and alone.

He kind of wished he’d never been reborn in the first place. 

Peter Parker just should’ve stayed dead. 

Maybe then his mom would still be alive. 

Daphne cradled Peter in her arms, his tiny body still shaking from the baby’s breakdown. She was almost certain she needed some sort of psychiatrist or child specialist to help her kid move on. 

Daphne was almost bitter - but she couldn’t be bitter, she couldn’t blame anyone let alone the baby her sister adored more than her own life- that she couldn’t grieve her own younger sibling due to how busy she was trying to manage Peter’s own grief. 

She was honestly exhausted. 

But damn did Daphne adore this kid more than anything in her world. 

She gently rocked the baby in her arms, whispering soothing words, though her own heart was heavy with sorrow and worry. As Peter's sobs gradually quieted, and the baby eventually fell asleep  - Daphne suspected her nephew was so exhausted everything had just turned off in his tiny body- Daphne placed him on the makeshift bed she’d made for him on the single couch they had and she whipped out her phone. 

She laid Peter down gently, his tear-streaked face causing every heart beat in her chest to stab at her insides. With a deep breath, Daphne walked into the living room, phone already at her ear. The contact she’d chosen to call, hands still trembling, was making her panic. She hadn’t seen her father in years. So Daphne didn’t know what to expect.

Each ring felt like an eternity, her anxiety mounting with every passing second. Her mind raced, filled with memories of their last encounter, the tension, the unresolved issues. 

Her breathing quickened, the sound of the phone ringing echoing in her ears, amplifying her fear. What if he didn't answer? What if he didn’t want to help them? She felt a knot in her stomach, her heart pounding so hard she thought it might burst. 

The fourth ring was like a hammer blow, her hands shaking more violently now. Her throat was tight, and she had to remind herself to breathe, to stay calm for Peter's sake. As the phone continued to ring, she felt the familiar weight of helplessness pressing down on her, a suffocating blanket of fear and uncertainty.

Finally, the ringing stopped, and there was a click as the call connected.

Her father's familiar, gruff voice came through, and she had to swallow hard to find her own voice, “Daphne?” Hearing her father’s voice after so long made her breath catch in her throat. 

“Daphne, Is everything alright?"

"Dad," She began, her voice shaking uncontrollably. She could immediately tell by the way he shifted on the other end of the line that he was already moving, likely preparing to come to her aid as quickly as possible.

“Dad… I need you to check on the safe house. The one in Dansville," She whispered into the receiver.

Her anxiety didn't leave her, but now it had a direction, a focus. She clung to that small thread of hope as she waited for her father's response, praying that he could provide the help they so desperately needed.

There was a pause, then her father replied, "Why? What happened, Daph?"

"We were attacked," She managed to say, struggling to keep her voice steady. "Mary... she couldn't come with us. I just need to know if she made it out or-“ She choked, not managing to say the words. 

- or if Mary was actually dead. 

- or if she was actually dead. 

-or if her sister was actually dead. 

The words were raging around in her mind, slamming against every crevice in her brain. They rattled in her head and she was seconds from an actual migraine. 

Her father was silent for a long time, and Daphne could hear the sounds of him moving, likely preparing to check on the safe house himself. His movements sounded faster, more erratic. And Daphne knew despite all of their struggles and fights, that their father did love them. “I’ll head over there now," And it wasn't her father speaking now, it was Wilfred Pennyworth, one of the CIA’s top specialist agents -the CIA’s assassin. Agent Wolf was speaking and Daphne felt her tense shoulders ease at her father’s competency. "Stay put and stay safe. I'll call you as soon as I know anything." He orders her and she nods firmly before realizing she was still on the phone.

“I will, father. Thank you," Daphne whispered, tears threatening to spill once more. "Be careful." She manages to add at the end.

He’s silent again, “I will," He promised, voice much softer, and then the line went dead.

Daphne lowered the phone, her heart pounding. She looked back towards the room where Peter lay, her resolve hardening. She had to stay strong, for Mary, for Mary's son, and because no one else mattered. 

Only Peter did. 

Wilfred Pennyworth pulled his coat tighter against the bitter night air as he approached the safe house in Dansville. It had taken him the better part of the day to reach the childhood vacation home he’d built for his wife and children. The moonless sky cloaked the surroundings in darkness, the only light coming from the distant flicker of the flashlight in his hands. His breath formed white puffs in the cold air, and each step felt heavier with the weight of what he might find.

He parked his car a mile away, not wanting to draw attention, and approached the safe house on foot.  As he neared the property, memories of his wife flooded his mind. Her laughter, her gentle touch, and her unwavering strength had been the foundation of their family. Losing her had shattered him in ways he could never fully express. She had been his rock, and without her, he often felt like a ship adrift in a stormy sea. Mary had always been the spitting image of him—same intense eyes, same stubborn set to her jaw. Daphne, on the other hand, had inherited their mother's delicate features and fiery spirit. 

The grief of his wife's death had been a wound that never fully healed. He had poured himself into protecting his daughters (even if he had went about it the wrong way), trying to fill the void left by her absence. Now, the thought of losing Mary, too, was more than he could bear. He clung to the hope that she might have escaped, that there was still a chance to save her.

As he drew closer, the smell of smoke hit him- acrid and unmistakable.

His heart sank.

The house was a charred ruin, blackened beams jutting out like the bones of a dead beast. 

Wilfred's flashlight beam cut through the darkness, illuminating the extent of the destruction. Ash and debris littered the ground, and the once secure safe house was now a hollow shell. He walked carefully, scanning for any signs of life or clues about what had happened. His mind raced, fearing the worst, but hoping for some miracle that his daughter was truly safe.

He reached the front entrance, or what was left of it, and hesitated before stepping inside. The floorboards creaked ominously under his weight, threatening to collapse at any moment.

Wilfred treaded carefully, his senses on high alert. The interior was worse than he had imagined. Walls were scorched, furniture reduced to piles of ash, and the air was thick with the lingering smell of burnt wood and chemicals.

He moved methodically, checking every corner, every room, looking for anything that might give him answers. As he approached what used to be the living room, he found a small, partially burnt photograph. He picked it up gently, recognizing the faces of Mary, Daphne, and a strange baby. His heart ached at the sight, but it also fuelled his determination.

Just who was this child? 

Wilfred's flashlight flickered, casting eerie shadows across the scorched remains of the safe house. As he carefully picked his way through the rubble, the smell of burnt wood and charred flesh filled the air, making him want to gag. He steeled himself, pushing forward despite the horror that surrounded him.

It was when he stepped into the next room that his heart rate sped up due to the scene in front of him. 

The bodies lay scattered, twisted and unrecognizable, reduced to little more than blackened forms. His heart thudded at the sight, each step deeper into the devastation intensifying his dread. The details of their final moments were written in the desperate positions of their limbs, the way they had fought to escape until the very end.

Among the bodies, something caught his eye- a glint of metal amidst the ashes. He moved closer, his breath catching in his throat as he saw the familiar locket, still clinging to a charred neck. His hands trembled as he reached out, his fingers brushing against the locket's delicate chain.

It was Mary's locket, a gift from him on her thirteenth birthday. He remembered the joy in her eyes when she had opened the box, the way she had hugged him tightly, thanking him for the thoughtful gift. She had always cherished it, wearing it close to her heart.

Wilfred's knees gave way, and he collapsed beside her, tears streaming down his face. He gently touched the locket, the only recognizable piece of his daughter amidst the ruin. The locket opened easily, revealing the tiny photos inside- one of them as a family; him, his wife, Daphne and Mary and the second photo was of her holding a baby.

He knew who that boy was the second he looked at the babe. The baby looked like a copy of his eldest adopted grand-nephew…. The one he knew Mary had been in love with since she knew what the very word had meant. 

This baby was Mary’s.

Mary’s and Richard's. 

His grandchild.

"Mary," He choked out, his voice breaking with grief. "My daughter…”

The full weight of his loss crashed down upon him, suffocating him with sorrow. He cradled her lifeless form, his body wracked with sobs. The memories of her laughter, her smiles, and her love played like a cruel montage in his mind, each one a dagger to his heart. “Why didn’t you tell me? Oh my baby… my child ,” He sobbed, clutching his baby girl in a death grip.

He hauled her lifeless, unrecognizable body onto his lap, burying his face in the remnants of what had once been his vibrant, beautiful daughter. The charred remains of her clothing clung to his fingers, but he couldn’t let go. His tears mixed with the soot on her skin, creating streaks of muddy sorrow on her lifeless body.

“Mary… my sweet Mary,” He whispered between sobs, his voice barely audible. “You could have told me,” His voice cracks from his pain, “I would have been there. I would have protected all three of you.”

The pain was unbearable, a physical ache in his chest that threatened to consume him. He rocked back and forth, holding her close, as if his embrace could somehow bring her back to life. The smell of smoke and death was overwhelming, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t tear himself away from her.

Memories of her childhood flooded his mind- her first steps, her first words, the way she used to run to him with open arms. He remembered the way she laughed, the way her eyes sparkled with mischief and love. All those moments, all those memories, were now stained with the reality of her death.

“I’m so sorry,” He whispered, his voice breaking. “I’m so, so sorry.”

His tears fell onto her lifeless form, each one an ocean in the depth of his grief. He felt as though he was drowning, each breath a struggle against the crushing weight of his loss. The world around him seemed to fade away, leaving him alone in his anguish.

For what felt like an eternity, he remained there, holding her, his body shaking with the force of his sobs.

Even the night was silent, the only sounds heard were the heartbreaking cries of a father who had lost his child. 

As the first light of dawn began to pierce the darkness, Wilfred finally looked up, his eyes red and swollen.

He knew he had to move, had to take his daughter’s body somewhere safe. But for now, he allowed himself a few more moments of grief, a few more moments to hold his Mary and mourn the life that had been so cruelly taken from her.

Wilfred stood in front of his wife’s gravestone, staring at it as the morning sun cast long shadows across the fresh earth. Beside it lay a new grave, the soil still raw and unsettled. He had just buried his daughter, beside her mother and he felt like he’d never be the same again. Two of the four - now five- most important people in his life now lay side by side, united in death as they had been in life.

His nails and fingers were dyed with lingering blood of his pain and the dirt that made up his daughter’s new blanket. 

He hoped it kept her warm.

His heart ached with a profound sadness, the weight of his grief almost too much to bear.  It was silent, the only sound was the distant rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze. He felt a hollow emptiness inside him, a black hole that seemed impossible to fill.

His wife was buried a couple blocks out from the safe house - the vacation home- she had adored so much. She was buried at the edge of a tranquil lake, where the soft lapping of water against the shore provided a soothing rhythm. The evening sun painted the sky in hues of orange and pink, casting a warm glow over the landscape. Issa’s final resting place was nestled on a gentle rise overlooking the lake, offering an unobstructed view of the horizon.

A small tombstone stood at the head of her grave, weathered by time and wind but lovingly maintained. Wildflowers bloomed nearby, their colours vibrant against the backdrop of greenery. The air was filled with the scent of pine and the distant call of birds returning to their nests.

From this spot, Issa could watch her beloved sunset every evening, its fiery brilliance reflected on the calm waters of the lake. His wife adored when the sky would transform into a canvas of purples and golds as the day drew to a close, a sight that had always brought her peace and solace.

In the morning, the first rays of sunlight would gently awaken the world, painting the sky in soft pastels as the sun rose above the horizon. And Issa’s grave was perfectly positioned to capture this daily spectacle, allowing her to greet each new day with the warmth of the morning light.

He -till this day- hoped his wife still enjoyed the scene.

Dropping to his knees, he placed a trembling hand on each of the two graves. “Issa,” he whispered, his voice cracking. "Our little girl is with you now. Please, take care of her for me."

Tears streamed down his face, falling onto the earth below. He remembered the promises he had made to protect his family, promises he now felt he had failed to keep. The memories of happier times, when his wife and daughter were alive, played in his mind like a bittersweet melody.

"Mary," He manages to get out, his voice filled with pain. "I’m so sorry, my darling. I’m so sorry,” 

The guilt he felt was overwhelming, a crushing weight on his chest. He thought of all the moments he had lost, all the times he would never have with his daughter. The thought of her suffering, her fear in those final moments, was almost too much to bear. And the one relief he had was that she hadn’t suffered. The explosion seemed to immediately kill her. 

Her death hadn’t been painful.

He stayed there for hours, lost in his sorrow, until the sun began to dip below the horizon. The sky turned a deep orange, casting long shadows over the graves. Finally, he stood, his body stiff and weary from the long hours of grief.

“Goodbye, my loves,” He whispered, his voice carrying a mixture of sorrow and gratitude. “You can rest now,”

With a final glance at the half of his family that was now buried underground, Wilfred turned and walked away, leaving his girls to rest in the embrace of nature’s timeless beauty.

“What are you doing here?” Daphne snarls, her eyes narrowed in rage. “I told you to check on the safe house, not stalk me,” She demands, her brown eyes molten with anger.

Wilfred Pennyworth steps through the doorway, his presence commanding yet filled with sorrow. He meets his daughter's fiery gaze with a meaningful glance, the weight of his news evident in his eyes. "She's with your mom. I put her to rest," he says softly.

For a moment, Daphne’s fury falters, replaced by a flicker of vulnerability. She straightens up, her posture rigid, but the brief moment of composure is fleeting. Her shoulders slump with devastation, and she seems to shrink under the weight of his words. 

“Dad…” She whispers, her voice cracking. 

Wilfred closes the distance between them, his expression a mixture of grief and resolve. "I did what needed to be done, Daph. Your mother and sister are at peace now."

Daphne's anger dissipates, replaced by a profound sadness. She takes a step back, covering her face with her hands as silent sobs wrack her body. "I couldn't protect her," She chokes out. "I promised her I'd keep Peter safe, and I failed her ."

Wilfred reaches out, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. "You did everything right,” He says gently. "Mary knew the risks, and she made sure her son got away. She fought to protect him. I could only tell from the few things I managed to salvage from the safe house… but she loved her boy more than her own breath,” He murmurs the last sentence to himself, swallowing hard. 

Daphne nods, tears streaming down her cheeks. "He's not okay. He's just a baby, but he's been so... lifeless, ever since we lost Mary... I don't know how to help him."

"We'll figure it out together," Wilfred assures her, his voice steady. “We all lost a member of our family. And so we'll stick together. A baby will need his family,” He tells her, and he follows his daughter into the safe house. 

His eyes immediately seek out the babe in the room and his heart clenches in his chest. 

The boy is seated on the floor, his small frame appearing even tinier in the vast expanse of the room. His once-bright eyes, which Daphne had correctly described as lifeless, stare blankly ahead, void of the spark that should have been there.

Wilfred approaches Peter slowly, kneeling down to his level. He can see Mary in the child’s features the shape of his eyes, the curve of his mouth. It’s like looking into the past and seeing his daughter as a baby all over again. The pain is almost unbearable, but he forces himself to smile gently at Peter.

“Hello, little one,” He whispers, his voice catching. “I’m your Grandpa Wilfred. I’ve come to help take care of you.”

Peter doesn’t respond, his expression distant. Wilfred reaches out, his hand trembling slightly, and gently brushes a curl from Peter’s forehead. The boy flinches slightly but doesn’t pull away completely.

“He’s so... quiet,” Wilfred murmurs, looking back at Daphne, who is watching them with tear-filled eyes. “It’s like he’s retreated into himself.”

Daphne nods, her face etched with worry, “He barely eats, barely sleeps. It’s like he’s lost all his energy, all his will to engage with the world. I don’t know how to reach him.”

Wilfred takes a deep breath, his determination solidifying. It breaks him seeing a baby… his grandbaby so unresponsive. 

He could understand now why Daphne had asked for help. Not if she was the one who’d gotten Mary’s son out of that house . And not when Mary had sacrificed herself for this baby’s safety.  A baby who seemed to instinctively understand that his mother was gone and was grieving. 

He gently scoops Peter up into his arms, cradling him close. Peter remains limp, but Wilfred continues to hold him, whispering soothing words. “We’re going to take care of you. Your mommy loved you so much, and she wanted you to be happy and safe.” There’s a flicker of something in Peter’s eyes at the mention of his mom. But it was gone as fast as it had appeared. 

“Maybe some therapy would do all three of us some good,” He muses and couldn’t help but smile at the genuinely baffled bark of laughter his daughter gives. 

“You?! Wilfred Pennyworth? Therapy?” Daphne snorts, “I think I’m in some alternate universe,” She drawls, but her eyes are thankful… amused. 

Wilfred purses his lips, peering down at the baby who was limp in his arms, a mop of curly hair buried into the crease of his neck. “Have you thought of telling your uncle?” He finally asks the question that remained burning on the tip of his tongue. 

Daphne goes silent at his question. 

She shifts uncomfortably, avoiding her father's gaze. “I... I don't know,” She admits, her voice barely above a whisper. “Uncle Alfred has always been there for us, but this... this is different. It involves his grandchild,”

Wilfred purses his lips, “Richard doesn’t know about Peter,” It was a statement not a question and Daphne recognizes this in the way her eyes flare up with defense on behalf of her sister. 

“Mary had her reasons,” She snaps, “You know exactly why she hid her baby from the Bats,” 

Wilfred sighs, head lolling back to stare at the ceiling. It grounded him, made him feel less like he was spiraling. He adjusts his hold on Peter, cradling the baby like he was his most precious treasure. 

And Peter was. 

Peter had been and always would be Mary’s treasure. 

So he would resolve to treasure her son as much as she had.

He looks back at Daphne, his eyes filled with a mix of anger and sorrow. “We’ll need to make some hard decisions, Daph. Keeping Peter hidden from them might have been Mary’s choice, but we need to think about what’s best for him now. Peter needs his dad,” 

“And what happens when they decide Peter would make the perfect vigilante?” She sneers, the fear in her chest for her nephew growing the more she thought about it. 

Wilfred scoffs, “Don’t give me that Daphne,” He scolds, “Richard would love this kid more than his own life. I know that kid like I know the two of you. Besides my brother would never allow Peter to be harmed in his house,” 

“And what of Bruce?!” She snaps, eyes blazing, “The man already caused the murder one of his sons,” She was almost yelling, “And what does that man do? He brings the fucking Joker back to life,” 

Wilfred inhales sharply, “Bruce was devastated-” 

“Oh boo hoo,” Daphne sneers, “Do you know how many people Bruce could have saved if he put down those psychopaths like the animals they are!” She seethes, hands clenched at her side. “I won’t allow my nephew to become a Robin… a fucking broken record Bruce will use over and over again,” She glares at her father. 

Wilfred stares at his daughter silently, his hand drawing constant soothing circles on Peter’s back. He’d felt the baby stiffen up during their conversation and was trying to soothe him from crying. 

“She was scared,” Daphne continued, her voice firm. “Mary was scared that Bruce would see Peter as just another Robin in the making. That he'd be trained and sent out into the streets, risking his life every night. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing him the way Bruce lost Jason.”

Wilfred’s heart aches at the truth of her words. The legacy of the Robins was one of bravery, but also of tragedy. “No more dead Robins,” He murmurs, echoing Mary’s fear. He had seen the toll it had taken on Bruce…  on Richard… on all of them.

“Mary was terrified that history would repeat itself,” Daphne says softly. “She couldn’t let that happen to Peter. She wanted him to have a chance at a normal life, away from all the darkness and danger.”

Wilfred looks down at Peter, his heart swelling with a mix of love and sorrow, “He deserves to have all the love and all the family in the world,” Wilfred mumbles and in his heart he knows Alfred would never forgive him for hiding this baby’s presence from him, from Richard.  

Daphne’s expression softens, her defensive stance wavering. “I know, I know. But... it’s just so hard. Every time I look at him, I see Mary. And it hurts so much. I want to bundle him up in blankets and never let him go,” 

Wilfred nods, understanding her pain all too well, “I do tend to want to kill everyone that has ever thought to harm him,” He agrees with a stern nod that has his daughter raising an unimpressed brow at him.

“I’ve decided that Peter will decide whether he wants his dad in his life or not. Peter is incredibly smart… smarter than any normal child. I will honor my sister’s words until Peter deems otherwise.” She tells her dad who swallows heavily. 

He didn’t agree, “What if we told Alfred not to tell-” 

“Don’t bullshit me. Uncle would recognize whose son Peter is the second he walked in the door. Besides Alfred would never hide something like this from his son and grandson,” Daphne waves away the suggestion immediately and her father has to massage his forehead against the headache she was causing him. 

“You’re being stubborn,” 

“I’m being safe,” 

Wilfred slumps in defeat. His daughter was his grandson’s legal guardian. He was sure Mary had done everything to ensure her son would be taken care of in the event anything happened to her.  

“You can’t expect a child to decide whether or not he wants his father in his life,” Wilfred sighs and Daphne purses her lips, brown eyes falling on her nephew’s form and softening to an almost unimaginable degree. 

“I wouldn’t expect just any child to decide such a thing. But Pete is special, dad… he’s one of a kind,” Her smile turns bittersweet.

Wilfred stares at her drolly, unimpressed, “And at what age exactly do you intend to let Peter make this life-changing decision?” Wilfred was annoyed. “My brother deserves to know he has a grandson,” He snaps. 

“And Peter deserves to have a normal life!” Daphne instantly strikes back.  “Bruce will be training him to be a Robin the second he lays eyes on that genius boy. Not to mention that children are impressionable!” She was dry heaving, “Peter will eventually become too brainwashed to Bruce’s ideals to see that he’d be putting himself in danger every singleday,” Daphne shakes her head, “No. I refuse. Not my nephew. NOT my Peter. Not Mary’s son,” 

Her dad blinks in shock at her words. There was a moment of silence before he slowly nods, “Alright. You’re Peter’s guardian.” He refers to her and she purses her lips firmly, “And you would know what is best for the child. You know him the best,” 

“Mary knew him the best,” Daphne says quietly, looking down at her shoes. 

“It’s you now,” Her father replies, making her heart hurt even more than it already was. 

The weight of his words settles over her like a heavy blanket. Daphne takes a deep breath, fighting back the tears that threaten to spill. “I just... I just want him to be safe. I promised Mary I’d protect him.”

Wilfred steps closer, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. He realized that this exact moment might not be the best time to bring up such a sore topic. Not when his daughter and grandson were compromised and not when he had to get them to safety. “You’re doing a good job, Daphne. Mary would be proud of you.”

They stand in silence for a moment, the weight of Wilfred’s words hanging in the air. Daphne reaches out, gently taking Peter from her father’s arms and cradling him against her chest. The baby stirs slightly, his tiny hand gripping her shirt.

It was as if Peter, in all his grief, was managing to validate Daphne’s feelings in the only way he knew how. 

“Aunty… Wuv.” Peter murmurs to her quietly and Daphne’s throat immediately closes up, tears whelming in her eyes. 

“I love you too, button. More than anyone in this world,” 

Peter's world had shifted dramatically since the night of the attack. The comfort and warmth he had known with his mother and Daphne had been replaced by an overwhelming sense of loss and confusion. He often felt as if he were drowning, the weight of his grief pulling him under. Each breath felt heavy, and his small chest heaved with the effort. His small body wasn’t meant to bear the burden of such grief, he wasn’t even meant to understand such grief. 

The memories of his mother’s comforting embrace were like distant lights, flickering and fading in the depths of his mind. He constantly felt sick to his stomach, feverish with devastation and just empty in general.

When he wasn’t feeling suffocated by the crushing weight of his sorrow, it felt like he was trudging through thick mud. Every step, every attempt to move forward was met with resistance. His tiny body felt sluggish and uncooperative, as if the very air around him was conspiring to hold him back. He couldn’t even cry out in frustration because it seemed like his voice had ceased listening to his wishes. His eyes echoed with the pain and confusion he couldn’t yet articulate with words because his stupid tongue wasn’t competent yet. 

The moments of brief clarity, where he tried to make sense of his new reality, were fleeting. He would remember his mother’s voice, her laughter, and the safety of her presence. But these memories were quickly overshadowed by the dark, murky feelings that enveloped him. He felt like he was constantly battling to keep his head above water, to push through the thick mire that sought to pull him down.

Peter’s emotions swung wildly between these two extremes. One moment, he was gasping for air, struggling to breathe under the weight of his grief. The next, he was fighting against the relentless pull of the mud, trying to move forward but finding every step an exhausting effort. It was a constant, exhausting cycle that left him feeling drained and powerless.

Daphne's attempts to comfort him often went unnoticed, his mind too clouded by the overwhelming emotions he was experiencing. His adult emotions and his tiny baby brain were being uncooperative and he often felt like he was battling against two ends of the spectrum. 

All his baby mind wanted him to do was sleep. 

And he knew that if he slept, he'd miss out on what was going on right now. 

He’d just met his grandfather and he couldn't even greet him properly due to the dissonance in his mind and body.  

Their soothing words and gentle touches were like distant echoes in the storm of his sorrow. Peter knew they were trying, and in his brief moments of clarity, he felt a flicker of gratitude. But his depression was relentless, leaving little room for anything else.

For the second time that day, Peter's exhausted body finally succumbed to sleep, the weight of his grief temporarily lifting as he drifted into a fitful slumber. After listening to his aunt and grandfather argue for what seemed like hours, he honestly just wanted to either cry or just give up…. Maybe even both. 

He didn’t deserve to be given a second chance at life. He didn’t deserve to have such good people want to care and love him. 

Peter didn’t deserve it. 

He didn’t deserve it at all. 

He’s the one that killed his mom. 

If he hadn’t been born in the first place, his mom wouldn’t have needed to sacrifice herself for his safety. It was like chains had latched onto him since her death and refused to let go. He felt weighed down. He felt trapped. 

His tiny chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, the room around him quiet and still. His aunt watched over him, her expression aching with worry and sorrow, before quietly slipping out of the room to let him rest.

As Peter slept, his night was pleasant and calm and restful…. at first . 

His sleep was dark, black and he rested silently. He was an unobtrusive observer, just a piggy-backer to the rest his conscience needed. 

It was then he felt a jolt in his chest. Like a hard yank. 

Like someone had leaned in, gripped at his heartstrings and gave a sharp tug. 

And Peter was helpless. He had no choice but to abide. 

He found himself slamming harshly into something that made his eyes snap open and his chest heave with the need for breath. 

Gasping, he sat up quickly, his hands instinctively reaching out to steady himself. The first thing he noticed was the sensation of grass beneath his fingertips, the cool blades tickling his skin. However the grass was a peculiar shade of orange that tugged at his memory. The sky above him was a similar shade of orange, only darker like it had been paused in an eternal sunset. It was, scattered with such light orange clouds they almost appeared white. The collision and collide of such colour on his senses made him rub at his forehead; a headache beginning to appear. Birds chirped cheerfully in the distance, and a gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the surrounding orange trees.

Peter's heart pounded in his chest as he took in his surroundings. This wasn't the safe house. This wasn't anywhere he recognized. He pushed himself to his feet, feeling an unfamiliar weight and balance in his body. Glancing down, he froze in shock.

He was no longer a baby.

His hands were larger, his legs longer. He reached up to touch his face, finding the familiar contours of his teenage self. The realization hit him like a tidal wave, flooding him with a mix of confusion and wonder. He was in his teenage body again.

What was going on!?

Peter took a few unsteady steps, marveling at the ease with which his body moved. He felt strong, agile, and... familiar. It was like being reunited with an old friend. But the initial joy was quickly overshadowed by a creeping sense of unease. 

Where was he? How had this happened?

Exploring his surroundings, Peter walked through the forest he was in. Honestly the overwhelming amount of orange in this place was giving him the heebie jeebies. His spider sense was weirdly quiet as such Peter allowed his senses to take the forefront. He wouldn’t allow himself to be attacked  out of nowhere. 

The trees towered over him and the path he followed was narrow and winding, leading him deeper and deeper towards someplace unknown. Despite the eerie beauty of the place, an unsettling feeling gnawed at his gut. Something about this realm felt both familiar and foreign, as if he were on the edge of remembering something important.

The colour in particular was gnawing at him. 

It was starting to get annoying if he was being honest. 

Eventually, the forest opened up into a clearing. At its center stood a magnificent tree, its trunk thick and ancient, its branches stretching out like protective arms. Each leaf looked like a lick of fire, a singular flame with an otherworldly beauty that had Peter wanting to never look away.

Beneath the tree was a crystal-clear pool of water, shimmering in the dappled sunlight. Peter approached it cautiously, peering into the depths. It was the very first thing in this world that wasn’t in a strange shade of orange and he blinks staring down into the pool with wonder.

As he stares into the pool, images begin to form on its surface and he flinches harshly. 

Peter stared at the water, utterly baffled , as flashes of his past life began to play out before him. The first images were of his uncle, Ben, smiling warmly as he taught Peter how to fix a leaky faucet, his hands steady and patient. The scene shifted to his aunt May, her kind eyes filled with pride as she cheered him on at his academic decathlon. He saw moments of laughter, of shared meals, of quiet nights spent watching old movies together. Each memory brought a pang of longing, a reminder of the love and security he had lost.

The images swirled, morphing into scenes from his time with the Avengers. He saw himself, a young hero standing shoulder to shoulder with the legends of that world. There were battles fought, victories won, and friendships forged in the crucible of danger. But there were also moments of doubt, of fear, of feeling like he didn't quite belong with people like Iron Man, Captain America, the Black Widow and even gods and titans . He remembered the weight of responsibility, the crushing pressure to always be better, to live up to the legacy of those around him.

The memories became more disjointed, more painful. He saw his mother; an older, more mature Mary Parker, her face lined with worry and exhaustion, yet always softening when she looked at him. He saw her reading to him, singing lullabies, her voice a balm to his troubled heart. He saw her fighting to always protect him, her determination and love shining through even in the darkest moments. He saw his dad. And his heart ached for his dad. God, what he would have given for one of Richard Parker’s classic bear hugs, one of his smiles, the delicate yet loving head pats he would give him. He wanted to learn gymnastics from his dad, hear more about the grandparents he’d lost. He desperately just wanted his parents, his Uncle Ben, Aunt May and Mr. Stark.

Peter's eyes filled with tears as he knelt by the pool, the weight of his memories pressing down on him. He felt a deep, aching void inside him, a sense of loss so profound it threatened to swallow him whole. His breath hitched, and he wrapped his arms around himself, trying to hold onto the fragments of his past, the pieces of his heart that felt like they were slipping away.

He had been through so much, lost so much.

Gosh… kids weren’t meant to feel this old and worn down.

Peter reached out to touch the water. Maybe he might be able to touch the memories? Even experience them for himself once again? As his fingers made contact, a voice echoed from behind him, soft and melodic. “I wouldn’t do that.”

Startled, Peter whipped around and fell flat on his bottom, staring up at the woman who had managed to sneak up on him.

She was unlike anyone he had ever seen, draped in shades of orange that seemed to flicker and dance like living flames. Her hair was a cascade of fire, flowing and crackling softly, illuminating her ethereal features. Her eyes, burning embers of gold, held a depth of ancient wisdom and warmth. Her skin, a glowing ember tone, shimmered as if made from the very essence of the sunset.

The gown she wore flowed around her like molten lava, its edges flickering with a life of their own, creating an illusion of a never-ending inferno. She moved with a grace that reminded Peter of a flickering flame, both unpredictable and mesmerizing.

"Who... who are you?" Peter stammered, his heart racing as he stared up at this fiery apparition.

The woman smiled, a gentle, radiant expression that seemed to bring a warmth to the very air around them. "I am Soul,” she said, her voice a soothing crackle. “One of the guardians of the universe,”  

Peter's eyes widened, his mind racing to make sense of her words. And something just clicked in his head. 

“You're an Infinity stone,”  He snaps, the thought finally coming to him. 

Soul smiles at him and nods, “Ah. I knew you were a smart one Peter. Of course, those chosen to be champions of the Infinity are always meant to be special.” 

Peter swallows harshly and stumbles to his feet, “Wha- What!?” His voice was high pitched and Soul’s smile simply expands. 

“I thought you had to sacrifice someone you loved to gain mastery of the Soul stone?” Peter inhales sharply and Soul raises a brow. 

She hums in agreement, “You seemed to lose everything when the Titan decided to kill everyone and anything in his way to power. So I chose you,” She says it like it had been the easiest decision to make. 

Peter’s head was spinning and he was sweating up a panicked storm, “I don’t think I deserve to be your choice. A lot of people lost so much in the battle. I am nothing special.” He argues. 

Soul tilts her head to stare at him and it was like she was able to see every part and every secret Peter held inside of his heart. 

She doesn’t say anything at first but she does walk closer to where Peter was now standing. She more so glided than anything to be honest and Peter swallows harshly staring warily at the being who now stood beside him. 

She kneels a little, fingers ever so glancing over the surface of the pond, “The memories you seek to touch are precious, but they are also a part of the past,” She tells him, “They are memories of the life you have lost. Had I not chosen you, you would have been lost to the cycle of life and death,” Soul flicks her fingers slightly, water droplets falling off her fingers like they were gemstones.

“To linger too long in what was can burn away the present and the future. You have a new journey ahead, young one, and it is not yet time to dwell in the echoes of what has been." She advices Peter, whose eyes had widened exponentially at the words of this incarnation of an Infinity stone.

“I- I can’t-” Peter inhales to try to calm down the raging emotions he was experiencing at the moment. “-I can’t watch them one last time?” Peter’s voice was small, pleading and his heart was clenched in his chest. 

He might end up having a heart attack if things continued at this same rate.

“Peter…” Soul says and Peter’s heart sinks. She sees the expression on his face and her lips twitch up into an understanding smile. A single arm raises and she places a gentle hand on Peter’s head. He looks up at her, seeing nothing but kindness and warmth and love… and Peter kind of chokes on his emotions. 

She kneels in front of him, catching the tears falling from his eyes in her warm, sunlit hands. “You are the most selfless soul I have ever had the honor of getting to know,” She murmurs, her voice a soothing balm to his aching heart.

Peter looked up at her, his eyes wide with a mixture of sorrow and heartbreak, "I don't feel very selfless," He whispers, his voice trembling, “I’ve lost so much. I feel so... broken ." He manages to say and Soul simply hums. 

Her fiery eyes glow with compassion, "It is in your moments of greatest pain that your true strength shines through," She says, her hands gently cupping his face, and wiping away his tears, “The most selfless, a hero,” She continues and Peter blinks blearily up at her, “It is for that reason alone, that I chose you out of all the people suffering with loss on that battlefield. The universe has struggled enough under the championship and rule of tyrants and power-hungry fools.” 

Peter inhales sharply, instantly understanding what the Soul stone was trying to tell him. “There is a certain soul that can handle and control the gifts that come from being a champion of one of the guardians of the universe.” 

“Time…. Space…. Reality….. Power… Mind …. And Soul,” She places a gentle hand on Peter’s head once again and ruffles his hair good naturally. “At the dawn of the universe there was nothing. And then us six were created. Each one of us contains an essential part of existence itself,” 

Peter starts to walk alongside Soul, when he realizes she was gesturing for him to stroll alongside her. 

“As the Soul stone, you realize that I hold the most burdens correct?” She asks and smiles when Peter nods rapidly. “There has yet been a soul created that would be able to share my burden…. Until I laid my eyes on you Peter Benjamin Parker,” Her voice was light and affectionate and it caused Peter to feel an emphasis of warmth in his body from the top of his head to the edges of his feet. 

“I have chosen you,” She smiles at him, “ I have never been able to choose a master before, you’re aware? People usually sacrifice in cold blood and use my abilities for their own gain. But not you, Peter. You did not choose me, I chose you…. And so I shall always protect you.” She was staring at him the same way Mary used to, before she had passed away and Peter chokes a little, a broken sob coming up in his throat. 

“I don’t deserve to be chosen,” He sobs out and ends up embraced in Soul’s arms. “I don’t know how to do anything. I’m a baby in the new world I was sent to and I can’t protect anyone. I’m a burden on the family I have left. My dad doesn’t even want me and I was the one who killed my mom!” He started to cry in earnest, “I killed Aunt May and Uncle Ben and if I had been just a bit faster I could have saved everyone in my old world.” He wails into the shoulder of the elder being, who holds Peter through his mental breakdown. Gentle fingers run soothingly through his hair and the hand holding him up from falling, pats his back in a rhythm. that has Peter struggling not to concentrate on it.

“I think I know a person or two who would highly disagree with you,” She says silently and Peter stares up at her with red, bloodshot eyes and confusion written on every single crevice of his face. 

“Huh?” His nose wrinkles slightly and Soul couldn’t help but smile at the adorable sight in front of her. 

“Peter, darling…” She wraps an arm around him and pulls her child further into her embrace as she leads him away, “Do you know what being my chosen means?”

Peter blinks unknowingly at Soul, whose heart melts in her chest at the soul in front of her. Honestly, only her chosen would be unaware of just how powerful he’d become basically overnight. 

“Being a chosen for one of the six guardians means you share their power and can harness said power. It was one of the reasons why tyrants coveted me.” 

“I knew they could use your powers but all of it? It’s not just a portion?” 

“It depends on my regard. If I desire to give them full access to my powers they are given it and then they die from going insane,” Her face contorts into a sort of otherworldly expression, one that causes goosebumps to erupt all over Peter’s body. 

“Oh,” Was the only thing Peter managed to say in reply to Soul’s words and it makes her snicker in amusement. 

“Do not worry my Peter, you shall not perish. Not when you’re my chosen. I had been forced by those beings into doing their bidding. However, I shall never again allow myself to be forced into anything I do not want to do.” Her words held a hint of melancholy to them, which made Peter swallow heavily. 

Soul had been nothing but nice to him and she was a comfort that his very bruised, depressed heart kind of needed… especially with the passing of his mother. He didn't like seeing her so sad.

“I am the Soul stone, Peter and as such I have power over any and all souls in the universe. I can manipulate the essence that makes up any individual ever created in any dimension,” She smiles when her genius champion instantly seems to connect the dots, her own smile brightening up considerably at the hope on Peter’s face. 

“And… yes,” She answers Peter unspoken question, her smile warm and her eyes bright with happiness. “I am able to resurrect and conjure the spirits of all people… all of those who have passed.” Peter’s breath hitches. 

“My- my parents? Aunt May and Aunt Ben?” Peter begs, “Mr. Stark?” He asks, gentle fingers on Soul’s arm. 

She purses her lips slightly and kneels in front of him. 

“To save your life and your soul, I was forced to send you to an alternate dimension, my chosen.” She starts to explain, “As such I am only able to conjure the dead from this dimension. For example, the father you are asking for is very much alive in this dimension. They are the same souls I would have to call upon had we remained in your previous dimension.” She states and Peter’s brain was alive with all the metaphysical, physical and magical theory her words seemed to be conveying to him. 

“That is strange,” He admits, and Soul smiles. 

“You will learn the complexity of the soul in time, my champion. You will learn,” She tells him and Peter swallows silently. 

“Does this mean I’ll be forced into an endless cycle of reincarnation. I’ll remember everything?” He asks her, not knowing if he wanted that. 

Soul shakes her head. 

“A soul can remain a champion of a guardian for a single reincarnation cycle. It will not handle more than that,” She gestures to Peter who literally slumps in relief. “I might find you again in another life, who knows. But for this life, you are mine and I am yours.” She informs him and Peter smiles up at her. 

“I think I’d like that,” 

Soul utterly beams at him and Peter is reminded of how he’d thought of her as the sun the first time he’d seen her, “I’d like that too,” She says. 

“Well, shall we come to the reason I brought you here?” Soul asks, coming to a sudden stop. Peter blinked up at her in confusion.

“The reason you brought me here?” He echoes, trying to grasp her meaning.

Soul hums, a low vibration in the back of her throat. 

Peter swallows hard, his heart pounding as her next words fill the air, “To see your mother, of course.” She gently turns him around.

And there, in all her radiant glory, stood Mary Parker.

Peter froze for a millisecond, his mind reeling. Then, without hesitation, he broke into a run, his heart surging with a mixture of joy, longing, and disbelief.

Peter's feet pounded against the ethereal ground as he sprinted towards his mother. Each step felt both impossibly slow and breathtakingly swift, as if time itself was unsure how to handle this moment. His heart raced, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

"Mom!" He cries out, his voice cracking with a mixture of hope and fear. "Mom!"

Mary turns, her eyes wide with surprise and then melting into pure, unfiltered love. She opens her arms just as Peter reaches her, and he practically throws himself into her embrace. The warmth and solidity of her hold makes tears spill down his cheeks.

"Peter," She whispers, her voice trembling. "My sweet, sweet boy."

Peter clings to her, burying his face in her shoulder, his tears soaking her clothes. "Mom, I...I missed you so much," He chokes out between sobs. "I thought I'd never see you again."

Mary holds him tighter, her own tears falling into his hair. "I know, my heart. I missed you too. But I'm here now."

“Are- are you my mom?” Peter asks, hesitant and Mary smiles, an amused small thing. 

“I’m both Mary Parker and Mary Pennyworth. Our world and this one were connected the second the divine guardian chose you as her champion. As such, I hold the memories of both of my lives,” She explains and Peter stares at his mom silently for a second before he bursts into rounds of tears all over again. 

Mary laughs, holding her son closer, “Did you think I would love you any less as Mary Pennyworth than I did when I was a Parker?” She scolds him lightly, kisses pampering every inch of her baby’s face. 

“I will love you forever. At whichever age, however you chose to live. I will love you. No one matters to me more than you,” Mary tries to get her words to stick inside her son’s stubborn mind. 

She sighs when he cries even harder at her words.

Some things had to come from Peter’s father she supposed. 

For a long moment, they just stood there, holding each other. Peter felt the crushing weight of his grief and loneliness begin to lift, replaced by a warmth and peace he hadn't felt since he’d lost his mom.

Soul watched them from a distance, a soft smile on her face, her fiery presence flickering gently like a comforting hearth as she slowly disappears, allowing the mother-son duo a couple moments of privacy.

Peter finally pulls back slightly, looking up into his mother's face. "Why are you here, mom? What is this place?"

Mary brushes a strand of hair from his forehead, her touch light and tender. "This is a realm between realms, a place where souls can connect across the boundaries of life and death."

Peter nods, trying to absorb this. "And you...you're okay?" He chokes out.

Mary's smile was warm and reassuring. "I am, Peter. But I am much better, knowing I can wait to move on until you yourself come to meet me here. I think I would love to wait here with you. I have gotten so little time with my son in both of my lives,” She admits, kissing the top of Peter’s head. 

“I- I can see you here anytime?” And Peter wants to cry all over again, his hold on his mother firm and unyielding. 

Mary laughs, “Maybe only when you are asleep my heart, but yes I will be here in this realm waiting for you, your aunt, your grandfather, your father... I know when their time comes, they would want to wait for you as well. This is only possible because you were chosen, you know,” She smiles with so much love that Peter actually does end up sobbing in distress. 

All of his worries, anxiety, his depressive episodes, all the death he’d seen, the fights he’d faced and the horror of losing his mom come to the forefront of his brain and he feels like the baby he actually is in the real world. 

Peter’s sobs wracked his body as he clung to his mother. All the pain, fear, and confusion he had bottled up since her death poured out of him in a torrent. Mary holds him tightly, her warmth and presence a balm to his wounded heart.

“It’s okay, Peter,” She murmurs softly, rubbing his back in soothing circles. “Let it all out. You’re safe here.”

Peter cries harder, the sound echoing through the ethereal realm. “I missed you so much, Mom. Everything hurt. I don’t know how to keep going without you. Can’t I just stay here with you? I already lived once, I don’t want to do it all over again. Not without you, not again. Please!” He begs his mum, who starts blinking her own tears furiously away. 

“I know we were both separated too soon,” She whispers, soft kisses pressing into her son’s hair, “-in both lifetimes,” She continues, voice wavering, “…but my heart you have so much more to live for,” She chokes with emotion, “You were just a baby when you died in our old world,” She lifts Peter’s head from her shoulder, cradling his face in her arms. “You were a baby and you are still a baby here. You were much too young to have had that much responsibility on your shoulders,” She scolds him lightly, yet there was pride in her red-swollen eyes. 

“You were never supposed to be on the front lines against that monster, and I curse every adult in your life who thought that it was okay,” She eyes him warily for his reaction and Peter couldn’t help but choke on his own laugh through his tears. 

“No one really approved of it, the Avengers all fought hard to stop me,” 

“As they should.” His mom replies, her face softening when her gaze lands on her son again, “But you have a whole other life to live now.” She smooths down the disastrous hair on her baby’s head, trying to soothe her son. “Your dad is still alive baby, your Aunt May is still alive as is your Uncle Ben.” She adds, smiling when Peter’s head peeks out to look up at her hopefully. 

“Uncle Ben is alive?” Her son was almost pleading with her to be right. 

Mary nods, smiling, “Mhmm,” She hums her agreement. 

“Aunt May too?” Peter’s voice was small and hesitant. It breaks her heart. 

Mary smiles even more at the thought of her sister, “Do you want to know what Daphne’s full name is?” She asks her son, whose tears seem to dry up the more she distracts him from his agony. 

“No… Really!??” Peter’s breath stutters in surprise, eyes wide in hope and awe, “Daphne May?” 

“Daphne May,” His mum laughs, ignoring her own tears when her baby starts to giggle frantically, his hold on her arms growing tighter as he laughs along with her. 

“She’s so different!” Peter chortles and Mary snickers, nodding her agreement. 

“Well she’s lived a much different life to the May we knew from our first life,” Mary points out to Peter who nods slowly, thinking deeply on her words. 

There is a pause in the conversation, a sort of lull, with her son planting his chin on Mary’s shoulder, hugging her with a quiet desperation that made Mary’s ribcage ache with every breath she tries to inhale. 

“I noticed you didn’t ask about your father,” She murmurs slowly and Peter swallows harshly. 

“He’s not my dad though… at least not anymore,” Peter answers her quietly and his response has her swallowing harshly. 

She holds her son closer to her chest, thankful she’s even able to watch her baby grow in this life. She hadn’t told him everything regarding why Ra's was after them but he was still young. And he was hidden well and protected by her sister and father. 

Mary didn’t need to add any more worries onto the back of her child. 

“Richard….” Mary trails off a little thinking of the differences between her husband and the man she’d fallen for in this most recent life. 

It was like night and day honestly. Their two personalities couldn’t have been more different. But there were similarities here and there. 

In the way Richard loved. 

In the way he smiled. 

And cared. 

The way he tended to hug those he adored. 

Sure the Richard of this universe hadn’t loved her….

And wasn’t that a stinging ache that just wouldn’t leave.

She’d thought they’d been soulmates. 

She’d fallen for him again and again. 

Loved him in both lifelines. 

Only he had not. 

… but he was still Peter’s dad. 

And if there was something she knew about Richard (both of her Richards) it was that he would love any child of his with every fibre of his being. 

Only…. Richard was so young in this universe. 

She wasn’t sure how he’d take having a baby to care for. Especially a baby as special as theirs was. 

“Even you can’t think up of a way he might actually want me mom,” Peter was trying to come off as well-humored but her son’s voice was tight and defensive. 

“Of course he wants you!” Mary demands, “You're his son! His baby! He’d move the planets for you if you asked,” She tells her son, who sniffs a little, his face popping out from hiding in her arms.

“Mom, you’re talking about my dad, your husband,” He tells her, “Not the man you had a one-night stand with,” He grumbles the last part out with a look of discomfort at talking about his parents' late night activities. 

Mary stills for a second before shaking her head, “I know your dad baby, in both lifetimes. Richard will adore you. I promise.” 

“Just not right now,” 

Mary freezes up, her whole body flinching at his words. 

“What?” She whispers and she feels like crying all over again when her son gives her the most heart-breakingly knowing and sad look. 

“Mom, come on. Dad told you he didn’t want me because he was too young to have a kid, it would make sense if Aunt Daphne told him about me when dad’s older,” 

“He would grow up and accept it! He would do it for you the second he knew you existed,” Mary tells her kid, pleading with him to see the good in Richard the same way she did. 

It was obvious her son was a genius. And he certainly hadn’t gotten his smarts from her genes. 

But sometimes it was so plainly apparent how smart her son was when he could use only a couple words said here and there to deduce an whole story almost perfectly. 

The life experience he had certainly helped a little. 

But her Peter had always been smart. 

In both lifetimes where she’d held her baby for the first time in her arms, she’d known her son would be special. 

“It is not your responsibility to take care of your father. It’s his job to take care of you,” She continues, beginning to lecture.

“He didn’t sign up to have me though, mom. He didn’t want me,” 

“He would,” She whispers, inhaling sharply, “If I had been strong enough to tell him, he would have grabbed you and never let you go. Uncle Alfred and Bruce would have been the same.” 

“Mom,” Peter’s face contorts with pain, “It’s not your fault either. You were a single mom running from some assassin dude,” Peter says and then his eyes narrow a little, “Why was he after you again mom?” 

Mary feels her whole world tilt on its axis, “I worked for him in the past and angered him baby. He wanted revenge. I did what I had to in order to protect you,” She quickly tells him and it’s not a lie, thankfully so her son doesn’t catch any skip in her heartbeat. 

It was lovely having a son with a built in lie-detector. 

Peter exhales slightly, anger marring the features on his face. 

“You are not allowed to seek revenge on my behalf,” Mary instantly scolds her son, knowing deep down in her soul that Peter would do so as soon as he was physically able. “I will never forgive you if you put yourself in his line of fire. He is immortal. The connections he has are like no other. The men he has at his disposal are all assassins of the highest calibre.” Mary starts to lecture her son whose wide stunned gaze turns softer and softer with every passing word from Mary’s mouth. 

“Why are you smiling!?” Mary glares mockingly at her baby who beams at her with a happiness she hadn’t seen on his face in such a long time. 

“I haven’t been lectured by you in so long,” He tells her and her voice catches. 

Mary’s eyes glisten with unshed tears as she purses her lips against the sob that wanted to escape.

She clears her throat, swallowing harshly. “Well—” She manages a small smile. “I’ll be here to lecture you until you get bored of me.” 

And her smile turns into a grin at her son’s response. 

“I don’t think I’ll ever get bored of you mom.” 

“I hate to interrupt,” Soul says gently, her voice carrying a note of sadness, “-but our time is up for tonight. Peter, you’re not yet strong enough yet to stay in my realm for too long.”

Peter’s face falls, his grip on his mother tightening as if he could hold onto her forever. “No, please,” he pleads, looking between Soul and his mother. “I don’t want to go yet.”

Mary cups his face in her hands, her touch tender. “It’s okay, Peter. We’ll have more time together. I’ll be right here, waiting for you. You must go back, my heart.” She tells him, “You must annoy your grandfather Wilfred as much as you can for me,” She adds sternly, making Peter let out a wet laugh.

Peter's wet laugh turned into a choked sob when Soul’s gentle arm comes to rest on Peter’s shoulder, 

"But I don’t want to leave you again. I just got you back, mom please,”  

Her son was going to give her a heart-attack. She was absolutely going to cry after her baby left, but hopefully she’d be able to remain strong enough for him right now. 

Mary's eyes soften, her smile bittersweet. "I know, sweetheart. But you need to be strong for now. Your family needs you, and you need them. You’ll see me when you have enough energy to come. The divine guardian will help. You’ll need to learn to control your new powers after all,” 

“Of course I will. Peter will be able to come to this realm on his own rather quickly. All you must do is will it to happen and if you have the reserves of soul power needed to come here, you will show up,” Soul explains to her chosen child, who glances up at her with wonder. 

“When will I have enough energy to come here next?” He asks eagerly and Soul snorts, a gentle hand running through Peter’s hair. 

“I’d say as you are but a mere infant you will not have the reserves to come here often. Perhaps once a month or so.” Soul continues quickly though seeing her child’s face fall, “Of course I need to be able to train you in soul magicks, so I will be able to bring you here every night you fall asleep. I have enough power right now for that,” She murmurs the last bit to herself more-so than to Mary and Peter, who both heard her but deem it unnecessary and rude to comment on it. 

“You can bring me here every night?” Peter's tears were drying up quickly and he beams in delight, lurching forward to engulf Soul in a warm hug. “Thank you! Thank you!” Peter was so grateful. 

He hadn’t lost his mom after all. 

Sure she wouldn’t be able to experience him growing up and he wouldn’t be able to have her with him as he grew…. But he’d still be able to see her… talk to her… hug her. Peter still had his mom. 

Even if the manner in which he still had her was a bit unorthodox. 

"Of course, my champion," Soul looks down at him, "Anything for the child of my soul," The deity was staring at Peter kindly, "Ready to leave now?" She asks him.

Peter nods reluctantly, "I’ll come back then to train as hard as I can!” His words cause both his mom and Soul to smile at him. 

Mary kisses his forehead, her lips lingering as if to imprint the moment in both their memories. "And I’ll be here, always waiting. Remember, I will never leave you Peter. No matter what,” 

“Thanks mom.” Peter’s heart whelmed with affection and gratitude towards his mother.

Soul steps closer, her presence gentle but insistent. "It’s time, Peter. You will grow ill if you remain here for much longer,” She presses. 

Peter took a deep breath, his grip on his mother loosening. He turned to Soul, his eyes filled with a mix of gratitude and longing. “Alright, I’m ready,” He affirms with a nod. 

Soul nodded, her own eyes reflecting the weight of his emotions. "Good Peter. Now, rest and regain your strength. You’ll see your mother again. And perhaps some other loved ones as well,” She wears a mysterious smile on her face, her eyes fiery in colour. 

A single finger reaches out and touches the center of Peter’s forehead. “Rest, my chosen,” Soul’s voice echoes softly in his mind. Suddenly, Peter feels a jolt as he begins to fall, the comforting warmth of Soul’s realm slipping away. He tumbles down... down... down , the vibrant colours of the realm dissolving into a swirl of light and shadow.

The familiar world of the safe house begins to materialize around him, the dreamlike quality fading as reality took hold. His descent slows, and Peter feels the weight of his body once more, the bed beneath him firm and grounding.

Peter lies still, his heart pounding with the aftershocks of what had just happened to him. He could still feel the warmth of his mother's touch, her love a lingering presence in his chest. As he opens his eyes, the ceiling of the safe house comes into focus, and he lets out a shuddering breath, the tears on his cheeks drying in the cool night air.

He closes his eyes again, exhaustion washing over him. The promise of seeing his mother again, of feeling her love and guidance, gives him a sense of peace he hadn't felt in a long time. With a sigh, he drifts into a deep, dreamless sleep, Soul's words a comforting whisper in the back of his mind.

Wilfred quietly opened the door to the living room, eyes seeking out the makeshift crib they’d made for his grandson. As always his heart was heavy with the responsibility and sorrow that had become all too familiar these days. He expected to find Peter sleeping restlessly, as he had most nights since the tragedy. But to his surprise, he found Peter wide awake, a small, contented smile playing on his lips as he stared up at the ceiling, tiny legs up in the sky wiggling with excitement.

“Peter?” Wilfred whispered, his voice cracking with emotion. 

Peter’s smile widened when he saw his grandfather, and he reached out his tiny hands “Uppie,” He beams up at his grandfather.

Wilfred’s breath hitches in his throat, tears welling up in his eyes. He hadn’t seen Peter smile like this since he’d met the boy. The only time he’d ever seen his grandson's smile was in the photos Daphne showed him. He approached the bed, kneeling beside it and gently taking Peter’s hand in his own. 

“Hello, my boy,” He murmurs, his voice trembling, “It’s so good to see you smile.” He croaks and Peter smiles wider, brown eyes flickering with pain for a brief second before he simply sits up and reaches over his crib towards Wilfred, who still felt like he was in some sort of dream.

Wilfred hauls his grandson into his arms, holding him with the utmost gentleness he could manage. He plants a kiss on the baby’s head, hugging the child as close to him as he could. 

“What has you in such a good mood, my little chipmunk?” He asks Peter who wraps his tiny arms around his grandfather’s neck. 

“Saw mama,” Peter decides to say, his own eyes stinging with tears when he sees his grandfather’s eyes well up. 

Wilfred inhales shakily, “Did you now?” He asks, in a whisper. This was the most Peter had spoken since he’d lost his mother and Wilfred was terrified of doing anything to mess it up. 

“Did she hug you? Was she okay?” Wilfred asks, a bit desperate to know if his daughter was alright, even if it was just a dream…. even if it was not real…. perhaps it could ease the ache in his soul. 

“Mama habby,” Peter tells him with a chubby toothless grin. 

Wilfred breathes in sharply through his mouth to hide the sob that had escaped him without permission. “That’s-” He chokes, “That’s amazing love,” Wifred places Peter in his secure chair near the breakfast table as he prepares some food for his grandson. 

“I’m so relieved she’s doing okay,” 

Wilfred stood in front of the stove, his hands trembling slightly as he prepared a bottle for Peter. The warm milk began to fill the room with a comforting aroma, mingling with the early morning light that streamed through the windows. Peter watched him intently from his spot, his eyes wide.

As Wilfred turned back towards Peter, bottle in hand, he noticed how the child's smile seemed to light up the room. "Here you go, chipmunk," He smiles softly, holding out the bottle. Peter eagerly reaches for it, wrapping his tiny hands around it and taking a contented sip.

Wilfred sat down, watching as Peter drank. The simple act of feeding his grandson brought a sense of peace that he hadn't felt in a long time. "You know, your mama would be so proud of you," He says quietly, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re smiling and speaking again, Peter. You’re so strong,” Wilfred tells his grandson, feeling like he wanted to just hold Peter forever and never let him go. 

Peter looked up at him, his brown eyes filled with innocence and a hint of understanding. "Mama wuvs us,” He beams, his voice soft and sure.

Wilfred purses his lips, tears brimming in his eyes, as he nods, a wet laugh escaping him.. "Yes, she does. And so do I. I love you so so much,” He whispers, reaching out to gently stroke Peter's soft curls. "We all love you very much. You’re everything to us now,” Wilfred didn’t know if his grandson understood all of what he was saying - sometimes it seemed like Peter did - but hopefully his grandson understood enough to know that Wilfred loved Peter with everything he had. 

Peter finished his bottle and reached out for his grandfather, wanting to be held. Wilfred obliged immediately, lifting him into his arms and holding him close. He could feel Peter's tiny heartbeat against his chest, a steady reminder of the precious life he now had to protect. 

For Mary.

And because Peter had crawled his way into Wilfred's heart and took up permanent residence in said heart.

"How about we build something together?" Wilfred suggests, trying to bring some normalcy to their morning, trying to keep Peter smiling and happy and alive. 

He carries Peter over to a corner of the living room where a set of wooden blocks were neatly stacked. He’d made them for his grandson previously in an attempt to have him play with them. Peter had barely even looked at the blocks at the time. Hopefully Peter would enjoy them a bit more now that he seemed to be in a better mood. 

“Let's see how tall we can make this tower, hmm?" He teases Peter who beams up at him and Wilfred feels his heart absolutely melt with love for his grandson. 

Peter's eyes light up with excitement, and he clapped his hands in delight. "Tawer!" He exclaims, reaching out for the blocks.

Wilfred sits down on the floor with Peter in his lap, guiding his small hands as they begin to stack the blocks one by one. They laugh togeher, as Peter tends to throw the blocks in the air, trying to juggle them for some reason and giving Wilfred a heart attack every time. The joy in Peter's laughter was infectious, and for that moment, all the pain and sorrow Wilfred was experiencing seemed to fade away.

As they played, the door to the living room opened quietly, and Daphne stepped in, drawn by the unexpected sound of laughter. It was a sound she hadn't heard in months, a melody that had been painfully absent from her life. 

She pauses in the doorway, her breath catching in her throat as she took in the scene before her.

Her father, Wilfred, sat on the floor, cradling Peter in his lap as they built a tower of wooden blocks together. The sight was both heartwarming and heart-wrenching. Peter's giggles filled the room, a sweet symphony that seemed to chase away the shadows that had settled over their lives. Wilfred's eyes shone with a mixture of joy and tears, his weathered face softened by the tender moment he was sharing with his grandson.

The first actual moment between grandson and grandfather. 

Daphne felt a swell of emotion rise within her, a potent mix of relief and sorrow that threatened to overwhelm her. Her eyes welled up with tears, and she had to blink several times to keep them from spilling over. It was the first time she had seen Peter smile, truly smile, since that fateful night. The weight of the past months -the grief, the fear, the endless worry- seemed to lift just a little, replaced by a fragile, hopeful light.

Wilfred glances up and notices her standing there. A warm smile spread across his face, and he beckoned her to join them. "Come join us, Daph," He says softly, his voice filled with a gentle kindness that she had always found comforting. “Peter wants to build the tallest tower in the world."

Daphne takes a tentative step forward, her heart pounding in her chest.

She felt like an intruder in this rare moment of happiness, but the pull of her nephew’s love was stronger than her hesitation. As she moved closer, she saw Peter's face light up even more.

"Aunty!” Peter beams, his voice filled with pure, unfiltered joy. He reaches out for her, his little hands waving in the air. Brown eyes overflowing with love met her own and Daphne feels her voice catch in her throat. 

She couldn't hold back her tears any longer, as she kneels down beside them, pulling Peter into a tight embrace and kissing the top of his head. “Hi love,” She whispers, her voice trembling. "I missed your laugh so much."

Peter nestles into her arms, his small body radiating warmth and love. “Wuv you, Aunty,” He tells her softly, his words a balm to her wounded heart.

A strangled sound escapes her and she holds her nephew tighter in her arms. 

Her father places a comforting hand on her shoulder, his eyes meeting hers with a look of understanding. "We're going to be okay," He says quietly, his voice steady and reassuring. “Peter is going to be okay,” 

They continued to build the tower, their laughter and tears filling the room. The blocks stacked higher and higher, and every time Peter knocked them over, laughing at their mock expressions of horror, they would rebuild the tower again and again… together .