Dark Matter

Peter sits at his desk in the far corner of the classroom. The other students chat quietly amongst themselves, subdued by the heavy rain ticking against the classroom windows and the chill draft seeping from the hallway. He’s frowning at nothing, idly bouncing a knee up and down, distracted. He’s been distracted for most of the day, but during home room, he has time to really think about what happened last night.

He should have sensed Red Hood in that alley, but his spider senses never went off. Why? The guy had a gun pointed at his head. Normally that sets his nerves on fire and makes him twitchy and jumpy on instinct. But not with Red Hood, a vigilante renowned for short tempers and a brutal fighting style. And then Peter’s temper setting off during their conversation. That’s the second time it’s happened. He’s lucky his fuse hasn’t gone off during patrol. If he’d tried to clear out that clown patrol with his temper boiling, they’d be cleaning creepy clown teeth out of the crevices of that warehouse for the next three months.

“Someone’s thinking extra hard today,” Tim says, sitting down beside him. He has two styrofoam cups in his hands with the school’s insignia printed across them. He sets one down in front of Peter. Dark circles hang beneath his eyes, and he looks paler than usual, as if he’s fighting off an illness. “Here.”

Peter blinks, sitting up in his seat. "What's this?"

"Hot chocolate. You look cold."

He is cold. He’s been cold since last night, in fact. Autumn is clinging on by the skin of its teeth during the day, but winter seeps in during the late hours of the night. His shelter isn’t much defense against the Gotham wind. And that’s when he’s not swinging right through a rain cloud. Peter takes the hot chocolate gratefully.

“Thanks,” he says, wrapping his hands around the steaming styrofoam cup. He soaks in the warmth for a bit, then looks around. “Where’s Duke?”

“On his way,” Tim says, stirring his coffee. His hands shake slightly. Peter can practically smell the fever and sickness coming off of him in waves. “It’s Parent-Teacher night next week. Duke and I had to submit a form and let the school know our Dad can’t make it. I think Steph’s doing the same thing.”

Peter freezes. “Parent-Teacher night?”

“Yeah, my dad’s out of town and I’m definitely not asking my older brothers to come,” Tim says. He pauses to take a deep drink of his coffee. “What about yours?”

“Uh, I’m not sure,” Peter says hesitatingly. “Does the school really care that much if a parent skips it?”

Tim thinks, squinting at the Smartboard hanging on the wall behind the teacher’s desk. “Maybe. I think it’s a requirement of the Wayne scholarship. Something about making sure kids who get it have a stable and safe home life.”

Shit. Of course it is. He should’ve read the fine print. “Huh.”

“You could always put on a cheap moustache and grab some stilts and pretend to be Tony,” Sam says idly.

Not helping, Sam.

“Did he just think at you?” Bucky asks.

“It probably won’t take very long, if he’s super busy. Your test scores are through the roof. He’d be in and out in half an hour, at most,” Tim says.

“Yeah, I’ll, uh. I’ll mention that to him,” Peter says.

Tim frowns, goes silent for a moment, and starts to say something when Duke walks into the classroom. He sets his books on the desk beside Peter and sighs.

“Dude, Mrs. Crabapple is ruthless with that paperwork,” he says. He pulls his arm out of his sling with a sigh and sets his cast on Peter’s desk. Peter picks up his pen and idly starts to doodle on his cast. There are a number of crossed out pictures already. “She had me fill it out three times. Steph is arguing with her about her form right now.”

“Are you supposed to do that?” Tim asks, nodding to Duke’s cast.

“I dunno, are you supposed to run with bruised ribs?” Duke retorts, quirking a brow.

“Not really,” Peter says, idly drawing Captain America’s shield and Thor’s hammer on Duke’s cast. “You can make the wound worse, and usually bruised ribs end up being cracked ribs. I actually got pneumonia that way once.”

Duke and Tim pause at that. Peter hears someone sigh behind him. It sounds like Bucky.

“So, yeah, your Dad’s going to come to that Parent-Teacher conference, right?” Tim asks idly.

* * *

BATCHAT

Tim (05:25pm): Barbara, please.

Barbara (05:26pm): Absolutely not.

Tim (05:27pm): if you don’t go, then I’ll have to ask Dick and I’d rather not

Dick (05:28pm): Hurtful.

Jason (0529pm): What’s the replacement talking about?

Duke (05:30pm): Parent/Teacher night at school. Bruce is going to be out of town, so Tim can’t bother him and ask him to look for Peter’s parents.

Tim (05:31pm): Barbara is being uncharacteristically unhelpful.

Jason (05:32pm): Good. Don’t help the twerp.

Jason (05:33pm): Also Cass and Steph are covering my patrol tonight. I’m running with Spider-Man.

Barbara (05:34pm): Don’t forget his gift.

Jason (05:35pm): He’ll get it when he earns it.

* * *

Peter swings over to Wayne Memorial Plaza, landing on top of a long dried out fountain sculpture for a moment before dropping to the ground. The plaza is empty, abandoned to the elements, with empty and boarded up shops lining the cracked bricks lining the ground. It’s surprisingly well lit for a place so desolate; the lights here are styled after Victorian gas lanterns, though their bulbs are LEDs rather than flickering flames. A few of them flicker regardless, though the effect is less ‘flamelike’ and more ‘dilapidated horror movie set.’ This place was once beautiful, and it’s easy to see how it could still be, despite the dirt, the trash, the graffiti, and the other detritus that seems to wash across every empty building that exists in a city. The drizzling rain just adds to the feeling of abandonment and loss. Peter’s never known a city that can mourn.

“Sorry,” Mantis whispers. “I think you’re picking up some of my thoughts.”

Maybe. But it really does feel---

Something moves in the dark behind him. His senses don’t trigger, but he hears the rustle of cloth, and a shift in the wind. He drops low, barely ducking out of the way of Red Hood’s sucker punch in time. He can feel the swish of air just above his head, and rolls back and away, relying on hard won instinct to carry him away from danger and back onto his feet. He pops back up in a fighting stance across from Red Hood. If he stopped to think about it, he’d realize he’s just matched one of Black Panther’s elegant combat rolls point for point.

Red Hood hops back and gives himself a little bit of distance, assuming a boxer’s stance that Peter’s seen cage fighters use on TV. He tilts his head. “Better than last night. Let’s see if you can keep that up.”

No pleasant exchanges then. Peter’s trained before with Tony, Rhodey, and even Vision every now and then. But all three of them had held back when fighting him in the comfort of the Avengers Compound, testing his reflexes, teaching him a few moves here and there. None had been capable of or willing to test his full limits. Red Hood does not share that philosophy. He comes at Peter hard and fast, keeping up his momentum and shifting from a high punch to a low, sweeping kick aimed at Peter’s head.

Peter leaps back and away, mimicking a move the Winter Soldier had once used to avoid a crippling blow from Steve Rogers. His senses still aren’t setting off, and that’s a problem. Peter’s fighting style is all instinct. Good instinct, with hard won experience, but that won’t get him very far with someone like Red Hood, who fights with as much brutal cunning as Black Widow. The two circle one another in the abandoned plaza.

“So, I have a question,” Peter says, panting a bit. He’s a bit surprised by that; he hasn’t had to put this much effort into a fight in a long time. “What is this place?”

“This is what’s left of the last initiative to clean up Crime Alley and clear up its reputation,” Red Hood says, and then he dives in close, throwing a few high punches as a feint before ducking down to try and drive his fist into Peter’s stomach. Peter dodges all three moves, and he grunts in approval. “It was a joint effort from the Wayne Foundation and the former mayor. They poured in millions of dollars and thousands of man hours to clean up this area and fix the district’s reputation. Draw in more businesses, more regular people, start over with a clean slate and prove it can be redeemed. Bruce Wayne practically went on the campaign trail talking it up.”

This last is said in a low growl, and Red Hood closes in again. Another kick, and high punch, and Peter dodges both. Swerving over and around Red Hood’s strikes like a snake. He doesn’t remember learning this move, but he does remember seeing Loki move like it once in a dream. “It looks like a bomb went off here.”

“You can’t stay on the defensive forever,” Bucky says. “Fight back!”

He knows. He has this. Just give him a minute; it’s hard to fight without his spider senses. He didn’t even know he was that reliant on it, and it's disturbing how hard it is to fight when he doesn’t have that power to fall back on. He can’t go full out in this fight anyway. Even tired and starving, Peter could seriously hurt Red Hood if he had the mind to.

“It did,” Red Hood says flatly. “The three biggest crime lords in the city all tried to stake a claim on the new business district, and it erupted into a three way gang war between Black Mask, Two-Face, and the Penguin.”

“Those cannot be real people,” Quill mutters.

Even Peter’s thrown off by those names. And that momentary distraction is all Red Hood needs to switch tactics. He latches on Peter’s arm, and turns, throwing him over his shoulder in a perfectly executed throw and dropping him hard against the brick floor of the plaza.

Peter grunts, then rolls away from Red Hood, barely dodging a stomp aimed at his chest. He pops back onto his feet and aims a quick punch at Red Hood. To his shock, it actually hits, and it hits Red Hood hard enough to knock the man back on his heels for a moment.

But only for a moment. Peter may have left a fist sized bruise on the man’s chest, but it doesn’t slow him down at all. Their back and forth turns into a boxing match; a game of back and forth between them. Red Hood isn’t trying to win this fight, he’s trying to see how Peter fights.

“What happened?” Peter asks, sidestepping an uppercut.

“The usual,” Red Hood says. He blocks a series of strikes from Peter. “A gang war that went from cold to hot in the space of a few hours. A shootout started at the kid’s playground, and ended with a car bomb being driven into the restaurant behind me.”

The restaurant in question is a half collapsed pile of rubble. Peter can see scorch marks along the facade of the building that’s still standing. There are other, darker stains on the ground and walls that Peter can easily guess at; bodies that have been burned that badly tend to leave marks of their own. There are at least two dozen that he can see. When he spares a glance at the children’s playground, he sees more of those stains. Not all of them are as large as they should be, and that realization sickens and infuriates him in equal measure.

“So my question to you is this,” Red Hood says, suddenly switching out of his boxing stance to charge Peter and fling him over his shoulder again. Peter catches his balance mid air this time and lands lightly on his feet before jumping away. “How long do you think you’ll last here? How long do you think that little playground you cleaned up will stay clean?”

“As long as I’m around,” Peter retorts. He’s on the defensive again, and his frustration is starting to grow. Between his useless spider sense, holding back his enhanced strength so he doesn’t actually hurt Red Hood, and the knowledge of what happened here, he’s fighting a losing battle against the green tinged rage simmering somewhere inside him.

“It’ll last until the first gang in the district sees it and decides to fuck it up and send a message to you and the people who live in those apartments,” Red Hood says. He drives the point home with a rabbit quick punch to Peter’s face. “And you’ll just be another in a long line of failures when it comes to Crime Alley. I give it a month, tops.”

Peter is getting really sick of Red Hood’s snarky comments. His temper rises in a flash, and he whirls to face Red Hood, ducking under the man's sucker punch. He draws his arm back, preparing an uppercut with his full strength behind it--

"Stop!" T'Challa says. He doesn’t yell; he simply places every bit of royal authority into his voice. It's a tone not meant to be ignored.

Peter stops. Red Hood doesn't. He shifts from his punch to a knee to Peter’s stomach. It knocks the wind out of him and drops him to his knees. He coughs, gasping for breath, the anger knocked clean out of him. Red Hood steps back, looking around as if he’s just heard someone speak before focusing on Peter.

"What the hell just happened? You stopped halfway through that punch," Red Hood says. He’s panting for breath himself, his arms and face are covered in a thin sheen of sweat. Peter isn’t the only one who’s putting in work tonight, at least.

"I, uh. I got mad," Peter admits breathlessly.

Red Hood stares at him, confused. He offers Peter a hand up, grasping his forearm and hauling him to his feet. "So? I'm always pissed. Use it. You can do a lot with it."

"Yeah, that isn't a good idea," Peter says. “You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.”

Instead of the eye roll and ‘Yeah, sure, whatever, Hulk,’ that statement would get him back in his own universe, he gets an eye roll and a vaguely disappointed sigh. “You’re one of those, then.”

“Those?” Peter asks.

Red Hood waves a hand at him. “Nevermind. Let’s pack it in for the night. Follow me.”

He pulls a grappling hook gun out from under his jacket, aims it at the nearest building, and then swings away. Peter pauses to give the wrecked district one last look before following on his webs.

* * *

Red Hood swings deeper into Crime Alley, hopping down onto a roof overlooking the playground. Peter follows his lead, dropping down beside him. Red Hood lands silently, which is a feat for someone as large and burly as he is. Peter’s a bit jealous of that. The playground below is well lit. It's a bright candle against the darkness that covers most of the block, standing out against it almost defiantly.

"Quiz time. What are you going to do when they destroy that?" Red Hood asks, pointing at the playground.

Peter crouches down, considers the playground, then looks up to give Red Hood a baffled look. "You really think they'll tear up some random playground? There’s no money in this. There’s nothing to be gained from tearing it down."

"I know they will,” Red Hood says. He doesn’t sound happy about it; just resigned and bitter. “This is Crime Alley, kid. Nothing good stays here for long. One day someone's going to wreck their car on it, or set it on fire, or even blow it up. Maybe not on purpose, but it'll happen. What will you do?"

"Fix it."

"And if they do it again?"

"Fix it again," Peter says firmly. "I get that things suck here. Trust me, I can see it. But you have to start somewhere and nothing worth doing is easy."

"So you'll wage a one spider war against all this?" Red Hood asks, spreading his arm out towards the rest of Crime Alley riddled with urban blight. "Just you against the night?"

"Yes," Peter answers simply.

"Why?"

"Because the people here deserve it. Because it's working, at least a little. And because I can. And if you can help someone, you need to help them,” Peter says. “I can do this, so I will. I know it won’t solve every problem, I know it probably won’t help most problems here. But it’s helping a little, and that makes it worth doing.”

Red Hood stares at him for a long moment, then lets out a derisive snort. "You actually believe that."

Peter shrugs. He’s stated his piece, and he does believe it. He always has.

After a few moments, Red Hood sits down on the ledge beside him and watches the cars below pass them. Another minute passes, and he says, "For the record, I hope you’re right. And hey, I want you to tell me if I'm going too hard at this. On you."

Peter turns to face him, tilting his head.

"It's just, I don't want you to get in over your head like I did. I know it sounds like I don’t believe it, but you've done a lot of good in the Alley. Gotham has a way of ruining good things more often than not, and I don’t want some rookie suit getting caught up in that like I did."

"It's definitely different from what I'm used to," Peter admits. "But I can’t sit back and do nothing."

Red Hood watches him for a moment, before punching his shoulder. It’s a friendly gesture, and a little awkward. "I get it. From now on, you don't do it alone, all right? Us Crime Alley guys gotta stick together. That’s one of the rules we play by here: no matter how you feel or what you think, you’re not in this alone anymore."

“Yeah. All right,” Peter grins, rubbing the back of his neck. Red Hood nods, satisfied, and then falls silent again. Peter watches him from the corner of his eye and finally asks, "Hey. How'd you meet Batman?"

"I stole the tires off of the Batmobile when I was nine."

"No way."

"Sure did. How'd you meet Iron Man?"

"At a science expo. A bunch of homicidal robots tried to kill me. He saved my life."

"Huh. You know, I haven't heard of that guy. He must be pretty small time."

Peter grins at the thought of Tony overhearing that remark. "I would pay you five real American dollars for you to say that to his face."

“You’re on,” Red Hood says. “If I ever meet Iron Man, I’ll call him a small time suit to his face.”

“You’re serious.”

“You have no idea what I’d do for five dollars, kid,” Red Hood says. He pushes himself back onto his feet and cracks his neck. “Class time’s over, spider-twerp. Come back tomorrow. Same place.”

Peter tilts his head and nods. Red Hood gives him a lazy salute before leaping off of the building and into the darkness below. Seconds later, he hears a grappling hook deploy, and the sound of someone swinging into the night. Peter sits on the roof alone, sore and shaken and lost in his own thoughts.

* * *

BATCHAT

Dick (11:22pm): How’d it go?

Jason (11:23pm): He’s got the instinct, he just needs the practice. And his fighting style is a complete mess. It's a big jumble of a bunch of different styles that don’t really work together.

Jason (11:24pm): But he’s got my seal of approval. I’m not that big on this teaching shit, though. My style of fighting doesn’t match his. He needs someone else to give him the finer points.

Steph (11:26pm): Cass and I can swing by tomorrow.

Jason (11:27pm): Sounds good. Duke and Tim can go next.

Duke (11:28pm): not happening. Alfred’s grounded us both.

Jason (11:29pm): The fuck for?

Duke (11:30pm): Tim went to school with a raging chest cold. A coughing fit messed up his ribs again.

Duke (11:31pm): also my arm is still broken, how the hell am I supposed to fight some weird spider-person with one arm?

Jason (11:32pm): That sounds like quitter talk to me. Grow up, Duke.

Dick (11:33pm): If Spider-Man still needs the training or help, I’ll swing by after Steph and Cass.

Dick (11:34pm): I think our styles would work pretty well together. He already moves like a gymnast.

Jason (11:35pm): Then we have a plan. Good. Any word from B?

Barbara (11:36pm): None yet. I’ll keep you guys posted if I hear anything.