Dark Matter

They end up walking out of the hospital and across a skyway, a pedestrian bridge connecting the hospital to a shopping center across the street, as well as a parking garage and hotel. Peter looks up at the sky through the glass walls and ceiling. The storm above Gotham is just as menacing as it had been days ago, but the snow has turned to flurries and rain. The city looks dark and gloomy in the fading evening light, even under a blanket of snow. It's strangely beautiful.

“This place is huge,” Peter says, in a tone equal parts wonder and worry. Mostly to break the silence.

“It's the biggest hospital in the city, more of a medical complex than a regular hospital. It owns three blocks and they might expand it more,” Bruce confirms, walking beside him.

“Exactly how much is all this going to cost?” Peter asks. He knows, on some level, that Dick or Bruce is paying for this, but he also has long baked in near poverty instincts about what he can and can't afford.

The few doctor’s visits he’s had since the bite were often in small, unassuming buildings that still manage to be expensive. He has the sudden realization that if a ten minute conversation with a doctor in a tiny office in the not-so-great part of town racks up a two hundred dollar bill, then a day or two inside a medical complex at the heart of Gotham City is going to ask for a price he doesn’t want to think about.

Bruce blinks, as if the cost of all of this never once entered his mind. “Don’t worry about it. Here, there’s a food court up ahead.”

And there is, in fact, a massive food court to their left. Doctors, visitors, various hospital staff, and even a few other patients fill out booths and tables lining the room. It reminds Peter of a mall food court, with separate store fronts. Most of the options are healthy enough: a soup and salad shop, a sandwich place, and far in the corner, a Batburger. Soup will get him nowhere, and a sandwich won’t last him a minute. Peter heads straight for that one.

Bruce follows him at a sedate pace, his movements easy, graceful, and far too silent for a man of his size. Peter makes note of that, wonders about it for a moment, and then becomes far too engrossed in the menu to care.

“Dr. Thompkins didn’t give you any dietary restrictions?” Bruce asks, stepping up beside him.

“Nah, she’s not worried about that,” he answers.

“Get as much as you’d like, then.”

Peter happily does so. Three burgers, more fries than necessary, a massive drink, and more. It’s probably more than his stomach can handle, to be honest, but he’ll find that out soon enough. Bruce settles for a regular burger, small water, and a fruit pie. Peter orders three pies for himself. Fruit is relatively healthy, so that’ll even out his horrible food decisions, right?

He half expects to hear some kind of comment on that from...someone. Anyone. It’s odd when he doesn’t hear anything. Odd enough to make him pause for a moment before grabbing a table in the far corner of the room while Bruce pays for their meals. Peter’s already eaten one burger and is halfway through the second when Bruce sits down across from him. carefully spreads a napkin across his lap, unwraps his burger, picks up a plastic fork and knife, and then cuts his burger down the middle like a steak.

Peter can only stare. It’s such a contrast to Tony demolishing a burger with one hand that, in any other instance, it’d be funny. If only because Peter can clearly imagine Tony nudging him with an elbow and commenting on it.

“So I noticed something a little while ago,” Bruce says between bites, a little too casually for Peter’s liking.

“Um, what’s that?” Bruce is cutting the burger into bite sized pieces and it’s distracting Peter terribly.

“I’ve been sponsoring a new student at Gotham Prep. Now, normally I make a big deal about that sort of thing. Press release, or at least a brief article in the paper. It looks good for my company, and it’s a good way to give back to the city that’s helped me maintain my wealth.”

Peter goes still.

“It seems your name was added to the list at some point. I don’t remember that.” Bruce sets the fork and knife down, watching Peter closely. There’s a sharp intelligence there to rival Tony’s glinting in those eyes. Peter suddenly realizes he's completely misjudged Bruce Wayne.

Peter sighs. The man wouldn’t bring it up unless he already knew the answer. He might as well come clean. "That’s because I put it there."

Bruce tilts his head and says nothing.

Peter's face burns with embarrassment. "I just needed to go to a school with a really good science program."

The part where he needs a good science program because he’s trying to figure out a way to get back to his original universe is left unspoken. There are some things you just don’t drop on billionaires upon first meeting them. And, if Strange’s letter is anything to go by (and why wouldn't it be?), that's no longer possible, so it doesn't matter anyway.

Bruce nods, thoughtful. "I thought so."

"Listen, I'm sorry I stole--"

Bruce raises his hand and stops Peter there. "Your grades are perfect, you set a new record for the entrance exam, and the teachers tell me you're a diligent worker who’s perfectly well behaved, despite being antagonized by other students. I prefer that people ask for my money rather than take it but given your circumstances, I can understand why you did it. As far as I’m concerned, you've more than earned that scholarship, Peter."

Peter stares at him, shocked. He relaxes slightly, but he can hear the unspoken ‘however’ hovering at the end of Bruce’s sentence.

"I am, however, worried about your living situation. Your neighborhood isn't safe, to put it mildly."

"Honestly, I've lived in worse."

Well, not much worse, and only for a week while May got them into a better apartment after losing the one she and Ben had shortly after his death. He really is at a low point in his life, shelter wise.

That earns him a deeper frown. “I like that even less. That won’t do. You need food, shelter, and a safe place to sleep. Preferably on an actual bed.”

“I mean, I can figure it out, if I can just find a steady job--” Peter starts.

“You can stay with my family. Dick has the paperwork for it already, but it’s a choice I'd like you to make."

Peter stares at him. “What?”

“Stay with my family," Bruce repeats. "Tim and Duke have told me all about you. Alfred is obviously fond of you. Dick already has the legal side of it handled. They’d be happy to have you there. So would I, frankly. I don’t like the idea of you sleeping in the cold. It's a wonder you kept your grades up living like that.”

“Are you serious?” Peter asks incredulously. “I literally stole from you.”

"Lots of people steal from me. Very few of them have a good reason for it." Bruce shrugs. "And why not? Dick becomes your guardian permanently, and gives you a safe place to live until you graduate or as long as you like.”

“Hasn’t that decision already been made for me?” Peter asks.

“Yes, but only as far as medical care is concerned. I want you to decide whether to take the offer or not,” Bruce explains. “You didn’t get any say in the matter when you were brought here. You do now.”

Peter is quiet for a moment, thinking it over. It’s basically a no-brainer; winter is in full swing in Gotham, and he simply won’t survive it without shelter and food, something that Bruce and his family are offering him without strings attached, apparently. But with that comes several downsides. Manageable ones, but unique frustrations all the same.

“A few ground rules first,” Peter says.

Bruce quirks a brow, but nods, politely folding his hands on the table in front of him. “Go ahead.”

“Don’t ask where I came from, or how I ended up in Gotham. The past is past, leave it there,” Peter says. The less the Waynes know about him, the safer they’ll be.

“Fair enough,” Bruce says easily. Too easily, actually.

“Second, I want you to talk to Dr. Thompkins first before agreeing to this,” Peter says after a moment. “I, uh, might have some lingering medical issues.”

“Such as?”

“Joker toxin. Dr. Thompkins says there could be some lingering effects from it. If you want me to stay with you, it’s only fair you know about that,” Peter says. "I mean, I still don't fully know what it means besides having to use an inhaler. It could get ugly."

What’s left unspoken is this: Are you willing to take a potentially emotionally unstable meta into your home? Well, in so many words; he’s definitely not telling Bruce about the Lazarus Machine thing. You can’t just drop ‘hey, by the way, I’m also a zombie’ on someone like that. At least, not right away.

Something flashes behind Bruce’s eyes for a moment. “You realize how difficult this rule makes the first one to keep?”

“I do. But just accept it at face value for now,” Peter says.

Bruce tilts his head, but nods slowly. “All right. Anything else?”

“If you ever try to pull me into your billionaire rich people nonsense, I will become a problem on purpose,” Peter says. He’d given this same ultimatum to Tony. Tony had tested it and then immediately regretted it.

“No different from the other kids, then,” Bruce remarks dryly. “All right. I have a few things to say, too.”

“I agree to your rules, but there are a few things you should be aware of," Bruce says. "The media will latch onto you for a few weeks no matter what. That can't be helped. You made a name for yourself defending my family. The attention will die down eventually, but don’t be surprised if a few reporters follow you around for awhile."

Peter hadn't considered that. God, that's going to make finding Nightwing even more difficult than he thought.

"Give it a few weeks and it'll die down. I'll do my best to keep you out of the spotlight in the meantime, but I can’t promise you complete privacy when you leave the manor," Bruce says, and there's a genuine apology in his tone. "My family is well known and well entrenched in Gotham. People are going to be curious about you based on that alone.”

That’s definitely going to be a problem. He doesn’t want to wait a few weeks to find Nightwing, but he may not have a choice. Between his general exhaustion, the joker toxin, whatever the Lazarus thing did to him, plus all of Batman’s worst running through the city...

Maybe a couple of weeks in bed could be useful. There’s a bone deep exhaustion that drags at his body and limbs even with the rest and food. And the uncomfortable itch of his healing factor is only making it worse; his body is already churning through the food he’s eaten to heal him and fight off whatever the joker toxin is doing to him.

“As long as you don’t mind me staying out of the public eye as much as possible,” Peter says after a few moments.

“You’ll still have to go to school,” Bruce points out. “But I think you can handle that. I just wanted you to be aware of it.”

“Yeah. Thanks. I hadn’t thought of that.” His other option is fleeing back into Crime Alley and living in the streets.

“I can give you tips on how to handle the press, if you’d like,” Bruce offers. “It’s actually pretty easy--”

“No, thanks. I already know.” More or less. Tony liked to share his knowledge, and even though the vast majority of it didn’t have any place in Peter’s life, he still listened to him. Turns out the media advice might actually be useful, though.

Bruce looks genuinely happy about that. “Let me, Dick, or Alfred know if you need help adjusting to things. Duke can give you some good advice on adjusting to life in the manor, too.”

“It’ll be nice living close to them. I missed hanging out with them,” Peter says, polishing off the last of his food. It was probably rude to eat during all of that, but fuck that. He’s hungry, and he’s had his fill of eating cold food. Peter stacks up his trash on the tray and stands up.

“You'll be in the hospital for another night. Dr. Thompkins’s orders,” Bruce says, clearing grabbing his tray and standing with him.

"Guess my cold was pretty bad,” Peter says, dumping his tray into the trash can and stacking it. Bruce dumps his own tray behind him. His gaze isn’t focused on Peter, but Peter can tell the man is keeping an eye on his every move somehow.

“Dr. Thompkins thought it was pneumonia at first, but it cleared up so quickly that she ended up giving you cold medicine instead,” Bruce says. He pauses. “She also mentioned a gunshot wound in your side."

There's a very strange weight to that sentence. Peter blinks up at Bruce, doing his best to feign ignorance. "Gunshot wound?"

"It looks like it happened a few months ago."

He must have healed while resting at the manor. A good meal, several hours of rest in a warm environment, and knowing he was safe apparently kicked his healing factor into overdrive. He still feels like he’s got a cold, but that’s clearing up by the minute. "Oh. Yeah."

"I have to admit I'm interested in finding out how that happened.”

"It's, um, a long story." And one Peter has no interest in sharing at the moment. "I'm not ready to talk about it. Consider it a part of rule number one."

Bruce tilts his head for a moment, clearly debating on pressing the issue. Finally, he nods. "Only when you're ready. Come on, Alfred’s waiting for us.”

The walk back to his room passes quickly enough. Bruce is content to walk at Peter’s pace, occasionally pointing out landmarks and skyscrapers visible from the skyway. He mostly points out the businesses; Queen Industries, LexCorp, Wayne Towers, the Gotham Gazette building. Peter humors him while he slips into ‘billionaire businessman’ language; it’s oddly comforting and familiar, even if Bruce lacks Tony’s sarcasm and near manic infodumping.

Alfred is standing outside of Peter’s room. He seems glad to see Peter standing under his own power. He doesn’t quite perk up when they draw close and walks towards them.

“Master Wayne, Master Peter. I was just going to check on Master Damian,” he says. He looks between them. “I trust the conversation has happened...?”

“It has.” Bruce says, and he presses a hand on Peter’s shoulder. "Alfred, Peter has agreed to stay with us."

The older man looks relieved. "Very good, sir. I'll make formal arrangements when we return to the manor." Alfred turns to Peter and smiles. "Welcome to the family, Master Peter."

"I have a meeting to go to, but Alfred will help you settle into the manor when Dr. Thompkins clears you,” Bruce says, his mind clearly already focused on other things.

“A meeting in all this?” Peter asks, jerking his head towards the skyway and the snow covered streets below. The sky, already dark and dim from the storm, has been steadily growing dimmer. It’s almost dark now.

“I’ve got a few things to handle at the office, plus I need to speak with the contractors coming in to fix the window, and I’m due back in Metropolis very soon,” Bruce explains, walking Peter back into his room. “I’m afraid I won’t be back for a week or two.”

“Oh, uh, right,” Peter says, kicking off his shoes and dropping down on the bed. That makes sense; Bruce still directly runs his company, unlike Tony. His schedule is probably ridiculous. “Thanks for taking the time to talk.”

Bruce pauses and then smiles. “We’ll talk more when I come back. Get some rest and settle into the manor. You’ve gone through a lot.”

Bruce doesn’t even know the half of it. “I’ll do that. Thanks, again. For taking me in after everything.”

“Of course,” Bruce replies, as if taking in a homeless thief is the most natural thing in the world. “Good night, Peter.”

He shuts the door behind himself. Peter stretches and flops back onto the hospital bed. It’s a touch too soft, really, but it’s warm, and that’s novelty enough to make up for the softness. He stretches, sighs, and relaxes. Peter is dozing in his bed, flirting with the edge of true sleep, when someone speaks.

"I thought you had enhanced senses," a young voice says from beside his head.

The voice is tinged with the barest Middle Eastern accent, and sounds, for lack of a better word, coldly haughty. It also sounds like the owner is speaking through a wall of mucus, which leads to an interesting effect.

Peter startles back awake, and finds himself face to face with none other than Damian Wayne. The kid is clearly exhausted and feverish, but he hides it surprisingly well, standing stoically beside Peter’s bed with an impressive glare across his features.

"Wha--when did you come in here?" Peter asks, reaching up to scrub his eyes. "Actually, howlonghave you been here?"

"You told the police that you heard voices in the kitchen from the bedroom hallway," Damian says, ignoring his questions. "That is physically impossible for a human. You almost blew your own cover story with that idiotic lie."

A brief pause follows that.

“I didn’t think of that,” Peter mumbles, still sleepy. How had the kid snuck inside? He should’ve heard the door, if nothing else. Hell, he should have heard the kid breathing or his heartbeat or something.

Damian stares at him, hard. It is focused, and intelligent and unbelievably creepy to see on the face of a kid. “Are you Kryptonian?”

Peter stares at him. “I don’t know what that is.”

“Hm. I didn’t think so, but you move like one. Clumsy because you can’t move as fast as is natural for you. And the strength, of course,” Damian says, half to himself. He squints at Peter. “Can you fly?”

“No, I’m pretty sure that the laws of physics apply to me,” Peter replies.

That just gets him an even more speculative look from Damian. It isn’t hostile, exactly, just focused. Peter’s seen Tim get a similar look around a particularly stubborn problem he needs to work through at school. Somehow, Peter thinks Damian wouldn’t appreciate the comparison. He’s pretty sure little brothers at this age hate being compared to their older siblings.

"You saved Alfred’s life. I owe you a debt for that,” Damian says after a moment, shifting topics so quickly that Peter’s exhausted brain is having trouble keeping up.

"You are super intense," Peter says blearily. He pauses. “Hey. I saved your life, too.”

“Debatable,” Damian says loftily, waving a dismissive hand. “I would have escaped my bonds and handled Bane eventually.”

“You would have handled Bane. The seven foot tall guy on steroids. By yourself,” Peter says slowly, quirking a brow.

“Yes,” Damian answers flatly, and with perfect confidence.

Silence follows that. Holy shit, this kid is serious. He fully intended to attack Bane, despite the fact that the man probably would’ve dropped kicked him through a goddamn window. What’s more, Peter’s not entirely sure Bane would’ve won. He would’ve been thrown off balance at the very least.

“You scare the hell out of me,” Peter admits finally.

Damian seems pleased by that. “Maybe you’re as intelligent as Drake claims you are.”

“Thanks?” Peter says.

“Master Damian,” a voice says, cutting off their conversation gently. “I believe you were told to stay in bed.”

“I’m merely visiting Father’s newest addition to the family,” Damian says, turning to face Alfred. The butler is standing in the doorway, holding the door open.

“Creepy,” Peter says.

“I see,” Alfred says. “And I see you’ve completed your task. To bed, please.”

It isn’t a request. Damian lets out a large sigh, gives Peter another speculative look before walking towards the door.

“We’ll speak again soon, Parker,” Damian says, striding through the door with perfect confidence. Alfred offers Peter a fond smile before turning to herd Damian back into his own room. He tugs at the door, content to let it swing shut on its own momentum as he walks off.

The door is caught and held by a small, feminine hand. Steph saunters into his room, cell phone pressed to one ear.

“Yeah, he’s awake,” she says, walking over to his bed. He stares at her blankly and she offers him a brilliant, cheerful smile before listening to whoever she’s speaking with. “Sure, okay.”

She offers him the cell phone. He stares at it blankly. “Uh. Who---”

“Felicia,” Steph says.

Oh god. Felicia.

"Uh," Peter says into the phone, fumbling with it. "Hi?"

"Oh, thank god, you are alive," Felicia says, relief evident in every word. "Peter, you absolute asshole, if you ever pull a stunt like that again, I'll kill you myself."

"Oh, hey," Peter says, flopping back onto the bed. God, he’s talked to so many people today. He’s not exactly an introvert, but this is straining. "So, uh, you probably have some questions--"

“To put it mildly, yes," Felicia retorts. “Right now I’m just glad you’re alive. Seriously, you had me really worried. I tried to find you when I found out how bad the storm was going to be, but you were already catching the crane by then. And then you...”

Peter grimaces. “I’m sorry, Felicia.”

She takes in a shaky breath and lets it out. "I'm really glad you’re okay. Lou will be happy to hear it, too."

"Lou?” Peter says, and then he remembers. Lou. His bus driver. The man who always brought him an extra sandwich for breakfast and who keeps food waiting for him at the bus depot during his patrols. God, how could he forget? “Is he all right?”

“No, he’s really upset. He saw you fight them, Peter. His bus was trapped in traffic a block away when everything happened.”

“I should visit him,” Peter murmurs.

“You should. In the meantime, I’ll let him know you’re okay,” Felicia says. She pauses for a moment, and then speaks softly. “How are you? Seriously. You were--I mean, I saw the videos on the internet...”

Peter sighs. “I’m alright. More or less.” He pauses. “A little bit on the less side than is normal, maybe.”

“Maybe,” Felicia repeats back, but there’s less worry and more of her usual wry fondness.

“Listen, we should talk soon. There’s a few things we need to talk about. It’s about, uh, home.”

“Okay. We’ll talk soon,” Felicia says. “For now, just rest, okay? I’m going to go talk to Lou.”

“Got it. Tell him I said hi,” Peter says. The call ends. Peter stares at the phone for a moment and hands it back to Steph. He says, "I think I upset her.”

"You definitely did," Steph replies cheerfully. "But she'll forgive you. You are a hero, after all. Girls are totally into that."

"That may or may not work in my favor,” Peter says. “Right now I’m leaning towards no.”

“You’d know better than I would,” Steph says. She pulls out another phone from her pocket and hands it to him. “Here, for you. Everyone in the family gets one.”

He takes the phone, staring at it in frank confusion for a moment, before swiping his thumb across the screen and activating it. It’s a WayneTech phone, and it’s bulkier than what he’s used to back home. The case is sturdy, and looks to be dust and waterproof. WayneTech makes things meant to survive harsh environments, apparently.

“I’ve added everyone to your contact list already. Including Felicia,” Steph adds with a quick wink and teasing grin. He blushes, and her smile turns fond before she moves on. Peter has a sneaking suspicion that Steph is a bit of a romantic. “There’s the family chat, plus all the standard apps: news, weather, social media. Feel free to grab whatever you want off the app store. Bruce pays for it all and he usually doesn’t even notice."

“Uh, right,” Peter says, taking the phone. God, he’s missed having a cell phone.

“Here, let me give you the grand tour,” she says, dropping down on the chair beside his bed. He’s tired, but he’s also missed Steph, and he’s missed cell phones even more. He sits up and lets her show him all of the features on his new phone.

* * *

Wayne Club Chat

Peter (03:09pm): hi, Steph is insisting I say something here

Cass (03:10pm): 😲😁

Tim (03:11pm): she got the phone to you! Awesome

Duke (03:12pm): this should make your hospital stay a little less boring

Peter (03:13pm): hey I can entertain myself

Peter (03:14pm): i’ve counted the tiles in this room three times so far and watched Dr. Thompkins yell at the media trying to sneak into my room four times. Also, at any moment, Damian might show up and terrify me, which is a nice shot of adrenaline to help stimulate that homey Crime Alley feeling I’ve been missing

Peter (03:15pm): this is riveting stuff

Tim (03:16pm): yeah, you’re gonna fit in just fine. Welcome to the family, Peter

Cass (03:17pm): 🥳

Peter (03:18pm): 😎