Dark Matter

BATCHAT

Dick (06:03am): I’m calling it. Spider-Man was a no show tonight.

Barbara (06:04am): He probably forgot to turn on his headset. Or deliberately avoided it. We can still track him through the cell towers in the city if it’s on and he knows that.

Barbara (06:05am): And we’ve already seen how paranoid he is about being tracked. Avoiding Batman and then destroying the tracker Bruce put on his headset.

Jason (06:07am): He’s not going to trust easily. He’s from Crime Alley.

Dick (06:08am): I’ll try to find him tonight.

Barbara (06:09am): Afraid not. Bruce is going to pay him a visit tonight.

Barbara (06:10am): You missed your shot this week, Dick.

Dick (06:12am): I thought Bruce was out of town?

Barbara (06:13am): He’s back. Dad called him for help. Something big is happening in the underworld.

Tim (06:14am): which means he still can't make it for parent-teacher night, probably.

Barbara (06:15am): Afraid not, Tim.

* * *

The morning starts cold, dreary, and carries with it the first true winter wind of the season. Peter wakes up cold, takes a freezing cold shower, and doesn’t warm up fully until he reaches school. He stuffs bunched up plastic grocery bags into his pockets for the extra insulation, and is mildly surprised by how well it works. Gotham Prep uniforms are ‘all season’ clothes which means they aren’t particularly comfortable in any given season; too drafty in winter, and too stuffy in summer.

Peter drops his books onto his desk and plants himself in his chair with a heavy sigh. Tim waves at him, but doesn't look up from his research; he's laser focused on his current project. Duke smiles at Peter.

“Hey, Peter. How’d the date go?” Duke asks.

Peter pauses for a moment. Finally, he says, “Technically, it’s not the worst date I’ve ever had.”

Duke winces. “Ouch. That bad?”

“Yeah, kinda. Felicia’s nice, but...” Peter trails off, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s, uh, complicated.”

“How did you manage to form a complicated relationship with someone over the course of one date?” Tim asks, looking up from his research. There’s no bite to his words, just genuine curiosity.

“Talent,” Peter replies with a helpless shrug. “I’m not exactly the best when it comes to dating. Or talking.” He pauses for a moment. “Or people.”

“Too bad,” Duke says. “Steph thought you guys were cute together.”

“What?”

“She was at the park with Cass last night,” Tim says. “She said she saw you two walking together.”

“Huh,” Peter says. “I didn’t see her.”

The first bell sounds off. The teacher, half asleep up until that moment, startles awake and starts to speak as if he had been awake the entire time.

“Don’t forget, guys, we have a half day on Friday,” the teacher says. An older gentleman, with a thick Louisiana drawl, it takes Peter a moment to fully understand him. “We’ve got the dreaded parent-teacher conferences that night. Mr. Parker, I still don’t have an appointment with Mr. Stark.”

Crap. “Ah, yeah, sorry. I’ll remind him tonight.”

Which should be interesting, since Tony Stark isn’t even in this universe. Fortunately, he still has three days to come up with something. Whatever that ends up being.

* * *

BATCHAT

Tim (09:21am): so what are you doing on Friday night, Dick

Dick (09:22am): Tim, it is day time, I am trying to sleep.

Tim (09:23am): and I'll let you sleep when I get the answer I want

Tim (09:24am): hey, unrelated to anything, does anyone want to see Dick’s disco and mullet phase? I found this absolute treasure trove of pics

Barbara (09:25am): I do

Steph (09:25am): yes, absolutely

Duke (09:25am): lmao his what?

Jason (09:25am): Send it right now and someone give me Bruce’s credit card. There’s a billboard for rent in Crime Alley that needs a new star.

Tim (09:26am): your move, Grayson

Dick (09:26am): God, FINE, I’ll come to your parent-teacher conference, Tim. But only if you promise to destroy those pictures.

Tim (09:27am): it's been a pleasure doing business with you.

Dick (09:27am): I hate all of you.

* * *

School is school, and lunch is still undeniably the best part of it. Peter sits down across from Duke and nods to his cast.

“How much longer do you have to wear that thing?” he asks, pulling out his pen. He starts to add yet another series of doodles to the cast. An arc reactor, Falcon’s wings, Dr. Strange’s cloak friend.

Duke shrugs, clearly amused by Peter’s doodles. He shifts his arm closer so Peter can reach it easier. “It’s healing better than the doctor expected. Two more weeks, and then I get to do physical therapy for a couple of months afterward.”

“You’ll lose your favorite canvas in a couple of weeks,” Tim remarks. His voice is finally losing that gravelly tone that comes with a bad cold, and the bags under his eyes seem lighter than usual.

“I’ll start over in your overpriced notebooks then,” Peter replies.

Tim narrows his eyes at Peter. “Touch my notebooks and we’re going to fight, Parker.”

Peter smirks. “I’m definitely gonna win that fight.”

Tim quirks a brow at him. “Oh, are you?”

“You eat kale chips and tiny cucumber sandwiches, Tim. Rule of Cool means I’ve already won,” Peter declares, capping off his doodling and turning to his lunch.

“He’s got you there,” Duke says helpfully. When Tim narrows his eyes at him, Duke only grins.

Gentle, feminine laughter nearby grabs Peter’s attention. He turns and finds Steph and Felicia chatting together like old friends, walking towards their table with their own trays. Steph sits down next to Tim, lightly bumping him with her hip to get him to scoot over. Felicia sits beside Duke, facing Peter. She gives him a quick wink.

And suddenly he’s very worried. She knows who he is. She could tell the entire school, or the city---

“And who would believe her?” Fury asks.

That---is an amazing point, actually.

Duke blinks up from his lunch, frowning at some point behind Peter.

She nudges him with her foot under the table. “Hey, you. I had fun last night. We should do that again sometime.”

Peter stares at her blankly until Tim gently nudges him with an elbow and breaks him free of the shocked expression that’s clearly on his face. “Oh, uh. Yeah! Of course.”

She smiles at him sweetly, winks, and then turns to talk to Stephanie, leaning across the table. Steph grins at Peter briefly.

Tim leans in and murmurs, “Guess it’s not as complicated as you thought.”

Except it kind of is. Felicia’s more interested in going home than going on any kind of a date. Not that he blames her, of course; if he hadn’t seen the Guardians turn to dust, he’d be feral over the idea of getting back home to May. He started out that way when he first got to Gotham, but he’s less eager now.

Peter shrugs back at Tim. And tears his uniform blazer at the shoulder seam. Great. “Aw, crap.”

"You should talk to Tony about that," Felicia says idly, and much to Peter’s absolute horror. This is somehow worse than having her blurt out his secret identity to the world. "He can afford to buy you a new one. Or a thousand."

Peter sighs. "Yeah, well, he's out of town. I’ll handle it myself after school today."

"Oh? Where’d he go? Usually I hear about that sort of thing," Felicia asks, perfectly innocent. He’s tempted to throw a pen at her. Sure, she’d dodge it and probably fling it right back at his face, but still. The temptation is there.

"Yeah. Business trip." Why is she doing this to him?

"But he has a phone," Felicia continues.

"And I don't."

"Your dad skipped town for a fancy business trip and didn't bother giving you a phone?" Steph asks, tilting her head.

"He doesn’t know it’s broken or he would’ve flown back and thrown one at me,” Peter says irritably, and then he leans in to whisper to Felicia, too low for anyone else to hear, “Why are you the way that you are?”

"I can’t get home if you’re starving to death on the streets. Learn to ask for help," she whispers back.

He'd sooner learn to walk on water. And only partly out of pigheaded spite.

Tim, Duke, and Steph all share one of those looks they often do when they’re together, as if they’re having some kind of silent, telepathic conversation with one another. Peter starts to respond, but is saved, quite literally, by the bell. He sighs, grabs his tray and leaves the table completely, annoyed.

* * *

BATCHAT

Duke (12:31pm): that was weird

Tim (12:31pm): very.

Steph (12:32pm): is Peter okay? I feel like he just went through a whole spectrum of emotions near Felicia during lunch

Tim (12:33pm): he’s okay. Back to drawing on Duke’s cast.

Steph (12:33pm): oh, good

Duke (12:34pm): sorry, couldn’t add anything after that message.

Duke (12:35pm): i was talking about his ghosts

Duke (12:36pm): one talked about a ‘crime syndicate’ the other day, and one said, verbatim, ‘and who would believe her?’

Tim (12:36pm): i keep forgetting our friend is deeply haunted

Steph (12:37pm): are his ghosts evil?

Duke (12:38pm): the only one I can see clearly is Sam and only every now and then

Duke (12:39pm): i know he isn’t evil

Duke (12:40pm): the rest? Dunno

* * *

Peter is antsy and fidgety for the rest of the day. He needs to figure something out for that damn parent-teacher conference, and he needs to figure it out now. It’s a requirement for his scholarship, and he can’t afford to get kicked out of school or lose the stipend that comes with it. Not now. He considers the problem during the last half of the day, half hearing the teachers, and only occasionally joking with Tim or Duke.

He could ask Lou to stand in. He might do it. Peter considers going that route and immediately tosses it out. He doesn’t want to drag anyone into a web of lies of his own design, especially not someone who would feel obligated to lie on his behalf. That doesn’t feel right. It’s too...transactional. Peter didn't save Lou's life just to use him as a pawn in some scheme. That's not his style.

“Unless your style is starving in the streets, I suggest you figure it out,” Loki remarks dryly.

Shut up, he’s thinking.

The final bell rings. Peter packs his things, and all but flees the school.

Maybe a night of patrol will clear things up.

* * *

BATCHAT

Tim (03:02pm): i think Felicia knows something about Peter

Tim (03:03pm): i’m going to try and talk with her after class

* * *

Felicia knew it was coming, but she’s still mildly startled when she looks up from her locker and finds herself the sole focus of Tim Drake, Duke Thomas, and Stephanie Brown. She looks at each of them for a moment, measuring them the way she measures everyone, then goes back to her books.

“You know Peter’s dad?” Tim asks.

“Everyone in New York knows Tony Stark,” Felicia replies. “That goes double for anyone in Queens.”

Tim pauses. “Is he a good man?”

Felicia hesitates. That’s a loaded question. She knows what Peter’s answer would be, of course, and he might even be right. But Tony Stark is a complicated subject and a controversial one at that, and he sits at the heart of so many different issues back home that it’s almost ridiculous.

“He is to Peter,” Felicia says finally. “And he’s trying to be better. He is better, if you want a more objective opinion. Personally, I still think he’s kind of an asshole. No one that self obsessed ever becomes tolerable, in my experience.”

Well, she’s definitely not being fair in that regard. She doesn’t entirely care. Sure, everyone that works for his company seems happy, healthy, and glad to be there, but that somehow irks her more.

“Where is he?" Duke asks. "Peter doesn’t talk about him much, and it doesn’t seem like he’s really around.”

“He really is out of town. Which also isn’t surprising," Felicia says after a moment. She's interested in dropping hints for now. If she outright tells them Peter is alone, she'll lose him completely. She doesn't want that; she needs him to find a way home for them both. And she needs that connection to home that comes from talking with him.

“Peter was quick to defend him earlier,” Tim says.

“Tony is his personal hero.” Felicia pauses, then admits, “He’s a hero to a lot of people, really. I’m not being fair to him, but I also didn’t grow up with Tony Stark coming to my rescue at a moment’s notice.”

“You're saying his name like we should know it,” Duke points out.

“Where we’re from, it’d be weird if you didn’t," Felicia says.

“When was the last time Peter saw him?” Tim asks.

“I’m not sure.” Not technically true; she knows Iron Man followed Spider-Man up into that spaceship in spring back in their universe. She can’t just say ‘probably May’ without opening herself up to more questions.

Tim seems to realize she’s lying. His eyes narrow slightly.

“So, why isn’t he here?” Duke asks.

Felicia pauses, drums her fingers against the locker door, then shrugs. “I don't know.”

But she suspects. She thinks Tony is dead, or hurt, or ‘dusty’ and that Peter’s isolated himself out of guilt or shame. That would be so painfully typical of a hero like Spider-Man; all angst, and no sense. She turns back to her locker, speaking without looking up.

“Just try and be there for him, okay? You guys are friends with him, and I’m worried. He’s not the Peter I knew back home.”

In more ways than one.

* * *

Peter swings through the alleys of Crime Alley, trying to cover as much of the district as he can before the dark clouds hovering in the sky open up in earnest. He can smell the rain in the air, can feel the air pressure shift, and he knows it’ll start soon. That should chase most of the low level thieves and muggers off the streets, at least. He idly adjusts the ear piece Black Bat and Spoiler gave him, contemplating turning it on. He should at least check in with Oracle at some point tonight.

He spots a dark form standing on a gargoyle far above the playground Peter helped clean up a few weeks ago. Peter adjusts his swing, changing angles, and leaps over to Batman, sticking to the wall beside him. The man doesn’t startle, but Peter can see tension in his shoulders; apparently he hadn’t been expecting Peter to just stick to a wall near his head.

“Hey. This is my brooding spot. Get your own,” Peter says, dropping down on the ledge beside Batman. He glances around warily. “Where’s Red Hood and Spoiler? Black Bat? Usually someone in the shadows pops out to scare me when I show up.”

“Busy. You’re working with me tonight,” Batman says simply. He’s watching the park below. His expression is dour, as always, but his voice isn’t quite as intimidating as usual.

“That’s news to me,” Peter says.

“This is your part of the city,” Batman says, checking a small computer screen built into his gauntlet. Peter thinks the guy desperately needs some holo projectors; it can’t be safe having that much glass near major arteries in the wrist. “And I need your help. People may die if I don’t have it.”

Of course, he’s thinking this with heavy glass goggles shaped into his iconic teardrops over his own eyes, but whatever. His eyes will grow back if something happens.Peter tilts his head. “Well, if you put it that way, how can a guy say no? What’s going on?”

Batman turns to look at him. “What do you know about Black Mask?”

“Not much,” Peter admits. “Red Hood said he’s out of my league and to avoid him. He’s said that about most of the big names in Gotham, really.”

Which is advice he's been pretty good at following. Frankly, the last thing he needs is a Scorpion situation in Gotham. That’s more heat than he can afford to handle at the moment, and he’d rather not deal with it when he’s got his hands full trying to survive and also figure out a way back home.

“Unfortunately, you’ve been sending most Black Mask’s foot soldiers to jail during your regular patrols. He’s sending his heavy hitters into the neighborhood to set up shop in the warehouse district of Spider Alley. Possibly a drug operation, judging by information Oracle has found.”

Peter’s a little amused and oddly touched that Batman’s calling Crime Alley by that name. It feels significant somehow. “Any idea what they’re making?”

“That’s what we’re going to find out,” Batman says, pulling out his grappling hook. “Turn on your earpiece. Let’s go.”

Despite his size, Batman swings through the air just as easily as Peter. Peter is quick to follow, hastily flicking on his earpiece as he moves.

Guess he’s working with Batman tonight.

* * *

It doesn’t take them long to find the warehouse in question. It’s the only one surrounded by men in masks armed with rifles, after all. The men in question are taking turns either guarding the perimeter or unloading barrels of some unknown chemical into the warehouse. Several box trucks back into loading docks or park within the guard’s perimeter. The sun has disappeared by now; swallowed by rain and the night, and thunder echoes distantly.

Batman and Peter drop onto the roof of an office building just north of the warehouse district, high enough for a good view of the warehouse and far enough that the men below won’t notice them. A stake out ensues, with Batman and Peter switching off between watches and Oracle filling them in on other things happening in the city. Peter, full of nervous energy and more than a little bored when he’s not on watch, attempts to balance himself on two fingers the way Nightwing did so long ago.

He fails. After the third time he falls on his back, he sighs.

“Make your left arm parallel to the ground,” Batman says, his eyes never leaving the men below. “Hold it like that until you find your balance.”

Peter tilts his head, shrugs, then gives it one more try. He manages it, barely, for a few seconds, then pushes himself back onto his feet. “Huh. Did you teach Nightwing that?”

“No, he learned that on his own.”

“Oh,” Peter says, leaping up onto the stone gargoyle next to Batman. He settles into his normal crouch. “Nightwing’s cool.”

The slightest smile forms beneath Batman’s mask. “He is.”

Peter watches the men below for a moment. He doesn’t need binoculars at this distance; his eyesight is sharp enough to make out details, even in the rain and dark. “Why do they keep switching places like that?”

“To keep the guards sharp and mentally stimulated,” Batman says. “Most people can only maintain the kind of awareness necessary for a security detail for so long. The cut off point is two hours. The guards switch places with the men unloading the trucks to keep from getting bored.”

“He’s right,” Bucky says.

“Makes sense,” Peter says. A thought occurs to him. “Hey. You make me switch off every twenty minutes.”

“Some people have varying degrees of focus,” Batman says politely, and after a significant pause.

Oracle snickers in his headset. Peter huffs. “How long are we going to watch?”

“Until they finish unloading the trucks. This looks like their main supply. If we can take it out of their hands, it’ll set them back by months. Longer, if we’re lucky.”

“And it’ll give us a chance to see exactly what it is,” Oracle adds. “We still aren’t entirely sure. The rumors we’ve heard don’t make any sense.”

“Good idea,” Peter says, half to himself. He would have swung in and knocked out the whole crew within seconds of arriving. Which would have given the remaining trucks time to scatter to the four winds before he could catch them. Tony always did hint that he needed to slow down, to consider the big picture. Peter hadn’t paid much attention to him at the time, but...

Well, maybe he was right.

* * *

Hours pass. Evening ticks over into night. Trucks are still arriving and being unloaded below. The rain shows no sign of stopping. It’s Batman’s turn on watch. He’s kneeling on top of one of three stone gargoyles jutting out from the corner of the roof ledge, as still as the stone lion beneath him. He has a small pair of binoculars held to his eyes.

Peter crouches on top of his own gargoyle--a screeching gryphon--to Batman’s right and goes still. He keeps perfect balance on the gargoyle, despite shivering from the rain. Why is Gotham so rainy? He’s never seen so much rain in his life; it’s like the planet is trying to drag the whole city back into the ocean. Peter’s gotten used to standing still in the rain, but he’s not comfortable with it. Once the rain chill sets in, it doesn’t disappear until school starts the next day. A hard wind drives the rain down harder, and he huffs in irritation.

The rain suddenly stops. Peter looks up and sees a black fabric stretched out above his head. He turns towards Batman and blinks. Batman has one hand on his binoculars, focused on the trucks below. His other hand is holding his cape out and over Peter, sheltering him from the rain and wind. Peter considers making a smart remark about it, but decides against it. He simply rests under the cape.

And then he dozes, caught somewhere between true sleep and resting his eyes. It’s a strange kind of half sleep he’s done on the subway and bus in Gotham. After a few moments, he hears Batman's radio click on.

"Looks like your partner is sleeping on the job," Oracle says.

"Hm.”

"We should bring him home."

"He won't go. He doesn't trust us yet,” Batman says, keeping his voice low and quiet. “There’s a standing offer for him. He won’t take it.”

"We have to try.”

Batman is silent for a moment. "I'll ask Nightwing to discuss it with him. He’s always been better at this sort of thing."

“Sounds like a plan,” Oracle says. “As a side note, the roads are clear. You’re looking at the last of the trucks below. And they’re taking most of the guards with them, apparently. Time to get to work.”

Batman draws his cape away from Peter, then grips his shoulder, squeezing just hard enough to pull him out of his doze.

“Follow my lead,” he says.

* * *

Batman sneaks into the warehouse through one of the windows near the roof of the warehouse. He has to rely on careful jumps and swings with his grappling hook whereas Peter simply scurries into the warehouse and along the wall closest to Batman. The man does a double take when he sees Peter crawling on all fours along the wall, but quickly regains his focus.

The warehouse is bisected by a wall, separating it into two halves. The room they’re in is empty of people, but stacked to the brim with crates and barrels. They move around them, scouting the room. Peter keeps to the shadows, moving smoothly in the dark while Batman looks over the items the men had spent so much time unloading.

“This is definitely something chemical. From the smell, I’d say it’s something toxic. And acidic. I bet this stuff isn’t even the worst of it, though. That stuff will probably be in the next room,” Peter says quietly. “Ned, can you tap into---”

“Who’s Ned?” Oracle asks, politely curious.

Peter freezes. “Nothing. No one. Oracle. Can you tap into the security network? I saw the cameras outside, but I’m not sure if they’re on or not.”

“Already done,” Oracle answers. “And you’re right. They’ve got fifty barrels piled up in the middle of the next room, and they’re being very gentle with it.”

“I found three crates full of blue poppies. There’s a good chance those barrels are full of the liquid form of fear toxin that Scarecrow uses,” Batman says.

“It smells like burning diesel and rotting lavender,” Peter remarks, skittering across the ceiling towards Batman. The man is still vaguely disturbed when he sees Peter moving in ways humans don’t, and honestly, it’s kind of funny.

“You can smell it from there?” Oracle asks.

“I’ve got super senses,” Peter says casually. “I can smell everything in a mile.”

“I do not envy you that super power,” Oracle says. “Okay, test time: how many people can you hear in the warehouse?”

Peter pauses, closing his eyes. “Seven--no, eight--heartbeats.”

“I only see seven on my camera.”

“Check the far northwest corner. He’s asleep, judging by his heartbeat,” Peter says, dropping down to crouch on a crate beside Batman.

There’s a moment’s pause and then Oracle laughs. “Yeah, you have excellent hearing. I also don’t envy you that. Okay, eight guys, one asleep, and fifty barrels of what is very likely to be a concentrated form of liquid fear toxin.”

“And a partridge in a pear tree,” Peter mutters.

Batman ignores his very clever and very cool commentary. “I’ve seen enough. Contact GCPD, Oracle. Spiderman, stick to the shadows. You take the north side, I’ll handle the south.”

“Yessir,” Peter says, shooting out a web and yanking himself up into the far corner of the warehouse. He slithers into the vent effortlessly and skitters through it to the other side, slipping out of the other end above the sleeping guard.

"That will never not be creepy," Sam mutters.

Peter makes a mental note to be as spidery as possible at Sam Wilson the next time he sees him. He’s not sure why. It just seems like fun.

"Great," Sam says, annoyed amusement threading through the word.

Peter webs up the guard. It doesn’t take much; two shots of his webshooter pins and gags the man. The guy doesn’t even wake up. Too easy. Peter doesn’t even leave his perch on the ceiling.

Batman takes a much less subtle approach. He drops from the ceiling into a group of three men. All three are unconscious before he hits the ground. The rest rush him with pipes, clubs, and knives, skirting around the barrels fear toxin.

“He’s good,” Bucky says.

Peter has to agree with that. He watches Batman take on the remaining guards, shuffling along the ceiling. So far, he seems to be handling things on his own just fine. The first three men he attacked are already handcuffed, and two more are shaking their hands and cursing vehemently after Batman throws something dark and sharp that bounces between them and leaves their weapons on the ground.

And then there’s that unmistakable twinge of his spider senses, like a feather tickling the inside of his ear. Back and left, behind Batman, a man is sneaking through the shadows with a revolver. He stands up from behind a crate, and aims at Batman’s head.

Peter is already moving. He flings out a web and yanks the man’s arm aside, throwing off his aim just as he pulls the trigger. The shot goes wide, striking one of the barrels. A thick, oily substance begins to pour out of the perforated barrel. Peter leaps over the trail of toxin, using his web to sling shot himself over to the man before laying him out with a single punch.

Batman spares him a quick look and approving nod, before turning to face the remaining guards. Peter moves in to cover his back, and Batman shifts his fighting style slightly, working with Peter, covering him and trading foes in equal measure. It’s almost a dance more than a fight, and if Peter didn’t know any better, he’d think Batman had fought alongside Peter for years. Peter’s style is more acrobatic than anything else; flips, jumps, and misdirection. Batman fills every gap in his defense. It’s impressive.

“He’s fought alongside someone who moves like you before,” Fury says idly.

That explains it.

The fight ends quickly. Peter idly webs up the guards while Batman stalks and searches the rest of the room for anyone hiding in the dark.

Peter taps his chin, leaning over the gangsters curiously. “These are False Facers, right? They don’t normally work with this Scarecrow guy, do they?”

“No. Black Mask works alone. He’s too selfish and too narcissistic to care about anyone but himself, and Scarecrow is off-putting enough that he’s never managed to gather any kind of following,” Batman says looking over the scene. “This is new.”

He doesn’t sound pleased by that. “Do your supervillains usually work together?”

“Never,” Batman says. “They’ve never shown any kind of coordination beyond the occasional and very brief team up. This is too organized, too well thought out.”

“Guess they’ve decided to switch things up,” Peter says, half to himself.

“So it seems,” Batman says. He pauses for a moment, then turns to Peter. “Good work earlier.”

It sounds like the man is pulling out his own teeth while saying that. Compliments clearly don’t come easy for Batman, and it makes his poor attempt to do so seem even more sincere. Peter gives him a lazy salute. “Just doing my part. Oracle, what time is it?”

“Almost midnight,” she says, distracted. “Police are en route with a HAZMAT team. ETA, five minutes.”

“Yeesh. Way past my clock out time,” Peter says. “I’m outta here--”

He starts to step towards the barrels to get a better angle at one of the high windows. He stops when a black gauntlet grips his arm iron tight and yanks him over to the side. Peter, thrown off by Batman’s grip on his arm and the fact that his senses didn’t trigger again, stumbles towards Batman and nearly runs into the man.

“Hey, what--”

“You almost stepped in it,” Batman says tightly.

Peter blinks up at him, then turns towards the area Batman is focused on. A shallow pool of that oily toxin has formed on the floor, inches away from his foot. The smell of diesel and lavender is almost overpowering. Peter isn’t sure how he missed it.

“Exhaustion. Stress. Starvation. The usual for you, in other words,” Hill remarks.

“Is it that bad?” Peter asks him. “I mean, to even step in it?”

Batman watches him for a moment, letting go of his arm. “It’s designed to incite anxiety, fear, and stress to a level that forces people into a near fatal psychosis. Exposure is ill advised, to say the least.”

“Good to know,” Peter says, edging away from the pool.

“Stay for a bit. I know it’s late, but you can come back with me to my headquarters,” Batman says. “You can rest there.”

Peter starts shaking his head before he even finishes the word ‘headquarters.’ He shoots a web towards the ceiling and yanks himself up and away from the barrels of fear toxin, calling down to Batman.

“Sorry, Bats, not gonna happen. I’m a Lone Ranger kinda guy. And I’ve got stuff to do anyway. This was fun, though! We should do it again! See ya!”

He’s through the window and gone before Batman can respond. Just to be safe, he flicks off his headset so Oracle can’t track him.

* * *

School the next two days is almost a total blur. Peter spends so much of the day focused on and stressed by the idea of losing his scholarship that he doesn’t notice Tim, Duke, Steph, or Felicia. He does confirm Tony’s appointment with his teachers, however. That earns him quite the curious look from Felicia. He doesn’t comment on it.

And after school lets out at noon on Friday, he skips patrol, focusing instead on pacing around the fire station, hands in his pockets, trying desperately to think of what to do. If he loses the scholarship, will they expect him to pay back the money they’ve given him? Would they consider it theft that he got the scholarship at all? That’s definitely a felony amount; he’d be in prison by the end of the month--

There’s a flash of green in the corner of his eyes. He turns and finds himself face to face with the ghostly version of Loki.

“I have an offer for you,” Loki’s ghost says.

“Uh,” Peter says, flabbergasted. “Okay?”

“You help me--which is really a help to all of us--and I will help you stay a homeless orphan, free of the control of others, as you so clearly desire.”

Peter stares at him. “How do I help you? You’re a ghost.” A beat. “No offense.”

Loki smiles, and though Peter knows he doesn’t mean it to be--how he knows he isn’t sure--it comes across as condescending. “Simple. Promise you’ll walk with me in your dreams tonight.”

What. Peter stares at him, confused. “Uh. Sure. I guess?”

“Excellent. Now, for the second step.” He holds out one ghostly hand. “Take my hand.”

Peter’s senses tingle ever so slightly when Loki stretches out his hand. He considers the Prince’s hand for a long moment, and then reaches out and places his hand in Loki’s.

There’s another bright flash---

And then Peter is suddenly not the one in control of his own body.

* * *

Loki sighs, stretching his borrowed arms and legs. It’s good to be alive and embodied again. Even in a form this small and weak. He paces around the boy’s hovel, getting a feel for physical movement again. He is matched step for step by two others: Nick Fury and Bucky Barnes. Both walk on either side of him, glowering hatefully.

"What are you doing, Loki?" Fury asks. He does manage to look suitably threatening, even as a ghost, and a Midgardian at that. Loki is mildly impressed.

"I fail to see how that's any of your business,” Loki says. He can feel the child hovering in the back of his mind; not fully aware, but not fully asleep either.

"Get out," Bucky snarls. He’s furious. More than that, he’s scared. He knows all too well what it feels like to have one's body usurped, Loki supposes. “Get out of his goddamn body!”

That's the downside of this little adventure: everyone’s souls and memories rub off on another. For some, like the Guardians and the Wakandans, this isn't much of an issue. For Loki, it's like living in a room made of sandpaper. He can feel himself change, feel their influence on him into his mind and heart. He hates it.

"Or what?" Loki asks. His voice sounds odd coming out of the teenager's body.

"Or you will have to deal with us," T'Challa says, appearing in front of Loki so clearly that he almost seems physical himself. His voice is calm, but carries with it an unmistakable threat. “And that is not a fight you want.”

Loki pauses, bows slightly to T'Challa, and grins widely at him, making sure to show all of his teeth. T'Challa narrows his eyes.

"A point well made," Loki says, keeping his tone courtly and polite. It’s odd to hear himself using this voice. The little spider could never manage to maintain proper manners. Not with that gutter drawl of an accent and permanent slouch. He can tell such niceties annoy the Wakandan King and makes a mental note to keep it up when possible.

He grabs one of Peter’s pens and a piece of paper on the desk and quickly writes out a set of runes on it, enchanting it as he goes. When he finishes, the paper disappears in a flash of smoke and he sets the pen down where he found it. He never intended to steal the boy's body, anyway. Not really. He'd considered it, of course, back when the boy first stole the soul stone, but the idea of it has become less appealing over time. It had even seemed cruel to him, and he is loathe to do anything that would outright harm Peter. The idiot has started to remind him of Thor as of late, and that’s all but sealed the child’s fate in Loki’s mind. Despite everything, he still loves his brother and he always will, and idiot children who mimic his brother seem to earn some kind of vague feelings of protectiveness from Loki. He isn't used to caring about others who aren't his family. He finds this forced empathy as irritating as it is irresistible.

The other ghosts circle him like wolves. Even if he did decide to stay in Peter’s body, he would be literally haunted by the vengeful dead, robbing him of any moments of peace he could hope to have. Time to prove he isn’t as much of a monster as they assume he is, then.

"You’ll have difficulty remembering this, but you will pay attention here: When I snap my fingers, you'll lay down for a nap. When you wake up, you will ask for help and then draw the runes I’ve just shown you." There's no need to make the child rest, there’s no need to show this kindness. But he does it anyway. The places within his own soul rubbed raw by the others demand it. And besides, the rest will do the child some good. If nothing else, Loki won’t have to hear the boy’s constant worry and guilt for a few hours.

Loki snaps his fingers. Peter shuffles for his bed, head slouched forward, leaving Loki's soul behind as he moves away. The others seem to breathe a sigh of relief. T’Challa and Sam Wilson stand beside each other, watching Loki with almost matching glares. The Guardians look on with vague disapproval.

Bucky grabs his collar and yanks him close. His eyes are bright and furious. "Do that again and I’ll make every moment we’re stuck in here a personal hell for you."

"So very little trust," Loki says dryly. “Believe it or not, what I’m about to do will serve all of us equally well.”

“Don’t. Do. It. Again,” Bucky growls before roughly shoving him away.

Loki rolls his eyes, but smiles and backs away from the snarling wolf.

He’s gotten what he wants, anyway.

* * *

When Peter wakes up, it happens all at once. One moment, he’s in a deep, restful sleep and the next he’s wide awake and on his feet. His stomach clenches painfully; a half day at school has robbed him of the largest meal of his deal, and the sandwich Lou gave him this morning is long gone apparently. He runs a hand through his hair, attempts to smooth out the wrinkles in his uniform, and checks the time. And then groans.

The conference starts in an hour and he’s still no closer to figuring out a solution than he was before his sudden nap. He sighs, grabs his notebook and a pen, and starts to doodle. Doodling helps him think, calms him down. He lets the pen move on its own, frustrated and hungry.

If he had help maybe---

There’s a flash of gold. And suddenly, Loki of Asgard is standing in the middle of the room. Peter stops midstep, staring at Loki blankly.

“And here I was worried you wouldn’t remember,” Loki says.

“What the fuck,” Peter says.

“Mind your language. Do you remember our agreement?”

Peter stares at him blankly, and then it comes back. “You’re going to help me?”

Loki smiles at him. “Indeed.”

A flash of green light hits Loki, changing him. One moment he's there, the next he’s been replaced by a mirror perfect image of Tony Stark. Peter stares at him, then amends that statement. Sure, he looks like Tony, but this is a younger version of Iron Man. There’s no hints of grey in his goatee or hair, and the worry and laugh lines are gone completely.

"Consider me the superior version of Iron Man," Loki says, using Tony’s voice. It doesn’t quite sound right to Peter’s ears. "You will hold up your end of the bargain, and I will hold up mine."

Peter watches him for a long moment. Finally, he says: "This is a very bad idea."

“Mind our agreement, spider,” Loki says, adjusting his suit jacket. “I’m loathe to compliment your people too much, but I will say your idea of formal wear is rather nice. In a boring sort of way.”

Peter rolls his eyes, pauses, and sniffs the air. “What is that smell?”

“A part of the illusion. Cologne masking alcohol. It was a rather persistent thing for Tony during the invasion and afterward. I don’t exactly have a frame of reference for anything more recent than that,” Loki says, adjusting his cufflinks. “Let’s be off.”

His mimicry of Tony’s voice is perfect, except for the speech cadence. Tony’s never used such a casually mocking tone towards Peter. Not even when he’s screwed up or pissed him off. In fact, the longer Peter’s known Tony, the gentler the tone has become. This version of Tony is all cutting barbs and defensive snark, and Peter can say with certainty that he doesn’t like it.

But this might work.

Is it worth it though?

“Of course it isn’t fucking worth it,” Sam says sourly.

Peter sighs. “Fine. In and out, and you only talk to my teachers long enough to satisfy the scholarship. And then you're going to tell me how you're even able to do this. Got it?”

“Sure thing, kiddo,” Loki says, clapping Peter’s shoulder fondly.

“Do not make this weird, please,” Peter says, shrugging off his hand.

Loki smirks, turns and leaves. Peter sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose, and feels the start of a headache. A gentle throbbing behind his eyes.

“This is a horrible fucking idea,” Peter mutters, walking after Loki-as-Tony.