Dark Matter

BATCHAT

Dick (12:06am): I’m here. Heading upstairs now. Status?

Duke (12:07am): he’s calmed down

Steph (12:08am): did he really stop in the middle of a pit reaction?

Duke (12:09am): one of his ghosts distracted him

Steph (12:10am): his ghosts are back?

Duke (12:11am): not sure, but one was close enough to help

Dick (12:12am): Good to know. I’ll take it from here.

* * *

Peter isn't surprised when he hears a gentle knock on his door barely an hour after Duke left. He half expects it to be Alfred, coming in to gently shoo him off with a couple of police officers.

"Come in," Peter says, mentally preparing himself for whatever’s coming next.

The door opens and shuts on nearly silent hinges. Peter turns to face the door, and is surprised to watch Dick walk in, alone, freshly dressed and with utter confidence and concern.

"Hi, Pete," he says, sitting down on the edge of Peter’s bed. He’s completely calm, as if he’s had to come talk to some teenager losing his shit on a regular basis. "It sounds like you're having a rough night."

Peter winces. “A little, yeah.” He pauses, and asks, “Is Duke--”

“He’s okay. His arm’s a little sore, but he’ll be fine.,” Dick says, shrugging. He watches Peter. “I’m more worried about you. You don’t seem like a violent kind of guy.”

Buddy, you have no idea, Peter thinks. He sighs, rubbing his eyes. “I’ve always kind of had a temper. It’s gotten worse since I came to Gotham. I’ve never lost control like that before, though...”

“The Joker toxin probably has more to do with that than you think. And the lack of sleep,” Dick says. “Trust me, if you get tired enough, you’ll start suspecting everyone is out to get you. Sleep deprivation is hell.”

“I’ve been sleep deprived before,” Peter mutters, walking over to sit down on his bed. Dick gives him space, watching him intently.

Dick pauses, glancing at the streak of white hair above Peter’s right temple. “I think you might be dealing with more than just a horrible cold and sleep deprivation, Pete.”

“You could say that,” Peter mutters.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“Bad dreams.”

“Believe it or not, I’ve had my share of those,” Dick says. “If you feel like sharing...”

Peter glances at him from the corner of his eye. He debates on telling him everything: Titan, the weird tube thing he woke up inside, Wonder Woman, Superman, all of it. In the end, he decides against it. Dick is a good man, and patient and kind, and he’s given Peter a life he literally could not imagine having otherwise, asking nothing in return. If he believes Peter--a pretty hefty if, all things considered--then he’ll probably start to treat Peter differently. If he doesn’t believe Peter, then he’ll likely have him committed. Oh, sure, Peter could prove the Spider-Man thing pretty easily, but the dimension stuff? Dying and coming back? More than once? That’s a harder sell.

He settles for a simpler version of the truth: “I keep dreaming about people I’ve lost.”

“Your family?”

“Mostly, yeah, but other things, too. My home. My friends.” A brief pause. “I keep thinking about what happened to them.”

Dick is quiet for a moment, folding his hands in his lap, thinking. After a moment, he turns to face Peter.

"I know you’ve gone through something terrible," Dick says simply. "I know you asked Bruce to not pry into your history--and the fact that he listened to you is amazing, frankly--but a few things are easy to guess."

“Yeah?”

“You just confirmed a few of my suspicions,” Dick says. “I know you’ve lost a lot. I know you’re grieving. I know that grief and anger typically go hand in hand.”

“I don’t--” Peter starts. And stops.

He recalls some pretty...well. He wouldn’t call them tantrums, exactly, but whatever they were, they were rough. Most of them happened right around the time Uncle Ben died. There was one ugly incident where he trashed his bedroom, felt terrible about it, and then hid in his room until May came in and talked to him.

“When I lost my parents, the only thing I could think of was revenge. I was angry for a long time, more than I realized. I didn’t realize how much of that grief came from guilt,” Dick says simply. “Because I lived, and they didn’t. I was furious over it. It wasn't fair. I was angry for a long, long time."

Peter falters, grasping for words. He’s not sure how to explain this to Dick. He’s looked up Dick Grayson since his questionably legal adoption, and he knows the man’s history. He suspects Dick would understand his grief and guilt.

Still, he’s not sure how to describe to Dick that he’s living in two different dimensions at the same time: some part of his mind is constantly reliving his death on Titan, his fight with Gotham’s rogues, his fight with the Vulture, and the night his uncle died. All at once, over and over, endlessly, as much a part of himself as his arm or leg. Most of Peter is living in the here and now, but that one piece, whether its at a whisper or deafening roar, will always be there. All he has to do is think of it and he'll snap back to any one of those points in his timeline.

Peter stares past Dick, feeling his cheeks burn hot with frustration and anger. Finally, he says, “I have no right to survive when everyone else died. I shouldn’t have come back at all. I should’ve--”

It goes on in that vein for awhile. Dick doesn’t interrupt or press for details (thank god), he simply listens. Something Peter’s needed for longer than he’d like to admit; without May or Ned or even his AI, Karen, he’s been bottling up a lot more than usual.

Dick doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t ask for clarification (thank god, Peter would be hard pressed to explain some of his word vomit), and he doesn’t tell Peter that he has no reason to feel guilty. It’s refreshing.

Eventually, he talks himself out. Dick wordlessly ushers him into bed and tucks the blankets over him.

“I didn’t understand all of that,” Dick says quietly. “But I think you’ll explain it when you’re ready. I’m not sure you and I have the same definition of Titan, for example.”

“It was a place. And a person,” Peter says sleepily.

“Right. When you’re ready, I’ll listen to the full story. For now, just get some rest, okay?”

Peter, already half asleep, murmurs. “I just don’t want the bad dreams to come back.”

Dick sighs. “Yeah, I know. I’ll stay close tonight, all right? Just in case.”

Peter considers that for a moment. Finally, he says, “You know, I think Nightwing would like you.”

And then he falls asleep.

* * *

Dick pulls the blankets over Peter, tucking him in. He does it casually, as if he’s done it a dozen times before. Mostly because he has. Between Jason, Tim, and Damian, he’s got plenty of experience. It feels a little different now that he's illegally named himself the main caretaker for an entire human being. One who's clearly died and come back, no less.

Speaking of the dead...

There’s no way this could work, but it’s worth a shot.

Dick looks around the room slowly, tucks his hands in his pockets, and then says, very casually, “I’d like to talk to Sam, please.”

A minute passes, and nothing happens. Dick sighs, and starts to head for the door---

A gentle flash of gold illuminates the room, and Sam Wilson appears in the corner, casually leaning against Peter’s desk. He’s fuzzy at the edges, surrounded by a golden, partially translucent aura. He’s wearing some kind of super suit; red and silver armor, with red tinged glasses similar to what the Flash wears. One arm crosses his chest, the other ends at his elbow, though Dick can see hints of it where it should be. There’s a steady nobility to the man that instantly reminds Dick of Clark, and his wariness subsides. A bit.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Grayson?” Sam asks. His tone is polite, good humored, and carries an accent. Louisiana, maybe?

“Gimme a sec, I didn’t expect that to work,” Dick says.

“Try not to take too long, I’m kind of breaking a few rules doing this,” Sam says. His voice is easy and calm, but it sounds off somehow. Not quite echoing, as if coming over a very cheap phone line or across a massive chasm. “Dr. Strange can’t keep this up for long.”

Dick’s stomach drops, and he feels his shoulders and arms tense. “Hugo Strange?”

Sam frowns at him, confused, and shakes his head. “Stephen Strange. Listen, focus. There’s limits to this and you need to know them.”

“What kind of limits?” Dick asks.

“I can answer one question before I have to head back,” Sam says. Flecks of gold and orange flake off of him and drift away into nothingness behind him. Dick has the disconcerting feeling that Sam is burning himself alive to have this conversation. An odd thought to have for a ghost. “And I can’t give you an answer Peter doesn’t want you to hear. We’re all kind of under his power, even if he doesn’t realize it.”

“Right, okay,” Dick says slowly. He’s gone through a lot of weird things in his life. Talking to a superhero’s ghost isn’t that weird, really, and Wayne Manor has been haunted in one form or another ever since he was a kid. That said, it is a little weird to see a literal ghost in his childhood home. “How do I help Peter?”

Sam is quiet for a long moment, as if listening to someone else that Dick can’t see. Finally, he says, “Tell him to listen to his aunt the next time he falls asleep.”

And then he disappears, fading away back into nothing.

Dick stares at the empty spot where Sam stood moments before, thinking. Finally, he settles into the chair he sat in a couple of days ago and leans back in it, thinking.

* * *

BATCHAT

Duke (02:09am): everything okay?

Dick (02:10am): He’s asleep. I think we made some progress.

Dick (02:11am): Lots of guilt. I don’t know exactly what for. It’s more than just survivor’s guilt.

Dick (02:13am): Help him if you guys can, okay?

Duke (02:14am): you don’t even need to ask

Barbara (02:15am): Sorry to interrupt, guys. Dick, Bruce is on his way back to Gotham.

Barbara (02:16am): He says he needs to talk with you.

* * *

By the time Peter wakes up tomorrow, Dick is long gone. A note sits next to his inhaler:

Meeting with Bruce, will be back tonight. Be kind to yourself, okay?

-Dick

Peter considers the note for a moment, sets it aside, and uses his inhaler. His cold is all but gone now; the food alone has given him the energy he needs to fight it back. The bullet wound in his side twinges and seizes up every now and then, but that’s more of an annoyance rather than the white hot agony of the initial wound. Or even the tooth grinding pain he experienced when he jostled it in Tim’s car.

He doesn’t quite isolate himself the next day. He gets up, he showers, he eats his weight in food, but he doesn’t linger and chat with Alfred or anyone else in the kitchen. He heads back into his room and sits on the floor, staring at the murky winter sky outside his windows, watching the snow and brooding. A knock at his door brings him out of his thoughts. He turns to face it as Stephanie pushes the door open, stepping inside as if invited.

“I come bearing gifts,” Steph announces. She drops a backpack on his desk. It lands with a very loud and slightly intimidating thump. “Your homework.”

“Homework?” Peter asks, dumbfounded, staring at the backpack. And then it clicks and he groans. “Oh god. School.”

“Yeah, school is still a thing, unfortunately,” Steph says, amused by his reaction. She jumps up and sits on the edge of the desk, idly kicking her legs a little. “Alfred’s called you in sick for the next week. There’s a lot of catch up work to do.”

“Wonderful,” Peter mumbles, walking over to the backpack. He lifts it up and blinks at the weight. “What the fuck.”

“Welcome to finals season,” Steph says brightly. She laughs at his look of despair and nudges his shoulder lightly. “Duke, and I are hosting a study session in the living room. Wanna join us?”

He blinks. He’s surprised they want anything to do with him after his midnight shit fit. “Uh, are you--”

“Yes, we’re sure,” Steph says. At his startled look, she continues, “You aren’t the first person to lose their temper in this house, Peter. You’re definitely not going to be the last.”

“I lost my mind on Duke. He was just trying to help,” Peter mutters.

“He’s heard worse.”

“Wow, that does not make me feel better.”

Steph shrugs, her eyes softening. “Peter, you’ve gone through a special kind of hell. You’re finally somewhere safe enough for you to let out all the emotional baggage you’ve been piling up for god knows how long because you were focused on survival. No one thinks less of you for being upset."

Well, that does help. He still feels bad, though. He’ll find Duke and apologize to him later.

Steph continues. “And, honestly? That was a small time tantrum. Bottom of the scale, frankly.”

Peter pauses and squints at her. “Are you calling my midnight breakdown low tier?”

Steph gives him a sober look, places her hand on his shoulder, and says, earnestly, "I'm afraid you're going to have to up your tantrum game if you're going to be a Wayne kid, Peter. We're the best of the best when it comes to dramatic breakdowns. You can’t make us look bad. At this rate, you’ll never beat Jason’s tantrum spirals."

Peter stares at her.

She smirks and winks at him.

That startles a laugh out of him, and he shakes his head. “I can’t believe that’s actually making me feel better.”

"What can I say, I've got a gift," Steph says, bumping shoulders with him. "Come on, if we go now, we can get the comfy chairs."

Peter grins after her, picking up his backpack and slinging it over his shoulder as he follows her out into the hallway. He half expects Steph to bring him to some massive, opulent library or study. Instead, she brings him to a large, but reasonably sized and decorated living room. Couches, sofas, and chairs fill the area, and a large flat screen is mounted to one wall. The furniture looks well worn and comfortable, as if they see near constant use.

Steph flops across one of the couches. Her homework and notes already cover most of it. After a moment, Peter sits down on the other end of the couch and opens up the backpack. Paperwork almost immediately pops out of it when he does so.

“There is no way I’m going to be ready for finals,” Peter mutters. It also seems hilariously unfair that he has to worry about academics now, too. He’s already two steps away from losing his shit permanently, dammit.

“That’s why we’re having a study group,” Duke says, strolling into the room and sitting down on the couch between Peter and Steph. He grins at Peter, just as friendly as ever, and opens his own backpack. “Steph and I figured we’d help you catch up.”

“Oh,” Peter says, a little overwhelmed. “Is Tim coming, too?”

“He already took his exams,” Steph says.

“You can do that?”

“When you’re Tim Drake, yes,” Duke remarks dryly. “Come on, if we start now, we can finish up your homework by dinner.”

They get to work. Steph keeps the mood light with an occasional joke or simply by breaking the tense silence. Duke doesn’t treat him any differently than he did before. The study session goes by quickly and easily (god, Peter is so far behind on school work it isn’t even funny).

At the end of it, Steph slips off to grab a drink from the kitchen, and Duke packs up his homework and starts back towards his bedroom down the hall. Peter taps his pen against his notebook for a long moment. Finally, he sweeps his homework and books into his backpack and jogs down the hall after him.

“Hey, about last night,” Peter says, catching up to Duke. Duke stops in the hallway and turns to face him, tilting his head slightly. Peter sighs. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell at you like that. Or hurt you. I--I’ve never lost control like that before.” He pauses for a moment. “And you really didn’t deserve that. You were just trying to help.”

Duke glances at the white streak in Peter’s hair, then at some distant point over his shoulder. After a moment, he smiles. “Apology accepted. I didn’t realize you were that upset or I would’ve given you some space.”

“Man, I didn’t even realize I was that upset,” Peter says, relieved. “I promise I won’t lose my shit on you again.”

“And I won’t come barging into your room without warning anymore,” Duke says. He holds out his hand. Peter clasps it and almost starts his handshake he usually uses with Ned. He stops at the last second.

“Deal,” Peter says. “Are you ready for finals?”

“Hell no,” Duke says cheerfully, walking with Peter to his room. “You?”

“I literally haven’t thought about school in weeks,” Peter admits.

“That’s the spirit,” Duke says. “Who needs school work when you’re a hero anyway, right?”

Peter blinks at him.

“You know. Because you saved Damian and Alfred?” Duke says. He raises an eyebrow. “That does make you a hero. And kind of a big deal.”

“Oh. I guess I’m not used to it,” Peter says, rubbing the back of his head. “Usually when someone talks about heroes around me it’s about someone else. Like Spider-Man or someone.”

“Did a lot of people talk about Spider-Man around you?” Duke asks, tilting his head.

Peter shrugs. “No more than anyone else in Crime Alley.”

Duke hums, thoughtful. “I never got to meet him.”

“I mean, that’s probably for the best. He lived in Crime Alley,” Peter points out. “You really don’t have a reason to be in that part of town.”

“More than you’d think,” Duke says. He checks his watch. “Hey, has anyone given you a tour of this place yet?”

“No, not yet,” Peter admits.

“Come on, I’ll give you the grand tour,” Duke says, smiling. “That should last until dinner.”

“Dinner is in like an hour. There’s no way it’ll take that long,” Peter says, amused

Duke smirks. “Wanna bet?”

* * *

It takes longer than an hour. Eventually, Duke excuses himself, and Peter heads back to his room, exhausted and a tiny bit overwhelmed. He can feel an itch at the back of his throat and a rising frustration that has nothing to do with anyone, and decides to skip out on dinner entirely. The last thing he wants to do is have one of his fits during family dinner.

Peter uses his inhaler, then stalks his room, agitated and annoyed, fighting back a wave of anger he doesn’t fully understand the source of. It isn’t anywhere close to the near blinding rage he experienced last night, but it’s still there.

It doesn’t make sense! He’s safe now. He has more food than he could ever hope to eat at once, a warm bed, he’s surrounded by people who care about him to a baffling degree, and his wounds are healing. He should be fine. He is fine.

So why the nightmares? Why the constant, grinding anger?

A knock at his door draws him out of his thoughts, creating a flash of annoyance that quickly melts away. He rubs his eyes, takes in a slow breath while counting to ten, and then walks over to the door and opens it.

Dick is on the other side, holding a covered dish and one of Alfred’s smoothies. He smiles at Peter.

“Hey, Pete. Alfred said you missed dinner,” Dick says. He holds up the covered dish and walks inside, setting it and the smoothie down on Peter’s desk. “Which, for the record, you shouldn’t miss.”

“Yeah, probably not,” Peter admits, rubbing the back of his neck. The food smells incredible, and when Dick raises the dish cover and reveals the steak, vegetables, and baked potato underneath, he has to fight back the urge to grab the plate and skitter up the nearest wall to devour it.

Okay, so his spider instincts are starting to drift back. That could get awkward.

“Eat up,” Dick says. “There’s more downstairs if you need it.”

“Thanks,” Peter says. “How was the meeting with Bruce? He’s in and out of this place every other day.”

Dick sighs, reaching up to rub his temple. “He wanted to give me some bad news, that’s all.”

“Bad news?”

“Bruce has a lot of unspoken expectations placed on him by the city,” Dick explains. “One of them is supporting clean up efforts for Crime Alley. He’s been working on it for decades, with varying degrees of success. Believe it or not, it’s not as bad as it used to be.”

Peter stares at him, horrified. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Dick says. “Anyway, there’s fresh public support for another renewal effort in the wake of Spider-Man’s death. It’s an opportunity he can’t really ignore, especially with the Mayor trying to win back some support after that school or jail law that was passed a few months back. Bruce can’t really say no without disappointing a lot of people, so he’s going to host a Spider Alley memorial fund.”

“You don’t sound very happy about it,” Peter says after a moment, mildly overwhelmed by his ‘death’ causing so much ripple effect changes so quickly.

“I’m not,” Dick says. “He’ll host a ball or a gala or--honestly I’ve never gotten the names straight for these things--and invite in the rich and well to do and try to convince them to match whatever donation he’ll put towards it. Most of them are just going to treat it as a way to rub shoulders with one another.”

“Oh,” Peter says.

Dick shakes his head. “Nevermind. I shouldn’t have dumped that on you. I just wanted to talk with you really quick.”

“Sure,” Peter says, sitting at his desk and grabbing the knife and fork for his meal. “As long as you don’t mind me eating for most of it.”

“Not at all,” Dick says, leaning against the wall near the door. He crosses his arms and frowns, as if trying to decide how to best approach a topic. “I wanted to ask you about your nightmares, if that’s okay?”

Peter’s appetite dims a little. He pauses, but nods.

“Are any of them about your family?” Dick asks.

Peter scoffs. “They’re all about my family. More or less. Usually my aunt and uncle.”

Dick nods, going quiet. After a moment, he starts to speak quietly. “You know, I had dreams like that after my parents died. I kept forcing myself awake whenever they started. It was hard waking up and remembering they were gone.”

Peter frowns, setting his fork down. That’s exactly why he’s been avoiding sleep. Dreaming about Ben and May consoling him after his parents’ death, only to wake up and realize they’re gone has been too much for his already wounded psyche.

Dick presses on, his tone gentle. “Eventually, that stopped working. I needed to sleep. And it hurt having dreams about them at first, but eventually, I started to have dreams about the good times we had together. And eventually, I had dreams that weren’t memories at all. It was like my parents were there.”

Peter tilts his head, looking up at him. “What were they like?”

“Upsetting, at first,” Dick admits. “More upsetting than the others, but then they weren’t. I dreamt I showed them my new home, my new family. They were happy for me. I think it was just my mind’s way of handling the grief, but it helped. A lot more than I expected, really.”

Peter frowns at him, going quiet.

Dick doesn’t say anything for a moment, then sighs. “Anyway, just keep it in mind. A little bird told me listening to advice from your family is a good idea. Even if that family is gone.”

Peter thinks on that for a moment and nods. “Okay. I’ll, uh. Keep that in mind.” A pause. “And I guess I can’t avoid sleeping forever...”

“Preferably not,” Dick says. “

Peter taps his plate, clears his throat, and nods. “Okay. I’ll give it a shot.” Another pause. “Thanks. I know this is probably a lot more than you signed up for--”

“No, it isn’t,” Dick cuts in gently. He pats Peter’s shoulder, squeezing it for a moment. “Eat up. I’m going to go check in on Duke and Damian.”

“Right. Thanks,” Peter says.

Dick gives him one last reassuring squeeze, and then leaves, shutting the door behind himself. Peter stares at the wall, thinking over Dick’s works while he finishes his dinner. He should take the plate downstairs and wash it, but he decides against it. The food has helped stabilize his mood and also made him realize just how exhausted he is.

After fighting it for longer than is necessary, Peter lays down on his bed. A short nap, and maybe those nightmares won’t find him. Or maybe they’ll be like Dick said, and they won’t bother him as much?

One can dream.

In this case, literally.