Dark Matter

Steph leaves the hospital room a little while later, letting Peter rest. To his credit, he lasts a whole twenty minutes before hopping onto the internet. He’s been woefully disconnected since he came to Gotham, and it’s nice to have the internet back in his pocket. And this gives him an excuse to avoid falling asleep. He can avoid the nightmares waiting for him a little longer.

The first thing he does is google himself. He finds two news stories in the past week: one for Peter Parker, and one for Spider-Man. Both are twitter posts from The Gotham Times. He follows the links.

Terror at Wayne Manor

Homeless teen helps Batman save the youngest Wayne heir. Story here.

Peter debates on clicking the story and ultimately decides against it. He’s used to reading news stories about Spider-Man. It’s infinitely weirder to read stories about himself. He scrolls on. Near the bottom of the news feed, he stops.

Crime Alley Mourns Loss Of Spider-Man

Story found here.

After a few moments of hesitation, Peter taps the link. He’s a little amused that an article chronicling his ‘death’ doesn’t even warrant the use of a byline in Twitter, but whatever. Spider-Man can’t exactly compete against Bruce Wayne’s fame and family drama in Gotham City.

Spider-Man was announced missing and assumed dead after fighting a number of super villains who broke out of Arkham Asylum weeks ago. Eye witnesses claim the hero suffered a number of injuries before fleeing the fight after being struck with Joker gas. Crime Alley vigilante Red Hood was also present, and his current condition is unknown.

An image of the crane, suspended between skyscrapers by his webbing and other cranes, takes up half the page. Workers are busy disassembling it, piece by piece, in the snow and wind. Below it, the article continues.

Local restaurant owners Omar and Sophia Noor hosted a candlelight vigil for Spider-Man despite the storm. Hundreds of Crime Alley citizens came to show their support, laying out wreaths, pictures, and thank you letters to the fallen hero.

Mr. Noor’s comment on the hero was brief, poignant, and to the point: “Spider-Man took down the gang extorting us for protection money, cleaned up the neighborhood park, and helped all of us in a dozen different ways. He’ll be missed.”

Elsewhere, riots broke out in Crime Alley after news of Spider-Man’s death reached the streets. Suspected criminal hideouts and gang strongholds were torn down or set on fire by crowds of furious citizens. Police response to the riots was notably lackluster. When pressed for comment, Jim Gordon seemed nonplussed.

“This happened when Robin was killed a few years ago, too,” Gordon pointed out. “If you take away a local hero, the locals aren’t going to take it lying down anymore. Especially not the kind of locals you find in Crime Alley.”

Peter stares at the article for a moment. They rioted because of his death? He’d better make an appearance as Spider-Man sooner rather than later before anything else happens. Before he can do that, he’ll need another suit. And web shooters. And web fluid. He lost all of it in the river.

A problem to be handled later. At least Omar and Sophia are okay; he hasn’t been able to check on them lately. He’s touched that they would host a vigil for him even though he never visited them as Spider-Man. That needs to change when he gets a suit again.

He finds a way to dick around on the internet for another hour despite being exhausted. Eventually, sleep claims him, and he falls into a restless, whimpering sleep. He can’t hide from his grief here; he dreams of May, of Ned, of his classmates. He dreams of Felicia and the conversation to come.

Most of all, he dreams of Titan, and ash, and blood, and death.

* * *

When he snaps awake, he’s trembling and coughing, and there’s a distinctive chuckling quality to the cough that robs him of breath and makes his bruised ribs ache and creak. He flails for the table beside his bed, half asleep and half panicked, trying to find the inhaler the doctor gave him yesterday. He sees it on the table, but bumps the inhaler off of it during his flailing, lets out a barking, breathless laugh of despair that blurs his vision with tears.

“Whoa, whoa, easy,” Dick says. A weight settles on the bed, and the inhaler is pressed to his mouth. “Don’t panic. Just take a deep breath, all right?”

A breath of something that tastes distinctly medicinal and vaguely minty hits Peter. It takes him a second to remember how to use an inhaler, but he remembers it in the end. Two puffs, some lingering giggling laughs later, and he’s more or less back to normal. Albeit slumped against Dick’s shoulder and completely out of breath. Everything is oddly sore and vaguely off after the--well, it isn’t an asthma attack. Joker attack? His cold isn’t helping matters, even though it’s nowhere near as bad as it was last night before he ate. His head throbs, his gunshot wound aches, and he’s struggling to keep from flopping back against the bed.

Dick braces him easily, watching him. He doesn’t seem to mind having a near stranger slumped against his shoulder. He just looks worried.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah. Yeah, fine, totally fine,” Peter says. He doesn’t sound convincing in the least. And, truthfully, he's not okay. “That’s never happened before. What--”

“There’s a kind of incubation period for the toxin. That wasn’t the worst I’ve seen, but it sounded pretty rough,” Dick explains. He presses the inhaler to Peter’s hand. “Keep this with you, okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay,” Peter mumbles. God, this is going to complicate being Spider-Man. He runs a hand through his hair, taking in his surroundings while he catches his breath. “What time is it?”

They’re not alone in his room. Alfred is standing near the doorway with a coat draped over one arm, watching Peter with some concern. Peter gives him a little ‘I’m definitely okay’ wave, and Alfred manages a small, reassuring smile that somehow conveys ‘I don’t believe you’ without saying it.

“A little after nine. I was just coming by to wake you. Dr. Thompkins signed off on your release earlier,” Dick says. He frowns at Peter. “But I’m not so sure she should let you go after that attack. Do you want me to call her back in--”

“No. No more hospitals,” Peter says, cutting him off. He sighs, rubbing his eyes and leaning away from Dick. “Let’s just get out of here.”

“Sit and catch your breath,” Dick says. “We’ll leave in a few minutes.”

“To the manor?” Peter asks, resting for barely a moment before leaning down to grab his shoes and pull them on. His ribs and gunshot wound ache terribly when he pulls this little maneuver and he has to sit up slowly.

“Eventually, yes,” Dick says, leaning back against the wall. “I thought we’d stop and pick up your stuff from Crime Alley first.”

Peter pauses while tying his shoe, glancing up at Dick in confusion. “What?”

“Your school stuff at least,” Dick says, shrugging. “Maybe your uniform. And anything else you want to keep, too.”

“I’d like that,” Peter says after a moment. He would like to grab a few things from the fire station. His school work, yeah, but also the books he’s bought, and the radio he built. That little thing saved his life, after all. “But I don’t know if you, um. Well, you and Alfred aren’t going to blend in.”

Dick looks a little amused by that. “Don’t worry. We’re bringing a friend.”

A voice comes from the doorway, the tone rough and short. “Steph and Cass are taking the demon back to the manor. We good to go? The paparazzi are starting to lose their minds out there.”

“We’re almost ready, Jason,” Dick says.

The voice’s owner--Jason--steps into the room. He’s tall, broad shouldered, and there’s a shock of white hair above his forehead. He looks annoyed, as if bristling for a fight, and the look he shoots towards Dick doesn’t entirely look friendly. His voice is stiff and purposefully cool, as if he’s clamping back on some hidden emotions he’s doing his best to keep under control. Peter can’t tell if it’s sadness, anger, or both. Grief, maybe.

Peter squints up at Jason. Finally, the memory clicks into place. "You're the subway guy."

Jason frowns at him for a long time and then recognition hits him. He simply shrugs at Peter in response, shoving his hands in his pockets and glancing away from him.

"Subway guy?" Dick asks, looking between them.

"I got hit with a migraine on the subway awhile back," Peter explains. "A bad one. Jason gave me earplugs and sunglasses when he saw how bad off I was. Man, you saved my life with that. Thank you."

Jason doesn’t quite fidget at praise; he moves restlessly, clearly not used to being thanked. Or thinks he doesn’t deserve it, maybe. He shrugs at Peter again. “Yeah, don’t mention it. I just didn’t want you to hurl all over my shoes.” He checks his watch. “Come on, let’s hurry. We don’t want to be caught in Crime Alley after dark. I think it’s stupid you and Alfred want to go there, for the record.”

“Noted,” Dick says, picking up the backpack Peter’s new clothes came in and slinging it over his shoulder. “Peter?”

“Yeah, on my way,” Peter says, checking to make sure he has his phone and inhaler in his pocket before hopping off the bed and following the group into the hall.

He ends up walking alongside Alfred, who hands him the coat, a beanie, and a pair of gloves. “Here, Master Peter. I’m afraid we’re in the heart of winter now. Best to put these on before going outside.”

Peter is quick to pull all of them on. His cold is still lingering, and the last thing he needs to do is let it get worse. Not when a coughing fit could trigger a laughing fit. He’s also had enough of the cold in general, frankly. If he could spend the rest of his life in warmth, he’d gladly take it. He’s earned it at this point. The coat is a navy peacoat, the beanie is made of thick wool, and the gloves are fine leather.

“Thanks, Alfred,” Peter says, tugging the hat down over his ears as they near the hospital’s side exit. The main exit is swamped with news reporters and paparazzi, each jostling for position as Steph, Damian, and a vaguely familiar dark haired girl leave through the double doors. There’s a surge of noise that’s neatly cut off when the doors slide shut. Peter glances at the butler. “Are you sure you want to come to Crime Alley?”

“We won’t be there for very long. And I can handle myself, Master Peter,” Alfred assures him. He speaks with utter confidence, shifting so that he stands between Peter and the main exit doors, blocking him from view of any potential reporters. “Bane simply got the drop on me. That won’t happen again, I can promise you that.”

Peter actually believes him. They step out into the freezing Gotham air, onto a service road whose main use seems to be for hospital deliveries. Jason is leaning against a sleek red motorcycle, black helmet in hand. Dick is standing near a sedan that seems newer, but isn’t nearly as flashy as Tim’s car. Which is a good thing, given the neighborhood they're driving into. He’s currently clearing out various clothes and gym bags from the backseat so Peter can sit in the car easily. The amount of clothes he’s pulling out to shove into his trunk is actually a little bit concerning.

Peter stands on the sidewalk outside of the hospital, marveling at being able to stand outside without being cut to the bone by the icy wind. Winter is actually pretty pleasant when you aren’t catching windburn from the cold air with every step. He watches Dick clean out his car, idly wondering how he should tell them to just skip Crime Alley altogether for the manor.

Jason watches him from his motorcycle, then pushes himself away from it and walks over to stand near Peter. The two of them watch Dick and Alfred work. After a few moments, Jason speaks quietly.

"They aren't going to judge your old place," Jason says quietly. He’s watching Peter, his eyes guarded but sympathetic. "No matter how bad it looks. They won't say anything about it."

"Yeah?" Peter says, idly shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “You wanna take a bet on that? I don’t even have a bed.”

“I grew up in Crime Alley, too. I know how bad it can get,” he says. Jason pauses, squints into the middle distance, and finally shrugs. "Dick might get a kicked puppy dog look on his face, but he won’t say anything about it. Alfred won't either. They're not as soft as you think. They're still from Gotham."

"There’s a difference between Gotham and Crime Alley",” Peter retorts. He pauses and sighs. “Sorry, that was rude. You’d know them better than I would. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Jason says. “Where are we headed anyway? I can scout ahead and make sure it’s safe.”

“Would you?” Peter can tell Jason knows how to fight. He has surface level scars on his knuckles most street brawlers get after a few fights, and he walks like a street tough.

“Yeah, sure. I’m driving on my own, anyway,” Jason says, shrugging. The man is clearly eager to get away from Dick and Alfred.

Peter glances between Jason and the other two men. “You’re a little more down to earth for a Wayne.” Jason snaps his head towards Peter, expression stern, but unreadable. Peter, perhaps a little foolishly, pushes on. “You are a Wayne, right? I mean, Tim and Duke call you their brother...”

A very lengthy pause follows that. Finally, Jason scoffs. “I am when it counts. Give me your address, kid.”

What the hell does he mean by that? Peter decides to not push his luck; he gives Jason the cross streets. Jason frowns. “There aren’t any apartments in that block. Just an old fire station and some broken down office buildings.”

“I live in the fire station,” Peter says.

Jason pauses for a moment, taking that in and scoffs. “Okay, yeah, Grayson’s going to hover over you like a mother hen when he finds that out.”

“Great,” Peter mutters.

“But he won’t make you feel bad about it. He didn’t when Bruce took me in,” Jason continues. “Just tell him to fuck off if he gets weird with it and he will.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Peter says, giving Jason a second look. Maybe Bruce just has a habit of adopting kids from Crime Alley? It would make sense, in a way. He’s pretty free with his wealth.

“I’ll meet you guys there,” Jason says, heading for his motorcycle. He pulls on his helmet and straddles the bike, giving Dick and Alfred a careless little wave before revving the bike and tearing down the street. The roads are relatively clear of snow and ice, but Peter still tenses a little when Jason speeds off. He’s taking the corners at speed.

“Okay, all done!” Dick says over the echoing growl of Jason’s motorcycle. He waves Peter over. “Hop in. The sooner we leave, the sooner we can get you home.”

Home. Yeah, right. Peter sighs, pulling himself into the car. It’s warm and dry, and he settles into the backseat while Alfred and Dick sit in the front. Dick looks up at him from the rearview mirror.

“So, where are we headed?” he asks.

Peter gives him the cross streets. Dick frowns for a moment, then nods.

“Okay. I know where that is,” he says, turning on the car.

Moments later, they’re on the road, driving over icy roads under a steel grey sky. Peter settles into the car, marveling over the fact that, aside from a steady itch from his healing factor, he feels fine. Better than fine. Normal. He considers that for a moment, and realizes he’s not sure how to handle it. He’s been rushing from one thing to the next just to survive almost from the moment he ended up in Gotham. He’s been too focused on staying warm and fed and finding a way home to really stop and take stock of himself. He has a feeling that he’s going to have to play catch up on that front soon.

Later on, he’ll wonder how Dick managed to drive into Crime Alley and directly to the fire station without GPS.

* * *

They reach the fire station barely twenty minutes after leaving the hospital. Dick pulls up to the curb and parks behind a rusted car with no tires resting on cinder blocks. The street light Peter used as his light source for his homework flickers on and off in the waning light of the wintry afternoon. A freezing wind slips between the mostly abandoned buildings in the neighborhood, half heartedly pushing swirls of snow across the cracked asphalt of the street. Elsewhere in the city, the snow has softened the hard edges of Gotham, turning it from a brooding hive into something softer, gentler, though no less cold. In Crime Alley, the snow has only amplified the feeling of hopelessness and isolation.

He never realized how utterly horrifying his neighborhood is in daylight. Granted, he was usually busy looking into the shadows of alleys for gangs looking to jump him, or running for the subway, or doing a dozen other things. Seeing the fire station in the stark light of day brings his nervousness out full force.

Jason’s motorcycle is parked in front of the fire station. Jason is looking up at the fire station, squinting at it thoughtfully as Dick turns off the engine.

“This is the place?” Dick asks.

“It is,” Peter says with a sigh. “It looks worse than it is.”

Dick looks as though he’s about to say something, then thinks better of it. He settles for a quick nod before stepping out of the car. Alfred follows him, saying nothing. Peter hangs back for a second, taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly. They’ll be in and out within an hour at most. He can handle this. He pushes open the door and steps out into the cold. The coat Alfred gave him (the cost of which he can only guess at) blunts the worst of it.

Dick, Jason, and Alfred are near the doors. Jason rattles the door a little and frowns when it refuses to open.

“These are boarded shut,” he says, turning to face Peter. “How’d you get inside?”

“The fire escape around back mostly,” Peter says. Which is technically true. When he wasn’t crawling up the side of the building with his hands, at least. “The window should be open.”

“Hopefully no one else has moved in,” Jason says easily, moving away from the front doors and walking towards the alley leading to the back of the building. Peter falls into step beside him, mostly to avoid seeing how Dick and Alfred react to that particular statement. Jason side eyes him. “You all right?”

Peter is amazed at Jason’s ability to sound both impatient and worried at the same time; the guy is being genuine, but his tone is short, as if he’s not used to asking that particular question or offering comfort.

“Handling it so far,” Peter says. “Didn’t realize how bad this place looks.”

“It’s pretty rough,” Jason says as they get close to the fire escape. He jumps up and yanks the ladder down with a ringing clatter before climbing up it. “If I’d known you lived in an abandoned building, I probably would’ve taken you in. I live a few blocks over.”

“There’s even odds on me taking you up on that offer back then,” Peter says, following him up the fireplace. He can hear Alfred and Dick turn the corner in the alley below.. “I would’ve been a terrible roommate.”

“Can’t be any worse than Drake,” Jason remarks before ducking in through the window.

Peter follows him, suddenly glad that his suit and web shooters are lost to the sea. He would’ve had a hard time explaining all of that to the Waynes. Jason moves aside so he can climb in through the window. Dick climbs in after Peter, his movements smooth and even. To Peter’s surprise, Alfred follows him, moving with an easy grace despite his age. Peter glances at them briefly before turning to look at his makeshift home.

It looks like a total dump.

The Waynes take in the scene in silence. Peter can't even imagine what it looks like from their perspective. The makeshift desk he used for homework is damp from a new hole in the roof, the ramshackle lights (admittedly not his best work) dangle from the ceiling, swaying in the wind, and the ragged tarp that serves as his bedroom is leaning drunkenly against the wall for support, weighed down by half melted snow. The storm dropped enough heavy snow on the roof to tear open a hole directly above his bed. If he had stayed in the fire station, he would’ve frozen to death during the storm.

Jason looks grim and sullen. Dick looks heartbroken and sick. Alfred’s expression hasn’t changed, but his shoulders have slumped just slightly.

"Not a bad idea with the tarp. You probably would’ve been better off with a tent, though," Jason remarks, breaking the silence. "What's with the newspapers?"

"Crumpled 'em up and stuffed my clothes and sleeping bag with them. They hold heat really well. A homeless guy in Queens taught me that trick," Peter remarks, grabbing his electronics and tools.

"Clever," Jason says.

Peter shifts awkwardly, then clears his throat, walking towards his wreck of a home and kneeling down to grab his backpack from a pile of snow. "I'll get the stuff I need. We can throw out the rest on the way out."

"Of course, Master Peter," Alfred replies, perfectly polite. The lack of judgement is heartening.

“We should probably throw out the food,” Dick says, doing his best to keep his tone light and even. “It looks like some mice have gotten into it. Gotham mice are pretty stubborn.”

Peter hesitates at that. Jason shakes himself out of his sullen glower when he notices that, shooting Dick a look briefly before looking at Peter. “Dick’s right. Toss the food. I know that’s going to be hard, but it’s safer. And Alfred’s got plenty at home.”

“I’d be happy to make you anything you like, Master Peter,” Alfred adds. “I daresay I’ve become rather experienced at feeding a troop of growing boys. Meta and human.”

Home cooked meals seem like a dream come true. “I’d like that. I’m always hungry these days.”

“Consider it done,” Alfred says.

Peter moves around the fire station, gathering his things and putting together a trash pile. Jason takes his old food, his sleeping bag, and the tarp he used for his makeshift tent down to the dumpster in the alley. Alfred looks over Peter’s uniform with a critical eye, letting out a quiet ‘hm.’ at the state of it. Dick seems at a loss at first; he opens his mouth several times to speak, stops, and then stays silent, simply helping Peter grab the few keepsakes he wants to take with him to the manor.

Peter keeps the Stark radio. He's still proud of it. Sure, it's simple work, and frankly not his best, but the art deco style Stark that lights up when it connects with a channel has become one of the very few comforts he has in Gotham. Dick eyes it coolly, but he’s very gentle with it when Peter hands it to him. He handles the few books Peter bought weeks ago with equal care. The books aren’t exactly in top shape since he bought them from a second hand shop, but Dick treats Watership Down and The Lord of the Rings as if they’re holy books.

He keeps his tools, his backpack and school supplies, and almost nothing else. The rain and ice ruined his tent, his sleeping bag, and froze his blankets solid. He throws all of that away, along with the scarce food stock he had saved. The mice and rain made quick work of it in his absence.

By the end of it, he's left with the radio, a ragged backpack full of homework, a couple of library books, and the clothes on his back. It's a good thing he didn't try to get back to the firehouse after getting splattered with freezing rain last week. Alfred considers the menorah set on Peter’s makeshift table near the one of the few intact windows on the second floor. The candles and cheap lighter Peter bought with it are set neatly to one side of the table. It’s one of the few organized spots in the whole building. Peter sighs when he notices it.

“I think I’ve missed a few days this year,” he says, shrugging on his backpack and heading towards the table.

“Given your circumstances, I think that can easily be forgiven,” Alfred says gently. “Is that everything?”

Peter gently picks up the menorah, glancing around the fire station one last time. It wasn’t a great home, but it was safe enough. He’s surprised to find that he might actually miss it some day.

“Yeah, I think it is,” Peter says.

“Let’s get to the car,” Dick says, a layer of false cheer in his voice. “I think Alfred and I can make lunch for everyone when we get back. You must be hungry.”

Peter’s stomach growls. “That sounds like a good idea.”

Dick and Peter leave the fire station. Dick pauses at the dumpster to toss a few things inside, and Peter stands beside him, looking up at the building next door to the fire station. The old office building looms high in the dim afternoon, the windows boarded or broken. Peter looks up at the roof, shifting his backpack. If he could figure out a way to get up there, he could leave a note for Nightwing--

Dick places a hand on Peter’s shoulder, gently squeezing it. “Come on, Pete. Let’s head home. There’s nothing up there for you.”

Peter disagrees, but he can’t exactly make a scene at the moment. He sighs. “Yeah, let’s go.”

He makes a mental note to come back here as soon as he can. For now, he heads for the car with Dick and the others. The ride out of Crime Alley and across Gotham to Wayne Manor is one made in weary silence. Dick glances at Peter every now and then through the rearview mirror, but wisely says nothing. Alfred is silent and still in his seat.

Peter’s phone lets out a small ding.

* * *

Wayne Family Chat

Duke (1:23pm): hey peter, you any good at Smash Bros?

Peter (1:24pm): reasonably good yeah

Duke (1:25pm): cool, tim, and steph and i have a tournament planned tonight. You in?

Peter (1:26pm): definitely

Peter (1:27pm): we’re on the way now

* * *

Across the multiverse, the Avengers gather for another meeting. The sun shines dimly on the compound, the first true rays of sunlight to reach the earth in weeks. The Avengers seem heartened by the sight of it as they go about their work.

Thor watches the others, sitting in a far corner of the command center Natasha has taken over inside the Avengers Compound. He keeps himself separate from the others. Most seem fine with this arrangement; his moods as of late have made the Avengers wary of his presence. He doesn't begrudge them their wariness. The nightmares--or, really, the nightmare--has haunted him night after night. Always the same battle, always the same failure: the boy wielding the Captain’s shield falls beneath a wave of the Black Order’s outriders no matter what Thor does. He has only managed to forestall the boy’s death, never avert it. It grates at his nerves. Failure after failure in his waking moments and now that same failure follows him to some unknown city in his dreams, defending a young warrior he has never met.

He doesn’t blame the Avengers when they cast a wary glance his way and put a bit more distance between themselves and his seat in the corner. Another meeting is taking place. This time the sorcerer Wong and Bruce Banner have joined the meeting, taking their places at the council table while Thor broods in the shadows.

“Have you heard anything about those prison planets that blew up, Rocket?” Steve asks.

“No, not yet,” Rocket says, shaking his head. “My contacts went quiet for some reason. I don’t want to risk sending ‘em another message in case they’re in hiding.”

“And we still don’t know where Carol is?” Natasha asks, twirling a stylus in her fingers.

“I haven’t heard anything,” Rocket mutters, his projection scratching one fuzzy cheek. “It’s not easy getting news all the way out here, you know. Earth is a galactic backwater, it’s hard for me to get any information without tipping off Thanos.”

Natasha nods, conceding the point. Rocket is the galactic expert on the team, after all. Steve stares at the holographic map of the galaxy cycling through the holo screens in front of the team, his face grim.

“Thanos still has his army, and he’s not shy about using it against anyone trying to muster up a force to strike back at him in revenge,” Steve says. “I don’t think many people have tried, but he’s not putting any effort into preventing an attack either. He prefers a show of force.”

“None of his moves make any kind of strategic sense,” Rhodey says, walking around the projected map of the galaxy hovering in the center of the room. “He’s effectively destroyed every standing army in the universe and instead of moving in and consolidating his power, he’s just...what? Going back to bed? Kicking back? He still has an invasion force, but it hasn’t moved in months. Once you break an army, you send in your own forces and establish yourself. He hasn’t done that.”

“It isn’t as though he has any real rivals to worry about. He is a warlord with a savior complex. He will let us suffer from his decimation and return as a savior once the fight has been starved out of the survivors of his genocide. People will be desperate to join him, if only to get a steady supply of food,” Okoye points out. She’s physically present this time, opting to fly to the Compound for this meeting. A rare occurrence for her.

"Yeah, I don’t know how well that’s going to work for him. I’d rather starve to death, and I know I’m not alone in that," Clint says idly. There’s always a feral glint to his eye when someone mentions Thanos in his presence. Thor approves of it.

“It might work on the rest of the population. Logistics are completely shattered. The only reason things are holding steady is because Stark Industries is bankrupting itself to keep food, power, and water running for the world,” Natasha says, idly pulling up a list of the Avengers lost to Thanos. She adds Carol’s name to the list with MIA beside it.

"Pepper’s doing good work," Steve agrees, quietly.

"She always has," Rhodey adds.

“The food supply is evening out, too,” Banner says. Thor still isn’t used to hearing his friend’s voice come from the Hulk, but he’s glad the man has finally found peace with himself. It’s one of the very few things he can be glad of these days, and he clings to it. “Between the seed vaults in Europe and the automated farms FRIDAY is running, we’ll have a much more stable food supply soon--”

The meeting continues.

Others lost to the Snap cycle across the screen in front of Natasha as she works and Banner speaks. One in particular stands out to Thor.

“Wait,” Thor calls out from the corner. The room pauses and goes still as he rises and approaches Natasha and her holo screens. He stands behind her and leans down, squinting at one screen before pointing at one of the photos. “Who is that?”

“That’s Peter Parker,” Natasha says, cutting a wary glance to Steve before focusing on Thor. Thor’s moods have been variable lately; caught somewhere between bitter fury and manic, nihilistic grief. Thor can see Steve brace himself in case he needs to intervene. Natasha reaches in and plucks Peter's picture out of the screen, expanding it for Thor. The boy is smiling awkwardly at the camera, at once earnest and unsure. He’s posing with Tony in the picture, holding some award. “Spider-Man. He was with Tony and the Guardians when the Decimation happened.”

“And he was dusted?” Thor asks, confusion crossing his expression.

“We aren’t sure,” Rhodey says. “Not yet. Carol went to find them, but she’s turned up missing, too.”

Thor goes quiet, comes to some private conclusion, and pushes himself back up. He steps away from Natasha, rubbing his chin in thought. His eyes lose focus for a moment and he withdraws.

“Is something wrong?” Rhodey asks. He’s careful to avoid looking at Peter’s photo, Thor notices.

Thor doesn’t answer. He’s withdrawn, brooding, staring a hole through Peter’s image on the screen.

"Thor," Steve says, a wary question in his tone.

“After I left Earth, I became haunted by nightmares,” Thor says. He hesitates, then amends. “More than nightmares. Visions of the future. Ones that became true.”

“You had prophetic visions?” Natasha asks.

“Yes, of Asgard’s destruction,” Thor says. He points at Peter’s picture. “I have had dreams about this one lately.”

That brings things to a crashing halt. He has the undivided attention of every surviving Avenger now. Natasha and Steve share another one of those looks, passing some silent communication to one another. Rhodey stiffens and stares at Thor, clenching his jaw. Okoye watches intently. After a moment, Steve clears his throat.

“What did you see in this vision? What was Peter doing?” Steve asks.

“I saw him standing alone against an invasion, wielding your shield against a tide of darkness. Outriders, chitauri, strange batlike monsters, he faced them all alone,” Thor says simply.

The image in his mind is as clear as day; Peter wearing a red and blue suit, fighting against a horde of abominations in a city Thor does not recognize. The city changes in the vision; one moment, the city is a dark, brooding metropolis choked with smog and clouds, and the next it’s a bright and airy thing, with smooth edges and bright lights. The fight does not change, only the location.

And the outcome.

“The dream comes every night now,” Thor says. The others watch him silently. Rhodey in particular focuses on him hard, tense. “I try to help, to fight, but I fail. Neither of us is enough to fight the tide, but he never falters.”

“Is Tony with him in your vision?” Rhodey asks.

Thor shakes his head. “He’s alone when I find him.”

“But he’s alive?” Rhodey presses.

“He is," a gravelly British voice says from the doorway.

The Avengers turn as one towards the doorway. The man who appeared in the Compound days before staggers into the room, bracing himself against the wall or furniture as he limps inside. He’s still covered in bruises and bandages, he moves stiffly, as if his very bones have been bruised. He drags himself over to the conference table and drops down into a chair with a grunt.

“Right, I think I’ve got it now,” the man says, taking in the Avengers. He points at Steve. “You’re Superman.”

“What?” Steve asks.

“You’re Wonder Woman,” he says, pointing to Thor, who merely tilts his head. Next he points to Clint. “You’re Green Arrow.” To Natasha. “You’re terrifying.” To Rhodey. “And you’re Cyborg. Maybe. Are you human?”

“Human enough to get annoyed at you,” Rhodey replies dryly.

“Only one missing is Batman. Got any billionaires laying around, moping and brooding?” The silence that follows is cold enough to draw him up short. “Guess I’ve hit a sore spot?”

“Who are you?” Steve asks.

“My name is John Constantine. I’m here because Dr. Strange asked me to help him with something. Of course, he never mentioned I’d start hopping dimensions. Bloody wizards. Never could stand them.”

"Aren't you a wizard?" Clint asks.

"Yeah. That doesn't change my opinion. I know what we’re like."

“You spoke with Dr. Strange,” Rhodey says.

“A few weeks ago.” He pauses and squints. “Well. Maybe. Time doesn’t exactly work the same in all universes. A few weeks ago for me.”

“Dr. Strange has been dead for months,” Natasha says.

“I know. Bloody annoying ghost. Kept popping up in my dreams and wouldn’t take no for an answer,” Constantine huffs. “He wasn’t alone. I saw a bunch of others with him, but I couldn’t tell you their names. He’s the only one who introduced himself.”

The Avengers pause, looking at one another. Wong tilts his head, regarding Constantine curiously and warily.

“You crossed over from another dimension?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“That shouldn’t be possible. Not with your level of power, no offense,” Wong says.

“None taken. And normally, you’d be right. The void that separates our universes would prevent that. Plus all the beasties inside the void. But that’s not true anymore,” Constantine says. He pats his coat pockets and pulls out a crumpled cigarette packet. “Mind if I smoke?”

“Yes,” Clint says.

“Thanks,” Constantine replies, lighting a half bent cigarette and ignoring Clint’s annoyed look. He looks at Wong. “See, our universes aren’t so far apart anymore. They’re closer than they should be, and they’re only going to get closer as time moves on because of your Thanos.”

“How is that possible?” Wong asks.

“He’s playing merry hell with the fabric of creation, that’s how,” Constantine says shortly. “Dr. Strange explained it to me in a dream. Thanos can’t punch through to my universe, so he’s physically dragging universes towards this one instead. Like an interdimensional black hole.”

Wong looks thoughtful, and disturbed. Steve exchanges a look with Natasha, frowning. Thor frowns.

“Peter was able to reach your universe. And you have reached ours. Why is Thanos not able to do the same?”

“That’s a little complicated,” Constantine says with a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.

“Mr. Constantine, I think you should start from the beginning,” Steve says. “Just so we have a clear picture of what’s going on.”

Constantine seems equal parts amused and tired. “You know, Blond Supes, that might be a good idea. Right, settle in, this is going to be one hell of a story.”