Dark Matter

His dreams are restless and stressful; one moment, he’s falling, unable to grab Sam’s hand as he reaches down to help, the next he’s drowning in the frigid waters surrounding Gotham. The only thing that seems consistent is how uncomfortable and restless his sleep is. When he wakes up again, he feels off kilter, his body not fully awake. He blinks, looking up at the hospital ceiling, gradually waking up. Physically speaking, he feels a little better; sore, exhausted, and wrung out mentally and emotionally, but a tiny bit better for the rest his body is getting inside a warm and safe place.

His stomach is another thing altogether. It growls. Loudly. And Peter realizes his last full meal was quite some time ago. A quiet chuckle draws his attention, and he turns his head to the side. Bruce Wayne is sitting comfortably in a chair tucked away in the corner. He nods when he sees Peter awake. He’s alone, Peter notices; Duke, Tim, and Dick have left the room. It’s just Peter and Bruce right now.

Peter stares at him. Some time must have passed since their last chat--a few hours, at least--but Bruce looks as fresh and calm as he did when they first spoke. It’s hard to tell time in a hospital; there’s an odd ‘anytime’ sense that haunts most of them, and the only window he can see shows a city under a blanket of snow.

“Good evening,” Bruce says. “I’ve asked a nurse to bring you something to eat. Dr. Thompkins has cleared you for food, but she wants you to eat slowly.”

“Dr. Thompkins?” Peter asks sleepily, sitting up. He winces, and slumps back onto his bed. His ribs are bruised and tender. They've been taped, restricting his movement, but that isn't helping much.

“The family doctor,” Bruce says. He frowns when he sees Peter wince. “Take it easy and try not to move. How do you feel?”

“Like I was hit by an angry truck on steroids,” Peter says. His fever is broken, at least, but he still has a nagging pain in his throat when he speaks. His voice is gravelly and thick, choking off his words. But his mind is clear enough. Thank god for small favors. “I think I’m more awake now, at least.”

“That’s good. You’ve had us worried,” Bruce says.

Peter had worried himself for a little while there. Thinking back to the river and how close he came to just sleeping himself to death in the cold fills him with an icy dread. The memory is blurry and smudged at the edges, but he distinctly remembers hearing voices, a radio, and the others.

Others who aren’t saying much of anything at the moment. That worries him; it feels strangely empty without hearing Bucky and Sam’s bickering, Fury’s dry observations, and Shuri and T’Challa’s gentle encouragement.

“Where am I?” Peter asks, rubbing at his eyes. The exhaustion is leaving him.

“In a private room at Drake Memorial Hospital. You’re quite the celebrity here at the moment,” Bruce says.

Peter frowns at him, confused. “I am?”

“One of Batman’s worst enemies broke into my manor with the intent to kill my family, and you distracted him until help could arrive. That makes you something of a celebrity in this city, and someone I owe a personal debt to,” Bruce explains. “Congratulations, you’ve just become one of the hottest topics in Gotham.”

Oh god. The marble bust and the display stand it was resting on were both well over one hundred pounds. He threw both of them at Bane. Sure, he didn’t have much of a choice, and it was worth it, but neither of those things can be considered light enough to be thrown by a skinny, sick kid. Hysterical strength can account for some amazing feats, but it can’t account for that. Come to think of it, he probably won’t be able to easily explain away the fact that he took a massive punch to the chest from Bane and came out of it without any broken bones.

“I know you’re a meta,” Bruce says simply. “You wouldn’t have survived that punch unless you had some kind of physical enhancement.”

“Yeah. Is that going to be a problem?” Peter asks hesitantly. “I know Batman isn’t a big fan of people like me.”

Something flashes behind Bruce’s eyes, just for a moment. Something like shock and annoyance. It passes so quickly that Peter wonders if he saw it at all. “Now, what gives you that idea?”

“It’s, ah, something I’ve heard around town, that’s all,” Peter mumbles, rubbing the back of his head. “I’m not sure it’s true, but you know. I’d rather stay on his good side if I can help it.”

“I think you’ve got that covered,” Bruce says. “And it’s the police who tend to be less than kind to people with your abilities in Gotham, unfortunately.”

“Okay, that’s also a problem, then,” Peter mutters. He rubs his throat, annoyed by the soreness. His healing factor is nothing short of miraculous, but he’s been relying on it heavily lately, and he’s not exactly replacing all that energy he’s using up.

“Not in this case,” Bruce says, standing up to grab a plastic cup from the cupboard above the sink tucked away in the corner of the room. He fills the cup and brings it over to Peter, setting it down on the small table beside Peter’s bed.

Peter grabs the water and sips at it, relaxing. “Why’s that? I kind of made it obvious that I’m enhanced.”

“Alfred and Damian have told the police everything,” Bruce says. “How you distracted Bane before Batman and the others were able to intervene. I owe you for that. For more than that, in fact, but that’s something we can discuss later.”

There’s a pregnant pause. Peter watches Bruce, and Bruce calmly returns his gaze. The playboy billionaire facade is almost completely gone. He isn’t sure what kind of man Bruce Wayne is, but he meets Peter’s gaze with a steady and frank curiosity that could match T’Challa’s steely looks.

“They said I distracted Bane?” Peter asks, mind turning slowly. That’s an odd choice of words. He attacked Bane, it just wasn’t strong enough to count as more than a distraction given how weak and tired he was.

“Yes. You yelled at Bane and drew him away from the kitchen. That gave Damian enough time to slip out of his restraints and call for help,” Bruce says, still in that calm and steady voice. “Bane broke a marble bust of myself while charging towards you. Alfred saw him knock it over.”

Peter stares at Bruce. Alfred couldn’t have seen that. His neck was in Bane’s hands.

Bruce pauses, and gives Peter a significant look. “Which is a good story to tell the press and the police. If they think you’re different, they might start to investigate the incident at the manor a little more closely than they should. There are already a lot of questions surrounding you. We shouldn’t give them more than they already have.”

Ah. Yeah, a homeless meta kid throwing hands with one of Batman’s worst enemies in Bruce Wayne’s kitchen might turn this into a bigger shit show than it already is. Nothing good will come of Peter admitting that he’s enhanced or meta.

“Oh. Right. Got it,” Peter says.

He desperately thinks back to Tony’s ‘this is how you handle the press’ lectures, and tries to think of something useful. Somehow, he doesn’t think, ‘sunglasses, the mirrored kind; it throws people off’ and ‘always keep moving, you never know who’s trying to catch up’ and ‘always give them a show, people love a good show’ have any place in this particular situation. Probably because Tony was in the habit of fleeing the press if they weren’t specifically invited for a press conference by Stark Industries. Often because they had very awkward questions to ask him.

Bruce smiles. “Good. For the record, I have no issue with meta individuals, but I know there are others who do. I don’t want anyone to make you a target for their own agendas if I can help it.”

Peter pauses, taking that in. He blinks. “You won’t tell anyone?”

“Not a soul,” Bruce confirms.

“Oh,” Peter says. He fidgets a little, and says, quietly, “Thanks.”

Bruce nods, pauses, and starts to say something. He’s interrupted by the door swinging open. The man freezes, tensing in a way that reminds Peter of Natasha before relaxing once more when he sees Dick Grayson peering into the room from around the door. Dick smiles when he sees Peter awake.

“Hey, Peter,” he says. He sounds tired. Actually, he sounds worn down, as if he’s just had the roughest week of his life. Peter can understand that. “Good to see you’re awake. You had us all worried.”

“Yeah, I bet. Sorry about that,” he says, rubbing the back of his head.

“What’s wrong, Dick?” Bruce asks.

“Dr. Thompkins and Detective Bullock want to talk to Peter, and Damian is refusing to stay in bed,” Dick says evenly. “You might have to pull rank here. He’s really riled up. He doesn’t want Alfred out of his sight.”

Which is understandable. Alfred must have raised that kid, just like the other Wayne kids (he assumes; he really doesn’t know). If Peter had been in Damian’s shoes, he’d be absolutely feral about keeping May in sight--

May. The note. Peter frowns, withdrawing while Dick and Bruce speak. So much has happened, he almost forgot about Dr. Strange’s note. For a moment, he loses himself to thoughts of the note, and what it means. For himself and for Felicia.

God, Felicia. He needs to tell her about Strange’s letter.

“--right, Peter?” Dick says.

Peter blinks, snapping out of his thoughts and looking at Dick. He’s standing near Peter’s bed now, and Peter can see that his eyes are bloodshot and red, possibly from tears. Peter can’t blame the guy; Alfred is family, and he nearly got his head torn off by someone on super steroids.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I said that Detective Bullock and Dr. Thompkins want to speak with you. Is that all right?” Dick asks. “One of us can stay with you, if you’d like.”

Peter shakes his head. “No, no, that’s fine. I’ll talk with them.”

“I’ll be right outside if you need me,” Dick says, gently squeezing his shoulder before heading towards the door with Bruce.

Peter frowns after them. There was something familiar in that brief squeeze. He can’t quite place it right now, but it tugs at the back of his mind as Bruce and Dick leave and Detective Bullock and Dr. Thompkins enter the room. Dick hesitates for a moment before shutting the door with a gentle click.

Bullock lumbers towards Peter, offering his hand and giving a firm shake before sitting down in the chair Bruce left behind. The chair struggles to contain his bulk; Bullock is heavyset, but in a way that suggests there’s a great deal of muscle beneath the fat. He looks tired, and a bit more rumpled than he did in the warehouse when Peter met him as Spider-Man. He manages a pleasant enough smile.

“Peter, good to see you’re awake,” Bullock says. His tone is polite, but suspicious; Peter wonders if that’s just his default voice. He hopes so. “Most people Bane takes a swing at aren’t really capable of talking much afterward. Especially not--well. No offense. You’re not exactly a hard case.”

“None taken,” Peter says, rubbing the back of his neck. He glances at his arm and is relieved to see the stab wound from a few days ago is pretty much gone. Only a thin white scar remains from the knife wound.

“I’ve pretty much got all I need already, kid, but I wanted to check in on you before I left,” he says. “Won’t take very long, I promise. I know the doc here wants to talk to you.”

“Right. Um, anything you need.”

“Can you tell me what happened? I need to make sure the fine details match up for my report.”

Ah. So that’s why Bruce wanted to meet alone. He wanted to help Peter get his story straight with the cops. Tony’s given him advice on this before, too. What was it? ‘Tell ‘em you have a lawyer, then call Happy. He’ll get a lawyer for you. A real shark of a bastard, too. I keep a few around for situations like these. Just try not to get caught with your literal pants down, it doesn’t look good in court.’

Okay, so that’s not helpful in this situation. Especially since Tony and Happy are both likely dead. Which is another thought he can’t afford to get lost in.

“Right. Okay. Um, Tim brought me over earlier in the day, and I dozed off--”

“Dozed off?”

“Yeah, uh,” Peter stammers for a moment, and then opts for the truth. “I live in Crime Alley. My place doesn’t have heat, so I tried to go to the hospital to warm up and ran into Tim.”

“Tim Drake? How does a kid from Crime Alley know one of Bruce Wayne’s sons?” Bullock asks. He’s scribbling in his notebook as Peter speaks, and his tone is more matter of fact than accusatory.

“We go to the same school. I got in on a scholarship.” Bullock grunts, seemingly satisfied with that answer, and Peter pushes on. “Anyway, my cold got the better of me and I fell asleep in one of the guest rooms. I woke up when the power went out and went to find Alfred.”

“You woke up because the power went out?”

“I live in Crime Alley, detective. You either react to the world changing around you or you end up dead,” Peter says dryly. “Spider-Man can’t be everywhere, and neither can Red Hood.”

Bullock sighs. “Yeah, well, he’s not going to be anywhere these days. All right. You woke up. What then?”

“I could hear voices downstairs. I followed them and saw Bane threatening Alfred.”

“And then?”

“And then I yelled. Kind of,” Peter says, rubbing his throat. His voice is starting to give out on him, and he stops to take another deep drink of water. Bullock waits patiently. “Mostly I called him an asshole and tried to piss him off enough he’d get away from them. I think I struck a nerve, or startled him--” Well, literally struck a nerve by flinging Bruce Wayne’s face into the side of the man’s head. “--he started chasing me. Then Batman and the others came in.”

“Pretty brave,” Bullock remarks, still writing in his notebook.

“Not really. I couldn’t just stand there and do nothing.”

“You’re not from Gotham, are you?” Bullock asks suddenly.

Peter blinks at him, frowning. “No, I’m from Queens.”

“That explains it,” Bullock says, clicking his pen idly. “Crime Alley kids would’ve run at the first sign of trouble. It’s how they survive long enough to end up being Crime Alley adults. Frankly, the fact that you’ve survived in Crime Alley this long without being a native is amazing.”

“Queens isn’t exactly a cakewalk, you know,” Peter says. He pauses. “But it doesn’t have much on Crime Alley, I guess.”

“I’d bet not,” Bullock replies dryly. He pauses. “Is that all?”

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t try to fight Bane? Didn’t hit him?”

Peter’s heartbeat spikes a little. The machine tracking it lets out a slightly quicker beep. He fidgets in his bed a little. “No. What kind of damage could a skinny kid like me do to him?”

Bullock eyes him for a moment, and scoffs. “Yeah. That’s what I thought. But Bane says you threw Bruce Wayne’s bust at him, then the display case, and that you punched him in the stomach and kicked him across the chin. He’s got the bruises and busted jaw to prove it.”

“Batman gave the guy the beating of his life,” Peter says.

“Yeah. He did. And he’s pretty damn strong, but I don’t think he’s that strong. Not unless he’s Superman.” He gives Peter a level stare for a moment. The kind of stare that says ‘I know you’re lying, and I want you to know that I know.’ Peter stares back. After a moment, Bullock shrugs. “But who knows. That Starfire woman was with him. She packs a mean punch. Maybe she got a hit in or two.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Peter mumbles.

Another pause follows that. Bullock shakes his head, closing the notebook. “That fits the story everyone else has told me.”

Oh, thank god.

“By the way, we’re having trouble tracking down your guardian. I got in touch with your school, and nobody can find this Tony Stark guy,” Bullock says, pocketing his notebook. “You wouldn’t happen to have another number for him, would you?”

The number Peter gave them goes to FRIDAY. He can imagine that they aren’t going to find Tony at that number in this universe. Peter shakes his head slowly. “No.”

“We really need to--”

“If he was capable of being here,” Peter says, suddenly exhausted. “Then he’d be here. He’s not coming.”

Another pause follows that. Bullock frowns at Peter for a moment. After a few seconds, he says, “Dick Grayson has some paperwork signing over temporary guardianship to him from Tony. Sounds like your guardian made some arrangements to have you taken care of.”

How in the fuck did Dick Grayson get that? Peter frowns. Maybe Loki did it? He has been oddly helpful lately. Even kind, in his own way. Peter could see the God of Mischief conning Dick Grayson into looking after Peter.

“Well, no, but we haven’t talked much lately.”

“Then it sounds like Tony did you a favor getting you in with the Waynes,” Bullock says. “Between you and me, kid, I think you’d be better off with them. They never lose heat in the middle of a blizzard.”

Peter says nothing, looking away to frown at the ground. If Tony was here, he wouldn’t have been starving in the streets. Bullock sighs, seemingly aware that he’s hit a sore spot.

"Is Nightwing still around? I'd like to talk to him," Peter says.

"He left as soon as he brought you here," Bullock says, pushing himself up from the chair with a sigh. He adjusts his hat and pulls a toothpick out of his front breast pocket, popping it into his mouth. "He wasn't in good shape. He lost a friend recently, and he has to lay low for a little while."

Yeah, Peter can only guess at what Nightwing is going through right now. And Red Hood. He needs to find them as soon as he can. Which he can’t exactly do if he’s just been kind of adopted by Dick Grayson and the Wayne family.

“Thanks for your cooperation, Peter,” Bullock says heading for the door. He places one meaty hand on the doorknob and glances over his shoulder at Peter. “One last piece of advice before I go.”

“Yeah?”

“Never play poker. You’re a terrible liar,” Bullock says. He pushes open the door and shuts it behind himself, leaving Peter alone with Dr. Thompkins. A long silence follows, until Peter lets out a heavy sigh and flops back against the bed.

Dr. Thompkins steps into view, picks up his cup of water, and refills it for him. She smiles at him. “Hi, Peter. I wanted to discuss a few things with you if you’re feeling up to it?”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Peter says, with a sinking feeling in his stomach. It’s never good when a doctor uses that particularly gentle tone with someone. Usually it’s followed by something like, ‘so good news, we’ve just discovered a fascinating new illness that will finance years of study. Bad news is, it’s inside you.’ Or maybe that’s just his anxiety talking. “What’s up, doc?”

“Well, I wanted to talk to you about a few things,” Dr. Thompkins says, sitting in the chair Bullock just left. “Your blood tests specifically.”

Peter goes very, very still. His blood tests have been slightly weird since the spider bite. Most of the doctors he’s visited (which isn’t exactly a regular occurrence these days) typically make polite ‘hm’ noises before checking May’s insurance and deciding against pursuing it when they realize the policy won’t pay for any further tests. But since he’s technically under Dick Grayson’s guardianship, that’s not true anymore. Bruce Wayne’s kids probably have the best medical care money can buy.

“Yeah?” Peter asks warily. There’s a window behind them. Peter can make a break for it if he absolutely needs to, but the idea of fleeing the hospital in a patient gown during a snowstorm isn’t exactly appealing. “Is something wrong?”

“Yes, and no. There are a couple of things I’d like to talk to you about. We found evidence of Joker’s toxin in your system. You said you live in Crime Alley?”

“Yeah, I do,” Peter says.

“He set off a few of his bombs in Crime Alley to throw off Black Bat the other day. Is that when you were exposed?”

“Yeah,” Peter says, leaping on that excuse as quickly as possible. “I wasn’t able to get the antidote for awhile, but I think it worked.”

“You should have come to my clinic,” she says. “But I think you got lucky, as far as exposure goes. Kind of.”

“Kind of?”

“The Joker is a brilliant chemist. His toxins are notoriously difficult to counter. Most people who are exposed don’t recover if they aren’t given the antidote in a timely fashion, and there are a few who never recover if the Joker sprays them directly. I think you’ll be alright, but you might have some side effects.”

“Side effects?” Peter asks, worried.

“Laughing fits,” Dr. Thompkins explains. “Almost like seizures. A few of my patients have it. There isn’t exactly a term for it yet, and we do have a treatment, but it’s often permanent.”

“Oh,” Peter says numbly. “So I’m going to have, what, laughing seizures for the rest of my life?”

“It’s still too early to tell. Your immune system is fighting it, which is one reason why your throat is so sore.” She pauses, then adds gently. “And your healing factor is something to consider. I know you’re meta, and I know you’ve been in a Lazarus Pit. I can recognize the signs.”

Jesus Christ, he might as well walk around with it tattooed across his face. Peter sighs, rubbing the back of his head. This is a lot to take in. “Okay. So, um, a few questions?”

“Go ahead.”

“What do I do about the laughing seizures? Is there anything I can do for them?”

“Yes, actually, there is,” Dr. Thompkins says. She stands up and grabs a small box from one of the cabinets above the sink in the room, then sits back down and sets it on the table beside his bed. “Have you ever used an inhaler before?”

Great. “Yeah, trust me, I know how to use those. So I just use this whenever I start to laugh?”

“Only when you can’t stop laughing. It might take awhile for you to recognize the signs,” Dr. Thompkins explains. “Two puffs, hold in your breath, then release. You’ll know when it works.”

“Never thought I’d start using these again,” Peter mutters. Dr. Thompkins gives him a sympathetic smile. It seems genuine; most doctors are only capable of pulling off a polite, noncommittal smile. “Okay, next question.”

“Go ahead.”

“The Lazarus Pit thing. What did you mean by that?”

“That you died and came back when someone put you in a Pit. Or something like it, at least,” Dr. Thompkins says. Her tone is carefully neutral now. “There are a lot of side effects to that.”

“Like what?”

“Psychological trauma is the most common,” Dr. Thompkins says. “One of the most concerning side effects is, potentially, homicidal rage.”

Peter stops for a moment. This is what Loki was talking about during that weird dream awhile ago. Dr. Thompkins is watching him carefully, and Peter wonders at her courage. She’s in a room alone with a meta suffering from joker toxin poisoning and the side effects of resurrection.

“I mean, I’ve gotten frustrated and angry a lot easier than usual, but I haven’t--I mean, I wouldn’t---” he gropes for the words. He can feel a simmering fury somewhere deep inside himself, held at bay by...something. Someone? After a moment, he admits, “I think it’s gotten close a few times.”

“It can come and go in waves,” Dr. Thompkins says sympathetically. “Do you remember anything about it? Who put you in the Pit and why?”

Peter hesitates and then shakes his head. Explaining it to her won’t do him any good. If anything, it’ll put a target on her back if the people who put him into the Lazarus tube come looking. “No. And I don’t want to. I have nightmares about it sometimes and those are bad enough.”

She nods, unsurprised by that answer. “I understand that.”

A brief silence falls over the room after that. Peter breaks it, rubbing the back of his head. "Bruce Wayne wants me to stay with his family. If I did---I mean, am I a danger to them? Would I be putting them at risk? I don’t want to hurt anyone."

"Pit Madness usually lessens over time," Dr. Thompkins says reassuringly. "It's been months, right?"

“Yeah,” Peter says. “I don’t know how many. Four or five?”

Frankly, he’s lost track of time recently. Too much has happened.

Dr. Thompkins nods again, thinking. “Your case is special. Joker toxin can cause it’s own brand of psychological trouble. I’m going to be honest, Peter. The fact that you’re able to carry a conversation like this is astonishing, and probably thanks to your special abilities.”

Well, that and the souls of half of the Avengers he’s carrying around telling him to calm down whenever the anger gets to be too much. Peter decides against telling her that he can hear dead superheroes whispering to him. It might cause her some concern. To put it mildly.

“I’m cautiously optimistic in your case. If you start to feel like the anger is becoming uncontrollable, call me. Day or night. I’ll do everything that I can to help,” Dr. Thompkins says. “I know Dick feels the same way.”

“He doesn’t even know me,” Peter says.

“He knows enough,” Dr. Thompkins says, standing up. She takes out his IV, and disconnects the machine monitoring his heart rate. Peter wishes she’d done that sooner. “I know Bruce wants to talk to you. I’m clearing you for a brief trip outside, but I want to keep you here for one more night.”

“Oh, uh. Right. Thanks, doc,” Peter says.

Dr. Thompkins pats his shoulder idly and walks towards the door, opening it and slipping outside into the hall. Peter lays back in his bed and stares up at the ceiling, mind reeling from everything he’s just been through. He listens for the others, to see if they have anything to say about what he’s just learned. He hears nothing. He feels very tired and very alone.

A gentle knock on the door draws him out of his thoughts. Bruce Wayne stands in the doorway, holding a backpack in one hand. “Do you mind if I come in?”

Peter waves him in, sitting up with a sigh. Bruce steps into the room and closes the door behind himself. After a moment, Peter looks up at him. "Mr. Wayne, can I ask you a question?"

"Of course, anything."

Peter looks at him from the corner of his eyes. This next question will tell him exactly what kind of man Bruce is. "Why did you have a bust of yourself outside of the kitchen?"

Bruce’s expression becomes wry and a tad exasperated. "It was a gift from the rest of the family. They knew I'd hate it but feel obligated to show it off, so they hired the best sculptor in the city to make it. I couldn’t exactly turn down a gift from my children, and the sculptor was only too happy to take on such a large commission.”

Peter already has his head in his hands. "I threw a birthday gift from your kids at Bane?"

"Yes. Alfred said your form was impeccable.”

Great, Bruce has jokes. "Please tell me I didn't break it."

"No, unfortunately. It's still in one piece. I think Dick suspected it might fall during an ‘accident’ at some point," Bruce says wryly. "You have, at least, given it character. And justified Dick, Tim, and Jason’s future crimes against taste when they inevitably order a replacement.”

There’s fond exasperation in his voice, and Peter smiles a little at the sound of it. Bruce seems like--well, not a bad father, at least. It’s good to know that the bust wasn’t some manifestation of an oversized ego. Just mild family terrorism between family.

"Listen, why don't you join me for lunch?" Bruce asks. “I’d like to talk to you, and I know you must be starving.

Peter looks down at his patient gown. "Um. I'd like that, but--"

"Duke and Tim brought you some clothes,” Bruce says, lifting up the backpack. He sets it on the chair next to him. “”

“I think I’ve got it,” Peter says.

Bruce doesn’t seem surprised. He nods. “I’ll meet you in the hall. There’s a burger place around the corner.”

With that, he steps out of the room one last time. Peter sighs, pushing himself out of bed. If nothing else, that procession of people helped distract him from the steady itch of his healing factor. He’s already moving easier, and the bruise across his torso is green and yellow at the edges. His ribs still itch and ache, but a good meal and better sleep might take care of that. With his immune system fighting the Joker toxin in his blood, who knows how long it’ll take to heal.

Peter showers and changes into the clothes Bruce left in the backpack. Jeans, socks, shoes, and another Superman shirt. This one is the classic red and blue design and it fits Peter perfectly when he pulls it on. He idly wonders how many of Bruce Wayne’s kids are a fan of Superman.

When he steps out of the bathroom, feeling better for the shower alone, he stops and takes stock of himself. He eyes the inhaler on the table beside his bed and grabs it, pocketing it on his way towards the door.

He never thought he’d need one of those again.