Dark Matter

Another week passes without comment. Peter finds himself in a minor crisis when school lets out for the weekend. He loses access to the biggest meal of his day, which is starting to become an issue. He’s already losing weight; his metabolism is still churning away at a high speed, even though he’s learned to ignore the hunger. He can’t afford to buy the amount of food it would take to keep himself fed. There simply isn’t enough money left for it after using the laundromat and dry cleaners (of course the stupid uniform needs drycleaning, ugh). He does have some savings, if one could consider the spare change left over from each week so far--a whopping $1.97--to be savings.

He tried dumpster diving, but that didn’t get him much. The first dumpster he found was so foul he was gagging from three feet away. And he kept hearing voices around himself when he got close to it, distracting him, though he didn’t see anyone. Still, the entire experience was enough to put him off the idea for now. He felt oddly judged by the whole experience.

Fortunately, he has an idea.

Peter leaves the firehouse Saturday afternoon and finds his way back into the heart of Crime Alley, back at the restaurant where he met Omar and Sophia. The walk there is as hair-raising as it was when he first stumbled through it, but he manages to look just miserable and poor enough to avoid the attention of the gangs loitering on the street. None of them even give him a second look. Thank god.

He slips into the alley leading towards the restaurant and knocks on the door. It swings open almost immediately; Omar stands with a baseball bat in one hand and a butcher’s knife in the other, clearly ready for a fight. He freezes when he sees Peter standing at the door, and a very brief, very awkward silence passes between them.

“I, uh, I’m staying in town for awhile longer, and I was wondering if you needed a dishwasher on the weekend?” Peter asks after a moment. “Even if it’s just for a meal or two instead of money--”

Omar sets the bat down, and waves Peter inside. “Actually, yeah, we could use some help on weekends. The dinner rush is always brutal. Are tips okay?”

“Well, yeah, sure--” Peter starts.

“When can you start?”

“Now,” Peter says.

Omar tosses an apron his way. “Let’s get you set up then.”

Peter’s worked before; oddjobs, mostly. Manning a dishwasher at a busy restaurant is new to him, but he picks up the particulars of it quickly. It’s hard, miserable work in a room thick with steam and humidity. By the end of the day, he’s exhausted, but fifty five dollars richer. Not exactly a great exchange rate for six hours of backbreaking work, but it’s money he sorely needs.

Omar meets him at the door, just as exhausted as Peter. He presses a carryout bag into Peter’s hand. “Here. You did great today, Peter. Can you make it tomorrow?”

Peter almost says no until he smells the food. It’s freshly made, and the scent of it is enough to make his stomach growl. “Yeah. Absolutely.”

“Good. See you tomorrow, Peter,” Omar says, smiling.

Peter makes it home, showers, and sits down hard near his bed. He looks at the carryout bag, half asleep already, and wonders if he should bother with food at all. He’s clean, he’s tired, and he’s not even that hungry anymore, really. The food will keep until tomorrow.

He’s just about to fall asleep slouched against the wall when something nudges his shoulder. Hard.

“Nuh uh, kid,” Sam says. “You need the food. Eat.”

Peter lets out a frustrated whine, but stirs awake. He did just put him six hours of hard labor for this meal. He might as well enjoy it. And he hasn’t had anything to eat since breakfast (cold beans and rice, ugh).

He demolishes his meal after that first bite, setting aside the empty cartons to throw away later. He crawls into his bed and flops across it bonelessly; full and exhausted. He’s asleep in minutes.

* * *

The next day is identical to the last; he spends hours working the dish pit, gets a meal and another fifty dollars for his trouble, and walks home exhausted. His wrist is starting to give him trouble again; it aches and throbs in time with his heartbeat. He might have to buy a splint for it at some point.

He takes his meal to the roof this time. If he goes into the firehouse, he’ll just fall asleep. And he doesn’t want to keep startling awake in the middle of his meal like last night. Honestly, it felt like someone was shaking him awake every five seconds.

“We were,” Mantis says. “It was kind of fun!”

Peter plops down on the edge of the roof and starts in on his meal. It’s an apple curry, vegetarian, and oddly spicy. It’s quickly becoming his favorite dish at the restaurant. He has to eat it carefully with his good hand.

He doesn’t react when he hears someone land on the roof behind him. He turns to face Nightwing, grinning.

“Hey, Nightwing--” He pauses. “Oh, you’re not Nightwing.”

The man standing in the middle of the roof, hands resting on his knees, is wearing a bright yellow suit that stands out against the Gotham night’s hazy orange glow. There’s a bat symbol across his chest that seems to draw in light. It takes Peter a moment to recognize him from the descriptions he’s heard from school and the subway. This is the Signal. And he looks like he’s gone ten rounds against a gorilla.

“Uh, hey, man, are you okay?” Peter asks.

“What? Yeah. Just, you know, a little winded--” Signal says, turning to face him. He freezes for a moment, looking around Peter in frank confusion.

“Can he see us?” Sam asks.

“I think he can,” Dr. Strange answers slowly.

“His eyes are following us,” Bucky says.

Peter tilts his head, clueless. “Are you sure you're okay?”

Signal pauses for a moment, then shakes his head, muttering under his breath. “I’m not doing the Ghostbusters thing tonight, I refuse.” He straightens up and looks at Peter. “Yeah, man, I’m fine. Pulling a double shift tonight, and I’m feeling it.”

Peter decides to politely ignore the ‘Ghostbusters’ comment. Technically, a normal human being wouldn’t be able to hear it anyway. “Oh. You want some food? You look like you could use a break.”

Signal pauses for a moment, obviously debating it, then shrugs and walks over to sit beside him. He perks up when he catches the scent of the food Peter hands him. “Is this from Omar and Sophie’s place?”

“Yeah, I work there now,” Peter says.

“Nice," Signal says, dropping down on the ledge beside Peter. "I guess I could take a lunch break.”

They eat in silence for a few moments. Signal demolishes his food in minutes, always looking at Peter from the corner of his eye.

“So, why is Gotham’s daytime superhero working the night shift?”

Signal sighs. “Because shit’s hit the fan in a bad way. Something’s happening in Metropolis, and some new crew has moved into town. They’re hitting all of us at once. It’s almost coordinated. B-man’s losing sleep over it. Oh, and Catwoman is back in town.”

Peter tilts his head, thinking. “Oh.”

“Plus, no one’s heard from Wonder Woman in weeks,” Signal adds. “That’s got everyone on edge. The League is losing it.”

“What?” Peter asks, straightening up. “Why? Where is she?”

An explosion sets off in the city. A big one, judging by the fireball that lights up the sky. Signal is on his feet in a heartbeat. “Shit. That was Arkham. Listen, I gotta go. And you--”

He turns to face Peter, freezes for a moment, then shakes his head. “Stay inside, all right? The city’s dangerous.”

He leaps off of the ledge and swings away into the night. It’s easier to trace his path. Peter watches him, disturbed, and then crawls down and heads back into the firehouse.

He doesn’t fall asleep for a very long time that night.

* * *

Days pass by and grow colder, so Peter upgrades his transit pass for bus use and starts to catch the bus outside the subway. The stop he needs is only a mile away from the school. The problem is that he has to sprint from the subway to the bus stop in order to catch it in time. Gotham's public transit is laughably inefficient. He’s starting to miss New York’s subway more and more by the day.

The driver is a big man, soft around the middle, with a dour expression almost permanently fixed on his face. Peter goes out of his way to leave the man alone. The only thing he says to the man is a quiet thank you on his way off the bus. It pays off. The man keeps the bus at his stop for an extra thirty seconds after a week or two, and Peter’s able to make the last leg of his trip in a warmer environment.

One day, when the autumn rain starts to come down hard, the bus driver stops him before he leaves.

"It's raining like hell out there, kid. You got an umbrella?" he asks. He pauses, takes another look at Peter. “Or a coat?”

"What? Oh, no, sir." Peter looks outside. "It's just a little rain. I'll be fine."

"Bullshit. You'll catch your death of cold out there," the man replies gruffly. He reaches over to some compartment in his cubicle and pulls out a brand new umbrella and a scarf. "Here. Take this."

Peter, startled, takes it. It's the first thing he's been given since the man and woman at the restaurant fed him. He's taken off guard. "Thank you. I'll, uh, bring it back tomorrow. Promise."

The bus driver watches him, frowning. "Just keep it, kid. Hurry up and get to class. The storm's gettin' worse and that thing won't save you from the hail."

* * *

He makes it inside, and he’s only half soaked. The school, sporting marble floors and polished wood halls, is chilly enough to keep him awake. That keeps him from catching a lecture or a snarky comment from his teachers, but his clothes never quite dry out. They’re damp throughout the day. They cheap out on the heat even in rich kid schools, apparently.

He suffers through it, and he manages just fine. But by lunch, something feels off. It isn’t his spider sense. It isn’t anything he can put a name to, not yet. He puzzles over it as the last class of the day comes to a close and the bell sounds off.

He doesn't realize what's wrong, why he feels so off, until he realizes he can see fully out of his left eye. He tests his eyesight, closing one, then the other while focusing on his thumb. There's an empty spot on his thumb when he looks at it with his left eye. Not darkness. Just a strange sort of staticy nothing. He sighs. An ocular migraine. Just what he needs.

This could be bad. He doesn’t have a support network in Gotham. He can’t text a 911 over to May. He can’t beg Karen to call Happy or Tony. He’s on his own. And he’s going to be fully blind and in excruciating pain within an hour, if he’s lucky. If he isn’t, it’ll hit him when he’s halfway home.

"You need to get somewhere dark and quiet immediately," Shuri says.

"Do you get these often?" Dr. Strange asks.

"Kid looks like he’s going to keel over," Bucky mutters.

Their words echo across his subconscious, and he winces, reflexively thinking at...someone. Them. Whoever that is. It's hard to focus. It’s hard to see.

Please be quiet, it hurts, he thinks.

They fall silent and still. Peter relaxes a tiny bit. He can still hear the electricity running through the walls and the thumping of a dozen heartbeats up and down the hall. He does his best to wind around them on his way to the exit.

He bumps into someone near the lockers, roughly shoving them into their locker as he stumbles past them.

"Hey, what the fuck!" a voice yells. The sound is almost enough to drop Peter to his knees. "What the fuck is your problem, new kid?"

"Shut up," Peter grits out.

"What?" They sound absolutely furious now. A warning flash of his spider senses kicks in and he deftly shifts away from them as they reach out to grab him. “Hey--”

“Not now,” Peter says shortly. He hates being rude, but god, he can’t handle hearing their voice right now. He shoves past them and heads towards the main doors at a trot.

He doesn’t hear anyone behind him. Which is good. The last thing he needs is to catch a beating from some rich kid because he bumped into them. He’ll find them later and apologize. Right now, he heads straight for the bus stop. Normally he would walk to the subway station, but today that’s out of the question.

* * *

The train is absolute torture. The blind spot in his left eye is gradually growing, and there’s a streak across his right eye now. He feels clammy and shaky. He’s sick enough that people on the subway become visibly concerned. He must look absolutely horrible if random Gothamites break through their infamous standoffishness to reach out to a stranger.

“You look like hell,” a man says beside him. He's tall, broad shouldered, and there's a streak of premature grey in his hair. Combined with the leather jacket and red hood, he looks intimidating as hell. There’s an air of restrained violence and brooding fury to the man. Normally Peter would avoid a bruiser like this, but the only open seat was next to the guy. If the guy knocks him unconscious, it’d be worth the concussion.

Peter, already reeling from the sound of the subway's brakes screeching beneath his feet, sways. "Migraine. Sorry. I won’t puke on you, promise."

The man is still for a moment, then pulls something out of his pocket. "Gimme your hand."

"What?"

"Just do it," the man retorts, annoyed.

Peter hesitates, but puts his hand out towards the man. He presses a pair of earplugs into Peter's palm.

"Put those in," the man says. "And hold still."

Peter stares at the earplugs dumbly, then quickly puts them in. They don't block all sound, but they block enough of it that Peter relaxes.

The man gently slides a pair of sunglasses over Peter's eyes. They're too big for him, but they work. Peter lets out a quiet sigh of relief when the train’s harsh lights are dimmed.

"Thanks," Peter says. The subway screeches to a halt, the hydraulics letting out a hiss of air. With the earplugs in, it’s almost bearable.

"Yeah, whatever," the man mutters, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket as he heads for the exit. "Just get home."

Peter plans to do exactly that. The subway is much more bearable with the earplugs and sunglasses.

Even with the earplugs and sunglasses, the sights, sounds, and smells of the city are almost too much. He crawls into the firehouse, leaves his backpack in the middle of the room, and crawls into his bed. He buries himself in blankets in an effort to block out the ambient noise of the city, whimpering when a truck blasts its horn on the street just outside the firehouse.

"Enough," a woman says, her voice thick with a Sokovian accent. She sounds close. Like she's right beside him.

Peter opens his eyes to try and find her. He sees a hand, glowing red, hovering above him. It reaches down and taps his forehead.

The pain washes away immediately, replaced by a bone deep exhaustion. Peter slumps in relief, closing his eyes.

When he opens them again, he’s in the Avengers Compound. The lights are dim, the windows are dark, and the only sound he can hear comes from the kitchen. Peter sits up from the couch, disoriented, and then lays back down when the room starts to tilt. He looks around, and realizes that he’s not alone.

“Rest,” Wanda Maximoff says to him. She looks worn down, grief stricken. There’s an air of sadness that hovers around her, thick enough to make his own heart clench. A casual wave of her hand lifts the blankets up and over him. “I made a safe place for both of us.”

“Oh,” he says, caught in a post-migraine brain fog. He snuggles down into the blankets and couch. “Thank you.”

Wanda doesn’t answer. She focuses on the kitchen, and specifically, the man inside the kitchen. It’s Vision, fussing over a meal and humming to himself. Peter remembers this; he had spent the night at the Compound, helping Vision perfect his cooking skills.

Wanda watches the memory with rapt attention.

Peter sleeps.

* * *

For a time, his life hits a shaky sort of equilibrium. He goes to school, does homework, snoops around the rougher part of town, picks up the odd shift at the restaurant for Omar and Sophia, and does his best to blend in. He still has a nagging feeling that he's not the only person to pop into this universe from his own; whenever he thinks about it, his spider senses kick up ever so slightly.

And through it all, he ponders a way to get home. His mind ticks away at it in the back of his mind, steady and constant, picking at theories, ideas, and experiments to test.

He keeps all of the promising ideas in a notebook, which isn't ideal, but it's all he has. If he was back home, he'd break into Tony's lab, spool up FRIDAY's lab settings and start flinging models around.

In Gotham, he doesn't even have a cell phone. He barely has a calculator.

One more roadblock among many. He can save up enough to buy electronics, but finding a place to build things will be difficult.

Well, that’s a problem for another time.

His savings grow. And he starts to make a few purchases with the cash. Better tools, cloth and leather, a sewing kit. Capsules. A first aid kit. Goggles.

It’s slow going, but he knew it would be from the start. He has time.

* * *

His day is going well until his physical science class. The last class of his day.

“Mr. Parker, meet me after class, please,” the teacher says, his tone flat, unimpressed, and bordering on belligerent.

Great, Peter thinks. Did he forget to turn in an assignment? “Uh, got it, sir.”

The teacher huffs, turns around, and begins his lecture. Peter frowns, baffled. He keeps his head down. He doesn’t bother anyone. What did he do wrong?

“Uh, got it, sir,” a sneering voice says behind him, followed by a paper ball bouncing off of his head.

Peter rolls his eyes and ignores it.

"Kids are the worst," Bucky mutters at the edge of his mind.

Peter focuses on the class, wondering what he could have possibly done to earn the professor’s ire. When the last bell sounds, the rest of the students get up and leave. A few of the larger boys--the ones sitting behind him--sneer at him on their way back.

What the hell is their problem, Peter wonders. He stays in his seat, waiting to be called to the front by the teacher. That doesn’t happen until the principal, a short man with a serious face and impeccable suit, strolls into the room.

“Mr. Parker. Up here,” the professor says.

Peter stands up, grabs his backpack, and walks up to the front desk, taking a seat near the teacher’s desk. “Is something wrong?”

“I wanted to discuss your test score, Mr. Parker. Did you know that you are the only student to get a perfect score on this test? That hasn’t happened since I began teaching at this academy ten years ago.”

Peter allows himself to relax. Okay. He can stammer through this just fine. “Oh. I thought I was in trouble--”

“You are,” the teacher says flatly, looking up at him. “A perfect score on this test is only possible if you’re a certifiable genius, which you are not. I don’t tolerate cheating. The principal is here to discuss ending your scholarship.”

“I---what?”

“You heard me. How did you do it? Cell phone? Did you break into my office to memorize the answers? Hm?”

Peter stares at him in disbelief, utterly dumbstruck.

An older voice-thought, as dry and as unimpressed as the teacher--he’s heard the other voices call this one Nick--says, “Did this man just accuse Stark's kid of cheating?”

“I think he did,” Shuri replies, just as unimpressed.

The principal clears his throat, drawing Peter’s eyes towards him. “Answer his questions please, Mr. Parker.”

“I didn’t cheat,” Peter says flatly.

The teacher scoffs. “Please. You? Getting a perfect score? Stop wasting my time. As I said, no one has gotten a perfect score in my class.”

“That says more about your failure to teach than anything else,” Peter snaps, his temper coming loose for the first time since he came to Gotham. Between the lack of sleep, the constant hunger, and the backbreaking work from his job on the weekend, it’s a surprise he’s managed to keep it as long as he has. “I don’t cheat.”

“No? Guess we’ll do this the hard way, then,” the teacher sneers. He pulls out a test from his desk and sets it down in front of Peter. “If you can get a perfect score on this test, I’ll be inclined to believe you, and I’ll withdraw my complaint. I’m sure a genius like yourself can handle this.”

Peter looks at the test. It’s far more difficult than the one he supposedly ‘cheated’ on; this is senior AP level physics that he hadn’t touched at Midtown. The questions are far more complex than what they’ve been studying, using concepts he hasn’t been taught in any school.

It’s a good thing he learned physics from Tony Stark.

“Fine. Give me a pen.”

“You’ll want a pencil for this--”

“No. Give me a pen. I don’t make mistakes, unlike you,” Peter says, letting his temper get the best of him.

The teacher scowls, but hands him a pen. “Roll up your sleeves. I want to make sure you don’t have anything stashed inside them. You have an hour starting from the moment you put your name on the test.”

Peter rolls up his sleeves and takes the pen. He starts the test and focuses on each problem, working methodically through each one using the tips and tricks Tony taught him during his internship days. He finishes it and sets the pen down.

There is not one scratched out answer on the paper.

“They didn’t even bother to make the test difficult,” Shuri sniffs.

“Thirty minutes? That’s awfully quick,” the teacher drawls, taking the test. “Let’s see how badly you failed.”

They sit in silence while the teacher grades the test. His self assured smirk slowly drops away as he goes down the paper. After fifteen minutes, he looks up at Peter, blinking in astonishment.

Peter stares back at him, defiant.

“Well?” the principal asks. “How did he do?”

“He, uh. He aced it. There isn’t one mistake,” the teacher says numbly. “I...but--”

“Well, then I see no reason why his scholarship should end,” the principal says easily. He looks at Peter. “Thank you for staying late to clear this up for us, Mr. Parker. You’re dismissed.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Peter says, rolling his sleeves down and snatching up his backpack. He shrugs it on and stalks down the hall out of the school.

He’s missed his bus; he’ll have to walk across town to get back to the fire station now.

Above him, the clouds rumble, and rain starts to fall. He growls in frustration, rubbing his eyes, and stalks down the street.

* * *

Unseen by Peter, the dusted walk with him.

"I don't get it," Star Lord says, frowning back at the school. "Why'd they do that? He’s not a bad kid. He does school stuff."

"Because he is different from them, and that is something they cannot bear," Loki answers. "The mentors will leave him be for now, but his peers will not. He's proven himself worthy to their instructors. They will take it as a threat."

"Sounds like you've lived that life," Shuri says.

"It isn't unfamiliar to me. The child should prepare himself.”

“It’s a little strange to hear you worry about the kid,” Nick Fury says.

Loki shoots a venomous look his way. “My wellbeing is unfortunately tied to this idiot child. His continued survival is to my benefit.”

“He can handle himself,” Bucky says idly, walking alongside Peter. He does that often, along with Shuri and Sam. "Kid’s a lot like Steve."

“Let’s hope that’s true,” Nick Fury says. “From what I’ve seen, Gotham could use a bit of red and blue.”

* * *

It’s late by the time he gets back to the firehouse. The sun has already gone down, and the air is growing colder by the minute. He’ll have to move fast if he intends to finish his homework before freezing. He grabs a couple of protein bars to snack on, and then casually leaps out of the second floor window to the alley below. He walks towards his usual spot and then freezes halfway.

Someone is lying in the street near the streetlight he uses for homework. A teenager, wearing a red and black outfit. It takes a moment for Peter to recognize the costume, but when he does, his stomach drops. Red Robin, bleeding and groaning in pain, tries to stand, slips, and falls again.

Peter can hear distant, angry voices growing closer. He drops his backpack at the base of the streetlight, grabs Red Robin, and lifts him up. The hero winces, hissing in pain, and tries to move away from him, clearly half conscious.

“Easy,” Peter hisses back. “I need to hide you. You can trust me.”

Red Robin freezes for a moment, then nods before letting his head go slack. He’s coming in and out of consciousness, and that has Peter worried. He Red Robin into a fireman’s carry across his shoulders. He jogs over to a nearby fire escape, climbing up the side of the rattling, metal stairs as quickly as he can. He sets him down on one of the landings overlooking the street, and briefly checks the fallen hero. Red Robin hisses when he prods his side, gripping his wrist, and glaring warily. His eyes are still hazy, but they’re starting to focus on him more.

"Okay, it's bad, but not life threatening. I think you cracked a rib,” Peter says. “That sucks, but you'll be okay as long as you tape them up. And, you know, avoid leaping off of buildings for awhile. Trust me on that one.”

Red Robin says nothing, but he does squint at Peter, tilting his head curiously.

The angry voices around the corner grow louder, drawing nearer. Peter looks over his shoulder. "Just, stay here. I'll make sure they don't find you. Okay? Stay awake. I think you might have a concussion, too."

He starts down the fire escape before Red Robin can respond, jumping down the last two flights before making his way back to the streetlight and opening his backpack. He starts to pull out his homework, and pretends to focus on it when a crowd of furious men in cheap suits storm up to him.

Four pairs of feet edge into his periphery, but Peter can sense at least five others nearby. Some are going up and down alleys, but most are focused on him. None of them are heading towards Red Robin. Good.

"Hey, kid," a man growls. "What the fuck are you doing? It's the middle of the goddamn night."

"Homework," Peter says, bored and resigned. "What are you doing?"

"What the fuck are you doing homework in the street for?"

"Because my home doesn't have electricity."

That sets off a round of murmurs, a few scoffs, and someone chuckling low and calling him an orphan. Which is true, but also rude and kind of baffling as far as insults go. Even Flash’s ‘Penis Parker’ jibes are better, and that’s truly saying something.

"You seen anyone around here?"

"Just you,” Peter says, half paying attention. Someone looms over him and blocks out the light he’s using to read through his textbook. “Hey, move, you're in my light."

"There's blood next to you."

"There's blood all over the street," Peter retorts. "So what?"

There's a brief silence and then Peter is grabbed and hauled to his feet. His books and homework are kicked out of his hands and the man to his right slugs him right across his jaw. Before he can recover, the man to his left drives his fist into Peter's left eye hard enough for stars to appear.

Peter's left standing between them, reeling. If the men weren't holding him up, he'd be on the ground.

"I don't like being lied to. That’s blood’s fresh," the man growls. He pulls a knife out of his pocket and points it at Peter threateningly. "If you're covering for that freak..."

"Dude, I'm literally just trying to do my homework," Peter mumbles. He can sense Red Robin behind him, watching from the fire escape above. He hopes the guy is smart enough to stay hidden. He’s hungry, and while he can probably handle this group of thugs, he’ll be down for awhile trying to recover. "I don't pay attention to the street. People think you're trying to get into their business. It just causes trouble."

The man holding the knife considers Peter's words for a long moment. Finally, he scoffs, putting the knife away and motioning towards the two men holding Peter up. They drop him.

Peter lands on his hands and knees with a grunt. He starts to stand, but a swift kick to his ribs sends him sprawling across the sidewalk. The men laugh, and one kicks his text book into a puddle as they leave, walking down the street and murmuring about where to search next. Peter waits until they turn the corner before standing up and rescuing his book.

It's utterly soaked. Ruined. He sighs. "Great. That's a fine I'm not looking forward to."

"You all right?" a quiet, slightly breathless voice asks from behind him.

Peter starts, turning around and finding himself face to face with the Red Robin. "What? Yeah. How'd you sneak up on me like that?"

"I move quietly," Red Robin says. He frowns. "Thank you. For saving me."

"No problem. You gonna be alright? Cracked ribs suck."

"It's nothing I haven't dealt with before," he answers. "What about you?"

"I've taken way harder punches back home. That was nothing," Peter says, half amused.

He doesn't realize how bad that sounds until Red Robin's frown deepens, turning a touch sad. "Yeah, that doesn't make me feel any better." He looks Peter over, then looks at his notebook. "Gotham Prep, huh?"

"I got lucky with a Wayne scholarship. It's, uh, my one chance, you know?"

Red Robin tilts his head, nodding slowly. "Yeah. I know." He pauses, as if debating something, then shakes his head. "I better go. Stay safe, all right? Find a better place to do homework. The city library is open later than you think. You should study there."

That hadn't occurred to Peter. He blinks, nodding. "Yeah. Okay."

Red Robin gives him another lingering, curious look before ducking into a nearby alley and disappearing into the darkness.

Well, that was exciting. Peter reaches up and touches his eye, then winces. Hopefully that heals overnight. The last thing he needs is to show up at school with a black eye.

Speaking of school, he still needs to do his homework. Sighing, Peter grabs his ruined book and his notebook. It won’t take long.

* * *

After the test debacle, the professors and teachers shift their tone, just a tad. They stop throwing 'gotcha' questions at Peter, content with the knowledge that he's capable of keeping up academically, if nothing else.

The same cannot be said for his social life.

"Please take your seats-- Edison Bright, is there a problem?"

"Yeah, I'm not sitting next to the charity case anymore. He's bringing down the mood. Looks like he 'fell down some stairs' last night, and I'm sick of seeing his face."

That brings the chatter in the classroom to a halt. The professor sighs. "Sit down, Edison."

Peter, caught completely off guard, stares at the guy. It takes him a moment to recognize the voice. This is the kid he ran into that day his migraine kicked in. That explains a few things.

"No way. My father doesn't pay my tuition for me to sit next to his kind. Half of the reason I’m here is to network. What am I going to get out of networking with him?"

Wow, what a dick, Peter thinks. His sentiment is shared with a few others in the classroom, judging by their expressions, but no one comes to his defense. Most just aim sour looks at Edison and then carefully avoid Peter’s eyes. They may not like him, but they’re not going to turn on one of their own in Peter's defense.

Typical.

There’s a lengthy pause as the professor visibly weighs between standing up to Edison’s bullying and not angering the son of a wealthy donor and alumni. Finally, he sighs.

"Will someone please trade seats with Mr. Bright?"

A boy in the front row raises his hand. "I will."

"Thank you, Tim," the professor says, audibly relieved. He speaks above the sound of Tim and Edison trading desks and pointedly makes no comment when Edison roughly kicks Peter’s desk on his way by. "If you'll all please turn to page twenty-five--"

“Dick,” Bucky mutters.

The lecture drones on, no different than any other English class he's had. Peter is half paying attention, half doodling, unaware of the sharp scrutiny of Tim beside him.