Dark Matter

His nightmares find him quickly after he falls asleep. And he sees them clearly, as if living in them.

Or in this case, living them again.

He's on Titan, helping Tony struggle against the gauntlet on Thanos's hand. Peter alternates between prying the titan's fingers back and pulling against the gauntlet itself. Tony is helping, but he stops to look at Quill.

“Okay, Quill, you gotta cool it right now, you understand?” Tony says. He takes a second glance at Quill and tries again, speaking louder and with no small amount of desperation. “Don’t engage! We almost got this off!”

Quill is beyond all reason at that point. And Peter can’t blame him, finding out his friend was just killed by her own father. If he found out May or Ned had been killed, he’d be worse. No, he doesn’t blame Quill for what happens next.

He blames himself.

Quill screams, and starts to slam his gun across Thanos’ face, completely lost to his own rage and grief. He strikes once, twice, three times, wrecking Mantis’ hold on Thanos, and waking the Titan. Thanos growls sleepily, stirring.

His hand goes slack. The gauntlet starts to slide off easily, and Peter cries out in shock and victory, “I got it, I got it---”

And he does. He has the gauntlet and all of its stones in his grasp. It’s as good as done; with his powers, he can stick to anything---

He’s distracted. He doesn’t stick to the gauntlet. It’s ripped out of his grasp and a second later, he’s sent flying. He catches Mantis on instinct, deploying the legs to break their fall and protect her from the jagged rocks covering the ground. He curses, trying to protect her while Tony fights Thanos, alone, because he got so excited he forgot to do the one thing that’s basically instinct to him: stick to things.

And because of that, Thanos gets the gauntlet. Then the Time Stone. And then he leaves, and finds Vision.

Vision, who was Peter's friend. Who must have died moments after Thanos found him. He hopes it was quick for Vision. He can’t stand the thought of him suffering. And then Guardians start to disappear in front of them, one by one.

The memory plays out. He starts to crumble away. He can barely manage a weak apology to Tony before he fades completely. The pain is muted compared to the real thing, but it’s sharp enough to shock him awake.

All because he couldn’t do the one thing Tony asked him to do. A whole universe, gone. It must be the whole universe, right? If someone survived, they would’ve found him by now. They would’ve found Felicia.

He sits up with a groan, stuffy and sweaty, and sore all over from curling up tight into a ball. He feels wrung out and exhausted, the way he does after every migraine. He’d described this feeling to Tony once, who had scoffed and simply said, “Kid, you’ve got a hangover.” He remembers preemptively swearing off alcohol altogether after hearing that. Tony had pointed at him and simply said, “See, I knew you were smart.”

His head’s drifting. He needs clear air. He pushes himself up and stretches, carefully working out the kinks in his arms and legs as he heads for the fire escape, peering outside. It’s still night out, maybe four or five hours since he left the parent-teacher conference with Loki. The night sky is mostly clear for once, glowing with the ambient light that comes from any metropolitan area at night. A few high clouds scuttle across the sky.

He pulls himself out onto the fire escape and heads towards his usual night time hang out.

* * *

Peter sits on the ledge, idly kicking his feet and watching the moon peek out behind the clouds above. The cold actually helps him; migraines are stuffy, overheated affairs for him that leave him tender and feeling as though he's been baking out in August heat. His migraine is gone, but the hangover effect is dragging at him fiercely. Patrol is completely out of the question. Unfortunately.

He sighs and flops onto his back, arms thrown to either side, soaking in the cool air. At least he’s going to keep the scholarship. Assuming Loki really did speak with his teachers and didn’t stab them or something. He does seem to like knives.

He hears two feet land on the tarred rooftop somewhere behind him, and near silent footsteps approach. Peter recognizes the steps--and the heartbeat associated with them, strong and steady, even when leaping across buildings-- and contemplates sitting up and greeting Nightwing directly. He ultimately decides against it.

Nightwing sits down beside him, subtly shifting his stance in case he needs to stop Peter from falling over the edge. Or jumping, Peter supposes. The man doesn't say anything at first. He simply sits beside Peter and provides a kind of silent support Peter hasn’t experienced since the last time he saw May. His heart clenches at the thought, and he lets out a heavy sigh.

“Hey, Pete,” Nightwing says. “You look like you’ve had a rough night.”

“A lizard man armed with a bioweapon tried to kill me,” Peter replies tiredly.

“Yeah, that definitely counts as rough.” Nightwing says after a long moment. He briefly leans over Peter to take a closer look at him, and Peter can see the worried frown lines crossing his forehead. “You don’t look hurt, but we found a lot of blood in one of the hallways."

“Tony beat the lizard guy with a pipe and got me out of there. I still caught a few drops of whatever that stuff is,” Peter says, reaching up to rub his eyes.

If anything, Nightwing looks even more alarmed. “Peter, if you were hit with that toxin, even just a drop--”

“I slept it off,” Peter says. “It was barely one drop, Nightwing. I’m fine. Just had a really bad dream.”

Nightwing doesn’t look convinced, but mercifully drops the subject. “I just got back from your school. It’s shut down for the next week while they clear out the toxins.”

And there goes his lunches for the week. Peter sighs. “Yay.”

Nightwing considers him for a long moment. “You’re lucky.”

“You are literally the first person in my life to ever say that to me, I want you to know that,” Peter says. “How am I lucky?”

“You must have some kind of natural immunity to the fear toxin Killer Croc had. Most people lose their minds just breathing that stuff in.”

Probably his enhancements. God, if that’s what natural immunity is like, then what does a normal person go through? “Why didn’t Killer Croc?”

“Scarecrow gives his lackeys antidotes to counter the effects caused by exposure. Killer Croc probably got a dose of it before heading to the school,” Nightwing guesses, shrugging.

"Makes sense," Peter says. He pauses. "Did anyone else get hit with it?"

"One person. A guy named Duke."

Peter shoots up, staring at Nightwing in horror. "What? Is he okay?"

"He’s fine," Nightwing says, holding his hands out. "His brother took him home. He's safe, he has the antidote, he'll feel a little tired for awhile, but he'll be okay."

He shouldn't have let Loki drag him out of the school. "I should've stayed and helped."

"You were smart to get out," Nightwing counters. “That’s the best thing you can do whenever someone tries to use fear toxin: get the hell out and let the professionals handle it.”

Peter frowns, but drops it. He should have stayed.

Nightwing watches him for a long moment. Finally, he asks in a carefully neutral tone, “Tony left you alone after you were exposed to that toxin?”

“He had somewhere else to be,” Peter says. “He wasn’t going to be in town for long, and I’m better off on my own anyway.”

Shockingly enough, that enough does not seem to soothe Nightwing. “You shouldn’t have to deal with anything like this alone. Why not ask your friends for help? They’d do it in a heartbeat.”

Peter starts to shake his head before Nigthwing even finishes his sentence. "I'm not dragging them into my fucked up life. I don’t belong here and I'm enough of a burden as it is. The last thing I want is to be a drag on Tim or Duke--"

"Peter, listen to me," Nightwing says, cutting him off, his voice firm and insistent. He grips Peter’s shoulder, waits until Peter is looking him in the eye, and continues, "You are not a burden. Okay? Not to anyone. Definitely not to your friends."

Peter’s taken off guard by the sheer sincerity in Nightwing’s voice. He’s equally surprised when his eyes blur with tears. He takes a moment to sniff and clear his throat.

"You make it sound like you know them," he says, trying to make his tone light and joking. It comes out paper thin, likely to break at a moment’s notice and cracking at the edges.

"If they’re your friends, I know they're good people," Nightwing says earnestly.

Peter scoffs, glancing away. "You barely know me."

"I know enough,” Nightwing insists. He pauses, as if coming to a decision. “Peter, listen, I--”

The power goes out. The city falls into darkness, lights blinking out ahead of a wave of shadow that falls over the entirety of the city. The city is plunged into full darkness, and Peter tenses. Gotham at night is already dangerous. Gotham in the shadows is much worse. He can hear distant shouting, laughter, and cursing as drunken men spill out of the nearest dive bar, their night of fun ruined. There are probably hundreds of similar scenes playing out across the whole of Gotham. Maybe thousands.

“Dammit,” Nightwing says quietly. “How the hell did that happen? The power grid was reinforced by Wayne Industries.”

“No grid is perfect. There’s always a weak point. You can’t out engineer natural disasters and multi point failures. There’s only so much you can protect against,” Peter says, pushing himself up to his feet. “This is bad. There are probably people trapped in subways. Or hospitals. And without the lights, cargo ships heading for the harbors will be in danger.”

The city is suddenly much quieter without the electric buzz of power running through it. He can still hear and see cars in the distance, winding uncertainly through pitch black streets. The moon is out, and it’s providing some light, but not nearly enough. There are going to be car wrecks, traffic jams, confusion and road rage. The stop lights aren’t even blinking red.

Nightwing stands up and presses two fingers to the ear piece resting in his right ear. He tilts his head, listening to Oracle, then sighs. “All that and more, I’m afraid. Peter, stay here. This is safer than the streets, and I want to keep talking with you when this is fixed.”

“Uh, yeah. Sure,” Peter says, blinking up at him. He can see fine in the dark. Well, kind of; his spider senses kick in fully in the dark, and guide him.

Which means he sees the moment Nightwing realizes he’s lying. “Promise me you’ll stay where it’s safe tonight, Peter.”

His tone is firm, almost paternal. Peter hesitates, then sighs. “I promise.”

“Thanks,” Nightwing says, clapping him on the shoulder. “We’ll talk again soon, okay?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

Nightwing walks towards the ledge, stops to look over his shoulder at Peter one last time, and then leaps into the darkness below. Peter stays until he can’t hear Nightwing’s grappling gun anymore, then climbs down the building on all fours, heading for the fire station.

He should put on the suit and go and help Nightwing, but his limbs are heavy and slow, and the night seems much colder without Nightwing nearby to talk with. He opts for his bed instead. He falls asleep soon after.

This time, he dreams of dust falling down his throat, of choking on something green and sharp like acid, and of lizards with flashing blue eyes.

* * *

Peter’s migraine is a thing of the past the next day. He wakes up feeling vaguely out of sorts, and then it simply becomes too cold to feel much of anything. He showers, changes into the warmest clothes he can find, and then heads out into the city. The walk to the post office is long and cold, but the traffic lights work, and there’s power in the buildings lining the street. Nightwing must have handled things after Peter fell asleep. Thank goodness.

His weekly stipend is there, as well as a massive bonus: an extra five hundred dollars for his grades. The letter that accompanies it is plainly boilerplate; no personal signature this time. That’s probably for the best, really. Peter would like to imagine he’s still somehow under Bruce’s radar.

The money is nice; he spends it on a huge breakfast at a diner, and then portions out half for necessities and extras for his suit. Most of the day is spent on chores, buying warmer clothes, better fabric for his suit, and a few odds and ends. Most of that money is spent in a thrift shop. He wanders through the shop, not quite ready to brave the cold again, then stops at a shelf tucked away in the back.

It’s a cluttered mess of religious symbols, books, and objects of varying faiths. Tucked away in the back is a menorah. Peter considers the menorah on the shelf, idly shifting back and forth on his feet. His relationship with religion is complicated at best; his parents and Uncle Ben were Jewish, May is a self described ‘lapsed Catholic’ and Peter is...well, he’s not entirely sure. Somewhere in between, maybe. Aunt May is nothing but supportive, asking if he’d like to speak with a rabbi during the deepest parts of his grief after Ben’s death, offering to take him to various religious gatherings. He’d never taken her up on the offer. His faith hasn’t died, exactly; it’s just complicated. Like most things in his life.

He and May had kept Ben’s menorah, and quietly celebrated Hanukkah even after Ben’s death. It’s more family tradition than religious meditation at this point. It seems oddly sad to celebrate it by himself. In his hovel.

But it would be a reminder of home, and he has precious few of those these days.

After a moment’s contemplation, he gently picks up the menorah and pays for it alongside various electronics, books, candles, and candle holders.

He might as well hold onto at least one family tradition in this place.

* * *

He decides on an early patrol, and starts out early. He spends a few hours doing the usual; checking in on the kids at the playground, stopping a few muggings, giving directions. The usual friendly neighborhood Spider-Man stuff. The afternoon edges into evening, bringing with it the usual evening traffic jam. He’s swinging above a line of stalled cars, heading towards the bus depot to take a brief break and check in on Lou and the bus drivers when he hears a voice call for him on the street below.

“Spider-Man! Hey! Down here!” a man in an EMT uniform calls out. He’s standing next to an ambulance whose front end is crushed against a light pole. The pole is tilted at a slight angle, but the ambulance’s engine compartment is crushed.

Peter snaps out of his drifting thoughts and adjusts his swing, dropping down on top of a bus stop near the crashed ambulance. He looks over the paramedic quickly; the man’s heartbeat is normal, he’s breathing fine, and he doesn’t look like he’s bleeding, so he must be okay.

“Hey, what’s up?” Peter asks. “Is someone hurt? That’s a nasty crash.”

“We’re fine! We’re fine,” the man says. “But we need your help. Do you know where Drake Memorial Hospital is?”

Peter pauses, pulling up a mental map of Gotham in his mind. “Yeah, over in the East End. I know it.”

“Good. We need you to take a heart there,” the paramedic says. He ducks around the back of his ambulance and rips open the doors.

“I’m sorry, you what,” Peter says.

“Listen, there’s a ten year old kid at the hospital that needs this. The traffic jam is keeping another ambulance from reaching us, and we’re on a time limit here,” the driver says. He pulls out a hefty red container with the words ‘Human Organ: For Transplant’ stamped across it and holds it out to Peter.

“Uh, right,” Peter says, dropping down to gently pick it up. “And it’ll survive being swung around?”

“That’s a Wayne Tech box,” the driver says. “It’ll withstand a bomb. Just get it to the hospital. There’s a team waiting at the ambulance entrance.” He stops and looks at his watch. “You’ve got forty minutes.”

“Got it,” Peter says, webbing the box to his back in a makeshift backpack. He checks and double checks the webbing before launching himself back into the air.

The East End is forty minutes away by car. He can cut that down by half if he’s generous with his webs. Peter sets off for East End, swinging down the main thoroughfare with none of his usual showmanship.

* * *

He makes it halfway to the hospital when his luck runs out. He swings from building to the next, raises his left hand to shoot out a new line, presses the button on his palm--

And nothing comes out. He’s forced to abandon the swing, dropping down onto the nearest roof with a muttered curse. He pops out the empty pellets, then pats down his pockets. They're empty. Typical.

He’s out of web fluid. Normally that isn’t much of an issue; he can just hop on top of a bus until he’s close to the fire station and take it from there. Except he doesn’t have time for that right now; that’s twenty minutes in the opposite direction. He mulls over what he should do next and then sighs.

Well, there’s no hope for it. Peter turns on his ear piece. It clicks on instantly, and he can hear the faint background static that indicates a connection has been made.

"Hi?" he says, feeling more than a little foolish.

“Well, hello, Spider-Man,” Oracle says, her tone surprised. "What's up?"

“I need help,” he says. “I’m playing delivery guy for a couple of EMTs I found in Crime Alley. They gave me a heart to take to Drake Memorial Hospital. And, uh, I sort of ran out of web fluid.”

“You don’t have a grappling hook?” Oracle asks.

“No. It’s just me and my questionable parkour skills right now.”

“I’ve got it, Oracle,” Nightwing says. “Spider-Man, give me your cross street. I’ll meet you there."

Peter peers over the edge of the roof, squints down at the nearest intersection, and rattles off the names. "I'm on the roof of the Queen Industries building. The, uh, one with the obnoxious green sign."

Nightwing bites back a laugh. "I know the one. I'll be right there."

He isn't kidding. Peter can see Nightwing swinging towards him right now. He's a few blocks away and closing fast. Close enough that Peter briefly wonders if the man had been following him.

He doesn’t have time to wonder for long. Nightwing drops down on the roof beside Peter with a careless grin and slight flourish. He has two utility belts on, and opens the pouch on one, pulling out a small, sleek grappling hook gun and tossing it over to Peter. Peter catches it, then looks it over. He's a little amused to see a small Batman symbol etched into the dark metal.

"Here ya go, Spidey," he says. He nods to Peter's hand. "Have you ever used one of those before?

"No, not really," Peter admits.

"It's easy, just like riding a bike. Or swinging on a web in your case," Nightwing says. He steps close and gently adjusts Peter’s arm. "Loosen up your arm a bit. You don’t want it to be stick straight.”

“Uh, right,” Peter says, forcing the muscles in his arm to loosen up.

Nightwing continues. “Use it like your webs, but recall the hook at the highest point of your swing so you have time to aim and shoot for the next building."

That sounds simple enough. Peter steps up to the rooftop's edge, preparing to aim the grappling hook. It looks simple enough. He hesitates and looks at Nightwing.

"What if I screw it up?" Peter asks.

"Then I'll catch you," Nightwing answers, clapping Peter’s shoulder. "Come on, let's get this heart to its rightful owner. Think you can handle a little leap of faith?”’

Peter tilts his head, considering Nightwing for a moment. He grins under his mask, aims the grappling gun, and then shoots. The recoil is a surprise, but he counters it, and the hook finds purchase on a gargoyle leering over the street on the next building.

Peter leaps.

Nightwing follows.

* * *

“There’s a rhythm to it,” Nightwing says, swinging alongside Peter. “Recall, aim, shoot, swing.”

“Right,” Peter says. He’s sweating under his suit despite the chill afternoon. If he misses with the grappling hook, there’s nothing stopping him from hitting the ground. He’d probably survive a fall from this height, but the heart strapped to his back wouldn’t.

He calls back the hook, aims, shoots, and swings. It’s a rough and jerky affair; Peter is too used to yanking himself along with his webs. He can’t exert that kind of pressure on the grappling gun without cracking it.

“Easy,” Nightwing says patiently. “I’ve got you. Just take a deep breath and find the next target. Just like you do with your webs.”

It takes a few more tries, but Peter finds his rhythm with the grappling hook gun. It’s not as instinctive as his webs, and he doesn’t like that there’s a limit to how far the hooks can reach, but he’s a quick study and adjusts. Within fifteen minutes, he’s swinging from building to building easily enough that Nightwing stops hovering. Peter glances over at the other hero and finds it hard to not stare.

Where Peter swings, Nightwing flies. He moves through the air effortlessly, as if he was born with grappling hooks for hands. Peter’s both impressed and highly envious; his skill with webs comes mostly from his enhanced senses and a few hard knocks early on in his Spider-Man career. Nightwing isn’t enhanced; he simply has a lifetime of hard work and experience behind every movement.

They close in on the hospital with fifteen minutes to spare, landing near the Ambulance entrance of the hospital. A team of doctors and nurses swarms them, waiting impatiently while Peter shrugs off his web backpack and dissolves the webbing around the container. The moment it melts away from the cooler, the doctors snatch it out of his hands and sprint inside.

“Not bad. You’re not as strong on your left arm swings, though,” Nightwing says. “If you’re not busy tonight, I could give you a few tips.”

“Dude, yes,” Peter says eagerly. “Teach me.”

Nightwing grins.

* * *

Peter practices with the grappling hook gun under Nightwing’s careful eye for a few hours after that. He doesn’t come close to Nightwing’s smooth glide through the air--not without his webs, at least--but he does become much more comfortable with the gun. Enough that it meets Nightwing’s standards, at least. He motions for Peter to follow him to the nearest building, a towering skyscraper at the edge of Crime Alley, and drops down on the roof. Peter’s right behind, landing a little stiffly. He recalls the hook and sighs. The air is crisp up here, uncomfortably so, but the night sky is clear again. This high up, Peter can see the faintest pinpricks of stars past the light pollution. Nightwing claps his shoulder.

"See, I knew you'd get into the swing of things," Nightwing says, grinning at his own pun.

Peter laughs in spite of himself. “Dude, that’s terrible.”

Nightwing caps it off with a dorky finger gun aimed at Peter.

Peter rolls his eyes and shakes his head, but he’s secretly amused by Nightwing’s dorky jokes and friendly attitude.

“Oh, hey, while I’ve got you,” Nightwing says, motioning Peter closer. He unclips one of the utility belts strung across his hips and tosses it over. “Courtesy of Batman.”

“A utility belt?” Peter asks, catching it. It’s blood red, and the buckle has the image of a spider across it; the legs are elongated and sharp, at odds with the fat red spider across the back of his current suit. He actually likes that design. He checks it for trackers first, and idly crushes six of them then and there. Come on, if he can find all of the trackers in a suit builtby Tony Stark, he can find whatever Batman has hidden on a belt.

Nightwing, for his part, is highly amused by this. “It’s useful. First aid kits, extra batteries for your headset, spare grappling hooks and ropes, smoke bombs, batarangs--”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Batarangs. You know.” Nightwing flicks his wrist, and a small black object appears in his palm, flicking out into Batman’s symbol. The wings are wickedly sharp; Peter can see their keen edges even from this distance.

“Oh my god,” Peter says. “That is simultaneously the coolest and dorkiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“Hey, they’re way more useful than you’d think,” Nightwing says, pointing the batarang at Peter before flicking it closed and pocketing it again. “Anyway, you’ve got five in the belt.”

“Huh. Neat.” Peter takes one out and flicks it open, considering it. It’s perfectly balanced, of course. “And smoke bombs?”

“Good for a quick getaway. Check the last pouch.”

Peter tilts his head, flicking the batarang closed and putting it back into its proper place on the belt before checking the last pouch. He pauses, then reaches in and pulls out a thick grey pellet, staring at it in shock.

“Web fluid,” Nightwing says. “Batman put that together after you first met him. I guess he got a close enough look at your web shooters to figure out what you needed. He wasn’t sure how much you’d need, and the chemical formula isn’t exactly like yours, but it should work.”

“He figured that out just by looking at my webshooter?” Peter asks, astonished.

“And testing your webbing before it dissolved. That took some effort on his part. Batman’s pretty clever,” Nightwing says, amused. “Hopefully you don’t mind your webs turning grey.”

Peter quickly slips the grey pellet into the web shooter on his right hand. He shoots a web at the nearest building and clasps it in his hand. There’s a bit too much give in the line when he tests it; if he has to catch anything heavy, he’ll have to use twice as much as he usually would. But it holds, and the extra spring might actually be useful in certain situations.

“Huh,” Peter says, idly flicking the line with his free hand the way he would a guitar string. It wobbles.

“So, does it pass inspection?” Nightwing asks. “Batman and Red Robin were losing some sleep over the formula.”

“It does,” Peter says after a long moment. “The grey webbing might be better suited for Gotham’s weather, too. This city is a lot damper than New York. Tell Batman he gets a solid ‘B’ grade for his work.”

Nightwing smirks. “Only a ‘B’?”

“He doesn’t get a perfect score for stealing my intellectual property,” Peter says. He pauses. “Hey, if you had these, why didn’t you give them to me earlier?”

“Because you needed to learn how to use a grappling gun sooner or later,” Nightwing says, shrugging. “And everybody knows that the best way to learn is under intense, mind numbing pressure.”

Peter is quiet for a moment, then says, with no small amount of exasperation, “No, it isn’t!”

“It is in Gotham,” Nightwing laughs, walking towards the roof ledge. “Hey, I’m overdue for a thing. I’ve got someone I need to check in on in Crime Alley. Call if you need anything, all right?”

Peter rolls his eyes again, but nods. “Sure. Thanks, Nightwing.”

Nightwing grins, then casually backflips off of the building and swings away into the night. Peter rolls his eyes at the needless showmanship, then makes a note to do a double backflip the next time they meet. Just to prove he can, of course.

Peter puts on the utility belt, adjusting it until it rests comfortably across his hips. It’s comfortable, and it is useful. He’s not sure what he’ll use the batarangs for exactly, but everyone else seems useful enough.

Time to test Batman’s webs.

He leaps off of the building and shoots out the first web, swinging for Crime Alley. He still has a few hours of patrol left.

* * *

BATCHAT

Tim (11:29pm): any luck finding peter?

Dick (11:30pm): Not yet. I’ll give it a little more time. He might show up again.

Oracle (11:31pm): Sorry, Dick, but you’re needed at GCPD. Joker broke out during the power outage last night. It looks like Killer Croc and Clayface helped him.

Tim (11:32pm): since when did Clayface and Killer Croc help the Joker?

Oracle (11:33pm): Since this week apparently.

Dick (11:34pm): I’m on my way. I’ll just have to try and find Peter tomorrow.

* * *

Patrol moves along quickly after that. More of the usual, thankfully, and nothing approaching the surprise heart delivery he had to do earlier in the day. He hauls himself into the fire station with a sigh, rolling his shoulders as he heads for the shower. It’s a quick one; the water is freezing. He shuffles out in clean clothes, heading straight for bed. He pauses just outside of his makeshift room and tilts his head.

It’s been oddly silent lately, he realizes. No half whispered conversations, no comments, nothing. He frowns, considering that, sitting down on his bed.

“You aren’t hearing them because I’ve pushed them away from you,” Loki says.

That seems bad.

“Go to sleep. It’s time you paid your end of the bargain,” Loki says.

Following that is a wave of exhaustion that hits him so suddenly that Peter sways in place. He frowns, confused, and then lays down on his blankets. He’s asleep in seconds.